CHAPTER 15
Someone was screaming.
For a moment Rumpelstiltskin thought he was back in the time of the Ogre Wars, in the time when he was nothing more than a human. "Papa! They've come for Moraine!" Bae said breathlessly. His dark eyes were wide with panic that mirrored Rumpelstiltskin's own. That couldn't be right, Moraine was only thirteen, just a few months older than Bae…dear gods, surely they hadn't lowered the age again! He rose quickly and grabbed his staff, determined to find out what was going on. Perhaps there was some sort of misunderstanding.
But it was no misunderstanding. Moraine, her hands bound and her child's face frozen with fear, was being led by a group of soldiers towards their waiting horses. More soldiers, still on their horses, surveyed the scene coldly, seeming to pay no heed to the girl's terror or the pitiful screams of her mother.
"Please, no! She's my baby!" Gerta screamed. Rumpelstiltskin's heart twisted in pain for the poor woman. The soldiers apparently felt no such empathy. "Nonsense," one of the men on horseback sneered. Though it had been years since he'd laid eyes on the man, Rumpelstiltskin recognized him instantly. Hordor. Rumpelstiltskin's eyes narrowed. The only other man in his regiment who hadn't been killed in the ogre attack, since he had gone to the village with his father and the other men of high rank for a night in the local tavern.
Rumpelstiltskin had been left in charge because of his age, being a good ten years older than any of the other men in their regiment. But age was no help in a surprise attack. He had fought with everything in him,, as had they all, but it had been useless. The ogres flung the young men like rag dolls, and crushed their skulls like walnuts with a single fist. In no time at all the ground ran red with the blood of young men, all of them his friends and comrades. There hadn't even been time to mourn as the carnage raged. He had done the only thing he could think to do, a thing he would never be able to decide for sure if he regretted: he threw himself facedown in a pile of gore and lay still, praying the ogres would believe him dead with all the rest.
It worked; while ogres possessed the strength of ten men and were notoriously bloodthirsty, they were also known to be rather dull-witted. It seemed as though an eternity passed until they finally took their leave. Even after he was sure they were gone, Rumpelstiltskin continued to lay perfectly still for several long minutes, barely even breathing due to both his terror and the stench of blood.
Finally, though, he could stand it no longer. He raised his face from the blood-drenched earth and crawled on all fours to the body of one of the young men. It was Joshua, whose family had lived next door to Rumpelstiltskin's own since before either of them was born. Though Joshua was only about twenty and Rumpelstiltskin was past thirty, they had been close all of Joshua's life, with Rumple acting as an uncle of sorts to the younger man. Just before the last resurgence of the ogre wars Joshua had been betrothed to Elishka, his childhood sweetheart and the most beautiful girl in their village. But now, seeing the way Joshua's spine had been snapped like a twig, Rumpelstiltskin knew that the wedding planned for Joshua's next furlough would never take place. Joshua's eyes stared sightlessly at the night sky and it took Rumple a moment to realize why he could see the young man's face and his wrecked spine at the same time: his head had been twisted clear around on his neck.
Rumple had crawled to the body of his young friend and had taken him into his arms, gently, so gently, as though he hadn't already been literally torn apart. Holding the boy's corpse in his arms, he lifted his face to the cold, uncaring moon and bayed his grief like a wounded animal.
That was how Hordor and the other men had found him. Hordor had been enraged at the loss of his battalion, knowing it would reflect badly on him; commanders were not to leave their soldiers. In the way of most men long on physical bravery but short on true courage, he had chosen to pin the blame on Rumpelstiltskin. He claimed that the spinner had hidden the instant the ogres entered their camp, while he, Hordor, had been bound so as to be carried off for later consumption but had managed to escape his bonds. It was a ridiculous story, since ogres had never been known to eat humans or save their food for later, but it was believed. And when the Duke of the Frontlands had decreed that Rumpelstiltskin should be hobbled as punishment for his act of cowardice, it had been Hordor who had swung the axe.
Rumpelstiltskin had hoped never to lay eyes on him again. But here he was, all these years later, obviously a man of rank himself now while all Rumpelstiltskin had was his son and a reputation as "the man who ran". He didn't mind that so much, truth be told. Though it hadn't happened as Hordor said, he still felt he had been a coward. He could have continued to fight. Though there was no way he could have defeated the ogres by himself, he could have died in battle. His son would have gown up with a dead warrior for a father, and his wife would never have fled in shame. But when he looked at his boy he could never bring himself to truly wish he had died that night. Baelfire was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Now it looked as if he would lose Bae too. Hordor had just announced that the fighting age had been lowered to thirteen, and Bae's birthday was in a scant three days. Helplessly, he clung to the boy as they watched Moraine being taken despite her mother's pleas and her father's ill-conceived attempt to attack the soldiers. "My baby!" Gerta screamed again as they began to ride away, Moraine on the back of Hordor's own horse. "Oh God, my baby! Mr. Gold! Mr. Gold, help me!"
Rumpelstiltskin woke with a start, the sheets soaked with his sweat. A dream, he reassured himself. It was only a dream. But the woman screaming nearby…that was no dream. That was really happening. As he attempted to make sense of what was happening the woman's cry came again.
