A/N: Thank you all SO much for you support and feedback! Truly, your reviews are a magical source of inspiration. We hope you enjoy this chapter!
Disclaimer: We do not own Once Upon a Time. If we did, it would air every night instead of every week! May credit be given where credit is due.
~Chapter XXVII~
Neverland's vast canvas of night stretched across the sky, but it was devoid of any stars and the land's two brilliant moons had yet to rise above the horizon. Only the faint glow of the toadstools lining the tree trunks and the occasional flash of a passing firefly provided any light within the small clearing.
Belle stood before the Lost Boys, her lips pressed together and hands firmly on her hips. After several minutes of exasperated scolding on her part, they had finally quieted, reluctantly seating themselves on the logs surrounding the fire pit. Tootles, Nibs, and Curly glanced sheepishly up at her, their hands twisting in their laps. Pox and Slightly, on the other hand, sat with their arms folded, indignant scowls pursing their lips.
Belle ran a hand through her untamed tresses, sighing softly as her gaze traveled over each of them. A moment later she crouched down, kneeling so that she was eye-level with the rambunctious bunch.
"I know he was your enemy," she said softly, her attention especially directed at Pox and Slightly, who fidgeted where they sat, "But you must understand, it is never appropriate to celebrate someone's death, no matter how much pain they might have caused you."
"This is Hook we're talking about," Pox scoffed stubbornly, "He's the worst thing that ever happened to Neverland. If you aren't glad he's dead, then what are you?"
The question threw Belle, and for a moment all she could do was stare in bewilderment at the eldest of the boys. She knew it was not joy that she felt at the wretched pirate's death, albeit she was admittedly relieved that he no longer posed a threat to Rumplestiltskin or the boys she had come to love as sons. Grief was also something she did not feel at his death, as it was not easy to mourn someone who was the source of so much pain.
How did she feel about Hook's death, then?
"Sad," Belle answered quietly, unsurprised when the boys' mouths dropped in uncontained shock, "I am sad that he could not be saved."
The children stared at her as though she were mad, their eyes widened in disbelief.
"Saved from what?" Nibs asked, frowning slightly as he continued to nibble on his thumbnail.
"Himself," Belle responded, her brow furrowing as she recalled how lifeless and cold the captain's black gaze had been. Every word he had spoken had been laced with bitterness unlike any she had ever encountered before. "His hate," she added after a moment.
No more questions were asked as the boys pondered Belle's words. Even Pox seemed less indignant than before, his arms still folded but his gaze more pensive than obstinate. A sudden breeze wafted over the clearing, its chilling caress reminding Belle too powerfully of the feeling of Hook's silver namesake pressed against her throat.
"It's getting cold," Belle observed aloud, shivering more from the unwanted memory than the drop in temperature, "Come, wash your hands and we can start preparing something for dinner; Rum and Peter should be almost finished gathering firewood."
The boys jumped to their feet, obviously relieved that their scolding was over, and raced over to the trough of rainwater resting against the base of the massive oak tree. Belle shook her head bemusedly as they playfully fought each other to reach the water first, with Tootles easily sneaking beneath their legs.
Rolling up the sleeves of her jacket, Belle set about rifling through the trough of vegetables the boys had collected earlier that day. Although much of the plants were foreign to her, the boys had insisted that they were all edible, and would make delicious ingredients for a stew. She decided on three types of vegetables, all roots that resembled mottled potatoes and misshapen onions, and separated them into piles to be peeled and sliced later.
As Belle had expected, the sound of rustling leaves beneath two pairs of feet soon echoed behind her, indicating Rumplestiltskin and Peter's approach. She turned to greet them, the corners of her full lips curving upward as she glanced the bundles of sticks in their arms. They set them down before the unlit fire pit, brushing their hands off on their pants and frowning at the dirt stuck to their hands in such a similar way Belle almost laughed.
"Thank you," she said, stepping closer as they both straightened to face her. When Peter turned his face up to hers, Belle felt concern replace her mirth as her eyes traveled over him, taking in the sheen of sweat on the boy's forehead and the way he seemed to struggle to catch his breath.
"Are you feeling all right, Peter?" She asked gently, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek. Her gaze darted to Rumplestiltskin's, and she saw concern written in his features as well. But before either could say anything more, the brave boy spoke.
"I'm fine," he said in a winded voice, smiling confidently at the two adults, "Promise."
The pair looked down at Peter, and Belle moved her hand to his forehead, finding it cool and clammy. She chewed on her bottom lip, again glancing over at Rumplestiltskin, who nodded once, his eyes silently assuring her that they would keep a close watch on the lad.
Peter knelt down, piling the kindling at the center of the pit and carefully arranging the branches in a conic shape. Rumplestiltskin bent down to help him, reaching for his own bundle of sticks nearby.
