A/N: Hey everyone. The first part of 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: Extras, (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.
Chapter revised/rewritten 11/14/2023.
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?
Some part of me is distantly, childishly annoyed at being called little, when I stand several inches taller than most of the woman from my village and have spent years laboriously developing a muscular frame to rival any man's. I arrive in a swirl of red-back smoke, and stand in the mountains in the far borders of Ulstead. During the Ogre Wars, this area was far into hostile territory, and even though it is now the fringe of their land, it's still inhabited. We are far enough north that trees are minimal, and instead lichen and dying grasses blanket the ground.
In a stroke of irony to my thoughts, I shift to my wolf form, feeling my 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 unnatural light. The wolf's aggression and territorial 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 rocky boulder-studded tundra valley. 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 stirs; though blind, they have a very acute sense of hearing. Many of my earliest deals after graduating my apprenticeship was to act as a battlemage or scout or assassin for the nobles in their war against the creatures. By thirty, I'd become well-skilled in the art of their extermination, and that's the reason I've come here for my spiral of frustration and pain. When I was in my early twenties- and sometimes still to this day- I would vent my emotions with bar fights, but the storm in my chest needs a more dramatic expression than a few bloodless punches.
The ogres clamber to their feet; the few that were awake charge my way. I silently slip to the top of a small rocky outcropping, 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 them come, growling low and deep from the back of my throat so they know exactly where I am. Blind and rushing, they bounce into and off of eachother as they charge, and I wait until they are just in reach with their long arms to go silent and leap into the air. They stampede underneath me, and I hit a ogre's giant shoulder and propel off, straight into the chest of another. Despite it's size, the impact of my body staggers him as my teeth sink into his throat, tearing and shredding. I drop to the ground with a bark of delight, but even the wolf's bloodlust and surging adrenaline doesn't stop my brain from replaying our conversation.
The monster is right in front of you.
Why can't I get his blasted voice out of my head? Whenever I've done something this stupid in the past, it was usually my own voice that mocks me, or sometimes Zoso's. Never has it been the voice of a near-stranger, and 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 I should feel some kind of regret, some sense of wanting to undo my actions. But I don't. I hate myself for doing it, but can't resent that it is done. That inner contradiction only fuels my rage, keeps fire pounding through my veins to propel my body to open veins and rend flesh and endure the occasional bone-cracking blow. This time, though, the rage and the exertion doesn't quiet my conscious mind as it usually does. That's another bad sign, I know, but I am running out of the energy to care.
Some time later, I sit against a stone outcropping, in human form and once again dressed in my traveling clothes, Durendal in it's sheath leaning against the rocks next to me. There's blood on my clothes, on my hands, even some left on my neck that I didn't bother with when I wiped my face and hair clean. I take a long swig from a bottle of rum and survey my work. At this time of night and the month, 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 rocky outcroppings, if it weren't for the occasional reflections of the dim life off wet puddles and the overwhelming, cloying scent of iron that hangs thick in the air. Some of it was my own.
With nothing else around that would be satisfying to destroy, I am no 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 his voice saying little wolf and my own saying idiot. As the drunk are want to be, I've returned to a contemplative, melancholy state.
My thinking has led me to believe that the events of tonight, of my inexplicable lapse of judgment in favor of compassion, is only the culmination of a long breakdown in my mental fortitude. It began with losing Zoso and Tor, and then Liam, and finally Ian. The years I've gone without finding him has been eating away at my strength as much as it has my hope. I'm sure the violence and anxiety that haunted my apprenticeship and twenties didn't set me up for success, and that my isolation hasn't helped. Hells, the last time I had someone I truly cared about was my own apprentice three years ago, and that relationship ended with a month-long imprisonment in a castle dungeon.
And then, of course, there's damned Rumplestilskin.
It's about the kid, I tell myself. He wanted to be a hero. He looked at me like I was one. It can't be for the man himself, who had the cleverness and sheer gall to set a Duke's castle on fire as a distraction. A man had so much love for his son that he stood against Zoso, who to him must have seemed a demon. Even half-drunk as I am, my emotional survival instincts are too deeply ingrained to let me think that my lapse tonight had anything to do with him directly.
Caring is a length of rope, love is a noose. An old saying an assassin contact of mine 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, because no matter who this length of rope is for, it's tied my hands for years to come. I'll have to find someone or something else powerful enough to help, perhaps even a dragon or a djinn.
