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~Chapter XXVI~
The blazing sun had set, finally ending its race to escape the horrors of the day, and in its place lay the indigo beginnings of a cool and still evening. The land itself seemed particularly still, the vines hanging limply from their willows as the wind ceased to blow.
Rumplestiltskin walked slowly, his muscles aching from his earlier ordeal at the dock, while Aibreann hovered beside him; her beating wings were the only sound accompanying their journey. As they gradually neared the boys' shelter, Rumplestiltskin felt apprehension begin to gnaw at his insides. The reality of his second chance with his son struck him, and he found doubt suddenly joining the whirlwind of emotions he felt.
"How do you know he will remember?" He asked suddenly, worry creasing his brow as he glanced over at the fairy. She looked back at him, pausing briefly in mid-air as she considered her answer.
"Well I-I can't be sure, but..." Aibreann inhaled a steadying breath, before continuing softly, "Hook was created by Peter's forgotten memories. Now that he has been destroyed, perhaps those memories will return to the boy."
"He disappeared," Rumplestiltskin murmured half to himself, "Hook. After he died, he just...turned to ash, right in my arms." He fought back a shiver at the memory, feeling another stab of remorse at how suddenly he had lost a part of his son.
"I know," Aibreann said gently, concern and empathy surfacing in her warm gaze, "I saw. This is magic unlike any I have ever seen."
Rumplestiltskin sighed deeply, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. Hope simmered within the man, but it still fought against the myriad doubts and fears he felt. They continued walking in silence, sinking farther and farther into the darkening forest. A question still burned within Rumplestiltskin, and as they rounded a large fallen tree, he could no longer keep it within his thoughts.
"Did you teach the other boys to fly?" Rumplestiltskin asked quietly, his eyes trained on the overgrown trail they were following, "Or was it only my son."
This time Aibreann sighed, her regret at not anticipating the price magic would exact still weighing heavily on her heart. "He was the only one who truly needed it," she said after a moment, "The other boys had each other's friendship, and Peter as their caring leader. After a while, though, Neverland made them forget anyway."
Through the remaining soft orange rays that still filtered through the lush tree canopy, Rumplestiltskin glimpsed two figures seated on a log before an unlit fire pit, one wearing a smooth deerskin dress beneath a dark green jacket, and the other a tunic of autumn leaves.
Aibreann pointed a tiny finger in their direction from her position hovering in the air beside him, and Rumplestiltskin was tempted to sprint toward them, his relief at seeing them together, whole and safe, nearly scorching in its intensity. However, exhaustion and the dull ache that seemed to permeate his entire being kept his steps steady, despite the fierce pounding of his heart.
As they approached the campsite, Rumplestiltskin could see that Belle was gently wiping at the boy's neck with a strip of cloth, occasionally stopping to dip the cloth in a coconut shell settled on her lap. With a rush of affection, Rumplestiltskin realized she was treating his son's wound, her lips pressed together in an expression of concern he often wore when worrying over his boy.
When he and Aibreann reached the break in the willow trunks, the leaves rustling beneath the man's feet, Belle and Peter's heads snapped in their direction. Rumplestiltskin managed a weak smile as Belle cried out softly, leaping to her feet and immediately bounding over to him. Her turquoise eyes shone with so much relief and love, Rumplestiltskin found himself unable to speak around the lump that suddenly appeared in his throat.
She flung her arms around him, pressing her face against the side of his neck and half-sobbing when he returned her embrace, wrapping his arms tightly about her waist and burying his face in her russet tresses. They swayed lightly on the spot as they clung to each other, their joy and relief at having the other near once more too powerful for words.
Rumplestiltskin's arms tightened around Belle as he hid his face deeper in her long hair, the realization that he had nearly lost her forever finally catching up to him. He half-choked on a sob, and Belle held him even more closely, the warmth and sweetness of her embrace chasing his distress away.
"Belle, I—" He felt he should tell her what had transpired at the dock after she and the boy left, but found himself too drained to relive it.
"Shh...You're back, you're safe," she whispered, her own voice sounding thick with emotion, "That's all that matters to me right now."
Rumplestiltskin sighed heavily, relieved that she did not press him and knowing he would tell her everything later. He slowly loosened his grip as she pulled back her face to look at him, her full lips trembling slightly as they stretched into a soft smile. Her eyes traveled over his face and neck, before they caught sight of the scarlet stains on his chest. Her smile vanished and she removed herself from his embrace with a gasp, gently pulling aside the ruffled edge of the shirt's neckline to peer more closely at the poorly bandaged wound.
"Oh, Rum, you're bleeding," she breathed, her pale forehead creasing in concern as she lightly traced her fingertips over the bandage. Rumplestiltskin shrugged, opening his mouth to assure her that his wounds were not as bad as they looked, even if that was far from the truth, but before the words could leave him a harsh shout pierced the air.
