Rumplestiltskin had spent the day restlessly pacing through his castle. Nothing kept his attention for long. Books were opened and discarded in the library. Herbs were gathered for potions and discarded, some in neat piles so no magic would be released by accident, others burnt to ash when he didn't have the patience to put them away.

Even spinning brought him no peace. Oh, it cleared his mind and calmed him as it always had, but he found he did not want his mind cleared or calmed. Not thinking about what Belle was doing was worse than every worry he could conjure up about it.

Why couldn't Belle tell him her decision before meeting Gaston?

He had told himself when he made the house he wanted her to be happy. If being happy meant someone—someone who wasn't him—taking the place he'd once had (Rumplestiltskin gritted his teeth and thought about grinding black diamonds to dust with a mortar and pestle), he could accept that. He had no right to make any claim on Belle. He knew that, not after everything he'd done. First, he'd failed her. Then, he'd blamed her and punished her for all the pain his failures had cost. In the end, she'd nearly died, nearly froze to death without him even noticing anything was wrong. If she could find peace, find happiness without him, he would be glad for her.

Really. He would.

But, when he'd made that decision, he'd been thinking of some golden princeling, like Queen Snow's charming boy. Or one of those heroically noble shepherd lads proving himself overwhelmingly worthy in the face of life threatening quests (as many of them as possible) to even the most critical of guardians (which Rumple would be). Again . . . like Charming.

Though the princeling would have bored Belle to tears after an hour's conversation. Battle and sheep, what else did the man know to talk about?

And he was happily married. And his twin brother was dead. And wouldn't have been worthy, anyway. So, no need to worry about him.

But, someone like that. Assuming there'd been anyone like that. Who couldn't be diverted to aim at another princess, or—

But, no. He'd wanted Belle to be happy. And, if he'd stumbled across someone remotely deserving of her, assuming there was such a thing, he would have brought the twit to see her.

After doing a little work. Just to push him up from "remotely worthy" to "completely worthy." If that meant a few deadly (well, nearly deadly) quests to get him in shape, so be it.

Long quests.

Very long quests.

Except that Belle didn't deserve him playing games with her like that. She deserved . . . what a man like that could give her. She deserved it now, not years—or decades—from now, never knowing Rumplestiltskin was the one keeping her in misery.

Although, what she didn't know couldn't hurt her. Could it?

Right, because denying her happiness, and comfort, and peace was hardly any worse than letting her think he'd sell her to the first man who asked for her, was it? No worse than letting her suffer because he couldn't lift a finger (or a claw) to save her.

So, he told himself, if a golden-shepherd-princeling, one without another true love waiting and who wouldn't bore Belle to tears, ever came his way, he would do what he could for the stupid, undeserving fool. And for Belle. Since he had given up any right he ever had to stand in their way.

When he said that, he hadn't meant Gaston.

Besides being a selfish bore, a fool, and freakishly tall—much too tall for a woman like Belle (of course, Dove was too tall for his wife, but the Doves were glad just to be the same species and one that didn't have to worry about cats eating their young. They were willing to work around a few wrinkles), he was—well—Gaston.

Rumplestiltskin should have turned him into a snail when he'd had the chance. He'd thought about it when he'd first broken through the curse and finally gotten into the Marchlands, but a dead and/or missing Gaston might have made Maurice more than a little suspicious of the sorcerer who showed up at his door soon after.

It still might have been worth it.

Rumplestiltskin thought Belle was going to turn down Gaston—he was certain she was going to turn down Gaston—almost—probably.

He hoped.

He hadn't expected the scream.

X

Drawn by that terrible scream, Rumplestiltskin appeared in Belle's home. When he did, it was the sound that struck Rumplestiltskin first, not the smell.

Men reached a point where they were too weary, too hopeless, too tired to scream anymore. But, the pain hadn't stopped. It demanded its due, its outlet. Rumplestiltskin had learned that in the healers tents listening to the wounded and the dying. He knew the terrible, haunting moans that signaled men had reached that point. He remembered the nightmares he'd had, dreaming of Morraine spared death in battle only to die slowly, torturously among the other fallen.

There was another sound, one he'd heard less often in the tents, the keening wail of people watching their loved ones die. In those days, the army had hired some of the soldiers' wives as washerwomen and cooks, letting them accompany their husbands to the front. There'd been others, family of the fallen, who were close enough to the battle lines to get word and come before the end. Rumplestiltskin had seen enough of them nursing husbands, brothers, and sons through their final agonies, enough to know the raw sound of grief that would never be healed.

And he had heard the awful, soul-destroying sound when the two met, when the unbearable and the unending were one and the same.

He recognized it now. It was Belle.

He knew what she had survived. He knew how pain had been part of her for years past counting.

But, it had never broken her. Till now.