"Mr. Gold!"
Amaia. He leapt from the bed and flew the few steps to her bedroom doorway, remembering at the last second to grab the cane he no longer really needed.
She was lying on her side with her knees drawn up to her enormous belly. He wondered if it was safe for her to be in such a position before he took in the agony in her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her mouth was drawn up in a grimace of pain and terror.
"Amy, what's wrong?" he asked sharply, moving to her side much too quickly. She was hurting too badly to notice, however. Blindly she grasped for his hand and he gave it to her, his heart doing flip-flops in his chest.
"Mr. Gold, help me," she groaned. "I think the baby's coming."
The human Rumpelstiltskin would have fainted dead away at the words, and he did grow a bit dizzy for a moment. But it passed quickly as he marshaled the steel spine that was the only good thing the Dark Curse had given him, and one of the other things he shared with his Storybrooke counterpart.
"Are you certain, dear?" he asked, somehow managing to sound as calm and unruffled as usual. "It's still a bit early yet, you know. Perhaps it's just false labor."
"No, no, I think this is it," she groaned, squeezing his hand so hard he thought she might crush the bones. "I've had a few contractions before, just on and off, but they started coming pretty regularly a little while ago. I hoped it was just Braxton Hicks again, but they started coming closer and closer together…and I think I'm bleeding, too."
Not bothering to waste time on words, he flung the blankets back to see for himself. His heart sank as he saw the red that stained the crotch of her pants. But it wasn't a horrible amount, and some blood was to be expected when a baby was born, he knew. "Just a bit," he said in as soothing a tone as he could manage. "I think it's time we got you to the hospital, though, dear."
Just then a flash of lightning sizzled across the sky before leaving them in pitch blackness. Amy shrieked, whether from pain or surprise he wasn't sure. When the lightning abated he looked around the room. The small nightlight by the bed was no longer lit, and the digital clock on the nightstand displayed no numbers.
The power was out. Well, wasn't that just wonderful.
"Oh God, oh God," Amaia moaned, somehow managing to tighten her grip on his hand. "Here comes another one."
None of the books she'd read had prepared her for this pain. It felt as though her belly was being crushed in a giant vise. Amy had planned to be stoic during her labor, since she knew screaming was useless and did nothing but waste the energy she would need for expelling the baby. But when she'd made those plans she'd been envisioning something like really bad period cramps, not this torture. She whimpered and then shrieked as the pain seemed to reach a crescendo.
Mr. Gold was still holding her hand. As the contraction ripped through her he brought his free hand to her face, stroking her cheek and smoothing her sweaty hair back from her brow. "There, there, love," he soothed. "It's all right. You're going to be all right." He went on stroking and petting and murmuring comforting nothings until the pain receded enough for her to relax her death grip on his hand. She never noticed that he had dropped the cane to the floor.
Once the pain had abated entirely for the time being Rumpelstiltskin sprang to action. "Have you packed a bag for the hospital yet, darling?" he asked. She nodded, trying to focus on breathing as Doc had coached her to do. "Good, good. Where is it?"
"Closet," she said between deep breaths. "On the floor by my shoes."
He retrieved the small suitcase she'd had ready and waiting for weeks now, also on Doc's advice. Only when he was heading for the bedroom door did he realize he had forgotten all about the cane. Luckily Amaia still hadn't noticed, her mind being occupied with far more pressing matters.
"Where are you going?" she cried as she saw that he was preparing to leave the room.
"I'm going to put your bag in the car," he said comfortingly. "Then I'm going to come back for you, and we'll try to get you in the car before the next one comes. We'll have you at the hospital in no time."
That sounded like a good idea to Amy. "Hurry back," she pleaded. "I was timing them before the power went out. They're coming every five minutes."
"I'll hurry," he promised. As he made his way to the front door a knock sounded. He wrested the door open and Snow White nearly fell inside.
"Is everything OK?" she asked. "I thought I heard screaming…" She trailed off. She was holding her cell phone up as a flashlight. "Mr. Gold?"
"She's in labor," he replied shortly. This was no time for pleasantries.
"Oh, my God!" Snow White's…no, Miss Blanchard's…free hand flew to her mouth.
"Indeed," he said with a thin smile. "I'm glad you're here, though, Miss Blanchard. Would you stay with Amy while I put her suitcase in the car? I'm taking her to the hospital."
"The hospital?" she repeated dumbly, and Rumple felt like shaking her. For all her flaws, the real Snow White had never been this obtuse.
"Yes, the hospital," he said with exaggerated patience. "That's the best place for babies to be born, you know. So if you'll kindly move out of my way—"
She was shaking her head. "No, you can't go to the hospital," she said. "I was listening to the radio before the power went out…the roads are blocked. There are trees down everywhere, and flooding. No one's supposed to try to drive, they said. They said this is the worst storm on the coast of Maine in years."
His heart sank. "Dear God, no," he sighed. What could possibly happen next?
"But listen," Snow…Miss Blanchard babbled. "I'll go in and see Amy. She may not be as far into labor as you think. First babies usually take a while to come, they told me at the hospital. Maybe the worst of the storm will pass in a little while. You know what? I'll call Emma. She can get an ambulance or something for us."
