A/N: Some dialogue lifted from S3E8: Think Lovely Thoughts, S1E8: Desperate Souls, and S2E4: The Crocodile.

Chapter 21

Rumple's head felt a bit clearer in the morning. He wasn't even close to back to normal, yet, but over the last few months, the pains in his chest—pains that were worse when he coughed but present even when he didn't—had slowly intensified. And now they were… Well, if not completely gone, certainly down to a level he hadn't experienced in over a year. And in the absence of pain, he felt, well not lighter precisely, but somewhat light-headed. As though the pain had been steadying him and now he'd somehow lost his anchor.

He had lost his anchor, of course. And it had next to nothing to do with his illness.

He'd grown used to that pain over the centuries, much as he'd been used to hobbling about on his bad ankle. Neither had slowed him down appreciably. Pain was something to ignore, push through, and wall off as much as possible while one did one's best to get through one's day. And it had worked to a point. At least, until Bae had—

He didn't want to think about that now. If he did, his emotions would get the better of him and if he was going to break down, it would either be when he could be assured of privacy, or assured that those about him would understand and not pepper him with foolish questions or urge him to 'pull himself together' or edge away and mumble something about coming back at a better time.

The door to his room opened and Whale came in. Masked, of course, but the crinkles in the corners of the doctor's eyes told Rumple that the man was smiling. "I stopped by to give you some good news," he announced. "Sensitivity results are in and it looks as though the meds we've started you on are going to be… well, surprisingly effective."

"Surprisingly?" Rumple repeated dryly. "I hope you're not implying this treatment was expected to be palliative."

"Not at all," Whale replied. "However, as you're probably aware, science in this land has been treating TB for decades. Over time, it's common for a disease to develop a resistance to a previously-effective treatment, forcing us to come up with newer treatments. If you'd just come back from some part of the world where TB is more common today in the twenty-first century, we'd probably have to figure out which strain you had and what meds were best suited to fighting it. Thing is, you picked up a strain that's over a century old. Just about every drug in the arsenal is likely to work on it." He proceeded to deliver a jargon-filled elaboration that Rumple allowed he would have been able to follow better, were it not for his light-headedness, but he nodded along anyway. Whale had told him that he was on the road to recovery. Everything else he had to say was mere detail.

"Your weight concerns me, though," the doctor continued. "It's going to be an uphill fight, seeing as both the illness and the treatment have the side effect of decreasing appetite. However, if you don't eat enough, it's going to impact your recovery."

"There are ways around that," Rumple returned. "Though I understand the reason you're keeping me from using them."

"Hopefully, that's just going to be for another couple of weeks," Whale said. "And I'm not forgetting the trouble with letting your immortality handle the lion's share of your body's resistance to illness. Fortunately, there might be a solution in the offing."

Rumple's eyebrows shot up. "Do tell."

"I've been reading that book Belle brought to my attention. Tavronius was the author, I think?" He shrugged. "Looks like the guy treated a number of folk who," he cast about looking for the right words, "whose nature granted them a supernatural ability to heal from disease or injuries. Near as I can tell from the book, folk like that usually have strong safeguards against getting sick in the first place, but almost no means of fighting off a bug that somehow breaches those defenses. The work I'm reading has a number of chapters devoted to working with that…" He glanced at Rumple uncertainly. "…limitation?" he suggested.

Rumple nodded unoffended. "That sounds like an accurate term," he agreed. "I think I'd like to have a look at that volume myself, when you've quite finished."

Whale nodded back. "I'll probably need it until you're completely out of the woods, but after that, sure."

He smiled. "For now, though, I've asked one of our dieticians to stop by at some point today to go over menu options with you. Think about foods you'd like—there's no point in making things harder by giving you stuff you wouldn't want to eat in the first place."

A faint answering smile graced Rumple's face as he pressed the button on the remote by his side to raise the top of the bed slightly. "Are there any restrictions?"

"Honestly?" Whale sighed. "The main thing right now is to get you back into the healthy weight range. For that, you need to eat, full stop. As far as making sure you get enough nutrition along the way, you're at least drinking the supplement and we can mix protein powder into your meals. Plus, I'll add a daily multi-vitamin to your regimen for now." He smiled again. "While I think that the horror stories of unappetizing hospital food are a bit overblown at this institution, if you'd prefer meals brought in from outside, that's fine, too. I'd recommend home-cooked over takeout, but I won't insist on it. Or," he shrugged, "if you want to subsist on cake and ice cream for the next couple of weeks, I'll stop short of endorsing that plan, but I won't veto it either."

