A/N: Hey everyone. This was going to be a deleted scene that I was going to post as a one-shot, or in For the Sake of Family: Deleted Scenes, (as I'm thinking of making a compilation of deleted scenes, comical Rum-and-Ellyn moments, and previews).
But I thought, what the hell, Ellyn and Rumple need some bonding time. And it actually fits nicely and makes a smoother transition into the next chapter, so here you go.
They might both be alittle OOC, but I justify that because alcohol is involved, and lets be honest, that makes everyone act OOC.
With that in mind: Warning: This chapter contains repeated descriptions of alcohol use and abuse and of the stupidity that often follows.
This chapter is alittle longer, about 7 thousand words where a normal chapter would be around 5-6.
Also, I apologize, but some of the dialogue is drunk-talk and written like so, so you might have to do some deciphering. Good luck.
Chapter 5: A Night To Remember
Little wolf.
Three little syllables that repeat themselves over and over in my head; sometimes just them, sometimes accompanied by a sentence or phrase.
What does the little wolf need help with?
In a stroke of irony, I shift to my wolf form, spiriting my clothes away to my safe-house so they won't be damaged in what I hope is going to be a bloodbath. Bones pop and shift, though not painfully; my vision sharpens, as does the sense of smell and hearing; my eyes turn the ember of a true wolf, but glow with a vibrant light that is unnatural. The wolf's aggression and natural instincts that rise to the surface at the sight in front of me mingles with my own emotions, of self-loathing and anger and pain.
All at once, I let my emotions out, and one howl rings through the boulder-studded plains. The sound can be described as simultaneously the most rage-filled and most broken thing any mortal is ever likely to hear.
Don't play games, little wolf.
The Ogre camp in front of me sturrs; though blind, they have a very acute sense of hearing. I should know. Half of the deals I've made with nobles have been to turn the tide in their battles against the beasts, which means I'm well-skilled in the art of their extermination.
The ogres clamber to their feet; the few that were awake and on guard charge my way. I silently slip to the top of a boulder, leaving the beasts to search unsuccessfully the place where I just was as I wait for the rest of the hoard to wake.
Little wolf.
I let out a sound of rage that's a mix between a growl and a howl, and it comes out, for just a few seconds, as nearly a roar. The remainder of the hoard is up and charging blindly towards me before the sound has even completely died out. I let them come, growling low and deep from the back of my throat so they know exactly where I am. Just as I'm surrounded on every side by ogres, with my body easily within their long arms' reaches, I leap off the boulder and straight into the air. The circle of beasts closes underneath me as the stupid things come crashing into each other.
The monster is right in front of you.
I land on an ogre's shoulders and propel off, straight into the upper chest of another. I drive my front paw and half the attached limb through it's eye and into it's brain. I drop to the ground with a bark of delight.
Sorry, little wolf, but I have better things to do.
Why can't I get his blasted voice out of my head? Whenever I've done something this stupid in the past, it's my own voice that mocks me, sometimes Zoso's. Never has it been the voice of someone who is the equivalent of a complete stranger. I know, deep down, that that is a bad sign, that that is unexplored and dangerous territory that I should forget about, ignore and avoid at all costs.
I also know that perhaps I should feel that I shouldn't have done what I did. But I don't. I hate myself for doing it, but I can't bring myself to regret it even one bit.
That inner contradiction is probably the cause of some of my annoyance, but I don't really care enough to examine it right now. No, right now I'm just going to focus on staying alive. Well, staying in one piece, anyway. When it comes to fighting ogres, I've been in more than one piece, and still been alive (thanks to my curse), and believe me, it is not pleasant. Even if it only lasts as long as it takes to use a spell to reattach my arm.
And your own magic won't suffice, little wolf?
Perhaps if this was an assassination instead of a one-man battle, with my emotional state being what it is, I would let wolf instincts take over. I've found (accidently) that if I'm alone with my target when I lose complete control, the wolf will stalk and kill said target. A very useful thing, as it gives my mind a break from itself until I wake the next morning, with the added bonus of anyone finding the body thinking the poor soul died from a wild animal attack.