Maybe Miss Blanchard wasn't as stupid as he'd thought. "Yes, please do that," he said. If there was anyone who could help them now, it was the Savior. This woman's own daughter, he realized with a moment of wonder. If she was powerful enough to break the curse, surely she could figure out how to transport a laboring woman to the hospital in these conditions.
Snow left him then, to see to Amaia. He heard Amaia's voice rise in greeting as the princess turned schoolteacher entered the bedroom. At least there was a woman here now, one Amaia considered a friend. That was something. He had no experience with childbirth, having been away in the war when Baelfire was born.
Baelfire…His heart twisted in pain. How could he ever have forgotten his son? Now he understood the twinges of longing he had felt whenever he'd held an infant, and the protectiveness he'd begun to feel towards Amaia's unborn child. He had been a father. Like the parents who had traded him their children in both worlds, he knew what it was to lose a child. Some of them had been happy to do so, seeing the most precious gift life could give as nothing more than a hindrance; but others, he realized now for the first time, had done so as an act of love, knowing they could never give their child the life it deserved. Especially he remembered the shepherd's wife, who had traded him one of her newborn twin boys so that they wouldn't all starve. Even as the Dark One he had felt some compassion for her, and realizing the extent of his actions now…not just as a human, but as a father…nearly brought Rumpelstiltskin to his knees. Gods above, what sort of a monster had he become? What sort of a monster would he be again once the curse finally broke?
No, no, he thought. It did no good for him to think this way. He wasn't a monster in this world, only a man who had done some dreadful things. Perhaps that was all he had ever been in the other world as well. After all, aside from those first few…missteps, it wasn't like he had killed anyone. He had stopped killing when his son had fled from him. Though he had given other people the means to kill since then, no one had actually died by his hand. The other things he had done, bad as they were, could be fixed. He could make amends for them somehow. He would make amends, in this world if there was time, or in the other if there wasn't. He would redeem himself. He would make himself into the kind of man Amaia could be proud of.
He could do that. With Amaia by his side, he could do that. He knew she would never ask such a thing of him. Somehow, inexplicably, in both worlds, she had seen beyond the monster to the man he had once been. Perhaps that wasn't so unusual. How many stories, especially fairy tales, were about good women who had fallen in love with bad men? The truly unusual thing was that she had accepted him just as he was. She loved the man behind the monster, but she loved the monster too. She had been willing to raise her child with him in their true world, and if tonight had been any indication she was willing to do the same thing in this one. A love like theirs was more powerful than any magic. If she could see beyond the monstrous exterior to the man he had really been…if he could love her enough to want, really want to be the man instead of the monster…then that love had to be more powerful than any spell, any curse that could be thrown at them. He had to believe that.
He wondered what he should do now. Obviously there was no point in taking the suitcase to the car right now. He needed to go back into the bedroom and see how Amaia was faring, and if Sn—Miss Blanchard had managed to reach Emma.
He re-entered the bedroom, dragging his leg as he did so. Though Amaia hadn't noticed his new dexterity, the former princess was sure to. The two dark-haired beauties smiled at him as he came in. Amaia's was genuine, but he saw immediately that Snow-Mary Margaret's was not. There was the faintest frown line between her brows. He assumed the frown was at him and his sudden re-emergence in "Amy's" life, and thought no more of it.
"I was just telling Amy that it'll be a little while," she said with forced cheer; he could tell it was false but doubted Amaia noticed. "I did get hold of Emma, though, and she said she'll get an ambulance to us the second the roads are cleared." The frown lines grew more pronounced. "Mr. Gold, can I talk to you in the living room for a moment?"
Was she actually going to come out and ask him what he was doing here with Amaia? If so, she was far braver than her meek little schoolteacher persona had led him to believe. That was more the sort of thing the real Snow White would do. He was curious to hear what she had to say, as well as assure her it was none of her business, but he couldn't help applauding her backbone.
"Certainly," he said in his best smooth "Mr. Gold" tone, "if it's all right with Amy." He gave his girl a questioning look. She smiled and nodded, too relieved at the temporary absence of pain to ask questions.
As soon as they both stood in the living room the ex-princess's smile faded. "Whatever could be the matter, Miss Blanchard?" he queried, waiting for her to ask just what he thought he was doing slithering back into her friend's life.
But that wasn't what had the young woman concerned. "I reached Emma, like I said," she told him in a low voice, "although the connection was bad. She did say she would send an ambulance as soon as one could get through. But she said she didn't know how long it would be. Maybe hours, she told me. We may have to deliver this baby ourselves, Mr. Gold."
He would have preferred the tongue-lashing.
"I see," he said, keeping his tone neutral. Absurdly, the famous line from Gone with the Wind came to him: "'I don't know nothin' 'bout birthin' babies!'" He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting into crazy Rumpelstiltskin-esque laughter.
"It'll be OK," she said, as much for her own sake as his. "I took a first-aid course before I started volunteering at the hospital. I remember what they told us to do when a woman was in labor and couldn't get to a hospital. And Amy has What to Expect When You're Expecting on her bedside table; there's a whole section in there about what to do if you can't get to the hospital in time. We'll be OK. We just need to light some candles and get some stuff together, just in case."