Rumple snorted. "Fear not, Doctor. I've never had that much of a sweet tooth. Though I shouldn't think I'd find some dessert to be amiss."

"I'll be sure to let the dietician know."

The dietician came some time afterwards. Rumple wasn't certain how much time it had taken her, but he'd managed to down half a bottle of a nutrient shake that tasted more of chalk than chocolate and a few sections of a clementine. Despite what he'd told Whale about his lack of a sweet tooth, he had to admit he'd relished it. He couldn't recall the last time he'd tasted one. They hadn't existed in the Enchanted Forest and the only citrus fruits he could remember seeing in Edwardian London had been oranges and lemons.

The dietician had been a fairy, though not one he'd had occasion to deal with in the past. She'd been nervous at first, but her bubbly nature had quickly asserted itself, much to Rumple's annoyance. She behaved as though she thought his lack of eating was due to fussiness, rather than lack of appetite and he'd had to remind her otherwise several times before she finally seemed to have gotten the message. In the end, though, they'd managed to carve out a menu plan that Rumple had to admit sounded somewhat palatable. He'd see whether that hypothesis was borne out when he got his next meal.

Before lunch, though, Whale returned, bearing a manila file folder. "It occurred to me," he said, with just a trace of embarrassment, "that I could photograph and print off some of the pages for you, since you seemed interested. Start with these and," he set the folder down on the tray table by Rumple's cot, "when you're done, I can bring you more. If there's anything in those pages you want to discuss, I'm happy to go over them from a medical perspective. For magical," he shrugged apologetically. "I guess Regina or Belle would be better candidates."

Rumple thanked him, though he waited for the doctor's departure before reaching for it. It appeared as though Whale had copied the prefatory material, which included a timeline and biographical sketch of the author, as well as the first chapter of the work. Curious, Rumple began reading and, as he did, a puzzled frown came to his face. Going by the dates, this Tavronius would have been one of his contemporaries. Rumple really thought he should have recognized the name. And yet…

His frown deepened. Come to think of it, he had heard it once before, just in passing. But it hadn't been the name of a physician or researcher—at least he didn't think so. Perhaps, it had been in reference to another Tavronius. But Rumple knew names and 'Tavronius' wasn't a common one.

He put the folder back on the tray, leaned back on his pillow, closed his eyes, and tried to recall the context in which he'd come across the name that other time. And while the memory didn't surface, he found his thoughts drifting back to another familiar scene. Curious, he let it come into focus, in the hope that it might, somehow, point him in the right direction...

It still felt like cheating to turn the straw to gold with a wave of his hand. It shouldn't have. All magic came with a price; using the wheel just commanded a lower one than bypassing it, it was still magic. But using the wheel required a certain level of skill and he could still hear the spinners who'd fostered him exclaiming over his talent.

Someone so young...

In such a short time.

Look at him.

He could spin for...

…for kings and queens one day.

He'd never quite gotten there, though he supposed that spinning for a duke's henchman was something. He considered for a moment. Last night, after he'd traded places with his younger self, he'd been left undisturbed until morning. While the same thing might happen tonight, he'd leave nothing to chance. The less he showed his hand, the freer he was to act. Or, to put it a different way, protection spells were harder to break through when they encompassed a smaller area. If Zoso realized that he was skulking about the castle, Rumple suspected he might find his freedom curtailed even more.

Oh, don't fret, a woman's voice said coolly in his head. It's just for another… twenty-eight hours or so, now.

Startled, Rumple froze for a moment. Nimuë?

Surprised to see me? she laughed. Don't be. And you really ought to thank me; I know your dislike of small cages, so I prevailed on Zoso to give you a bigger one.

Why? Rumple demanded angrily. Why involve yourself?

The voice in his head sighed. I suppose after a couple of centuries, you would need a refresher. I'm not Nimuë, not really; that's just the form I assume for these chats. Nimuë died centuries ago. Just as Zoso will tomorrow night. Or early the following morning, as I think you'll reckon it when you reach a realm where a day begins at midnight instead of a civilized dawn. Not that such calculations matter, of course, so long as things stay on track. I can't have you interfering with your younger self's choice. You're fully aware of the deeds he—or rather we—shall accomplish after he becomes my vessel. Scuttle that now and there's no telling how events might play out. But then, you already know that, too. She sighed again. I understand, truly. You wouldn't be who you are if you didn't succumb far too easily to temptation. But if I'm to continue through the ages, then I need you to cultivate that weakness; I can't have you changing tracks now. I'm sorry, Rumpelstiltskin, she continued—and she did sound regretful, Rumple noticed with some surprise. You can have the run of the castle. But you won't be able to break the protection spells Zoso laid about its walls until your younger self takes up my cause and fulfills his destiny.