But wolves are machines of the hunt, not of battle. I might be fast enough in wolf form to get away from here, and I might be stealthy enough to do it quietly so I'm not followed. But the key word here is might, and at the minute I don't need the hassle of possibly having to wonder a field of ogre bodies looking for one of my missing limbs.
So, short of letting the wolf in me take over, I let the warrior in me take over. My mind quickly quiets at simplicity of my brutal attacks and the adrenaline of my speed. This release is what I came here seeking, and I allow myself to become lost in what turns out to be a very merciless massacre.
Some time later, I sit against a boulder, in human form and once again dressed in my traveling clothes of black cotton and an old cloak. Most all of the fabric in these pieces are soaked through with blood, nicely complementing the rust-colored stains visible on my hands and at the base of my neck. I take a long swig from a bottle of rum and survey my work.
Judging from the position of the waning moon, it's about two in the morning. At this time of night, the moon does little to shed any light on my surroundings, and someone who wasn't familiar with the area might be able to mistake the hulking mounds scattered around me as boulders and rock outcroppings, if it weren't for how slick the ground is with miscellaneous gore, or for the almost-overwhelming scent of blood.
I'd managed to make it through my venting with only one major injury, and am at the minute trying my very best to give myself alcohol poisoning. Sadly, I'm still sober enough to be able to form coherent thoughts, so I'm still hearing the echoes of little wolf and idiot.
My state, I've realized by now, is not just because of the slightly-major lapse in logical thinking I had early tonight. It comes far more from a gaping hole in my mental barriers that's allowing negative things through, and what slips out is doing a number on my sanity. Things like Ian being gone and me slowly losing hope of finding him. Like Will and Tor being dead. Like how I let Zoso be murdered. Things like how I wasn't good enough to stop any of these things. Things like what I've done that has earned me the titles the current Dark One seems to think belong to him, like devil and monster. Things like the fact that the last time I had someone I considered a friend was three years ago, I ended up thrown in a castle dungeon and tortured for five months for trusting the bastard.
Things like damned Rumpelstiltskin.
Why it's because of him, I couldn't tell you. Only that I know that some of my emotional distress is attributed to him, and not just because I couldn't get his help, though that is the big contributor. Some of it is because of the fact that, though I'd never admit it to even myself if I weren't drunk, I seem to actually care what happens to the little spinner's son.
Yes, what happens to his son. Because even in my state, I know to not let myself go any farther than thinking I'm simply upholding one of my morals, of not leaving a child fatherless. I don't even know if there's honestly anything more to it than that, or if my emotional survival instincts are just that deeply engraved; that they instantly kill and shut down on anything that could be more.
Caring is a length of rope, love is a noose. An old saying an assassin friend once quoted to me, right before his lover was kidnapped and he died trying to get her back. Words to live by, if my experience is one to judge.
But that still leaves the problem of the fact that I violated this rule, even if it was just an extension of my sole surviving moral. Not just helped, either. I handicapped myself in the process; it'll take years to find a different magician to help me, and if I decide I don't have the time for that, it'll take years to find a way to force the Dark One to help me. Even if the idea of somehow getting ahold of Zoso's old dagger makes my stomach queasy in a way it hasn't been in decades.
Knowing all that, I still don't regret helping him.
And that terrifies me. It makes every survival instinct in me screams to stay the hell away from that man, because so far nothing good has come from being around him.
Killian's girlfriend dead.
Ian's hand gone, along with any chance he'll ever have of leading the life of a mortal.
Zoso murdered.
Nothing. Good.
And yet, I still give a damn that the bastard lost his son.
Maybe you feel guilty that you let him become the Dark One. You knew back then that it wasn't gonna be good for him. Maybe you're just trying to make up for that.
After a second of thinking, I realize that, though that is a very good point and could pass as a logical reason, it's not really my main reason.
So what is?
I put the bottle to my lips and through it back, chugging until I'm out of breath.