"What are you doing here, pirate?" A voice that was too deep to be his son's, but young enough to not yet belong to a man, asked heatedly.
Rumplestiltskin and Belle turned to face the source of the voice, their eyes falling on the tall, lanky form and pockmarked face of a teenage boy standing a few meters from them. Suspicion and anger filled the boy's eyes as he detached a makeshift stone hatchet from his belt, wielding it high above his head.
"No!" Peter shouted, stepping in front of the gangly boy with outstretched arms. "Pox, it's all right! He's a friend," Peter insisted, grabbing the taller boy's raised arm when he did not lower the weapon.
Pox stared down at him incredulously, his mouth falling slightly open in his disbelief.
"He's not a pirate; he's the man Tinker Belle came here with," Peter explained hurriedly, easing the hatchet out of Pox's grasp. "They were separated, remember?"
Understanding softened the boy's pockmarked features, and he lowered his arm, his ears turning crimson as he looked over to where Rumplestiltskin and Belle stood.
"Right. Sorry," he murmured sheepishly, chewing on his lower lip. Rumplestiltskin heard Belle release a small sigh next to him, and when he glanced over at her she was slowly shaking her head.
"Do you think you could keep the other boys away for a little while, Pox?" Peter asked quietly, looking over his shoulder at the two adults, his eyes briefly falling on Rumplestiltskin's wounds. "Have them play a game or something, while we get cleaned up?"
"What's happened, Peter?" Pox asked, frowning as he took in their various injuries and disheveled appearances, "You've been gone all day."
"I'll explain later," Peter sighed, running a hand through his windswept hair. "I promise," he added in response to Pox's doubtful expression. Pox glanced at all three of them again, before nodding and turning to walk back around to the other side of the massive white oak tree.
They watched him depart silently, and when he finally disappeared around the large trunk, they all seemed to release a breath they had not realized they had been holding.
"Sorry about him," Peter said after a moment, his chestnut eyes meeting Rumplestiltskin's. "We—uh—don't get along well with pirates, and you sort of look like one," he explained shamefacedly, gesturing to the older man's clothes.
"It's no matter," Rumplestiltskin responded absentmindedly, momentarily losing himself in the brown eyes that he knew were just like his own.
It was then that he remembered the boy's sword tucked in the sash at his waist. He withdrew it carefully, relieved that most of the blood had flecked away during his and Aibreann's trek through the forest, and held it out to Peter. The boy's eyebrows raised slightly in surprise, and he stretched out a hand to grasp the hilt.
"Thank you," Peter said quietly, pulling the sword to himself. Rumplestiltskin nodded, and the boy smiled softly before replacing the sword in his palm frond belt.
Belle continued her previous inspection of Rumplestiltskin's injuries, lifting his hands with her own to frown at his scraped and bruised knuckles. She looked so focused and distraught, Rumplestiltskin felt an urgent need to see one of her beautiful smiles, the ones he had too often feared he would never see again over the past few days.
"'Tinker Belle'?" He prompted, a half-smirk curving his lips as he recalled his son's curious nickname for her. As he had hoped, her lips twitched into a smile, and she glanced up from his hands, her eyes laughing. She opened her mouth to explain, but Peter beat her to it.
"It's her name here," he explained, grinning as he walked over to them. "She fixed a bracelet for me, spent hours tinkering with it. See?"
The boy held up his wrist, showing Rumplestiltskin the thin chain that glittered there. All of the air in Rumplestiltskin's lungs seemed to rush out of him as he stared at the three strings of silver braided together. It was the bracelet he had made for his son what felt like an eternity ago, when he had only just begun to wield magic. He was both relieved and mystified that his son, the very owner of the piece of jewelry, had found it unwillingly abandoned on the forest floor. But Rumplestiltskin's joy at the sight of it once more clasped around his boy's wrist warred with his despair at the knowledge that Peter did not remember how the bracelet came to be, or who originally gave it to him.
"It's a fine piece," Rumplestiltskin heard himself murmur, and the boy's answering oblivious smile made his heart clench painfully.
"Come on," Belle insisted softly, pulling Rumplestiltskin gently by his uninjured arm to sit on the log she and Peter had been using when he arrived. "We need to treat your wounds before they start to fester."
"They're fine," Rumplestiltskin stubbornly insisted, "You don't have to—"
Belle cut him off with a reproachful glare, pursing her lips and crossing her arms in front of her chest. She quirked an eyebrow as she stared unblinkingly down at him, and with a deep sigh he held out his badgered hands and sliced arm.
Peter snickered behind his hand at their silent battle, sitting down beside the older man on the log and grinning over at him. Rumplestiltskin had to bite back the urge to swat him playfully on the back of his head.
