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~Chapter XXVIII~

"Long ago, in a land far different from this one, there was a man, a spinner," Rumplestiltskin hesitantly began his tale, swallowing back his nerves as all eyes fixated on him, "He was cowardly, afraid of the past just as much as the future, especially when it concerned his beloved son."

Rumplestiltskin saw recognition flicker in Belle's turquoise eyes, and her gaze became so tender and understanding it almost stole his breath away. Peter, on the other hand, merely looked as politely interested as the other boys.

"In this land, there were creatures called ogres: monstrous beasts who could take out a dozen men with a single swipe of their clubs," he paused as several of the boys scooted closer in excitement and Belle shuddered slightly, before persisting.

"Some kingdoms, including the one in which the spinner and his son lived, were at war with the ogres. It was suicide," he claimed fervently, curling the fingers of one hand into a fist, "Going up against those beasts. Many men died, and it wasn't long before the generals decided to lower the draft age," his hands shook as he recalled the day his son told him they would be coming for him, "To fourteen."

The youngest of the boys gasped, but it was Peter's reaction that truly captured Rumplestiltskin's attention: the boy turned sharply to fully face him, his brow creasing in deep concentration. Trepidation and anticipation warring for dominance within him, Rumplestiltskin forced himself to continue his story.

"The spinner's son would turn fourteen in three days," he said, coughing to clear his throat. "Not wanting to lose the one person he loved most, the cowardly man decided to do what he did best: run. And so they did. But they got no farther than the village border."

The Lost Boys stared eagerly up at him, their eyes wide at the suspense, but Rumplestiltskin barely registered them, his mind vividly conjuring the memory that matched the tale.

"The conscription officers caught them," he murmured, recalling the men's cruel, sneering faces, "They humiliated the spinner, and promised to steal away his son in two days' time."

Rumplestiltskin felt a wave of self-loathing well up in his chest at the memory of how he had kissed the soldier's boot, all remnants of his pride shattering right before the eyes of his son. He glanced at the boy now, and nearly started at what he saw in his eyes: not disgust, nor shame, but sympathy, and perhaps a tough of anger at the soldiers in the story. The knowledge that even this version of his son would come to his defense provided Rumplestiltskin with enough strength to persevere with sharing his dreadful past.

"The spinner became desperate," he said, though the words felt like a serious understatement as he remembered the nigh crippling fear he had felt that night, "Trusting the words of a roadside beggar, he decided to seek out the power that would allow him to keep his son. You see, there was a...a creature of sorts with unparalleled magical prowess, who frightened and tormented all those around him. He was called the 'Dark One.'"

Rumplestiltskin inhaled deeply, the hope that he had felt at the "beggar's" words still lingered painfully in his mind, along with the enthusiastic promise he had made to Bae to use the magic for good. The Lost Boys traded excited glances at the introduction of a character with such an ominous title; Belle and Peter, however, quietly listened, their expressions grave.

"The spinner learned of a way to control him, and with his son's help managed to steal the object he needed to do so. But the Dark One," Rumplestiltskin momentarily clenched his jaw, fighting against his rage at the memory of the man's words, "The Dark One taunted him, provoked him, until at last the spinner...The spinner killed him, unwittingly gaining all of his power. He became the new Dark One."

Several of the children gasped, but Peter remained unmoving, save for the clenching of one fist at his side. Rumplestiltskin repressed a shudder at the memory of how invasive it had felt when the dark magic entered his being and fused itself with his soul.

"At first, it was as though he had been born again, given a second chance. But then...he began to change. His thirst for power became unquenchable, and he did...terrible things."

"His son, who was all goodness and light, did not like the change. He wanted his true father back, not the monster he had become. The new Dark One still loved his son very much, but the only way to rid him of his power was to kill him. So, he made his son a deal: if the boy found a way to get rid of his father's dark powers, without killing him, the spinner would agree to do it."

A half-smile curved Rumplestiltskin's lips at the memory of the hope and determination that had shone in his son's gaze.

"And the brave boy did. He obtained a magical bean that would take them to a land without magic, where the spinner and his son could live a normal life, together."

Peter leaned forward, his elbows resting on his thighs. Rumplestiltskin watched him, momentarily spellbound as the boy's eyes narrowed in not only concentration, but something else he could not quite name...

"His son threw the bean on the ground, and immediately it opened a portal," Rumplestiltskin tried to finish, nervously wetting his lips as apprehension began to stir uncomfortably in his stomach, "A swirling vortex of green light, so bright it was almost blinding. It was their only chance, the boy said, and he started pulling his father towards it. But the spinner...he..." Rumplestiltskin's voice fell silent as the memory of that fateful night, of his worst betrayal, overwhelmed him.

