"It's alright. Let me help you."

Rumpelstiltskin looked up into Zoso's face, the Dark One's face. He was no longer fooled by the glamour of humanity, or by the seemingly helping hand he offered.

He shook his head. "You lied to me."

"I helped you."

"You tricked me!"

"You need me," the Dark One insisted. "You are nothing without me."

"You're wrong. Bae believes in me. In me! Not you!"

"What do you believe?"

Rumpelstiltskin had no answer for him.

The Dark One smirked, amused. "That's what I thought. Get up."

He shook his head again.

"You don't have a choice. Get up!" The Dark One grabbed his arm, hauling him up.

Rumpelstiltskin jerked awake as rough hands dragged him upright. "Get up!" Harrison ordered, all hint of friendliness gone from his voice.

His head swam as he looked around, confused and disoriented. He wasn't in the same place. Where before there had been nothing but trees and empty road, now a building loomed before him, a dark shadow against the night sky, large and imposing.

Harrison slammed the door of the light box, and Rumpelstiltskin realized for the first time that it must be this world's version of a carriage. He didn't have time to contemplate how such a thing could work without the aid of horses or magic before Harrison spoke again, "Move!"

He was propelled forward. Dizzy, his hands shackled behind his back, Harrison's hold on his arm was the only thing that kept him on his feet as they ascended the front steps.

Harrison rapped sharply on the door. Despite the late hour, the door swung open, revealing a man who looked to be roughly the same age as Rumpelstiltskin. He, too, wore a uniform, though it was different from Harrison's.

"Hey, Frank, got another one for ya."

Frank eyed Rumpelstiltskin, sizing him up before stepping aside. He stumbled as Harrison pushed him across the threshold, falling to his knees.

"He doesn't look good. What's the story with him?" Frank asked.

"Found him and his son in the middle of the highway. When they were asked how they got there, they both seemed to believe some bullshit story about magic beans and fairies, so I figured they needed some psychiatric help. When we went to separate them, our guy here got violent and had to be subdued."

Together, they hauled him back up, supporting him between them. "Well, he can barely stand. He'll need to get checked out. Help me take him to Dr. Arden," Frank said.

Rumpelstiltskin kept his head down and his mouth shut as they walked. He knew it was of no use to try and talk to Harrison, and Frank seemed to be of his ilk. He'd get nowhere with either of these men. He hoped that this Dr. Arden would be more sympathetic to his situation. If he could convince him that he wasn't insane, they would let him go, and he could find Bae.

They stepped into a room, and Rumpelstiltskin finally looked up. The room was dimly lit, like the rest of the building had been. The walls were grey brick, reminiscent of the Duke's castle. Moonlight shone into the room from three arched windows along one wall, illuminating a desk. Behind the desk sat the man Rumpelstiltskin assumed was Dr. Arden. He was an older man, bald, with a mustache and a short white beard that left all but his chin bare. Rumpelstiltskin found that if he tried to focus on him for too long, there seemed to be two of him. He squeezed his eyes shut for a few long seconds, trying unsuccessfully to will away the persistent dizziness.

It took a minute for Arden to acknowledge them. He took his time as he finished jotting down whatever thoughts they were interrupting in a small notebook he had laid out in front of him. Finally, he looked up, and his eyes ran over each of them in turn before settling expectantly on Frank.

"I know it's late, Doctor, but since you haven't gone home, yet, could you examine a new patient? He might have a concussion," Frank said.

"And we're going to need a diagnosis for him, before his commitment hearing. I'll get the paperwork started and bring it by in a few days," Harrison added.

Arden stood and walked around his desk, coming to a stop right in front of him. A good deal shorter than the other man, Rumpelstiltskin had to tilt his head back to look him in the eye. Arden fished a small metal cylinder out of the pocket of his long white coat and, with a soft click, a bright pinprick of light began to glow from one end. Rumpelstiltskin looked away as the other man attempted to shine the light into his eyes. Arden gripped his chin and forced his head back up. He shined the light back and forth from one eye to the other, watching carefully. What, exactly, he was looking for, Rumpelstiltskin couldn't say.

