"Part of understanding the world is realizing that agency is often linked to tearing down barriers, breaking chains, smashing walls, becoming something more and different and other than what was expected of you… You must question your own narratives, or you will make your own echo chamber, and no-one can rescue you from it, because it is stuck inside your own head."

—Jeff Mach There and NEVER, EVER BACK AGAIN: A Dark Lord's Diary: (A Memoir and Manifesto For Villains and Monsters) (p. 150). FastPencil Publishing. Kindle Edition.

Chapter 21: Questioning Narratives

Dark Ones were immortal. That didn't mean that they couldn't be killed, mind, but they could survive a great deal. Extreme temperatures didn't faze them; they could walk about in Arctic cold without the benefit of a coat or wear furs in the tropics without breaking a sweat. The need for oxygen was another mortal frailty that was beneath them and there was no need for food, drink, or sleep.

On the other hand, just because Rumple could technically live without food or drink didn't mean that he got no enjoyment from a hearty bowl of soup or a glass of fine wine. His taste buds worked perfectly well and if his eyes were glazing over from squinting at too many ancient scrolls of cramped writing in faded ink, a hot cup of coffee could often restore his focus.

Sleep, though, was another matter. When first Rumple had become the Dark One, he'd exchanged his lumpy straw tick for a soft featherbed… And it had been over a decade before he could enjoy it. Every night, he'd slid between the smooth silk sheets and laid his head on the deep down pillows, and every night, after hours of tossing and turning, he'd given up and gone to the wheel to spin.

The Darkness that he'd taken on had never understood why he'd want to rest when he didn't have to and it had taken Rumple long years to discipline himself enough to be able to. At first, he'd simply wanted to be able to enjoy the bed. He'd wanted to sleep on sheets that weren't scratchy and a mattress that didn't have straws poking through to tickle and prickle, and it had rankled him that now that he had the power to acquire such a luxurious piece of furniture, he couldn't enjoy it properly. Eventually, he'd got caught up in the challenge of it all. Besides, he found that he missed dreaming. It had taken years, but he'd learned to sleep again at the last and it had grown easier over time.

Tonight, though, his mind would not settle. He twisted and squirmed until there was no cool patch left on his pillow. He found his blankets constricting, but when he kicked them off, he gathered them back up again a moment later. There had been neither pillow nor blanket for him in captivity. Just bars and straw and the wheel… The wheel.

Normally, when he was in a state like this, spinning soothed his mind but now the mere thought of it set his heart to pounding and his hands to sweating.

He couldn't sleep. He couldn't spin. He couldn't stay here.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, stood and slapped a hand down on the mattress when he would have fallen. He wasn't used to being this far off the ground anymore and when he hadn't felt the carpet under his feet he'd chalked it up to the daily healing spell wearing off and leaving them numb when, in fact, they'd been an inch or two from the floor and, thanks to the injuries Zelena had inflicted on them, he hadn't realized it.

His ankle buckled as he got up, sending a fresh jolt of pain up his leg. The spell, evidently had worn off. He took a moment to recast it before venturing toward his closet to seek out a fresh change of clothes. Perhaps he couldn't bear to be alone in this vast house for much longer, but he certainly wasn't going to go gallivanting about town in his nightshirt.

He drove down to the beach. He'd lived a good part of his life by the sea and in younger days, he'd found the motion of the waves to be a soothing sight. The rise and fall had a hypnotic effect and made it easy to lose track of his surroundings. And at this hour, the beach was deserted. Somehow, it was easier to be alone here than it was in his bedroom.

High tide, he judged, was more than two hours from now. He found a smooth stone several yards above the high water mark and settled on it. And there he sat, watching as the waters advanced and receded, climbing higher with each wave.

When the tide began to recede, he was still sitting there, visibly calmer, his eyes closed and his breathing steady as he sank into an old meditation pattern he probably hadn't attempted in over a century and a half.

Something cold and moist was pressing into the palm of Rumple's hand, startling him back to alertness. The sky was swathed in orange and gold, the yellow disc of sun just beginning its ascent. How many hours had he been here? He looked to his side and realized that a large Dalmatian had just thrust its nose into his hand by way of greeting.

