A/N: Your continued support for this story is truly an amazing source of inspiration!

Disclaimer: We do not own Once Upon a Time or Peter Pan. May credit be given where credit is due.

~Chapter XXXI~

Soft rays of deep orange sunlight filtered through the window of the Drey's largest cabin, illuminating the dust motes tumbling about in the gentle breeze. The low hum of crickets chirping echoed around the tree house, signaling the approach of night. After a long day of answering the Lost Boys' concerned queries about their leader and calming their fears, Belle had finally managed to convince them to begin preparing for an early bedtime. From his seat beside the makeshift bed on which his son lay, Rumplestiltskin could hear the boys' feet scurrying back and forth across the catwalk, occasionally punctuated by Belle's gentle voice.

He looked down at Baelfire, dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth. In light of the hearth, he could see the boy's cheeks were flushed a deep red, and sweat glistened on the skin of his neck visible above the blankets covering him. An occasional whimper escaped his dry lips and his eyes darted rapidly beneath closed lids.

Rumplestiltskin sighed, returning the damp cloth to the bowl of water at his feet and running a hand through his hair. They had carried Baelfire back to the tree house just as the sun had completely risen above the horizon, and in the past twelve hours or so, he had not once regained consciousness. Frustration and anxiety warred within Rumplestiltskin as he gazed at his feverish son's face; it seemed no matter what he did, or how much he sacrificed, his boy still suffered.

The sudden slight pressure of a pair of hands on his shoulders startled Rumplestiltskin, pulling him from his dark reverie and compelling him to tilt his head back. Belle smiled softly down at him, brushing his hair away from his forehead and planting a tender kiss there. Rumplestiltskin placed his hand above hers, squeezing gently and wincing as the movement stretched his irritated stitches.

Belle's gaze immediately flickered to the angry wound, her teeth lightly chewing on her bottom lip. The area around the stitches was swollen, strained from the exertion of the compressions he had performed on his son and then carrying the boy back through the forest.

"We should cover it before it starts to fester," Belle said softly, tilting her head as she continued inspecting the man's arm. Rumplestiltskin nodded, watching as she turned and retrieved a fresh strip of fabric from a nearby table, as well as the remainder of the witch hazel she had used the previous day. She walked back to him, kneeling at his side and placing his arm in her lap. The sting of the herb barely registered in Rumplestiltskin's mind as he returned his gaze to his son, only looking away once to help Belle wind the bandage about his arm. She tied it off cautiously, taking care not to irritate the wound further, before looking up at him.

"The Lost Boys are in their beds. It's been a long day for them. For all of us," she murmured, turning her gaze to the boy sleeping fitfully on the bed of blankets she had made her first night at the Drey. Her brow furrowed in concern as he groaned, his head pivoting sharply to the side before stilling once more.

Rumplestiltskin retrieved the rag from the bowl at his feet, frowning as he wrung out the excess water and applied it again to his son's forehead.

"He's been like this for hours, hasn't woken once," he whispered, dabbing at the boy's cheeks and neck. "And his fever's not breaking. I don't know what to do." Rumplestiltskin's voice cracked slightly, anguish flashing across his features.

As though the man's words had inspired an epiphany, Belle's face suddenly lit up, her turquoise eyes brightening with the beginnings of hope. "I think I might," she breathed, pulling herself to her feet, "The Indians; your son said they know this land better than anyone. Maybe there's an herb or—"

The sudden appearance of a glowing green orb flitting amongst the branches paused Belle's words, and with a soft gasp she watched Aibreann gracefully alight on the windowsill. Rumplestiltskin's gaze followed hers, and even he seemed relieved to see the fairy. She appeared considerably frazzled, her tresses tangled about her face and her wings drooping with exhaustion. Her aura stuttered slightly as she leaned against the side of the windowsill, and Rumplestiltskin could detect the signs of someone who had expended a significant amount of magic. However, other than a smear of blood at her elbow from a minor scrape, she appeared relatively unharmed.

