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~Chapter XXIX~

The shapes of the willows below whipped past, their shadows blurring together into one vast ocean of darkness beneath the flying boy. The cold wind whistled past Baelfire's ears and chilled his clammy forehead as he soared farther and farther away from the clearing and the man it pained him to call father. His blood pounded in his ears, making his head throb as he angrily propelled himself toward the coastline. An occasional flash of violet lightning illuminated mountains of clouds looming on the horizon, but the boy paid them no mind.

Baelfire could just glimpse the white water of the waves crashing along the shore in the distance, when his balance suddenly wavered. He stumbled, dropping several feet as the world below him tilted sharply. Clenching his teeth, the boy recruited all of his willpower to stay afloat, frantically shaking his head against the vertigo that gripped him.

His disorientation did not relent, and in the next moment he was plummeting toward the earth, his shock too great to allow a single cry to escape. The tree branches caught at his tunic, their leaf-strewn arms attempting to soften his fall as he careened downward. Finally, with a grunt, Baelfire landed on the forest floor, hissing at the shooting pain in his joints. His chest heaved as the dizzy spell suddenly vanished, leaving the boy trembling and unnerved on a bed of leaves and twigs.

With a relieved but shaky sigh, Baelfire sat back on his heels, rubbing his wrists and knees, which still ached from the impact. His heart thudded wildly in his chest and he placed a hand above it, his brow furrowing when he realized the beats seemed off, as though there was a stuttering pause between each one. There was no shooting pain as there had been earlier at the camp during their argument, but the faltering thuds unnerved him nonetheless.

Anxiety increasing the tension between his shoulders, Baelfire considered returning to the Drey. However, the idea only catapulted the memory of his father's words to the forefront of his mind, and with a scowl the boy hauled himself to his feet. Without another glance in the Drey's direction, he bent his knees and leapt into the air one more.

Only this time the air did not welcome him, and instead of flying Baelfire merely fell back to the forest floor, stumbling to stay on his feet. He closed his eyes, focusing with all his might to find a happy memory.

But none seemed to come to him. His anger from his argument with his father still smoldered hotly in his chest, and it seemed no matter how hard he tried, it would not relent enough for happiness to gain the upper hand. Of course, his father took this joy away from him as well, he thought furiously.

With a frustrated groan, Baelfire kicked at a branch on the forest floor, before running a hand through his slightly damp hair. He briefly wondered if Belle was right, if he did have a fever, with how clammy and hot the flesh of his forehead felt. However, that thought, too, was quickly eclipsed by his anguish at his father's return, and without further delay he began walking toward the beach.

The sigh of the waves sliding along the sand coast met his ears, and through all his hurt he managed to feel an ounce of gratitude for having managed to fly at least within easy walking distance to his favorite location in Neverland. For the first time since he could remember, he set off on foot.

As the boy strode along the weathered path, the vines and low-growing shrubs curved out of the way, and he could not help but feel that they did so not to help him, but because they were somehow...afraid of him. The thought filled him with a deep sense of remorse as though he had lost the confidence of a dear friend. He frowned, his steps slowing as he watched yet another stone tumble out of his way.

Only a few more minutes passed before he glimpsed the narrow break in the tree line and the faint glow of the crashing waves beyond it. His gait quickened as he thought of the comfort the dock would bring; perhaps he might even be able to fly there, as it was the exact location where he first leapt into the air and rode the wind.

He stepped through the break in the shrubbery and onto the beach, his steps quickly transforming into a sprint as his gaze landed on the low-lying dock. The swift movements tired him faster than usual, but he pressed on until he reached the very end of the pier. His chest heaved as he glanced around, his excited smile waning as the view of the murky water and the starless sky provided no reassurance. Instead of the pleasant memories of his first flight, only the chilling memory of Hook's namesake pressing against his throat greeted the boy.

It seemed this happiness, too, had been taken from him.

Baelfire gripped his hair with a hand, a rush of white-hot anger almost making his head swim. He wished his father had never come here. He had been free, unburdened by painful memories of broken promises. He'd been lost, yes, but not abandoned, not so far as he knew. And now...Now every other thought was of his father's face the moment he let him fall through the vortex, the moment he chose everything but his son.