Yep. Nothing good comes from coherent thoughts.
Its about then that a plume of purple smoke appears next to me, and I slowly roll my head in that direction to take in the figure that stands in the middle of it. I'm so drunk that I don't even bother to be alarmed that my impaired state puts me at a disadvantage to him. Or by the fact that his even being here could be in itself evidence of tens of bad possible scenarios.
From the way Rumpelstiltskin immediately takes a step and slips on blood, hitting the ground with a resounding 'whump', and from the faintest scent of the drink he was sipping at the tavern, he's alittle tipsy as well. Strange, I didn't really think he was the drinking type. Maybe it's just a one time thing.
Meh. I don't really care.
"What bringsh ya to mah neck o the woods, Rumplshil… Rumpshin… what brings yah 'round, Rumple?" I slur, quickly giving up on my botched attempts to pronounce his name.
Rumpelstiltskin rolls onto his stomach and gets his hands under him, pushing himself up, but as soon as he tries to put any weight on his legs they slip in blood and land him face-down on the ground. I chuckle, not really having the brain power to care if it offends the man. Or the brain power to know that there's no way I could get out of here, magically or otherwise, if something bad were to occur. No brain power left at all, really, as shown by my next statement.
"Someones na used to therr drunk legs."
The magician gives up on standing and rolls over and up into a sitting position. He puts one hand out in front of him and starts flicking it at the wrist, probably trying unsuccessfully to get the blood off it.
"I see the little wolf's been busy." he remarks dryly, barely even slurring on his s's; in fact, if I hadn't spent so long in the company of drunkards and pirates, I wouldn't even be able to pick it up.
With speed I didn't know I could muster with this much alcohol in my veins, I hurl my near-empty bottle of rum at his head, but he catches it effortlessly. Perhaps he's not as drunk as I thought.
"Stop calling me that." I growl, then summon another bottle of alcohol. After several seconds of my blood-soaked fingers slipping on the cork, I hold the bottle out to the Dark One. "Open this, pleash."
"Not drunk enough?" He sneers sarcastically.
"Well I'm still con-cus, so Ima go with no." I lift the bottle up alittle more and look at him pointedly. He, in turn, looks from it to me with mild disdain. "Please?" I say again.
With an exasperated sigh, he snaps his fingers and the cork disappears.
"Thanks." I say, taking a long drink. I hold the bottle out to him again. "Wanna drink?"
He studies me for a moment. Then he seems to almost mentally shrug, taking it from me and taking a sip. That's another sign to me that he's drunk, as I'm sure he would've said no if he was in full possession of his faculties.
"Atta boy. So watta-ya want?" I don't care how much alcohol he has or hasn't had, he wouldn't have come if he didn't want something out of me.
"What, pray tell, is the cause of all this?" the spinner says with a note of mocking in his voice, ignoring my question and gesturing at the bodies around us. There's a spark of hate in his eyes as he looks at the scene, and I'm reminded of something someone from the spinner's old village said, about how he was a soldier in the Ogre Wars. That he's here with these stark reminders of that time surrounding him means whatever he wants must be important.
I shrug, taking another swig from my bottle that magically disappears out of Rumple's hand and appears in mine. "..'Member when I said tha' there're bad mem'ries in tha' town?" (I don't even pause for an answer). "Well, they kinda ganged up'on me, and 'ere we are. So wha' izzit that ya want?"
He's silent, and I glance over at his direction, taking that as a bad sign. After a second, he starts to reach for something inside his-is that dragonskin? I tried for months and I couldn't find one!-vest My free hand immediately goes for my sword. I don't even attempt to cast a spell; with how bad I'm slurring, there's no way I'd be able to pronounce the words correctly, and even if I say them in my head instead of out loud, I don't trust myself to be able to remember the right ones. And when it comes to certain spells, all you have to do is mess up one word, and it'll give you an entirely different effect than the one intended. Sometimes those effects are fatal.
Rumple sees the movement and freezes, flashing that mocking-and-amused smile that reveals his teeth. He gives a something that's halfway between a chuckle and a giggle.