"I'm so sorry," Aibreann panted, brushing her windswept hair away from her face, "I came back as soon as I could. Hook's crew wasn't happy about the news of his death, but Flannach and I have ensured that they will not seek revenge."

The severity of her tone while speaking of the pirates filled Rumplestiltskin and Belle with confidence at the fairy's words, and gratitude at the obvious pains she had taken to secure their protection. Aibreann's gaze flitted between them, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, before her eyes landed on Baelfire. Her smile vanished as anxiety twisted her features.

"Ruadh told me there was something wrong with him," She stated quietly, soaring over to where the boy lay and peering fretfully down at him.

"He's feverish, and hasn't regained consciousness since he drifted off at the beach," Rumplestiltskin explained from his seat beside his son, frowning as he returned the damp cloth to the boy's forehead.

"The beach?" Aibreann asked, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"We found him there. He-he wasn't breathing, and his heart..." Belle's voice trailed off and she shuddered at the terrible memory of how pale and lifeless the sweet boy had been, "Rum used the last of his magic to bring him back."

The fairy visibly started at the revelation, her gaze snapping to Rumplestiltskin's. He silently returned her stare for a long moment, and something like pride and relief flashed in Aibreann's eyes.

"I was going to summon the Indians," Belle added tentatively, her hands fidgeting with her beaded belt as they both turned to face her, "Pet-Baelfire said I could call them, that they would know my voice. Do you think they could help?"

Aibreann turned her gaze to the woman, her eyes lighting up at the suggestion.

"Yes, yes, you must," she breathed fervently, "Call Qentu. He's close to the boy; he'll come immediately."

Belle nodded enthusiastically, turning and striding toward the cabin's entrance. Simply hearing the hope within the fairy's tone restored some of Rumplestiltskin's own, and he rose to his feet, moving to follow his love outside.

"Wait," Belle said suddenly, her steps halting so quickly Rumplestiltskin nearly collided with her back. "How do I call for him?" She asked urgently, turning to face the pixie.

"Start with his name. The natives are a part of Neverland; they will hear you," Aibreann explained in hushed tones as she alighted on Rumplestiltskin's vacant seat, her gaze fixed on the fitfully sleeping boy.

Belle nodded again and exited the cabin. Rumplestiltskin stepped after her, pausing in the doorway and glancing concernedly back at his son.

"I'll stay with him," Aibreann promised softly. Rumplestiltskin met her gaze; if there was anyone he would trust to watch over his son, besides Belle, it was the tiny green fairy who had saved his life when he was just a lad. Nodding gratefully, he turned around and joined Belle outside.

Belle stepped out onto the vine staircase and placed her hands on the wooden railing, her gaze traveling over the vast expanse of willows stretched out before her. The sun had set, and the tranquil blues and purples of twilight filled the sky above. Rumplestiltskin watched as she inhaled a steadying breath, whispering to herself, "Please, let this work..."

Her eyelids slid closed, and with one more deep breath she opened her mouth to speak.

"Qentu," she called, and although she did not shout, her voice seemed to echo ethereally all around them, "Peter's sick, and he needs your help. Please, please come."

At first only an impenetrable silence followed her plea, and both Belle and Rumplestiltskin feared her attempt had not been successful. Then, a sudden gust of wind passed over the island, rustling the leaves strewn about the forest floor and stirring the hanging vines into a swaying dance. The sounds of the forest crescendoed around them, almost frightening in their intensity. But in the next moment, everything grew completely still again, and the couple were almost inclined to wonder if they had imagined the entire ordeal.

Rumplestiltskin and Belle wordlessly glanced at each other, their foreheads creased in confusion and burgeoning disappointment. Belle cupped her hands around her eyes, scanning the tree line for any sign of movement while listening for further indication that her message had been received.

"How will I know if he's coming?" She asked aloud in a whisper, leaning farther over the railing to peer into the clearing.

Several long minutes passed with no change, and with a quiet sigh Rumplestiltskin placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Let's go back inside to wait, dearest," he murmured, gently encouraging Belle to face him. With a sigh of her own, she dropped her hands and turned to face him.

