Chapter 11

A/N. Many thanks, dearies, for your suggestions and comments on this story. If you've kept count, you know who's going to be the victor over Cora, but I think I'll have a few surprises in showing how that comes about, coming in the next chapter. But first, sweet sadness intervenes (if you've read any of my other stories, you'll know how much I love Rumple-Gold, so let Chapter 11 lead you not into despair).

Storybrooke 2:38 pm

"Emma!" Snow's bow, slung over her shoulder, pokes her daughter in the chest as they embrace, but Emma doesn't care; she's just relieved to see her folks again. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine. All these people. . . ." She glances around at the faces, each with a different expression: eager, anxious, worried, fearful, but all of them determined. "Must be fifty, sixty people here." Some of whom, even though she's the sheriff, she's never met.

"Excuse me," Bae interrupts, offering Snow his hand in greeting. "Hello, I'm"—he hesitates slightly, then raises his chin in pride. "I'm Baelfire. Rumplestiltskin's son."

Emma shoots him a glance that means good for you. Then it's time to get to work. Her father begins shaping the mob into troops. "They're not limited to this building," he points out. "They can transport themselves anywhere, if they decide they're not ready to fight. We need to cover every place they might run to: Regina's mansion, City Hall, the Mills Mausoleum. I want squads at each of these places. We'll need another group to look for Henry. Make sure your phones are powered on and that you've got Archie's number. Archie, you're our communications liaison. Keep everyone informed of what's going on."

"Before you go, I got some protection for you." Emma doesn't want to do this. What if she screws it up and turns someone into a roach or something? Or worse—and she won't allow this thought to rise out of her subconscious—what if she finds she likes the thrill and the power of conjuring magic? She's always suspected there's a fine line between herself and Regina: what if the magic blurs that line? If Gold's correct, the magic sleeping beneath her skin is stronger than Blue's; with Gold gone, there would no one to stop a newly minted magic-throwing monster.

A hand falls on her shoulder—David's. Somewhere in the crowd she hears Mary Margaret's voice rise, giving instructions to the archers. And somewhere out there, but at least not here on the battleground, is Henry.

Emma tightens her mouth. There will be no new monsters minted today. David, Mary Margaret and Henry will see to that. They'll kick Princess Emma's royal fanny if she gets uppity with her magic.

So as her father organizes the squads and appoints leaders for each, she casts upon each group the protection spell Gold taught her. They tell her that her magic tickles as they set off on their appointed missions. She warns them that the spell is only temporary and that if Regina or Cora expels enough energy, the magic shield she's set around them will be broken. In war there are no guarantees, even with magic.

As she conjures shields for the Lost Boys, she meets Neal's eyes. It's one of those life-flashing-before-your-eyes moments: all together, she sees their first meeting, their first meal together, their first kiss, their last kiss. He's the last of the Lost Boys to come forward to accept her magic. She wonders if he's being chivalrous if he's reluctant to allow magic into his body; probably both. Like her, he's been running from magic. "You have a son to get to know," she reminds him in a whisper, and then he accepts the magic, because he accepts the responsibility of living for the benefit of his son.

Her parents are the last to receive her magic. Along with shields, she gives them enchanted swords that can slice through magic—and wound possessors of magic. In Mary Margaret's eyes, as she squeezes Emma's hand in encouragement, is pride and affection. In David's eyes, as he kisses Emma's forehead, is confidence and cunning. With her spell protecting them, they spin and finish the business of planning the attack.

Emma takes a moment to dash off a text to Gold: Henry?

There's no answer.

Jolly Roger 2:40 pm

"Mr. Slightly."

The young man pauses in his running to answer, "Yes, sir?" He's covered the distance between the road and the ship a dozen times, bringing water, blankets, a pillow, anything to make his patient more comfortable. Gold thanks him each time; he doesn't tell the lad that his body is now too numb to feel comfort or pain.