A faint glimmer at his wrist caught the boy's attention: his silver bracelet, the one his father had spun from straw and given to him. Recalling his father's harsh words—You will become no better than the pirate you have fought all these years!—Baelfire grit his teeth, ripping the bracelet from his wrist with a grunt.

He did not know which hurt worse: being compared to his worst enemy, or the fact that it was his own father who drew the comparison. And it was all so he could frighten his son into giving him the second chance he did not deserve.

Baelfire glanced over his shoulder at the forest, imagining his father back at the clearing, undoubtedly contriving his next attempt to beguile his son into unmerited forgiveness.

I know what you could be capable of!

Baelfire's fist tightened almost painfully around the bracelet, the chain links biting into the flesh of his palm. How could his very own father say such a thing? He would never maim and murder like Hook had—

The image of a bejeweled hand being ruthlessly severed from its arm flashed in the boy's mind, along with a distant echo of the pirate captain's pained shout. With a twisting sense of dread he recalled how it had been his sword that had inflicted the wound.

"It's not the same," he murmured, frowning as he recalled his triumphant cry when the pirate had retreated to his ship, away from the Lost Boys. He had merely been protecting his friends; it was always Hook who attacked first.

Except that one day, his mind seemed to hiss tauntingly, projecting the memory of himself and the Lost Boys sneaking aboard Hook's ship. Baelfire closed his eyes, chest heaving as he pictured his memory self leading them to the captain's quarters and stealing some of the finery, only to be ambushed when they returned to the deck. The ensuing fight had been in the boys' favor, with them easily escaping the Jolly Roger.

All except Scout.

The memory seemed to shift then, and instead of viewing the horrid scene from where he had been hovering above, Baelfire was on the deck. Murder roiled in his heart as he approached Hook in the memory, his arm raised to deal a fatal blow. He swung, a cold laugh escaping his lips as the weapon pierced his victim's chest, sending torrents of blood down the surrounding fabric.

A satisfied smirk twisting his lips, Baelfire looked up.

A horrified cry escaped the boy's throat as his mind showed him not Hook's face, but Scout's, pale and wide-eyed at the point of his tragic death.

Baelfire's eyes sprung open, frantically darting to his left hand.

"No!" He shouted, his heart sprinting in his chest, for the bracelet did not dangled from a closed fist, but the lethal groove of a polished, silver hook.

We're more alike than you may think.

Releasing another cry, the boy shook his hand and screwed his eyes shut, heart stuttering in his chest. After several deep breaths, he hesitantly opened them.

The hook was gone. Only his trembling fist and the ends of the bracelet peeking out from within it remained.

"I'll never be like him," Baelfire grated out loud, staring down at the piece of jewelry, "And I don't need you."

With another grunt, he threw the bracelet out over the water with all of his might, watching with dark satisfaction as it broke the surface and disappeared in the murky depths. He stared a moment longer at the place where it had sunk, before slowly lowering himself to sit on the dock. Sighing heavily, he leaned his elbows on his knees, placing his head wearily in his hands. Although several minutes had passed since he had ceased running, his heart still pounded against his ribs, and he could not seem to comfortably catch his breath.

In the span of less than an hour, Baelfire felt he had lost everything he had come to love about Neverland. He found it difficult to swallow as he thought of the Lost Boys, how they would undoubtedly think him a liar with a coward for a father. They probably lost their faith in him, just like the island apparently had. The notion filled him with such a wrenching sense of grief, he thought he might crumble under its crushing weight.

More than grief, however, the boy felt rage; hotter and more terrifying in its intensity than the hate that blazed in Hook's eyes during their duels. His father, the coward who hid behind the violet veil of magic, had found him, wanted him back. How long would it be before history repeated itself and Baelfire was lost once more with only his pain for company? His father still possessed his powers; he had not changed...he couldn't have...

Baelfire's fingers absentmindedly traced the thin slice on his neck; he winced as his fingertip brushed against a bit that had not yet scabbed over. This morning had been the closest he had ever come to dying... But his father had stopped Hook from dealing the final blow, forcing his own fear aside. He had saved him.