Belle suddenly inhaled a sharp gasp, her eyes wide as she stared at something just beyond Rumplestiltskin's shoulder. With a twinge of apprehension the man turned around, starting slightly at the sight which greeted him.

Standing before him was a tall young man with black spiky hair and high, defined cheekbones. His limbs were somewhat longer than what would be deemed normal for a human, and his skin seemed to mirror the colors surrounding them: the deep mahogany of the tree trunk, the warm yellow of the firelight filtering through the main cabin's entrance, and even the subtle blue hue of the toadstools growing amongst the tree's roots. But most striking of all were his eyes: they were a brilliant jade and stared with an intensity that froze Rumplestiltskin in place.

For a long moment, the native simply stared unblinkingly, his forehead creasing slightly as he seemed to search for something in the man's gaze. Suddenly, he seemed to find that something, nodding to himself and blinking several times, before turning his gaze to Belle.

"Qentu," She breathed, a slow smile stretching her lips as she took a step toward him. Qentu grinned at her, a pair of dimples appearing in his thin cheeks. He reached out a hand and pinched the end of one of her curls between his thumb and finger, gently pulling down and then chuckling lightly as it bounced back into place. Belle laughed at the gesture, which was the very same he had made when they had first met at the Indians' camp. Rumplestiltskin quirked an eyebrow at the exchange, but said nothing, still feeling somewhat uneasy from the native man's penetrating stare.

Qentu's expression grew serious then, and he stepped aside, revealing a shorter, ancient man standing behind him that they had not noticed before. His face was ashen and heavily wrinkled, and his hair was whiter than the moon creeping above the horizon. Rumplestiltskin heard Belle gasp slightly and saw her bow her head respectfully out of the corner of his eye. On instinct, he followed suit, feeling somewhat foolish but not wanting to risk causing offense while his son's health hanged in the balance.

"He's the tribe's Elder," Belle explained in a hushed tone, lifting her head again, "We met briefly while Bae and I were looking for you."

Rumplestiltskin raised his head as well, letting his gaze fall on the native Neverlanders standing before them. The elderly one now stared at him, his green eyes tinted with a trace of distrust.

"Qentu brought me with him. He does not know your tongue," the Elder explained, his voice deep and grating.

"Thank you for coming here," Belle said quietly, and Rumplestiltskin took her words as a sign to lead them into the cabin.

When they entered the warm room, Rumplestiltskin strode straight to his son's bedside, kneeling and placing a hand tenderly on the boy's clammy forehead. Aibreann fluttered out of the way, alighting instead on the windowsill after nodding at the two natives. Belle and the Elder remained several steps from where the boy lay, watching as Qentu slowly approached his ill friend.

"What will you do?" Belle asked in a voice barely louder than a whisper, her eyes meeting the Elder's.

"I will do nothing. It is Qentu who has the gift," he croaked in response, gesturing toward his companion with a leathery hand. "He reads hearts, sees souls, clearer than Neverland's springs."

Belle recalled how Qentu had gazed piercingly into her eyes when they had first met, and how he had just done the same with Rumplestiltskin. He had appeared to have been searching for something; had he been reading their hearts?

Qentu halted a mere step away from Baelfire, gazing down with eyes full of concern. He suddenly said something to the Elder, his voice mimicking the low, lilting notes of a mourning dove.

"He asks your permission to come closer," the ancient man translated. Surprise flashed across Rumplestiltskin's features at the native's words, and after a moment he moved aside, allowing Qentu to take his seat beside the boy.

The young Indian knelt down before his friend, frowning as Baelfire released a low moan, his right arm twitching in his sleep. He placed a copper-toned hand above the boy's heart, whispering as quietly as two blades of grass sliding against each other. Eyes fixed unblinkingly on Baelfire's flushed face, he leaned closer, moving his hand to hover above the boy's forehead. Rumplestiltskin watched as he used two long fingers to lift his son's eyelids, his movements as gentle and quiet as a summer breeze.