Arden put the light away and held up a finger. "Keep your head still and follow the movement of my finger with your eyes." He began to move his finger back and forth, up and down, and Rumpelstiltskin did as he was told. At the same time, Arden began to question him.

"Do you have a headache?"

"Yes."

"Dizziness?"

"Yes."

"Nausea?"

"No."

Arden nodded and took a step back. "I'll keep him here for observation, and to run some more tests. Take him to my lab, strip him, and strap him to the examination table."

"No, please," Rumpelstiltskin protested. "I can't stay here."

They ignored him as they ushered him through an arched doorway that led to the lab. It was a claustrophobic, octagonal room dominated by the aforementioned examination table. White cupboards and curio cabinets lined the walls, making the space feel even smaller. As Arden followed them, he flipped a switch on the wall, causing the strange lamp that hung above the table to flicker on.

Harrison uncuffed his hands and divested him of his heavy, robe-like overcoat. Rumpelstiltskin was happy to be free of the cumbersome thing. He'd have a better chance of staving them off in shirtsleeves. When Frank reached for him, he jerked away. "No!" he repeated himself, more forcefully this time, as he limped backwards, away from the two uniformed men. "I don't belong here," he said, addressing Arden. "My son needs me. I'm all he has."

Arden's face remained coolly unsympathetic. "Unfortunately for you and your son, it is not up to the patients to decide whether they belong here or not." Striding up to Rumpelstiltskin, he shoved him back into the waiting arms of the other two.

He struggled against them as they stripped off his shirt and dragged him towards the table. He managed to free his arm from Harrison's grip and lashed out, dealing the man a glancing blow to the face. Harrison responded with a sharp kick to his right leg that dropped him immediately, giving the two men the opening they needed to haul him up and onto the table, where they made short work of the task of securing his wrists.

Being ignored, manhandled, and restrained was too much. This was not the way coming to this new land was supposed to go! They had been tricked! That conniving fairy had shamelessly used his son against him! He redoubled his efforts against his captors, kicking at them with his uninjured leg, pulling at his restraints and screaming at them to release him. He was the Dark One! They would regret making him suffer this indignity! They would regret keeping him from his boy! He would make them beg for death!

Despite his best efforts, they were finally able to get him out of boots and trousers. Fastening the padded cuffs around his ankles, they stepped back. He made one last attempt to pull free of the restraints, straining until he nearly dislocated a shoulder, before going limp, exhausted. The first thing he noticed, as rationality slowly returned to him, was that he was weeping. He closed his eyes, silently berating himself as he pulled himself back together. The second thing he noticed, when he opened his eyes again, was that the three men were looking at him as if they now had no doubts that he was, in fact, insane.

How much had he said aloud? Too much, he could tell. What was he thinking? He wasn't the Dark One here. He had just hurt his case.

"Sorry," he told them, feebly attempting some damage control. "I'm sorry."

Harrison scoffed and shook his head. "Good luck with this guy," he said with a nod to Frank. With one last glance at Rumpelstiltskin, he left. Frank crossed his arms, not looking like he planned on going anywhere anytime soon, but Arden waved him off.

"Don't you have rounds to make?"

Frank eyed Arden with an almost suspicious frown, but nodded. "I'll let Sister Jude know we have a new patient."

Arden's answering smirk was so subtle that Rumpelstiltskin thought he might just be imagining it. "You do that." Once Frank was out the door, Arden turned his attention back to Rumpelstiltskin. "What is your name?"

"Rumpelstiltskin."

Arden stared at him silently for a moment, before retrieving a too-white sheet of parchment from a drawer and writing something down.

"What drugs have you taken in the last 48 hours?"

"What?"

"What drugs have you ingested recently?" Arden repeated, sounding annoyed at having to do so. "LSD? Mescaline? Psilocybin?"

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head, already tired of not understanding half of what this world seemed to take for granted.

