Chapter 5

Jolly Roger 2:07 pm

Gold is doing something he's never done, not as an abandoned child, not as the village coward, not as the pawnbroker and certainly not as the Dark One: he's praying. There are a whole lot of people he ought to be praying for, but he's evil, so he's selfish: he's praying for Belle.

He doesn't know to whom he's praying, but he's always suspected—or at least hoped—despite lack of evidence, that there's some sort of wisdom who's got Destiny under control. Magic must have come from somewhere, yes? It's far too complex and intricate to have just sprung up out of the random collision of energies. Magic has laws; he's seen what's happened when those laws are violated: Prince Thomas' disappearance, for example. If there are laws, there must be a lawmaker and a law enforcer.

Of course, if he's right in this theory, he's in a hell of a lot of trouble.

Storybrooke 2:07 pm

"This is what the mighty Dark One takes to bed these days?" Cora leans over the sleeping Belle and continues, despite Regina's attempts to shush her. "This common field mouse? Barely old enough for her first brassiere, I'd wager." Cora clicks her tongue. "In the old days, when he was Rumplestiltskin, he required a woman." She flicks a finger, locking the door, then folds her arms as she evaluates Belle. "Barely qualifies as pretty. A man of his wealth and stature should be paired with a woman of experience and sophistication." Then her face brightens as a new idea occurs to her. "Ah, I see: it was your doing, Regina. You emasculated him when you turned him into Gold, didn't you? Quite clever, my girl."

Regina ignores the compliment. "Let's get to work. The dagger, Mother?"

Jolly Roger 2:08 pm

Gold is in the Dark Castle again. It's truly dark, and cold, devoid of sunlight and gardens; those would come a century later, with Belle. He's slumped in a wooden chair at a dining table that's meant to seat 20, in a great hall that's meant to serve a king's court, and that makes him feel small.

There is nothing in the universe like him. He isn't human but neither is he animal; he is one of a kind, and therefore he has no yardstick to measure himself by, no confidant to consult with, no potential mate. All he has to go on is what was written by or about his predecessors, and although his library contains sixty-seven books about the Dark One, not to mention a few hundred that include a paragraph or a chapter, not one book mentions anything about a Dark One having a wife, a child or a friend. Or for that matter, desiring one.

So apparently Rumplestiltskin wouldn't even fit in among his predecessors. He truly is one of a kind, for, from time to time, the yearning comes upon him and he craves company: chess pals, drinking buddies, anybody.

A lover.

And so from time to time he takes interest in a life, nurturing it from afar with small, anonymous gifts of magic for which he pays the price, or small, ordinary gifts: a cloak, a book, a flute, a bottle of wine. And when that isn't enough to satisfy him—when the longing for conversation and touch damn near drive him crazy—he takes in an apprentice, experienced mages who only wish to expand their skills. . . and who understand the loneliness of being different, though to a much lesser degree, for they are human, not alien like him. They stay in his castle for a week, perhaps a month, and when they leave he tells himself he's glad to be rid of them, such an inconvenience it is to share his home and his time. Occasionally men without magic shout at the castle gate until he comes out, and they bargain, beg or threaten for magic; he always drives them away with a fearsome display of power, to discourage them from returning.

But once, it was different, completely different.

There had been a severe thunderstorm the night before, washing out roads and bridges, uprooting trees, so Nature herself when she visited at the castle windows appeared bedraggled and worn from lack of sleep. When Rumplestiltskin strolled his grounds to survey the damage, his ears, always sensitive to the siren call of a deal in the offing, were assaulted by the cry of a wet cat. The lord of the manor strode to his gate and tore it open—with magic of course: the Dark One must not be seen performing manual labor—to discover not a cat at all, but an infant, a red-faced, kicking thing that stank of milk, stale spit-up and. . . the stuff often found in the britches of an infant.

This infant was not alone. It was cradled in the thin arms of a storm-bedraggled young woman.

He confronted her with a growl. "The Dark One gives no alms to the poor! Begone now, find a church door for your begging."

The woman's chin thrust up. "I am no beggar, sir! I am a woman of magic. I have been informed that you are in need of an apprentice and I have come to offer my services."

Before he could slam the gate in her face, she plowed on, laying out a deal. Did she know of the compulsion that forced the Dark One to consider all serious proposals of deals? "In return for lessons of a minimum of three hours per day, along with room and board, I will serve as your lab assistant, your cook, your housekeeper and your messenger. This arrangement will begin with a one-month trial, and if we both are satisfied, it will continue indefinitely until one or both of us find it no longer beneficial."

"I am not in the market for an apprentice, madam. You may go." He turned on his heel, but she grasped his coattail.

"Was I misinformed then? You have a pupil already?"

"No. I'm simply not interested." He removed her fingers from his clothing. "Nor is my castle a nursery for mewling fatherless infants."

"She is far from fatherless, sir." The woman pushed her body within breathing distance of his, glared up into his face. "I'll have you know this is the daughter of King Leopold the Third of the Frontlands."

Rumplestiltskin sniggered as he made the infant a mock bow. "Oh pardon me, Princess. I didn't recognize you in your royal robes." Then he twisted his head to peer at the woman sideways, for he knew that King Leopold had wed, no more than a month ago, the daughter of the King of the West Mountains. He smirked. "Then that would make you Queen Eva, wouldn't it?"