"Think that's gonna stop me, dearie?"
I flash my own lupine grin. "This baby-" I pat my sword, "Absorbsh magic."
He flashes that smile again. "You'll pardon me if I don't tremble." He reaches inside his vest again, and produces my magic bean.
I blink. Several times. In rapid succession.
Grab the damn thing! Some voice in me screams; it sounds suspiciously like Killian.
I gulp and scoot away, not wanting to do something I might regret later. There's a long stretch of silence, as Rumplestiltskin gazes at the bean and I watch him.
"I ran some tests to see if it had been tampered with." he finally says, talking about the bean. His voice has dropped acouple octaves, more like the voice of the man than of the Dark One.
But now I see why he's here; I didn't tamper with the bean at all. Had he used it, it would've worked exactly like it's supposed.
I'd be suspicious of that, too.
I chuckle at the highly-confused and alittle-tormented look on the man's face.
"Well, wouldya look at tha'." It's my turn to sneer. "I've stumped the great Rumpleshilskin." He turns his head to glare at me, which only causes me to chuckle more. Even giggle a little at how pathetic this whole situation is.
Without a word, he flips the bean up like he's flipping a coin. I swipe it out of the air when he makes no move to catch it.
"Take it back. I don't need charity." he growls, standing. He slips once again, but I'm up and there as he begins his descent, and I catch his arm, stopping him before his knees even hit the ground. He goes stiff at the contact, but allows me to help him stand up.
"Ya need to learn to walk in blood, Rumple." I instruct, putting a hand on his side as he over-corrects on a slight slip. "You're gonna have ta at some point, in our line o' work."
"I'll keep that in mind." He says dryly, leaning away from me and trying to stand straight without sliding; he has to wave his arms for balance. I grin; he looks like a toddler trying to ice-skate.
He gets something akin to balance, and takes one half-step away with his shoulders set, probably in an attempt to regain some of the lost dignity. His front foot immediatly goes flying out from under him, leaving him falling backwards towards me, and I roll my eyes and catch the collar of his jacket, leaving him with his rump half-way to the ground and his legs at an angle away from his body.
"Let go of me, little wolf." He growls, his voice deadly, eerily calm in a way that has probably frightened nobles and commoners alike. It is the voice of a man used to power, about to use it. I laugh maniacally, unintimidated. What's he going to do to me that hasn't already been done?
"As you wish." I say, dropping his collar. He hits the ground spread-eagle with a grunt, his head bouncing slightly. He stares straight up, dazed, and I kneel next to him and grab his open hand, clapping the bean back into it and forcibly closing his fingers. He rolls his head in my direction, eyes aflame.
"Didn't anyone eva tell ya' tha' its rude ta refuse a gift?" I growl quietly.
"I don't need your pity." he repeats in the same tone as the first five times. Anger surges through me; I was just getting over the fact that I gave the stupid bean to him, and now here he is, dragging all of that back up. I grab the color of his vest and yank him up so we're at eye-level to eachother.
"And I don't need ya par'noid little comments. So don't bother mah about the damn bean again."
I slam him back down and rise to my feet, turning and walking away. It is a great compliment to either the power of discipline or the power of alcohol that I don't straight-out leave after what I've just done. I am powerful in magic, yes, and I'm probably as close as a Dark One will ever come to an equal, but that doesn't mean that minorly physically assaulting one isn't a risk, even to an immortal.
But Zoso taught me never to run.
He said that I had nothing to fear; that with the curse that was laid on me, I couldn't die, and because of that the only things anyone could ever do to me again were temporary.
I don't run because Zoso didn't run.
What did not running get him? Dead. It got him dead. So perhaps I shouldn't use him as a role model in this situation. But if I'm anything, it's stubborn at the most inopportune moments, and I have just enough anger and just enough alcohol to override any survival instincts.
At the base of my boulder I stop just long enough to retrieve my bottle, which I dropped when I went to catch our resident Dark One. When I straighten, said magician is right in front of me, leaving me to wonder if his slipping-and-sliding wasn't just a ruse.
