Chapter 4: A Cage

If this were a story she were telling, Belle thinks, she would have changed some things. A lot of things. For instance, she would have let them feel the triumph of their arrival in Neverland for longer than a scant moment. She would have lingered on the fact that after all this time, after all Baelfire's sacrifices, he has finally made it—has brought reinforcements back from Neverland to save his papa.

But it isn't a story, and everything goes wrong much too quickly. Belle is still reeling from Jefferson's unhinged smile and rapid-patter instructions, not to mention the infinite void broken only by doors set all around them, and then the fall from nothingness into…well, a whole new world. A jungle spilling out on all sides, a night split by the largest moon she's ever seen, and the call of an ocean hidden by the undergrowth. It's beautiful, in an adventurous sort of way, but Belle has time only for that one sharp bolt of triumph that she is here, she is a hero on a quest, when it all falls apart.

Whoops and war cries sound in the distance and Jefferson says, quite calmly, that they should probably run. The twenty soldiers Snow and David sent, a group of the elite soldiers from the easternmost country of their world, known to be both as strong as a raging fire and mysterious as the dark side of the moon, all agree and fall into some kind of defensive formation. Belle tightens her belt to ensure the book she compiled on all things Neverland is still tucked there in its makeshift bag, and prepares to run.

But Baelfire… Well, Baelfire freezes. Or maybe he's been frozen the entire time and this is the first second Belle's had to notice. Either way, she doesn't let herself seem in a hurry as she reaches out and slides her hand into his.

"Bae," she says softly. "Which direction should we run?"

He doesn't seem to hear her. His eyes are locked on something above the treeline, perhaps the raw edge of the rock peak that juts out over the jungle. Perhaps on the moon, or the stars that are supposed to lead them out as soon as they find Rumplestiltskin. Or perhaps, she thinks, on memories of a too-long childhood.

She should have known what it meant, when over the past week or so, he grew more distracted. Quieter. Snappier. He stopped talking to her, started taking long walks alone, and once, she found him curled up in a corner, knees bent to his chest, rocking slowly. She thought he'd had a nightmare, and guided him back to his room, sat next to him while she patiently fed him breakfast, and let him shrug the whole thing off with a nervous chuckle when he came back to himself.

But of course. Neverland is his hell, and now, he's right back in it. And this time, he walked in voluntarily.

"Baelfire," she says, sliding to stand in front of him, setting her hands on his shoulders. The violent hollering is growing closer. "I need you to tell us where we should go."

Gradually, second by second, he comes back to himself.

"Belle," he says, and she nods back at him. His eyes lose their stilted blankness and flood with determination. Glancing around, he takes in their exact location. "That's the Lost Boys coming. If we run, we make it a game. And they hate to lose."

"So what do we do?" one of the two captains asks. He's clean-shaven, his jaw sharply carved, and for all that he and the other captain, a woman named Mulan, seemed to butt heads to begin with, he is quick to defer to Bae's expertise here, reminding Belle why she picked him and the frighteningly competent Mulan out of all the volunteers Snow and David found for her.

"We hide," Baelfire says. "Come, this way, there's an underground cave system that leads under a waterfall. We'll stay there."

The soldiers nod, eyes darkened under the shadow of their helmets, and follow Baelfire as he sets off in what looks to Belle to be a completely random direction.

"This will work?" she asks quietly.

"It's close," he says, evasive as always, before he huffs and adds, very quietly, "Pan will know where we are, though. He's aware of every blade of grass in Neverland."

"But he likes games," she says. "So he'll play?"

"He always plays," Baelfire says bitterly.

They make it to the cave, and Belle gets a few moments to think things are going well. She watches Jefferson harass the soldiers, who are trying to set up watches, and wonders what books there are on hats like the one he wears. She wonders at all the different worlds there must be to match the different doors she saw on the inside of that hat. She wonders where Rumplestiltskin is and if he knows that his son is coming for him.

