A/N: The "Anatomy of a Spinning Wheel" site tells me that fibers to be spun are first fed through the spinning wheel's 'orifice hole'. It might sound a bit risque, but it is the proper term.

Chapter 16

Rumple still didn't know whether letting his younger self try to run was a good idea. At least, he wasn't sure whether he should have suggested his younger self run in the opposite direction from the one he himself had taken, all those years ago. The timeline, as he'd kept repeating to himself—both selves—was a fragile thing and undoing any part of it was risky.

But the duke had many soldiers patrolling the woods in search of those who would evade the draft. And uppermost in Rumple's memories right now was his humiliating encounter with Hordor. It was risky, but he wanted to spare his younger self that level of degradation. If he and Bae were picked up by another patrol, then so be it. Many of the soldiers on those details weren't completely insensitive to the situation. These were older men, generally; veterans back from the front. In some cases—especially now, with the lowered draft age—their own children were fighting the ogres. And while they were unlikely to allow a youth to escape conscription (they'd be facing a charge of treason if they were caught at it), the odds were high that they'd send his younger self and Bae back home with a warning. The soldiers would come again for Bae on his fourteenth birthday, and if they did, Rumple had already decided that he'd stop the Ogre War before his boy ever made it to the front.

In his past, ending the war had been practically the first thing he'd done after snapping Hordor's neck; he doubted that pushing the timetable up by some eight hours or so was going to upset things that much. And if doing so meant that he never became the Dark One?

Well, if he never became the Dark One, then he couldn't very well go back in time to persuade his younger self to choose a different path, could he?

It sounded convincing, but the spinner still wasn't certain he had his facts straight. Maybe time-travel wasn't supposed to be possible because it was easier to keep these sorts of questions to the purely theoretical. Well. What was done was done. Assuming that his actions hadn't erased him from existence, he'd stay here for a week. If, after that time, he saw neither his younger self nor Bae, he'd move on. In a month, when the search for the fugitives would almost certainly have died down, Rumple would brew a locator potion—he was fairly certain he could remember all the ingredients—and go off in search of them, just to be sure that they were safe. And then?

He had a month to figure out what to do then.

Rumple sat down on Bae's mattress, closed his eyes, and heaved a sigh of relief.

A fist collided forcefully with his nose, and a furious voice exclaimed, "You idiot!"

It was more than four miles to the Duke's castle and, riding pillion on horseback, his hands bound to the saddle horn, Rumpelstiltskin felt as though he was bruising with every step the horse took. Behind him, a burly soldier held the reins with one hand and the back of the spinner's belt with the other. On the horse directly ahead of him, he knew that Bae was riding, similarly restrained in front of another soldier, though that soldier's body blocked the boy's figure almost entirely. Only the edges of Bae's cape were occasionally visible, blowing back in the night breeze.

The journey didn't take very long; horses could easily cover eight miles in an hour at a trot and, even encumbered by leather barding, it was probably only a half hour before the walls of the duke's castle came into view and not more than ten minutes before they passed through its barbican gate—two squat towers framing the entry, leaving a narrow passage between them. Rumple realized that, with the arrow slots lining the stone walls at intervals and the trap doors he could just make out in the buttressed stone ceiling—through which, he imagined, boiling oil or pitch, or even scalding hot water might be poured—the passage could easily become a death-trap

Once through the entry, Hordor bade his men to wait in the passage and he dismounted and strode off. The others—including the two whose horses carried Rumpelstiltskin and Bae—slid down from their mounts as well, leaving their two captives bound in the saddles, while the soldiers stretched their legs and spoke quietly and easily among themselves. A moment later, a loud rumbling and harsh grinding of gears startled the captives and they jerked their heads to look over their shoulders, just in time to see the iron portcullis come down, sealing the castle for the night. Nobody was watching them, Rumple noted, but really, there was no need to. Even if either of them could somehow slip their restraints, they were hardly about to dismount and try to run through the dozen or so armed men that surrounded them. And with the portcullis down, there would be no escaping.

Rumple bit his lip and faced forward once more, just in time to see his boy looking in his direction. There was no trace of Bae's earlier bravado now. His brown eyes were wide and he looked quite a bit younger than his thirteen years. Rumple forced himself to smile and hide the terror that he himself was feeling. "It's going to be all right son," he murmured.

