Chapter 31

He was still staring at the screen when Emma came in, rubbing her arm. "Bad news?" she asked, seeing the expression on his face.

Rumple blinked. "No, not at all," he reassured her. "Merely unexpected." He frowned. "Are you quite all right?"

Emma sighed. "Yeah, Whale just stuck me with a needle. It didn't hurt when he did it, but it does now."

"Ah," Rumple said delicately. "Yes, I believe I understand." He smiled, but the smile quickly shifted to a puzzled frown. "But you grew up outside," he said slowly. "Surely, there was no need for him to have…?"

Emma sighed again. "If anyone ever told me I needed a tetanus booster every ten years, I don't remember. Technically, diphtheria-tetanus-whooping cough, but the only one of those I've heard of adults getting is tetanus. I figured, so long as I was here, I might as well pop in and see how you're doing today."

Rumple blinked. "Well, I do appreciate the thought," he said, injecting a bit of warmth into his voice. He debated whether to mention Henry's discovery, but decided against it. He could ask the lad himself.

"So, how are you doing?" Emma asked.

Rumple considered. "I believe I'm well enough, thank you," he said. His arm was hurting a bit, for much the same reason Emma's was.

"You look better," Emma said judiciously. "Any word on how much longer you're stuck here for?"

Rumple shook his head. "I'm afraid not." He'd gained another pound, as of this morning, and he did rather think that his gauntness had lessened somewhat, although he was still—as Whale had informed him—underweight.

Emma shook her head. "That can't be easy for you," she murmured. "Hey. Do you want to stay in here? I-I mean there's a lounge down the hall, if you'd like a change of scenery. If you feel up for it, I mean."

Rumple hesitated. "Well, I haven't been advised I'm confined here," he replied at last.

Emma grinned. "You're not. I asked Whale before I asked you. After all, it'd look pretty bad if the sheriff was seen 'kidnapping' a patient."

"Indeed. Well," he said again, "that's a… kind offer, Emma. And much appreciated." He took another breath. "Though as I haven't been doing much walking lately, perhaps a chair would be advisable."

London, 1906

Rumple was grateful that his job was sedentary. It meant that he'd be able to keep it a bit longer. Had his work required a greater activity level—say he'd been hired as a messenger, limp notwithstanding—he'd likely have resigned by now to spare himself the humiliation of being sacked. One couldn't move with alacrity when fighting increasing weakness, fatigue, aches and pains, and violent coughing. Eventually, of course, even his current position would be too much for him, but for now he was managing.

He told Bae as much, as the two walked into the bank the next morning. He'd taken the tube, while Bae had walked there after reading the newspaper to his morning client. Bae had arrived a few minutes earlier and waited for him on the steps, doing a bit of sketching while he did.

At ten minutes before the hour, Rumple prepared his work area, ensuring that he had sufficient paper—both white and carbon, typed a test paragraph to ensure that the ribbon was well-inked and that the margins were properly aligned for the first document in his stack.

At two minutes to the hour, George Banks walked in and placed a new item atop the pile. "We'll need three hundred copies of this," he said. "By midday, if you please."

Rumple nodded his acknowledgment and began layering blank sheets with carbon paper in preparation. Practically speaking, he would be able to make five copies at once, though the quality of the last would suffer somewhat. Had he a looser deadline, he'd likely have gone with four. He glanced up. Mr. Banks was still standing there, looking uncharacteristically nervous. "Was there something else, sir?" he asked politely.

Banks hesitated. "What's your secret?" he asked finally.

Rumple blinked. He wasn't aware that anybody here knew he had one. "I beg your pardon?"

"You and your son," he said. "I… Well, I'd like to know how you do it."

"It?" Rumple repeated.

"He's a credit to you, sir," Banks said quickly. "One day, I hope people will say the same of mine. But the relationship the two of you have, well," he took another breath. "How might one achieve that?"

Rumple frowned. "May I ask a question of you?" he began, trying to find the right way to phrase what he wanted to know, "One that might appear to be impertinent, though I don't intend it to be so?"

