Baelfire didn't remember what his mother was like before she fell under a sleeping curse. He had been a toddler when it happened, his time with her as short and fleeting as a snowflake melting on his tongue. Sometimes he pictured himself resting his head in her lap while she stroked his hair and softly sung a lullaby, but he was never sure of it that was a memory or just his imagination. His father kept her in a plain bedroom in the west wing of the castle, at the end of the corridor and far away from prying eyes. He had never said that Baelfire wasn't allowed inside, but he didn't have to.

He went in there only a few times. Part of him was, irrationally, afraid of to see his mother. She lay in her bed as still as a corpse, very beautiful and just as lifeless. Though, he strangely felt as thought she were watching him. As though she was aware of his presence. He wondered if she would finding him lacking as a son and as a prince. Her name was Princess Rosalie, but everyone only ever called her Belle.

Sometimes Baelfire had nightmares about his mother. In his nightmares, he would walked into bedroom, just to see her. Then she would suddenly open her eyes wide, filled with tears, and she would start screaming, a loud, high screech that filled the world and drowned out all other thoughts. Then Baelfire would wake up. When he was seven, he stopped going to see his mother, but the nightmares still came sometimes.

For as long as he could remember, it had been just him and his father. His serious, reclusive, yet awkward father. As a little boy he had tried to emulate his father, until he realized that he and his father were two very different people. Trying to be like his father was like trying on shoes that were two sizes too large, like trying to ride a horse that had bonded to another rider. At first it made him feel shame, and frustration, and finally anger. Why should he be like his father? Why shouldn't he be like himself?

Only...Baelfire wasn't sure who he was.

His life was restricted to the walls of his father's castle, save the rare moment he was allowed outside on the grounds or in the gardens. His days were planned by the tutors his father hired: arithmetic, science, history, geography, magic. His clothes were picked out by maids and his food was picked out by the castle cook. He had too many material belongings but none of them felt as though they really belong to him. What did he have in life that was really his? If he vanished into thin air, would the world change at all.

No, Baelfire tried to assure himself. His father would miss him. For all his faults, his father loved him dearly and made that clear at every opportunity. Still...Baelfire couldn't shake the feeling that his life was meaningless. That he had not truly lived or made his mark upon the world.

These grim and oppressive thoughts only seemed to grow more intense and persistent as he got older. Very often he wondered if he ought to share those worries and concerns with his fathers, but the world always dried up on his lips. Sometimes he felt ungrateful. He knew there were people who went hungry, though he had never seen them. People who had no roof over their heads, who broke their backs working in the hot sun, who had to send their sons to fight in wars and their daughters to serve in the homes of wealth strangers. Like him. Baelfire tried to swallow his pain, but it often felt like he was choking on it.

His father picked up on it...eventually. Baelfire could tell that his father knew something was wrong just from the way his father looked him, with apprehension, confusion, and worry. Neither of them said anything about it for years, though. Baelfire didn't have a gift for words, and if his father had ever had one, he didn't use it. That made the situation even more unbearable. Both of them knew there was a problem, but Baelfire couldn't bring himself to complain and his father couldn't bring himself to offer help.

And if Baelfire was honest with himself, he wasn't sure what his problem was or what kind of help he could ask of his father. What did he want? To know himself? To explore the world beyond the grounds of the castle? To make friends his own age? To fall in love? Did he want his mother to wake up, or did he want to her disappear forever?

Baelfire felt his gut twist in guilt. He knew ought to think of his mother that way, especially not when she had sacrificed herself to protect their family from an evil fairy. He didn't know the particulars - his father would rather cut out his own tongue than talk about it - just that his mother was in her current state because of that. His father still loved her dearly, and visited her bedside regularly. She had loved Baelfire, so he heard from his father and the servants in the castle. Yet...her inanimate body seemed to radiate misery and gloom throughout the castle. Her curse was the wall that stood between him and his father. Was he wrong to want it gone, or did that just make him a horrible son? He wasn't sure he even wanted to know the answer.

When Baelfire was fifteen, he tentatively asked his father for permission to leave the castle, just to go into the nearest town. His father had looked at him for a long moment, almost as if confused, then gave his consent. His father had looked oddly timid and shamefaced, as he had been caught doing something wrong. Dressed in plain clothes and hood to obscure his face, Baelfire walked into town with a guard who was similarly dressed-down to avoid letting anyone know of Baelfire's status. Baelfire mostly walked around, taking in the sights and sounds. In the market, he bought a fine pair of brass candlestick, simply because he could. The castle had plenty of candlesticks, some made of gold and some of silver, but the act of buying something himself made Baelfire giddy.

When he got back to the castle later that evening, his father was there to great him. He asked Baelfire how his trip into town had been and listened attentively as Baelfire gave his description.