Arden took more notes before setting down his pen and rolling a metal cart on wheels over to the table. Picking up a length of strange rope, Arden tied it around Rumpelstiltskin's upper arm. It had an odd texture, and was uncomfortably tight, but he refused to complain. Next, the crook of his elbow was swabbed with something cold. What sort of bizarre ritual was being performed on him? When Arden picked up an object that looked like a glass vial with a needle attached to it, Rumpelstiltskin jerked away, or tried to. Bound as he was, it didn't get him very far. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"Drawing blood. I suggest you lie still."

Rumpelstiltskin grew suspicious. First he wanted his name, now he wanted his blood? This was supposedly a land without magic, yet this man acted like a seasoned practitioner of the dark arts. Acting on his suspicions, Rumpelstiltskin tried to draw upon his magic to toss the man aside. Nothing happened. Perhaps there really wasn't magic in this land. Or perhaps his magic was being blocked, somehow. He wasn't ready to reject that possibility. "Why do you need my blood?"

"To test you for drugs or diseases that could be the cause of your mental imbalance," Arden answered, jabbing the needle into his arm.

Arden filled up the vial with his blood. But instead of stopping there, he swapped out the first vial for a second one. Rumpelstiltskin frowned uncertainly. If it was black magic that Arden wanted his blood for, a few drops would have sufficed. After filling the second one, he started on a third. Rumpelstiltskin looked away as he began to feel queasy. How many vials did the man plan to fill? What if he took too much?

Before his thoughts could turn too dark, he felt Arden untie the rope from around his arm. He looked back in time to see him withdraw the needle and press a small ball of fluff to the puncture wound, holding it in place for a moment before securing it with a thin white strip that stuck to his skin.

"Are you done?" Rumpelstiltskin asked, watching as Arden went to rummage through a drawer.

"No," Arden responded, finding what he was looking and moving to a cabinet that was lit from the inside. Rumpelstiltskin couldn't see what he was doing, as Arden had his back turned towards him, but soon enough he closed the cabinet door and returning to his side. He was carrying another needle, smaller than the last. With a quick swab of his forearm, he pricked him with the needle. It went much quicker than the blood draw, and he applied no bandage afterwards.

"What was that?"

"Tuberculin test."

Rumpelstiltskin looked at the wheal the needle had raised on his arm, curious, "Did I pass?"

Arden shook his head. "It will be two days before I can read the results," he said, speaking more to Rumpelstiltskin's arm than his face. He sounded distracted, and he was frowning. He ran a finger searchingly over his upper arm, before walking around the table and conducting a similar search on his other arm. "Where did you say you were from?"

"I didn't," Rumpelstiltskin answered warily, remembering Harrison's reaction when he asked him that question.

"Do not play games with me."

Rumpelstiltskin hesitated. What was the place Harrison had guessed him to be from? He closed his eyes, thinking back. "Scotland."

"What part of Scotland?"

"I'm from a small village. I doubt you've heard of it."

"And do they not believe in smallpox vaccinations in this village of yours?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You lack a vaccination scar."

"Ah," he said, thinking fast. "No, we don't believe in vaccination. It's a barbaric practice."

The look on Arden's face suggested that he might have been better off not saying anything.

"I'm curious as to how you're here, if you aren't up to date on your immunizations."

Rumpelstiltskin breathed a sigh of relief. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. I don't belong here."

"I mean here in this country. Immigration laws are quite stringent when it comes to public health and safety."

Rumpelstiltskin didn't know how to respond, and so he didn't. Once Arden realized he wasn't going to, he sighed. Turning his attention back to his piece of parchment, he began to write again. "I'm ordering a standard battery of immunizations for you. After tonight, you are to be quarantined in the infirmary. Once you are current on your vaccinations, and assuming your test results come back negative, you'll be allowed out amongst the other patients."

Arden covered him with a thin sheet. "You may sleep, but I'll be rousing you throughout the night." Without waiting for a response, he disappeared back into his office, leaving Rumpelstiltskin alone.

