Chapter 9
Jolly Roger 2:22 pm
Another door beckons and he enters, and he finds a child sitting on the dirt floor of a hut. Not by sight—for no one in this village has a mirror—but rather by a connection in feelings, he recognizes this child as himself, age three or four.
The child Rumplestiltskin is staring at a pair of boots. He is too afraid to raise his eyes past the laces of those mud-crusted boots, which pause inches from where he's sitting and drawing in the dirt with a sharp stick. He does a lot of drawing, mostly of the living things he sees around him: chickens, birds, sheep, neighbor children, his father's sister Maerwynn. People praise him for his drawings.
He never draws his father.
The voice above the boots is angry. Not at him. The wearer of the boots scarcely notices him, ever; even as a baby, he seemed to know he was supposed to be quiet, and so he seldom cried, never whimpered, even when hurt or hungry, and when other children ran and banged on pots and sang songs and shouted and laughed, he compensated for them by making himself even quieter. That's why he started drawing, to have something to do that made no noise. And to have some something he could control.
The voice above the boots curses and shouts at Aunt Maerwynn, and then the boots wheel about and stomp away and pass through the heavy curtain that shuts the hut off from the rest of the world. Maerwynn starts crying and she picks Rumple up, carries him to a chair beside the fire and sits down. She rocks him on her lap and murmurs, "Poor baby, poor little orphan child" over and over. She seems surprised that he doesn't cry.
Days pass and the amount of food that Maerwynn lays on the table each morning for breakfast dwindles; it's a little less each day. And then one morning with the south wind Aunt Krea arrives and soon there is food again, for Krea is a skilled bargainer and when she takes to market the cloth that Maerwynn weaves, she brings none of it back, only a purse filled with coppers. In the evenings Krea tells stories of her adventures out in the world and Maerwynn sings him songs when she tucks him in. There is enough to eat and clean clothes to wear and they are happy.
But it doesn't last. Happiness never can; he was born understanding that. The outside world intervenes: the neighbor children push him and hit him because he's small and quiet; they taunt him because he's an orphan. He figures it's own fault he's small and he tries everything he can think of to make himself grow, but he can't grasp why it's wrong to be an orphan. Besides, he's not: his father is alive; he's just gone and not coming back.
One day an itinerant tinker arrives. He's just come from Aunt Krea's old village and he has lots of stories to tell—mean stories, in Rumple's opinion; stories that sting and wound. One of them is a story about Krea. Years later, when he's come to understand the meaning of the words the man used—when he learns that sometimes men to do women the same thing that the tup does to the ewes—Rumple is incensed, but it's far too late: the tinker's tale about Krea has altered the village's opinion of her forever. Because they call her names now too, she stops going to market. She trades places with Maerwynn, becoming the weaver while Maerwynn sells the cloth, but neither is very good at her new role. The meals shrink again, until Rumple is old enough to go to market himself. He learns to use his small size to his advantage: he appears two or three years younger than he really is, and so buyers don't expect him to be as shrewd as he is. He learns easily, learns how to figure sums in his head and how to read when so few other children can—or even care to. Because he's so thin, sometimes the buyers add an apple or cheese or bread to the coppers they pay him for the cloth. So that they can eat well, he picks up the skills of both of his aunts: he is the clever dealer Krea and the reclusive artist Maerwynn.
And the village never lets him forget he is also his father, the army deserter Jarin.
"Mr. Gold?" The lad the Lost Boys call Slightly bends over him, giving his shoulder a shake. "You still in the land of the living?"
Gold chuckles. "Unless I'm a zombie and just don't realize it yet."
"They left. Your friend Dove squeezed 'em all into an SUV and they hit the road a couple of minutes ago. It's just you and me and our cell phones now."
Gold's eyes fly open and he struggles to sit up. "Henry. Where is he?"
"Dunno. He's not on board. I figured he went with the rest of them."
"Help me up top. We have to find him."
Highway 2:22 pm
All right, so she's the savior. She's accepted that, sort of, though had there been a choice in the matter, she would have rejected this role for the one she'd always inhabited: the fringe operator, the one who dives in occasionally to interact with people, but dashes out again as soon as the situation gets heavy.
As the savior, she's broken a curse and slain a dragon and defeated a pirate in a sword fight. She's proven her bravery and her strength. But she's never done anything quite like this before: she's riding (albeit in a chauffer-driven Yukon) into war to test not only her mettle but her magic against two very experienced, powerful and ruthless sorceresses. If she fails, her mother, her father, her son, and her beloved will suffer (yes, beloved, she admits; for she is about to face death, so she may as well face the truth: she loves Neal, though she will never reveal that to anyone. . . and she'll do her damnest to convince Neal's father that what he saw on her face was not the look of a woman who "wants a second chance with that man").