The smell of blood and death was thick in the air. He saw Gaston lying against the wall. Rumplestiltskin's first thought was that an Ogre had attacked him. A starving Ogre could do that to a man. But, a starving Ogre would have eaten Gaston, not left him there.

A few feet away, Belle huddled on the floor. She was covered in blood and seemed unaware of Rumplestiltskin. She held Bae in her arms, making that terrible keening, wailing sound as she rocked him back and forth.

Looking at Bae's ice-white face, Rumplestiltskin felt his heart constrict. Even from here, Rumplestiltskin could see how very still Baelfire was, how cold. He knew, without having to touch him, his heart was as still as stone.

But, Belle had wrapped their son in the golden fleece. It had turned warm and metallic. The boy was alive. Rumplestiltskin knew that much. Bae had to be. The fleece wouldn't turn to gold and give off sparks of magic if it wasn't trying to protect a life.

Belle couldn't know that. She was blind with tears, with pain. She hadn't even noticed his appearance in the room.

What had Gaston done to Belle? What had he done to Bae?

Rumplestiltskin cast a simple spell of divination. Afraid of what would happen if he came too close to Belle—she was broken and he was terrified of shattering her beyond repair—he was even more afraid of not acting quickly, of letting his son's small life slip through his fingers while he stood and did nothing. He fought the urge to tear the boy out of Belle's arms, not knowing what it would do to her if he did, not knowing what it would do to Bae if he didn't.

But, the spell gave him the answer. The sleeping curse.

Rumplestiltskin looked around and saw baskets of food, wine, and brandy, traditional house gifts. The wine and brandy were from the Marchlands. Lying on the floor, a single bite taken out of it, was a large, red apple, not unlike the one Regina had stolen years ago from the Blind Witch. Picking it up, he felt the dark magic saturating it.

Gaston would have brought the gifts—and this apple.

It was clever, much as Rumplestiltskin hated to admit it. There were protections all over the manor. If some fool simply tried to murder Bae, he have fail. Spectacularly. And Rumplestiltskin would have known at once what had happened and done his best to reduce the number of fools in the world.

The apple wasn't poison. It wasn't even harm, not in the eyes of most magic. All it did was send someone to sleep—a sleep so deep it looked like death to anyone without the magic to see the truth.

Bae was alive. He was also trapped in a world of nightmares. An adult might laugh at the idea of a child trapped in a world of regrets, but Rumplestiltskin knew how pure regret—and guilt—could be for a child this age.

Rumplestiltskin crouched down beside his wife. "Belle?" he whispered, terrified of—of—he didn't know what. Belle had been shattered, like a china teacup thrown against a wall. Rumplestiltskin was afraid that one wrong move would grind the pieces to dust, beyond any wizard or true love's power to repair.

"Belle, it's all right. Bae's all right. Let me—let me see him. Please."

Belle didn't react to his words. Her eyes, blind or seeing, were fixed on her son.

Gently, as if she could break apart at his touch (and she might, Rumplestiltskin thought), he reached out and put a hand to her shoulder. "Please, Belle, I'm trying to help—"

Belle threw off his hand clutching Bae even tighter as she tried to pull away from him. He knew, even before she screamed at him, he wasn't the one she saw.

"Trying to help, Gaston?" Belle said. "Trying to help?"

"Belle, I—"

"Stay away from me! Don't you dare touch my son! Don't you—Just get out! Get out!"

The command hit Rumplestiltskin, inexorable even for him. Especially for him. He'd promised her, binding himself with magic, that this place was hers. She had power over who could enter and who could abide.

There'd been a loophole. There was always a loophole. But, he hadn't meant to use it against her. Never.

He had to leave. His own magic demanded it.

There was nothing that said he couldn't take her with him.

Smoke of magenta and gold cleared away, and they were in the library. Belle was still holding Bae. She seemed to have forgotten he was there. Or maybe she just thought the smoke had carried her off. If she could even think that far. She didn't seem to have noticed where they were.

He tried again. "Belle, it's me. It's—" Rumplestiltskin. Your husband. "—the Dark One. I'm here. It's all right."

His words seemed to register this time. Belle shook her head and moaned. "It's not—it's not—it's not all right." The words came like blood spouting out of her.

"Belle—" He looked at her helplessly.

"He killed him. Gaston killed him. I tried to protect him. I told him—Oh, gods, I told him not to play in the stable. I was afraid the warhorse—I told him, and he knew I'd seen him—I tried—" She began to make that terrible, keening cry again.

Wherever she was, it wasn't a place words could bring her back from. But, she didn't throw him off this time when he put his arms around her. Instead, she collapsed against him, still crying.

Rumplestiltskin held her close, because there was nothing else he could do.

X

Exhaustion.

Belle had first learned—or thought she'd learned—the limits her body had when she gave birth to Bae. The labor had been long and hard. Or so it had seemed to her. The midwife, who looked almost as exhausted as Belle, had told her it could have been worse.

