The pain was unimaginable.

He had missed, that much was agonizingly clear. Instead of hitting only his toes he heard a crack and felt his entire ankle shatter into what must have been a thousand broken pieces. He screamed. He cried out in pain as his weight buckled and he rolled on the ground holding the wrecked remains of his once perfect limb. The only thought that consoled him as the pain overtook him was that it would all be for his son. They wouldn't be able to make him fight.

It seemed to take hours for them to find him there like that and carry him off to the triage tent. He screamed the entire time the doctor poked and prodded him. His commanding officer stood overhead holding his shoulders down, yelling at him, screaming as he interrogated him at the same time. It was a crime to injure yourself, to purposefully make yourself unfit for battle and he could tell that was what his officer was trying to do. What were you doing with the hammer? Why were you disobeying orders? Why weren't you with the others? Why had he done this? But before he could answer any questions, he felt the doctor press a bowl of liquid to his lips, and the world went dark.

When he came to the sun was shining through the tent, but he hardly noticed. His leg hurt. It was funny to him how pain in one isolated area could make the rest of his body hurt so badly. It was almost unbearable. He wanted to find the doctor, to see if he had any more of whatever had put him to sleep, but when he looked to his right he saw only empty beds. When he looked to his left he saw-

He let out a small gasp as his heart began to race. On instinct his body attempted to jump off the table and run, momentarily forgetting he could no longer do that! It left him hurting on the table as he stared at what he couldn't peel his eyes away from. A single pair of unseeing eyes looking back at him.

It was Rolf.

He was dead. There was blood all around him. The sheets were stained with it. The wound looked as though it had come from his chest. Dead. Rolf was dead. The last time he'd seen him he'd been alive, walking and talking, and now...

He wanted so bad to try and get away from such an awful sight but found the pain in his ankle forbid it. And as he finally began to calm down he was aware that it wasn't just pain he felt in his ankle, but a strange stiffness as well. It was too difficult to move.

After taking a breath or two, he tore his eyes from Rolf's body to look down. Sticks had been set around it and wrapped tight. As he lay his head back down, unsure where he should look, he cried out. It was only then that the doctor and an unfamiliar officer came in. The doctor was covered in blood up to his elbows but quickly went to Rolf's side and hitched a sheet up over his pale face.

"That's the last of them, Sir. There were no survivors."

No survivors. He'd gone to sleep and when he woke up the world around him had changed so it was hardly recognizable. The camp was now occupied by a different regiment than he'd originally come with, no faces were familiar. The only ones from his own regiment who had survived the battle were those who did not fight at all, those like him who had been injured. The new officer in charge questioned him, though it was all half-hearted. He had no idea his history and only knew what the doctor told him, that he'd been injured under suspicious circumstances by a hammer.

Rumpelstiltskin stuck to his story, looking him in the eye each time he told it just as his father had once told him to make a con successful and gain the victim's trust.

Someone in his unit had asked him to fetch it and he'd misjudged how heavy it was. He'd dropped it on himself. It was an accident.

Dropped it on his ankle? Not his foot?

Yes. It was because of the terrain, a one in a million chance — a foot caught in the wrong place at the wrong time with a hammer in hand.

He knew that he didn't believe him, but with his former officer's dead, there was no one to refute his claim. They promised to send him home with the others the next time a cart came free since walking was out of the question.

He argued and fought. He knew how rare free supply carts were, they were on the front! It would be months before they came his way. He had to go! He had a wife and child back home, if he wasn't going to be paid as a soldier anymore then he had to get home to provide for his family the only way he knew how! The doctor fought him, told him that the only other option was to walk but if he did that the way his ankle was now he would cripple himself for life! He needed to remain still, give the bones time to heal, and with any luck, his ankle would heal perhaps to the point that one day he might be able to put weight on it again.

He considered his words very carefully, but ultimately decided against it. It was the new regiment, the way they looked at him when they came in for small things like broken fingers or splinters or cuts. It was the way they treated him, looking at him like he was the worst person they'd known, maybe even worse than the ogres, that finally got to him and pushed him out the door. It was the fact that even though the army cleared him of charges, everyone knew what had really happened to the man with a broken leg in the infirmary.