"Here, let me help—" The man began to say, but Peter quickly interrupted.
"I've got it," he said with more firmness than expected. "Besides, you should—uh—probably find something else to wear," he added in a quieter tone, his chestnut eyes traveling down to the dried blood staining Rumplestiltskin's off-white shirt.
"He's right," Belle said softly, placing a hand on her love's shoulder and squeezing gently, "I think there's some spare clothes in the second cabin. Not much, but we'll find something."
She released his shoulder and turned toward the winding vine staircase that led up to the Drey. Behind her, Rumplestiltskin sighed softly, rising to his feet and throwing one last fretful glance at his son before following Belle.
The couple climbed in relative silence, but when they ascended past the first cabin and toward the second, Rumplestiltskin finally spoke in an awed voice.
"The boys built this?" He asked incredulously, gazing around at the platform beds and the circular cabins.
"Peter says Neverland helped," Belle answered, smiling at the man's astonishment, "But yes, they did. They're quite talented, and they've been here for so long..." Her voice trailed off as another wave of pity for the boys welled up in her chest.
The sadness in Belle's last words was not lost on Rumplestiltskin, and he turned his gaze to her, eyes narrowing in silent question. But she said nothing, shaking herself from her reverie and granting him a slightly forced grin, before resuming her climb to where the Lost Boys' hid their "treasure."
Rumplestiltskin followed her, opening his mouth to ask what had troubled her, but finding the words lost as they surpassed the hatch of the second cabin. Hundreds of luminescent mushrooms grew in the crevasse between the walls and the thatched roof, filling the space with a soft blue light that glittered on the myriad objects within it. The small room was filled with knickknacks and treasures varying from bare scrolls of parchment to gilded candlesticks. Belle purposefully walked over to a rectangular trunk lying on its side in the corner, pulling it upright and prying it open with a quiet grunt.
"This is where I found the cloths I used for your wounds," she explained, rifling through the scant articles of clothing within the chest. Rumplestiltskin approached her, kneeling by her side to help. There were only a handful of shirts and trousers inside, and most appeared severely moth-eaten and tattered. With a low "hmph" of disappointment, Belle stood and moved to sift through the contents on the shelves. She heard Rumplestiltskin continue to rummage through the chest, occasionally humming to himself in thought.
"This ought to do," Rumplestiltskin declared suddenly behind her, and she turned about to face him, her trademark curiosity compelling her movements.
Belle only just managed to smother a gasp with her hand as she realized Rumplestiltskin had already removed his shirt. Propriety told her in the strict voice of her childhood nurse to avert her eyes, but something else, something much warmer and heady, kept her eyes glued to the plane of his back. He had a slender build, as she had known, and Belle found herself mesmerized by the way his sinewy muscles moved under his smooth skin as he lifted the royal blue shirt over his head. Her feet subconsciously brought her closer, until she could actually feel the warmth radiating off of his skin. Heart thudding, she trailed her fingertips along his spine, marveling at the softness and hidden strength.
Rumplestiltskin started at her touch, lowering the shirt and wincing as the movement stretched the newly scabbed skin of the wound on his chest. The pain immediately dissipated, however, as her fingers snaked down to his lower back, igniting every nerve ending. His blood pounded in his veins and he remained completely still, fighting the urge to close his eyes at the burning sweetness of Belle's caress. Rumplestiltskin could not remember the last time he had been touched with such sensual tenderness, and as the shirt now hung limply from his hand, he found his heart ached for even more.
She flattened her palm against his flesh, murmuring gently, "Let me help."
After a moment's hesitation, Rumplestiltskin slowly turned to face her, his mouth running dry as her fingers began to slide along his side and across his ribs, lingering over a bruise that darkened there, before freezing just above his navel. Although her face felt uncomfortably hot, Belle let her gaze travel up his torso, pausing at his chest and wondering what it might feel like to lay her head there. She had never felt such unbridled want before; she wanted his touch, his taste, his satin voice and penetrating stares, and all the mystery that lay beneath them—she wanted all of him.
Rumplestiltskin felt a blush creep up his neck as Belle's gaze traced his slim form, and when her turquoise eyes met his, he was beyond relieved to find no trace of revulsion within them. In fact, they seemed to smolder with the same heat he felt surging throughout his entire being. Her hands followed her gaze at a tantalizing pace, tracing unknown patterns against his flesh and causing his breath to catch in his throat. She continued to stare at his face, her cheeks beautifully flushed, as she helped guide his bruised hands through the shirtsleeves. As they lifted their arms to slide the shirt over Rumplestiltskin's head, he could not help but let his own gaze travel over her lithe figure.
