A/N: According to Wikipedia, an Oni is a demon, ogre, or troll in Japanese folklore.

Chapter 39

"I-I don't understand," Belle said a half-beat before Henry could express similar confusion. "How…"

Rumple took another sip from the can of meal replacement drink and pointed to the book open before him. "This," he said, "is the account of our land's history as it happened when I lived it the first time and this," he gestured to the other one, "is how it happened after I stepped through the time portal. It seems," he said slowly, "that while I did make certain changes, it's as though I superimposed them over what transpired originally. Obscured," he clarified, frowning, "but not erased. Not entirely."

"Pentimento," Belle said suddenly.

Rumple looked startled for a moment, but then he nodded. "I believe that's as good a term as any for it, yes," he agreed.

"Huh?" Henry turned from one to the other. "What's that?"

Belle smiled. "Well, sometimes, an artist may paint a new picture over an existing one for some reason," she explained. "Canvas, good canvas suitable for artwork could be costly, particularly in kingdoms where conditions weren't suitable for hemp cultivation. So, if an artist had painted a picture that they disliked o-or recognized wasn't fit to sell or meet a commission, or they merely wanted to alter one of the details, they wouldn't just toss the thing away; not when the canvas could be reused."

"Okay," Henry said, "but they couldn't just erase the first picture?"

"Oil paints don't lend themselves easily to that," Rumple murmured. "There are some mediums that can be chipped off, but that can damage the canvas if one's a bit too vigorous. Painting over an unwanted image is generally preferable, even if, over time, the original lines may show through."

"Is that going to happen with what you did?" Henry asked. "I mean, if there are two versions of what happened, then I don't understand how they can both be right. I mean, either it happened one way or the other, right?"

Rumple's expression turned pensive. "I'm not entirely certain of that," he admitted. "After all, it's not like any time-travel spell has ever worked before. Be that as it may," he continued, "when I remember my past, it certainly doesn't involve an older version of myself turning up on my doorstep to try to convince me to make different choices. And yet, I do recall stepping through the witch's portal and doing something very much along those lines. I'm not at all certain how to reconcile it all, but I suspect that those volumes may hold the key." He took another breath. "Might I trouble you to leave them here with me? I think I'd like to study them at length."

Henry grinned. "No problem, Grandpa." But all the same, he kept his grip on his own storybook a moment longer than was strictly necessary. It was the first time he'd let it out of his possession since Emma had given it to him in the forest, restoring his memories. Maybe, he thought suddenly, it was going to do the same thing for his grandfather! Just not all at once.

They were able to get to Kensington Gardens twice more before the winter rains really set in. Rumple's cough returned in earnest that December and although he smiled and agreed when Bae told him it wouldn't be long before spring arrived and he'd feel better then, he rather thought that the real truth lay elsewhere. He believed he might have another year, perhaps two or three, but if Bae didn't recall that he'd been stronger at this time last winter, well, Rumple believed that his own memory was a bit better.

Meanwhile, he continued teaching Bae the truth behind the characters in the books that now graced the shelf on the wooden nightstand Mr. Gargery had helped them to procure.

"But will I meet them?" Bae asked one evening. "I mean, if you're here with me, am I ever going to find this Storybrooke place, or will I just stay here?"

Rumple sighed. "That's the conundrum," he admitted. "I do know that in the original timeline, you didn't stay in this place permanently. When I eventually found my way to this land and we were reunited, we," he swallowed and forced himself to smile, "well, we didn't focus on the time we'd spent apart. In that timeline, a timeline where, in a moment of weakness, I let you go through the portal alone…" His voice trailed off as he tried to find the right words.

"Papa?" Bae asked finally, and he blinked, startled and began to cough.

"I'm fine, son," he managed, crumpling his handkerchief without looking to see if he'd brought up any bloody phlegm this time. "Just fine."

"I can go downstairs and see if Emmy's still in the scullery. If she is, maybe she can make you some tea, Papa."

Rumple smiled sadly. "Trying to move back to a safer subject?" he asked.

Bae twitched guiltily. "I was just…"

"I know. And it's not an easy topic of conversation. The truth is," he shook his head, "the truth is that even on those rare occasions when your behavior was poor enough to warrant discussion, I hated doing it. And the way things happened the first time, the way I let you go, well, you had every right to still be angry with me when I finally found you again."