They didn't understand. They didn't know his history and could never know what it was like without a father and why he'd done this. He wanted to leave. The doctor found a thick branch and gave him a satchel with leaves he could brew in a tea for the pain and leaves he could chew to keep him awake if he got tired. Through all the urgings not to do this he sent him off early one morning before the men were awake and he put the battlefield and the prophecy behind him. There, the future wasn't as set in stone as she'd thought. There had been no actions on the battlefield, and though every step made him want to scream curses, he knew that at least his child, his son, would not grow up fatherless.

He walked for weeks. The time blended together. His leg was useless. Every step was agony, with every little bit of pressure that he put on it he could feel the shattered fragments of his bones shift and grind together. It felt like pieces of glass beneath his skin, but in his mind's eye he had a goal. It was Milah, standing by the fire with a baby in her arms, a smile on her face when she saw he'd come home from the war alive for her, for his son, for their family. She'd understand. He didn't need an ankle to spin, or weave, or sew, or knit. Their dream of getting sheep would be put on hold until their son was old enough to shepherd and Milah could make the delivery runs for him until his leg healed. Things were going to be difficult, but they could make it work. And she would understand, especially when he explained to her that it was the price to keep his life. Compared to death, the small changes would be nothing.

He nearly cried on the day he saw the town sitting just over the ridge. He'd walked for so long he'd lost track of the days, but he knew it was nearly a year since he'd gone. If she'd truly been pregnant and the pregnancy had finally taken, they would have a child by now. She'd have given birth not long ago. He was excited and nervous as he hobbled through the dark town. Occasionally he would see someone out and note their wide eyes on him as he passed them. He ignored their gazes and fixed his eyes only on their house.

"Milah! Milah!" he cried finally close enough that she might hear him through the windows. The end was in sight! He couldn't wait to sit down. And he wouldn't mind it if Milah ruined the picture in his head by running out and letting him put some of his weight on her. "Milah! Milah?" he opened the door to their home-

"Rumple!"

Milah had said something, but he didn't comprehend it. All thoughts ceased as he made a move to shut the door and take in the scene around him. Oh, it was just as he imagined. There she was, standing by the fire. Her arms were draped with a blanket, and somewhere in the folds, nearly the same color of the blanket, was a tiny sleeping face, black wispy hair just visible from the shadows. A child. A son.

"Wh-what's his name?" he demanded limping forward. Weeks of hobbling around only imagining him had sparked a desire in him for this one simple thing. He had a son. What had she named his son? What would he call his boy from this day forward?

She looked down at the small child cradled against her chest. "Baelfire," she whispered.

"A strong name!" he cried. A name worthy of a boy unlike the pitiful cursed name his father had given him! Baelfire. Rumpelstiltskin, Milah, and Baelfire. He couldn't have named him better himself.

The events of the last few weeks had left him weak. The little food he'd taken in over the journey had him feeling light-headed, and he tripped over his ankle in an effort to get to him. He collapsed onto the floor by the chair and felt instantly the pressure on his leg leave him as the pressure of a different kind gripped his heart. Nothing could hurt him now. He had his son. He was a father. Now he could show the world he was nothing like his own father. He didn't need a war to do it! He just needed his boy, to be there for him, to teach him to shave, and spin, and knit, and give him advice when he needed. He was thinking too fast. Living an entire life in only a few moments, but it was impossible not to at this moment. He'd been waiting for this for so long!

"Something he'll need if he's to live with the shame of being your son," Milah commented, her voice shaky as he hauled himself into the chair.

Shame? Why would she say a thing like that?

"What…what are you talking about?" he questioned, doing his best to breathe and putting his hands over his leg. He needed more herbs for the pain. But he'd run out yesterday. Perhaps they had a drop of something around that might dull it for him.

"Rumple, is it true?" Milah cried, seemingly oblivious to the pain and joy coursing through him. A fair trade, he was oblivious to what she was talking about.

"Is what true?"

"Did you injure yourself? So that you wouldn't have to fight? So that you would be sent home?"

She looked to be on the verge of tears. She knew. How did she know already? He had only just arrived in town? Who would have told her? He'd wanted to do it himself. To explain the proper way so that she'd understand!

"Who told you that?"