This time there was no long, searching pause. Qentu jerked his hand back with a shudder, his gaze terrified as he started rapidly speaking to the Elder. Belle and Rumplestiltskin glanced worriedly at each other, their fear only magnifying when the Elder gasped at whatever Qentu was saying. Belle hurried over to where Rumplestiltskin stood, clasping one of his hands in both of her own.

"What is it?" Belle asked the Elder urgently, but he simply stared down at the boy and his native companion, his face appearing even paler with shock.

"Tell me what is wrong with my son," Rumplestiltskin demanded sharply, fighting not to shout as his fear increased to a nigh suffocating intensity. The Elder met his gaze, nodding shakily after a moment.

"A war rages within your son."

Rumplestiltskin's eyes narrowed slightly, frustration welling in his chest at the Elder's cryptic response. "What do you mean?" He asked, unable to hide the fear lacing his tone, "A war between what, exactly?"

"Between your son and..." The elderly Indian's raspy voice trailed off, a shiver passing through him. A slight movement out of the corner of his eye caught Rumplestiltskin's attention, and he trained his gaze on the young native kneeling beside his son.

Slowly, Qentu raised a trembling fist, emerald eyes fixed intently on Rumplestiltskin. He held up his index finger, pausing for a moment, before curving it downward until it resembled a...

Hook.

The revelation struck Rumplestiltskin so powerfully, he barely registered the Elder speaking, his voice reminiscent of the grumbling of a minor rock slide. Although Rumplestiltskin's could not understand the native man's words, his tone was commanding, and after whistling in response and sighing, Qentu reluctantly rose to his feet.

Without another glance at the fitful boy, or even a parting word to the adults watching over him, the Elder hurriedly strode from the cabin, his movements unexpectedly graceful and feline for one so ancient. Qentu gazed down at his young friend for a long moment, and when he finally raised his spiky-hair head, there were tears in his eyes. A low hum like a disturbed hornets' nest issued from where the Elder stood outside of the cabin's entrance.

Swallowing thickly, Qentu turned on his feet, dejectedly walking toward the doorway. As he passed by Belle, she grasped one of his long-fingered hands, halting his movements. The Indian turned to face her, a slight frown curving his thin lips.

"Please," Belle begged, her voice heavy with emotion, "Isn't there anything you can do?"

Although the young native was unfamiliar with the English language, he seemed to understand the meaning of her tone. Slowly, he shook his head, a tear escaping the corner of his eye and rolling down his russet cheek. Biting back a sob, Belle removed her hand from his, watching in a hopeless daze as Qentu exited the cabin.

The room was engulfed in silence, and even the logs burning in the hearth did not seem to crackle or hiss. Tentatively, her forehead creased in anguish, Aibreann flitted over to where Belle stood, perching softly on the woman's shoulder. They remained where they stood, staring soundlessly at the doorway through which the Indians had disappeared.

Baelfire whimpered once again in his sleep, his head turning to the side as his brow furrowed slightly. Rumplestiltskin dropped to his knees at his son's side, his own breathing gradually sounding more like strangled gasps as his mind desperately tried to comprehend the news. He reached out a hand, brushing the boy's dark curls back from his clammy forehead.

Since Hook's demise at the dock, Baelfire had been acting strangely, his temper short toward the Lost Boys and his health visibly deteriorating. At first Rumplestiltskin had attributed it to the gradual return of his memories and the stress of the day's events. But when the lad's heart had stuttered to a terrifying halt, resisting all attempts of revival but for the powerful jolt of magic...He had begun to suspect that something darker was at play.

And the gifted young Indian had just confirmed such.

Even in death, the sinister captain still plagued the boy. Rumplestiltskin had thought that Hook had merely been seeking reprieve from his own bitter existence, and perhaps to inflict even more pain on his father by forcing him to kill a part of his own son. But now, he could see it was all part of a terrible quest for, in Hook's eyes, the ultimate revenge.

"Hook wanted me to kill him," Rumplestiltskin whispered, rage surging like hot tar in his veins as he stared down at Baelfire's flushed face, "So that I would lose any chance with my boy, so that I would be forced to watch him suffer and d—" He could not finish the thought, grief clenching his heart in a vice as he gently laid a hand on the blanket covering his son's chest.