Bae's eyes widened with horror. "I stayed mad at you for two hundred years?"

Rumple sighed. And then, calling on a courage he hadn't thought he possessed, he steeled himself to say, "If it makes you feel any better, son, I stayed mad at my own father for quite a bit longer. And while the reason is similar, it is far from identical, though of course, I can understand why it must have seemed so to you…"

Maybe Bae wasn't going to meet any of the people he'd been reading about. Perhaps, in this new timeline, he'd never go to Neverland. But if there was any chance that he would, then the lad needed to be prepared for the latter at least as much as for the former.

He was getting a headache trying to puzzle things out. If he'd truly gone back in time to change things, then the younger man he'd once been should have remembered it. And yet, although he clearly recalled stepping through the time portal, arriving back in the land of his birth, and meeting his younger self, the man he'd once been had no recollection of ever meeting his time-travelling elder self.

He hadn't been lying or cryptic when he'd told Henry that both versions of the past were true; he'd lived each of them. But how could they both be true at once?

He thrust the book away with a frustrated sound and it wedged between the bed rail and the mattress. Wincing a bit, he remembered that the volume wasn't his, but merely borrowed, and he tugged it free and set it down atop its companion on the table beside his bed.

He was beginning to think that perhaps, no time travel spells had been successfully cast before now, not because they wouldn't have worked, but because their creators had been able to appreciate the paradoxes that might ensue if they had. Not wanting to risk such chaos, they had wisely backed away from making the attempt. He rather suspected that had such a spell come into his possession back in his land, he might have consigned it to the vault where he'd secured such dangerous and unstable magic as was beyond even his comprehension.

Or perhaps, he still would have seized the opportunity to go back and try to stop himself from making the errors that had torn Bae from him after all.

Like the two versions of his history sitting beside him, both possibilities might have happened. And he was hard-put to say which version was the more accurate.

Bae shook his head and whistled. "You had a bean, too," he said. "And you also wanted to start over…?"

"I did," Rumple nodded, taking a moment to cough into his handkerchief. A dry cough this time, mercifully; merely the result of a throat gone parched from prolonged talking. He raised the mug of water to his lips and took a gulp. "It seemed like our best chance: a fresh start, someplace where my father's reputation wouldn't ruin him in advance. I still had faith in him, you see," he sighed. "Well. I was a bit younger than you. I knew my father was far from perfect, but…" He shook his head. "I suppose it's one thing to be told your father is a good-for-nothing wastrel and another to realize that what you've been told is no more than what's true."

"Like…" Bae's eyes went wide and he nearly choked. "Nothing."

Rumple smiled sadly, guessing what Bae must have been about to refer to. "It wasn't 'nothing' when Hordor told you you were a coward's son," he murmured. "Nor when I confirmed it a day later. But, at least, for all I tried to hide them from you, I recognize my shortcomings. My papa did not."

"And you never saw him again after that," Bae guessed.

Rumple took another breath, coughed, gulped down a bit more water and finally managed, "Not until a bit more than two years ago."

"Before you—" Bae stopped himself. "No, It was almost three years ago that I saw you slipping into our sheepfold, so it must have happened back in our land, not that Storybrooke place," he said. "When? And what was he doing there? Why come all that way and not say 'hello'? Or was it you who went back to that place your bean brought you to…?"

"To answer your questions in order," Rumple said slowly, "it was shortly after you began to feel the restrictiveness of your environment most keenly. He was… gathering a collection of followers, or so he told me. And I believe you're best able to answer whether he did say 'hello' to you, or merely piped out a lively tune for you to dance about a campfire."

Bae's eyes went wide. "The piper," he breathed.

"Your grandfather," Rumple confirmed.

"Did…" Bae hesitated. "Did he know who I was?"

Rumple frowned. "By the time I took you back with me, he did. I'm not certain about earlier. He claimed that the tune he played could only be heard by those who felt… unloved and aban—"

Bae's hand pressed firmly down on his. "I don't feel like that anymore, Papa," he said firmly. "And even back then, I didn't feel like that all the time. Just when you'd spend hours spinning gold or polishing the dag—"

"That's," Rumple swallowed hard. "That's good to know, son. Truly."