And that's when everything goes wrong.

Later, she will think back on it and realize that nothing they could have done would have made the slightest difference. Baelfire tried to warn her, in so many different ways. Pan is the law in Neverland. Pan knows everything that happens. Pan never loses. So many warnings, and Belle blew past them all because the heroes always win and good always triumphs. It's what she's always believed.

That belief dies when the darkness of the cave erupts all around them. First with shadows, then, a second later, with the Lost Boys that cast them. Their swords and spears aren't toys, and the bloodlust in their eyes isn't make-believe. Two soldiers die within seconds, their armor useless against the blades through their eyes and throat. A third groans and takes a hit in the leg before Captain Shang finally gets his own sword raised and attacks. Mulan is already in the thick of the opposing fighters.

Belle finds herself hurled back into a corner with Baelfire's body covering her.

"You have to run," he tells her. "When I tell you, you run and you don't look back, got it?"

There's blood on her boot. Belle stares at it even while she nods. It's strange, really. Back home, she nursed soldiers brought back from the frontlines. She's stitched wounds and bandaged stumps and mopped up fever-sweat. But she's never watched someone so brutally killed right in front of her. She's never been stained with the blood of the murdered.

"Belle," Baelfire hisses, and then he's pushing her, shoving at her back. "Go, go! Run, Belle, now!"

She runs. It's a pitiful shamble at first, her eyes still fixed on that bloodstain, before she stumbles to a knee. Then, jolted from her reverie, she scrambles to her feet and runs.

Bae's behind her, yelling encouragement. There are boys farther back, yelling even louder. It's mayhem and adrenaline and a burning in her throat as Belle pants for air and runs faster than she ever has before.

Being a hero, she's quickly coming to realize, is not all it's cracked up to be.

They go from cave to jungle to shoreline, and all the way through, she's soaked in humidity, the air so heavy it takes effort to parse through it for oxygen. Only when her boots splash into surf does she realize that there's nowhere left to go. She spins to ask Baelfire for direction—

And comes to a dead halt.

Bae's not there. She's alone.

Or almost alone.

A shadow rips itself from the black sky and drifts down toward her like an autumn leaf on a breeze. It comes to stand in front of her, tilts its head, and its glowing eyes scrutinize her from head to toe.

"Where is he?" Belle demands. She's not quite stupid enough to use names, but considering everyone else on this island besides her and Mulan is probably a he, she wonders if the Shadow knows who she's even talking about.

"You're a grown-up," the Shadow says. "Grown-ups don't belong in Neverland."

It drifts closer. Belle's hand tightens around the hilt of her small sword, but she doesn't bother to draw it. Even if she knew how to wield it skillfully, she already knows that cold steel is useless against shadows made real.

"I've heard tales of adults here," she says as evenly as she can. There's a tiny quiver in her voice, but she thinks that maybe only she can detect it. "Pirates. A fairy. A father."

The Shadow's burning eyes narrow and it makes a long, low hiss.

Then, abruptly, it vanishes.

In its place, there is a boy. A boy that casts a shadow longer than anyone has a right to. A boy with a smirk and a swagger that has Belle instinctively drawing back, ankle-deep in ocean water.

"Well, well, well. Baelfire always did come up with the best games," the boy says. "I'm glad I didn't underestimate him."

"Peter Pan," Belle says bravely. Her eyes tell her this is only a child, but her gut screams at her that this is danger beyond comprehension.

"Oh, good, you already know my name. I think we're going to have a lot of fun, you and I. Tell me, Lady from another realm—what do you know of cages?"

The cave is useless. The hiding places he remembers are either obsolete after all this time or too small and paltry for such a large group. Bae's mind races as he tries to think of what to do, where to go, how to spin this into a game that Pan will let them play out.