"All right," he agreed, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it didn't he finally had to ask. "Is anything else troubling you, Miss Blanchard?"
Once again he expected the indignant question, and once again it didn't come. "Well, it's kind of silly," she mumbled, dropping her gaze. "But when I was talking to Emma, like I said, the connection was really bad. It finally cut out entirely…but right before the line went dead, I heard the weirdest sound. I swear it sounded like a woman laughing."
Rumpelstiltskin's blood froze in his veins. Regina. There was no other explanation. Maybe she didn't know he had his memory back, but she had enough magic to be able to eavesdrop on a phone call between her two arch-enemies. She knew Amaia was in labor. Dear gods, what could she possibly have up her sleeve? He didn't know, but he did know one thing: it couldn't be good.
He barely managed to keep his smile in place. "I'm sure it was nothing, dear," he lied through his teeth. "Like you said, the connection was bad. Perhaps you somehow overheard another phone call or something." Though he didn't believe the words for a minute, they were enough to reassure the little snow princess. She relaxed visibly, the frown lines disappearing.
"You're right," she said. "Of course, you're right." She straightened. "I'll get some candles gathered together. You go sit with Amy." Right then she sounded more like the real Snow than Mary Margaret Blanchard.
"You do that," he said, glad for the sudden re-emergence of the princess's long-misplaced backbone of steel. He hoped it would stick around long enough for them to get the baby safely delivered before Regina could arrange any sort of mischief, or worse.
"Um, guys?" Amaia called from the bedroom. "Hey, you guys?" she didn't sound as though she was in pain, but her voice was definitely strained.
"Go," Snow mouthed to him. For the first time since the Dark Curse, he followed orders.
Amy stared at him apprehensively as he entered the room. "I'm pretty sure my water just broke," she greeted him.
Oh, great. He hoped Snow would hurry. "That's all right, dear," he assured her. "Snow told me we can deliver the baby ourselves, should it come to that."
She gave him the strangest look, and he wondered why. Surely it wasn't just horror at being told that her baby would be brought into the world by a pawnbroker and a schoolteacher (who were actually a powerful magician and outlaw princess). Then he realized that he had inadvertently blurted out Snow's true name. He would have kicked himself if that wouldn't have confused her more.
"What did you just call…" she began, then stopped abruptly. For a moment he was foolish enough to hope that she might have regained her memory. Then her face tightened and he realized she was having another contraction. This realization was confirmed as she let out an ear-splitting screech.
He was at her side in an instant, trying vainly to soothe her. "It's OK, it's OK," he chanted. "I think it's time to start pushing now, love."
Her knees were drawn up again, and he saw that her body was literally jackknifing with the pain. "No, no," she cried.
Snow came in then with an armful of candles. She must have gathered all the decorative candles that had been in the living room. "What's wrong?" she asked.
Rumpelstiltskin was having his hand pulverized again, so he couldn't speak. Instead he nodded in Amy's general direction.
Snow got the message. "Is it her water?" she asked. He nodded again, teeth clenched. Who would ever have guessed that little Amaia had the strength of an ogre in her delicate little hand?
The candles were dumped unceremoniously as the princess-schoolteacher flung the covers back. Even in the dark she could tell that the bed was now soaked in liquid. Rumple, with his supernaturally powerful night vision, could tell that it had a pink tinge to it.
To her credit Snow Mary didn't bat an eyelash. "OK," she said cheerfully. "Let me get these candles lit and I'll gather everything else we're going to need." She bustled about setting down candles and lighting them, as Amaia writhed and screamed and Rumpelstiltskin wished he could do the same. He managed to refrain only by understanding that as bad as his hand was feeling, Amaia must feel a hundred times worse.
If only this were the other world. He could have teleported for the midwife he had planned to arrange (although he would have had to wipe the woman's memory afterwards), and he could have helped with the worst of the pain with herbs and incantations. Then again, remembering exactly where they had been at this moment in their true world, perhaps it was better that they were here. He had been unable to do anything there, in the mines, with his magic bound. At least here he could be close to her, as close as he desired, not just ineffectually grasping her hand though the iron bars. He thought she might be stronger in this world, although maybe what magic he had still possessed had blunted the true pain of her grip on his hand.
Mary Margaret White placed a basin of cool water at his side, along with a dishrag. "Here," she said, not a trace of the timid schoolteacher about her now. "Use this to wipe her face. It might help a little." With his free hand he dipped the rag in the water, wrung it out as best he could, and commenced to wiping it tenderly over her face.
Dimly he realized he was singing. "If only, if only the woodpecker sighs," he warbled. His Mr. Gold voice wasn't that much more pleasant than his true one, at least in song, but it did seem to relax her just a little. "The bark on the trees was as soft as the skies. As the wolf waits below, hungry and lonely…" He gathered his air to finish the little tune. "He cries to the moo-oo-oon, if only, if only."
Amaia's iron grip loosened a fraction. She gazed up at him, bewildered. "How do you know that song?" she asked, her voice raspy from screaming. "Granny used to sing that to me when I was little. Where did you hear it?"
He told her another half-truth. "I heard you singing it once when you lived with me, while you were cleaning," he said. "I guess it stuck with me." He made no mention of the fact that they had been living in his small cottage at the time, rather than his grand estate. Nor did he mention he'd heard the song before that, as a babe in his own mother's arms, and had later sung it to his own small son.