Rumpelstiltskin lie awake for a long time. Arden hadn't doused the overhead light when he left, and he couldn't stop dwelling on his current predicament. The more he thought about his situation, the more hopeless he felt. How was he supposed to convince these people he was sane, when he didn't know what sanity looked like in this world?

Eventually he drifted unwillingly into a fitful sleep.

He was back in his village.

But he wasn't safe.

The sky overhead was a dark, stormy grey.

Icy rain poured down from the heavens, turning the ground into a churning, muddy quagmire.

A green tornado tore a path of destruction through the village. Lightning flashed within the cyclone like the beating heart of a beast.

It was heading straight for him.

He tried to run, but it was impossible. He sank deeper and deeper into the muck with each step.

He threw himself to the ground, clawing at the mud, trying to find purchase so that he could pull himself forward.

It was futile.

The storm was nearly upon him.

He was going to die.

The wind ripped at his hair, his cloak.

He could smell the lightning in the air.

He could feel the sharp sting as someone slapped him in the face.

He….

He woke to Arden standing over him.

"You are a difficult man to awaken," Arden said critically. "I was beginning to think that letting you sleep was a mistake." Consulting a device strapped to his arm, Arden took hold of Rumpelstiltskin's wrist. After a moment, he frowned. "Your heart rate is elevated."

"Dreams," he explained.

Arden didn't reply. Apparently satisfied with the fact that Rumpelstiltskin was still alive and capable of being woken, he turned his attention to tidying his lab. He began picking up the clothes that the uniformed men had left laying on the floor. Folding them neatly, he began to carry them back to his office.

"What are you doing?" Rumpelstiltskin asked. "Those are mine."

Arden paused, half turning to face him. "You won't need them here. They'll be put into storage."

Rumpelstiltskin frowned. It wasn't the clothes he was worried about. The people he had met so far had made it clear that those did not fit into this world. But he had brought gold, so that he and Bae would have something to start their new lives with. If it was lost or stolen, they'd be left with nothing.

"They'll be safe? They'll be returned to me, when I leave here?"

"If you leave, yes, they'll be returned."

"When."

Arden gave a cold smile, inclined his head, and left him alone once more.

Despite himself, it did not take long to drift back to sleep.

He was in a pitch black room.

"Papa!"

His son was calling for him. He sounded frightened.

He limped forward a step, hands outstretched before him, groping for something…anything…that could help him find his way.

Another step.

Another.

"Papa, please!"

"I'm trying, Bae!"

On and on he went, through the black void. Time seemed to drag on forever, but no matter how long he searched, he seemed to draw no closer to Bae.

"Please, son, I'm trying to find you, but I…I need your help! Where are you?"

The only answer he received was his son's increasingly desperate cries. They rose in pitch and intensity until they were no more than tortured, wordless screams.

When he woke, he was the one screaming. Arden had a hand on his chest, holding him down. Another needle was in his other hand, and once he noticed Rumpelstiltskin was awake and no longer struggling against him, he stuck him with it, depressing the plunger at the end. "This is a sedative. It should put you into a dreamless sleep."

It didn't take long for the effects of the sedative to kick in. His whole body began to feel heavy. He tried to tell Arden that he didn't want to sleep anymore, but his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. The world shifted in and out of focus as he struggled to speak. With fading screams and his own unvoiced protests echoing through his mind, he was dragged back down into darkness.

Dr. Arden returned to his desk, retaking his seat and scowling down at his notes. He had been on the verge of a breakthrough when his newest patient began carrying on, interrupting his train of thought. Now, as he stared at the formula before him, he realized that the epiphany he had been so close to grasping had vanished. His grand experiment, the culmination of his life's work, was no closer to being perfected now than it had been before.

He yanked off his reading glasses and closed his journal, tossing it aside in a pique.

The book skidded across the desk, nudging the pile of clothes he had set on the corner with just enough force to send them over the edge. They slid to the ground with a rustle of cloth and, less expectedly, the distinct clink of metal against metal.

