Warning: Character death in this chapter.


Chapter Two—"A Deal You Did Not Understand"


"Ready?" Henry asked the pirate early the next morning. It was barely dawn, but it was time to use the door he had found. They'd spent the previous day preparing to go to Camelot, pouring over every book they could find in the Sorcerer's House and learning everything they could. Or…Henry had, anyway. He wasn't sure what his mom's boyfriend had been doing.

Maybe he'd been searching for Emma. Henry's other mom was against it, but he knew that his grandparents were torn. They wanted to help Emma, wanted to make everything right, and although he shared that desire, he couldn't help but think that maybe Regina knew best. A large part of him wanted to go hunt Emma down like he had when the Snow Queen had unhinged her powers, but he knew better. Henry still wanted—more than anything!—to help her, but he knew that would take some planning. He couldn't just rush in this time. Last time, that had only made Emma run away. He wouldn't make that mistake twice.

"Aye," Killian replied, but instead of stepping forward, he handed Henry a long object wrapped in cloth. "But first, you should have this."

"What is it?" he asked, accepting the object, and immediately realizing that it felt like some sort of sword. Excited despite his worry for his mom, Henry tore the wrapping aside to reveal a cutlass. "You're giving me a sword?"

"Well, you might need it where we're going," the pirate answered, looking a little self-conscious. "And…it belonged to your father. It's the same sword your mother used when we were in Neverland to rescue you. I think they'd both want you to have it."

Staring at the sword made Henry swallow hard, but the way his throat closed up was almost a good kind of pain. He had so very little that had belonged to his father—just the swan pendant Emma had given him, which he still wore—and this sword was an utterly unexpected gift. It was by far the nicest thing Hook had ever done for him, and he found a real smile touching his face for the first time in three days. "Thanks, Killian."

"You're welcome, lad," was the reply, with an equally tired and hesitant smile. "Now, let's go find Merlin so he can help your mother, shall we?"

"Definitely," Henry agreed, and they strode through the doorway together.


Belle was still sleeping, but Rumplestiltskin had been awake for over an hour. He hadn't gotten up, yet—he wasn't sure if he could do so without limping, and he wasn't sure where his cane actually was. Besides, getting out of bed would probably disturb his wife, and that was the last thing Rumplestiltskin wanted to do. Because…while he had no idea who he was now, the only thing he was certain of was that he loved Belle.

Love was an amazing feeling without all that darkness corrupting his soul. For the first time in centuries, he could feel everything; his love wasn't twisted and muted and tied into knots. It was his and it was real, and Rumplestiltskin could feel every thread of it running through his body. Through his soul. He'd told Belle that he didn't regret owning his own soul, and he didn't…even if he didn't know what that meant. Not really. In truth, he could hardly remember the man he had been before becoming the Dark One. Oh, he still despised the coward he had been, still hated the memory of having groveled at men's feet to keep his son safe. That he could remember. But everything else was lost in the blur of three centuries of other memories, of becoming a force larger than life, the most powerful sorcerer in the Enchanted Forest.

He didn't know what he was, now. Or even who he was. Belle had told him that his heart had been white, pure and maybe empty, when the Apprentice had put it back in his chest. She'd told him how the Apprentice had put him into stasis to 'preserve him'…and yet something in there rang just wrong. Rumplestiltskin vaguely remembered not dreaming, not drifting, but darkness and more darkness, a sticky and overpowering evil that he recognized from somewhere. But perhaps his memories were playing tricks on him. Perhaps he was remembering the moments when his heart turned truly black, when he'd been fighting so desperately to hold onto the part of him that loved Belle, because otherwise their entire world might be destroyed by the Dark One wearing his face.

Whatever he was, he was a failure, wasn't he? He'd asked Isaac to write a story where he was not the Dark One, where the Dark One did not exist at all. If that alternate universe had held, the darkness would have been written out…and yet he'd been a fool to trust the author. Isaac had gone too far, had created a world where everything was upside down. Rumplestiltskin hadn't wanted to be a hero; he'd just wanted a world where the villains could win, too. Instead, Isaac had given him a life and a family to fight for, and expected Rumplestiltskin to do his dirty work for him.

Part of him admired the author for the cleverness of that plan. The rest of him was just disgusted that he'd let himself be manipulated like that, that he'd tried to kill his grandson in that world. Oh, he'd not known who Henry was, but that didn't matter, did it? They would all remember.