If Banks was put out by the idea, the only sign of it was a slight raise of his eyebrows, as he pleasantly replied, "By all means."

"How much time do you spend with your son?"

Banks shook his head clearly perplexed. "Michael's only a year old."

"I'm afraid that wasn't what I asked," Rumple said, fighting hard to keep his tone diffident.

"Well, at that age, his domain is the nursery. I've engaged a nurse for him. Eventually, we will need to employ a nanny as well."

Rumple's frown deepened. "But surely you spend some time with him."

"Well, I do peep in from time to time. He's usually asleep by the time I come home, of course. And when he's awake, he much prefers his mother's company." He shook his head. "I'm afraid he's squalled rather loudly on those few occasions when I've attempted to hold him. In a few years, when we can have an intelligent conversation, it'll be a different matter, of course."

"No doubt," Rumple murmured. "It's been my experience that one reaps what one sows. If you mean to have a good relationship with your son when he's older, the time to plant those seeds is now, while he's young. Oh, I don't mean for you to dispense with your nursemaid," he said. "But the more time you spend with him now, the less a stranger you'll appear to him. Find pastimes you can do together. Young he may be, but you can yet take him to the park."

"What, in a pram, you mean?" Banks asked, astonished. "Me, push a pram? Why, what would people say?"

Rumple raised an eyebrow. "In ten years' time, hopefully, 'There goes Master Michael Banks. Quite the credit to his father. And the two are so close that I do wonder what Mr. Banks's secret might be'." He smiled. "Being directly involved with his upbringing may not be the sole criterion, but it's a definite factor. Likely the most significant one."

Banks shifted a bit uncomfortably. "Well. Well, there may be something in what you're saying. I'll give the matter some attention. But, really, Cassidy, now? I rather think matters can wait until he's a bit older Well, until he's out of nappies, at the very least."

Rumple shrugged. "You know best, I'm sure," he murmured, reminding himself forcefully that how George Banks chose to bring up his child—and come to think of it, there was another one too, wasn't there? A daughter, he believed—really was George Banks's own business and nobody else's. That in this land, class hierarchy was still a powerful thing, and it was hardly Rumple's place to contradict a man in a higher position than his own. That Banks was likely only raising his son according to the standards of the day and that the advice Rumple was giving him probably sounded more than a bit bizarre.

All the same, as Banks departed—reiterating the need for three hundred copies of the new document by midday—Rumple couldn't help feeling a pang of sympathy for young Michael Banks. If his father insisted on conforming to convention in matters of child-rearing, maintaining such distance, however much he might yearn for closeness, well, Rumple expected that barring some sort of magical intervention, it was extremely unlikely that the relationship Banks sought with his son would ever materialize.

And magical interventions were in somewhat short supply in this time and place.

He was glad he'd swallowed his pride and asked Emma for the chair. Just getting into it had been quite the challenge after several weeks of off his feet; he doubted he could have made it out of the room under his own power. Yes, he'd known that this was likely to happen and he had tried getting himself out of bed a few times, just to prevent it, but it hadn't been enough and after he'd fallen a few days ago, he hadn't dared another attempt.

"I, uh, broke my leg chasing after a bail-jumper once," Emma remarked, as she wheeled him toward the lounge. "I needed PT after the cast came off."

Rumple snorted. "I don't need you to attempt to bolster my spirits, dearie." And then, quickly, he looked back at her over his shoulder and added, "Although I appreciate your efforts." He sighed. "This is what it is, and once my body is up to paying magic's price once more, I believe it will compensate for whatever Dr. Whale's ministrations fail to achieve."

"Sure," Emma said, as they crossed over the lounge's threshold. "Um, if you're okay with heights, I can bring you to the window. We're on the seventh floor, so I guess there's probably a good view."

Rumple considered. "Another time," he said finally. He was no longer accustomed to being more than three stories up, and if he were to get dizzy for any reason, he wasn't ready to have it chalked up to a fear of heights. The truth was that he was generally fine with them—provided that there was a solid barrier between himself and the drop. (Dangling in midair while Pan's Shadow carried him out of Neverland had been quite a different matter!)