Belle smiled prettily at his surrender, kneeling before him on the ground and retrieving her cloth and water-filled coconut shell. She placed them in her lap before reaching over and carefully pulling the stained bandage from the wound on Rumplestiltskin's chest. It caught on some of the coagulated blood, and Rumplestiltskin hissed lightly at the sting. Belle's eyes flickered to his in apology, before they looked down at the jagged wound, their cerulean depths filling with compassion.
She dipped her cloth in the shell, soaking it thoroughly in the liquid. When she lifted the rag to dab at Rumplestiltskin's wound, he caught her hand in his own, his eyes tortured as they focused on the dark bruises encircling her wrist.
"It's fine," Belle assured him softly, placing her other hand over his own and gazing up at him, "I'm fine. I promise. Let me take care of you."
Rumplestiltskin released her arm after a moment, willing himself to smother the anger he felt at seeing her skin marred so cruelly. Belle dipped the cloth once more in the shell before applying it to the angry wound on Rumplestiltskin's chest. Goosebumps erupted on the man's skin at the coldness, and he could not stifle a grunt as his wound began to throb.
"I'm sorry," Belle said quietly, removing the cloth and gazing up at him, "It's witch hazel. It helps stop the bleeding."
She tenderly dabbed at the torn layers of skin that were still oozing blood. Once the skin around the wound was clean, she reached over and retrieved a clean strip of cloth from a small pile at the end of the log. That, too, she dipped in the shell, this time pressing it firmly against the still-bleeding cut.
"Could you please hold this here, Peter?" She asked, looking over at the young teenager who was frowning slightly down at bloodstained strip of fabric wrapped around Rumplestiltskin's right arm. He looked up at her, nodding as he leaned to place a hand on the cloth.
"I've got it—" Rumplestiltskin insisted as he raised his own hand, his face feeling somewhat hot at their attention.
"Hush," Belle said sternly, meeting his gaze. "I want to clean your hands first," she explained softly after noticing his discomfort, placing her smooth hand on his cheek for a moment. Rumplestiltskin hesitantly nodded, lowering his hand as his son scooted closer on the log. Peter's hand cautiously but firmly pressed on the cloth, holding it in place and helping to stem the blood flow.
Rumplestiltskin could not tear his gaze from the boy, taking in the natural highlights in his hair, the sun-kissed skin of his face and neck, the calmness and compassion in his warm brown eyes as he helped the man he did not know was his father. His gaze settled on the thin, red incision on the boy's throat, and a chill trickled down his spine at the thought of how close his son had come to dying by his wicked counterpart's hook. The sight of the wound pained him, and before he could stop himself, he lightly grazed it with his fingertips, wanting to erase the mar from his son's flesh.
Peter turned his head toward Rumplestiltskin, his eyes narrowed slightly in puzzlement. Rumplestiltskin swiftly withdrew his hand, mumbling an apology.
"Don't worry, it doesn't hurt," Peter assured him, smiling slightly through his confusion, "Just a scratch."
His son's words filled Rumplestiltskin with unending pride; even without his full memories, Baelfire maintained every vestige of his bravery.
So intent was Rumplestiltskin on relearning every feature and freckle on his long-lost son's face, that he barely registered Belle washing the dried blood from his hands, taking extra care not to jostle his swollen knuckles.
Only when she suddenly gasped sharply did Rumplestiltskin look away, his gaze settling instead on the deep gash on his right forearm, which was no longer concealed by his makeshift bandage. It did not bleed as freely as before, but it was deep enough to glimpse the waxy layer of subcutaneous tissue.
"It needs to be stitched closed," Peter observed quietly, his brow furrowed as his eyes traced the slice. "I can do it."
Rumplestiltskin and Belle stared at him, their eyes wide with incredulity. His lips twitched slightly upward, before he used his free hand to pull up the knee of his short breeches. A thin, clean white line stood out from the rest of his tan flesh just above his kneecap.
"Not too bad, eh?" Peter asked lightly, though his eyes conveyed a gravity that spoke volumes of what he had seen and suffered. Rumplestiltskin stared at the scar; he did not know which was worse, the nonchalant way in which his son spoke of his own suffering, or the knowledge that it was caused by a monster Rumplestiltskin had helped create.
"All right," Belle's lilting voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see her glancing doubtfully between Peter and his injured arm.
"I've patched up most of the Lost Boys, too," Peter assured her, "This wound is deep, but it's a straight slice; it'll be simple."
Belle looked back down at Rumplestiltskin's hands, lightly brushing her thumbs across the backs of them.
"I need to find more witch hazel for these hands," she stated, grimacing at the torn skin on his knuckles, "Are you sure you can manage this without me?"
She looked nervously between the boy and the open gash in Rumplestiltskin's arm, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she leaned back on her heels.