"Unless ya wanna fight or share a drink, get outta 'ere. I'm done with this business." I snarl, not even stopping. He sidesteps and lets me pass, and I don't look back as I take one more step and leap to the top of my ten-foot tall boulder, plopping down perpendicular to where the Dark One stood a few seconds ago. The only difference being, that when I turn my head to look at the spot, he's not there anymore.
Good. Maybe he finally gave up and went home.
I stretch out on the rock, lacing my fingers underneath my head and bracing my legs against the stone (as I'm laying on a downward slant and will slide off if I don't), my bottle balanced on my stomach. I look up at the sky for a while; the night is clear enough that the light of stars pierce through the dark, and I search out the constellations that Ian uses for navigation when the night's too dark to be able to read a compass.
Time passes. Hours or minutes, eons or seconds. I couldn't tell you which.
"Got anything other than rum?" Rumplestiltskin says suddenly in only a half-sneer, less than a foot away and right above me on my boulder. I jump violently, curse, lose my balance and fall off my perch. At the last minute I grab the edge of the stone with my hand, leaving me dangling off the side. Rumple gives a laugh that's half-between a cackle and a giggle, and I haul myself back up.
He sits, smugly, on the apex of the great slab of granite, putting him at perhaps the total of a half-foot higher up than me, one knee crossed over the other with his fingers laced around the appendage. He's apparently considered my offer and chosen to share a drink.
I hadn't meant it all that seriously on account of I didn't think he would. I'd seen his expression at the tavern, I had known why he'd chosen tonight to venture out; sometimes when your ghosts are out, it helps, if only for the first few moments, to be around civilization. Around things that can subconsciously distract you, like the yells in a crowded bar or the cheesy music that gets stuck in your head. However, that usually ends with just feeling lonelier, and if you're immortal like us and have few surviving friends to call on, you usually slink back home where others can't see your moment of weakness.
So it surprises me that tonight, he would volunteer to be around me, off all people.
"Yah made mah drop my rum, yah bastard!" I say good-naturedly, any thoughts on my surprise running through my head only fleetingly and in passing, and I don't care enough to dwell on them. The Dark One looks downright proud of himself, giving a self-satisfied giggle.
"Yah, hahaha. You're gettin' mah another one."
"Am I? Do tell why."
I glare at him for a minute, knowing I have no way of actually enforcing my demand. An idea comes to me; it's risky, as I've sure the man in front of me doesn't tolerate thievery, but he seems to be on a merry enough buzz that I could possibly get away with it.
I hop off my boulder, twisting to land facing my uninvited companion. I lay my palm flat, and with a thought my magic bean appears in it. Unlike if the Dark One had done it, no puff of smoke follows; most of the time, smoke, sparks, etc, are glamour and theatrics meant to impress or intimidate. I don't care for them when I'm sober, and I don't have the concentration to do them now, so when the little seed appears in my grip, it takes acouple seconds for Rumple to see what it is.
Then he does, and I grin smugly when his face goes from mildly curious to shocked. He has several wards on his persons, against pickpockets, minor spells, etc, and I guess he didn't think I could get around them. Hell, I wasn't sure I could get around them.
"I challenge yah to a drinkin' game, Rumple. The winner gets ta keep this stupid lil' thing."
Rumple jumps down right next to me. He stands there, tensed, in a way that is all business and danger and warning.
"I thought you said you were giving it to me."
"I tha' yah said yah didn't wan' it." I shoot back. When I see the look that is thrown my way, I add, "Oh, co'mon, 'ave some fun evra once in a while. It won't 'urt anything."
From the look on his face, the spinner is thinking oh yes it can.
I toss the bean at him, and he catches it deftly. "Com'on, humor mah." I say, then add, "And I'll consider us even."
The Dark One slips the small cause of so much drama back into his vest after a second of hesitation.
"Very well. You have yourself a deal. What is it the little wolf had in mind?"