"Okay," Emma replied, rolling the chair next to a padded sofa and sitting down across from him. The lounge was deserted at the moment. "Seriously," she said after a moment, "you're looking in much better shape than you were when you came back through the portal."

Rumple smiled. "I'm reasonably certain that being hauled back from death's door has something to do with it."

Emma grinned back. "Yeah," she returned. "That's probably it."

Silence stretched between them, but somehow, it wasn't awkward.

When Belle arrived some twenty minutes later, Emma took her leave, promising to return soon.

"You might bring Henry with you, if it's outside of school hours," Rumple suggested.

"Sure, if he wants to," Emma replied.

Rumple nodded, reflecting that a year ago, he'd likely not have dared hope that Henry would want to. Now, he realized, he felt nearly certain that the lad would be eager to. What an amazing thing that was!

"Rumple?" Belle's voice intruded on his thoughts and when he met her gaze, she smiled softly. "Is everything… all right?"

He nodded again. "Surprisingly so," he murmured. And seeing her perplexed expression, he continued, "It was… quite an experience reliving the past, you understand. I'd always thought I understood how others viewed me back then." He smiled bitterly. "The One Who Ran. Coward. Cripple. And worse," he added. "I was called all that and more by the duke's soldiers and," he exhaled and his voice dropped several decibels," my first wife. And yet," he went on slowly, "when I found myself thrust back into those days, I… Well, let's just say that I discovered that the perceptions I had as a younger man were… rather at odds with the reality I witnessed my second time around…"

"All right," the seneschal said. "Who are you? And please tell me you're not the real assassin and that woman here to thwart you," he added wearily. "It's late and I don't want to deal with anymore paperwork right now."

Rumple blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I've personally interviewed every servant in this castle who didn't come over with the duke's retinue—and those who did, I know by sight. I've never clapped eyes on you in my life. So, suppose you tell me who you are, what you're doing here, and whether there's a footman bound and gagged in a wardrobe in his undergarments right now, while you're wearing his livery."

The noble's eyes crinkled a bit at the corners as he uttered that last bit and, despite himself, Rumple realized that he was smiling a bit himself. Funny. He'd never had much use for nobles until he became the Dark One, and even then, it had been more about the satisfaction of watching them squirm.

"If you really believed that," Rumple said slowly, "I doubt that this interview would be in private."

The seneschal gestured to a hanging cord, not unlike the one Rumple had pulled earlier. "The guards are just outside the door; I can summon them if need be. For now, though, I'd rather believe you've done your liege a service this night. So, how came you here? Better yet, let's start with your name."

"Gilitrutt," Rumple said at once, and the seneschal frowned.

"That's not a common name in these parts."

"No, it's not," Rumple said guardedly. "I'm from the north."

"And you're here because…?"

If the man spoke to Hordor or the chamberlain, certain facts were certain to come to light. "I've been visiting family. I've a nephew in Pen Marmor."

"And the nephew has a name?" Before Rumple could answer, the seneschal added. "I'm no barber-surgeon who likes the idea of pulling teeth. Instead of just confirming that this nephew of yours does, in fact, have one, please be good enough to tell me what it is."

Despite himself, Rumple felt the corners of his lips tugging ever-so-more-slightly upwards. "Rumpelstiltskin," he said quietly.

"The one who—?"

Rumple's smile dropped and he felt his jaw muscles clench.

But the seneschal finished with, "—wove the receiving blanket for His Grace's daughter three years ago?"

Rumple's eyebrows shot up. "I-I think he might have," he murmured. He had, of course, using the best lamb's wool he'd been able to procure. If the seneschal was aware of that bit of work, then the duke must have been pleased enough with the gift to show it off.

"I think I should probably visit Pen Marmor," the seneschal mused. "As much as we've been cutting back on unnecessary luxuries with the war on, perhaps we might budget for some commissions from skilled artisans." His eyes narrowed. "But that doesn't explain why you're here."