Gold swivels his head. His eyesight has narrowed to a pinprick: he can see pretty well those things that are straight in front, but that's all. He hasn't told Slightly that either. If he were to crawl on his belly just a yard to the west, he'd cross over the line Slightly has demarcated: his magic would return in a flood, and he could transport himself into the pawnshop, where he could save himself.

But that's not what would happen. The moment any part of him—a finger, a toe, the tip of his nose—crossed that line, his dagger would heat up, warning Cora, if she happened to be touching it, of his presence within the reach of magic. He has no doubt that she's touching the dagger right now, that she hasn't let it out of her clutches. Once he crossed that line, she need only speak his name. In less than the time it would take for her to exhale, the magic would deposit him at her feet. His head would bow to his new master, his back would be exposed, and she need only thrust the dagger between his shoulder blades.

He stares at the uneven line Slightly has drawn in the sand.

"Want some water? Another blanket?" Slightly drops to his knees beside Gold, tucks the blanket in tighter.

"The paper. Quill." Gold points toward Slightly's shirt pocket, where the quill resides. "I have a few messages."

"Oh sure, but. . . " Slightly picks up Gold's cell phone, which has been lying in the sand beside the sheets of parchment from Hook's desk. "Wouldn't it be better to call?"

"Legal documents require a signature," Gold says.

Then Slightly gets it. "Oh." He frowns at the phone. "There's a text from Emma. It just says 'Henry?'"

"Answer her, please, Mr. Slightly." Gold rests his eyes as the lad types a quick message. An immediate response comes back and Slightly reads it aloud: "'Gold?'"

Gold gives a crooked grin. "Tell her 'You'll know it when I go.'"

Slightly grins back and sends the message. "Now, that letter you wanted me to write?"

"Write this: 'Ms. Ilene Baker, President, Storybrooke Savings and Loan. As we discussed last week, I wish for you to be the executor of my estate. You will find my will in my safe deposit box, all in good order and recently updated. I trust you will carry out my final wishes in accordance with the will. Thank you, Ilene. It has been a pleasure doing business with you all these years." Gold accepts the quill from Slightly and adds his signature to the bottom of the page: "Mr. Gold." No first name.

"One more, please, Mr. Slightly."

"Yes, sir." Slightly starts on a fresh sheet of parchment.

"'My darling Belle. . . . '"

Storybrooke 2:42 pm

"It's time," Cora announces, showing Regina the dagger. The first "t" and "i" have vanished. "He's fading rapidly now." She begins to pace. "Why haven't they done anything yet? That Princess Snowflake is so indecisive."

"Mother, please, I'm trying to hear what they're saying." Regina is concentrating on the image in the mirror. But it's not really the combatants' conversations that she's interested in: she's preoccupied with finding one small, tousle-haired needle in the haystack of humanity now blocking Lachlan Avenue.

"I don't want to be trapped up here when they attack," Cora complains. "I don't like this place." She folds her arms around herself. "It has a bad aura. . . an aura of entrapment." She glances at Regina's reflection in the mirror. "Something you did to your beau, I presume?"

"Shh."

"We can't wait any more for that boy of yours to appear. We need to start this battle now. Another five minutes and we'll lose the Dark One forever."

"No," Regina wheels about, her teeth bared. "You won't ruin this for me. He has to see them attack me first. I have to kill Emma and Snow in self-defense. We wait for Henry."

Cora checks the dagger again and groans. "The last 'l' is gone."

A quick, slight pain, like the prick of a needle, strikes at Regina's heart as a voice coming from deep within her brain and far away in time calls to her: poor little wee one.

"At least let me poke at them a little." Cora turns toward the kitchen and twists her wrist in a counterclockwise motion. The metal cage and the mouse within disappear and are replaced by a thoroughly confused Belle, shivering in her hospital gown. Cora tilts her head critically, studying the patient, then flicks her hand and conjures clothing for her: a baggy gray sweatsuit. Then Cora rethinks the makeover. "No, she'll attract more sympathy the way she was." And the witch returns the patient to the flimsy hospital gown.

