A/N: Referencing a lot of 3B here, but particularly S3E15: Quiet Minds and S3E20: Kansas.

…Sadly, fairytale kingdoms work poorly. It's not just that they're fairytales and thus not terribly real; we've seen stranger and more mythical attempts at leadership in our time. The problem is that Fairytales attract Good Faeries, and thus Bad Faeries; Evil Queens; Huntsmen, and, of course, The Grand Vizier. And all of those tend to lead to ruination. Even in the aforementioned yarn, you need to hope that you're in a comparatively modern chronicle, where everything is required by the narrative to work out well. Because it's not terribly likely, otherwise, that you'll have an ending that's particularly good for anyone who doesn't live in the nicer parts of the Palace. Which means that saying "They all lived happily ever after" ought to have a footnote, "Except for the many, many people who totally didn't."

—Jeff Mach, There and NEVER, EVER BACK AGAIN: A Dark Lord's Diary: (A Memoir and Manifesto for Villains and Monsters) (pp. 108-109). FastPencil Publishing. Kindle Edition.

Chapter 18: Footnotes

This wasn't his home. Not his bed, sense of dread, reeling head, was he… dead? His forehead creased in concentration as his thoughts began to whirr, it was all a blur, and then he saw her!

"So nice to have you back where you belong, Rumple," the witch said mockingly. "I've set up a proper distraction for the savior, and with any luck, she'll arrive," the corners of her mouth drooped in an exaggeration of sorrow, "oh, far, far too late to do anything worthwhile. But why dwell on that?" she asked, beaming once more, "when everything I've been working toward is about to come to fruition!" She reached her hand through the grid of wires that made up the cage to pat his cheek, and Rumple sprang back with a furious hiss.

"Oh, that won't do," the witch said, sounding disappointed. She held up the other hand, the dagger—his dagger—clenched in her fist. "Come closer, Rumple," she purred. "Stand just where you did a moment ago. Or better yet," she smiled, "kneel there."

Of their own accord, his legs folded under him and he sank to the straw-covered floor with a snarl.

"Yes," the witch said, "that's much better." And she reached inside to pat his cheek as she'd attempted a moment earlier. On his knees, Rumple bared his teeth menacingly, his body shaking not in fear, but in impotent rage. The witch giggled. "You know, when all this is over, Rumple, I believe you'll make a fine addition to my monkeys. You half look the part already!" Then, more coldly, "I rather think I like you down there. I'll be back when I think you've learned your lesson. Hold that pose until I am."

She mounted the wooden stairs, still giggling. As the storm cellar doors slammed shut after her, Rumple continued to tremble. He was dead, he could tell. He was dead and this was hell.

The days that followed did little to disabuse Rumple of his first impressions. Though the witch eventually let him get up and even furnished him with a spinning wheel, he remained in a cage in a rage spinning straw for nary a wage…

With a cry, he pressed his fists to his temples. His head hurt. Couldn't think, mind a bog, memories stopped up in a clog. Had to find a way to jog… Voices, voices in the fog…

Bae?

He reached for another piece of straw. Spinning cleared the mind. The first piece of gold wire dropped from the wheel and landed on his shoe. No matter. He could spin away the madness, spin away the fog, if he could just get one… clear… thought, break through the clot, then he could… HOT!

The gold wire was suddenly glowing bright red. With a panicked shriek, he kicked out and it slid off his boot. And then, to his horror, a wisp of smoke rose from the straw where it landed. He scrambled to get up, but in his terror, he knocked the stool over and fell back on top of it, hurting his back when it slammed into the edge of the seat. Frozen in fear, he saw a line of flame erupt from the straw and whimpered.

A malicious laugh rang out. "How about a little fire, Scarecrow?" the witch cried merrily.

Eyes wide, Rumple did his best to scuttle back on his elbows and the balls of his feet, shoving the stool to one side, but it was less than a foot to the wire mesh that hemmed him in. With a sob, he squeezed his eyes shut and raised his hands to protect his face, palms out, as though he could shoo away the flames.

And then the heat vanished and the malicious laughter tinkled once more. "Well, well," the witch said, sounding pleased. "It seems some memories are so strong that even forgetting spells won't banish them. Good to know."

Warily, Rumple lowered his hands, his eyes now partly open and squinting at his captor with a puzzled frown.

"Oh, nothing to concern yourself with now… Dearie," the witch said, and though her tone was perfectly pleasant now, there was no mistaking the dangerous edge in her voice when she spoke the last word. "I do see that you've taken one lesson to heart, at least." She smiled. "You know, Rumple, I do realize that when I give you an order, you may spot a loophole in it I missed." She sighed. "I try my best to avoid them, but sometimes, I suppose it can't be helped. But loophole or not, you will understand my true intent, and I'll expect you to carry it out. If not," she shrugged, "well, you never can tell when this storm cellar might grow… uncomfortably warm. Straw is such a flammable substance, Rumple, isn't it?" She laughed. "Yes, I can see that you take my meaning. Even in your befuddlement, Rumple, you have quite the beautiful brain, don't you? One can't help but admire it. And when the time comes," she added, "it will serve me quite well. Until then, Dearie," she pulled out the dagger and held it up before him, "keep on spinning."