And they'll hate me. It doesn't matter if I'm free of the darkness, he knew. They'll hate me anyway, no matter who I am now. Fear stole up his spine in a shiver. And now I can't defend myself, or Belle.

Stealing a glance at her, he felt his heart clench. He was back to being a powerless cripple, wasn't he? He didn't deserve Belle, much though he loved her. He never had.

"Rumple?" her voice whispered, and with a start, he realized she had been watching him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he answered as quickly as he could, trying to bury his feelings behind an impassive expression. But she noticed. Belle almost always did.

"Please don't do this," she begged him, sitting up as Rumplestiltskin looked away, unable to bear the compassion in those beautiful blue eyes. "You admitted last night that much of the problem came because we couldn't talk to one another. Please don't start that again."

"I don't know how," he admitted heavily, closing his eyes and wondering how long it would be before she left him. Before he failed her.

He always did, after all. Dark One or not, he always failed those he loved.

Rumplestiltskin felt the bed shift as she moved closer to him, but didn't expect the arm that wrapped around his waist or the kiss that pressed into his shoulder. "Just tell me what you're thinking."

"That I don't deserve you," he answered, figuring that he could at least give her honesty. He owed her that much, and the truth came more easily without the darkness gnawing at his shredded soul. "I have nothing to offer you. I'm just a crippled old man, a broken villain, without even the power to protect you from those who hate me."

"I don't love you for your power, you know," Belle whispered.

"I know that," Rumplestiltskin said, because even in his worst moments, he had known that was true. Belle had been the only one who ever even saw the man underneath the monster, and somehow, she had loved Rumplestiltskin. Not the Dark One.

"And love isn't about deserving." She kissed his shoulder again, and despite himself, Rumplestiltskin leaned into her touch. "If it was, you wouldn't love me after how badly I hurt you."

"That was my fault," he answered automatically.

"And mine."

They'd gone through this more than once the night before, and Rumplestiltskin didn't want to rehash the old arguments. They'd both apologized; they'd both cried. They'd shouted and raged at one another a little, needing to uncork the pain of the hurts they had done to one another. And somehow, they'd made each another a promise of no more secrets and no more lies, of an attempt to trust and restart the marriage he had fouled up so badly. He didn't deserve that, and a part of him knew that Belle would someday wise up and walk away…but a part of Rumplestiltskin wanted to fight for her, too. Even if he'd never really known how.

"Rumple?" Belle said softly, her chin perched on his shoulder and her body pressed into his so warmly and comfortingly.

"Yes?"

"Didn't you once tell me that anyone can learn magic?" his wife wondered, and the question made him blink.

"More or less," he said slowly, his heart leaping as he realized where she must be heading with this. "Most people can."

I can't, a terrified little voice inside him whispered.

"Could you?" Belle asked, echoing his thoughts in reverse. "I mean, I don't think you should try yet," she added in a rush. "Not until you know who you want to be. But…couldn't you?"

"I thought you didn't like that me," he objected, his voice almost too quiet for his own ears.

This time the kiss fell on his cheek, and Rumplestiltskin melted into her, needing her terribly. "I know magic makes you feel safe."

"Belle, I…"

"Can you just promise me that you'll wait until you can decide who you want to be? So that power doesn't become a wall for you to hide behind?" she begged him. Hearing the pain in her voice made Rumplestiltskin turn to face her, and he could see the worry etched into her features.

She really isn't going to leave, he realized, his heart pounding in his chest. That truth sank in, really sank in, for the first time since he'd admitted to himself that he loved her, and it seared into his heart like a brand. True Love must be fought for. And Belle was worth a life without magic, if it came to that.

"I promise," he said without hesitation.

After all, once—centuries ago—he had thought he could turn that power to good. He had been so very wrong, but maybe he actually could do good with his knowledge, now.


She was hungry.

Emma had spent three days in the woods, never staying the night in the same location twice. Her body didn't seem to be as bothered by the elements as it once had been—it was stronger, more resilient, and felt amazing—but hunger still started gnawing at her after the first night. Instinct told her that this craving wasn't simply for food, because she thought she could live without that, but Emma refused to feed the growing darkness any of its preferred dishes. Sure, she'd destroyed trees (and sort of reassembled them afterwards). And maybe she'd burned the ground a little bit with an uncontrollable temper tantrum. But that wasn't the same as destroying homes or people, and Emma wasn't going to let herself do that. She was the Savior. She might be the Dark One, too, but surely she could control that.

