A/N: Thank you for your lovely feedback on the last chapter! :-)
Chapter XXIV
An unshakeable stillness and silence filled the air around Rumplestiltskin. The sky turned a grayish-black hue that threatened to blot out the sun and a strange shadow fell over the land. The calm water surrounding the dock darkened drastically, becoming a reflection of the night sky that would shortly hang above. The impenetrable fog that had saturated the land and sky that morning had now lifted, replaced with an afternoon ambiance whose red tint glowed against the darkness surrounding Rumplestiltskin, nearly matching the bloodstains on his hands.
Rumplestiltskin stared down at the lifeless body still cradled in his arms. Even in death, his son's face bore the lines of centuries of hardship and hate, though it now shone paler than Neverland's two moons. His half-lidded eyes gazed unseeingly ahead, and although Rumplestiltskin knew no life lingered behind them, they still seemed to glint with the same sinister relish that had laced his son's last words.
No, Papa. But you do.
The harsh reality that his son had not forgiven him, even in the face of his own death, impaled Rumplestiltskin at his core, and for a moment he could not draw breath around the anguish seizing the remnants of his heart. His eyes traced the fallen pirate's features, landing on the trails of blood leading from his mouth to his chin. This insurmountable pain, the haunting squelch of the sword penetrating his son's chest, the horror of what he had just done: all of it was part of Rumplestiltskin's punishment, of Hook's final revenge. With his last breath, his son had scorned him. His last act had been to curse his father with the unbearable pain and guilt of killing a part of his son, however twisted and wretched that part might have been.
And it was no less than Rumplestiltskin deserved.
Rumplestiltskin's hand shook as he reached over to the pirate's half-lidded eyes to close them, if only so that he might imagine that his son was merely sleeping peacefully. As his hand hesitated above the lifeless eyes for a moment, Hook's body began to change; it sank in on itself, collapsing within Rumplestiltskin's arms even as they flexed and curled desperately to hold on. So quickly that his mind could not process what had happened, the body had grayed and crumbled, disintegrating into dust before his eyes.
A stunned Rumplestiltskin sat alone for several moments, staring unblinkingly at his tightly-balled fist. He numbly uncurled his fingers. The ashy remnants of his son were abruptly lifted by a strange wind that Rumplestiltskin could not feel, dissipating like wisps of smoke and leaving the man's hands empty but for the coagulated blood gathered in the creases. Gone. All that remained in this world of Hook, of his son, was a cold silver gleam by his foot.
Rumplestiltskin torpidly reached down to pick up the morbid souvenir. Mindlessly at first, he held the captain's symbol of revenge, of depravity born of an inescapable desire to wound everyone around him, just as he himself had been wounded. Rumplestiltskin felt emptiness in that moment as his fingers grazed the metal's vicious, sharp point, and his throat constricted painfully as the waning sunlight illuminated the scarlet stains on the polished surface. With a prick, a bead of blood pooled from his finger, pulling him from his trance with questions of where his son went, what had just happened... But one question loomed clear above the other jumbled thoughts: why?
The cursed part of his mind seemed to sneer the answer in a high, trilling voice: "Magic comes with a price."
Magic: the poison that transformed him into a monster, condemning his relationship with his son and tearing from him everything he ever loved. Fury, blazing and unbidden, surged now within Rumplestiltskin, sending his heart thundering in his chest, and pushing him to his feet.
Still clutching the silver hook in his fist, he stepped toward the end of the pier to gaze down into the murky water below, his calm demeanor belying the rage swelling within him. Only a silver glint from the hook in his hand reflected in the unnaturally dark waters.
As relieving as it was to blame all the pain and loss in his life on one culprit, Rumplestiltskin found himself unable to fully hide behind such a defense. For centuries he had manipulated others for his own personal gain. All the plotting, the crooked deals, and the pain he inflicted on others—it came from himself. He had been the mastermind, the deceiver. He had been relentless in his cruelty, selfish in every respect. His stomach churned at the thought that his own torment was justified, payment earned for services rendered. And he could not be proud of any of it.