"Sing it again," she pleaded. Though he couldn't believe that she actually wanted to hear him sing, he gladly complied. The little cradle song seemed to soothe her, and as she relaxed so did her clasp on his hand.
Snow came back into the room then. "I've got water boiling," she announced. "Thank God you've got a gas stove, Amy; even with the power out I was still able to light it. The scissors are ready to go in as soon as it looks like we're going to need them. Now I just need some string. Do you have any shoelaces or something?"
"There's a brand new pack in my top drawer," Amy said, gesturing towards the dresser.
The displaced princess retrieved said package. "Good, we're all set," she said. "Now. When the next contraction comes you're going to have to push."
Amaia moaned.
"I know, I know," Snow said gently. "But you have to, Amy. It's the only way to get the baby out. I don't think it'll take very long. The baby's coming so fast, a few good pushes should do it. Just think, in no time you'll be holding her in your arms and all this will seem like a bad dream."
The thought of finally getting to hold her daughter made Amy smile, but the smile quickly turned to a grimace as another contraction sliced through her. Though it felt like her very core was splitting in two, she did as her former teacher had requested and pushed with all her might.
It really didn't take long, but to the fearless trio it seemed like an eternity. Snow came and went, fetching towels and readying everything for the delivery, but Rumpelstiltskin never left his girl's side. He held on to her hand even as she seemingly liquefied every bone in his own. He wiped her face and crooned nonsense to her even as she screamed and cursed and wept.
A couple of times she cried for her father, and once even for the mother she couldn't remember. Rumple's heart ached as she called out to the parents who were both now lost to her. But mostly she cried his Storybrooke name, and that made him feel better. At least when she called for the man she knew only as Mr. Gold he could stroke her face and whisper, "I'm right here, dear. I'm not going anywhere." The name of her baby's father never passed her lips, and he wondered if she had forgotten the man entirely, if somehow in her pain-fogged mind she believed that he had been the one who made the baby with her. Oh, how he wished that were true!
Finally, after what seemed like hours but was really only forty-five minutes or so, Amaia let out a roar as her body bore down of its own accord. "She's coming!" she cried. Snow ran to the kitchen to get the water and the other supplies. Rumpelstiltskin moved to the end of the bed, watching in fascination as the circle of the baby's head grew larger with each push. Instinctively he placed his hands on the bed between Amaia's thighs, not a moment too soon as it turned out. Suddenly the baby's head was in his hands, quickly followed by the rest of her body.
He held the tiny, blood-slicked newborn in his hands, scarcely believing that a creature so small could have caused such hours of torment. What now? he thought. Was he supposed to hold her upside down and spank her, as he'd seen on TV? He didn't think they did that anymore in real life. Before he could decide what he should do the baby coughed, then let out a spluttering, angry cry.
"She's here!" he announced unnecessarily as Snow came back into the room. Amaia sobbed with relief and held out her arms for the baby.
"Do we need to clean her up first?" he asked Snow, who seemed to realize what she was doing far more than he did at the moment.
"NO!" Amaia bellowed. "Give me my daughter!"
Her voice was so loud it startled them all, and the baby's cries grew more forceful. He turned to Snow questioningly.
She smiled. "You heard the lady," she said. "We can cut the cord and tie it off while she's holding her."
That was all the encouragement he needed. With infinite care, he placed the tiny, slick, howling baby into Amaia's waiting arms.
"She's beautiful," the new mother wept, gazing with adoration at the infant. Though she was still wet with blood, though her head was rather pointy, though she was still attached to the thick cord that had tied her to her mother, though she was screaming at the top of her little lungs, Rumpelstiltskin couldn't have agreed more.
"Your daughter," he whispered into his beloved one's ear. She raised her starry eyes to him and smiled, a beatific, dazzling smile.
"Thank you," she whispered to him. Whether she was thanking him for handing her the baby or seeing it into the world he couldn't say, and at this moment he didn't really care.
"You're most welcome, my love," he told her, kissing her on the forehead.
She turned her gaze back to the baby. "Hello," she whispered. "Hello, little one."
The baby continued to scream and flail her miniature fists. She was so small, Rumpelstiltskin thought as he gazed at the tiny girl. But she was big enough. And she was certainly loud enough. This child was a fighter, no doubt about it. All the spirit of her mother had been passed on to her.
Amaia was so enraptured with her daughter that she didn't even notice when the afterbirth came, which was just what Snow had been counting on. "Let me take her for a minute now," she said, coming to the side of the bed. "I need to clean her up a little. You can have her back as soon as I'm done."
At that moment Rumpelstiltskin forgave the princess. Any grudge he had held, any thoughts of revenge he might have harbored for what she and her husband had done to him in the other world, vanished without a trace. She had helped bring the child of his love safely into the world, and he was forever in her debt. "Thank you, Miss Blanchard," he said simply. He would repay her as soon as he could. He would see to it that she was reunited with her Charming, even if it did bring about the end of the curse. How he would manage this he wasn't sure, but he would find a way.