The memory of his father's face in the moment before he collided with Hook stood out starkly in Baelfire's mind, and he could not repress a surge of pride. He had been prepared to die, his eyes closed and the happy memory of flight at the front of his mind, but the sound of racing feet had abruptly caught his attention. Opening his eyes, he had glimpsed the man's expression practically shining with determination, and something else...something powerful and unshakeable.

Courage.

Baelfire's chest heaved at the revelation, and he could not restrain the slight smile tugging at his lips. At last the man had refused to let anything tear his son away again, including his own cowardice. He could have run; it would have been the easy thing to do. But instead, he stayed; he fought.

All his life, he had watched his father cower at the slightest hint of danger. And in the final moments before they had been parted for centuries, he saw his father pull back his hand, settling it instead on the black hilt of his treasured power.

But today, his father had not only saved him, he had chosen him.

Mind reeling with the sudden onslaught of pride, Baelfire jumped to his feet, turning and preparing to sprint all the way back to the Drey, and his father. Even with the lingering sting of his father's harsh words could not overpower the boy's sudden, gripping desire to make things right again, to give them a second chance. He needed to confront his father, to begin that long journey toward forgiveness. But before he could take the first step, he froze, panic seizing him.

Eyes wide, he whirled around, frantically scanning the dark water for any trace of the silver bracelet. He wanted it back. No, he needed it, just as much as he needed his own father.

As though understanding the boy's desperate desire to find the bracelet, the curve of one of Neverland's moons rose above the horizon, casting a brilliant beam of light directly on the shore. The moonlight shone so brightly, it penetrated the water all the way to the seafloor. Baelfire leaned over the edge of the pier, barely containing a cry of joy when his eyes caught the faint flicker of light reflecting off of a silver surface.

His hands trembled with anticipation and intense perseverance as he pulled his sword from his palm frond belt, dropping it on the wooden planks before poising to dive into the water. Again, his movements froze. Meters from the dock floated a massive dark shape, the ridges of its back as large as Baelfire's hand: the crocodile. It shifted slightly, and he could just make out the shine of its lethal jowls as it lifted its reptilian head.

For a long moment Baelfire merely stared, transfixed as the crocodile's tail swerved left and right, like a sinister pendulum ticking away the last seconds of his life. He shuddered, fear tempting him to flee while he still had the chance.

No, Baelfire thought determinedly, locking his jaw, he would not flee. He would fight, just as his father had bravely done for him.

With a deep, steadying breath, the boy moved his eyes back to the site where the bracelet had submerged. Gaze fixated on the minute flash of silver, the boy leapt into the ocean.

The water was colder than it had ever been before, and he felt his muscles momentarily constrict at the drastic change. His passion to find his father's gift soon gained the upper hand, however, and he vigorously kicked himself forward, gaining momentum.

The pearly moonlight shone even brighter now, and even though the boy's vision was blurred by the seawater, he could easily distinguish the location of the bracelet, lodged within the crevasse of a reef. He swam closer, and although he had been underwater for a mere handful of seconds, he could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. It grew only louder as he neared the glistening silver, each erratic thump echoing almost painfully around him.

The muscles in his limbs felt as though they might burst into flame, but the pain was nothing compared to the crushing sensation he felt in his chest. The blood around his heart felt like wet clay, clogging every vein and artery until his heart seemed to choke around every individual beat. Still, the boy's love for his father compelled him onward, his sluggish movements carrying him until he was a mere arm's length from the silver piece.

The bracelet was not the only silver artifact lodged within the coral; lying just below it, its lethal crook anchoring the bracelet in place, was the very instrument that had cut into the boy's neck that morning.

A stabbing pain gripped Baelfire's heart and he withdrew his hand, a rush of bubbles escaping his mouth as he released a muffled cry. He turned about, hoping desperately to return to the surface, but his limbs refused to obey as the space between his feeble heartbeats only grew longer and longer.

The boy's movements became sluggish until he could no longer move at all, the remainder of his air slipping through his lips. As his heart released one final, faint thud, the last thing he glimpsed through his drooping eyelids was the long shadow of the crocodile hungrily propelling itself toward him...

Rumplestiltskin gasped sharply as his eyes snapped open, frenetically scanning his surroundings. He hurled himself forward, bracing his hands on his knees and blinking rapidly as he struggled to comprehend what he had just seen. The rough, scratchy texture of tree bark rubbed his back through his blue shirt, informing him that he had somehow fallen against the wide base of the Lost Boys' tree. His breaths left him in panicked gasps and he placed a hand against his chest as he tried to calm them.