Impossible. Impossible to think clearly when the humidity sits in his mouth like he never left. When the moon is just as big and bright as it was when it shone down on the wounds he had to stitch together himself with thread he unraveled from his own cloak. When every blade of grass, every rustling branch, every sight of Lost Boy sends him tumbling back in time to his childhood.

"But I'm not a child anymore," he whispers to himself. "I'm not a Lost Boy."

"No," Jefferson says. His hand clamps too tight onto Bae's wrist. Here, away from his young daughter Bae met so briefly, the Hatter's eyes are nearly manic, his grin frozen in place and just as unsettling as the force of his intensity. "But you're the only guide we've got. Now, tell me, where do we go?"

"I…" Bae stares at him. He spent years trying to find people to help him, begging for soldiers and forces and weapons. But for all his planning, he never thought of that rescue force as people. Never considered they'd have names and personalities and families.

The truth is, Bae never cared. All he's wanted is to save his papa, and he didn't care what that would cost.

But Shang is sharp and grim and then awkward at the strangest of times. Mulan is intimidating and gruff and mostly silent, but kind in the moments when she thinks no one is looking. And Jefferson is funny, and strange, and a bit more than eccentric, and his daughter made him promise to come home to her, and…and Belle isn't here. She's missing, out there somewhere, lost and alone and afraid, and it's all his fault and Bae can't do this. He can't trade all these people, not even for Papa.

"Baelfire!" Jefferson snaps, and shakes him. "You need to snap out of it and tell us—"

"The shoreline," Bae says. "A cove. We can summon a squid."

Jefferson doesn't even blink. "Got it." He raises his voice. "This way, armored soldiers, follow the leader!"

Bae shudders at the memory of the scorch marks that blistered his feet for ages after Pan played a particularly cruel version of Follow The Leader, but shakes aside the memory. He doesn't have time for it. There are lives depending on him.

They fight with the Lost Boys three more times—another ebony-haired warrior dies—before they make it to the shore in a cove that seems too familiar. Bae casts his eyes to the ground, searching for a seashell, when he spots the old, tattered robe.

It's Papa's. It's Papa's, and Bae dropped it from around his shoulders when Pan used squid ink for the first time on Papa and Bae was dragged away, kicking and screaming. That's the last time he saw Papa without a cage between them. The last time he felt really, truly happy. The last time he was hopeful for the future.

Before he quite realizes it, Bae finds himself over the robe. He bends, feeling stiff and old, and picks up the cold, weathered fabric. Time doesn't pass here, but the tide comes and goes, creatures live and survive on whatever they can find, and that means there's barely a scrap left when he pulls it out of the sand. It's dark red, stained, torn, but the weave is so familiar. Papa made it out of magic, but he always conjures out of his own memories, and Papa's weaves are as recognizable to Bae as Neverland itself.

Slowly, almost afraid of what this might do to him, Bae lifts the scrap to his nose and breathes in. It smells of ocean and neglect, but he almost fancies he can smell that whiff of wool-and-metal-tang that is his Papa. And since it's Neverland, since he imagines it, it's true.

Tears burn like acid in Bae's eyes.

He made it back. He's here. He brought soldiers to help.

But he's still helpless. He still can't do anything to save Papa. And now, worse, Belle's missing. Pan probably has her, and that means Bae's failed even more than ever before.

A sudden burst of determination sweeps through him.

No. He won't let Pan win. Not like this. Not ever. He promised Papa he's coming back, and he won't let him down. He's not a liar.

"Find me a seashell," Bae directs the closest soldiers. "The biggest one you can find."

In short order, they hand him a conch, and Bae blows through it with all the strength he can spare.

"There's going to be a squid erupting out of these waters," he warns the soldiers. "We need to contain it—kill it only if there's no other choice—and then harvest its ink. That's the only thing that can stop Pan. Got it?"

"We follow your orders," Shang says.

"For now," Mulan adds.

Bae tries not to show how much both those statements terrify him as he lifts the conch to his mouth and blows out another long burst.