Her deerskin dress hugged and complimented each of her curves, and everything about her was so soft and welcoming, he could not help but wonder what it would feel like to trace them with his unworthy hands. Instead, he helped her lower the shirt over his torso, finding his eyes drawn to her full, pink lips once the fabric hung on his thin frame. They were slightly parted, and he subconsciously licked his own lips as he wondered if they would taste as sweet as they had that fateful night too long ago.
Belle's eyelids grew heavy as she watched Rumplestiltskin's gaze settle on her mouth, his head slowly leaning toward hers as he trailed a callused fingertip along her neck, dipping to just barely graze her collarbone.
She tilted her head back slightly, her long eyelashes casting dainty shadows on her blushing cheeks, and he could not keep himself from her lips any longer…
"I call dibs on the log closest to the fire!" A shrill voice suddenly shouted from below, breaking the spell and causing the couple to jump apart.
Belle cleared her throat, smiling shyly before averting her eyes to a nearby shelf and pretending to inspect the objects strewn atop it. Rumplestiltskin coughed lightly, bending down to retrieve the sash he had discarded while removing his ruined shirt.
"I'm-uh-glad you found something suitable," she said, glancing over her shoulder at him and hating how breathy her voice sounded.
The deep blue shirt fit him nicely, and with the golden sash covering the tattered ends of it, Rumplestiltskin would look every bit as appealing as he had in his finery back in their old world.
"I believe you are gawking, my dear," Rumplestiltskin observed smugly, his eyes glinting with that combination of mischief and timidity Belle had swiftly grown to love back at the Dark Castle. She turned to face him fully, the corners of her lips twitching as she fought to hold back a grin. Gasping playfully at his words, she brought a hand to her chest.
"Ladies do not 'gawk'," Belle claimed in mock-offense, frowning briefly before smirking puckishly up at her true love, "They admire."
Rumplestiltskin released a hearty laugh at that, smiling in a way that set Belle's heart racing as she joined him.
"Fair enough," he said eventually, still chuckling lightly as he re-tied the sash about his waist. His movement suddenly reminded Belle of the dagger she still carried, and she hurried to withdraw it from beneath her beaded belt. When he finished fastening the sash, she stepped closer, holding the dagger cautiously in both hands. Rumplestiltskin's eyes met hers, and something like trepidation whirled in their depths.
"Here," Belle said calmly, gesturing for him to take the cursed blade from her, "I think this is safest with you."
The anxiety immediately disappeared from Rumplestiltskin's gaze as he reached out a hand and carefully removed the weapon from her grasp, tucking it beneath the sash at his waist.
"Besides," Belle continued as she watched him, breathing a sigh of relief, "It makes me dreadfully nervous, carrying that, knowing what it can do."
Rumplestiltskin smiled softly at her, brushing one of her errant curls behind her ear. "Thank you," he murmured, "For keeping it safe while I was...at the dock."
Belle covered his hand with her own, pressing it against her cheek and whispering, "You're welcome."
Rumplestiltskin felt he could lose himself in the kind sapphire eyes gazing up at him; she was sunshine and sweet summer rain, and she accepted him, all his flaws and his wretched past...
"I love you," Rumplestiltskin breathed, brushing his thumb against her cheekbone, "So much."
Belle pressed his hand even closer, sighing happily, "And I love you."
They remained like that for a long moment, before Belle's expression abruptly turned serious and she removed Rumplestiltskin's hand from her cheek, cradling it in both of her own.
"Now that we have a moment alone, there's something I've been wanting to ask you..." She began quietly, fidgeting slightly with both of their hands.
Rumplestiltskin said nothing, his eyebrows knitted together in nervous puzzlement as he waited for her to speak.
"What Hook said at the dock, about both he and Peter being able to control you," Belle continued, clutching Rumplestiltskin's hands a little tighter when he winced at the memory her words stirred, "Did he mean—Is-is Peter your son, as well? The same son?"
To Belle's surprise Rumplestiltskin seemed almost relieved at her question, sighing briefly as he thought through his answer.
"Yes," he responded in a voice just louder than a whisper, "They are...were both my Baelfire."
Although Belle had suspected such since the encounter at the dock, Rumplestiltskin's confirmation sent her thoughts reeling. "But how?" She asked in an astonished voice.
At this, Rumplestiltskin smirked slightly, his eyes betraying the guilt and regret Belle suspected he too-often felt. "Magic always comes with a price," he murmured, averting his eyes to the ground, his voice shaking with barely contained emotion.
Belle nodded understandingly, rubbing her thumbs soothingly over his bruised knuckles. Peter was by some miracle—or rather, magic—Rumplestiltskin's long-lost son as well. The thought alone filled her with such unbridled hope and happiness, she felt she might be able to fly, too.