"I'm glad your happy, Bae," Rumplestiltskin smiled sadly. "I worry I might have stifled you a bit. If you wish to go into town, you may do as you please. Just bring a guard with you. I want you to say safe."

"Of course, Father," Baelfire replied. "And thank you."


Baelfire didn't know how long he had been trapped in the dungeon. He wasn't sure it was actually a dungeon, but that's what he called it.

It was a large cavernous space. The only light came from the torches his captor had allowed him. He burns them a few hours each day so he could engage in the little distractions she had lent him, but he tried not to use them too often so they would last longer. He had books and a handful of odd trinkets. He had a small bed and a makeshift desk, but that was all.

His captor brought him food each time she time just to keep him alive. It was bland, tasteless stuff that lasted a long time, but nothing that could be considered a real meal. Half them time she would also bring meat or fresh fruit and vegetables, but he had to eat it quickly or else it would spoil. On occasion, if she was feeling generous, she would bring a special treat. Baelfire still remembered that first time he had a chocolate bar. Some time in his captivity, his captor had had a son, and once a year shortly after her son's birthday, she would bring him a leftover piece of cake.

That was all he had to tell time with. He had been imprisoned for well-over a decade, perhaps two or three decades. It certainly felt as though it had been that long, though for some reason neither he nor his captor ever aged. Each time he saw her, she looked the same as she had when he first laid eyes on her.

Baelfire shuddered at that painful memory. He had woken up confused and scared and with chains around his ankles. Long chains that allowed him to move several years, but chains nonetheless. After what felt like hours, his captor had come down in the metal box she called an elevator, explaining to him that she was sorry for his current state, but it was a condition of the curse she had cast. She never told him what the curse was meant to due or why he was important to it. He had run away from home before completing his studies in magic, so he could only guess what she needed him for.

She was not overtly cruel, and occasionally she was even nice. Baelfire wondered if she felt for how she treated him, and if that was why she didn't treat him worse. Though he hated her, it wasn't the fiery, passionate kind of hate he expected. It was cold, deep, and penetrating, like been throw overboard into the icy ocean. Baelfire hated the sight of her, yet she was the only person he had seen in years. He hated her voice, but it was the only voice he heard beside his own. She had never tried to touch him, and for that he was relieved; his skin crawled at the very idea.

His captor never game Baelfire her name, nor did he offer her his.

In the early days, Baelfire thought his father would find him and set him free, then get revenge against the woman who had held him prisoner for so long. But as the days stretched on into an endless, formless void, Baelfire realized that his father would never find him. He feared he would die in the dark and cold, but he kept living regardless. Would he be trapped in this underground prison until the end of time? Had he already died, and was this his punishment for running away?

Running away had been a childish idea, to get away from the stifling castle and the horrors within that haunted his family. He had only gotten the notion to run away a few days before he had actually done it. Two days into his newfound freedom, Baelfire realized he had no idea how to take care of himself out in the world, as if he were a common peasant. He had always been cared for by servants and protected by guards and taught by tutors. He felt ashamed his helplessness, but he had to admit he would not survive on his own much longer. He hung his head and began to make his way back to the castle, thinking of some explanation that would justify the worry he had caused his father. He couldn't come up with on.

But before Baelfire even made it back to the town near the castle, a wall of dark magic swept over the land. It was too large and too fast to try to outrun, but Baelfire tried anyway. He urged his horse as fast as he had pushed it, but the effort was futile. The next thing he knew, he was in the underground cave that would serve as his prison for years to come. Baelfire wondered if anything would have changed if he had remained home, or if he would have ended up in the same position regardless.

The elevator came to life, filling the prison with the metallic noises that had become familiar to Baelfire over the years. His captor stepped out, looking frazzled and angry.

"Has anyone been down here?!" she demanded.

Baelfire, shocked to see her so out of sorts, shook his head. What could she mean by that? Just as the thoughts ended his head, a mysterious light entered the underground cave, then stopped directly under Baelfire's feet. When he stepped back, it followed, remaining under him regardless of where he moved. His captor looked as though she was about to be sick.

"Oh fuck," she whispered. "It's only a matter of time now."

The elevator whirled to life again, to Baelfire's shock. That had never happened before. His captor looked just as shocked and twice as fearful.

"No, no, no," she hissed. "It's falling apart." She grabbed one of the torches that Baelfire had lit early and fled deeper into the cave, until the light had vanished. Baelfire stood there stunned, trying to make sense of what was happening.

When the elevator doors opened, four people stepped out. Three of them were complete strangers, but one was a face that Baelfire knew as well as his own. A face filled with horror and remorse and love.

"Bae? It's you." his father, Rumpelstiltskin, whispered. "You're the anchor?