There's already three men dead. Three lives on his conscience.

But Papa's waiting for him. And Belle…she believed in him. She's done nothing but help him, even when that meant standing up to her own father and walking away from him with her head held high. She's woken Bae from countless nightmares and told him stories until he could almost forget his own ugly reality and she makes sure he eats and reassures him that of course they'll save his papa.

Bae never meant to find more people to love. He certainly never meant to lose more people that are counting on him for rescue.

But then, life's never cared about his plans or his wishes. And if there's one thing Bae's learned in all his nearly immortal years, it's that when fate tries to trick you, you learn how to cheat at life itself.

When the waves explode with lashing tentacles, Bae drops the conch, tucks the scrap of Papa's robe in his pocket, and dives into the fray.

Belle has decided that she's not terribly fond of heights. Her books are full of stories of dragons soaring high into the sky, of bold men and women taming those winged serpents and riding them toward the horizon, and Belle thrilled to read of their adventures. Maybe, if she were astride a tamed dragon, she might recover her love of the adventure, but for now, hunched in on herself in a cage so thick that light barely penetrates its woven bars, swinging from the treetops above a drop that seems to get longer every time she thinks on it, Belle would be fine if she never heard another tale of flight. Or climbing. Or really anything that takes her feet off the ground.

"Hello?"

The quiet voice startles Belle so badly that her cage starts swinging wildly, making her stomach pitch and roll like a ship in a storm. Belle clasps a hand over her mouth, counts her inhales and exhales, and then, only when she's nearly still again, dares to say, "Hello?"

"Oh, you can hear me?"

It sounds like a girl talking to her. Someone young, perhaps from the borders of the Frontlands judging by her accent, and decidedly feminine.

But…she thought Bae told her there were only Lost Boys.

"My name is Belle," she tries.

"I…" The girl pauses for a long moment, then, with tears obvious in her voice, says, "I'm Wendy. Can you really hear me? Are you real?"

"I'm real," Belle says. She's pinpointed the direction the voice is coming from and now, slowly, begins to maneuver until she can try to peer between the weave of her cage. All she sees is another cage, presumably identical to her own, hanging from a neighboring branch. "I came here to try to—"

"Shh," Wendy hisses. "He can hear everything. Don't tell secrets."

"It's not a secret," Belle says defiantly. "We're here to take everyone away from this place. Back to your home."

"Oh." The girl sounds so wistful that it nearly breaks Belle's heart.

"Have…have you been here a long time?" Belle asks, though she regrets it almost immediately.

"I think so," Wendy says after another pause. "I came here to rescue someone too, a boy who was like family to me. But…instead of rescuing him, I was captured, and now Peter's using my brothers as his pawns. He says he'll free me if they do what he asks, but I know he won't. He's a liar. And my brothers…they used to be younger than me. But now, every time they come back, they're older."

"I'm sorry," Belle says, because she can't not, no matter how useless it is. "Is…is the person you came to save… What is his name?"

Wendy doesn't answer, and Belle's reminded of her warning about Pan's listening ears.

"Is it Baelfire?" Belle whispers.

The girl gasps. "You know him? Is he okay? Is he still alive? He knows that we came for him, doesn't he? He knows we didn't just abandon him?"

Belle swallows hard and tries, for the dozenth time, to pry the slats of her cage apart. "He…he's alive. He's okay. He came here with me. But I…I think he thinks you're safe back home. He told me his story, and he was happy that he could save your brothers."

Wendy lets out a soft sob. "But he's my brother too. How could I just let him be taken and not try to save him?"

Sudden sounds from below have them both falling silent. The rustling of the foliage makes Belle tense all over. She hopes it's not Pan, come back to taunt her, or to play. She wants to be brave, thinks that surely if only she does the brave thing, then bravery will surely have to follow, but…but she's not ready to face Peter Pan again.

"Wendy?" someone calls out in a hushed whisper. "Wendy, it's us. We're here."