"But when they ask you to spin…!" Bae breathed.

"It's going to be all right." Rumple wondered how many times he'd need to repeat himself before one of them started to believe it.

The temperature was falling and Rumple felt the wind through his worn cloak and threadbare garments, as he wondered with one breath when Hordor would return and prayed with his next that he'd tarry a bit longer. He had the sinking feeling that things were only about to get worse.

Finally, when Rumple's teeth were chattering both from cold and from terror, and his clasped fingers had reddened while they gripped the saddle horn, Hordor appeared once more. He took the reins of Rumple's and Bae's horses in one hand and led the mounts around the corner of the barbican gate, to where a short flight of stone stairs led to a wooden door strapped with iron. The knight commander drew a hunting knife and sliced through the ropes that tethered man and boy to their respective mounts. "Down you go," he said gruffly, half-assisting, half-dragging each in turn. Then, just as he'd taken the horses' reins before, he caught the free ends of the ropes still around his captive's wrists and started to lead them toward the steps.

Rumple's ankle gave way and he stumbled with a whimper.

"Papa!" Bae exclaimed. He glared at Hordor. "If you won't give him a staff, at least cut me loose so I can help him!" he cried.

Hordor peered down his nose. "You're in no position to give orders, boy," he said, his voice and expression betraying nothing.

Bae lowered his eyes for a moment, and then jerked them upwards once more. "Then I'll ask it as a favor," he said steadily. "Please, my lord, there's no reason to keep us both tied up. We're not going anywhere except where you take us."

Hordor appeared to be lost in thought for a moment. Then he shrugged. "That's true enough," he said, drawing his knife once more. This time, he cut the bonds on Bae's wrists and then moved to do the same for Rumple. "You've more than your fair measure of courage, boy," he remarked, "especially considering who your father is. The army has need of such as you."

He looked up into Rumple's eyes as he spoke and his lip curled in satisfaction at the spinner's expression. "Up the stairs," he directed. "Both of you as swift as you can."

They obeyed. Even with Bae's help, Rumple stumbled as they reached the top stair, falling heavily to one knee, as Bae hung onto his other arm. "Papa?" he whispered, wincing as he heard Hordor's impatient growl behind him.

Rumple nodded and got back to his feet, leaning on Bae as he did. It was Bae's turn to say it. "It's going to be all right, Papa," he whispered, as they stood on the landing. Now that they were closer, they could see that there was a sliding window in the door before them, through which a face was peering. It vanished nearly at once, and the door creaked open. As Hordor gestured them inside, Bae repeated, "It's going to be all right."

"And I believe that should do it," Regina said, with a self-satisfied smile. "Good thing you didn't bruise those leaves; they're skunk cabbage."

"Now you tell me," Emma replied with a theatrical shudder.

"Oh, they're benign enough if you handle them gently. The flowers are a different matter, of course, but we've more than enough yellow in there without them."

The bowl in Emma's hands was now filled with a variety of blossoms and blooms. Most were white and yellow, with purple Echinacea, clover and mint flowers, pink honeysuckle, and orange pleurisy root. Emma was particularly enamored of the three rainbow hibiscus that Regina had coaxed into blooming early. The petals of one were edged in pink, which darkened to purple, then blue, then a bluish green that almost at once turned to yellow, which darkened to orange at its center. The five petals of the second flower were each a different solid color that shone almost like polished leather in the sun: azure, cobalt, cyan, lime, and dark violet. The third, which Regina had called a 'black rainbow hibiscus' looked almost as though it was on fire, with the oranges and reds that edged the dark petals at top and bottom to ring a yellow center—yes, she knew it was called an ovary, but she felt weird using the word in this context—from which sprouted several orange stigmas.

"This is incredible," she breathed.

"Yes, I think it should make the desired impression. Now…" Regina waved her hand and a transparent sphere surrounded the bowl, sealing it and its contents within.

"Oh," Emma said, frowning a bit. "I-I thought… Some of them smelled pretty good. Are you sure…?"

Regina nodded. "It wasn't the original plan, but if you'll recall, when you arrived earlier, I was on the phone with Dr. Whale? Originally, he'd told me that there was no problem with bringing flowers into Rumple's room, that even though they weren't normally permitted in isolation, since Rumple's currently the only patient in the ward and flowers aren't normally hazardous to TB patients, it would be fine. However…"

"However?"