Then I'll find another way! Rumple flung the thought at her furiously.

You might, at that, Nimuë admitted thoughtfully. I rather doubt it, but I'd be a fool to underestimate your imagination. For a moment, her voice was silent. The, she continued brightly, Well, I shouldn't want to back you too tightly into a corner. So, let's strike a deal. If you can somehow manage to thwart my intent without leaving the castle or reaching out to your younger self—and I really must be firm on this point, she added. No contact, direct or indirect. No popping out from around a corner or passing word through an intermediary… Oh, and no slipping another note into his pocket—Zoso had a demon of a time disposing of your first one; his fingers were never that nimble even in his younger days and he's just not used to using magic for anything that subtle. Best not to put him through that again, I think. Rumple could almost picture her sage nod, though he could only hear her voice in his head. No leaving the castle, no attempt to communicate with your younger self… Yes. If you can manage to prevent him from fulfilling his destiny while abiding by those restrictions, I'll permit you to try. Or I can just block you from your magic entirely for the duration, though that will make things a bit difficult should Hordor deliver more straw to you at some point between now… and the hour he'll ride to his death. I daresay the Chamberlain will still expect it spun and for all he seems a reasonable sort, he might not prove quite so understanding should you fail him. In fact, he might seek to… persuade you to keep at it, even if you truly won't have the power to comply. She let that sink in. Well? Do we have a deal?

Rumple clenched his teeth. She wasn't making it easy for him, but he'd still take difficult over impossible any day. Deal.

By the diffuse glow of a lantern in her tent, Zelena examined the bottles she'd managed to squirrel away earlier. Not for the first time, she wished that she'd apprenticed herself to an instructor with greater breadth of knowledge. Healing was all well and good, of course, but there were so many other magical areas into which one might delve.

Miserably, she waved her hand at one of the bottles with a particular gesture, but its cork remained wedged in its opening as though to taunt her.

She sighed. At least magical ingredients could be combined by anyone, whether or not they were able to unlock an innate talent. Without said talent, however, if anything went wrong with the recipe, it was likely to go very wrong. She remembered a tale Rumple had told her when she'd been his pupil, about an apprentice who had animated a broom to assist him in the menial task his master had set him—carrying buckets of water to fill a cauldron—but had been unable to stop the broom from continuing to fetch water, even after said pot had been filled. Eventually, the sorcerer had set all to right and meted out the appropriate discipline to the hapless apprentice.

Zelena could not afford to have Fendrake find out what she was about. Not now. Eventually, when she reclaimed the power that had been stolen from her, it would be a different matter. She would make the healer pay for every moment of drudgery, every monotonous task, every humiliating exercise he'd set for her that she'd failed to complete… All of it. But for now, she needed to put up with this pettiness.

Tomorrow night, Rumple—the Rumple who had yet to meet her—would become the Dark One.

Zelena remembered what had transpired over a year ago now (or many years from now, depending on how you looked at it). Baelfire had raised the Dark One up from the dead and paid a heavy price for it. Rumple had fought to save him, and at least temporarily, he'd succeeded. But at a cost. Newly-revived, he hadn't yet been restored to his full strength. And he could not save his son and resist the tug of her magic on his dagger at the same time.

She smiled. When Rumple became the Dark One tomorrow night, he would be confused and frightened. He would have no idea of the forces that would then possess him. In that state, wresting the dagger from him would be child's play—even without her magic.

And with the Dark One under her control once more…

…Her current lack of magic would no longer matter.

And while she might not know exactly where Rumple would be when he summoned his predecessor and murdered him, she did know where he'd need to go to obtain the dagger.

Tomorrow night, when Rumple arrived at the duke's castle, she would be waiting.

Rumpelstiltskin wasn't surprised to find the door to the barracks room locked. He hesitated for a moment before giving it a tentative rap. He waited a few seconds for a response and when none came, he knocked a second time. Satisfied that there was no guard stationed outside, he lifted his hand once more, this time with his palm spread wide as he brought it close to the door and then waved it sideways, as though he was sliding back a bolt.

In fact, the door was secured by a strong lock, but the magic didn't care. Rumple could hear the tumblers moving and, a moment later the door eased open. He stuck his head into the corridor, looking in either direction. Satisfied that he was alone, he stepped outside the room.