And now you have the power to save whomever you wish, she thought. Or was that the darkness? Telling the two apart was almost impossible, but the words were true. Weren't they? She had more power than she'd ever dreamed of, now. Emma had been fairly confident in her growing powers as a sorceress, but that had been nothing like this. This was easy, this was simple! All she had to do was want something and it happened. No complicated spells, no stupidly insane focus on protective feelings or anything else. She didn't have to follow Regina's rules, now. Now she had enough power to do whatever she wanted. I won't be like Rumplestiltskin, she promised herself, vaguely aware of voiceless whispers in the back of her mind. I can still be good. I can do good things with this power.

Couldn't she?

Teleporting was easy. Why hadn't she ever tried this before? But she never had so much as attempted to teleport before she'd dropped the dagger—a foolish, foolish decision that she could hardly remember her reasons for doing. I did it so that they could stop me, Emma told herself firmly, appearing in the alley behind Granny's. I was afraid I couldn't control myself, but I can. She was done feeling overwhelming rage. She could stop herself now. Emma knew that, even if she wasn't ready to face her family just yet.

They won't understand, she thought sadly, quietly using magic to unlock the diner's back door as she conjured a hooded cloak up for herself out of nothing. They'll try to take this away, whereas I know that I can use the power for good. Telling my parents to find a way to get the darkness out of me again was foolish. I can use this power for good. Maybe Killian would understand. He'd been a villain; he'd embraced his own darkness more than once. Yet Emma had still avoided him when he'd walked through the woods calling her name, because in her heart, she knew he wouldn't understand, either. And she couldn't face the world if he hated her.

Rumplestiltskin was the Dark One. Rumplestiltskin killed the woman Killian loved, long ago. What if he hates me for that, too? Emma barely caught the surge of temper that rose; it wanted to lash out and destroy the cake cabinet, but she stopped it in time. I can do this, no matter what they think, she thought angrily, even though she wasn't sure why she was angry. But she did know why she was hungry, even if her stomach wasn't growling as loudly as it should have been after three days without food. Emma might not have been ready to face any of them, but she did need food, which meant Granny's was the logical place to go. The lasagna was frozen, after all, and fully cooked. All she had to do was grab a chunk, throw it in the microwave in the back, and she'd be out before anyone came in to open the diner.

Walking past the counter and ducking into the kitchen, Emma dropped a handful of money on of the bar. It was enough to cover anything she stole, and she'd apologize later. After she had control of everything, after she was ready to see other people. But not now. For now, the cash would be enough.

Funny. The freezer wasn't as cold as she would have thought it should be, or was that all the power running through her? What power could accomplish truly was amazing. She could do anything now, couldn't she? Emma didn't even need to search the freezer for lasagna; her magic told her right where it was with barely a thought. Distantly, she felt something—a price?—nagging at the edge of her consciousness, but she could ignore that. It's insignificant, she thought. Or the darkness told her. She still couldn't tell where Emma Swan ended and the darkness began, but that didn't really matter, did it? She could even cook the lasagna with magic! Who needed microwaves or modern conveniences? Magic could do everything.

Creak.

The sound made her turn her head, made her heart leap. Danger, a voice inside her whispered, and Emma knew she had to investigate. Perhaps someone was stealing from Granny. She was the sheriff, still. She had to stop that. Kill the danger, the voice added persuasively, and that did sound like a good idea. Thieves threatened all the law-abiding citizens of Storybrooke. She was sure this one had done more than just steal things. Whoever it was deserved whatever they got. No, she thought frantically, mentally backpedalling. That was why Storybrooke had a jail. She didn't have to kill a thief! She was the sheriff. She was supposed to arrest thieves, not kill them.

What is happening to me? she thought for the hundredth time, battling back the darkness with a deep breath. She wasn't a bad person. She was going to use this power for good. She was.

Cautiously, Emma made her way back into the dining room, leaving her newly-cooked lasagna on the table in the kitchen. She could go back for it after she dealt with this thief—but there was no one there. Blinking slowly, Emma looked around the room, but it was empty. The door, however, was ajar, and Emma walked over to investigate that, every sense tingling. She couldn't see anyone sprinting away from the diner, and no one appeared to be hiding near the tables outside.

"Hold it right there," a gravelly voice commanded, and Emma whirled around. "Emma?" Granny asked in surprise, her eyes wide. "Are you all right?"