Later, Belle had learned about other limits, limits of pain and hunger. Even fear and horror. There was a point where she couldn't feel them anymore—not any of them.

Somewhere, out of a universe of pain, she had reached that point. She didn't know if she had slept or collapsed or if her mind had simply closed down, unable to deal with the world any longer.

And, now, she was recovering. And the pain was coming back.

Someone was holding her.

Gaston, she thought for a sickening, terrified moment.

But, she heard the voice repeating comforts over and over again, like a parent comforting a child woken from nightmares. Whoever held her was gently stroking her hair and holding her close.

The Dark One, she realized.

They were in the castle library, curled up on the floor. The lamps were lit. Night had fallen.

How many hours since—since—?

"Bae," she said, too weak to do more than whisper.

"He's well," the Dark One said, still stroking her hair. He rested his scaly cheek against her forehead and, for a moment, she thought he meant to kiss her brow. Not that he did.

"Gaston—he—he—Or was it a nightmare?" Please, gods, let it be a nightmare. She'd—she'd been at the house. Not here. She should be at the house. Unless the Dark One had brought her here? Desperately, she asked, "Did I dream it?"

The Dark One's grip around her tightened just a little. She saw the pain in his eyes.

No, she thought. Please, no.

"Gaston tried," the Dark One said, but his voice was grim. "He failed. Bae's all right."

Then, why didn't she believe him? Why had there been pain in the Dark One's eyes? "Where is he? Let me see him! I—" Belle tried to get up, but her legs buckled under her.

"Wait," the Dark One said, still gentle. "You need to understand what Gaston did. Do you remember what happened when he came to see you?"

He was trying to be kind, Belle thought. Trying to make her ready for what he had to tell her.

Don't scream, Belle told herself. Don't scream.

"I don't understand," she said, trying to hold back her panic. "If Bae's all right, why are we waiting? What's happened to him?" Just tell me, let me know the worst. Don't try to comfort me with lies when my son is—when he's—

Dead.

Bae was dead.

The Dark One's grip on her tightened. For a moment, he truly looked like a demon. "He's all right," he said—he growled. She could feel the words rumbling in his chest. "Have I ever lied to you, Belle? Not twisted words or played with a deal, but lied?"

". . . . No."

"Then, believe me, he's all right. But, you need to tell me what happened."

She'd learned to pretend to believe so many lies. It doesn't hurt. You enjoy it, don't you? Admit it, you wanted this.

It was the truths that threatened to destroy her.

You're the one he should be angry with.

If you'd just done what I said, none of this would have happened

Slowly, she told him the truth. How she'd turned Gaston down, his insults and accusations. How she'd tried one last time to put things right between them before he left, trying to remember why that had mattered. . . . And how—and how—

"It was an accident," Belle said. "That's what he'd said. As if that made it all right. Not killing, Bae. He meant to do that as soon as I turned him down." She thought about the apples, wondering how Gaston meant to sneak them away after she'd seen them. Or was only one poisoned? And that just happened to be the one Bae ate? "Maybe even if I didn't turn him down. He couldn't believe it when I said no, but he'd still brought the poison with him. He just hadn't meant to let it happen while he was there. That's what he was angry with LaFou about. He wanted—he wanted to just throw Bae's body away, to hide him like a piece of garbage." There shouldn't have been any tears left in her, but Belle found herself crying again. She wiped at them, ashamed of the display, but she was too tired to do fight them. Just remembering, just finishing this tale was almost beyond her.

"He said you wouldn't care," she told the Dark One. "He said Bae was just a playing piece to you, that you might even respect him for outsmarting him. And it wouldn't matter if he was wrong. Your deal with Maurice would keep you from going after him."

The Dark One's hand on her hair stilled. "Did he?"

Belle nodded into his chest. "Was it true?" Hordor had wanted to send Bae to die in an orphanage. Jones tolerated him because he could be used to threaten her. She knew Gaston felt threatened by him but he'd tolerated him, and she'd thought—she'd thought—

It didn't matter what she'd thought. She'd been wrong about Gaston, and Bae had paid for it.

"Was it true?" she asked again. "Would you—could you just forget him and move on?"

She'd learned to feel a man's anger. She could feel it in the Dark One, now. Cold fury radiated off him in the way stiffened. "Never."

Then, he relaxed, holding her comfortingly again. "I love him, Belle. And I love—" He caught himself. "I love him the way I loved Morraine. Gaston wouldn't have been able to hide behind the words of a deal. Or behind an army. Not from me."

Some of the tension drained from Belle. "That's what I told him. But, he wouldn't listen." Then, she thought of Bae and felt a stab of fear.

"Please. My son. Let me see him. Or tell me why you won't."