"So we don't have to talk about him anymore," Bae said. "That's all in the past."

Rumple swallowed again. "Well," he said, "we can hope so."

"Papa?"

The clock in the downstairs hall chimed and Rumple counted the tones and realized that it was already eleven o'clock. He shook his head and smiled. "I fear we may indeed need to continue this discussion, but not tonight. The hour is late and you must rise before I do tomorrow." He affected a yawn. "I need my sleep, as well." Needed to marshal his thoughts and brace himself for whatever questions Bae might have on the next part of the story, more like, but he was indeed tired. And now that the tales he was sharing were more personal, they were taking a toll on his emotional strength, even as his illness taxed his physical. Both could use a rest. So he was relieved when Bae only nodded, pulled his nightshirt out from under his pillow, and, bidding him a good night, began to undress in the flickering candlelight. Rumple pulled his own nightshirt out from under his pillow and proceeded to do the same.

Bae knew he had to tell Carstone he couldn't continue with the lessons. Each tuppence (he finally believed he understood the money here, though crowns and guineas still tripped him up somewhat) and thruppence that went toward studies and supplies were tuppence and thruppence that might get them to the seashore if he could get together enough of them. He'd send Papa alone if he thought it would help, but he knew what Papa had told him back home when he'd talked about being called to the front.

I don't want to think that could happen, Bae. No, no, the war will end before you're of age for the army. It must. For if they took you from me, if you were lost, then I think I would be as well.

Something about his expression must have checked Papa then, for he'd immediately smiled and told him not to worry about such things and that he'd best see to milking the ewes now. But Bae still remembered the bleak desolation in Papa's eyes, and he suspected that Papa was a good deal sicker now than he was letting on. What if Papa was fighting his illness now, only because he still had so much he wanted to share? And if he went to the sea without Bae, would he still fight as hard?

More practical matters reared their heads. He couldn't just put Papa on a railway train and trust that there would be suitable lodging when he got there. No, arrangements would need to be made and Bae wouldn't feel right about them unless he saw the room for himself. He would have to go with Papa, and if he did, he doubted they'd be back in London soon. He'd need to find work to support them both. And while he might get a reference from the bank if he asked, suppose the bank in wherever they were going to had no position open for him? He could find other work, but that might take time. And when he heard people talk of going 'to the sea', they sounded as though they were talking of small towns and hamlets. There would be fewer jobs there, especially for an outsider.

Maybe, a thought came to him, maybe he could be an art tutor, like Mr. Carstone! He knew he couldn't teach the advanced stuff, but surely he could handle basic technique. He'd been living in this society long enough to realize that many parents wanted their children to know how to draw and paint reasonably well, but they didn't expect or intend for them to become artists. He might not be a great artist yet—or ever—but he did think he was good enough to teach what he did know, even if it would probably be to children slightly older than Michael!

He'd talk to Mr. Carstone about it tonight.

Rumple supposed that he could have used his magic to do something about his limp by now. The 'Tavronius serum' was probably out of his system and he was feeling a bit stronger. All the same, he was out of practice and magic could be physically draining, particularly when one was out of practice. Even when he'd brought the stuff to Storybrooke, he'd initially resorted to magical devices, like the one he'd used to summon the wraith. A day or so later, when Regina had come to him for Cora's old spell book, he'd conjured it up without thinking and paid for that extravagance with the worst headache he'd had in… well, over twenty-eight years, actually. After that, he'd gone back to spinning straw into gold until he got the knack of it back again.

Well, perhaps it hadn't been three decades this time, but three years was more than enough for him not to try dabbling unnecessarily. Leaning on his cane, he made his way out the room. Perhaps, he wasn't quite ready to go home, but the hospital had a rooftop terrace and, even if Storybrooke wasn't quite the town Bae had envisioned when he'd talked about a trip to the sea, it was on the ocean and fresh air would do him good. Or, at least, it wouldn't do him harm and he'd been cooped up long enough.

Once in the corridor, he headed for the elevator.