"Pongo!" a voice called to his left, and Rumple turned automatically in that direction to see Archie Hopper hurrying after his dog. "Sorry about that, Mr. Gold. He doesn't usually bother people when he's out for his run."

Rumple shook his head. "It's no bother," he murmured. "And I can't imagine you encounter many people on the beach at this hour." He checked his watch surreptitiously. It was just past six.

"Well," Archie nodded, lowering himself to sit in the sand beside Rumple's rock, "not at this time of year anyway." He frowned. "Have you been out here all night?"

"Of course not," Rumple replied, a bit too quickly. Just most of it.

"You're not cold?" The psychiatrist was wearing a highland jacket, scarf, and woolen gloves.

"It's warmer now than it was when I arrived," Rumple said, not wanting to discuss the advantages of being a Dark One. Unless he missed his guess, he'd be doing enough of that ere long. And while his mind was on that subject… "I imagine Regina's told you I'd be contacting you."

Archie frowned. "She did say something about your probably being in touch. I'm… sorry. About your son."

Rumple nodded. "Thank you," he said, when he was certain he could trust his voice.

"So… it would be grief counselling, then?"

Was it possible that the psychiatrist didn't know the terms of the agreement he'd struck with Regina? It appeared so. A wave of relief washed over him, just as another wave of salt water crashed below on the shore. If Archie didn't know that he was being… Well, not coerced exactly, even if it felt that way… "Perhaps," he murmured, "that would be a good place to start." Talking about losing Bae would be hard. Talking about what else Zelena had done without turning himself into an object of pity would be harder. Regina's point, yesterday, had been well-taken though. If he couldn't find a way to cope with everything he'd suffered at the witch's hands, then in one year's time, he'd likely be right where he was now: angry, frightened, and dreading the day that she'd walk free once more. He shouldn't dread it. There was no reason to. She was beaten, powerless, and after a year of incarceration, perhaps she'd have the sense to stay out of his way. But even the thought of seeing her again, of hearing that mocking laugh, her hand on his dagger… He felt his heart thudding in his chest and wondered that Archie didn't seem to hear it.

Pongo thrust his nose into Rumple's hand again and he smiled quickly and scratched the dog behind his ear. "Good boy," he said, still murmuring. "Good boy."

Archie's face creased with a smile of his own. And then, the psychiatrist's eyebrow lifted as though a thought had just occurred to him. "Rumpelstiltskin," he said slowly, "have you ever thought about a dog of your own?"

"I beg your pardon?" Rumple asked, sitting up a bit straighter and releasing Pongo. The dog shoved his head below Rumple's fingers, tilting it up to look at him, as though asking why he'd stopped.

"Well, it's just that pets can be therapeutic," Archie said. "They don't judge, they don't second-guess, they…" He stopped, seeing that Rumple had resumed scratching Pongo's head. "It's just something to think about. I know the animal shelter has a number of dogs in need of adoption." He smiled. "I guess they're the strays from our land that came over with the Curse. Anyway, it's just a suggestion. Something to think about."

"Well, perhaps," Rumple hedged.

"As far as our meeting under more formal circumstances, you usually open the shop at eight, right?"

Rumple nodded.

"Well, if you'd like to meet at seven, as you can see, I'm generally awake fairly early, and I don't have any other patients at that hour. If you'd prefer a lunchtime slot or evening, I'll need to check my schedule, but I'm pretty sure I have some free slots then; I'll just need to verify the days."

Rumple hesitated. He wasn't at all certain that he wanted to do this. But he'd struck a bargain with Regina and he didn't break his deals. All the same, he did think he needed a day or two to get used to the idea. "Well," he said slowly, "today is… what? Tuesday?" When Archie nodded, he went on. "Then, perhaps if it's truly no inconvenience, we might say Thursday at seven?"

"I'll see you then. And I was serious about suggesting a pet. I think it'll be good for both of you."