Or, my mind supplies, I could find the way to make Rumple help. The thought of holding Zoso's old dagger, of using it in the way it was used against him, makes me sick to my stomach. I look at my bloody hand around the bottle, momentarily at loss. Could I do it? Violate someone's autonomy like that? After what he did to my mentor, I shouldn't think twice about doing the same to him, yet the idea makes me reticent.
I put the bottle to my lips and throw 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 far enough gone that I'm not particularly alarmed that my impaired state puts me at a disadvantage to him, or by the fact that his presence here in of itself could be evidence of tens of possible bad 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. Milah always gave me the impression that he wasn't the drinking type.
"What brings'ya to mah neck o' the woods, Rumplshil… Rumpshin… what brings yah 'round, Rumple?" I ask conversationally, my state thickening the accent I'm usually coherent enough to play down.
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 their drunk legs."
The Dark One gives up on standing and rolls over and up into a sitting position. He puts one hand out in front of him and flicks it at the wrist, unsuccessfully trying to get the blood off it.
"I see the little wolf's been busy." he remarks dryly, barely even slurring on his s's; if I hadn't spent so long in the company of drunkards and pirates, I wouldn't even be able to pick it up.
Without conscious thoughts and 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, pleash."
"Not had enough, dearie?" He sneers sarcastically, the imp shining through more than the man in that moment.
"Well I'm still conscious, so I'm'a 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. I try to decide if that's a sign that he's also working on reduced mental faculties, or if it's some kind of manipulation.
"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. "Bad week- week n' year n' decade. Bad mem'ries too. 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 vest, and my free hand immediately reaches for my sword. I don't even attempt a spell in this state; I don't have the recall for spoken wards and enchantments, or the concentration needed to harness the emotion that powers light and dark magic.
Rumple sees the movement and freezes, flashing that mocking-and-amused smile that reveals his teeth. He lets some kind of an amused sound that starts as a chuckle and ends up closer to a giggle.
"Do you think that would be enough to stop me, little wolf?"
I flash my own lupine grin. "This baby-" I pat my sword, "Is in-de-structable. Absorbs magic like it's nothun'."
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. I gulp and scoot away, not wanting to do something I might regret later. There's a long stretch of silence as Rumplestiltskin looks at the bean and I look at him.
"I ran some tests to see if it had been tampered with." he finally says. 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 to. I'd be suspicious of that, too. I chuckle at the highly-confused and slightly-tormented look on the man's face.
"Well, wouldya look at tha'." It's my turn to sneer. "I've stumped the almighty Dark One." 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. When he makes no move to catch it, I swipe it out of the air on instinct.
"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 keep him 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. "Yer gonna have ta at some point, in our line o' work."
"Let go of me, little wolf." He says, 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, and 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, and stop supporting his weight. He hits the ground and 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 ever tell ya' tha' its rude ta refuse a gift?" I growl quietly.
"I don't need your pity." he repeats in the same venemous tone as the first five hundred times.
Annoyance surges through me, and 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'noia. So don't bother mah about the damn bean again."
I let him fall 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'm not flat-out fleeing the area after that; putting hands on a Dark One is a risk, even to an immortal. 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.
I stoop to retrieve my bottle from where it dropped when I went to catch Rumple. 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 'ave a drink, leave me 'lone." I snarl without stopping. He sidesteps and lets me pass, and I pointedly don't look back as I wander down the valley until I come to a small rock ledge and settle down to dangle my legs off it. When I eventually do look back in the direction I came, the area is empty.
Good. Maybe he finally gave up and went home.
I lay back, balance my bottle of rum on my stomach, and lace my fingers behind my head. I look up at the sky for a while, tracing the constellations that sailors use for navigation. Time drags on around me, and the quiet of the night and slightly-unmoored sensation of being inebriated makes it hard to tell how much time is passing.
"Got anything other than rum?" Rumplestiltskin says suddenly in only a half-sneer, less than a foot away. I jump violently, curse, and curse again as my bottle of rum goes rolling away and I turn into an undignified flail of limbs in trying to grab it and sit up at the same time. Rumple gives a laugh that's halfway between a cackle and a giggle.
He sits, smugly, next to me, legs dangling off one leg crossed over the other with his fingers laced around his knee. It takes me a second to register what he said; when I offered a drink, I had absolutely no belief that he'd take me up on it.
"Yah made me drop my rum, yah bastard!" I cry without any real annoyance. Rumple looks downright proud of himself. "Yer gettin' mah another one."