The lesson hadn't been going on for more than ten minutes before Bae realized that he was the only student who was actually focusing on the task at hand. True that Wendy and John had always been a bit less enthusiastic about the lessons than he was; he'd overheard Wendy explaining to Michael that it was something they needed if they were to become accomplished young ladies and gentlemen, but it sounded like she'd been repeating what she'd been told without fully believing it.

Not for the first time, he wondered whether they would have chosen these lessons had their parents asked them. It didn't seem fair to any of the Darlings: when you forced someone to do something, they usually ended up hating it, and why should their parents pay for the instruction if their children didn't enjoy it—especially since he didn't believe that they actually wanted their children to become artists in the first place?

Sometimes, Bae wished that he was living back in Pen Marmor. Life may have been harsh there, but it wasn't that much easier here. And the waters of the society he'd left behind were, to his mind, a good deal easier to navigate.

"Why do you two keep looking to the window?" Carstone asked sharply. Bae jumped a bit at the harsh tone. Wendy and John twitched guiltily.

"I… The stars are so bright this evening," Wendy said quickly and John pumped his head up and down in agreement.

Carstone shook his head. "Perhaps, we ought to try skyscapes next," he allowed, "but for now, young miss and young sir, I must ask you to focus on your still life."

The two children nodded, but it was clear that they were reluctant to tear their gaze from the window. Bae wondered at it. The view wasn't much to speak of; just the street below and the houses across it—houses just as staid and uninteresting to look upon as all of the other row houses on this block, the Darling house included. You practically had to go straight to the window and crane your head up to see any stars at all and there weren't nearly as many visible here as there had been back home. (Papa said that there probably were more stars than could be seen out there, but the fog and the factory smoke obscured all but the brightest.) Moreover, given that Wendy and John lived here, Bae imagined they must have seen those houses a million times, by day and by night, and they'd have a better view of the stars upstairs from the nursery window.

But when he sent curious glances in their directions, each smiled mysteriously and attacked their canvas with sudden vigor.

Rumple had the terrace to himself despite the mild temperature, and the sunlight felt good on his face. He still cast no shadow, though. Frowning, he lifted one hand in a peculiar gesture and a moment later, he smiled to hear a familiar-but-long-absent song in the wind. Well. There was nobody in Storybrooke currently in need of a good stabbing, not with the witch gone, and he wasn't yet up to full strength.

He waved his hand again and the song grew fainter, fading away utterly a moment later.

His shadow was here, after all. And so was his dagger. At the moment though, both could manage quite well at a distance.

He glanced at the sky and realized from the sun's position that he'd already been out here for an hour or more. While part of him rather wanted to see the entire hospital staff frantically searching for a missing patient, he reminded himself forcefully that this place was in the business of saving lives, both his and, perhaps, that of someone who might be of some use to him down the road. It would be a shame to lose such a potential asset to a moment's mischief. Besides, he was probably due for another round of antibiotics right about now.

Half-reluctantly, half-resignedly, he made his way back to the elevator.

When the doors parted at his floor and he stepped out, he realized that the elevator car beside his had also opened and Snow White had emerged. "Oh!" she started when she saw him. "Mr. G— Rumpelstiltskin," she corrected herself.

He inclined his head slightly. "You're well, I trust?"

She nodded. "Just here for Neal's two-month check-up," she said, smiling down at the bundle in the sling at her chest.

"Ah." He hesitated. "I do believe this is my first opportunity to thank you for your," he hesitated for the barest of instances, before continuing, "choice of names."

Snow shook her head. "We named him for a hero," she said firmly.

A year ago—or was it more than three—he would have heard, "Even though he was your son," in that rejoinder. But he was a bit older and, perhaps a bit wiser, now. At least wise enough to recognize that, as had been the case in Pen Marmor, perhaps keeping one's walls up allowed for as much heartache as it shut out. Still, he wondered whether he was making a mistake when he asked pleasantly, "And was that the only reason?"

Snow didn't answer for a moment. Then, tearing her eyes from her son to lock them on his own, she said, "I was… hoping… After you di— After you made the elixir for David and stopped Pan, and we thought…" She took a breath. "I know you wouldn't have helped Zelena if she hadn't held the dagger. Me casting the curse to bring us all back here, Emma and Henry returning…" Her words were coming fast, nearly tumbling out, but her eyes were steady as she took another breath. "This is a second chance for all of us. I thought that maybe naming our son after yours would help start things on the right foot." She gave him an apologetic smile. "Actually, I wanted to call him Leopold, but David wouldn't let me."