Regina sighed. "Whale thinks that in Rumple's case, it could be a problem. It ties in with the issues raised by his immortality." She frowned. "All right. Tuberculosis normally has a fairly long incubation period. Years, in fact. And then, it generally takes quite some time for an active case to advance as far as Rumple's has. That's what was bothering Whale: if Rumple was in the past for almost three years—some portion of which would have been spent back in the Enchanted Forest, where his magic would have kept him in good health—there just shouldn't have been enough elapsed time for Rumple to be in the condition he is now." She paused for a moment. "Unless he'd already contracted it before he ever became the Dark One."

"Excuse me?"

"If Rumple was already suffering from latent TB," Regina said, warming to her topic, "his becoming the Dark One would have stopped the condition from advancing. But, much like his limp, his magic wouldn't cure the condition; it would only mask it. And, when the Dark Curse brought everyone here, if you'll recall, time was frozen until your arrival, so even without magic, his situation would have been static. And, of course, when you broke that curse, virtually the first thing Rumple did was bring magic here, so that magic would have protected him again."

"But he was still limping until Neverland," Emma reminded her.

"That wasn't an illness. Immortality doesn't mean a person can't be injured. Or permanently disabled. It doesn't even mean that that one can't be killed, only that they won't die of natural causes. Like tuberculosis, for example," Regina added. "From what I've observed, healing spells are meant to be temporary, allowing one to function normally until the injury in question heals by itself. Had Rumple become the Dark One before shattering his ankle, his magic might have been able to set the break so it healed properly, and then he wouldn't have that limp. But since it was an old injury, his power could only hide it, not fix it."

"Shattering?" Emma winced, just thinking about that.

Regina sighed. "Read Henry's book. At any rate, Whale believes that while Rumple might have been carrying the disease for some time, until he crossed into Edwardian England, his magic was able to compensate." Her expression grew troubled. "In fact, Whale suggested it might have compensated a bit too well."

"Sorry?"

"Rumple got used to leaning on it. Think of health like a muscle; with magic doing the 'heavy lifting' of protecting him from illness, Rumple's own muscles… atrophied from inactivity. Then when he entered a land without magic—a land without magic in which time wasn't frozen—his normal defenses, everything he might have had going for him that would have helped him fight off disease, after so many years of disuse, all of that just… couldn't kick in."

"Hang on," Emma interrupted her. "Are you saying Gold's immune-compromised?"

"Whale is saying it," Regina confirmed. "At least, insofar as I understood him. It's not precisely what's going on, but it's similar enough that he thinks it wise to apply similar safety precautions. Which would normally mean no plants in Rumple's proximity, live, cut, or dried. This," she gestured to the sphere in Emma's hands, "is how we circumvent that rule. The plants can't harm him if they're safely sealed up. And, once the antibiotics have the chance to work and Rumple's on the mend, we can unseal the bowl and he can get the full effect."

Emma nodded, her eyes wide. "Wow. Yeah, okay. I get it. I didn't realize…"

"I don't think any of us did," Regina replied. "But now that we do, if Rumple's to have his best chance, we need to abide by the necessary protocols. Those masks and suits we have to wear in the isolation ward aren't just to keep us from contracting TB; they're to keep him from picking up some bug from us."

Emma nodded again. "Understood."

Jerked out of a near-doze, it took Rumple a moment to recognize who it was who had awakened him. It wasn't entirely his fault; the only illumination in the hut came from the moonlight filtering through the lone window and the glow of the embers on the hearth. And the middle-aged man who was practically quivering with wild-eyed fury was a far cry from the servile beggar whom he had first encountered on this night over two centuries ago—and farther still from the sarcastic, golden-skinned cypher he would meet three days later.

Then memory crashed in on him. "Zoso!" he gasped, even as he reminded himself that there was no cause for fear. Zoso wasn't the only one with power here.

"What did you think you were playing at?" Zoso snapped, seizing Rumple by the front of his shirt and hauling him upright. "Do you know how hard it was to set up the encounter in the first place? Why in all the realms did you send him off in the other direction; you almost destroyed everything! And of all the magic you could have taught him, why did you restrict yourself to transmutation instead of a few defensive spells? Or better yet offensive?"