I grin like the nickname that's been given to me.
"Drinkin' with da Dark One. This'll be a night ta remember."
"Let's get goin', then. Mah game is alot funner when ya do it aroun' mortals."
Rumple gives me a suspicious look. "Why?"
I roll my eyes. "Oh relax, ya paranoid lil' hermit. I'm not gonna make ya socialize." I pretend to shudder at the word; after so many years being avoided, my people skills are down to almost zero, and my tolerance for said people even lower than that; a trait I suspect I share with the sorcerer next to me. "Na, it's just fun ta mess with 'em."
The Dark One actually smiles for once, a genuine, mischievous smile. "Off we go then, little wolf." He says, offering his arm. I look at him and hesitate, for two reasons; one, I don't like the idea of trusting someone else to do a spell that involves me, and that is exactly what Rumple is doing, offering to teleport us.
And two, I don't like being touched. By this point, a combination of solitude and my five month stay in a king's dungeon means that physical contact with another human being is more alien and unnerving than anything else it could be.
I squash this down and link my arm through the spinner's. If he's willing to be around me, then I can at least be as un-picky as he.
With a wave of the Dark One's hand, purple smoke envelops us, and we wink out of existence.
The first thing I'm aware of when the spell deposits us is the noise. The sound of nearly fifty voices packed into a relatively small tavern is in such sharp contradiction from the relative quiet of my slaughter field, that my head starts to throb.
"Where da hell are we?" I shout over the noise, glancing to Rumplestiltskin next to me. I'm not at all surprised to see a dark cloak around the Dark One's shoulders, the wide hood up and concealing everything but the basic angles of his face in shadow. If my own appearance hadn't already been hidden by my own cloak and my hat, I'm sure Rumple would've magicked one onto me; after all, a women with a sword and ember eyes, and a man with golden scales dressed like Rumple dresses, might draw more attention then we need.
Rumple smirks. "At a bar, of course."
I glare at him. "Thank yah for tha' fascinatin' piece o information. I wouldn't have been able ta figure it out on mah own."
"Tone down the sarcasm, dearie, or between the two of us everyone will be smothered with it."
I grin. "I fail ta see how tha' would be our problem. Com'on, lets find somewhere ta sit."
The nearest table is a couple feet to our right (as the bar countertop is immediatly to our left), and four boys, barely seventeen and drunk as sailors, joke and laugh raciously from that spot. Rumple looks at them, grins like a devil, and gives a wave of the hand. All four fly three feet straight up into, and hover there for only a second before being dumped in a heap next to a neighboring table.
"It seems a table has opened up." the Dark One says mildly, and I chuckle at his antics. He smile with pride, and we both take our seats, his putting his back to the bar, and my spot across from him putting me in a strategically good view of the bar and, to the left of that, the door. On a whim, five shot glasses, filled almost to the brim with a dark-amber liquid, appear in a neat row in the middle of the table.
"Okay, spinner, this is how da game works. When it's yer turn, ya ask the other person to speak a truth or do a dare. The otha' person chooses one, and if ya ask a question they don't wanna answer or name a dare they won't do, then they gotta take a shot. Then it's da other person's turn, and so on. First one ta pass out loses, and no healin' yerself with magic, either."
Rumplestiltskin cocks his head to the side and smiles condescendingly. "Then I have quite the advantage."
I realize what he means, and summon my magic to wash the mild poison from my veins.
"Ah, that's much better." I say, even though the return of my full hearing makes me want to drive a spike through my head to escape the sheer amount of noise in the room. "Do we have a deal, spinner?"
Across the table, the Dark One's lips curl into a half-smile. Without a word, he extends his hand, and I take it without hesitation, shaking it. I lean back, holding down my own smile.
"Now, to get started. It's customary for the challenged to go first."
Rumplestiltskin arches an eyebrow. "You don't seem the one to keep to traditions."
I shrug. "It's something I picked up in Camelot, and at the moment it suites me. So, what be your first question?"