Rumple blinked. "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to take that," he admitted.

"Should we have gone with Baelfire instead?" she asked a little worriedly.

He shook his head. "No. That's a name for another realm. And as we appear to be making our home in this one for the foreseeable future," he smiled, "and let me assure you that I can foresee a great deal, yet—Neal is, by far, the more suitable choice."

Snow hesitated. And then she adjusted the sling so that Rumple could get a better view. "Zelena," Snow ventured haltingly, "she… she's not coming back. Is she?"

Rumple shook his head. "Doubtful," he said bleakly. "Not entirely impossible, I grant you, but very, very, doubtful."

"So, you didn't…?"

"What, kill her?" Rumple chuckled at that. He took her point. Had he killed her, he would have definitely ascertained that she was positively, absolutely, undeniably, and reliably dead. "No. Well. Not directly, at any rate."

"Not directly?" Snow repeated.

Rumple sighed. In point of fact, it was nice not to have people automatically assuming the worst of him. Moreover, he knew that Regina was lurking about hoping to get the whole story. Regina… and likely a number of others. But if he were to share the story with the woman standing before him now, there was no doubt in his mind that he'd only need to share it this once. By nightfall, the others would have the gist of it as well. "How much time can you spare?" he asked, gesturing toward a wooden bench against one of the walls of the corridor.

Snow looked at her watch. "Well, the appointment's in ten minutes, but I think Dr. Whale's running late. The nurse said she'd call me when he was ready," she added, sitting down.

Rumple nodded. "I think ten minutes might just suffice," he said, joining her on the bench. "Provided you keep your interruptions to a minimum." He waited for her to nod. Then, he settled himself a bit more comfortably, took a deep breath, and told her what she wanted to know.

"The Ogre War?" Regina asked later, setting down the cup that had been raised halfway to her lips.

"Well, technically, they were called Oni in the south, but it might have been the same species. Mulan suggested as much after we—that is to say, she, Emma, and I—fought an Ogre back in the Enchanted Forest." The warrior had noted then that the two races had virtually identical appearances, fighting styles and weaknesses, but that the Oni's skin had more of a reddish cast to it. Human skin came in a variety of shades; perhaps Ogres and Oni were much the same.

Regina shook her head. "So, that's what he was starting to tell me last week when I brought Henry to visit him." She shook her head. "Henry was down in the cafeteria when Rumple started to tell me, and when he came back, it kind of put a stop to the conversation. You know," she said slowly, "when all of this was over, I thought…" She exhaled. "Foolish, I know, but when I was a little girl, I wanted a sister. I suppose I was hoping that, once we defeated her—and with your charming husband and daughter on our side, we would have; Good usually does manage to carry the day in the end—well, maybe we could have given her a chance." She looked away for a moment, a faint blush coming to her cheeks. "It wasn't so long ago that I embraced my role as the Evil Queen, and now—"

"You used Light magic in that battle," Snow interjected. When Regina looked at her again, she shrugged. "David told me."

"Well, it proves my point," Regina sighed, after a moment. "If I could come back after being the Evil Queen, there's at least a possibility that she could have after being the Wicked Witch." She shook her head. "Not that Rumple would see it that way, I imagine."

"Not after that year," Snow agreed, shaking her head sadly.

Regina sighed again. "Well, if he told you the truth about what happened, I must admit it sounds as though her fate was almost entirely of her own making. And even if she eventually regained her magic—and I think that if she'd regained it entirely, we'd almost certainly have learned about her in the history books with that kind of power—to go about creating another time portal, finding the necessary components all over again…" She shook her head. "No, I'm very much of the opinion that, whatever ultimately became of my sister, we've probably seen the last of her."

Snow exhaled. "Are you okay?"

Regina blinked. Then she gave her stepdaughter a quick smile. "Oh, I'm hardly about to dissolve in a flood of tears over her any more than she'd dissolve in a bucket of water. All the same," she continued, pushing back her chair and rising to go to the sideboard, "I think this news calls for something a little stronger than tea. Care to join me in a glass of cider?"