In his peripheral line of view he could see Belle and Aibreann train their concerned gazes on him. They slowly approached him, and Belle kneeled on the other side of Baelfire's makeshift sickbed, the fairy still standing on her shoulder. Belle laid her hand over Rumplestiltskin's, lightly squeezing his fingers as she too gazed down at the boy.

"This is all my fault," Rumplestiltskin said quietly, his voice thick with emotion. He released a deep sigh, shaking his head as the boy released a low, pained moan in his sleep.

"You couldn't have known what Hook was planning, Rum," Belle assured softly, rubbing the pad of her thumb against the back of his hand.

"It doesn't matter. This is my price to pay," Rumplestiltskin responded vehemently, removing his hand from beneath hers and cupping his son's cheek. "Not his—" His voice broke.

Belle and Aibreann's gazes met briefly, wordlessly communicating their sympathy for the broken father. Belle rested her hand against Rumplestiltskin's back, hoping to provide even the briefest notion of comfort. Several long moments of despairing silence passed, before a tiny sharp gasp suddenly issued forth from the emerald pixie, immediately drawing the couple's attention.

"You saw and heard things, didn't you? Dark things?" Aibreann asked urgently, her gaze fixed intensely on Rumplestiltskin. Belle's eyebrows knitted together in puzzlement as she looked between the two.

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin responded quietly, fighting back a grimace as the images of the blood-soaked tree and the floating corpses he had seen from the deck of Hook's ship flashed in his mind, "Memories, but...intensified."

"But you don't anymore?" She asked, her eyes brightening with optimism when the man nodded. "Why is that? What has changed?" Her voice was breathy with enthusiasm and she wrung her hands as she waited for the man's response.

Rumplestiltskin watched her for a moment, frowning as he contemplated his answer.

"I...forgave myself, let go of my hate," he murmured, remembering the crushing weight that had been lifted off his shoulders when he had relinquished his hold on the hook, and what it had symbolized: his obsession with power, his betrayal of his son, his cowardice...

"Exactly!" The fairy exclaimed in a hushed tone, soaring over to perch on the nearby table, "And that is what I think your son must do to overcome this."

Rumplestiltskin did not respond, his brow furrowing as he waited for her to explain further. Belle approached his side, her head tilted slightly in thought. Aibreann paced back and forth once, a tiny hand laced in her hair as she grappled with her whirling thoughts.

"Hook was an embodiment of all your son's anger and bitterness, allowed to fester for centuries..." She said after a moment, inhaling deeply and shaking her head sadly, "Until it became a most consuming hatred."

Rumplestiltskin's lips pressed together in a hard line as he recalled the blazing hatred that he had occasionally glimpsed in the captain's black eyes, the scorn that had laced every syllable that had left the pirate's mouth...and that solitary crimson tear that had trickled down his weathered cheek. He should have known then that something far darker than anything he had imagined was at play.

"Now that Hook is dead, that hatred has returned to Baelfire, a hundred times more potent than it was when it originally left him," the pixie continued, her eyes now fixated on the suffering boy. "It—its' acting like a poison to him." Her normally warm and kind features turned grim as she added in a murmur, "One that is so powerful, it is fatal."

Rumplestiltskin's breath escaped him in a heavy sigh. "That's why his heart stopped." He scrubbed a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes wearily.

Belle shivered at the memory of the day's earlier and most frightening events, when she had been certain Rumplestiltskin's dear son was beyond rescue. Aibreann ran her tiny fingers through her auburn tresses, fluttering her wings slightly as she watched the man's eyelids slide shut.

"And if it happened once…" Rumplestiltskin's voice trailed off and he shook his head as the terrifying possibility that his son could die, and soon, gripped his heart painfully. His attempt to revive the boy without magic did not work the last time, and there was no guarantee that it ever would. "I don't have any power to bring him back should it stop again."