"Michael!" Wendy cries. "John! Are you all right? You're okay?"

"Yes," a teenage boy says, and he emerges into the clearing below Belle, a slightly older man on his heels. Belle can just see their forms through her cage but can't discern any true details. "We've brought you some food. Has he remembered to give you water every day like he promised?"

"Yes," Wendy says bravely, though Belle's surely been here for over a day and has yet to see any sign of water. "You're sure you're both all right? You know he knows you're here."

"We don't care," one of the brothers says stoutly. There's a series of noises that Belle interprets better through deduction than through the blur past her cage. She thinks they're lowering Wendy's cage, passing something through the tiny gaps—food, she assumes.

"You should give some to Belle, too," Wendy says, and Belle can't help but smile. She wonders at the kindness of this girl, trapped here for centuries but still capable of compassion. "She's a prisoner like me."

"We didn't bring enough," says one of the brothers. "Maybe next time."

"If we get a next time," the other interjects. "He's restless again. We might have to leave again."

"What does he make you do?" Belle asks.

The brothers fall silent.

"It's all right," Wendy says. "She knows Baelfire. She says he's come to rescue us."

"What?" one demands. "That… Wendy, you have to be careful. Just be patient, and I promise that Michael and I will get you out. Just a few more jobs and he'll—"

"He's never going to let me go," Wendy interrupts. "You have to know that by now."

"But if we—"

"The Dark One's out," Michael blurts. "We heard the Lost Boys talking about it. Pan went to Echo Cave and got him. One of the Boys swears he saw him walking free. If he's sworn his allegiance to Pan…"

Belle cranes her neck, strains her hearing, but the brothers are silent. Even Wendy doesn't say anything to that. The despair that fills the clearing is so thick, so incredibly weighted, that Belle feels a fraction of it thickening the air in her own cage.

A noise from afar off has the brothers jumping. Hastily, they raise Wendy's cage back into the air.

"We'll be back when we can," they promise her. "Be patient. We're going to get you out of there."

"Be careful," Wendy calls back. "And if you have a chance to escape, you must—"

"We have to go."

"They never promise," Wendy says mournfully. "Every time, I try to make them promise that they'll escape if they can, but…"

"Of course they don't promise that," Belle says. "They love you."

She can't help but think, sadly, that no one loves her that much. Her father disowned her for leaving rather than marrying Gaston for troops to fight the ogres, her mother's gone, and no one else cares for Belle enough to risk their very lives to come find her.

"You're lucky," she says softly. "To have so many people so willing to rescue you."

"I don't feel lucky," Wendy says. "I feel like a burden."

And though Belle tries to think of something to say in response to that, Wendy seems to think the conversation is over. Belle pretends she can't hear the girl crying herself to sleep.

If this were a story and she really were a hero, she wouldn't cry herself to sleep too.

But it's not a story, and as it turns out, she's not much of a hero.

The night turns cold. Shadows become blacker. The moon seems removed behind a veil.

Rumplestiltskin straightens his spine and looks up from where he sits, cross-legged and unmoving, on the peak of a hill overtaken by branches that lock together high above his head. "I know you're there, dearie," he taunts.

Laughing, always laughing, Pan steps onto the hillside to lean against a tree trunk. "Being the Dark One does have some perks, doesn't it? You've got to love magic. It allows us to be our true selves. Well…" He gives Rumplestiltskin a once-over. "Or else it allows us to cover up the truth at the heart of us."

"I know I'm a monster," Rumplestiltskin says, teeth bared. "Can you say the same?"

"Villains are only a matter of perspective." Pan shrugs. "All a matter of who tells the story in the end."

"Villains are made, every day," Rumplestiltskin argues. "By circumstance, by choice, and by consequence."

"Look at you." Pan makes one, slow clap that echoes in the grotto-like surroundings. "Let you out of a cage and you start talking like you're actually sane."