Granny stood behind the counter with a crossbow, her expression one of shock and not murder. But Emma—and the darkness within her—only zeroed in on the crossbow, on the bolt that was loaded and ready to fire. She never noticed that the weapon was already being lowered before her hand started moving, almost on its own. Rage filled her—how dare Granny threaten her? She here to help! She was the sheriff, and no one got to point a weapon at her!

Threat, the voice said. Destroy the threat. The crossbow wasn't pointed at Emma's heart any longer, but it was still pointed at her, and Emma's right hand pitched up before she could even think about what she was doing. Shaking in rage, her fingers tightened as her wrist rotated, and the crossbow jumped out of Granny's hands before the old woman could even yelp in surprise. Immediately, it flipped end-over-end, twisting in midair until it was hovering right between Granny's eyes, only inches away. Kill her, the voice inside Emma crooned, seductive and taunting all at the same time. Kill her and feed the bloodlust. Kill her and have peace! Her head was killing her, pounding like an earthquake was happening inside her soul.

"What the hell are you doing?" Granny demanded, all bluff and bluster, as usual. Her eyes were wide, but the old woman was brave—and that was her downfall.

Had she pleaded or cried, that might have broken through to the human underneath the darkness. But she hadn't.

Emma's fingers twitched.

Twang.


Will couldn't believe his bloody eyes.

Admittedly, he wasn't exactly in the loop about everything that had happened in town, but word had gotten around pretty quickly that the blonde sheriff was now the Dark One. Rumors had traveled about like crazy, talking about how she'd torn the darkness out of Gold, about how he'd infected her with it, or about how it had just gone wild by itself. Gold was dead, Gold was laughing, Emma was dead, and Emma was the Dark One. Belle had set the record straight for him when he'd dropped by to help her take care of her husband—the fact that she'd go back to Gold once the idiot got himself straightened out had never been a question in Will's mind—but he still hadn't expected to see Emma-the-bloody-Dark-One-Swan in Granny's that morning.

He'd been dropping by to tell the cranky old bat that her back door was open. Will Scarlet wasn't exactly a font of good deeds, but Belle had made the point to him some weeks ago that he should probably try to turn over a new leaf with the people of Storybrooke. Most of them didn't know him from Alice, and well, it wouldn't hurt not to be thought of as scum. So, he'd ducked in the open back door like any concerned citizen, only to see Granny's crossbow dance out of her hands and then promptly shoot the old woman right between the eyes.

"No!" Swan cried, lunging forward after the bolt slammed into Granny's skull, as if she hadn't just done that little bit of insanity. The sheriff—though Will was willing to bet she wouldn't hold that title for three seconds past when someone learned of this—didn't manage to catch Granny before she hit the floor, though she did teleport herself to the other side of the counter after a moment, landing next to Granny.

Damn sorcerers. Nothin' good comes of 'em, even when they have to use a flying carpet instead of teleporting, Will thought, vaguely wondering if he was in shock. He had to be, if he was standing here like a blooming moron, just watching Emma Swan bend over Granny's now very dead body.

"No, no, no, no, no!" Swan wailed, but somehow that became a giggle soon enough despite the tears rolling down her face. "I shot you with your own crossbow." Giggle. "You shouldn't have done that!"

Swan let out a shriek, full of fury and despair, that should have woken half the town, but Will was personally betting that they'd probably go deaf in their sleep, first. Her eyes were wild, for a moment a little more reptilian than human, and looking at her was enough to send Will high-tailing it the hell out of the diner. He didn't want to tangle with that. No, sir. Mistress Scarlet hadn't raised her son to be an idiot, and only a complete and utter fool would stick around right now.

He'd made it outside—and out of the alley, to the right, and three doors down—before Will paused to consider what he should do about this one. Would anyone believe him? Swan would undoubtedly be long gone before anyone saw who had done Granny in, and it wasn't like there would be fingerprints on the crossbow. The bloody heroes were as likely to pin it on him as on one of their own, and as far as they knew, Swan was still one of their own.

Not to mention that the other bleeding sheriff is her father, he thought. They'd never believe him, would they?


The door led them right into a crumbling courtyard, one devoid of human life. There was a gate set in a wall about a dozen feet away, but it was half torn off its hinges and looked like it had been melted around the edges. Vines covered the three walls Henry could see, but none of those walls seemed to be in very good shape, and half the vines were dead. One walls had even half fallen down, leaving big stones all over the courtyard, and although he could tell that there had once been a mosaic around the fountain, that seemed to be ruined, too.

