The Condition
The first time it was so painful it brought him out of an alcohol-induced sleep. It felt like his muscles were tearing, and they were in a way. Bone, muscle and skin were ripped away to be replaced by thick wood. When he touched it he couldn't feel his fingers; when he drove a knife into it he couldn't feel any pain.
August wasn't ready for this yet. He wanted to keep running, to find any other way out except the one he knew would work. Deep down he knew he would be going back, but he still tried to avoid it. But in the end he pointed his motorcycle in the direction of Storybrooke and found his way back.
The pain was sharp with his growing lies, each new deception making it spread. It shot through him with such force that it threw him out of bed. Sleep, one of the pleasures August used to indulge in, was now lost to him.
It was getting harder to breathe, harder to move. The parts that were still human were exhausted and in pain; the rest felt like nothing at all. Day by day he was getting a little closer to the end. And he was failing; Emma didn't believe. He showed her his leg, told her everything, but she walked away from him. The hurt in her eyes was like a stab in his heart. And then he was forced to see disappointment in Henry as he gave up.
His father said that the very act of trying would be enough for him. August wanted to believe that; he wanted his father to be proud of him. But if his father saw him now, would he still be proud? As the wood spread up his arms he wondered things like that. Emma, Henry, Papa, Archie… The four people in town he cared about most. The ones he disappointed and let down.
Before he became animated his father moved him with string. Somehow August remembered that: remembered the feeling of his limbs moving under the string's direction, remembered how it felt to be seen as a living thing when he was really nothing more than a lifeless puppet. That string was around his neck now, and it gave him some comfort. He closed his eyes, taking in slow breaths.
And then she was there. Emma was there with him, seeing him. She believed; he did what he came here to do. Her hand covered his wooden one, her body shaking with sobs. August wanted to lift his hand and wipe the tears away, but he couldn't move. He wanted to cry with her but the tears wouldn't come. Just for one last time, he wanted to feel the warmth of her hand.
August focused his eyes on her. He always had a very good memory: it kept the stories of the Enchanted Forest fresh after years away from it, so he could write them all down for her. Now he was taking her in so he wouldn't forget. He memorized every curl of her hair, every curve of her face, her eyes. There was no one he would've wanted to be with in this last moment more than her.
He realized something then, but he didn't say anything. Instead, August selflessly used his last moments to give her faith and belief: two things she could never find on her own. That other truth he spoke as well, but only in his mind: I love you.
The wood clouded over his eyes, and he was gone.