Curiously, he rose and retrieved the coat from the floor, looking it over. There were two outer pockets. He checked each one, but came up empty. Examining the coat closer, he discovered a pocket sewn into the interior. He reached into it and fished out a large leather coin pouch.

Setting the coat aside, he loosened the purse strings and shook a few coins into his hand. They were the size of a half dollar, stamped with markings he did not recognize, and appeared to be gold.

Suspicious of the authenticity of the coins, he found an old spot plate in one of his drawers and dragged a coin across it. A distinctive gold streak was left behind on the ceramic.

Curious, indeed.

What was a madman doing with a pouch full of gold coins?

Carefully, he dumped the entire contents of the pouch onto his desk.

For a moment he simply stared at the coins. Then his gaze shifted to the empty pouch, puzzled. The pile of gold that sat before him was simply too large for the purse that had held it. He was quite certain of that. And yet, somehow, it had.

He counted out the coins. By his estimate, there was enough there to live a moderately comfortable life for a year, perhaps a little longer.

He glanced towards his lab. The patient was proving to be quite the enigma. He didn't believe his tale of fairies, of course. That was ridiculous. But there was something strange about the man. He was a mystery that he fully intended to unravel.

He returned the coins to the pouch and tucked it away in the back of his desk drawer, for safekeeping.

Rumpelstiltskin woke with his head throbbing. He groggily opened his eyes to discover daylight streaming through the barred window above. Wincing, he closed his eyes again and raised a hand to his forehead, realizing as he did so that he was no longer tied down. Carefully, he opened his eyes once more, and slowly pushed himself up until he was sitting. He swayed dizzily, but managed to stay upright and look around.

He had been moved.

A row of narrow cots lined the walls on either side of the long room he found himself in. His was the only bed occupied. Indeed, he appeared to be the only one in the room, at all. A tall metal pole on wheels stood nearby. Perfect. Standing, he carefully made his way to it, grabbing hold. It wasn't as stable as his walking stick, but it would do.

Looking down at himself, he found that someone had dressed him in a thin, short sleep shirt that did little to maintain decency. Sighing, he decided it would have to do. But after taking a few steps towards the door, he realized that the shirt was left hanging open in the back, with no way to close it. What a world! No, he decided after all, this would not do. He changed course for the bank of cabinets set behind a large desk. Rummaging through the drawers, he found another gown, which he put on backwards over the first. It was a start, at least. He searched some more, but couldn't find any trousers.

Unfortunately, his quest for clothes left him far wearier than it should. Whatever Arden had given him to sleep must not have fully worn off, yet. Annoyed by his own weakness, he took a seat at the desk. He would rest for a moment, he decided, and then find his clothes and a way out of this place.

Resting his head in his hands, his eyes fell on what looked to be the pages of an oversized book, minus the cover. Curiously, he flipped back through the strange book until he reached the first page. The title was emblazoned prominently across the top: Daily Hampshire Gazette. Directly below that, in smaller lettering, it read: Northampton, Massachusetts. Thursday, October 22, 1964.

As he skimmed the book, he realized that it was filled with stories of important current events, several of them accompanied by drawings so realistic that he wondered how the artist had managed such a feat. What a brilliant concept!

Each individual story was prefaced by a descriptive title:

Heads of State Gather Today for Funeral of President Hoover

Red China Rejects Nuclear Test Ban Treaty

Massachusetts Manhunt Over; Bloody Face Apprehended

Eagerly, he rolled the pages up like a scroll. He would take the news reporting book with him, to help him learn more about this land. With it in one hand, and clutching his makeshift walking staff for support in the other, he stood and headed for the door. He had only made it halfway, however, when a young woman entered.

She wore a modest black dress with a white collar, and a similar black and white head covering that left only her blonde fringe loose. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, startled, and he could feel his face flush. He certainly wasn't properly attired to be in mixed company!

"You…you shouldn't be up!" she told him, obviously trying for a firm tone, but not quite managing it.

"It's alright," he said, his voice hoarse, making the words come out harsher than he intended. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm feeling much better, and I wouldn't want to impose any further." He took another step forward, and the woman raised a forestalling hand.