Suddenly overcome by grief and scorching self-loathing, Rumplestiltskin launched a foot at one of the supports of the pier with all of his strength, repeating the action over and over despite the ensuing agony he felt. Incoherent shouts erupted from his throat: curses, pleas, phonetic pieces of the unbearable pain welling and surging within him, but even they offered no relief from his crushing guilt. With a final kick to the wood, he whirled around, burying his tremorous hands in his hair.
Rumplestiltskin frantically paced the width of the dock, his chest heaving with every gasping breath he drew. He could feel the limited store of magic simmer within him, and the temptation to expend it and be rid of it forever burned in his veins. But even as he raised his arm to do just so, he could feel himself hesitate, hear the excuses his mind would offer to continue clinging to the destructive power he knew would forever be a crutch—
A hiss echoed from behind Rumplestiltskin, too sudden and strange to merely be caused by his surroundings. He whirled about, brow furrowing and lips frowning as he called out, "Who's there?"
Complete silence answered him, until another brief hiss-like noise sounded from beside him. Rumplestiltskin's pulse raced as his head snapped to the side; the sound was most definitely caused by a human voice. Another whisper echoed behind him, but before Rumplestiltskin could turn back around, two more sounded forth, one to his right, the other to his left. Another and another joined the eerie, hushed choir, until at least half a dozen voices filled the air. Rumplestiltskin fisted a hand in his hair once more, the other clasping the silver hook at his side, as the harsh whispers increased in volume. Although the disembodied voices threatened to drown each other out, he could just discern specific words tumbling about in the din.
Hobble foot.
A gruff voice whispered to his right, and Rumplestiltskin had to stifle a yell at how close it seemed to his right ear.
Coward.
"No," Rumplestiltskin mumbled, his feet staggering backwards. "You're not real."
His wife left him, the whispers continued to hiss, because she couldn't stand the sight of him…
Rumplestiltskin shook his head, moaning slightly as he gripped his hair even tighter.
Why won't you believe me?
"Please…" Rumplestiltskin begged, his voice cracking as the echo of Belle's despairing voice raced through his veins like crushed glass.
You coward! You broke our deal!
A whimper passed his lips at the pain in his son's voice.
You drove him away.
The last whisper tore through him like a tempest, and he fell heavily against one of the pier supports, his arm the only thing keeping him from collapsing to the base of the dock. Rumplestiltskin's eyes remained squeezed shut as the whispers united in a cacophony of cruelty and despair, taunting and torturing him in waves. An onslaught of images bombarded Rumplestiltskin's mind as the voices crescendoed, flashing from one to the next with nauseating rapidity.
Behind closed eyelids he saw a collage of pain and suffering devised by his own mottled and cursed hands: the tear-stained cheeks of a woman he had coerced into trading her firstborn; the stricken features of a peasant-turned-princess longing for the husband he had made disappear.
With a groan, Rumplestiltskin pounded his fist against the wooden pier. "Please..." he croaked, gasping for breath. But the visions continued, their definition even clearer:
The frightened face of a mute maid faced with death for a crime she had not really committed; the glassy eyes of the beautiful caretaker he had cast out for no greater sin than loving him; the emerald glare of the vortex as his son vanished within it; and then blood, pooling, dripping, seeping into fabric as his dagger sliced through victim after victim, their screams drowned out by the whispering that grew louder and louder with every rasping breath he took.
"Enough!"
A sudden, impenetrable silence followed Rumplestiltskin's desperate shout. The squawking of seagulls and the whistling of the wind vanished. Even the waves no longer sighed as they slid along the shore.
"Just...stop," Rumplestiltskin gasped, and any resolve he might have had left, crumbled in that moment. With a broken, involuntary sob, Rumplestiltskin slid down the smooth wooden surface of the pier, only stopping when he reached the planks. His back leaned against its sturdy support as he lowered his head in despair.