"It looks like there was a battle, here," he said, glancing at Killian.

"There was. This the old castle, Camulodunum," was the distracted reply. "There's a another castle up on that hill." Hook pointed, and Henry followed his gaze to see a gigantic castle towering over the one whose courtyard they were in. There was a town, very medieval and quaint looking, spread between the two castles, ringed by a high wall that looked to be in far better repair than the one around their courtyard. "That's what people call Camelot these days."

"These days?" Henry echoed, looking at the grand castle. What he could see of this one was in ruins, half melted and very broken down. Most of the roof didn't even seem intact, and even where it was still attached to the walls, it looked…liquefied. "It looks like a dragon burned up the old castle."

"Legend says one did," Killian said, and then shrugged.

"But King Arthur defeated the dragon, right?" he couldn't help asking. Henry had always loved stories of Camelot as a kid, and knowing the place was real was very exciting. Even if it did look very empty. I'm in another world! I didn't get a chance to savor that in the Enchanted Forest before Isaac tied me up, but that wasn't real, anyway. This is!

Killian snorted. "King Arthur was dead, lad. His son, Mordred, ruled last I was here."

"Oh." So, Camelot was another place where the legends in their world didn't quite get it right. Henry burned to ask more—because none of the few books they'd been able to find said much at all—but for now, they had work to do. "So, should we go inside? And how do you know so much about Camelot, anyway? You sound like you did more than visit."

Was that guilt flashing across Killian's face? Henry thought so, but he wasn't sure. At any rate, they started picking their way across the rubble, aiming for the single door that seemed to lead out of the courtyard. After a moment, the pirate answered, almost too quietly for Henry to hear:

"I grew up in that town."

"You what?" He couldn't believe his ears. "You're from Camelot? That's so cool!"

"Not as much as you think." A bitter laugh. "By the time I came of age, the Camelot of dreams and legend had faded. Mordred won, Henry, and he was no Arthur."

"I thought they killed each other. That's what all the stories say."

"Stories are only stories," Killian replied, jumping lightly over what looked like a statue of a beautiful woman. "Mordred was a sorcerer. Hard to kill." Blue eyes flicked over to him, clearly thinking something Henry could not follow. "Arthur…wasn't."

Henry wanted to ask more, and he almost did. But they were there to help Emma, and his curiosity could wait. Still, he made a mental note to sit Hook down and demand answers; this wasn't in his book, though maybe there would be a Camelot storybook somewhere in the Sorcerer's House, if only he looked closely enough. The Apprentice had told Henry that there were many books, and that Isaac's had only been the latest. Surely other magical realms had their own storybooks? He could find one, and if he couldn't, Hook could help Henry write one. He might have broken the magical quill, because no one deserved to have the power to manipulate others' lives with the stroke of a pen, but Henry was still the Author. He still felt like someone had to record the stories.

"Right." Squaring his shoulders, he peeked through the doorway before stepping through. After all, heroes were always walking into traps because they didn't stop to look first, but Henry wasn't going to do that. He might have been descended from heroes on one side of his family, but the other side was pretty smart. Instead, he dug a flashlight out of his bag, clicked it on, and shined it around to make sure there was nothing lurking in the shadows. When everything was clear, he stepped through the doorway, noticing how Hook's hand was on his sword. "So, did you know Merlin?"

"No." The answer was immediate and firm, truthful even if Henry had the feeling something was missing. "By the time I came of age, Merlin was long gone. Some said dead, others merely sleeping. I heard one tale about how Mordred had locked him away to 'save' Camelot. They said Merlin was quite insane by the end."

Frowning, Henry stepped over what looked like a rotted and half-disintegrated tapestry. There were a set of candlesticks on top of it, and weren't candlesticks something looters would have taken after the castle fell? Come to think of it, the tapestries were, too. Weren't they?

"This is weird," he muttered, looking down the hallway. It was reasonably intact, and the further from the courtyard they got, the less damaged it seemed. But the next tapestry seemed to have once been hanging from the ceiling, because now it dangled into the walkway, obscuring half of Henry's view of what lay ahead. Impatient, he brushed it aside with a hand, glancing over his shoulder to ask: "Shouldn't people have taken everything by now? I mean, if the war happened when you were little, wasn't that over three hundred years ago?"