"We'll be fine," Rumplestiltskin said quietly, a slight smile upturning the corners of his mouth. "I'll stop him if he starts to do any real damage," he added lightly, smirking over at the boy, who grinned broadly back at him.
"I'll be right back," Belle promised, pulling herself to her feet. She gently removed Peter's hand from Rumplestiltskin's chest, frowning slightly at the still-bleeding cut, before pressing the cloth back down with her own hand.
"Keep that on there," she advised, holding the cloth there until Rumplestiltskin's left hand covered hers. She smiled softly at the contact, before withdrawing her hand from beneath his, turning, and setting out toward the tree line.
"Belle," Rumplestiltskin called before she walked more than two steps away, watching as she glanced back at him, concern written in her beautiful features. "Where is the dagger?"
"With me," she answered, turning to fully face him. She pulled aside the side of her jacket, revealing the crooked blade tucked safely in her beaded belt. Rumplestiltskin was surprised to find that he did not wish to take it from her, knowing she would prevent it from falling into the wrong hands. He nodded gratefully, his warm smile meeting hers, before she turned around once more and stepped into the forest.
A soft thud echoed beside Rumplestiltskin, and he turned sharply to find Peter still sitting beside him, only now he held in his hands a spool of thread and a thin needle made from what appeared to be fishbone. Rumplestiltskin quirked an eyebrow in silent question.
"I flew up to my cabin," Peter explained brightly, "It's up there." He pointed to the topmost branches of the white oak tree, where a round cabin with a thatched roof rested. Rumplestiltskin shook his head in amazement as the boy started unraveling a length of the string, threading the needle with practiced ease.
"This is probably going to hurt," he said apologetically, looking up at Rumplestiltskin, "Mine did."
"What's a little more pain?" Rumplestiltskin heard himself ask sardonically, and he was amused when Peter chuckled.
The mirth left Peter's gaze as he knelt down beside Rumplestiltskin, encouraging the older man to lay the injured arm on the log. Using two fingers, he squeezed the edges of the wound together. With another quick apologetic glance up at Rumplestiltskin, he pierced the man's skin with the needle, sliding it through the hole until it fully emerged on the other side of the gash. He pulled the string through until only the knot at the end remained at the initial puncture site.
Rumplestiltskin flinched at the pain, inhaling deeply through his nose. The pain was not as intense as he had expected, owing to the remnants of the adrenaline coursing in his veins from the day's events, he presumed. Nonetheless, his reaction did not go unnoticed by his young medic.
"I'm sorry," Peter blurted, his expression pained as he met Rumplestiltskin's gaze once more.
"It doesn't hurt that bad," Rumplestiltskin responded with a half-smile, trying not to clench his jaw too tightly against the throbbing ache in his arm.
"No, I mean for thinking you were a pirate, for not helping you sooner." The sight of so much regret shadowing his son's features pierced Rumplestiltskin.
"You couldn't have known," Rumplestiltskin insisted.
"But—"
"Please," he interrupted gently, "Don't torment yourself. You didn't know."
Peter nodded slowly, his face flushing slightly as he returned his gaze to Rumplestiltskin's wound. He completed two more stitches before Rumplestiltskin could no longer stifle a pained hiss.
"Tell me about your son," Peter said suddenly as he prepared to puncture another section of flesh. "Maybe it will help."
Rumplestiltskin stared wordlessly at him for a long moment, before nodding somewhat shakily.
"He's brave," he said quietly, "Braver than any other child I've ever met." He flinched when the needle pierced his arm again, closing another centimeter of his wound, yet his gaze remained pensive.
"He's wise. Sometimes I wonder if he has lived a hundred lifetimes, and remembers them all." His wince was less pronounced as Peter completed another smooth stitch.
"He's kind, selfless. Back in our village, he helped anyone in need, without pause." This time he did not feel the pain at all, and it was only when he looked down that he realized Peter had stopped and was staring up at him, his head titled to the side.
"What is it?" Rumplestiltskin asked, his brow furrowing in slight concern.
"Oh, nothing," Peter said quickly, jumping slightly as he realized he'd been caught staring. "It's just...you speak so highly of him."
"Well, it's true. He has always been the better man," Rumplestiltskin explained quietly, once more painfully reminded that although his beautiful boy knelt beside him, he was still lost. The boy nodded once at Rumplestiltskin's words, and a moment later he returned to his task, positioning the needle once more.
Suddenly an overwhelming desire to tell the boy the truth, to see familiarity within those warm chestnut eyes, welled within Rumplestiltskin with such intensity that it nearly hurt to breathe.
"Ba—Peter," Rumplestiltskin said abruptly, his heart beating wildly in his chest as his boy turned his face to him again, "You are my so-"
The words died in his throat at the expression in the boy's face. His eyebrows were raised slightly in interest, the right corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile, and his brown eyes...completely lacked any sign of recognition.