She saw the wariness in his eyes, and felt cold. He hadn't lied to her. But, there were lies and lies, weren't there? "Soon," he promised. "You'll see him soon. But, you need to understand something, first."

"You said—you said he wasn't dead. You said—" As her exhaustion ebbed, her ability to feel fear—to fee terror—was coming back with it.

"He's not dead. Listen to me, Belle: he's not dead.

"Gaston used a curse, a clever one. It makes me wonder how he thought of it. The apple he used wasn't poisoned, not exactly. It was cursed. Whoever took a bite from it would fall asleep, a sleep like death. But, it's not death. It's not death. Bae is alive and resting. I know it looked like death to you, but it wasn't. Do you understand me? It wasn't.

"It's easily broken—"

Panic began to billow up inside her. "Then—then why haven't you broken it, yet? What's wrong with Bae? What aren't you telling me?"

"It's easily broken, but only—only by the right person. I need you to break it."

"Me? I'm not a witch. How can I. . . ?" She stopped. "There was a spell in one of your books. I only glanced at it, but. . . . A life for a life. That was the price of returning someone from the dead. Is . . . is that what you want from me?"

"How did you—? No, Belle, of course not! How could you even think—?"

Fury swept over her. She was so tired. Tired of being lied to, of being told half-truths, of having to trust Bae's life to people who didn't care if they lived or died. "Then, why? What can I do that you can't? Why do you even need me? Why—?"

"Belle, I need you because—!" the Dark One stopped, holding back whatever he was going to say. He closed his eyes and she almost thought she could see him slowly counting to ten as he calmed himself. "I need you . . . because I need you. Because I care about you. And your son.

"And you can save Bae because you're his mother and you love him—you love him so much I am terrified for you sometimes. Because, you would trade your life for his. In a heartbeat. And stay away from my spellbooks, if they're giving you ideas like that.

"Any curse can be broken with true love's kiss. That's all you need to do. Kiss Bae. And love him. And the curse will be broken."

He got up, pulling Belle shakily to her feet. "You can do this, Belle. You can save your—you can save our son."

He led her over to a small, curtained alcove, his arm around her shoulders, bearing her up. Normally, all that was on the other side was a window seat. Today, the window seat had been replaced with a small bed and the place where the window normally was had become a smooth, plastered wall. A blanket was pulled up to Bae's chin, to ward off the cold. In a sconce high above the bed, was a small lamp so Bae wasn't alone in the darkness.

His face was still deathly pale and his chest didn't rise of fall with his breaths.

"He's dead," Belle said. "He's dead."

"He's not." The Dark One turned her towards him. He pulled out his handkerchief, looking her over. "I cleaned you up from—from earlier, but let me have a look at you." He dabbed at her tears with the silk cloth. "There. You look fine. Now, just kiss him. Think of how much you love him, and kiss him."

Belle knelt down beside Bae. She smoothed his dark curls away back. He was cold, like marble, to her touch. He might as well be one of the effigies lying over a tomb in the castle crypt. It couldn't be true, Belle thought. She didn't understand why the Dark One was saying this. Somehow, he meant it for a kindness. But it couldn't be true. Bae was dead.

She began to cry again. A waste of a perfectly good handkerchief, she thought. Water stains ruined silk. Unless the Dark One used magic to clean them.

Why couldn't there be magic for this? Magic to save a little boy?

A life for a life. He'd said he knew she would die for Bae. It wasn't a sacrifice she would regret making. Was that what he really wanted her to do? He had only to ask but . . . was this his idea of Dark One's kindness, to let her die for Bae without knowing she would die? A small mercy?

"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

Following his instructions, thinking of everything she felt for her son, she leaned over and kissed his cold brow. She leaned back, running a hand through Bae's hair and closing her eyes, waiting for her heart to stop.

Except it didn't.

Her breath continued to come in and out. There was no pain or slow spreading stillness. Nothing changed.

And Bae was still cold beneath her fingers.

Now, the pain came, hard and remorseless. Belle didn't know what she'd done wrong or how she had fallen short. Did she not love Bae enough? Or was her love, like the rest of her, to flawed and broken to save him?

A tiny, weary part of her wanted to rail at the Dark One. Why did you give me hope? But, she had seen the sorrow in his own eyes. Whatever he'd done and for whatever reason, she was sure he'd meant it for kindness.

She remembered Maurice at a court feast when he was deep in his cups mumbling drunkenly something she hadn't understood at the time.

"Don't rely on kindness," he'd warned Belle, with the deep sincerity of the thoroughly drunk. "Kindness wears out."

Kindness wears out.

There was a small cough. Then a gasp of breath.

Bae was sitting up, spitting out a piece of apple.

"Mama?" he said. "Mama, what's wrong? You look sad."

Belle, pulling him to her in a crushing embrace, was crying too hard to answer.

X

Note: I wrote this quickly and only hope it turned out OK. Have mercy on its weaknesses.