"What?" He must still be in a bit of a daze; that or reeling from the combined weight of accusation and revelation. He'd known from the night that he'd become the Dark One that Zoso had played him. Preying on his desperation, his terror, his despair, his helplessness, until Rumple had seen murder as the only road to his salvation—a road he'd chosen not to travel more than a decade earlier. That refusal had cost him any hope of reconciliation with Milah, though he hadn't known it then. But the threat of losing his son combined with the promise of power that Zoso had dangled before him… That combination of stick and carrot had been too much to resist. Rumple had always assumed that his original meeting with Zoso had been a chance encounter of which the then-Dark One had taken full advantage. But from what Zoso was saying…

"What?" He must still be half asleep; that or reeling from the combined weight of accusation and revelation. He'd known from the night that he'd become the Dark One that Zoso had played him. Preying on his desperation, his terror, his despair, his helplessness, until Rumple had seen murder as the only road to his salvation—a road he'd chosen not to travel more than a decade earlier. That refusal had cost him any hope of reconciliation with Milah, though he hadn't known it then. But the threat of losing his son combined with the promise of power that Zoso had dangled before him… That combination of stick and carrot had been too much to resist. Rumple had always assumed that his original meeting with Zoso had been a chance encounter of which the then-Dark One had taken full advantage. But from what Zoso was saying…

"Are you trying to tell me that you led Hordor to me? To him!" he amended.

"'To you' is just as accurate," Zoso retorted dryly, releasing his grip on Rumple's shirt and letting him fall back to the straw mattress. "And of course I did. When the Duke doesn't have me overseeing conscription efforts, he's ordered me to patrol the region to apprehend those who would flee the draft." He shrugged. "Since I've been seeking a desperate soul for quite some time now, those orders don't displease me much. But you, you… I don't even know what you're playing at, but unless you want to live out the rest of your days as enslaved as I am, you'll turn this around now!"

"What are you talking about?" Rumple demanded, honestly confused.

Zoso rolled his eyes. "Why did you teach him to spin gold?" he demanded.

Rumple took a breath. "I suppose you know who I am."

"Darkness calls to its own," Zoso reminded him. "Yours has been calling me for weeks. And don't think I haven't heard my own voice in that call, along with that of my—our—predecessors. You're going to be me. And him. And something tells me that time travel isn't as theoretical as is commonly thought in this place and time." He raised an eyebrow. "Getting rid of the dagger was a good idea; just not quite good enough. Now answer my question."

Rumple nodded. He took a moment to compose himself. Then he lifted his hand and summoned a force that slammed Zoso into the wall of the hut with enough force to send the tin plates on the shelf above crashing to the floor like clattering cymbals. "As you pointed out, dearie," he said softly, getting up and advancing toward the fallen Dark One, "I have power too, here. All of yours… and all of mine. So be careful who you manhandle. You've more reason to keep me alive than I do you. And if I were to kill you now," he added, "I wonder what the effect might be. Would I keep my current strength? Would yours be…" he chuckled, "added to mine?"

"Or would you erase yourself from existence by taking my power now before you could as a young man?" Zoso finished, still slightly out of breath, though there was no fear in his voice; just wry curiosity. "I've nothing to lose if you try it. If you know who I am, then you know what I want. One way or another, by the hand of the man you were or by the hand of the man you are, I'll get it. But is that what you want, too?" He smirked. "Somehow, I don't think you're quite desperate enough. You will be in time—unless someone gets their hands on the blade and stabs you with it first—but you aren't yet."

He was right, curse him. Rumple glowered for a moment.

"Why did you teach him?" Zoso asked again.

Rumple sighed. He couldn't see as concealing his reasons mattered now. "In the past as it happened before my intervention," he said, "Hordor forced me to kiss his boots in front of my boy." He'd 'only' kissed them and been kicked for his trouble; the knight commander had been satisfied with that level of degradation. But speaking of it now, Rumple felt as though he were actually tasting mud-encrusted leather, smelling its odor, feeling the heat of the soldiers' torches on his face—unless it had been shame and not fire that had made his face burn… "He claimed it was because I had neither money, nor power, nor influence. Only fealty. I… thought that if I'd had any of the other qualifications, perhaps my younger self would be spared the humiliation."

Zoso shook his head. "So you saved him a few seconds of shame and sentenced him to a lifetime of slavery."

Rumple's eyes widened. "What?"