Nails digging into Belle's bare arm, Cora drags her toward the window. Instinctively—and foolishly—Belle seizes an empty flower vase and smashes it against Cora's face. "Stupid girl!" Cora snaps, letting go long enough to brush the ceramic shards from her hair.

Belle's mouth falls open, for there's no damage whatsoever to Cora, not a single laceration or bruise on that elegant face. Belle takes a step back. "What are you?"

"Annoyed." Cora throws her hand into the air and iron bands lock themselves around Belle's waist and arms. "And that's something, I assure you, you don't want me to be." Cora pushes Belle toward the window, throws open the drapes and—because she still can't figure out how to unlatch the window, employs magic to make the glass vanish. Cora grabs a handful of Belle's hair and yanks. "Call out to them." She pushes Belle forward so that the girl is leaning out the empty window.

"I'm here!" Belle calls, but her attention is not on the crowd but rather the distance between her and the ground. If she allowed herself to fall, she would survive it. . .

"We're coming for you, Belle!" a tall young man shouts back. "Stay back!" He points to the north and a group of his followers run in that direction; he sends another group south. He and a dozen others run up the stairs, shouting their battle cry.

Cora permits them to get halfway up. Then she hisses in Belle's ear, "Say hello to dear Rumple for me" before pushing her out the window.

Jolly Roger 2:50 pm

"Mr. G.?" Slightly prompts.

Gold lifts his eyelids. But it's not the Lost Boy—his caretaker, his scribe—he sees, but rather beyond the boy's shoulder, the gray-suited Mr. Dove (Gold has always insisted his employee wear a business suit, and he gave an ample clothing allowance to make certain of it), and beyond Mr. Dove, parked just a hand's width behind the Magic Line, an ambulance. As Dove crouches in the sand across from Slightly, Whale and two EMTs pour out of the ambulance.

"Disobeying my orders again, Mr. Dove?" But there's no anger in Gold's voice. Dove exchanges a glance with Slightly: there's no emotion in Gold's voice at all; the man hasn't the strength for it.

"You may dock my pay, sir."

Whale grabs his medical bag and passes the blue vial off to one of the EMTs. In a few strides he's standing over the patient, and Slightly edges away to make room for Whale to kneel. "Ah, Doctor," Gold sighs. "I knew one day you'd kneel before me."

"You're the one who came crawling this time," Whale huffs, applying a blood pressure cuff. "Something about needing science?"

"A moment of weakness," Gold shrugs. "Ignore it."

"Well, as long as I'm here, you won't mind if I take your vitals, will you? Just to get me sense of purpose."

Gold doesn't answer. His eyelids drop and the Lost Boy exchanges a worried glance with the chauffer. On his lap is Hook's ledger, offering support for the sheets of parchment on which Slightly has been taking dictation. The irony is not lost on the Lost Boy that, in the end, Hook is providing a bit of support for the Crocodile. Slightly swallows hard as he reviews what he's written, and he frets because the letter is unfinished and Belle, whom he feels he almost knows now through her beloved's words, will never know Rumplestiltskin's last thoughts for her.

Rumple always liked this cruck house. It's small, but it's the biggest in the village, and it's built tight and solid, keeping the heat in during the winter and the rain out during the spring. But what he has always liked most about this house is that it belonged to him and Bae. Not him and Milah—this is the home he bought after he acquired magic and had learned he could spin straw into gold.