He took the precaution of casting a glamor spell, taking on the livery of a footman. He didn't give the spell any particular direction for his face, save only that it not resemble the one he usually wore. He doubted that any noble would register more than his blue-and-gold uniform, but Hordor might recognize him.

Teleportation spells were risky when one didn't know the environs. Tonight, Rumple had one mission in mind: find out where the dagger was kept—after more than two centuries, his memory was spotty on that account—and discover a place near to it where he might secrete himself tomorrow night. True to his word, he wouldn't confront his younger self, but there might be something he could do indirectly.

He still wasn't sure he wanted to. If his younger self never became the Dark One, he'd lose Bae. If his younger self did become the Dark One… he'd lose Bae. He'd thought he had a chance to set things right this time around. Instead, it seemed that he'd become a spectator at his own downfall. Everything he did seemed to make things worse. And yet, if he was to do nothing, then why in hell was he here?

What would happen if he took up the dagger now, summoned Zoso to him, and stabbed him? It wasn't like he could become the Dark One twice.

Except that if he did, it would mean that his younger self never became the Dark One, never had a need to cast a Dark Curse, never met Zelena, never travelled to the past…

He couldn't risk it. Not unless he had a better understanding of the stakes. And somehow, he didn't think Nimuë or his other predecessors were going to be at all interested in walking him through this. No, he was on his own and even more so than usual this time.

The wind blew his cape-like cloak forward about him as he stepped outside the barbican and made his way across the courtyard to the castle proper.

Even within the courtyard, Rumple had no difficulty recognizing the part of the castle his younger self would set fire to tomorrow night. The treetops visible over the wall were enough for him to get his bearings. Once he entered the castle, though, things became more confusing. The guards accepted his disguise at face value, barely sparing him a glance as they waved him through, but once inside, he saw a long corridor that branched off at least three times before ending at a pair of iron-strapped wooden doors. He could hear the blade's siren song, yes, but it only told him that it was in the building and some way off. Had he been able to walk through walls, or even see through them, he would have had no trouble. As it was, he couldn't say which passage would lead to the corridor containing the room he needed. He knew that it was to the left, but which intersection was the correct one?

He looked over his shoulder and saw one of the guards looking after him, a puzzled frown on his face. It wouldn't do to loiter about as though he didn't belong here. He didn't want to cast any spells here unless he had to; he wasn't about to forget that all magic came with a price. He wasn't ruling out the possibility that he might have to fight Zoso in the end, and if he were to do so, he'd underestimated the wily old man too many times already to risk engaging him at anything less than full strength. Briskly, trying to act as though he belonged here, he strode forward, took the first left-hand turn, and hoped for the best.

The passage seemed to end at a blank wall, but when he approached more closely, he found that it turned slightly to the left, where an ill-appointed stone staircase stood. As Rumple looked up, he saw that it rose three stories high. The floors above him appeared to be lined with arched latticed windows, some of which were intertwined with metallic decorations that resembled climbing vines. On each landing of the staircase, a wooden door was set in the wall—nowhere near as grand as the pair that had been at the end of the first corridor, but rather like the one that had graced his barracks room in the barbican. The door on the second story opened and a gentleman in livery much like his own hurried down toward him, a tray of half-eaten food in one hand.

"Why are you just standing there?" the servant demanded. "His grace wants more mulled claret with his sweetmeats; mind you fetch from the ten-year-old stock." When Rumple just stood there, he added in exasperation, "Don't just stand there; go! Second fork to the right and down to the cellar. Don't keep his grace waiting!"

Rumple nodded quickly, ducking his head just a bit in case the man outranked him; really, he couldn't be expected to know the pecking order here. At least he knew where he was going. And since he'd been thinking about calling on the duke anyway… Well, really, this might be exactly the opportunity he was seeking.

As the afternoon wore on, Zelena applied herself yet again to the meditation exercise Fendrake had assigned her. If she could reacquire her gift tonight, even some small portion of it, she knew she'd be able to put it to good use.

But intruding on her focus, she could hear voices coming from the healer's tent. That boy helper of his was staying late tonight, helping him to treat a fairy that had flown too close to a dragon. Villagers had found her in the forest and borne her to the healer on a litter.

"…her wings?" the boy was saying. "But I've seen you reattach a limb before!"

"Not for a fairy," the healer said. "There are difficulties when one tries to heal a being that was never designed to sustain injury. Their bodies react badly."