But regardless of her rejoice at learning that Rumplestiltskin would still have another chance with his beloved son, Belle could not dismiss the reality that her true love had lost a part of him mere hours ago. And so, with a calming breath, she reigned in her joy and asked in a gentle voice, "When are you going to tell him?"
Rumplestiltskin looked up, grimacing slightly at her question.
Why would you want to remember?
Peter's voice echoed loudly in his thoughts. He inhaled a deep, steadying breath, caressing the palms of Belle's hands before answering hesitantly:
"I...I'm not sure I will."
Belle's response was so utterly shocked, Rumplestiltskin might have laughed, had their conversation been about any other topic. She dropped their joined hands as her mouth fell slightly open, her forehead creasing in abject bafflement.
"Why not? He's your son!" She cried as loudly as she dared, knowing Peter and the boys were only meters below around the fire pit.
"He doesn't remember ever having parents, Belle," Rumplestiltskin explained dejectedly, staring down at his empty hands, "And look how happy and unburdened he is."
Belle stared wordlessly at him, her eyes widened in disbelief.
"Unburdened? Rumplestiltskin, that boy's life has been everything but unburdened here. He considers himself responsible for all the other boys, and he's known such pain—"
"The reason he doesn't remember me is because I caused him so much pain!" Rumplestiltskin argued, fighting to keep his voice from rising and carrying to the children below, "Do you think he deserves to have all that thrown at him again?"
Belle sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across her forehead and brushing back her hair. "He needs you, Rum," she murmured eventually, her turquoise eyes pleading for him to understand, "The past is something to be learned from, not forgotten. You have to-"
"Belle, please," Rumplestiltskin interrupted desperately, taking her hands in his own, "Just let this be, for now. I've watched one part of my son hate and suffer and die because of me; let me have a least a little time with the only remaining part before he despises me too."
"Rum, he's not going to despi—" Belle began, her hands gripping his tightly.
"Belle, don't," he interrupted again, his voice firm and his obvious frustration making her flinch slightly. She bit back another sigh, disappointment and sheer annoyance twisting uncomfortably in her abdomen. Releasing Rumplestiltskin's hands and shaking her head, she turned and walked back toward the hatch.
"I should help the boys finish preparing dinner. It's getting late," she said flatly, and Rumplestiltskin watched silently as she began to descend the stairs, her gaze stoically fixed on the steps before her. He did not follow her right away, running a hand through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck in exasperation. Of course Belle would believe telling the boy the truth was the best course of action: she was brave, and loved by all who met her; whereas he had incontrovertible reasons for others to hate him.
The man heaved a sigh, catching sight of his reflection in a tarnished hand mirror on a nearby shelf and fighting the urge to smash it against the nearest wall. Allowing himself a few more moments to calm down, Rumplestiltskin walked over to the open hatch, descending the wooden stairs slowly.
By the time he reached the ground once more, he could see Belle helping the boys peel some roots to toss in a pot dangling above a healthy fire. Rumplestiltskin's stomach clenched painfully with hunger as he inhaled the mouthwatering aroma rising from the stew. When he approached the fire pit, Belle smiled softly up at him from where she sat, though her gaze still harvested some tension from their earlier disagreement. He sat beside her, reaching out to help peel some of the vegetables, but Belle gently pushed his hand away, handing him some large coconut shells instead to begin passing around to the others.
By the time everyone had a bowl and had seated themselves comfortably on the logs, Belle declared that the stew was ready and removed it from the fire. They had no ladle, so Belle used her own shell to scoop up hearty amounts of the stew and pour it into the others. Eating utensils were also apparently scarce on the island, but the vegetables were cut small and cooked well enough to be drunk from the side of the makeshift bowls.
Rumplestiltskin had to bite back a satisfied groan when he swallowed his first mouthful of the thick broth, which tasted like a combination of seasoned russet potatoes and sweet onions. Four eager mouthfuls later, Rumplestiltskin found his shell regrettably empty once more. Before he could sheepishly ask for more, Belle removed the shell from his grasp, chuckling lightly as she replaced it a moment later filled to the brim with more stew.
While Rumplestiltskin finished his second helping, he felt Belle lightly nudge his shoulder. Looking up, he followed her gaze to his son sitting across from them. The other boys were still slurping happily from their bowls, but Peter was staring silently into the fire, having only eaten a mouthful or two. His eyes reflected the orange glare of the fire, appearing even more feverish than they had earlier, and Rumplestiltskin felt another sharp pang of worry for the boy's health.
Before he could say anything, however, one of the other lads spoke.
"Listen," Curly said urgently, his ginger curls appearing even more vibrant in the firelight. Everyone paused their movements, tilting their heads as they followed his command. The air around them was uncannily still, empty of the whistle of the wind and the hush of the vines sliding against each other.