That had come about one idle night, after he'd burned every article of clothing Milah had left behind and smashed all the dishes that she'd brought into the marriage. He'd drunk enough wine to make a camel stagger, enough wine to embarrass Bae and make him seek refuge with a neighbor, and yet Rumplestiltskin wasn't even tipsy. After Bae had run off, Rumple sat down at the spinning wheel, just for something to do; he certainly didn't need to toil any more, now that he had magic. When he ran out of wool, instead of simply conjuring some, he'd grabbed a handful of straw and fashioned a leader. As he spun he thought about Milah in the arms of that smirking pirate, and when he looked at the thread in his hands he discovered he'd somehow produced gold. "Who gets the last laugh, pirate," he spat. "You have to kill and plunder to acquire your gold." Too bad Jones would never know this.

With his freshly spun gold he'd bought the biggest cruck house in the village. For the first time, Bae would have his own room with a proper bed and a trunk for his expanding wardrobe. Rumple hired a housekeeper to keep the home clean (and to give Bae a mother figure of sorts), and then he began roaming far and wide to buy books to help him control his powers. Though he didn't need to work for a living, he seemed to have less time these days for Bae, but Honora made up for that. . . didn't she?

And then, in a matter of weeks, it all came crashing down.

Once Bae was gone, Rumple quit roaming, quit reading, quit doing everything except drinking and spinning. He couldn't even work up a good rage any more.

One morning Lorena stormed in from next door. She grabbed his shirt—she was nearly six feet tall and used to getting her way, and more importantly to Rumple, Bae had adored her. She yanked him out of bed, threw him to the floor, then dumped a bucket of ice-crusted water on him. "You stink," she announced. "Your house is filthy. Get up and wash yourself. Change your clothes—you got enough of 'em. You do what I say and I'll cook you a decent breakfast."

"No one talks to the Dark One that way," he argued, but his stomach growled loud enough for her to hear and her lips curled in triumph.

He dragged himself to his feet.

When she left that afternoon, his house and his body were clean, the kettle over his hearth was full, and begrudgingly he'd started work on a vague plan to design that curse the Blue Fairy had implied would lead him to Bae. But first, he had to make certain he never let self-pity drag him off-track again, and so he sat down at his kitchen table with a stack of parchment and a box of charcoals and he made himself a North Star. It took seventeen tries until he got it right, but once his Star was finished and he'd set it on his mantle, he was protected against the weaker aspects of himself, the depression, the hurt, the disappointment, the heartbreak that would have led him off his path and into the crevasse of self-pity.

When the summons from Princess Ella came, he rolled up his North Star and tucked it carefully into his dragon-skin jacket, so that it would accompany him on the journey ahead: the journey to Charming's prison, that would place him in the perfect position to learn the Savior's name, for, locked away in an escape-proof, magic-proof prison, the Dark One was powerless, was he not? Not really the Dark One any more, just a crazy, dirty, staved imp. So Snow need not fear talking to him, need not fear releasing her unborn daughter's name to him. The name of the girl would make it possible for him to find Bae.

Now, three centuries later, he's back in this cruck house, his and Bae's. Back there, in the world without magic, Bae lives, a full-grown man, a man of cleverness and competence, a man who, like Rumple, has a set of values no one else can understand. A man filled with love and anger. A man who will forgive his father, but not in time, because time's up.

Rumplestiltskin seats himself at the kitchen table and reaches into his dragon-skin jacket for his North Star: the portrait of Baelfire. It's a good drawing, better than any he'd ever done before or since; his most nearly perfect work of art. It accomplished what he intended it to accomplish. He's hopes that when he's gone, Bae will find it and understand.

He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder, though his peripheral vision tells him no one stands behind him. His hair ruffles as a breath tickles his ear. He smells roses. Her patient, forgiving voice whispers in his ear, "Love is how we defeat all enemies." In his thoughts he adds, Even death.

Rumple has accomplished the work of a lifetime. He rises, peels off his dragon-skin; the time for costumes is done. In his closet, behind the Armani suits, he finds what he will wear now and he slips into it: a finely spun white shroud. Leaving Bae's portait on the kitchen table, he walks from his cruck house, closing the door behind him.

He kept his vow to Bae; he can let go now.

Time's up.