The princess smiled. "You're welcome, Mr. Gold," she replied. She thought fleetingly that no so-called true father could look as exhausted and overjoyed as the pawnbroker did right now. For some reason it put her in mind of someone else, though she couldn't say who. When she took the baby from Amy, the newborn's feather-lightness also seemed to jog something deep within her. It seemed to Mary Margaret that she had once held a baby just as small, just as brand new. Of course that was ridiculous—the closest she'd ever been to a woman giving birth was during her time at the hospital, and that was usually well after the fact—but she couldn't shake the strange sense of déjà vu she experienced as she held the little one.
She took the baby over to the bureau, where she had the pot of water and several towels waiting. She lay the squalling infant on one and commenced to clean her gently and carefully, as though she were washing a piece of fine china. The baby really was beautiful, she realized as she tenderly wiped her clean. Of course all babies were beautiful, but this one seemed especially pretty. As she quieted a bit Mary Margaret could see the tiny, even features…the small upturned nose, the suggestion of arched brows that right now looked like lines drawn in sand, the rosebud mouth. When she had passed the washcloth over the baby's head a few times she saw that the child had inherited her mother's dark hair.
"She's a little angel, Amy," she said over her shoulder cheerily. "I think she looks just like you." She swaddled the baby in a blanket then and prepared to take her back to her mother. "You should probably try to nurse her if you can, while she's still awake."
Amy didn't respond. When Mary Margaret reached the bed, she saw that the young girl's eyes were squeezed shut and her head pressed into the pillow. Mary Margaret felt the slightest trace of apprehension. "Amy, are you OK?"
The girl opened her eyes then, but they looked slightly unfocused. When she spoke, her words were slow, halting. "The room is spinning," she announced. Was she slurring just the tiniest bit?
"I'm sure it is," Mr. Gold said soothingly, but Mary Margaret could see that the pawnbroker felt the same slight trepidation as she. "You must be exhausted, love. But you heard what Miss Blanchard said, you need to try to nurse. Here, I'll prop you up a little and we'll see if we can get her to eat. Then you can rest. You've certainly earned it." They had all earned it, he thought.
Once Mr. Gold had propped Amy up with a few pillows Mary Margaret laid the baby in her arms. Slowly, as if her arms were two lead weights, Amy lifted the child to her breast.
"Well," Mary Margaret chirped, suddenly feeling as though she was intruding by witnessing such an intimate scene, "I'm going to go make some tea. Would you care for a cup, Mr. Gold?"
The pawnbroker nodded absently, never taking his eyes away from Amy and the baby. "Yes, dear, thank you," he said. Mary Margaret headed for the kitchen, glad to have found a suitable excuse to leave. This was something private, she thought, something between Amy and her daughter…and Mr. Gold. Even if the baby wasn't his flesh and blood, it was clear from the word go that he was staking his claim. Mary Margaret didn't think that was such a bad thing. He and Amy had apparently patched things up, and she had seen a side of him that she had never even imagined while the girl was in labor—a tender, caring side. He'd never left her side, not even for a minute, and had held her hand throughout even when it was clear she was crushing his. Maybe Emma was right. Maybe there were hidden depths to Mr. Gold that no one suspected.
She had just put the kettle on when she heard Mr. Gold's shout.
"Miss Blanchard!"
His voice was strained. Mary Margaret ran back to the bedroom. Mr. Gold stood by the bed, the baby in his arms, and he definitely looked concerned now. "She nearly dropped her," he said. "She was doing fine, and all of a sudden her arms just went limp. If I hadn't been here she would have dropped her."
Mary Margaret made it to the bedside in two steps. "Amy," she said loudly. Her blood ran cold as she got a good look at the girl. Amy had fallen back on the pillows, and her eyes were closed. "Amy!" she repeated, an unaccustomed sharpness in her tone. The baby started to cry again.
Amy opened her eyes, but they were definitely unfocused now. "Wha?" she slurred.
"What's happening?" Mr. Gold asked, sounding frightened.
Mary Margaret glanced towards Amy's legs and froze. There was a pool of blood between them, and it was spreading. It looked as though she was still bleeding. But shouldn't it have stopped by now?
"Oh God," she said. "I think she's hemorrhaging."
Even in the candlelight she saw how Mr. Gold's face went pale at the words. "Oh, no," he whispered. "That's what happened to her mother…"
Mary Margaret felt sick as she understood what he was saying. "I'm going to call Emma again," she declared. "I'm going to tell her we need an ambulance, now." she fled to the living room where she'd left her phone.
Rumpelstiltskin stared down at his girl. It had been too good to be true, he thought desolately. He had thought when the baby was born safely that Regina hadn't had any time to work up any of her mischief. He should have known better. Even Regina wouldn't harm an innocent child—not a child she wanted for herself, at any rate. The child's mother, on the other hand…
And just as with her other victims, no one would be able to pin this on her. It was common knowledge that Amy's mother had hemorrhaged to death during childbirth. Being what she was, Regina probably even knew that Amy had been seconds away from perishing from the same thing when the curse took effect. No one would think it unusual if Amy met the same fate as her mother—tragic, of course, but not unusual. Amy's death would serve more than one purpose for Regina. Not only would it take his true love from him, but it would clear the way for her to take the baby for herself, as he saw now she must have been planning all along. "Oh you bitch," he breathed. "Not you, darling," he hastened to assure his love, though she didn't respond. It appeared she hadn't even heard him. She was sinking fast.