"I'd better not," Snow said apologetically. "I'm nursing. Unless you've got any without alcohol?"

"I'll pour you another cup of tea."

"Well," David smiled, "at least we can be fairly sure that Neal's safe, now." Snow nodded, but her husband noted the strain in her smile. "What?"

Snow shook her head. "It was something he said when I… When I asked him to confirm that she wasn't coming back…"

She'd listened carefully as he told her the tale, not interrupting, just nodding and 'uh-huh-ing' at the appropriate intervals, trying not to let her feelings show on her face. She'd been steeling herself to hear what she'd guessed must have happened. She'd seen the cage. She'd seen the wretch that Zelena had reduced him to. She knew that the witch had not only enslaved him, but murdered the son he'd needed two centuries and a Dark Curse to find.

She also knew what 'not directly' had meant when he'd decided to avenge Belle's treatment before and during the curse at Regina's hands.

She'd been braced for, well, something entirely different from what she was hearing now. When Rumple was done, she sighed. "So," said simply, "she never made it back from the past."

"I wouldn't think so," Rumple confirmed. And then he'd raised an eyebrow and said almost casually, "so the portal took care of one evil anyway."

He'd said it almost casually, but there had been a bitter edge to the words she recognized as her own—or close enough to them.

—I get Cora's heart, I control her and make her do the right thing, and I let you die. Takes care of two evils at once.

"I…" Her throat was suddenly dry. "I was in a bad place when I said that."

He blinked and Snow suddenly wondered whether she'd only imagined the bitter edge she'd heard a moment ago. Then he smiled. "I suppose I've been in similar circumstances a time or two," he murmured.

And again, Snow wasn't sure if he was commiserating with her or subtly reminding her that his actions would have been far less likely to be excused for such a reason.

Was it the Dark One who was needling her, or the pricklings of her own conscience? She didn't know the answer to that question and she didn't think she could argue the point, whoever it was that was making it. Instead, she mumbled something about how she'd meant it when she'd been talking about second chances, no longer sure if she was offering one or asking for one as she'd hurried off to see if Dr. Whale was ready for her.

Now, as she related the conversation to David, she ended with, "When he's out of the hospital, we're taking him to Granny's to celebrate. Belle, too."

David knew that there would be no debating his wife when she took that tone, even had he wanted to.

Bae still hadn't got up the nerve to approach Carstone about his ideas. He suspected that the art teacher would scoff at him and tell him he was nowhere near ready, and perhaps that was true, but Bae still dreaded hearing it. Well, the lesson was over and Carstone had just left, so tonight was one more evening gone with his thoughts unvoiced. He noticed that Wendy and John seemed to be in a hurry to put their supplies away this evening. True, the lesson had run later than usual this evening, but normally, the siblings took their time, fussing with their canvases, chatting with him and with one another, and taking ten minutes to tidy what could be done in five.

"You see," John had explained once, "we're only allowed outside the nursery for lessons and once they're over we're supposed to go back there. And since Michael must be in bed early, we must as well. The longer we stay out here putting our things away, the longer we can stay awake."

Bae understood that, and he did agree with them that it was unfair that they all needed to be in bed at the same time. True, back in Pen Marmor, the entire household usually went to sleep at a common hour, but that was because once night fell, candles were the only option for illumination and highly dangerous inside a straw-thatched wooden shack. When it got dark, it didn't matter if you were two or a hundred and two; you went to sleep unless you absolutely, positively had to risk the candle and then you had to force yourself to stay awake while it burned. However, this wasn't Pen Marmor and Wendy and John never hurried.

Bae was just wiping down one of his paint jars, when he heard John ask, "Do you think the shadow will come tonight, Wendy?"

"Oh, I hope so," his sister breathed.

His interest caught, Bae turned to them both with a puzzled look. "The what?"

The Darling children exchanged cautious glances, first at one another, and then at Bae. Finally, John shrugged and Wendy smiled. "Why don't you come upstairs with us?" she suggested to Bae. "I'm sure it'll be all right for you to see it too."

"See what?" Bae asked.

"Wendy!" John urged, "If it's coming, it'll be soon!"

Wendy nodded. "Come with us, Baelfire," she said, seizing his hand eagerly. "I'll explain on the way upstairs."