"I don't understand," the boy protested.

"Remember that to heal a person often means that you are harming whatever it is that injured or sickened them. And magical beings, particularly immortals, but not exclusively so, are adept at neutralizing harmful substances, regardless of their measure. When you administer a juniper tincture to a burn site, it may heal you or me. A fairy, though, through no conscious action or fault of her own, may react to it as though you'd poured a pint of juniper concentrate over the injury. Her body won't recognize that a minute amount is necessary for healing, only that a larger quantity might kill. It reacts accordingly."

"Can nothing be done then?"

The healer was silent for a time. "I'm sure there's an answer, but it's not one I know. Nor any healer of my acquaintance. Fetch mallow and chamomile, now. They'll cause no harm, not even in large quantities, so they'll have some effect on our patient, though far from what's desirable."

"Yes, Master Fendrake."

Zelena heard the boy's footfalls as he padded through the clearing, crunching on leaves and twigs. Finally, she thought to herself. Now, that it was quiet, she might be able to accomplish that meditation. But try though she might, her magical gift continued to elude her.

She'd just have to hope that her wits and determination would suffice on the morrow.

The over-servant's directions had been good and Rumple found the wine cellar without difficulty. It took a bit longer to determine which cask held the proper vintage; as much as he would, in later years, pride himself on having the best, the painful truth was that while he'd refined his manners, his palate had never acquired the same polish. He had his preferences, but he certainly couldn't pick up on 'hints of cherry, cinnamon, and chocolate' or tell a superior wine from one that was merely average. Fortunately, closer inspection showed him that the barrels were properly labeled—at least, he hoped they were.

He found goblets and flagons in a wooden cabinet. It would be better to decant the wine, he knew, but that generally took hours. And at any rate, while he did want to speak with the duke, he didn't think he needed to go pandering to him. He uncorked the barrel and filled a flagon. Then, after a moment's consideration, he picked up a decorated wooden tray, one of several that were stacked in the cabinet and, using it to carry the flagon and a selection of stemware, made his way back up the cellar steps, casting a minor enchantment to ensure that nothing would spill or topple.

"No," a voice was saying, as Rumple pushed open the second-floor door with tray in hand and found himself in a marble-tiled anteroom. A number of chambers branched off from it and the voice was coming from one of them. "I will not set the Dark One against the Ogres and I am not going to entertain conscription of peasant youths below the age of fourteen when it's the nobility that starts weapons practice at ten!"

"Perhaps, if we furnished the peasant youth with the same instruction, Your Grace," another voice began. Rumple rather thought it might have been the chamberlain's, but he wasn't certain.

"And have them rise against us?" Rumple recognized Hordor's voice. "We can't risk civil war with the Ogres at our backs and gaining ground! Just have the Dark One end this and be done with it!"

"If I do that, then I've no more excuse for withholding troops for the war our king is fighting to the south. At least our soldiers are fighting for their own homes and fields. If I send them to another corner of the kingdom, you're likely to have that uprising, Hordor. And with veterans who do know how to fight."

"And instead you'll throw our people away against the Ogres."

"Put the question to any man or woman in our forces. Or any child conscript, for that matter. If they must die fighting for the Frontlands or the South Plains, where would they rather their blood be spilled, and I'll warrant they'll say the Frontlands."

"Or not spilled at all!" the maybe-chamberlain exclaimed. "Could we not parley? Perhaps some just peace might be sought even now."

"I tried," the Duke said heavily. "You can thank our king for my failure. It seems that the ogres discovered the purpose for which the Jewel of the Realm was dispatched more than ten years ago. I can scarcely blame them for refusing to deal with a kingdom whose ruler was ready to poison his enemies en masse. Its own captain turned pirate rather than complete the mission." His voice turned bitter. "My youngest son was a midshipman on board. When he was sent as one in a boarding party to capture another ship, he attempted to switch sides in return for passage back home. According to the sailor who brought me the details, the one of the 'Realm's own sailors ran him through, though not before he was able to pass on the pages he'd written detailing Captain Jones's betrayal. Or honor," the Duke concluded bitterly. "Apparently he'd been carrying them about, hoping for an opportunity to pass them along if he couldn't jump ship."

"Then set the Dark One to the Ogres and then to the enemy on south borders!" Hordor exclaimed. "Problem solved."

"All magic comes with a price. The Frontlands have already been beggared by the Ogres War. I've lost three sons to it; Moritz is the only left to me. Whatever this war has cost us in soldiers, in blood, in grain, in land, it will be as nothing compared to what the Dark One will demand."