"What have I done?" He whimpered as another heart-wrenching sob wracked his body. His breath hitched as his brown eyes glanced at the silver hook within his grasp. Hot tears blurred his vision, spilling immediately onto his cheeks and dampening his shirt as he squeezed his eyelids shut.
"Bae..." he choked around a fresh wave of utter grief, knowing that he had failed his son once again. "Forgive me."
Rumplestiltskin slowly pulled his knees to himself, clenching and unclenching the hand buried in his hair. He wrapped his other arm around his midsection as the strength of his weeping intensified.
With each new agonizing sob that escaped him, he finally allowed himself to break beneath the unbearable weight of all his crimes.
Peter's arms held Belle securely around her waist as they soared in the direction of the Drey, his expression uncannily serious in his determination to get her back safely. Belle, for her part, stared blankly down at the dagger in her hands. She seemed to barely register the willows rushing past them or the cold sting of the wind on her face, her thoughts, Peter guessed, were still at the dock with her true love.
"We should have intervened sooner," Buidhe's indignant voice echoed from behind the flying pair, "The moment we arrived!"
Peter glanced back in surprise, having not realized that the fairies were following them. He watched as the orange pixie accosted her companion, her tiny hands crossed tightly in front of her chest.
"You know how Hook is, Buidhe," Flannach explained firmly, her violet aura flashing brilliantly for a moment. "He had the upper hand. If he'd seen us, he would have thought Belle had plotted an ambush. How do you imagine he would have reacted then?"
"He would have killed her right there," Peter answered them gravely, glancing down at Belle in concern when he felt her shudder. He returned his gaze to the treetops, feeling a slight surge of relief upon seeing the thatched roof of his cabin.
"Hold on tight," he murmured to Belle, nodding when he felt her arms tighten their grip, "We're going to land now."
He gently twisted into a dive, carefully maneuvering so that not a single branch caught at their flesh or clothes. When they were several meters from the forest floor, he pulled them upright so that they descended slowly feet-first to the ground. The leaves strewn about the ground fluttered and rustled softly as the descending pair approached.
"I'm going back," Peter declared once their feet met the damp earth and Belle detached herself from him.
"Let me go with you," Belle pleaded urgently, "I'll hide the dagger-"
"No, Belle, it's not safe," Peter interrupted, turning around and preparing to leap into the air again.
"I can't just stay here and do nothing," Belle insisted indignantly, a light flush rising in her cheeks as the boy sighed.
"I should have trusted you when you said he wasn't a pirate," Peter said remorsefully as he turned back around to face her, "You were almost killed... Please, I need to make up for not believing in you."
"Peter..." Belle's voice trailed off, her turquoise eyes slowly filling with tears. "I can't..."
"Besides," he continued quietly, "If he's hurt..." Belle flinched at his words, and he stepped forward, placing a hand on her forearm. "I can't carry you both, Tink."
She stared at him, her face paling, and he felt her arm begin to tremble.
"I know," he responded quietly, moving his hand to one of her own and squeezing gently. "If I don't return before the sun completely sets, send the fairies," he directed calmly, gesturing to the branch on which Buidhe and Flannach were now perched. "And call the Indians for help."
"How?" Belle asked, her voice breaking slightly.
"If you call or sing, the wind will carry it to them," Peter explained.
Belle nodded reluctantly, recalling how the Indians had heard her lullaby. She twisted her hands nervously in front of her, watching as Peter moved to turn away again.
"But what if Rum-" she began fretfully, stepping to follow him.
"Trust me," he interrupted confidently, smiling lightly at her, "I got his back."
Belle stared wordlessly at the boy for a moment, before nodding once more. A tear slipped over the edge of her lashes and slid down her cheek as she drew in a tremulous breath.
"Be careful, Peter," she murmured breathily, reaching out a hand to smooth back his windswept hair. She managed a shaky smile, stepping back as he turned around and leapt into the air with ease.
"We'll be back soon," Peter called back over his shoulder as he soared past the tree canopy, hoping with all of his youthful heart that he was right.