His eyes turned downward as he struggled to swallow past the lump forming in his throat. He could hear the boys beginning to fidget in the silence that followed before a gentle hand rested on his shoulder. A rueful grin tugged at his lips at the familiar pressure of Belle's comforting touch.

"Why don't you tell them the rest of the story?"

Rumplestiltskin's head shot up at Peter's voice, and the strain of rising anger just detectable within it. All eyes in the clearing stared at the boy as he slowly stood, his lips pressed together in a firm line. His eyes met Rumplestiltskin's, and a jolt raced through the man at how dark his son's irises appeared in the dying firelight.

"Peter?" Nibs prompted timidly, eyebrows crinkling in confusion.

But the older boy's gaze remained fixated on the man across the camp fire. He gave a sharp shake of his head, features hardening. "Not Peter."

Nibs released a nervous laugh, "What?"

"Baelfire…" Rumplestiltskin began tentatively, his voice hushed as though he feared anything louder would somehow shatter the hope he felt in that moment.

"You look different from the last time I saw you," Baelfire observed flatly, neither protesting nor openly welcoming the returned use of his given name. He took a step forward. "But you still have your powers."

Rumplestiltskin's stomach twisted in dread at the boy's words, which sounded more like a statement than a question, and the prospect of once more seeing disappointment in his son's eyes. Swallowing thickly and praying the boy would understand, he responded, "Y-yes, but Bae, I—"

"Of course you do," Baelfire retorted caustically, folding his arms over his chest. "It's probably a spell you're using now."

"I can expl—"

"Finish the story," Baelfire interrupted coolly, his piercing gaze trained on Rumplestiltskin. He jerked his head toward the rest of the group. "Tell them what you did."

Belle's and the Lost Boys' gazes, which had been darting worriedly between the two, settled on Rumplestiltskin. The man's face, etched with lines of grief and guilt, mirrored the heavy burden on his heart. He looked down, inhaling a shuddering breath to steal his resolve. Then slowly rising to his feet, he took a couple steps forward, gingerly lessening the distance between him and the boy. Though the deep remorse he felt threatened to smother whatever optimism he might have had left, he never took his eyes off his son. He swallowed, willing his voice to obey.

"I broke our deal."

Whispers suddenly emanated from the boys and he heard Belle release a soft, empathetic sigh behind him. Baelfire held his stance, his eyes glinting with an intensity that compelled his father to continue.

"I let you go," Rumplestiltskin murmured, his shoulders slumping dejectedly and voice betraying his pain.

The murmurs and whispers issuing from the boys died away, immersing the glade in a nigh tangible silence. Baelfire averted his gaze, but not before more hurt than Rumplestiltskin had ever seen him display before shone in his eyes.

Rumplestiltskin's vision swam as his eyes filled with tears. He blinked back the moisture, fighting to keep his composure as he struggled to utter the words he had longed to say to his son all these years. Belle rose to her feet behind him, and a moment later Rumplestiltskin heard her command in a soft voice, "Let's go inside, boys."

"You don't have to leave," Baelfire insisted, pivoting to face the retreating group. He glanced at Rumplestiltskin, his gaze darkening with anger and resentment. "He does."

"I'm not going anywhere," Rumplestiltskin insisted firmly, his gaze penetrating as it focused on his teenage son. Surprise flashed briefly across the boy's features at his father's assurance, before he schooled them back into a glare once more.

Belle's gaze traveled between the father and son, her forehead creasing in anxiety before a sudden calmness seemed to wash over her. Within her eyes blazed conviction, and with a deep, steady breath she returned her attention to the Lost Boys. She continued to usher them toward the tree house, quietly hushing them when they began to whisper amongst themselves.

"Why can't we stay with Peter?" Tootles asked suddenly, straining to glance back at the pair. Belle placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling softly at him.

"Because, darling, they need to be alone right now," she responded, reaching out a hand for him to take as they resumed walking to the base of their shelter.

Something in her tone must have warned them that the subject was not up for debate, for not a single one objected again as they followed her over to the staircase of vines. She brushed a hand against Rumplestiltskin's back as she passed him, glancing back with eyes full of encouragement. She smiled gently, somehow offering her love more reassurance than any words could have in that moment. Then she was gone, leaving Rumplestiltskin and his son some much-needed privacy.