Dear gods, he couldn't let her get away with this. He wouldn't let her get away with this. But how was he going to stop her? What could he do, in this world without magic?
"The ambulance is on its way," Mary Margaret yelled from the living room. "Emma put me through to the dispatcher. She says we need to try to massage her uterus and make it contract. That might stop the bleeding."
"Massage her…" he called back. Was the princess telling him he would have to reach up inside her?
"On her belly," Mary Margaret called. He felt a surge of relief. That he could do, although he would have done the other if he'd had to. But he didn't want to risk injuring her further. Surely he couldn't do much damage just massaging her stomach, however.
Carefully he laid the child in its cradle. Then he turned his attention to Amaia. He put his hands on her lower belly and rubbed as firmly as he dared, praying he was massaging the right place. As he did so he wasn't aware that he was saying "Please no, please no, please no…" over and over. Nor was he aware that tears streaked his face.
His eyes were so blurred with tears, in fact, that for a moment he failed to notice the strange thing that was happening. As he rubbed, his hands, which had been like ice, began to grow warm. Glancing down, he was amazed to see that they were actually glowing. Not only that, but they were his hands—not Mr. Gold's perfectly manicured hands, but the claw-like appendages of his true self.
He barely had time to register this before he realized that the blood, which had been flowing steadily, had slowed to a trickle. It was working. By the gods, it was working. He didn't break his pace, but inwardly he exalted. He had been right earlier, he thought. There was magic in this world after all. Not as much as there had been in their true world, but maybe just enough.
Even after the bleeding had completely stopped he continued to massage. He wasn't going to take any chances. He was growing weary, however, and not from the constant rubbing. Magic had always taken something out of him, and in this world the effect seemed to be multiplied. And this was the most powerful kind of magic, life-or-death magic. He had used it on her once before, he recalled. Not in the dwarf mines, of course, where he was almost completely powerless, but early on. He had managed to pull her and the unborn child through, but it had left him literally wrung out. It had taken him days to get back on his feet again, rather than the usual few hours. He smirked as he remembered that, then as now, it had been Regina's doing which had necessitated the efforts.
He had foiled her then, and he would foil her again. If he didn't pass out, that is. Sweat poured from him as he continued his ministrations, but he kept on valiantly. He didn't even notice when Mary Margaret reentered, or when she picked up the baby, who was fit to be tied by now, and attempted to soothe her. The unknowing princess thought about offering to help, but the look on Mr. Gold's face made her think twice. He was entirely the Mr. Gold she was familiar with now, his face grim and set with determination. If she so much as spoke a word, she was quite certain he would snarl at her. Mary Margaret decided it was best to tend to the baby and let him see to Amy. He was obviously doing as the dispatcher had said, and she didn't want to get in his way. She only prayed it was working.
It was working. The hemorrhaging had stopped entirely some time ago. But the damage had been done. Amaia was deeply unconscious, and he feared she might be comatose. Only the shallow rise and fall of her chest told him that she was, in fact, still alive. He nearly groaned aloud when he glanced up at her face. It was as pale and waxen as the face of a corpse, and as still. Her eyelids didn't even flicker.
So engrossed was he in his task that he never heard the sirens in the distance. He didn't as much as glance up at Mary Margaret's cry of "Oh, thank God!" or her dash to the front door. He didn't even realize it when the paramedics swarmed into the room. When they peeled him away from his girl, however, that he noticed. He did snarl then, and looked so fearsome that the paramedic who held him actually dropped his arm and took a step back.
"It's all right, Mr. Gold," the man said nervously. Rumpelstiltskin recognized him instantly as Snow's dwarf friend Bashful, though in this world his name was Arnold Timmons. "We're going to take her to the hospital now."
Rumpelstiltskin's mind cleared a bit at the word. Hospital. Though he was so drained he couldn't remember exactly what the word entailed, he knew instinctively it was a good word. It was where there were people who could do what even his power could not. It was where she needed to be. Though he didn't respond, he stood by silently as the other paramedics loaded Amy onto a stretcher and placed an oxygen mask over her face.
He turned at the sound of a familiar voice. "The baby looks fine," the voice was saying. "We'll need to put her in an incubator as soon as we get to the hospital just to be sure, of course. But everything looks good. I was worried her lungs might not be fully developed yet"—and here a smile came into the tones—"but that doesn't seem to be a problem." As if to confirm the statement the baby let out a wail.
It was the man formerly known as the dwarf named Doc, now known as Dr. Dockery. His eyes met Rumpelstiltskin's as he smiled reassuringly. "The baby is fine," he repeated for Rumple's benefit.
Good, he thought. That was good. But…"Amy?" he asked. "What about Amy?"
Doc's smile faded. "We're doing everything we can," he said gently. "You managed to stop the hemorrhaging, but she's lost a lot of blood. She's going to need a transfusion as soon as possible. If we can get her to the hospital in time…" He faltered a bit, then continued. "If we can get a transfusion going ASAP, it'll be her best chance."