The tops of the willows whipped past the teenage boy as he darted back toward the southeastern shore. The wind seemed to detect his urgency, changing its current to aid rather than hinder him, so that in no time, he glimpsed the vast expanse of the ocean and the pale ribbon of sand that aligned the coast. With a slight grunt of effort he somersaulted in the air, sinking down several meters so that he would be concealed in the shade of the forest as he approached the beach. He continued his descent along the tree line, his shadow barely visible on the powdery sand below.
The boy alighted behind the same bushes the fairies must have used earlier for concealment, his chestnut eyes glancing at his surroundings before they fixed unblinkingly on a lone figure occupying the dock. Belle's love—Rumplestiltskin, Peter reminded himself—was leaning against one of the wooden supports, one hand fisted in his hair, the other clutching what Peter could only distinguish as his enemies' notorious namesake. But it was not the sight of the detached silver hook that struck the young boy most, nor was it the unnervingly black water of the ocean, nor even the blazing red hue of Neverland's quickly-setting sun against the darkened sky.
No, it was the wrenching, gasping sobs coming from the man himself that struck the boy so profoundly he could not tear his gaze away. He crouched lower, leaning forward to peer more closely through the leaves.
Peter could not remember ever shedding one tear, but here this man, whose frame shook with the intensity of each aching sob, wept enough for ten men. Even the Lost Boys had not mourned with such abandon after Scout's death; did not lose themselves in their grief as this man did now. A surge of something acute like sympathy and sadness welled within the boy, and he brought his own hand to run through his hair, releasing a breath he had not realized he was holding.
Although Peter had only known the man since the morning, he felt an inexplicable, gripping need to console Rumplestiltskin. He wanted to ease whatever pain consumed him now, but he had not the slightest clue how. Peter did not even fully understand what sorrow gripped the man in this agonizing vice in the first place, and it troubled him more than he wanted to admit.
In the next moment, as though understanding Peter's thoughts, Neverland seemed to breathe a warm, soft breeze over the shore, chasing away the gripping cold that had settled there. The brilliant rays of the setting sun caressed the calming waves, replacing the darkness of the water with an iridescent, liquid gold.
Peter could not suppress a small smile as Neverland's comforting efforts eased the man's sobs ever so slightly. He leaned closer, watching as the gentle hush of the waves against the powdery sand soothed the man enough to loosen his grip on his hair.
The arm wrapped around Rumplestiltskin's midsection released some of its tension. He slowly leaned farther back against the dock and straightened one of his legs, breathy sobs still escaping through his clenched teeth. His head titled back to rest against the wooden support, unknowingly displaying his tear-streaked and flushed face to the boy hiding in the shrubbery.
Peter felt a rush of shame as he took in the man's grief-stricken face. Though he had never seen someone weep with such abandon, especially a grown man, he knew he was witnessing something very private. Yet, as more tears leaked from the man's eyes, he still could not tear his gaze away. Years and years might have passed, and he would not have noticed. The teenager brought a hand to his own cheek, wondering what it would feel like to cry himself, to have a tear there, if it would be cold, for crying did not seem like a very warm thing to do...
"Peter." Aibreann's quiet voice startled the boy from his bizarre trance, and he looked over at her with an embarrassed flush creeping up his neck.
"I-I-was just coming back to-" He stuttered, pushing himself back away from the bushes.
"I know," Aibreann said gently, and there was a strange knowing look in her soft gaze that Peter did not quite understand.
"Go back to Belle," she continued, floating toward the leaves, "I'll stay with him."
He nodded jerkily, not quite meeting her eyes as he pulled himself to his feet. He glanced back at Rumplestiltskin's defeated figure a few moments longer, before finally turning and darting toward the treetops.
Even as the wind welcomed him once more, lifting him into its cool embrace, Peter's thoughts remained with the broken man at the beach, to whom he felt most peculiarly drawn.
A/N: Reviews are very much appreciated! :-)