Rumple swallowed. And then an idea occurred to him. "I came to ask a favor. Not for myself, nor for my nephew, but… he has a son. And that son turns fourteen tomorrow. I was hoping to spare him from being sent to the front, but I know how hard it can be to get an appointment on His Grace's calendar to make such a petition. I suppose," he said with a self-deprecating smile, "it wasn't much of a plan, but I thought that if I were attending His Grace, then there might be a chance to speak with him alone and…"

The seneschal shook his head. "It wouldn't have worked. Not then. Not when His Grace's own children have been fighting and dying in the war. However, you have done us a favor this night," he said. "I make no promises. The boy goes to the army; there's no getting out of that. But as far as to the front," he paused. "Does he perchance speak or read Ogrish?"

Rumple shook his head.

"Has he learned healing, smith work, or fletching?"

"He's a quick study," Rumple said firmly.

"That's 'no', then," the seneschal inferred. "Does he have any talents?"

"He's an artist," Rumple said, not really expecting anything to come from it.

Still the seneschal didn't scoff. "An artist," he repeated. "I wonder. We do need to know the layout of the ogre encampment. If your grand-nephew has the talent to draw a scene exactly as he sees it, and if he can do so quietly, mind, then there are enchantments we can supply that will help him avoid their sentries and patrols."

Rumple thought about that. It wasn't a bad deal. Bae wouldn't be in the thick of the battle and, at any rate, the war would be over by tomorrow. He could stop it, save his younger self the trouble, and even if doing so meant that he would vanish from the timeline, his younger self would remain and likely have a better, happier life. He realized that he was willing to pay that price, if it meant that Bae would be safe at home. "He has that talent," he said firmly. "I'm certain."

The seneschal smiled. "I'll advise the knight commander to deliver the boy here instead of to the army on the morrow. If he demonstrates the skill you're confident he possesses, then I do believe we have a deal." He extended his hand across the table. Disbelieving his fortune, Rumple reached for it—

"FIRE!" a shout rang down the corridor as a bell in the distance began to clang. "There's fire in the north stables!"

The seneschal rose to his feet. "I'll have to ask you to remain here while I attend to something," he said firmly. He strode out of the office briskly and Rumple could hear him in the corridor telling the guards not to allow anyone else to leave the room. Rumple gave a mental shrug. It wasn't as though they could prevent him. He focused on the chamber where the dagger was kept and concentrated.

A moment later he was rubbing his forehead. The protection spell hadn't hurt exactly, but it had startled him. And this time, it wasn't a mental block his own Darkness had put in his head; it was a bona fide spell that had been cast on the chamber in which Rumple now found himself. He could push through it in time, but if his younger self was here already, Rumple reflected, then that time was in short supply. He gritted his teeth and set himself to the task.

The seneschal smiled in the shadows and let the glamor spell surrounding him fall away, revealing the face and form of the current Dark One. He heaved a sigh of relief, as he made his way through the castle. The older version of the crippled spinner had very nearly thwarted all, but thankfully, it appeared as though the problem had been corrected. There was only one thing left to do.

He walked calmly down the corridor, unaffected by the rising heat and stinging smoke. The guard at the chamber entrance was nervously shifting from one foot to the other, clearly weighing his sense of duty against his sense of self-preservation.

The Dark One was in a good mood tonight. In just a few short hours, he was quite certain that his decades of servitude would be over. True, the man he'd picked as his successor might attempt to control him rather than kill him, but Zoso rather thought not. He'd been with the spinner long enough to get a sense of what drove him. The right words at the right time and Rumpelstiltskin would play his proper part. Always provided that the spinner could reach the dagger unhindered.

At Zoso's approach, the guard leveled his halberd. He was nervous, the Dark One noted. It wasn't just the perspiration beading his face; that could have been chalked up to the climbing temperature in the corridor (really, it did feel rather like a stone oven). "Calm yourself, my friend," Zoso said jovially. "I'm not here for the dagger. Long ago, the duke ordered me never to reclaim it, nor even touch it; I'm quite powerless to disobey that command."

"Then what do you want, Dark One?" the guard demanded, not relaxing his stance by a fraction of an inch.