"I don't hear anything," the tiny voice of Tootles said after a few moments.
"Exactly," replied Curly, the corners of his lips curving down in a frown, "No music."
Silence fell over the clearing again as everyone strained to hear even a single note of Neverland's night music, but none met their ears. Belle felt a deep sense of unease at the change, and she found herself scooting closer to Rumplestiltskin on the log they shared.
"Hey Peter, why don't you have a shadow?" Slightly asked suddenly, peering curiously at the ground behind the boys' leader.
"What do you mean?" Peter answered, his brow furrowing in confusion, "I've always had a shadow."
"Well, you don't right now," Slightly responded, pointing a pudgy finger at the place where Peter's silhouette ought to have been.
Peter looked over his shoulder, starting slightly when he realized there was no dark shape to greet him. He swallowed thickly, inhaling a steadying breath before facing the group again, schooling his face into an impassive expression.
"Must be a trick of the light," he said nonchalantly, and only Rumplestiltskin and Belle seemed to detect the slight tremor in his voice, their gazes immediately filling with apprehension as they glanced at one another. Rumplestiltskin leaned over under the pretense of wrapping an arm about Belle's shoulders in order to glimpse the ground behind his son; indeed, the ground was completely illuminated, as though the light from the fire was passing through the boy. Perturbed, Rumplestiltskin glanced at the ground behind himself and Belle, as well as the other boys, noticing how all their shadows appeared perfectly normal in the flickering firelight.
Rumplestiltskin's mind frantically searched through all his knowledge of magic-curses, hexes, jinxes, poisons and their effects-but nothing he had ever encountered before entailed the loss of one's own shadow. So deeply was he concentrating, that he had not realized the boys had begun speaking again.
"I wonder where Hook's at," Nibs said quietly, gnawing at the cuticle of his index finger.
"What do you mean 'where Hook's at?" Pox scoffed, his eyebrows raised in disbelief, "He's dead!"
"Well, yeah, but don't people go somewhere afterwards?" Nibs asked shyly, glancing over at Belle for reassurance, "I think my nanny once said-"
"Who cares where he's gone?" Slightly said pugnaciously, "I wonder where he came from."
"Hey! We still have his journal, don't we?" Curly asked, gazing around eagerly at the other boys.
Rumplestiltskin quirked an eyebrow at this new revelation, looking over at Peter in silent inquiry.
"We-uh-might have borrowed some things from his ship," Peter explained sheepishly, hesitantly meeting the man's gaze, "But I didn't read it, I swear. It-it wouldn't have been right."
"I read it. I've got it here," Pox said haughtily, pulling a red leather-bound tome from the back of his shirt as Rumplestiltskin, Peter, and Belle looked at each other in consternation.
"You did no such thing," Peter responded sharply, glaring at the older boy as he tossed the book from hand to hand.
"Did too. He wrote about lots of things: his useless crew, a crocodile that follows him, how his mother left because his father was a coward—"
"Hook had parents?" Tootles asked in an astonished voice as Slightly snatched the book to himself and flipped disbelievingly through the pages. The youngest boy's question struck Rumplestiltskin, and once more he felt the dull ache of sorrow deep within his chest. Belle gripped the hand that he had rested on her shoulder, her warm fingers gently pulling Rumplestiltskin away from the dark memories looming in his mind.
"Look, there're pictures in here!" Slightly cried, pointing a stubby finger at a dark sketch on the page.
"What is it?" Nibs asked eagerly, craning his neck to glimpse the drawing. Slightly pulled it out of the younger boy's reach, squinting down at the page in the firelight.
"Dunno," he answered, turning the journal on its side, "I think it's a...wheel, or somethi—"
"Who cares what it is; let's burn the thing," Pox interrupted, standing and stretching a lanky arm toward the red tome.
"No!" Peter and Rumplestiltskin cried out, jumping to their feet and causing all the other boys to freeze and stare up at them. Peter's eyes met his for a moment, and Rumplestiltskin felt another surge of pride for his son, who at least respected his deceased enemy's privacy. Pox sat down slowly, his eyes transfixed on the man and boy now glaring down at him.
"Give it here," Peter commanded firmly, holding his hand out toward Slightly, who cautiously handed the journal over. Peter pulled the journal protectively to his chest, curling his fingers about the edges to snap it shut, but something suddenly stilled his movements.
He stared down at the page, his eyebrows knitting together in concentration as he inspected the sketch. Rumplestiltskin watched him, an inexplicable sense of unease coiling in his stomach.