"Uh-huh," David scribbled another line on the notepad on the counter. "Okay, got it. Thanks, Belle." He hesitated. "Uh… actually, yeah. If you want to. Nothing too fancy, though. I'm going to try an old bean stew recipe I learned how to make when I was growing up, and Emma was thinking about cottage pie," he chuckled slightly, "in case it doesn't turn out like I'm hoping, but I'll ask her to pick something else."

Seated at the table, Emma watched her father's expression shift.

"I think so. I mean, I'm making a bunch of substitutions, since we don't seem to have pachacamac bean, mereroot, or daganseed in this land, and I sort of think that if we'd had tomatoes back home, they'd be in it, so I'm adding them, but it should be good. I hope." He paused. "No, it should be fine; she hasn't even started, yet." Another pause. "No, Henry's going to be at Regina's tonight. They're still catching up. Next time. Uh-huh. Okay, see you later."

He ended the call and turned to Emma. "They're both coming. And to play it safe, they're bringing a dish, too."

Emma smiled. "Good. So, about this stew... Are you sure lima beans are a good idea?"

"With carrots, corn and tomatoes?" David returned. "I think so. They're pretty close the original as far as texture goes, and the seasonings will help with the flavor. Oh, but scrap the cottage pie," he added. "Mashed potatoes are going to be a problem."

"He doesn't like them?"

David sighed. "Belle didn't go into detail and I didn't want to ask for an explanation." He slid the notepad over to her. "No roasted or barbecued meats, no mashed potatoes or creamed cauliflower, no meat pies."

"Sounds like your lima bean stew's the way to go, then," Emma said. "And I can do a mac-and-cheese casserole. That looks safe. Did you know…?"

"About the roasted meat? Yeah. The rest is news to me. But I picked the stew because it's plain, old-fashioned comfort food. It may not be fancy, but it's something I grew up on and," he ducked his head and looked faintly embarrassed, "when King George brought me to his palace to replace his son… You knew about that?" he asked.

"I… uh… skimmed Henry's book when I first got here," Emma nodded. She'd almost forgotten that part of the story.

"Okay, good. I didn't want to have to explain all that now. Anyway, the first night, the royal chef asked me what he should prepare for dinner, and homesick farmboy that I was, I asked for this stew." He winced. "You'd have thought I'd asked for stale bread and water with a side of over-boiled turnip. King George shook his head and told the cook I'd of course meant to request…" he frowned. "Well, he named off about four or five dishes I'd never heard of. From what I remember, it was all fine but… not what I was used to." His expression turned pensive. "Except the cabbage soup. I mean, he called it a chowder, but it was soup. Just… soup with a bit of saffron added. Probably because it was more expensive that way," he added dryly. "Anyway, we're not making a banquet tonight. This is just… a quiet meal with fr—" He stopped, eyes widening slightly. And then, he nodded to himself and finished more decisively, "with friends."

"A dog?" Belle repeated, a faint smile coming to her face.

"You don't mind, then," Rumple noted, smiling a bit in turn.

"No," Belle said. "I love dogs. Cats, too. Or, well, just about anything with fur or feathers. Except mice and rats," she added. "I know Ashley thinks they're adorable; she told me she's thinking of getting one for Alex as a pet." She shook her head. "I tried not to shudder, but I'm sure my smile felt like it was pasted on at that point."

"Ah. Well, no fear of that," Rumple assured her. He frowned. "You're certain that the prince said that there will be no cottage pie on the menu? While I realize I wouldn't have to eat it, I rather think the sight of it might banish my appetite."

"David said there wouldn't be," Belle said. Then, more seriously, "Did Zelena…?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Rumple said, looking away.

"Of course."

"It's not really the potatoes," he said after a moment. "Most of the food she ordered me to eat had the consistency of congealed gruel and the flavor of wallpaper paste. But it was generally white in color and I'd prefer not to see anything that reminds me." He turned anxious eyes on the woman he loved. "Belle, I'm telling you this in confidence; I don't mean for it to go beyond these four walls."

Belle slid a hand onto his shoulder. "Of course not."

The evening started off just as awkwardly as Rumple had been dreading. The prince tried to put them at ease, and it was clear that he was dancing around conversation topics trying not to put a foot wrong, but the strain was evident.