At that moment, the only coherent thoughts in his head involved tearing his red-haired tormentor limb from limb. Instead of acting on them, however, he took one step forward, picked up the stool, and set it back down where it had been behind the wheel. Then, teeth clenched and heart still pounding, he sat down, placed one foot on the treadle, reached for a piece of straw, and fed it to the leader on the bobbin. Then he reached for another and did his best to ignore the gloating eyes he could feel boring into him, scorching far more painfully than the heat that had emanated from the flames of a moment ago.

He spent a great deal of the next few days spinning. He thought they were days anyway; the storm cellar didn't allow much natural light to filter in through the crack in the double doors and while there was electrical lighting, it was always on. Dark Ones didn't need sleep, so if the witch thought that this was some new torture, she was probably disappointed.

Rumple devoutly hoped so.

Although Zelena hadn't issued him any new commands, and thus he'd had no opportunity to look for loopholes, she'd found an easy one of her own to exploit early on.

He'd been sitting at the wheel, reaching for another piece of straw, when he'd glanced up to see that the wire mesh surrounding him was glowing red hot again. Panicked, he'd drawn his feet as far under the stool as he could, resting them on one of the horizontal bars that gave it greater stability.

"Keep spinning, Rumple," a mocking voice ordered, and only the dagger made that command stick. "As I said, you can look forward to this sort of thing if ever you thwart my will. But," she went on, smiling prettily, "life is fairly tedious right now while I await a certain blessed event. Surely you won't begrudge me a bit of amusement now and then should the whim strike. And right now, you are quite the amusement." Fear and rage warred within him and he tried to snarl a response, but only a strangled whine escaped him.

"Interesting sound," Zelena said in a friendly fashion. "Can you make another?"

He clamped his jaws tightly closed and glared at her.

"No?" She shook her head sorrowfully. "Well, no matter. I won't order it. There's something to be said for spontaneity, after all. I mean, I don't think you'd provide half as much entertainment if you knew in advance when something was about to go all flame-y like. The best fun is when you don't see it coming!"

A large flame suddenly surged up right beside him and he flinched away from it with a shriek, even as he shakily fed another piece of straw to the wheel.

Zelena burst into laughter. "You see?" she crowed. "It's so much better this way!"

Purple smoke suddenly swirled in his hand as he reached for the next piece, and Zelena's laughter died. "Stop," she ordered sharply, raising the dagger. "Banish that."

Rumple obeyed, his face contorted in a furious scowl. And since the witch hadn't specified what he was to stop, he was also able to pause from his spinning now. He locked baleful eyes on the blade in her hand and waited.

Zelena smiled. "Right then. No real harm done. You can't hurt me, after all, Rumple; not when I hold this," she added raising the dagger higher. "Still, I suppose there might be a way for you to get your hands on it while my guard is down. Some loophole I'm not seeing, and of course, if you should exploit that one and recover it," she waved the blade and Rumple doubled over with a gasp of pain, "well, I suppose I'll be in no position to bring down the consequences I promised. So, let's just make things more challenging for you, shall we, hmmm?" Her smile dropped. "From this moment on," she said in a hard voice, "You are not to cast or recast any spell without my leave. Nor are you to brew any potions or make use of any enchanted object or other magical device without my say-so. And for now? Except for healing any pain that might otherwise prove crippling and hinder your ability to carry out my orders? I don't say so."

She waved her hand and the flames vanished. Rumple looked about wildly. The straw that surrounded him wasn't even singed. He was only a few scant inches from the wire mesh. Tentatively, he brushed one finger against it. The metal was chill to his touch. Zelena was smiling again. "Well, that's enough fun for me for one afternoon." She raised the dagger again. "Go back to your spinning. I'll bring your dinner down in about an hour." Her smile grew wider. "It'll be barbecued beef tonight. Don't expect such a feast every evening, but I'm in a good mood." Her eyes gleamed with malicious delight. "And when I bring it to you Rumple," she added, giving the dagger another twitch, "make certain you eat every bite while it's still warm and fragrant."

More time passed; he couldn't say how long. His days were torment and spinning, heat and flames and mocking laughter interspersed with periods of silence and solitude. And even then, he never knew when a piece of straw he picked up to spin wouldn't suddenly burst into flame.