Zoso leaped into the air with surprising agility, turned two somersaults and landed a scant few inches in front of Rumple. "What?" he repeated mockingly. Then, without warning, he slapped Rumple across the face. "Did you not think that Hordor might question where a peasant spinner would obtain such a treasure? Nor what he'd do when he learned he'd just got his hands on the goose that spun the golden thread? The soldiers took them both!"

Rumple barely registered the physical blow. "Both?" he echoed, staggering a step backwards.

"Yes, and while it might give your boy a reprieve, sooner or later, Hordor will recall that not only is it treason to avoid service, but treason to seek to prevent one from performing said service. Particularly military service in wartime! He'll send your son to the front and keep your other self spinning gold in his service, all the while letting him believe that his drudgery keeps the lad safe!"

Rumple knew that his face had to be nearly the color of chalk right now. He didn't think Zoso was lying; Hordor would almost certainly do it. And as long as his younger self believed that he was buying Bae's safety with his servitude, he'd be trapped as surely as if the name on the duke's dagger was already his own instead of Zoso's. He would spend the rest of his days shut away with only straw, a spinning wheel, and a taskmaster to taunt him periodically.

Cold sweat beaded his forehead. He'd lived that and much too recently for comfort. He swallowed hard. "I have to get them away," he said. "B-but Hordor will chase after them unless I…" His breath caught. "I have to think."

Zoso smiled. "Fortunately, I've been doing a bit of that myself. And I think I might have a plan…"

The room to which they were taken was half the size of the hovel they'd left barely two hours earlier. Rumpelstiltskin guessed that it might normally be used as sleeping quarters for foot soldiers. There were six wooden frames that were the right size and height to serve as bedsteads. These now bore bales of straw, stacked two high, two wide, and four deep. There were additional bales lining the walls. A spinning wheel and stool, much like Rumple's own, graced the center of the room.

Hordor smiled. "Fetch a stool for the boy, too," he instructed one of his men. "Let him witness his father's prowess."

He laid a hand on Rumple's shoulder that might almost have been friendly. "You'll have this spun by noon," he said smiling, "or face the duke's mercy. As for mine, it will be to spare your son the horrors of watching his father hang for treason and trickery." Hordor removed his hand, draped his arm across Rumple's shoulders, and steered him gently but firmly toward the spinning wheel, holding him upright when his ankle buckled. "I'll make sure he's safe away from the execution green and bound for the army. I'll even try to ensure that he's assigned to a battalion with no other soldiers recruited from Pen Marmor so he'll have a chance to acquit himself before your reputation precedes him." The smile became a smirk. "Unless, of course, you can get it all spun."

Hordor clapped his hands together. "Time's wasting. And I suppose my continued presence here might make you nervous. Just so you'll not have that for an excuse, I'll leave the two of you alone to… say your goodbyes. But should you need anything, just open the door and ask one of the guards outside." He shrugged and gestured to the open stone window. "Or one of the guards patrolling the yard below. As the duke's man, I take the protection of this castle's guests very seriously."

Rumple nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Instead, he seated himself on the stool. There was another bale at his feet and he nervously plucked a piece of straw from it.

"Good man," Hordor said. "We'll leave you to it." At a jerk of his head, the guards followed him out. The heavy door swung shut and both of the occupants remaining heard a heavy bolt slide into place. It was followed almost at once by a burst of laughter.

Bae looked at his father wide-eyed. "What are we going to do?"

Rumple swallowed hard. "Well," he said, as he fed the straw into the hole of the wheel's orifice and set his foot to the treadle, "I'm going to spin."

"Much good that'll do," Bae said bitterly. "Straw into gol…" his voice trailed off and, disbelievingly, he picked up the piece that had just fallen from the bobbin, too stiff and inflexible to wind about it as yarn would have. "Papa!" he exclaimed. "It… it's…!"

Rumple nodded. "I know, son. But there's so much to spin, I don't know if…" He took a breath. "I must. If it'll keep you safe, I must spin it all. Y-you rest, Bae. And bring me a fresh bale when this one's nearly finished. I'll work." If he'd been given bales of combed and carded fleece instead of bales of straw, it would have been a hard task to get it all spun in a few hours. He hadn't the faintest idea how fast he'd be able to spin the straw. But somehow, he would.

Or his failure would kill them both.