The fear of rejection, of the words having no impact whatsoever on Peter's memory momentarily paralyzed Rumplestiltskin. He cursed himself for his cowardice, a muscle jumping in his temple as he twisted his words into yet another half-truth.
"You are so much like him," Rumplestiltskin finished quietly, his chest tightening painfully at the surprise that flashed across the boy's features. Peter stared at him for a long moment, and although his eyes remained empty of the recognition Rumplestiltskin so desperately sought, they were filled with pride.
"I'm going to help you find him," he vowed fervently, "I swear it."
Rumplestiltskin could only nod in response, his throat constricted with a fresh wave of sorrow at the boy's promise, and the cruel irony of his otherwise kind words.
Peter returned his attention to the wound he was mending, a crease appearing between his eyebrows in his concentration. The next few minutes passed in relative silence, the only sound between them being Rumplestiltskin's occasional sharp intake of breath at the pain.
He watched his son intently, both marveled by his skill and saddened that it was ever necessary that he acquire it. The only medical prowess Rumplestiltskin had acquired over the twenty-eight idle years he spent in perhaps the most technologically advanced land was a basic familiarity with CPR, courtesy of a public service pamphlet. The idea of possibly bringing someone back to life, by any means, intrigued him enough to even glance at the pamphlet, and then later memorize it.
"What's CPR?" Peter asked suddenly, his eyebrows raised once more in interest, and Rumplestiltskin realized he must have spoken his thoughts aloud. He cleared his throat lightly in embarrassment before answering.
"It stands for cardiopulmonary resuscitation," he explained, and the baffled expression on his son's face nearly made him laugh.
"People use CPR on someone who is not breathing," Rumplestiltskin elaborated, "Whose heart has stopped."
"But if they're already dead," Peter asked, his eyes narrowed slightly in confusion. "How does it work?"
"It's only used if the person's heart has stopped very recently," Rumplestiltskin explained patiently, "The idea is to breathe and pump the person's heart for them, until they can do so on their own once more."
"Is it magic?" Peter asked interestedly, his head titled to the side.
"Not quite," Rumpelstiltskin chuckled softly; it appeared his son's insatiable curiosity had not vanished along with his memories. "You place your hands right above where the person's heart lies, one overlapping the other, and you press down hard, over and over. Sometimes even a rib can break."
"That sounds painful," Peter murmured, absentmindedly rubbing a hand against his sternum.
"I imagine it would be," Rumplestiltskin responded, feeling a little unease at the thought. "Once the person wakes up."
Peter remained quiet for a moment as he tied off another stitch, before stopping abruptly. "How do you breathe for the person?" Peter asked, looking up again.
"Well," Rumplestiltskin began, nervously running a hand on the back of his neck, as he hesitated slightly at the memory of the directions. "You place your mouth against theirs-"
"Like a kiss?" Peter asked shyly, his cheeks flushing lightly and looking as though he regretted even asking the question.
"Not exactly," Rumplestiltksin answered, clearing his throat, feeling his own face redden. "You blow air into their lungs."
"Oh…" Peter responded, his blush slowly retreating as he nodded sagely. He stared at Rumplestiltskin a moment longer before returning his gaze back to man's arm and positioning the needle for another stitch.
"Could you teach it to me?" The boy asked without looking up, his voice quiet despite the eagerness laced within his request.
Peter's question, though simply put, caught Rumplestiltskin off guard. He felt rather unseated at the notion of demonstrating the basics of cardiopulmonary resuscitation for this inquisitive lad.
"U-um," he stuttered, "You mean…now?"
"No," Peter chuckled, shaking his head before looking up at the older man in all seriousness. "Just, you know, sometime," he added, his eyes seeming so much older than his form suggested. "It might be of use one day."
Whatever discomfort Rumplestiltskin had felt at the boy's request vanished as he was once more amazed by his son's unparalleled willingness to help anyone in need.
"I'll tell you what," Rumplestiltskin prompted, the corners of his lips curving up in a small smile, "You teach me what you know about stitching, and I'll teach you what I know about CPR. Deal?"
He removed the compress from the wound on his chest, placing it beside him on the log and stretching his hand out for the boy to shake.
Peter grinned widely, and the pride and determination in his gaze made Rumplestiltskin's heart swell. He laid his needle and string on his lap before placing his hand within the older man's. "Deal."
They held each other's gaze for another moment, the boy looking so much like he had when they made their last deal that Rumplestiltskin had to fight the urge to pull him into a tight embrace and never let go.