The stakes are higher than they've ever been, and it's all Gold's fault. She can name a dozen ways that it's his fault, and no doubt there are a dozen more that she will never know about, because that sneaky bastard confides in no one except—and then she feels a twinge of sympathy. The one person he might have shared his secrets with, the one person who might have had a chance of bringing him into the social fold (for he too is a fringe operator; recognizing that trait she shares with him has led her to give a bit more leeway than she would have—should have—otherwise) remembers nothing he's ever told her, nothing he's ever done for her, nothing they've ever felt for each other. Crap. What a life to be living. And now a son who doesn't want anything to do with him, a leather-wrapped pirate who's poisoned him, and two witches anxious to make a slave of him or kill him—either outcome will make Regina and Cora just as happy. The only human being who'll miss him when he's gone is an eleven-year-old. Crap on a cracker.
Emma had better watch out, lest she start caring what happens to the old creep.
To distract herself, she tries to strike up a conversation with the chauffer—but a useful conversation, one that could glean needful information. "So, uhm, Mr. Dove, is it?"
"Yes, ma'am." The chauffer doesn't even glance at her in the rear view mirror. Gold's got him well trained.
"What's happening in town? Have Cora and Regina done any damage yet?"
"They made a mess of the pawnshop. Ms. French is missing." He finally glances at her through the mirror. "Her condition is unknown."
"We have to presume she's alive. We can't make a direct attack without risking her life," Emma ponders.
"We have one advantage," Bae suggests. "There are ten of us and only two of them."
Emma's tempted to add: But only one of us has magic. A glance at the five Lost Boys, whose eyes glitter with eagerness for the battle to come, dissuades her from throwing cold sea water on their hopes.
"There's an entire town of us," Dove corrects. "Even the nuns and Dr. Hopper have taken up arms and stand beside Queen Snow."
That should make her feel better, and it sort of does, but it also adds to Emma's burden: how can she protect all these people? Cora and Regina can demolish an entire mob with a flick of their magic wrists. With a deep sigh, she mutters to herself, "What the hell, Gold?"
The Yukon hits a bump and Neal practically ends up in Emma's lap—well, with eight grown people crammed into this SUV, it's a bit crowded. As he rights himself, he gives her an apologetic smile. The tingle under her ribcage informs her that they've still got the chemistry, a dozen years later.
She's ashamed of herself for thinking about that when her town's about to be decimated.
Dove glances in the mirror again and asks softly, "You are his son?"
Ah, Emma thinks, so maybe Gold does have a confidant. Though she's sure those confidences are few and lacking in detail.
Neal hesitates. Would he, even now, disclaim his father? What has Gold—Rumplestiltskin, Emma corrects herself, for Neal has only just met Gold, and from the stories Henry and Mary Margaret have told her, there's a pretty wide stretch between the imp and the pawnbroker—what has Rumplestiltskin done that is so awful his own son would reject him? But Neal's jaw loosens and Emma knows—she knows him too well, even after twelve years apart—his heart is softening, just a little. "I am," he says.
Dove is a man who keeps his thoughts to himself; Emma could've guessed that even before she met him, just by hearing who his employer is. But there's a warmth and an amazement in his eyes as he connects again with Neal through the mirror. "It's an honor, Master Baelfire."
Neal peers past Emma and out the window at the empty highway. He needs to talk to her privately, before he's ready to confront his father. Well, if not her, then his fiancée. . . . assuming that Tamara woman is the trustworthy type. He'll come around, eventually, to talk to Gold, after he's categorized and labeled the conflicting emotions roiling in him. Accusations, accompanied by yelling and stomping off and stomping back and yelling some more, will come next, and when he's released all those wilder emotions, he'll quiet down, and then they can really talk. It will take days, but he will come around. Emma knows him. Having the incarnate bond of blood that is Henry between Neal and Gold will give Neal the excuse he needs to put aside his pride.
Dove adds, "He's been looking for you for three hundred years."
Neal scrunches in his seat but doesn't reply.
"That scarf he's wearing," Dove continues. "It's not a scarf. It was your baby blanket."
Neal shakes his head a little. "Gods."
Of all the questions Emma has as a result of this trip to New York, there's one she's absolutely certain has been answered: Neal will forgive.
Emma has to admit, she hopes Gold lives to see it.
Storybrooke 2:25 pm
Cora is still watching out the window, standing behind the curtain. She needn't bother trying to hide, though; Regina is certain that Snow and David know exactly who's in Sidney's apartment. "My, my," Cora says. "Quite a lot of them now, isn't there?"
"I can see that, Mother."
"An what an assortment of weapons!" Cora actually sounds delighted. "I see a few from the old country: there's a crossbow, some swords, a mace. Quite a few objects I don't recognize, but I presume they're weapons as well. But not one of them is a weapon that can stand up against us. What a shame. And how utterly dull. The one person who could possibly provide a little excitement is who-knows-how-many miles away."
"Are you referring to Rumplestiltskin or Emma?"