"I...I think I've seen this before," Peter murmured half to himself, tracing the fingertips of one hand over the picture. "It's a—" Something seemed to startle the boy, and he jumped slightly, his eyes unfocused-or perhaps very focused on something no one else could see-as the diary slipped from his fingers.
The book remained open as it thudded to the forest floor, and Rumplestiltskin felt his heart begin to race as he realized what the image was.
"A spinning wheel," the man whispered, finishing the boy's sentence. Peter's gaze darted to his, and for one exhilarating moment, Rumplestiltskin was certain he glimpsed familiarity in their warm depths. Out of the corner of his eye, Rumplestiltskin saw Belle looking from him to the boy anxiously, her blue eyes wide and glistening in the firelight. But then Peter seemed to shake himself, half-heartedly shrugging a shoulder as he returned to his seat.
"We'll figure out what to do with it later," he said with such finality none of the Lost Boys dared to address the matter further. Rumplestiltskin moved to sit down as well, his son's continued loss of memory weighing heavily on his hope, but before he could Belle rose to stand beside him.
"Could I speak with you for a moment?" She asked quietly, beckoning her head in the direction of the tree line and taking his hand in her own. Brow furrowing briefly in concern, he nodded, following as she walked a few meters away from the blazing fire pit.
Belle turned to face Rumplestiltskin once they were partly concealed in the dark shadows of the willows, inhaling a deep breath and releasing the hand she still held.
"You have to tell him," she whispered fervently, glancing quickly back at Peter before gazing imploringly up at the man.
"Belle, we've already discussed—"
"I don't understand, Rum. What are you so afraid of?"
"If he remembers me, he'll remember all the pain I caused—"
"He's already beginning to remember, Rum! I know you've noticed," she said urgently, placing her hands on the opened collar of his shirt, "And there's something...off about him—"
"You've known him a handful of days, and you think you know what's best for him?" Rumplestiltskin whispered defensively.
"I'm only trying to protect him," Belle insisted, shaking her head and reaching for one of Rumplestiltskin's hands.
"Well don't; you're not his mother," Rumplestiltskin snapped, keeping his hand from her reach, and Belle flinched as though he had struck her. The moment the words left Rumplestiltskin's mouth, he desperately wished to take them back, knowing Belle had been more of a mother to Bae here than his former wife had ever been. A scorching wave of self-hatred welled within him as he watched Belle struggle to respond, her eyes filling with tears.
Before her tears could fall or he could apologize, the soft, airy notes of a pan pipe floated toward them. The lilting notes of the boy's flute wrapped the motley crowd in its ethereal embrace, silencing all who heard it and suppressing whatever words the couple might have said next. Even the flames of the camp fire seemed to quiet the crackling steps of their dance.
Belle stared at Rumplestiltskin, some of her ire at their argument dissipating as she watched his gaze soften. "What is it?" she whispered, tentatively placing a hand on his forearm.
Rumplestiltskin remained quiet for a moment longer, closing his eyes. "The music," he breathed, "It's a lullaby."
"How do you know?" Belle murmured, her gaze fixed on the boy playing the entrancing tune.
Rumplestiltskin inhaled deeply as the boy's song warmed him to his core. Then, opening his eyes and returning his gaze back to Belle, he responded quietly, "Because I used to sing it to him."
The memory swam to the front of Rumplestiltskin's mind as his legs seemed to slowly carry him toward his son of their own accord.
Tiny, trembling hands clutched the front of his shirt and a head of dark curls buried itself in the crook of his neck. The warm, flushed cheek of a child pressed against the line of Rumplestiltskin's jaw as rain mercilessly pelted the thatched roof of their tiny cabin. A bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree, the resulting explosion of thunder startling both father and son. Baelfire's grip grew even tighter as he shuddered, hiding his face against Rumplestiltskin's neck. Even when confronted with a furious storm, his brave boy did not cry.
"Sing something, Papa. Make the storm go away," he whispered as another clash of thunder sounded overhead. Rumplestiltskin nodded, rubbing soothing circles against his boy's back as he searched his mind for the lullaby his son requested.
Gently rocking the toddler, Rumplestiltskin hummed the melody, smiling softly as he felt some of the tension leave his son's body. After a few moments, he opened his mouth to sing, weaving a melodious tale of a boy whose only wish was for the happiness of his village and herd of sheep. His voice strained on the higher notes and his brogue sounded even thicker as he sang the folk song his own father had taught him, but Bae did not seem to mind, sighing contentedly. By the second verse, the lad had joined in, humming sleepily along as his eyelids slowly drooped closed.
When the boy's humming quieted and his breathing was even, Rumplestiltskin carefully laid him back down on the straw mattress, tenderly brushing the dark curls from his forehead and pressing a kiss there. Smiling down at his son, Rumplestiltskin softly sang the last verse:
And every night, before his family retires,
The man calls his sons to sit by the fire,
"Listen, my dears, I've a story to tell,
About a shepherd boy and a wishing well."