Zoso chuckled. "I want to save your life," he said, his smile friendly. "Come. Let's depart this fiery deathtrap together."

"I'm not deserting my po—" With a wave of Zoso's hand, the guard vanished, only to reappear in the woods several leagues away.

The Dark One gave an elaborate shrug. "Well, I suppose there's no harm done if we depart it separately." It didn't matter where he went now; the dagger would pull him to its wielder at the right time. But Zoso preferred to await that time in a more comfortable environment. One that was rather less smoky, for one thing. His cloak billowed about him as he waved once more.

When a scared-but-determined Rumpelstiltskin came haltingly down the corridor, some minutes later, he found it deserted.

"So, even when the seneschal heard your name, he…" Belle let her voice trail off with a smile.

Rumple nodded. "I've no doubt he knew who I was. There weren't many men took a sledgehammer to their ankles right before a charge. Word of that deed reached my home village ahead of my return; there's little doubt it reached other ears—both highborn and low—along the way. Certainly, the knight commander who would have taken Bae from me knew it," he added bitterly.

"But," Rumple continued, "while it's possible that I did read more into his reaction than was actually there and that he truly didn't know my reputation, I can't account for the behavior of those in my village once I saw it with… older eyes, and—" And perhaps I wasn't quite as meek as I recalled either. It seems that even without my Darkness, I did have something of a temper, for all I usually stifled it.

Belle gripped his hand and he squeezed hers back. "How much time," he whispered thickly, "did I waste in my hovel, certain that I'd only be greeted with contempt to my face and whispers behind my back if I dared venture down into the marketplace? I thought myself outcast, but was it truly so, or did I just let my fears and insecurities convince me that it was?" Tears were burning his eyes and he could feel his face twisting with the effort of keeping them back. He dared not speak more now, certain that one more word would shatter his defenses utterly, but he brought up his free hand to sandwich Belle's.

And when he met her blue eyes, he saw that they too were glistening.

Rumple flung himself against the protection spell, grunting with the exertion. He could do this, blast it! He'd broken through the last one! But the last one had been spread out, meant to confine him to a much larger area. This spell was more concentrated. And this time, he realized, his own Darkness wasn't bolstering it. That had been a double-edged sword with the first spell: on the one hand, it had leeched away some of his own power to keep it in place, but once he'd realized what was going on, he'd been able to wrest that power back and weaken the enchantment. This new spell, though, was all Zoso, and it felt as though this era's Dark One was pouring everything he had into it. That, Rumple reflected was most unwise. Sooner or later, he was going to burn through this protection spell and once he did, there were a few things he intended to do to Zoso and the old man would be powerless to prevent him.

A sneer curled his lips. Really, one would have thought that this predecessor of his would have enough sense to keep something in reserve. Because—

Rumple felt as though he'd just been doused with a bucket of ice water. Zoso didn't have to keep anything in reserve. After tonight, there would be no Zoso, save for the shred of him that would be retained by the Darkness! All Zoso had to do was keep him here until…

Desperately, he attacked the protection spell, his focus no longer on the chamber—the dagger was almost certainly there no longer—but on the clearing in the woods where he knew his younger self would be bringing it. A cry of frustration burst from his lips. Dimly he realized that the sound might bring the guards rushing in, but he didn't care. He had to break through! He had to stop Zoso, he had to save himself, he had to—

All at once the spell was gone and he was hurtling forward as though he'd been rushing against a door that had suddenly opened. Out of control, he seemed to fly over stone floors, broken ground, and ancient trees. He was probably screaming, though the force of the traveling spell was roaring in his ears so loudly that he couldn't be sure, until he crashed without warning onto a bed of leaves and twigs, his heart pounding and his throat raw. It was several moments before he'd recovered enough to attempt to stand. Bracing his hands on the thick trunk of a fallen tree, he shakily found his footing. As he rose up, he felt his heart plummet.

He hadn't broken through the spell after all.

When a wizard died, their spells died with them.

In the clearing before him, his younger self stood trembling, and in his hand was a bloody kris dagger.