"I'll donate," Mary Margaret volunteered quickly. "My blood type is B positive. Will that work?"
Doc shook his head. "Amy's blood type is A negative," he said. "We have A negative at the hospital, but we'll have to get there quickly. If you were type O we could do it. O is the universal donor. But…" he trailed off.
The paramedics were transporting Amy from the room. "Wait!" Mary Margaret cried suddenly. "Mr. Gold is type O."
Rumpelstiltskin turned to stare at her. This was something his Mr. Gold self had never been aware of. "I am?"
Mary Margaret blushed. "When I was seeing Dr. Whale…" she stammered. "He used to let things slip about people's medical records. I know that's a HIPAA violation, but he must have figured I wouldn't say anything. Anyway, I remember him mentioning once that you were type O. 'I can't imagine Gold ever donating blood, though,' he said. 'And no one would want his blood anyway. He'd probably charge them for it.'" Her face was scarlet as she finished.
Rumpelstiltskin didn't give a damn. If Dr. Whale's loose lips ended up saving his girl's life, he decided, he would buy the man a steak. He turned to Doc. "Do you have the equipment you need?" he asked. He was already rolling up his sleeve.
"In the ambulance," Doc said. "But Mr. Gold…we need to make sure before we…"
"Then make sure," he snapped. "I'll be in the ambulance when you're ready."
As he followed the paramedics out of the condo, he heard Doc on the phone. The dwarf had never been a fool, he thought.
Once they were in the ambulance, he turned to Arnold 'Bashful' Timmons. "Do what you need to do to get us ready," he said. "There's no time to waste." Bashful hopped to. He was apparently smarter than the average dwarf too, Rumpelstiltskin decided. Briefly he wondered what had become of Dopey. That poor little creature had indeed been the dopiest living thing he had ever come across. But the thought left his mind as Bashful swabbed his arm with an alcohol wipe, preparing it for the needle.
"This isn't considered optimum conditions for a blood transfusion," the dwarf-turned-paramedic confessed, "but like you said, there's no time to waste." Without further ado, he inserted the needle into Rumpelstiltskin's vein.
He didn't even feel it. As the Dark One, he had had an extremely high pain threshold; but even as a mortal he wouldn't have registered the pain. His focus was entirely on Amaia. His girl was being similarly prepared by another paramedic (his nametag read Isaac Jolly, and Rumple suspected he had discovered the identity of the dwarf who had once been Happy). As the needle entered her skin he thought, hoped, he saw her flinch the tiniest bit. That was a good sign, he thought.
Doc came puffing into the ambulance. The small space was quickly becoming crowded. "It's true," he gasped, winded from his impromptu hundred-yard dash. "He's a universal donor." He surveyed the scene in front of him. "Good, you've already prepped them both. Let's do it then."
Rumple realized he didn't have the baby with him. "Where's the child?" he demanded.
"Sheriff Swan is transporting the baby to the hospital," Doc replied. "Since she seems to be doing well, there's no need to bring her in the ambulance…although we will have her checked out thoroughly as soon as we get her to the hospital." He met Mr. Gold's gaze squarely. "But for right now we need to focus on her mother."
Rumple nodded. "Do what you need to do," he said.
As the ambulance sped through town towards the hospital, he took no notice of the needle dangling from his arm or the bag attached to it. His eyes were only for Amaia. He recalled something he had said to her once, in the other world. Though he'd never been able to come out and say "I love you" in so many words, he had found other ways to express it to her. This had been one of the ways.
He leaned forward and brushed her forehead with his lips, careful not to disturb any of the equipment surrounding them. The dwarf medical personnel were busy monitoring said equipment, he saw, and was glad of it. What he had to say now was for Amaia's ears alone.
"I'd give you all the gold in the world," he murmured to his girl. "I'd give you all the jewels on the earth. I'd give you my life's blood."
He thanked the gods that in this world that was possible. He only hoped it would be enough.
I'm so sorry it's been such a long time between updates! It's been a hella crazy last few weeks for me. The new job has been a lot more involved than I expected and has taken up most of my time. The little bit of time I wasn't at work or studying I was with family and friends. I think, though, that I'm getting the hang of it now. Hopefully that will leave me more time for my leisure pursuits, one of which is this story.
How much did you all love the season finale? Oh, when he laid eyes on Belle! Oh, when he embraced her! Oh, when she remembered him! I may have bawled a little. Oh, and Emma realizing the truth and opening a can of whoop-ass on Regina was great too. I am so counting down the minutes until Season 2!
But I'll reiterate that we're in the AU now. Though Rumple's been reunited with his love, and though the curse will break within the next few chapters, it's going to be a whole different ballgame. I do think August will turn out to be Pinocchio in my own little alterna-verse, though. But whether he and Emma end up together remains to be seen.
I still don't own anything except my OCs. That makes me sad.
And I still love everyone who's been reading, reviewing, alerting and favoriting—even now, when it's been four-plus weeks since my last update. Let me also plug yet another story: "The Tune of Bullets" by Bad Faery. It's even more AU than mine, and completely awesome. I love Belle when people write her right.
I'm not even going to promise the next chapter will be up soon, because that's practically a guarantee that events will conspire against me. I'll say only that it will be up at some point.
Happy June, everyone!