30 March 2014

He was swimming. It was night, moonless, and he was swimming in an ocean and nowhere was there land, nowhere.

He stopped swimming. It was just a waste of energy, pointless when there was nowhere to go to. He floated. Waited. No land, no time, nothing but ocean. Or was that his imagination? Did the ocean exist at all?

Was this death? He tried to remember—he'd died before. He couldn't conjure a memory of his first death. There was the blade piercing his skin, his muscle, his bone; there was blinding pain, then blinding light, then no pain, no sensation at all, no touch, no sound, no sight. For eons, perhaps—he couldn't remember; when there was only darkness, there was no way to tell time. Or maybe time died too, a sensation only for the living, or only for those living in the light. For hours, for eons, nothing. Then light rose, and he could see the angel kneeling in the snow and his son dying in her lap. He remembered her name; he spoke it. He felt the cold. He knew his son's name; he spoke it. He heard the wind, heard his son groan. He smelled burnt flesh, death in the air.

He died before, he's sure of it. This time was not like that. Now, he felt—something. Air currents and water brushing against his skin.

There was a howl of pain—not his voice. Then it was his voice, raw, primitive and new. His body vibrating, then nothing, no sensations at all, then vibrating again. Pain everywhere. Then light, but still pain. Blackness, then light again, and still pain.

And then an angel. Not her from before—his heart cracked open and love and anguish spilled out. Not her, not Belle. The angel was holding his hands. He jerked away. He mustn't let her touch him, mustn't let the savior save him, because that meant someone else must take his place in death.

So what, a voice in his brain asked dully. Better them than you. Life is out there; take it. He allowed the light to leak under his eyelids, allowed the breath to leak into his lungs. Light and life, he seized them; he had a right to them.

Then every memory of every thing, every event, every person, every dream, every thought and hope and fear flooded back into his brain and he wasn't floating any more. He was here, fully here, in life.

The pain was gone, but a new pain filled him. Worse that the first, this pain was three hundred years in the birthing. Now he knew, and he couldn't live with the knowledge.

"What have you done?"

A cyclone of time swept them, the Dark One, the savior, and the son, up. Too fast: just a few seconds to perceive, to realize, to understand, to react, to plan, not enough. Or maybe it didn't matter that time was too short: this was the Law of Magic exacting its price, and the only price that is sufficient to buy Life back from Death is another life.

"Please, let go."

Oh gods.

"Hmph."

Zelena stood over the body of his son, stared down, wrinkled her nose. "So long, Baelfire." She stepped over the body, the heel of her muddy boot nearly connecting with Baelfire's nose. Rumple would have killed her for that if he could have. And oh, he'd kill her again for so much more.

"Now that your head is clear, you'll finally be of use to me."

They exchanged threats. Pointless, but threats were all the Dark One had now. She ordered him back to the cage but his hand snaked out, grasped her wrist. "Please." He choked on the rest of his plea.

She raised her chin and smiled, flattered. "Really? 'Please'? Oh, but if you're going to ask me to bring him back to life—that will have to wait, doll. I need a few ingredients yet."

"What did you say?" he couldn't wrap his grief-soaked mind around her remark. "You—it's a resurrection spell you've been working on all this time?"

"Not exactly. But let's show some respect for the deceased, shall we? We'll talk magic later. Now is the time for mourning."

"Please. Let me bury him."

She stroked his cheek in mock sympathy—or maybe a little actual pity. "Because, despite your worst efforts, I love you, I'll honor your request. And later, I'll allow you to bury your girlfriend." She looked over her shoulder at his son. "How very convenient, how very considerate of you, Baelfire, to provide us a body just when we're ready for one. " She returned to Rumple. "Some gifts for you, doll." Her magic produced a spade, a casket and a jewelry box. With a flip of her hand she opened the casket.

She tossed him the spade. "Best get to work. Night is falling. You may use a little magic for this work, to speed things up."

"No." He rested the spade against a tree and slid his arms under his son's shoulders. He couldn't lift the body. As much as it shamed him, he had to drag Baelfire to the coffin, then pull him in. Panting, he folded Bae's hands across his chest, smoothed down the boy's hair. When he regained his breath, Rumple took up the spade and began digging.

With a sigh of annoyance, Zelena conjured her lounge chair, a hot toddy and a Vogue and amused herself as he dug.

It was after dark when he finished, sweating, filthy, muscles aching. She had to conjure a pair of Tiffany lamps so she could read her magazine as he worked. When he had created a space deep enough, he hauled himself from the hole and leaned against the tree to rest, shaking from exhaustion.

"Before you wrap up here." Zelena presented him with the jewelry box. He glared at her before opening it: if this was a wedding ring she was going to force him to wear in some sort of sick mock marriage—or if it was a slave collar—

The box contained ten nails.

"You're probably thinking right now, 'That Zelena! She's remarkable. She must have Second Sight, to have given me these nails in preparation for this moment.' But I'm sorry to say that while I did expect you to use these nails on somebody's coffin, I thought it would be Belle's. After you killed her." Zelena walked around him, her fingers trailing across his shoulders and his chest. "Voluntarily, of course, to get her out of our way." She kissed his ear. "So you could be with me."

He stepped away from her.

"Go on. Finish your work so we can go home." She reseated herself, tucking one leg daintily under the other.

The magic left him no choice. He conjured a hammer and pounded in the nails as she counted them off. "One: for your wife. Two: for your father. Three: for your predecessor. Four: for your sweetheart. Five: for your protégé. Six: for your wife's lover. Seven: for your grandson. Eight: for your son. Nine: for your suicide. Ten: for your soul mate. Ten: a magical number, to those who amuse themselves with superstition. But you and I never needed such bunk, did we? We had the real thing."

When the last nail had sunk into the wood, he fell back on his knees. She made his hammer vanish, lest he get ideas of using it against her, then she rose and stood behind him, petting his hair. "I don't like to see you like this, Rumple," she said softly. "You're much more attractive when you're upright and snarling. Here, I can get you on your feet again." Her magic yanked him to his feet. "Well, go on, finish it. Then back to the cage."

She didn't have to watch to see if he'd obey. She took herself away in a cloud of magic.

He could cry then. Again, he was free to cry. He permitted his pain to pour forth as he studied the coffin. He couldn't finish. He couldn't lift the coffin, and he'd be damned if he'd push it into the grave. As much as Baelfire would have hated it, Rumple had to use magic to convey the coffin to the grave.

When the coffin lay securely, snugly in its resting place, he spoke an ancient prayer over the grave, commending his son's soul to whatever gods might still exist, somewhere. He'd learned this prayer as a child; death had been a common occurrence in his village, and the spinsters who had raised him had spun many a shroud. He didn't remember a lot of that old language any more, but he could recite the prayer flawlessly.

He then added some words of his own, words of affection and pride, sorrow and shame, and finally, vows of vengeance and protection. "Because you were mine, Zelena came after you. Because he is mine, Pan came after Henry. Because she is mine, Hook came after Belle. I swear to you, on all that is within my power, I will protect what is mine. Let no man, let no magic, let no law prevent me from it."

He thrust his hand into his chest. "And no weakness." He yanked out his heart and tossed it into the grave.