"Why am I here?" Rumplestiltskin keeps his hands folded over his knees. Keeps his eyes fixed on Pan's. Keeps himself perfectly still.

He has to. Pan's given him no other choice.

"Oh, I just needed to set the board. But now…well, now the time has come to play your first part."

When Pan draws the dagger from behind his back, Rumplestiltskin tenses. He wants to lunge for the boy. Yearns to wrestle him to the ground and snatch the dagger away. In that moment, filled with terror greater than any he's known since Hordor pointed a finger to Bae, Rumplestiltskin even plans how he could kill his own father—sink his teeth into his throat and crunch his veins between his teeth and bleed him dry until his laughter finally goes quiet.

But he doesn't move a muscle. Pan told him not to, after all, and thus, Rumplestiltskin is trapped in place, like a living statue.

A doll, dressed to play a part, moved into position, words placed in his mouth.

"You know, I don't like using this thing," Pan says, conversationally, as he turns the dagger this way and that, examining it from every side. "It's so…vulgar. There's no subtlety to it. No finesse. Just a blunt instrument of power. I prefer the more skillful games—the ones that take more than just brute strength. But then, this is all you're good for, isn't it? Stand up."

Against his will, Rumplestiltskin feels himself rising from his tight position. His muscles scream after their long period of inactivity, but the dagger allows him no leeway.

"Walk toward me."

For all his pontificating, Pan's eyes are alight with a terrible glee as Rumplestiltskin is forced to do his bidding.

"Stop."

Rumplestiltskin halts just outside of arm's reach of Pan.

"I could tell you never to touch this knife again," he says. "I could tell you to kill Baelfire on sight. I could tell you to set yourself on fire and survive in agony."

Fear is a splinter under each of his fingernails, a millstone in his stomach, a fishhook in his throat, a scream in his mind.

Slowly, Pan looks up from the dagger to Rumplestiltskin. "I could…but what fun would that be? I prefer a fair fight. Or as close to fair as someone can get when you're the opponent. Go ahead, laddie, tell me just what your plan is."

"I'm going to kill you," Rumplestiltskin grits. "I'm going to shatter your bones and ground you to dust. I'm going to rip your throat out and feed your heart down that void. I'm going to—"

Pan's laughter cuts him off. He is insultingly casual as he reaches out to grab Rumplestiltskin's hand, unlatching the cuff with a motion Rumplestiltskin can't follow. "How imaginative of you," he says. "Perhaps Neverland has rubbed off on you a bit. Well, let's see, laddie, if you can disobey this next command, feel free to try to kill me in whatever inventive way you like."

"What command?"

"Just this: Agree with whatever I say. Lie as little as possible, but agree nonetheless. If you can manage not to do that, you have carte blanche to kill me—or to try, at least."

And then Pan does the worst possible thing: he takes Rumplestiltskin to Bae.

When Pan finds him, Bae is standing alone in a clearing not far from the water. Bae feels his muscles turn to dandelion fluff the instant he catches sight of Peter Pan, but he hides the weakness away. Pretend it's an audience with some ruler, he tells himself. Don't give away any weakness. Remember, you still have to win.

"Baelfire!" Pan moves forward as if to hug him and Bae swings the crossbow up, loaded and ready to go. Pan makes his expression into the perfect picture of offended innocence. "Haven't we already been through this before? Don't tell me you think I'm dumb enough to fall for your tricks again?"

"No," Bae says, "but I do think you're willing to make a deal."

"A deal." Pan taps his finger over his chin. "Now who does that remind me of?"

"I want my father back," Bae says, determined not to play any more games with this monster. "I want him and I want Belle."

"Belle?" Pan blinks. "Oh, you mean that girl you brought with you? I assumed you were bringing my boys and me a mother. Is she not a peace offering?"

"Where is she?" Bae demands, not quite able to bite the question back.