"Please just take a seat, and Sister Jude will be by shortly to meet with you." She shooed him towards the bed he had abandoned, keeping herself positioned between him and the door.

"I don't want to take a seat," he told her, his words slow and deliberate as he tried to keep his anger in check. He was tired of these people telling him what to do. "And I don't want to meet with Sister Jude. What I want is to get my belongings and be on my way."

He advanced on her as he spoke. He knew he wasn't a physically imposing man. Indeed, he and the woman were of a height. But he hoped that she would realize how serious he was about this and back down. She matched his steps, one back for each one he took forward.

"Please." She began to wring her hands, but quickly realized what she was doing and let them drop back down to her sides. "I don't have the authority to…."

"What is going on here?"

They both startled at the sharp voice that cut the blonde woman off, and looked towards the doorway. The woman standing there was dressed identically to the blonde. But she was older, her gaze harder. She had the look of a woman who was accustomed to telling people what to do, and knowing that they would do it. Not out of any inherent sense of loyalty or respect, but out of fear.

Yes, he knew that look well.

"Sister Jude! I…I…."

The full force of Sister Jude's gaze fell on the blonde, and her words came to a stuttering halt.

"Sister Mary Eunice, why is the patient not restrained?" she asked, sounding as if she were speaking to a wayward child.

"I'm sorry, Sister! He was sedated; I thought I had more time before he came to. I was just telling him to return to his cot when you came in."

"So I saw," she said, sounding unimpressed. Sister Mary Eunice bowed her head.

Sister Jude strode up to him and snatched the rolled up news reporting booklet out of his hand. "When one of my staff gives you an order, you follow it," she told him, punctuating her words by smacking him in the chest with the paper, holding it there as she locked eyes with him. "Are we clear?"

Her gaze dared him to defy her. He wanted to, but he knew that doing so wasn't in his best interests. At the moment, she held his future in her hands, and they both knew it. Slowly, he backed up, turning to walk back to the bed. He sat and looked up at her expectantly.

She looked back at him just as expectantly. "I asked you a question."

He clenched his jaw. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

He frowned. Uncertain as to what she wanted from him, he could only hazard a guess. "Yes, Sister Jude."

She smiled, a triumphant gesture, before glancing over her shoulder at Sister Mary Eunice. "Find Sister Bernadette and Carl, tell them they are needed in the infirmary. Then go relieve Sister Josephine in the bakery. The afternoon shift will be starting soon," she said, dismissing her.

"Yes, Sister," Mary Eunice replied, very nearly bobbing a curtsey before beating a hasty retreat.

Turning back to him once they were alone, Sister Jude said, "Well then, Mr. John Doe, I hear you had quite the eventful night. Assaulting a state trooper, resisting arrest, and throwing what was, by all reports, a spectacular temper tantrum in Dr. Arden's office."

His brow furrowed in confusion, "That's not my name."

Her eyes flicked briefly upwards, as if appealing to the heavens above. "Yes, I know that's not your name. But until we learn your real name, that is what you'll be called. Unless you prefer Patient #F41461, that is."

"I prefer Rumpelstiltskin."

Sister Jude pursed her lips, fixing him with a disapproving stare before going on as if he hadn't spoken. "Violence against staff members and other patients is not tolerated. Understood?"

"Yes, Sister Jude."

"You will remain here in the infirmary until Dr. Arden has cleared you. The police will fingerprint you when they bring us your paperwork. Then we might actually learn your name."

He didn't argue, even though the idea of learning his name by taking prints of his fingers was preposterous.

Another middle aged, black and white clad woman walked into the room, accompanied by a man dressed all in white. Sister Bernadette and Carl, he assumed. Sister Jude acknowledged them with a nod, before turning back to him.

"Any questions?"

He shook his head, assuming that any questions he did have wouldn't be answered. That seemed to be the trend. "No, Sister."

She smiled, cold and insincere. "Welcome to Briarcliff."