"Yes and no," Killian answered, putting out a hand to yank Henry back as a pair of giant birds burst out from behind the tapestry, cawing and screeching. Wide-eyed, Henry stared at their nest for a moment, not wanting to admit he was shaken but pretty sure that Killian had seen that, anyway. It took a gigantic effort to make his left hand let go of the sword hilt at his side, but Henry managed, straightening his shoulders and trying to pretend like nothing was wrong . Fortunately, the pirate was polite enough not to mention it. "My mother used to tell me that Mordred pulled Camelot out of time with his magic," he said quietly. "That the reason we could no longer travel to other realms by normal means. We were…out of step."

"Is that why you needed a sail made of Pegasus feathers to travel to Neverland with the Jolly Roger?"

"Aye. Though she was the Jewel of the Realm back then," Killian replied, looking away as the hallway turned to the left. They could have gone right, but the way seemed blocked, so Henry went left, glancing back at Killian when the pirate remained quiet. He'd lost his brother on that trip, Henry remembered, and anger at his king—had that been Mordred?—made him turn pirate. Henry had always thought that it was a pretty flimsy excuse to decide to become a pirate, but if it had been Mordred, maybe Killian defying him had been more noble than not. After all, everyone knew that Mordred was a villain.

"So, was Merlin still locked up when you left?"

"That's the mystery about it," Killian, moving slightly in front of Henry and leading him to the left when a new corridor broke off from the one they were in. This hallway was even less damaged than the last; it was dusty, but seemed to be pretty much intact. Weider and weirder. Why would everyone avoid a hallway in a burned and broken down castle? Henry wondered. He had the feeling that Killian wasn't saying everything he knew, however, so he pressed:

"Was Mordred a Dark One?"

It would make sense, after all. If Mordred had been one of the early Dark Ones, that could explain how much power he had—and why he wouldn't like Merlin. The Apprentice had said that the Sorcerer had tied the darkness to a human soul, and while part of Henry automatically questioned the morality of that decision, he definitely understood why any Dark One wouldn't like the guy who had done it.

Killian stopped, looking thoughtful. "I don't think he was. He always looked normal enough. Not that I saw him often." The scowl that followed that reminded Henry of how fervently Killian hated his paternal grandfather, however, and he opened his mouth to point out that they'd now learned that the darknesswas far more powerful than any of them had ever suspected—

Until an earthquake erupted, and the ground beneath their feet began to shake.


Rumplestiltskin forced himself out of bed that afternoon, despite Belle's objections that he'd been awake for less than twenty-four hours. He couldn't shake the terrifyingly empty feeling that not being the Dark One caused, even if the change was—in some ways—an enormous relief. His mind was strangely quiet, his thoughts were all his own, and the fact that his wonderful wife was going to stand by him was really beginning to sink in.

Who could ever love me? he had asked in his last torturous moments as the Dark One. Not all of his doubts had stemmed from the curse, from the darkness eating away his ability to love and feel loved, but enough of it had that even Rumplestiltskin's fragile self-esteem could wrap itself around the fact that Belle wasn't leaving. She had promised to stand by him, and in turn—although only in the privacy of his own mind, so far—Rumplestiltskin had promised to fight for her. He had never been good at that, not since Milah had told him time and again how worthless he was, how he should have fought and had been too cowardly to do so, but he vowed to do so, now. As best he could, anyway.

"How are you feeling?" Belle asked, looking up from her book. They were in the pink Victorian's library together, reading like they had done in the few quiet moments they'd been able to share in Storybrooke. This had been one of their habits in the Dark Castle, although back then Rumplestiltskin had merely 'happened' to be reading when his maid was in the library, and would never have admitted he came there to purposefully bask in her company. And he was enjoying himself now, even if he had hardly read a word on the page of the novel he'd opened.

"A little less like my heart is going to stop at any moment," he replied honestly, testing out a half smile to see how she would react. Belle beamed.

"I'm glad," she replied, and he really could get lost in her blue eyes. Then she hesitated before asking: "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

There were two old chaise lounges in the library, after all, though they were surprisingly comfortable for antiques. They'd been sitting separately, just like they used to in the Dark Castle, but Belle looked so uncertain that Rumplestiltskin's heart clenched.

"Of course, sweetheart—" The familiar endearment rolled off his tongue, and he stopped short, trying not to cringe.

"What is it?" Immediately, Belle was by his side, looking concerned.