For her part, Belle was a little too quick and enthusiastic with her replies. Rumple wasn't given to fidgeting or squirming, but the savior more than made up for it. Finally, after about ten minutes of nervous smiling and uncomfortable pauses, Emma said, "I'm sorry. About Neal."

Rumple shook his head. "That wasn't your fault."

"I pulled him out of you," Emma protested. "Or you out of him. I… How is that not my fault?"

Rumple gave her a sad smile. "Because he pleaded with you to do so. And if I could never deny him, how can I take you to task for that same weakness?" His lips twisted and his fingers twined and untwined in his lap.

"I… guess I thought, I hoped, you could do something to stop it. Since it looks like that's what you did in the first place."

Rumple shook his head. "Would that I could have," he said. "But the witch forbade me to use any magic without her permission." His expression hardened. "Much as she had me do with my attack on the pirate before the battle in the barn, she took your measure and set about arranging the proper conditions that had you playing into her hands. A threat to his life and you gave up your power. A threat to the town—combined with Bae's willingness to sacrifice himself for a greater cause and your self-confessed hope for a better outcome—and you unraveled the stop-gap measure I'd been using to keep Bae alive. I'd thought," he went on heavily, "I'd hoped that in time a way would have been found to separate us safely, but alas. It was not to be."

"I… uh…" David shifted uncomfortably and Rumple held up his hand to stop him.

"Regina told me the circumstances. I can hardly blame your wife for finding a way to keep you alive. And, as events transpired, even had she not done so, that forgetting potion would have turned the original plan awry regardless. You heroes would have believed me dead. Victor would have forgotten his theory. And when you lot discovered otherwise? Emma still would have separated me from Bae and once the curse broke, there would be one more person to mourn in this town. Sadly, Bae's fate was sealed the moment he resurrected me and for all I tried to avert that curse, Fate had other ideas.

Emma had been frowning at her father and looking as though she was waiting for Rumple to finish speaking so she could ask something. Suddenly, her eyes widened. "It was a curse?" she repeated, turning her attention back to Rumple.

"Yes," Rumple nodded. "Quite the powerful one. Why?"

"So, if I'd kissed him goodbye… like I thought I was doing when Henry ate the…" Her face crumpled. "Could I have saved him?"

Rumple's jaw dropped. "Possibly," he whispered. "True Love can break any curse. If he who is cursed perceives his circumstances thusly," he added. "And I think Bae did. When you asked if I could save him, I was so caught up in my helplessness that it didn't occur to me that perhaps you… I debated asking you, teaching you, to do as I had—absorb him until we could come up with a better solution…"

"I would have," Emma said.

"And been in no shape to battle the witch. But even if I'd foreseen the role Regina would come to play in that confrontation, the spells needed are both delicate and complicated. And there was no time." He closed his eyes and seemed to shrink in his chair. For a moment, he sat silently, fighting for control and when he opened his eyes again, they were clear and bored directly into Emma's. "You mustn't blame yourself, savior. Not now. In hindsight, it's easy to see what one might have done differently or better, but it's a useless exercise. One can't change the p—" He stopped.

His eyes widened.

Emma's jaw dropped open.

And then, she asked, "Gold… If Zelena's spell had worked… Okay, I know her plan was to stop my mother's parents from getting together, so obviously," her words tumbled out almost as soon as they sprang into her head, "if it had worked, my mom wouldn't exist and I wouldn't and my brother wouldn't, but, leaving that aside… Say she'd tried the spell with any True-Love newborn. After she'd cast the spell, would the baby still be okay?"

"The cabin," Rumple said, almost in a whisper. "Once Zelena's identity was revealed and she had to abandon the farmhouse, she ordered me to tell her of another property at which she could wait for the birth. It was the only place I could think of. If she left any notes behind that might answer your question, they'll be there."

"Couldn't we just ask her?" Belle suggested.

"Would you trust her answer?"

"Let's go," David said, rising to his feet. "I don't think anyone's in the mood for supper anymore."

"Turn off the oven," Emma said, crossing over to the coat hooks and yanking down her red leather jacket. "We can always microwave it when we get back."