His first question does not surprised me in the least. "Who was this-" he waves his hand noncommittally- "other Dark One you knew?"
I arch an eyebrow. "Jealous?" his lips twitch into a small smile, and I go on. "Well, he started teaching me magic at a young age. Thirteen, I think it was, and it got us into all kinds of trouble. And it mitta been a bit unprofessional, but we became friends…"
At first, our questions are cautious and polite, and those that don't fit into those two categories are asked purely to glean some knowledge we could somehow find useful later. As the latter could be possibly harmful to the answerer, this is where most of the dares start to come in to play. (For example, when asked what areas of magic I knew, I chose a dare instead of answering).
After a while, though, we've become alittle more comfortable around eachother, its more normal things, like stories and gossip and opinions. There comes a point when one question turns into a lengthy conversation, and several times we forget whose turn it even is. The game is eventually forgotten as the night wears on and we consume more alcohol.
To be honest, I don't remember much of what was said, because by that point I was pretty well hammered. I do, however, remember two confessions on my part.
"Damn Zoso!" I'd roared, slamming my hand down on the table. Acouple patrons had jumped, and I'd quieted my voice as I went on, ranting my recent discoveries to the imp who gazed patiently at me. "The bastard. He neva told me he was the Dark One, not 'til the day he died. He pretended he was jus' another sorcsherer! For years! I thought we were friends! He was lying ta my face an' I believed 'em."
I remember leaning forward in my seat, words made clearer by cold anger. "Ya know what? He never wanted a friend. He wanted an heir. That's why he trained me in magic and helped me wit' my lycan instincts. That's why he sent me in his stead ta deals when I got older. Because he wanted someone to relieve him from the curse."
Rumpelstiltskin was quiet for a moment. "If that were true, dearie, then wouldn't you be the Dark One?"
I had looked at him, trying to read his emotions and failing. "I should have been. You should have never had to go through this. Zosos got attached. I'd already had one curse laid on me for knowing him, and he didn't want to make it two. So when he knew he couldn't let me be his successor, the coward up and left, said he was dead."
The spinner had simply slid me a drink, knowing that that was the best therapy at the moment.
Things were a bit fuzzy after that. One thing I vaguely remember was that Rumple said something about his coward father, and being just like him, to which I responded that he was at least trying to get back to his son, more than his own father had ever done for him.
I also remember confessing one of my two only fears to him. We were laughing loudly over some joke or another, and when it died out I had taken a sip from some drink I got somewhere, suddenly feeling somber. "This is fun, Rumple. Having someone to talk to. It's… okay." And he'd made a statement of agreement, his exact words lost to me. I'd stared into my dink. "I'm scared of this, you know. That I'll never find it. That I'm staring down an eternity alone."
Rumple had chuckled, darkly and without amusement. He slid me another drink. "The price of immortality is steep, little wolf."
At some point in the night, while watching Rumple complete his dare of trying to win an arm wrestling match without magic, I happened to look into one of the candles on the tables.
Flames had always held a certain allure for me; in my eyes, something that could be used both to destroy life and help it live was poetic, hopeful. This was enhanced when I was gifted the power of a younge boy. He was remarkably strong in his magic, most of it fire-centered, and had acquired the ability to See. His mortal mind, unable to deal with the visions, slapped a magical filter onto the ability; he would only See through flames and dreams. And what I've dubbed a Cinderseer was born. When he was unable to control his powers, we had worked out a deal, and I gained his manipulation over the fiercest of elements.
Gazing at the candle, sitting in a tavern with the Dark One as my drinking companion, a vision came to me. In the flame I saw many things; the journey that would most likely end in heartbreak and bloodshed, with several possible paths to take though most roads led to that dark end; my own demise, and Rumple's; a fierce determination and the feeling of my blood being set aflame, the way it feels when my curse resurrects me from the edge of death, only a thousand times worse. I saw that my fate would intertwined with Rumplestiltskin's forever more depending on a decision I would make soon, very soon, and that once they were joined it would be disastrous for all parties involved.