"Is he your partner or your slave?" the chamberlain demanded. "Command him to waive his price!"

"Then the magic will exact it of me!" the Duke fired back. "One doesn't escape debt by borrowing more! We will make do as we are because there is no choice! And should our king learn of his thralldom, should he demand that I deliver up the Dark One to his control, can you imagine the tyranny that that would unleash?" Then in a different tone, "What's that noise? Is someone there?"

Rumple realized with a start that his hands were trembling and that the goblets, made of silver not crystal or they'd likely have shattered, were knocking against one another. His feet propelled him forward, and he mumbled something about refreshments with an automatic bow, keeping his eyes lowered, though he knew that his disguise would keep Hordor from recognizing him.

"Is all well with you?" the duke inquired.

Rumple nodded. "F-forgive me," he murmured. "I meant no offense. I've a boy of my own bound for the front ere long," he added, opting for a plausible half-truth.

"Perhaps it's we who ought ask forgiveness of you," the duke replied gently. "You can set the tray on the sideboard," he gestured toward the polished wooden cabinet, "and go. Send someone for it in an hour's time."

"Thank you, Your Grace," Rumple said, still murmuring. Moritz, he thought to himself. In two centuries, the pronunciation would soften to Maurice. He had no doubt that it was this son whose line would beget a namesake—one who would prove to be Belle's progenitor.

He was able to compose himself long enough to do as he'd been instructed, but once outside the room, he teleported himself back to the barbican room and all but collapsed onto the bed.

The duke, he realized, was no 'useless fool', despite Zoso's description. Nor was he some heartless noble, caring not a whit for the peasant children he sent to die. No, if anything, his fault lay in the opposite direction: he was a good man trapped in a bad situation.

Rumple shook his head vigorously, as though to shake the realization from his mind. He didn't want to empathize with the man. He much preferred seeing him as a ruthless, unfeeling child-snatcher.

Give it a few years. They'll be saying the same thing about you. With as much justification.

Yes, as the Dark One, he would separate children from their parents. Some would live, some die, but all would have their familial bonds severed and most through no fault of their own. He'd have reasons for it. Excuses. Rationalizations. And some might even be valid, but the damage would still be done.

If Zoso hadn't put up the protection spell—as neat a job as any Rumple might ever do—he'd go now; end the Ogre War, end the Southern Plains War, save all the children, let everyone go home. He'd do it in a heartbeat and pay whatever price the magic exacted. But he couldn't.

Well, then, he thought furiously, there had to be some other way. And he had just a bit over a day to think of it! Just a bit over a day to locate the dagger and find a hiding place nearby. Just a bit over a day.

It would have to suffice.

Pen Marmor, the following morning

Baelfire watched in confusion as his papa set the cauldron of sheep fat on the fire and handed him a large stick.

"Keep that fire good and stoked, Bae," Papa told him, as he wound wool fiber about a stout stick of wood. "The sheep's fat needs to be liquid. And get that wool good and soaked."

Bae obeyed, but his bewilderment only grew. "Why are we doing this, Papa?" he asked. "This is good wool we can spin and sell."

Another time, perhaps, Rumple might have praised his son's head for business, but fear and determination kept him focused on the task at hand. "These are our keys to the castle son," he explained, and as he continued, Bae's eyes grew wider. At first, Rumple thought that it was in wonder, but as Bae spoke, he quickly realized the truth. Bae was afraid for him. Afraid he'd fail. But not afraid to fight if he had to. And when Rumple tried to alert him to the danger, he realized his mistake.

"So it's true, then," Bae said sadly.

"What?"

"It's true. It's true you ran."

Rumple did his best to explain that he'd had no choice, but he knew his son wasn't convinced. Especially when Bae asked about his mother. For that, Rumple had no qualms about telling him she'd died. True he had no proof, but pirates were not known to treat their captives kindly, particularly not women seized for—

Enough. Enough. He'd been branded a coward when he'd maimed himself and fled the field. He'd known it was true when he hadn't fought for Milah's safety.

A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets. The pirate's taunt rang afresh in his ears and Rumple's jaw set. He wouldn't lose Bae from fear of doing what needed done. He would fight for his boy like he hadn't fought for Milah or even for himself.

Bae asked him what they were to do and with renewed purposefulness, he said, "The duke's castle is made of stone, but the floors and the rafters are made of wood."

Still perplexed, Bae queried why any of that mattered.

A determined smile spread Rumple's lips. "Because wood burns…"