He had no idea why Zelena seemed so partial to fire. Nor why the thought of it terrified him more than any other torture. Nor why he couldn't abide the smell of roasted meat, particularly if it was cooked on an open flame. Perhaps, if he'd been able to focus, an answer might have come to him, but his thoughts were scattered and shattered and any attempt to concentrate was greeted with pain and confusion and thoughts that spun far more erratically than his wheel. He was used to the voices. He was the Dark One after all, and there was always at least one of his predecessors whispering at him. Lately, though, there seemed to be another voice in the mix; one that felt so wrong, like it didn't belong; it didn't know the dagger's song…

But yet, there was something so achingly right about its presence, too. A kinship? An entanglement? A… snaring a sharing a pairing a sparing… tearing… He stiffened and a tremor seemed to ripple through him. Tearing… tearing… tearing him apart! He screamed and the straw slid from nerveless fingers.

And then, the witch's command took hold again and he picked up a fresh piece and fitted it to the wheel and kept up with his work.

How much longer he spun, he couldn't say, but eventually Zelena came down to gloat again. This time, she was babbling about maintaining appearances, or at least that was her excuse for shaving him with his dagger. Not that she needed an excuse. He did his best to endure this new misery, but he couldn't help but flinch when the blade cut his cheek. She laughed at that and he clenched his teeth in helpless rage.

But when she left, she didn't lock the cage. And she'd left him no orders to remain within. Nor had she commanded him to resume his spinning.

Rumple waited until he was certain that the witch was well and truly gone before he dared ascend the wooden stairs. Even when he tentatively opened the storm cellar doors, he half-expected her to be waiting for him. When he realized that there was no one about, he hesitated for only a moment, still sure that she was about to leap out and catch him unawares.

Then he ran for his life.

Hours later, clarity returned in a moment of icy, burning shock, and as he took in the scene—Emma kneeling on the ground facing him and Bae lying on the ground beside them—he realized what had to have happened.

He'd died; he knew that. He could still feel the dagger in his chest as he and Pan fell. But if he was back and Bae was dying… The key! Bae must have— And then he must have— He cast furious eyes on Emma. "What have you done?"

And then, faintly, he heard Bae's voice. "It's okay, Papa. I told her to."

No. No, no, no, no, no. "But why?" he demanded.

"So you can tell her who the witch is. So you can defeat her."

Everything was a haze. He still didn't remember anything before he'd awakened in that storm cellar or how he'd lost control of his dagger. But he remembered the cage and his jailor. His jailor… who had commanded him not to use magic without her permission. "Zelena," he seethed.

Emma's eyes widened. "Who?" The name meant something to her; he could tell, but he repeated it just the same.

"She's the witch?" Emma gaped. Yes, Rumple realized, she definitely recognized the name. "What does she want?"

He didn't want to waste time answering her; not with Bae's life ebbing fast, but if she and the heroes were to defeat Zelena, then he had to give her as much help as he could before the witch summoned him again. "What she doesn't have."

"There has to be some way you can save him, right?"

So she'd learned to hope. Rumple looked at her helplessly, tears burning in his eyes, as he flung himself furiously against the witch's orders. It was useless. There was no loophole; no ambiguity to the command. He could only watch and grieve as son's life ebbed away, even as Bae tried to comfort Emma.

Rumple felt his lips twisting. "No," he said. "No, no, no, I can fix this." He couldn't. Perhaps, he could instruct Emma in how to do what he had done, only temporarily. But even if she were willing, in the time it would take to show her how to clutch Bae's mind to hers without crushing it… and Bae would never allow it… And if she would be unable to cope with the influx of Bae's consciousness, if it was as debilitating for Emma as it had been for him, then how would she ever defeat the witch?

"You can't," Bae was saying. Then he smiled. "Thank you, Papa for showing me what it is to make a true sacrifice. It's about saving the ones you love."

"No," Rumple pleaded.

"It's my turn now."

"I don't want to let you go." The tears were spilling now, and he couldn't have stopped them had he wanted to.

"I need you to," Bae insisted. "Please. Let go."

"I love you son," Rumple sobbed.

"I…" Bae drew another ragged breath and Rumple could see that it was an effort for him to speak, but he still managed to gasp, "I love you, Papa." His face went eerily still as he exhaled and he never took another breath.

Rumple knelt over his son's body, sobbing bitterly. He was dimly aware at first that Emma was patting his shoulder, but when his tears ceased enough for him to become once more cognizant of his surroundings, the witch was standing over him and Emma was gone.

After that, he became more aware of the passage of time. He still couldn't recall how he'd come to be in the witch's power, but that point was considerably less relevant than how he was going to escape it. Meanwhile, he was hers to command and command him she did.

Sometimes her orders were petty ones: when to spin and when refrain from doing so; when to kneel and when to eat. They were infuriating orders, to be sure, but he could deal with them with a certain equanimity.