"Everyone!" she shouted. "Rumors travel quickly from the front. Rumple, did you do this to yourself?" she demanded. He'd expected understanding from the woman who hadn't wanted him to go in the first place. He'd expected happiness that he was back, that he'd escaped death and she wouldn't be a widow and their son would be raised with his father. But her tone was anything but understanding. Or happiness. "Did you do it to yourself?!"

"Yes!" he yelled in answer to her screeching. She took a step away from him. Fear and anger mingled in her eyes as their boy began to make noises in her arms and she swayed gently back and forth, coddling him, comforting him. What about him? He'd walked hundreds of miles for her and that boy in her arms! Was disgust all she had to offer? Was she not even going to listen? "A seer told me I was going to die in the battle."

"You did this because a seer told you to do it?" she sneered, looking at him as though he'd been played the fool.

"She was right about everything else," he stated. She had to listen. She had to understand. "I left the front to be with you. You and…Baelfire." And now he was here. And all he wanted was to hold his son. To look at his face, to see himself in his eyes so that he wouldn't see those haunting blue ones anymore.

"You left because you were afraid."

"No!"

"You became what everyone thought you were – a coward.!"

"Stop!"

"Just like your father!"

"I am nothing like my father!" he growled getting to his feet and regretting it instantly. His injury was still new, and it was easy to forget what he could and could not do. He wanted to rush at her, he wanted to shake her and scream she had it all wrong and didn't understand! That it had taken more courage to do this to himself than walk into battle! That his father was a monster who didn't care for him! And his mother wasn't any better! But he couldn't do that. His leg wouldn't let him move! He was lucky he still managed to stand.

"He tried to abandon me. I will never, ever do that to my son," he vowed trying to step closer. It was useless. He couldn't do such things anymore. "That's why I did this. For him. All for the boy. To save him from the same fate I suffered – growing up without a father." He made it no further than their bed before he had to sit down. Without the cane, he'd never get far.

"You sentence him to a fate much worse," Milah whispered with tears in her eyes. "Growing up as your son."

"What…what…what else could I do?!" he argued.

"You could have fought, Rumple. You could have died."

"You don't mean that," he declared, waiting for her to apologize. Where had words like that come from?! Months ago, years ago she'd been angry that he wanted so much to walk into battle and leave her alone now it was all that she wanted?! She was just in shock, angry! She would take it all back and regret those words! She just needed time to see reason! "You don't mean that."

She needed time, but it was clear for the moment, she did mean that. This was no happy reunion. This was not the homecoming he imagined it would be. His wife wished him dead. And his son…

His son.

There was anger in her gaze, a fire he'd not seen in years, since the last time they'd been on opposite ends of this fight. She was near to crying, but she took her steps to him, leaned over and set the bundle she'd been carrying in his arms.

The second he felt the weight on his arms and against his chest he was only vaguely aware of her storming out the front door with the water bucket, for it was the boy in his arms that demanded his attention completely.

"Oh!" he sighed. Oh, he was perfect. So small and clean. His eyelashes were dark as the hair that he had on his head, and his nose was sharp and pointed like Milah's. His skin was her own as well, perfectly pale so that his little ears were translucent and red against the firelight.

"Oh, it's alright, Bae," he breathed as the boy squirmed and fussed in his arms, trying to free one tiny hand with five perfectly formed fingers. "It's alright."

The baby reached up for him and grabbed onto his nose. He nearly lost himself to tears. How many times had he reached out for his own father and he'd never reached back? How many times had he cried out for his Papa and never gotten a response? That was a feeling his son would never know!

"Your Papa's here," he whispered to the child. "And I promise…I will never…ever leave you."

He kissed the child on top of his forehead, so soft and fuzzy it felt like a peach. Then held him tight to his chest as the baby sighed and began to drift off to sleep again, his tiny fist holding onto the tattered remains of his army career as he rocked him.

It was the happiest moment of his life.

I think we could probably all agree that this chapter, this moment at the end, just kind of speaks for itself. I don't think I captured the magic it had in the show, but I promise that I tried.

Thank you Enomisje, Jennifer Baratta, and Grace5231973 for your reviews on the last of the chapters. I'm glad you think that the scene was well written and loved RC's performance just as much as I did. Peace and Happy Reading!