Their hands returned to their sides, and Peter resumed stitching the gash in Rumplestiltskin's arm. Only a few more minutes passed before the task was complete, the number of stitches totaling at seventeen. While Peter used one of the strips of cloth Belle had collected to clean away the blood, a soft wind blew across them. Rumplestiltskin's chest wound stung as the cool air met it, and his resulting flinch caused the boy to look up.
A shadow passed over Peter's face as his gaze settled on the jagged, shallow cut. His shoulders slouched slightly, as though all the pain he had endured over the centuries had suddenly settled there. In that moment Rumplestiltskin felt he had never wished harder to erase his son's woes and replace them with only joy.
"He cut Scout's chest like that, too," Peter murmured, still gazing at the wound. "Only he didn't stop there..." His voice trailed off, his features crumpling at the dark memory.
"He was your friend, the one Hook mentioned at the dock," Rumplestiltskin stated quietly.
"Yeah," Peter responded, his voice barely louder than a whisper as his gaze traveled up to the tree house. Rumplestiltskin's gaze followed the boy's, and his heart hurt when he saw the flowers and wreath draped over a tiny cot.
"Hook was right," Peter murmured, returning his gaze to the older man. Something dark and heavy settled in his son's brown eyes, and it was only because Rumplestiltskin had experienced it a thousand times himself that he was able to identify what it was: guilt.
"It was my fault," the boy added a moment later, his voice barely loud enough for the older man to hear.
Rumplestiltskin stared at Peter in disbelief for a moment before shaking his head. "Don't you say that," he said firmly, his eyes gazing directly into the boy's.
He wanted to tell his son that he was blameless and good, a perpetual source of light to all who met him, and to think his son could feel responsible for his friends' death was heart-wrenching. But he found the words trapped in his throat as the boy continued speaking.
"You know," Peter said, sighing as he stared unfocusedly in the distance, "I used to think everything was a game with Hook. I never really took him seriously until…" He looked down at his lap, swallowing thickly. "That day," he murmured, "Then, everything changed."
"Peter, you listen to me," Rumplestiltskin said, and this time he did not restrain himself when he felt the urge to reach out to his boy, placing a hand on his shoulder, "This was not your fau-"
"Oh, that looks much better!" Belle's voice sighed, and both Rumplestiltskin and Peter leaned apart, looking over at the beautiful woman whose hands were filled with witch hazel leaves. Her blue eyes were fixed on the stitched wound, and an appraising smile stretched her lips.
"You're a natural healer," she praised lightly, setting the leaves down before the log and ruffling Peter's hair. The tortured emotions that had filled the boy's eyes a moment earlier vanished as he smiled up at Belle, and Rumplestiltskin's heart swelled at how close the two had obviously grown in his absence.
"I told you I was the cleverest one here," Peter responded, smirking playfully up at her. A tinkling laugh floated past Belle's lips, and Rumplestiltskin could not help but join in her mirth with a low laugh of his own.
"Peter!" A child's voice suddenly squeaked excitedly from behind them. Moments later the cry was repeated by half a dozen young voices, and the air was abruptly filled with the thudding sound of footsteps racing on the forest floor.
A gaggle of boys sprinted around the massive tree trunk, their expressions varying from excited to fretful. The two smallest children ran the fastest, their hair blowing back from their foreheads as they approached.
"Where've you been, Peter?" Nibs asked eagerly, bringing his right thumb up to his mouth to nibble on the nail. Tootles launched himself at Belle's legs, clinging tightly as he cried out, "We've missed you!"
Belle ran a hand through Tootles' sandy curls, opening her mouth to respond, but neither she nor Peter were able to get a word in before the other boys caught up and chaos ensued. Their raised voices blended together as they asked so many questions, it was nigh impossible to distinguish who said what.
"Who's that man?"
"He looks like one of Hook's!"
"Why's he covered in blood?"
"Peter, what happened to your neck?"
It was the last question, voiced by red-haired Curly, that silenced all the others. Peter quickly raised a hand to cover the wound, self-conscious under all their concerned gazes. Fear flashed across their young features when Slightly suddenly asked:
"It was Hook, wasn't it?"
Peter's mouth opened and closed several times as he struggled to find an answer under their scrutiny. He looked to Rumplestiltskin and Belle, his chestnut eyes silently pleading for help. Rumplestiltskin moved to do so, unwilling to see his son in any more pain than he had already endured, but he was interrupted by the pockmarked boy who had tried to attack him earlier.
"He did," he declared in a harsh voice, "We have to do something!"
"Let's raid his ship!" Slightly yelled, raising his plump fist in the air.
"Grab your weapons, boys!" Pox shouted as he reached for his hatchet.
"No!" Belle and Peter cried simultaneously, their faces panic-stricken.
"Hook is dead."
Everyone in the small clearing froze. The Lost Boys all turned to peer up at the face of the stranger in their midst, their eyes wide with disbelief.