Rumplestiltskin rose to his feet and began pacing back and forth as prickling rage and self-loathing roiled within him. This was exactly what he had feared would happen: he would sacrifice his power, and then no longer be able to provide his son with the protection he needed. Although Baelfire claimed that his father's love was enough, magic was the only real security he could offer the boy, and now that it was gone... Rumplestiltskin rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, hating how helpless and inept as a father he now felt.

"What can we do? How do we get rid of this...poison?" Belle asked fervently as she looked down at the boy she hoped would one day see her as a mother, just as she saw him as a son.

"You have to help him to forgive, just as you did," Aibreann answered, her gaze trained on Rumplestiltskin.

At that moment, Baelfire began to toss and turn, struggling feebly against the blankets weighing down on him. Belle and Rumplestiltskin immediately knelt at his side, with the former reaching out and tenderly combing her fingers through the boy's dark curls. His movements calmed somewhat, but his face remained twisted with pain.

"His fever's rising," Belle whispered, frowning as she retrieved the small bowl and cloth at his bedside. She pressed the damp cloth against the boy's forehead, lifting it again to gently dab at his cheeks and neck.

"We should talk outside," Aibreann whispered, floating into the air and gesturing for Rumplestiltskin to join her on the vine staircase.

"I'll look after him," Belle assured him, her lips lifting into a soft smile as she nodded for him to follow the emerald pixie. Rumplestiltskin grasped her free hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before pulling himself to his feet and stepping out onto the stairs.

"I can't force my son to forgive me," he murmured once outside, leaning against the railing as Belle had done earlier, "If it's not real, he could still die—"

"You're right," Aibreann interrupted gently, sparing the man another horrible mental image of his son's untimely death, "But you must have faith that he can, and show him that it is earned."

Rumplestiltskin looked unfocusedly down at the vacant clearing below, his brow furrowed with regret at the memory of their earlier argument. "But, he was so…angry with me the last we talked—"

"He's hurt, Rumplestiltskin," Aibreann cut in again, fervently trying to instill some faith in the man, "That does not mean he is beyond forgiveness."

Rumplestiltskin's throat constricted at her words and his chin trembled as he fought against the tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. "Hook didn't forgive me," he choked, fixing his gaze once more on the fairy, "Why would he?" He gestured helplessly behind him toward the cabin's entrance.

Aibreann sighed, alighting on the railing beside his bruised hands.

"Because your son has an advantage over Hook. His pain is still fresh, still capable of being healed. Without reconciliation, Hook's pain only magnified, consuming him. Eventually, he went down a dark road, from which there was no return."

She fixed him with a hopeful stare, her voice firm as she assured, "Your son still has a chance."

Something graver entered her gaze then, and she redirected her eyes to the forest.

"At the dock," she began tentatively, inhaling a deep breath, "You confronted your pain, accepted the role it has played in your life. You wept..."

Her voice wavered on the last word and she pressed her lips together against a rush of emotion. Her eyes met Rumplestiltskin's, and he was surprised to see tears in them. He watched as her shoulders rose with another steadying breath.

"I think that is what your son must do, what you have shown him how to do," she murmured, glancing at the sleeping boy through the cabin doorway, "To completely let go."

Rumplestiltskin narrowed his eyes slightly, a rush of self-loathing surging within him at the reminder that his son had seen him at his weakest, most vulnerable point. He shook his head, resting his elbows on the railing and placing his head in his hands.

"Bae has never let those walls down around me. I have not even seen him cry since he was a wee lad…he has always put up his guard before a single tear could fall," Rumplestiltskin sighed, swallowing against the lump rising in his throat, "He wanted to be strong, for me."

"To my knowledge, in the centuries I have known your son, he has not cried," Aibreann agreed, her expression stricken with sympathy for the boy, "I thought it a bit…unusual, but now I understand why."

The man did not respond, instead sighing deeply and rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. Aibreann shook her head, stepping closer so that she could peer up at him.

"Rumplestiltskin, you must help your son to let go," the fairy continued adamantly, "To trust you to be there when he does, but more importantly, you must be his strength, so that he can."