Perhaps if I had remembered it, I would have got up and left and spared us both the pain. But as it was, the Dark One plopped down across from me and flashed me a smile, and the alcohol in my veins destroyed the memory almost instantly.
By the time I would remember it again, it would be far too late.
If memory serves, by the end of the night, the Dark One and I have started five brawls, been to three different taverns, and turned a pair of guards tormenting a beggar into dogs, among other things.
By the time we part, though I have lost almost all memory of the night, I feel that I've gained… something close to a friend. An allie, perhaps.
Noon of the next day finds me in the bedroom of my little shop in the Frontlands. Light streams through the windows, waking me from a drunken sleep, and setting off a pounding headache the minute I open my eyes. I squeeze them shut, rolling over and tugging the blanket over my head, and close the curtains with a flick of the wrist. When darkness envelopes the room, I roll over and eer at the room through slitted eyes.
My eyes fall upon a small flowerpot sitting on my nightstand, a piece of paper poking out from under it. Confused and immediatly suspicious, I sit up and carefully move the pot, ready to counter any magical traps. When none are triggered, I pick up the piece of paper, a fireball appearing in my left hand to provide light for the note I read in my right.
Little Wolf,
As both our memories of last night are probably lacking, I've written this note to remind you of the agreement we came to.
In the pot is planted your one magic bean. The agreement we arranged was to split the resulting crop when it has sprouted.
I have attached instructions on caring for it. If you need help, or would like to renegotiate the terms of our deal, you know how to reach me.
-R
I set the note aside and look again at the pot. It's a genius idea, truth be told, and solidifies one idea of mine; that I have an allie. One who would easily kill me if I didn't hold up to my end of our drunken deal, but hey, I'm not picky. An allie is an allie.
After taking care of the bean for the day-and putting some spells in place to do it for when I can't be around- I get back to sleeping off my hangover. The rest of that day is spent alternating between eating, sleeping and reading.
I get a bird that afternoon from one of my contacts, summoning me to the fledgling city of Avonlea. I've been actively avoiding the place- the lord of the city did have me tortured for five months, and that combined with his court wizard and my friend betraying me tends to taint my opinion of a place- but the note is urgent, so I suck it up. The dawn of the next day finds me in it's streets for the first time in three years.
Zoso's cloak is thrown over my dark traveling cloths- hood up and concealing my face, as I'm still highly wanted in the city and surrounding areas. It allows me to slip unnoticed through the bustling streets, and also allows me to overhear the rumor that seems to be sweeping through the city like a plague. At first I here only bits and pieces of what's going on, but one unlucky man finally says something that makes it click in my mind.
I stop dead in my tracks, causing people in the crowded streets to bump into me, but not caring over the dread that settles in my stomach.
In an instant, magic has the man slammed into a wall and pinned, causing people to scurry out of the way as I stride towards him.
"Repeat that last sentence again, commoner, and know that if it is a lie, I will end you here and now."
He chokes out the words, and my heart drops to my stomach. "Lord Frederick has captured the Dark One."
I stare at him, not wanting to believe it. The last time a Dark One was captured…
I release the man, and he falls to the ground, coughing and scrambling away. I've already lost interest in him, focusing instead on my course of action. I've made my choice before he's even gone three steps, and I'm gone in a plume of dark purple smoke, appearing square in the middle of the lord's throne room.
People- some of them servants, some members of court, and some commoners- go silent as a hush sweeps over the room. Eyes turn to me, and I feel their weight, but my own eyes are locked on the man sitting on the throne and the magician beside him.
"We need to discuss your prisoner, Frederick." I say, my voice cold, hard, and clear in the silence.
And with those words, unbeknownst to me, the decision is made, and my fate is joined to Rumplestiltskin's.
A/N: Don't ya just hate cliffhangers?
As always, apologies for the wait. School recently resumed, and it really sucks the energy right out of you. Also, I've been watching season 3 of OUAT on Netflix. It really provided motivation to get this chapter finished.
As always, reviews help me write faster, and I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I can.