"Hook is dead," Rumplestiltskin repeated, his voice wavering slightly. "I-I killed..." He felt Belle place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze gently as his voice choked on the admission. Peter turned his head to look at the older man, his gaze startlingly solemn.
"You killed him?" Nibs asked in a whisper, slowly lowering his hand in astonishment.
Rumplestiltskin nodded shakily, his constricted throat preventing him from uttering any words. A brief silence filled the campsite, before the air was suddenly rent apart by whoops and joyous cheers from the boys.
Rumplestiltskin, Belle, and Peter stared silently at each other, their eyes expressing their discomfort at the boys' celebratory display. Peter frowned down at his hands, which were fidgeting with some of the leaves on his tunic. Rumplestiltskin felt as though he might be sick, the weight of the day's events crushing down on him.
"I'll calm them down," Belle murmured to Peter and Rumplestiltskin, her gaze fixed on the leaping and dancing group of boys. "It's getting cold; maybe you two could gather some firewood?"
Rumplestiltskin felt a rush of gratitude at her suggestion, which he knew she provided as an opportunity for him and Peter to escape the discomfiting scene. He placed his hand on his son's shoulder, turning and beckoning him to walk toward the tree line. They heard Belle command in a stern voice behind them, "Boys, that's enough."
Their journey deeper into the forest passed in silence. Although the sky was completely dark by now, the luminescent toadstools lining the base of the tree trunks provided enough light to walk unburdened. The sound of a brook tumbling over rocks met their ears, and Rumplestiltskin's steps involuntarily quickened. He rounded the trunk of a tall willow, and the softly glistening water of narrow stream met his eyes. His burning thirst compelled him forward, and with a sigh of relief he bent down and scooped some water to his mouth, splashing what he did not drink onto his face.
After a few more gulps of the fresh, cool water, Rumplestiltskin stood, brushing the dirt from the knees of his trousers. It was then that he noticed Peter had not said a word, and so turned to face the boy, his brow furrowed in concern. Peter faced away from him, motionless and holding within his arms a small bundle of sticks. As though sensing Rumplestiltskin's gaze, he turned around, his eyes seemingly focused on something far away.
"Hook really is gone, isn't he?" Peter murmured in disbelief more to himself, before staring up at the older man.
Rumplestiltskin stared back at him for a moment, absently rearranging the firewood under his arm.
"He is," he responded quietly.
Peter nodded slowly, his eyes averting to the forest floor. With a soft sigh he bent down and began gathering more kindling for the fire.
"To think," he said musingly as he broke a large branch into smaller segments, "After all these centuries, all that is left of him is that wretched silver hook."
Rumplestiltskin physically started at the boy's words, his eyes widening as he comprehended their full meaning.
"H-how do know that?" He asked, his voice somewhat weak with shock. Peter fumbled the stick he was attempting to break, a blush slowly creeping up his neck.
"I-I," he stuttered, nervously wringing his hands as he pulled himself to his feet, "After I brought Belle here, I went back. I wanted to make sure you were all right...And then I saw you-I mean—"
The boy's voice trailed off as his cheeks burned crimson. Although touched that Peter cared enough to return for him, Rumplestiltskin felt a hot surge of shame as he realized this meant his son had seen what a tortured, grieving mess he had been. He stared wordlessly down at his torn knuckles, afraid of the ridicule he might find should he meet his boy's eyes again.
"I think you're very brave," Peter blurted suddenly, his face still pink. "You fought Hook. You saved my life."
There was such awe laced the boy's words, Rumplestiltskin had to look up. He quickly found himself unable to speak, glimpsing within his son's eyes something he had always dreamed of seeing there: admiration.
His elation at the pride Peter directed toward him was short-lived as the events of the day once more caught up to him.
"I very nearly took it as well," Rumplestiltskin murmured, averting his eyes once more as guilt corrupted his momentary joy.
"Only against your will," Peter assured him, and the firmness of his answer, the forgiveness in his gaze left Rumplestiltskin speechless.
Peter sat back on his heels, having collected a sufficient amount of kindling for the fire in his lap. He dusted off his hands, frowning slightly in deep thought.
"Do you understand what Hook meant?" He asked suddenly, standing again, "When he said that I could...control you, too?"
Rumplestiltskin hoped Peter had not noticed when he winced at the boy's question. The prospect of telling his son that he and Hook, his worst enemy, were ultimately the same entity was a daunting one.
"To be honest, I'm still trying to figure that out myself," Rumplestiltskin evaded, relying on the flexibility of words to conceal how much he really knew. He felt a twinge of guilt when the boy merely nodded, trusting him.
They wordlessly continued gathering firewood, with Rumplestiltskin taking extra care not to upset his stitches. After another brief stretch of silence, Peter spoke again.