Rumplestiltskin felt his lips form into the same soft smile he wore in the sweet memory, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. It was then that he realized his son had stopped playing the melody on his flute, and that everyone was staring at him.
He now stood only a few steps from where the boy sat. Blinking away the tears that had gathered in his eyes, and feeling a slight flush in his cheeks from embarrassment, Rumplestiltskin gazed down at his son.
"Where did you learn that?" He asked in a voice no louder than a whisper, searching for any sign of recognition in his son's chestnut eyes. Peter turned his gaze to the flute in his hands, frowning slightly.
"My papa sang—" He paused suddenly, slowly lifting his head as he seemed to realize just what he was saying. "Sang it to me," he finished quietly, his voice breathy with astonishment.
Rumplestiltskin felt such a rush of hope and affection at the boy's words, he could not keep himself from glancing back at Belle, seeing his own wonder reflected in her blue eyes. He turned back to face his son again, waiting with bated breath for Peter to continue.
"I thought you didn't have any parents?" Nibs asked abruptly, tilting his head to the side and lowering his hand from his mouth.
"I thought I didn't."
The boy said no more, chewing on his lip and staring into the fire as he apparently mulled over this unexpected revelation.
"Do you remember your mother? The one you had before Belle?" Tootles asked from beside Nibs, his green eyes bright with interest. Peter's eyes narrowed as he considered the youngest Lost Boy's question.
Rumplestiltskin's stomach seemed to somersault over itself as he watched his son's forehead crease in concentration, his mind obviously struggling to grasp the tendrils of some distant memory.
"Not—not much, but...she was very beautiful," he said after a pause, his voice mystified as though he was wondering aloud.
"What about your papa? What was he like?" Tootles' curious voice asked again, and he leaned forward in anticipation.
At this question, Peter frowned, staring intently at the flute in his hands. After a few moments, he shook his head, sighing exasperatedly.
"I don't know," he said, slouching forward and sinking his hands into his hair, "I can't remember." His forehead seemed to shine with a new sheen of sweat, and even in the warm glare of the fire he seemed unnaturally pale.
"Peter, you don't look so good," Curly said concernedly, reaching out a hand toward his shoulder.
"I'm fine," Peter snapped, abruptly pulling himself to his feet and walking toward the tree line. Curly's hand remained suspended for a few seconds longer, before he slowly lowered it to his lap, his expression hurt and confused.
Rumplestiltskin slowly followed Peter as he walked further away from the group, the need to ensure his son was all right overpowering his fear of what he might discover about the state of the boy's memories. Peter came to an immediate halt just within the shadows of the trees, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His shoulders were tense, and he stood stock still as though suddenly faced with a dangerous predator. Slowly, in the manner of someone approaching a wild sparrow that might flee at any moment, Rumplestiltskin walked to stand beside him. The man opened his mouth to speak, but before any words could escape him, Peter spoke.
"It looks even bigger now," he said in a low, haunted voice, "And hungry. I can see all its teeth from here..."
The boy's words sent a freezing trickle of fear down Rumplestiltskin's spine, and he found himself stepping closer as he asked, "What are you talking about, B-Peter?"
"The crocodile," Peter answered in a whisper, and the simple response magnified Rumplestiltskin's anxiety tenfold. Hook had mentioned the same creature aboard the Jolly Roger, and like then, Rumplestiltskin could not see the beast at all.
"I think it's coming for me now," the boy said, his face expressionless as his eyes focused on something in the distance. Rumplestiltskin craned his neck to see if he could make out the reptile's shape in the darkness, but only the winding shadows of the vines met his gaze.
"Son, I don't see—" Rumplestiltskin began, pausing when the rustle of footsteps overturning leaves suddenly sounded behind them.
He turned to see Belle slowly approaching the tree line, her forehead lined with worry and her hands absentmindedly fidgeting with the sleeves of her green jacket. She paused a few steps away, her eyes meeting Rumplestiltskin's as she softly asked, "Is-is everything all right?"
They both looked at Peter, who remained facing the dark forest, his gaze still transfixed on a point in the distance. When Belle's dainty hand came to rest on the boy's shoulder, he started, whirling about to face her as though he had not heard her approach at all. He stared at her, his brow furrowing in confusion as she brought her hand to his cheek and then his forehead, frowning slightly.
"You feel feverish, Peter," Belle murmured, smoothing back the hair from his forehead. The sight of Belle caring for his son, and the way the boy seemed to welcome her affection, dissipated some of the fear that was weighing on Rumplestiltskin's heart in that moment.