Now that the two were alone, the camp fell into an uncomfortable silence. Baelfire, whose demeanor had not changed, now stared at the embers smoldering in the fire pit. It took all of Rumplestiltskin's will to not give in to the abject fear he felt at the possibility of his son rejecting him just as Hook had done. Ignoring his most basic and cowardly instincts, the man took a step forward, feeling as though that one slight movement was perhaps the most important of his life.

"There is…" Rumplestiltskin began, his voice hoarse with emotion, "There is no excuse for what I did to you, son."

Baelfire shifted his feet, but he did not speak, the lethargically dancing flames of the fire reflecting in his eyes.

"You were right about me," Rumplestiltskin proceeded, "I am a coward. Even acquiring power hasn't changed that."

He studied his son intently, gauging the boy's response to his words. Seeing none, he pushed forward carefully.

"That moment I let you go, I have regretted it every single day of my life. If I could go back to do things differently…" Rumplestiltskin sighed deeply, the centuries he had spent trying to rectify that unforgivable wrong weighing heavily on his heart, "I would. "

Rumplestiltskin's throat began to constrict, making it difficult to speak. He wanted—no, needed his son to understand. Swallowing back his grief, he took one step closer to the boy.

"Bae, I am truly sorr—" his voice broke as a sob threatened to escape him.

The boy at last raised his eyes to meet Rumplestiltskin's, his expression unreadable as he searched his father's gaze for a moment. Before the older man could discern what lay in their depths, the boy turned from him, trudging away from the campfire. Rumplestiltskin followed.

"I never stopped looking for you," he said urgently.

Baelfire stopped, his back still turned to his father. Rumplestiltskin watched as the boy sighed and shook his head disbelievingly.

"You certainly took your time, then," he whispered, his voice shaking with barely contained anger, "didn't you?"

"Bae," Rumplestiltskin sighed, passing a hand over his forehead as he tried to determine how to explain the centuries he spent acquiring enough magic to create the most powerful curse the realms had ever suffered, just to find his son.

"What is it that you want?" Baelfire asked abruptly, turning to face him with a hint of annoyance distinguishable within his icy glare.

"Your forgiveness," Rumplestiltskin answered quietly, flinching when the boy scoffed in disbelief. "I want my son."

Although Baelfire remained silent, something in his demeanor shifted slightly, his features softening the tiniest amount. The change gave Rumplestiltskin a minute sense of relief and he stepped closer to the boy, placing his hands on his shoulders.

"I want you to come home with me," the man murmured, gazing intently into his son's dark eyes.

Baelfire regarded him wordlessly for a long moment, before smirking incredulously and shaking his head. "I am home."

"Please, Bae," Rumplestiltskin whispered, lightly squeezing his son's shoulders.

The boy opened his mouth to respond, but before the words could leave him he grimaced, pressing a hand to the center of his chest. He swayed slightly on his feet, his eyes fighting to focus on the ground before him.

"What is it, son?" Rumplestiltskin asked, his brow creasing as he watched the boy momentarily struggle to catch his breath.

Baelfire remained silent, staring at the ground a moment longer before raising his gaze and shaking his head. "It's nothing," he dismissed, shrugging off his father's grip and stepping back. Rumplestiltskin advanced toward him, opening his mouth to protest, but Baelfire held out a hand to stop him.

"I'm not leaving Neverland," the boy added firmly.

Closing his eyes, Rumplestiltskin released an exasperated sigh. "You can't stay here, son," he insisted fervently.

"Why can't I?" Baelfire challenged, his voice rising, "I don't need a father!"

The boy stepped closer then, hastily closing the gap between them and staring unblinkingly into the man's eyes.

"And I don't need you."

Rumplestiltskin winced as the words pierced him, and the absence of warmth in his son's gaze only amplified his pain.

"You don't mean that," he whispered, reaching out to clasp his son's shoulder again.

"I've managed this long without you, haven't I?" Baelfire demanded, his voice nearly a shout as he jerked his shoulder out of his father's reach.

Rumplestiltskin let his hand fall to his side, his gaze downcast as the reality of the boy's statement turned whatever hope he had left to shame. Although Baelfire appeared no older than he had the night he had disappeared through the vortex, he had lived for centuries without his father's guidance.

"You know it doesn't even matter." The boy dismissed sharply, throwing his arms out to the side. "You wasted your time even coming here," he finished harshly, turning and striding toward the tree line.

Something within Rumplestiltskin snapped in that moment, and he suddenly grasped the boy's wrist, which bared the silver bracelet he had crafted for him long ago. Baelfire's steps faltered and he turned to face the man, his features etched with unequivocal defiance.