Others, like forcing him to obtain Regina's heart from Robin Hood in the most expedient way possible, felt as though the dagger he'd oh-so-recently plunged into his heart was still there and twisting. Roland was scarcely more than a toddler and when Rumple had first spied him in the clearing, the child had reminded him so much of Bae at that age.

He'd had no choice. He'd done what he'd had to. And as soon as the heart was in his possession, he'd released the boy in relief. But hours later, his self-loathing hadn't diminished an iota. And his hatred for his captor had only grown.

Even bullying his old enemy a few days later didn't make him any more kindly disposed toward her. As amusing as it might have been under other circumstances to incapacitate the pirate and stuff him into the trunk of his car for a few miles, knowing that this was all part of Zelena's plan to neutralize the savior's magic kept him from enjoying the moment.

Despite his actions, he found himself in the uncomfortable position of cheering the pirate on. At least he was until the afternoon that memory burst upon him afresh in a rainbow haze that stung like strong mint and eucalyptus on his skin, tingling and refreshing, sweeping away all the haze that had been keeping his recollections in check.

But he had no time to process anything before the witch stood before him again. His first thought was that sending him back to his cage a day earlier wasn't all the punishment she meant to exact from him for his attempt to steal back the dagger. And now that he remembered fully the sort of punishments she was capable of imposing, his heart quailed in his chest and he took an involuntary step backwards.

Zelena, however, merely smiled and ordered him to the barn. There, she handed him a pointed stick and instructed him to dig a pattern he recognized all too well from his own readings on time travel spells—spells that had always proved unsuccessful in the end. He could only hope. Meanwhile Zelena watched him work, smiling triumphantly. And yet, Rumple sensed that there was more on her mind. The work was delicate. A furrow too deep or too narrow or even marginally crooked might impact the working, and so she stood silently, knowing that the dagger would ensure he did his task properly and as quickly as possible. Still, there was an impatience in her stance and he sensed an apprehension that seemed born more of worry than of excitement. He wasn't about to disclose any curiosity, though. If she wanted to share her thoughts with him, she would in due course. In fact, he suspected that she wouldn't be able to keep from availing herself of her captive audience.

It wasn't until the task was complete that he learned the reason for her agitation. "Snow White is in labor," she announced, raising the dagger. "And welcome as that news is, Emma Swan yet retains her magic. Do make sure she loses it before the baby's born, Rumple, won't you? Whatever it takes, the pirate's lips must touch hers and swiftly." Her voice hardened. "Come."

He didn't want to. But what he wanted was of no consequence, so long as she held his dagger. They caught up with Emma and the pirate as they made their way toward the farmhouse. An open well proved a useful vehicle to accomplish the witch's goal. And though he looked on impassively and reminded himself that Good generally did manage to find a way, as the pirate coughed water out of his lungs and realized what Emma had sacrificed to save him, Rumple was damned if he could spot one himself.

It was easier not to think about what he was doing. Not to think about having to leave Belle where she'd collapsed in the hospital, not to think about kidnapping a newborn infant for a spell that had never been attempted before and might well kill the child, not to think about battling the heroes when they showed up at the barn in the proverbial nick of time. Not to think about…

…How the hell was the Evil Queen wielding Light magic?

Rumple couldn't waste time trying to puzzle it out. The witch was vulnerable now, her choker—and her magic—snatched away. And, far more pertinent, she'd lost her grip on his dagger when Regina's new power had blasted her off her feet and sent her tumbling to the ground.

To one side, Rumple could hear Emma asking about her brother. And he was relieved to hear the prince's reassurance that the babe was uninjured. Perhaps it was just his imagination, but he rather thought that the prince had glanced briefly up at him too, when he made the pronouncement. The others began heading out of the barn, probably heading back to the hospital. Rumple was starting to follow, when he realized he still had one bit of unfinished business to attend to.

"You failed," Regina said triumphantly to her sister.

As one, everyone stopped and looked back apprehensively. Light magic or not, Regina was still the Evil Queen, wasn't she?

"You're not going anywhere," Regina chuckled, oblivious to the nervous looks from those close by. On the ground, Zelena was trying to scuttle away, though it was difficult to believe that she thought she could escape her fate.

"I beg to differ," Rumple said coldly. With a clenching of his fist, Zelena slid toward him as easily as though the soil beneath her had been coated in grease. The witch gasped as she tried to resist, but she had as much success defying his will as he'd lately had defying his dagger. "I'm going to make you pay for everything you've done to me."

Zelena eyes were wide with anguish, but there was no fear in the defiant tone of her voice. "What are you waiting for?" she demanded. "Just do it!"

Rumple's lips pulled back in a savage smile. "With pleasure," he replied.

And then, his will and power dissipated as he sensed a new hand close on his dagger and a familiar voice cried out, "NO!"