Rumplestiltskin stared at the fairy for a long moment, his chest feeling painfully tight as he comprehended her words.

The sudden sound of a child's voice echoed from within the cabin behind them. Glancing confusedly at Aibreann, Rumplestiltskin quietly turned about and strode toward the doorway.

His steps froze as his eyes fell on a tiny, sandy-haired boy cradling one of his son's hands in his own and speaking in a hushed voice, his hair and clothes mussed from sleep.

"Peter's going to get better, right?" Tootles asked in a whisper, peering hopefully at the woman kneeling at his side. When she did not immediately respond, his bottom lip began to quiver.

"Oh, sweetheart..." Belle held out her arms, smiling softly when the youngest Lost Boy crawled into them and curled up on her lap. She rocked him slowly, rubbing soothing circles against his back as he sniffled loudly.

"He's holding on, dear," Belle whispered, leaning her head against Tootles', "And we'll do everything we can to help him. That's what matters."

"I want him back, Momma," Tootles sobbed, pressing his face closer to her shoulder. Rumplestiltskin saw Belle's eyes slowly fill with tears as she continued to rock the little boy.

"We need to be strong for him, and have faith," Belle whispered vehemently, encouraging Tootles to sit back and tenderly wiping away his tears, "Can you do that?"

Rumplestiltskin watched as the child nodded shakily and then threw his arms around Belle's neck for one more tight hug. It was then that Belle's eyes met his own, and he strode over to her, kneeling down and placing a hand on Tootles head. The child looked up, his green eyes wide as he regarded the man.

"My son will get through this," he murmured, offering the tiny boy a small smile, "He's the bravest boy you know, right?"

"Right," Tootles responded, nodding enthusiastically and noisily wiping his nose on his sleeve. Rumplestiltskin ruffled the child's hair, smiling softly at the boy's dimpled grin. His eyes met Belle's, and there was such a sweet tenderness to her gaze, he felt for a moment as though he were falling in love with her all over a again.

A sudden creaking echoed above, and they all titled their heads back to glance at the ceiling of the cabin.

"The others can't sleep either," Tootles said quietly, looking up at Belle, "They'll probably come down soon, too."

Rumplestiltskin's and Belle's gazes met, and they seemed to silently agree that the commotion of so many visitors all at once would not be best for Baelfire at that time.

"Let's get you back to bed, hm? Peter needs his rest right now. We can tell the other boys what we talked about," She said softly, rising to her feet and holding the tiny boy in her arms. Tootles nodded, laying his head against her shoulder and waving a hand in farewell at Rumplestiltskin.

He watched them as they exited the cabin, his slight smile fading as he glanced back down at his restless son. Although he had assured the littlest Lost Boy that "Peter" would pull through, doubt still warred within him.

Baelfire groaned again in his sleep, his eyes squinting tightly against some unseen source of pain. One of his fists clenched, drawing Rumplestiltskin's attention. He glanced down at his son's arm, his gaze falling on a slight strip of white skin wrapped around the boy's wrist, as though something had been shielding it from the sun...

The image of the silver bracelet submerged at the bottom of Neverland's ocean suddenly lunged to the forefront of Rumplestiltskin's mind. His heart began racing in his chest and he hurriedly pulled himself to his feet.

"I'm going back for it," he said aloud, turning to face the entryway.

"Back for what?" Aibreann asked quietly from where she hovered just over the cabin's threshold.

"The bracelet," Rumplestiltskin answered fervently, glancing back at where his son lay, "He was searching for it. My son—he—" The man inhaled deeply, trying to calm himself enough to form coherent thoughts.

"He's fighting. He hasn't given up." The realization flowed through Rumplestiltskin's veins, watching as his son flinched once more in his sleep.

Rumplestiltskin glanced back at the fairy, the corners of his lips twitching upward at the way her eyes brightened with the same optimism he felt. He retrained his gaze on his unconscious son, his smile vanishing but his brown eyes blazing with hope.

"And I'm going to show him that I haven't either."

A/N: Please review! :)