Had the woman lied to him or reddened in embarrassment, he would have sent her away without another word, but instead she flashed her teeth at him. "If you think that, you're a fool and unworthy of teaching me. Never mind my present title: the only title I wish for the moment is 'Apprentice to Rumplestiltskin.' You heard my terms. Do you wish to make a counteroffer?"

He wrinkled his nose; the infant had just added to the contents of her nappy. "I wish for you to be gone, and to take that odiferous object with you." He shut the gate and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" she shouted. "I'll sweeten my offer."

He muttered, his hands working as if he were spinning thread. "Clearly you have nothing more to offer, madam—or is it 'miss'?"

"My body!"

He stopped in his tracks.

"Rumplestiltskin, did you hear me? I said, I will offer my body along with my housekeeping services."

His feet inched sideways, but he resisted the urge to walk back to the gate.

"It must be very lonely, being the Dark One!"

Now he was angry. He wheeled around and yanked the gate open, profanity flowing from his lips like water from a fountain.

She ignored his cursing. "It's said no woman has ever come to this castle. It's said the Dark One has never walked with a woman on his arm, nor frequented a brothel. My services in your kitchen, your laboratory and your bed in exchange for lessons. One week's trial."

"Though I'm sure your experience has given you skills in all three parts of a house, I remain uninterested, miss."

Shifting the infant to one arm, she seized him to drive her point home—seized him not by the head or the hair, but by a part of his anatomy that only Milah had touched. "Remove your hand, woman." But it came out sounding like a question instead of the demand of a sorcerer.

"I won't leave. You may as well let me in, because I'll remain here, driving away any new business that may come your way and sullying your reputation."

He chuckled. "My reputation can get no darker, dearie. And you'd be doing me a favor if you drive my gate-mongers away." He looked down at his trousers. "Your hand, miss? Remove it, please, before I cut it off."

In reply she squeezed. Damn it, it did feel pretty good. But he needed no half-starved infant and borderline harlot under foot. She dropped her hand and he slammed the gate.

"I'm not leaving," she shouted after him. "We're not leaving."

Two days later, he let her in.

Jolly Roger 2:10 pm

Bae joins his family in Hook's cabin. He has to give his father's foot—the good one; he remembers the ankle injury—a shake to awaken him. "In about another ten minutes we'll drop anchor, five miles out of Storybrooke like you said. We need a plan."

Emma looks to Henry and opens her mouth, preparing to send him out so the grown-ups can talk freely, but something in the boy's eyes chills her blood: there's a knowing based on long experience that certainly doesn't belong in an eleven-year-old's eyes.

"A car will be waiting for you; we need only text the coordinates. The driver works for me." Gold turns his head toward Emma. "Anything from Snow?"

But she shakes her head: there's been no text since Emma transmitted Gold's warning about the hospital. "It's only been ten minutes." In a hasty briefing she fills Bae in on the current situation.

"We don't have time to wait," Bae points out. "Call your mother."

Emma taps out a text to Snow. When no answer comes, she dashes the same message out to David. Her phone beeps promptly and she reads the reply aloud. "'In hsp pkg lot. Will go 2 3rd fl by fire excape.'"

One afternoon when there's nothing else to do, Emma will fix her father a cup of cocoa and teach him how not to abbreviate. She texts back: "Where's mom?"

"'Glds shp looking 4 something 2 use against C. Will catch up ASAP. Ideas?'"

Three heads turn to Gold, but he scowls with closed eyes. "Not for Snow."

"What do you mean, 'not for Snow'?" Bae presses.

"There is a weapon that could kill Cora, but Snow must not use it."

"David, then?" Emma suggests.

Gold shakes his head.

"Who then? Leroy? Ruby? Who?"

"Only someone as evil as Cora, or someone beyond the influence of dark magic."

Emma releases an exasperated breath. "Damn it, Gold, stop being so cryptic. What is this weapon?"

He winces. He lets them believe it's a stab of pain that he's reacting to, but it's actually emotional pain. "Something I took from Cora a long time ago."

Emma leaps to her feet and pokes Gold's chest in full knowledge that she's hurting him. "Tell me or I'm gonna grab that bad ankle of yours and twist it."

He forces his eyes open. "It's pointless. I won't permit her or anyone else to use it. There are only three people living today who could use this weapon without destroying themselves."

Emma seizes his ankle. "I'm not kidding, Gold. Tell me. You do realize, don't you, Belle's their next victim."

Bae's mouth drops open as a noticeable tear slides across his father's nose. "I know," Gold rasps.

She forgets her threat and gets up into his face. "Why won't you tell me?"

"Because Belle would never forgive me." He shakes his head again, his lips turning white. "Not even to save herself, not even to save me."

Bae runs his hands through his hair in frustration and Emma howls. "We're all dead then. You realize that, don't you? 'Cause they're not stopping with Belle."

Bae intervenes. "Who are the three, Papa?"

Gold's mind is slipping gears. He fights to stay focused. "What?"

"The three." Bae sits down on the edge of the bed. "You said there are three who can use this weapon safely."

Gold reaches toward the cup in Henry's hands, but his own hands are unsteady and Henry has to guide the cup for him. He takes a long drink, then dry-heaves over the edge of the bed; there's nothing left in his stomach.

"Who are the three, Papa?"

Gold makes fists to stop his hands from shaking. "Me. Regina."

"The third?" Emma demands. "Who's the third?"

No power on earth will force Gold to reveal the answer.

But someone else does it for him. "Me."

Emma and Bae gape in amazement at their son.