"I'm not sure I've earned the right to call you that again," Rumplestiltskin admitted in a whisper, and then cursed himself for being so honest. Had he been like this before the darkness? So unguarded, so open? For a man who had spent three hundred years rarely betraying his true feelings, speaking so candidly was almost physically painful.

"Oh, Rumple." A soft hand touched his cheek, and Belle leaned in, pressing her forehead gently against his. "I told you that I'm staying. I love you, and I always will. I wish you'd believe that."

"I do," he whispered, letting his eyes slip shut. Rumplestiltskin could revel in this closeness, because their love felt so much more real without the darkness eating at him. How had he ever doubted her? He could no longer understand that, not at all. Yet he did need to be honest with her, because Belle deserved that. "I know you love me. And I"—he swallowed hard—"I love you more than words can express. But I know I hurt you badly, Belle, and I want to earn your forgiveness. Not just be given it."

"I'd say you're making a very good start," his wife replied, and he could hear the emotion catch in her voice. "Besides, I like it when you call me that. It makes me feel special."

"You are," Rumplestiltskin answered immediately, drawing back to look at her. How had he ever thought that lying to Belle was the right way? Oh, he knew that had been the darkness and his own fears pulling at him, but all Belle—his beautiful, brave, and strong Belle—had wanted was his trust. He'd thought she wanted him to give up magic, but she'd never wanted that. She just wanted him to have the courage to let her in, to trust her more than he leaned on his magical crutch.

Fool that I am, I misunderstood when she told me that I didn't need magic so much as I needed courage. I thought it had to be one or the other, he thought brokenly. How much could have been different if he had only listened?

"Rumple?"

He'd been silent too long, and now Belle was watching him worriedly.

Blinking, Rumplestiltskin shook himself. "Sorry. I was…thinking."

She nestled up next to him, slipping an arm around his waist. "Anything you'd care to share?"

"Just how foolish I've been," he admitted. "I always thought that you wanted me to choose between you and magic, but that was never what you wanted, was it?"

"No! Of course not." Belle looked horrified. "I don't think I'd recognize you without magic."

She meant well, but the response made him cringe. "I think you're going to have to learn how," Rumplestiltskin said, looking away.

"Don't be silly. If I can do simple spells, you certainly can do a lot more than that," she replied. "You've been doing magic for hundreds of years."

"Because I was the Dark One. Not for any other reason." Saying the words hurt, but they were true. As was the gaping chasm within him where a whole set of senses had once been; Rumplestiltskin felt deaf and blind, like he was missing his hands. The worst thing was that magic existed in this world; he could feel it in the air, could feel it on his skin. He just couldn't touch it. And he was limping again.

"Most people—"

"Most," he cut her off more harshly than he intended. "Not all. I was never anything special before becoming the Dark One, Belle." Rumplestiltskin wanted to weep, but he would not let himself. He had certainly not earned that. "I was just a coward. Just a man who crippled myself to avoid going to war."

"You crippled yourself to give your son the father you never had," she corrected him gently, and Rumplestiltskin felt hands softly cupping his face, bringing his head up so that his eyes met hers when they opened. "I read the Book, you know."

"Oh." He didn't know what else to say other than that.

"What were you before that? What did you want to be?" Belle's fingers slipped into his hair, and Rumplestiltskin felt his body relax with a shudder.

"I don't remember," he whispered raggedy.

"Maybe you can find that," she suggested, giving him an encouraging smile. "In that alternate story, you wanted to be a good man. You were a good man, and a brave one. I think that's what you are, what you always were under the darkness. Not a coward."

"I've always been—"

"No," Belle cut him off firmly, and Rumplestiltskin blinked. "You've always believed you were a coward because everyone told you that you were. That doesn't make it true." She smiled again. "Now you can be whatever you want to be. This is a fresh start for you, Rumple. You can be that brave man I know you wanted to be. You just have to let yourself."

It couldn't be that easy, not with his past, but when Belle smiled at him like that, Rumplestiltskin wanted it to be.


Author's Note: Thank you SO much for all the lovely reviews. I am utterly floored by the reception this story has received so far. You all make me so motivated to write!

Stay tuned for Chapter Three—"A Fleeting Wisp of Glory", where David investigates Granny's death, Hook confronts his past in Camelot as he and Henry find Merlin's inner sanctum, Emma goes to her mother for help, and Rumplestiltskin makes a terrifying choice.