"You know, I get it," He said lightly, his lips curving upward in a grin.
"Get what?" Rumplestiltskin asked, unable to help smiling back at the boy.
"Why you love Mother so mu—" Peter froze, a blush coloring his cheeks, before continuing somewhat abashedly, "I-I mean, why you love Tinker Belle so much."
Rumplestiltskin's smile widened, and his dream of the three of them being a family seemed more attainable than ever before.
"Peter, do you miss your parents?" He asked, and his heart sprinted as he waited for the boy's answer. Peter looked up from where he crouched, a slight crease appearing between his eyebrows as he considered the question.
"No," he responded simply, "I don't remember ever having any."
The words, stated with such nonchalance, skewered Rumplestiltskin's heart.
"But," Peter continued thoughtfully, adding a few more branches to his pile, "I like having Belle around." The boy seemed to register his own words only after he had said them, and his cheeks turned pink in embarrassment once more.
"You called her 'Mother,'" Rumplestiltskin observed softly, touched by the boy's admission. Peter's face flushed even darker, and he stared down at the bundle of wood in his hands.
"Only because the other boys do. It was just a slip," he mumbled, distractedly rearranging the sticks, and Rumplestiltskin decided to let the matter slide in favor of the boy's pride.
Their individual piles were now large enough to feed a healthy fire, and they slowly started making their way back to the campsite. Rumplestiltskin looked over at Peter as they walked, frowning slightly when he realized the boy still seemed somewhat put-out by his earlier admission. In fact, he looked altogether unwell, his face uncannily pale and his eyes glassy as though he were feverish.
"You know, maybe after you find your son," Peter began, his voice oddly winded and his hand rubbing his forehead, "You could stay. Live here, with us."
The boy's words tugged at Rumplestiltskin's soul; apparently a part of him did miss having parents. The thought both pleased and saddened Rumplestiltskin as he wished once more that his son would realize that his father was standing right in front of him, so willing and prepared to be the guardian the boy deserved, or at least try to be.
"Its' a lovely thought, Peter," he said, his gaze traveling over the youth's face, which seemed sallow in the dim light of the toadstools, "But to forget everything..."
"Is that so bad?" Peter challenged, catching Rumplestiltskin off guard. "You'd forget all your pain. Earlier, when I saw you..." he paused as Rumplestiltskin grimaced slightly, before continuing more calmly, "I'm sorry, it's just...I've never seen someone with so much...Why would you want to remember?"
Rumplestiltskin remained silent, his brow furrowing as he stared down at the bundle of branches in his arms. He knew he would never choose to forget all that had transpired, knowing that it led him here, to his second chance with his son. But could he force Peter to remember who he truly was? Should he? The lad had suffered so much as his son; perhaps it would be best that he remain oblivious, free to fly and unhindered by his dark past.
"You and Belle wouldn't age anymore," Peter continued hopefully, "And your son would never have to grow up."
"Everyone has to grow up eventually, Peter," he said quietly, gazing into the boy's glassy eyes.
The boy chuckled lightly, shaking his head, but there was no mirth in his eyes."I'm never growing up," he declared, his breathing sounding more labored even though he had not exerted himself. "I'm going to always be a—" Peter looked down suddenly, squinting his eyes and raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.
Rumplestiltskin's eyes narrowed in concern. "Are you alright?" He asked, stepping closer to the boy.
"Yeah…" Peter responded weakly, "I just need to—"
Before Peter could say anything else, he swayed heavily on his feet, stumbling slightly to the side. In the next moment, he lost his balance completely, flinging out a hand just in time to catch himself on a nearby tree. Rumplestiltskin dropped the bundle he was carrying, his heart racing as he swiftly approached the boy and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Bae…" he could not stop himself from saying when Peter did not look up. The boy stared at the ground, squinting as though trying to force his eyes to focus, and Rumplestiltskin watched worriedly as his son drew in a shakily breath.
Nearly as quickly as the color seemed to drain from Peter's face, it returned again, though his forehead remained clammy. He shook his head slightly, coughing once before smiling tentatively up at Rumplestiltskin.
"Can you sit down a minute?" Rumplestiltskin asked gently, but was not able to hide the fear in his voice.
Peter shook his head. "I'm fine." he responded, waving a hand as he tried to assure the older man, "I must have stood up too quickly."
The boy slowly straightened, before readjusting the branches in his arms and then confidently resuming his walk to the campsite.
Rumplestiltskin did not mention that they had been walking for at least several minutes when the dizzy spell had swept over the boy, instead following his lead and retrieving his own bundle. As he anxiously stared at the boy's retreating back, a deep sense of dread settled like an anvil in the pit of his stomach.
A/N: Prepare your review-cough-I mean crew, mates! There are bumpy seas ahead!