"Rum? Rumpel!" He heard Belle's voice cry, followed by the sound of her feet hurriedly descending the tree house's stairs. A moment later she was kneeling beside him, one hand on his shoulder and the other gently pressed against his cheek.

"What happened? What's wrong?" She asked fretfully, her eyes scanning for any new injuries. Rumplestiltskin could not answer her right away, terror choking his words as the image of his son's lifeless, half-lidded eyes flashed in his mind.

"Rum—"

"He wasn't breathing," Rumplestiltskin rasped, inhaling shakily as he strove to make sense of the vision. Belle's forehead creased in confusion, her lips curving into a frown as she asked, "Who wasn't breathing?"

Rumplestiltskin did not answer, having barely registered the question through his muddled and frenzied thoughts. Belle's gaze scanned the clearing, her eyes widening as she realized his son was nowhere to be found.

"Rum, where's Pete—Baelfire?"

The sound of his son's name acted as a catalyst, and without a word Rumplestiltskin pulled himself to his feet, nearly knocking Belle aside with the swift motion. She rose to her feet as well, her face growing pale as she anxiously waited for the man to speak.

"Belle," Rumplestiltskin gasped, his voice hoarse, "I think I saw—"

The sudden appearance of a scarlet orb descending through the tree canopy cut him off, and he and Belle watched apprehensively as the tiny fairy soared toward them.

"Where is Aibreann?" Ruadh asked hysterically, alighting on a low-hanging branch and fluttering her scarred wing.

"I-I don't know. We haven't seen her since she escorted Rum back—" Belle began to explain hurriedly, before Ruadh interrupted.

"Something's wrong with him, with Peter," the crimson fairy exclaimed, her eyes widening, "I was returning from telling the Indians about H-Hook's death. I saw him flying, and he stumbled. He-he got up, and tried again, but…couldn't fly anymore! I've been searching all over for Aib—"

"Where is he?" Rumplestiltskin asked urgently, his fear now amplified by his intense need to find the boy. But before the pixie could answer, another glowing sphere, this one bright orange, descended from the treetops.

"Ruadh, what's happened? I saw you fly here like you were trying to escape death itself!" Buidhe cried, floating over to the scarlet fairy.

"Where's Aibreann?" The hysterical fairy asked, reaching out to clutch Buidhe's hands.

"She still at the Jolly Roger with Flannach; they're telling Hook's crew—"

"I need to talk to her. Something's wrong with—"

"Where is my son?!" Rumplestiltskin shouted suddenly, startling both of the fairies into silence. Belle grasped his hand, her anxiety transforming into terror as she detected more fear in his eyes and tone than she had ever seen before.

"I-I saw him land in the forest, toward the south," Ruadh answered nervously, stepping closer to her tiny companion.

"What could be wrong with him?" Belle asked breathily, a strain of rising panic just detectable in her voice.

"I don't know, Belle," Rumplestiltskin answered hastily, "He's seemed off since Hook…." His voice trailed off, brow furrowing as he passed a hand through his hair. He met Belle's gaze, watching as she frowned slightly before releasing a sudden gasp.

"Since Hook's death," she breathed, her blue eyes widening with the realization.

"Where was he headed?" Rumplestiltskin asked urgently, his gaze fixed on the two fairies perched above.

"I think I know," Belle cut in hurriedly, and Rumplestiltskin's eyes darted to meet hers. "The dock; he said it was his favorite place on the island. It's where he learned to fly," she explained rapidly, turning and pulling Rumplestiltskin's hand as she headed toward the tree line.

"We have to find him," Rumplestiltskin said desperately, quickening his pace, "I saw—In my vision—Belle, he was dying."

The vines of the willows cast winding shadows along the ground as threads of lightning flashed directly above. Their fearful gazes met for one brief moment before they broke into a run, launching themselves into the forest. The staccato sound of their footsteps echoed around them, and though they both refused to believe they could be too late, Rumplestiltskin could not ignore the dreadful vision still looming in his mind, or the moment that his son's heart had ceased…to beat.