"Remember this?" Rumplestiltskin asked sharply, his gaze briefly settling on the bracelet that glittered in the red hue cast by the dying embers. Baelfire tried to pull away, refusing to look his father in the eyes, but Rumplestiltskin held on firmly.

"You told me you never needed gold because you had me," Rumplestiltskin said desperately, shaking the boy's wrist in emphasis, "Can't you remember that?"

"I don't want to remember!" Baelfire yelled back, jerking his hand away with enough force to make Rumplestiltskin stumble slightly.

"I can't even trust you!" The boy continued, his voice echoing in the still glade, "Why should I listen to you?!"

"Because if you don't, you will become no better than the pirate you have fought all these years!"

Baelfire stepped back, and Rumplestiltskin felt an instant surge of regret as his son stared at him, horrified.

"What did you say?" The boy whispered in disbelief, his eyes glaring dangerously into his father's.

"Son—" Rumplestiltskin began tentatively, moving to approach the boy.

"How could you think I would ever be anything like him?" Baelfire interjected sharply, his cheeks flushing with anger.

"Bae, I didn't mean—"

"You know what he's done!" The boy interrupted furiously, his voice cracking with the strain.

"I know what you could be capable of!" Rumplestiltskin yelled back, his eyes desperately pleading for his son to listen.

Baelfire winced as though he had been struck, quickly averting his gaze. Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as he realized the full meaning behind his words. Silence passed between them, and he dreaded the pain he would undoubtedly see once more in his son's eyes.

"You know what he did to my friend," Baelfire spoke quietly after a long moment, his voice hoarse with emotion, "And you would still say that—" His throat constricted, choking off his words and causing Rumplestiltskin's eyes to snap open.

An overwhelming wave of grief threatened to drown the man as he watched his son's eyes slowly fill with tears. Having not witnessed his boy cry since he was a babe, Rumplestiltskin felt more powerless than he ever had, looking on in stunned silence. His own throat constricted painfully as he wished beyond anything that he could do something to erase his son's pain.

Without even a single tear falling from his eyes, Baelfire blinked several times, drawing in a tremulous breath as he obviously fought to regain his composure. A moment later, something changed in the boy, and Rumplestiltskin might have missed if he had not seen it before: a wall, the one his son always lifted in his most vulnerable moments, so that he could conceal his own suffering and continue to be his father's greatest source of strength. It pained Rumplestiltskin to an immeasurable degree to know that the boy hoisted it now not to inspire his father, but to protect himself from even more hurt by his hands.

After casting one more heated glare in Rumplestiltskin's direction, he turned about and began briskly walking toward the edge of the clearing. Rumplestiltskin quickly followed, begging in a hoarse voice, "Son, please."

The boy continued walking, each step more resolute than the last. Rumplestiltskin reached out a hand, grasping his son's forearm and halting his retreat.

"Don't leave," he pleaded quietly.

"Is that an order?" Baelfire asked spitefully, his eyebrows raised in incredulity and he pulled his arm from the man's grasp.

"No," Rumplestiltskin murmured, tears once again prickling the corners of his eyes, "It's a request."

Baelfire turned toward the forest again, and Rumplestiltskin watched as his son's shoulders rose with several deep breaths.

"Instead of trying to be a father, why don't you just do what you're actually good at," The boy demanded bitterly, glancing over his shoulder at the man with eyes nearly as black as the sky, "Let me go."

Without another word, Baelfire bent his knees, his ashen face turned to the starless sky above.

"Bae, stop—" Rumplestiltskin implored, but the boy leapt into the air regardless, soaring up through the tree canopy and disappearing in the night sky. Only the dejected man and the gently swinging vines of the towering willows occupied the clearing now.

Rumplestiltskin gritted his teeth against a sudden rush of rage, his eyes settling on a nearby log. The rage crested almost painfully, and he launched his leg forward to kick the wood. The image of his son's youthful and broken face suddenly surfaced before his eyes, and he immediately stilled, forcing the wave of anger to ebb.

He took several deep breaths, running a hand through his hair and turning his gaze once more toward the sky. He scanned the starless heavens, searching for any trace of his boy. He found none, his eyes focusing instead on a black mass of clouds billowing on the horizon. They seemed to expand by the second, and as he watched a jagged thread of lightning flashed from one to the other. He could just detect the faintest rumble of thunder, and the sound filled Rumplestiltskin with an inexplicable sense of dread.

A storm was approaching, in more ways than one.