"I'm all right," Peter responded quietly, raising a hand to rub at the tense muscles of his neck. "I just...need to walk—no," he paused suddenly, gazing intensely up at the tree canopy, "I need to fly."
He bent his knees, preparing to leap into the air and let the wind currents carry his troubles far away.
"I don't think that's best right now," Rumplestiltskin said quickly, pausing the boy's movements. Peter stared at him, quirking an eyebrow in bewilderment at the man's concern.
"Why not?"
Rumplestiltskin opened and closed his mouth, struggling to decide how to respond. Again he felt an overwhelming urge to tell his son the truth, that he was remembering and the magic of flight would likely only slow the process. However, the daunting thought that the boy's memories would be accompanied by even more pain prevented Rumplestiltskin from doing so. He nearly released a sigh of relief when Belle answered Peter instead; she did not yet know what Aibreann had told him about the relationship between flying and Baelfire's memory loss, but she understood magic played a significant role.
"Because you're not feeling well," she said calmly, glancing quickly at Rumplestiltskin for support, "And it's been a very trying day. Please, can you wait until morning?"
Peter looked very ready to refuse, but something in Belle and Rumplestiltskin's caring expressions quieted his rebellious thoughts. Looking from one adult to the other and sighing softly, he stated somewhat glumly, "All right."
Belle and Rumplestiltskin looked at each other, their gazes filled with abject relief. Before another word could be said, however, the proud voice of Slightly echoed forth.
"I think Peter just got grounded," the plump boy announced brashly from his seat on the nearest log, his lips smirking and eyebrows raised in surprise.
"I did not," Peter responded indignantly, scowling at him. "Did I?" He asked timidly, returning his attention to the two adults standing before him.
"Well," Rumplestiltskin said, grimacing slightly, "Not exactly..."
Peter's shoulders slumped at the man's words, his eyes focusing on his feet.
"It's only until the morning, darling," Belle reminded soothingly, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"We'll see how you're feeling then, all right?" Rumplestiltskin asked gently, placing his hand on his son's other shoulder.
Peter nodded, inhaling deeply in disappointment before turning and walking back to the fire pit. Belle made to follow him, but before she could take more than one step, Rumplestiltskin wrapped a hand gently about her wrist, keeping her close.
"I'm sorry," he murmured as she turned to face him, sincere regret laced in every syllable, "About what I said earlier. Truly, Belle, I didn't mean it. I—"
She placed her fingertips softly against his lips, the corners of her own lifting in a small smile. "I'm sorry, too, Rum. I shouldn't have pressured you," she whispered.
Rumplestiltskin removed her hand from his lips, enfolding it in one of his own and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
"You are my light, Belle," he whispered against her skin, watching as a pretty blush painted her cheeks. Her smile widened and she entwined their fingers, her eyes shining in the yellow firelight.
"Come on, let's get back to the fire," she said softly, turning toward the clearing and lightly tugging their joined hands.
Rumplestiltskin followed, not realizing just how cold he was until his body was once more embraced by the warmth of the flames. The boys were chatting eagerly about something when the two adults rejoined them. Not a moment after Belle seated herself on a log, Tootles bounded over to her, his sandy curls bouncing with every step.
"Will you tell us another story, Mother?" He asked excitedly, folding his hands together and staring up at her with his wide, green eyes. "Please?"
The tiny boy's request immediately caught the attention of the other boys, including Peter, whose lips stretched into a wide grin despite his sickly pallor. They all turned to face her, scooting closer on their logs.
Belle laughed gently at their antics, and when she glanced at Rumplestiltskin he could see the battle was lost before it had even begun.
"Well..." she began, laughing again when the boys continued to plead for a story. Rumplestiltskin watched as Peter's grin only broadened, his still-glassy eyes brightening with interest. It was then that an idea, terrifying and brilliant all at once, blossomed in Rumplestiltskin's mind.
"Belle," Rumplestiltskin interrupted suddenly, his heart sprinting beneath his ribs. "Could I—Would you mind if I told one?" He asked quietly, fighting the urge to withdraw the question and dismiss the idea altogether.
Belle's eyebrows shot up at his question, her slightly parted lips stretching into a surprised smile as she shook her head enthusiastically. "Not at all," she said somewhat breathily, "Please do."
The six boys seated in the clearing turned to face him, curiosity glinting in their eyes as they waited for the foreign man to speak. It was a leap of faith, much like the one he had failed to take when his son begged him to enter the swirling vortex and give them a fresh start.
With a quick glance in Peter's direction, and a deep, steadying breath, Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth. He would tell them a story, one that entailed betrayal and tragedy beyond anything their innocent minds could imagine.
His own.
A/N: Please review! We would love to hear your thoughts, questions, concerns, etc.!