"Safe," Pan says. "Isn't that right, Rumple?"

The world shakes around Bae. He lifts his head from his sighting, his eyes darting as he searches for the cage above his head—

But Papa steps out of the underbrush. He's dressed all in silk and dragonskin, like some barbarian lord, and he walks without a staff or cane. Without a sign of a cage anywhere nearby. His skin is still unscaled, and also unmarred by any bruises or wounds. He looks…like Papa, if Papa were intimidating and evil.

If he were the Dark One without the physical manifestation of the curse.

"Papa?" he whispers. His hands are shaking and the crossbow is suddenly too heavy.

"Bae," Papa says, and the name, the tone he uses to breathe it out, the look in his eyes…it's everything Bae has been working for. It's what's kept him going during the hardest days, the longest stretches of hopelessness, the darkest moments.

Papa's alive. He's alive and he's okay and Bae can still save him.

"Papa, are you okay? Has he hurt you?"

A stupid question. Of course Pan's hurt him. Pan doesn't know how to do anything else.

"Hurt him?" Pan has the gall to frown as if stung. "Why, I resent that, Baelfire. After all, you're the one who left him. You're the one who abandoned him to go live some life free of him. You're the one who threw your own papa away out of selfishness. Isn't that right, Rumple?"

Papa's eyes fall away from Bae. "You…you did leave," he says in a tiny, crushed voice.

Bae's entire body spasms. "No, Papa, I had to! Remember, I told you, I was leaving so I could find a way to save you. And now I'm back! I've come back to save you!"

"Did you?" Pan's circled around behind Bae, at some point, and now Bae is trapped between him and Papa, but how can Bae turn to keep an eye on Peter Pan when Papa looks so small, so alone—so unhurt? "I thought you said you came for Belle."

"She came with me to save you, Papa. I can't leave her behind."

Rumplestiltskin flinches. Behind him, Bae can feel Pan's smirk.

"But you could leave your papa," Pan murmurs. "Interesting."

"No, that's—" Bae shakes his head violently. "You're twisting my words."

"You know, while you left to go live the high life, Rumple here was all alone. So alone he started talking to the walls, isn't that right, laddie?"

"Yes." Rumplestiltskin straightens, and Bae knows his papa's watching him, drinking in the sight of him, but try as he might, he can't quite catch his papa's eye. "Only the shadows listened to my stories."

"And me," Pan says. "You see, when you threw him away, I'm the one who kept visiting him. I'm the only one who didn't abandon him. Isn't that true, Rumple?"

Papa's hands are fists at his sides, but he says, "It's true."

"What is he doing to you?" Bae demands.

"Nothing," Pan says. "Just telling the truth. Like the fact that talking to walls grows tiresome. Or the fact that magic is addictive and Rumple here just couldn't live without it any longer. And deals are so easy to make, aren't they?"

Bae goes so cold he half-expects his fingers and toes to turn black with frostbite. "You made a deal with him?!" he yells. "Papa, I told you I was coming back! How could you? For magic? What did you promise him? What did you do?"

And only when Pan laughs behind him does Bae realize that he's dropped the crossbow, that he's crossed the clearing, that he's holding onto handfuls of his papa's stiff jacket and is shaking him, right in his face—and that Papa's flinching away from him. Cowering away from his anger. When Bae blanches and lets go of him, Rumplestiltskin falls, shaking, to the ground. He looks so small.

So familiar.

So different.

His papa and the Dark One all mixed and melded together like a single drop of white paint in a bucket of black.

And looking to Pan for help rather than Bae.

"I came back for you," Bae whispers. "Why didn't you wait for me?"

"You left," Papa keens. "My boy. My boy. You left."

"You did, you know," Pan whispers right in Bae's ear. "You can't blame a coward for finding a new corner to hide in."

And that's when the warriors ambush Pan on all sides, every weapon, every rope, every hand coated in squid ink.

But Bae still feels like he's lost the war.