"Emma, of course. Have you tasted her magic yet, darling? It's unique. It has a sort of fairy quality to it—you know, that pinky quality? All warm and fuzzy and"—she shudders—"nice. Yet it has a forcefulness like ours. It would be interesting to study that magic, test its limits, discover its strengths."
"Mother. . ." Regina says in a warning tone, for she can tell where her mother's thoughts are heading. "Don't go there."
But Cora ignores her, as Cora always has. It chaps Regina's hide: this is Regina's world; it's only common sense to listen to Regina's advice. "When I have his magic," she says thoughtfully, "I believe I'll take hers as well. Should be interesting."
"You'll never get it away from her."
Cora laughs harshly. "Oh, there's always a way. Especially with one so inexperienced. . . and so emotionally entangled. What were the Fates thinking, giving such power to a girl riddled with weaknesses? The worst of which happens to be the easiest to exploit. So many people she loves! How strong will her resistance to us be, I wonder, when Snow and Charming lie bloody and dying at our feet?"
A delighted shudder passes through Regina's body. It gives Regina that pinky feeling just to imagine that sight.
But the shudder turns abruptly cold. She's had two years to learn what Emma Swan is made of, and she's nowhere near Cora's level of confidence that watching her parents die will make Emma crumble into easy vulnerability. Besides, the plan—damn it, the plan! Despite her earlier protestations, clearly, Cora doesn't give a damn about the plan. She only cares about piling on the power. A bloody, mass slaughter like the one Cora's imagining will not only kill any chance Regina has of winning Henry's love—it will kill Henry. Drive him into insanity.
"Mother! This can't happen. We can't just slaughter them out in the open. It will destroy Henry!"
"You're forgetting, sweetheart: magic can do anything, if you just have enough power. The Curse of the Empty-Hearted will bring him back to you, and then we'll both have everything we've ever wanted."
"You're not cursing my son." Regina gapes at her mother, who's idly looking out the window. Cora knows what this will do to Henry. And it's not just a matter of not caring about the boy—about her grandson!—it's a matter of not caring about Regina's happiness.
Cora laughs again. "You're too literal, Regina. 'Curse' is just a name. The spell won't harm him. In fact, it really should be called the Blessing of the Empty-Hearted, because it will bring you both the love you seek."
"Not love, Mother. A lie."
No, Regina realizes: she's underestimating her mother. It's not a matter of not caring. It's a matter of wanting to break Regina.
Jolly Roger 2:25 pm
"Find Henry."
Slightly doesn't need to be told how urgent this is: his concern is scrawled all over his freckled face. He lays Gold gently on the deck, makes a bit of a pillow for him with a piece of canvas. "Be right back." And he takes off.
A wave of nausea overtakes Gold and he tries but fails to vomit. His vision has narrowed; the peripheral vision is a haze. Now that he's alone he allows himself to groan. He grabs a hold of his anger as a shield against the cold that's creeping up his legs. "Not yet, you son of a bitch," he calls out to the pirate who put him here. "I might die, but it won't be here on this damned ship." He's defeated, he knows that; but he'll rob Hook of whatever satisfaction he can, however small.
It takes years before he gains any semblance of control over the power of prophecy he's acquired from the Seer. To be truthful, his study of the art of prophecy is somewhat held back; he's just so busy researching the Final Curse. And if he's really honest with himself, he'll admit prophecy is the one power that scares him. He's not just afraid of what he might see—or might not see; he's also afraid he's going to misinterpret something (his interpretive skills have left much to be desired, after all) and get set off-course, never to find his way back again to Bae.
When he does attempt a vision, one winter night when he can't sleep and his lab experiments of the day have frustrated him, he's upset by what he sees.
An all-engulfing cyclonic cloud, full of dirt and debris, rolls across the land, uprooting trees, crushing cottages like a man would crush a walnut in his fist. Animals are thrown miles from their barns and pens, but amazingly, humans and magical beings are unharmed—well, physically, that is. The cloud sweeps them up, deafens them, fills their eyes and their minds with sand. And at the eye of the storm a viciously beautiful woman stands tall, howling her laughter into the wind, her black silk and lace whipping around her legs, her sobbing enemy at her feet, cradling a dying knight.
Rumple knows the woman. He rejects the vision. He pushes it away, walks away from it, will not return to it for years. Only after he's come to accept that the Fates dabble in cruel irony and that magic will tax him time and again before he's finally paid in full for this curse, will he return to the sight of Queen Regina carrying out his plan.
But for tonight, after subjecting himself to this awful, ironic vision, he needs a nightmare chaser. He downs the contents of his flask and whisks himself off to Cora's estate, to the bedroom of the six-year-old who used to call him Papa. He watches her sleep peacefully, a doll under her arm, her thumb in her mouth. Soundlessly he leans over her and extracts the thumb. Her mouth closes.
Does she ever dream of him? If she saw him again, would she remember?
This is the first of many terrible prices he will be required to pay. The daughter of his heart will cast the curse that will, in three hundred years, bring him to his son.