Even as I say it, I sweep a searching look over him, wondering why he's still here. If his slice of immortality has been anything like mine, I can guess how this night has gone for him. His ghosts were out, and he was achingly lonely, and he's outlived most friends or acquaintances he ever had. Left without familiar faces for comfort, he thought that feeling the pulse of civilization, the vibrancy of night-life might stave off the crushing isolation. Why else go to a bar near his hometown? It wasn't for business, so it must have been for sentimentality, for nostalgia.
And if he's like me, though, being alone in a crowd is far worse than being physically alone. He should be slinking home about now, not volunteering to be in my company.
"Am I?" He asks, looking down at the bean as he spins it idly between his fingers. "Do tell why."
I stare at him for a second, thinking. An idea comes to me; it's risky, as I'm sure the man in front of me doesn't tolerate thievery, but he seems to be in just a merry enough mood that I might get away with it. I summon my limited faculties and feel for the magic that surrounds him, and recognize the feel of a ward to prevent pickpocketing. Like so much of magic, though, it's tied to intent. Instead of the rage and grief I normally reach for to fuel my magic, I instead focus on the memory of Ian's laugh as we sparred in the meadow as children, of Tor's pride and love when he gave me a bone-handled hunting knife for my thirteenth birthday.
There's no thievery in my intent now, just playful, good-natured mischief bending the line between light and dark. Zoso called this a bastardization of my magic, bemoaned how it would lower the ceiling of my potential, but I needed to be able to heal those dear to me, and that is the realm of lighter stuff than he could teach. I hold out my hand, and the magic bean disappears from Rum's hand and appears in mine with the smallest spark of gold light. The Dark One's face flashes from wide-eyed, owlish surprise to fleeting curiosity as he stares at it.
"I challenge yah to a drinkin' game, Rumple. The winner gets ta keep this stupid lil' thing."
Then his eyes drift back up to meet my gaze, gaze flat and cold in a way that is all business and danger and warning. "I thought you said you were giving it to me."
"I thought yah said yah did'na want it." I shoot back. When I see the look that is thrown my way, I add, "Oh, c'mon, 'ave some fun evra once in a while. It won't 'urt anything."
He raises an eyebrow. "Famous last words if I've ever heard them."
I toss the bean at him, and he catches it deftly. "Com'on, humor me." 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?"
"Drinkin' with da Dark One. This'll be a night ta remember." I grin like the nickname that's been given to me. "Let's get goin', then. My game is a lot funner 'round mortals."
Rumple gives me a suspicious look. "Why?"
I roll my eyes. "I'm startin' to think that yer a bigger hermit than I am. Don't worry, I'm not gonna make ya socialize." I pretend to shudder at the word. "Nah, 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, neither trusting another magician to work a spell on me, nor trusting physical contact in general; five days in a lord's dungeon and years of near-constant solitude has made touch often more alien and unnerving than anything else.
The pleasant, warm fogginess of alcohol covering my mind lets the moment of paranoia pass with the smallest of efforts, and I link my arm through Rumple's. If he's willing to spend time around me, then I can at least extend him the courtesy to be as un-picky as he is. 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 battlefield 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; a women with a sword and a man with golden scales- or just one dressed like Rumple dresses- might draw more attention then we need.
Rumple smirks. "At a bar, of course."
I shoot him an annoyed look. "Thank you for tha' fascinatin' piece of information. I wouldn't'a been able to figure it out on my own."
"Tone down the sarcasm, dearie, or between the two of us everyone will be smothered with it."
"I don't ta see how tha' would be our problem." I say with a jovial smile. "Com'on, lets find somewhere ta sit."
Rumple's head immediately swivels to the nearest table, where four boys barely out of adolescence laugh and talk uproariously, drunk as sailors. The Dark One grins like a devil and makes a small motion with his hand, and one of the mugs of ale on the table suddenly moves a few inches of it's own volition. The chatter at the table immediately stops as all four boys pause to stare at it in wide-eyed disbelief. Rumple makes another motion, and the mug jerks all the way across the table, and the boys jump to their feet, making the locals' sign against evil over their chest as one mutters about ghosts. I bite down a laugh.
Rumple lets them talk amongst eachother for one second, allowing them time to further frighten eachother with talk of ghosts and curses before the entire table suddenly tips over with a crash that is nearly drowned out by the noise of the tavern. The group scatters in their haste to scramble away, ignoring the shouts of the bartender as he berates them for knocking it over.
"It seems a table has opened up." the Dark One says mildly, and I chuckle at his antics. He smiles with pride and begins to right the table and chairs as I slip up to the bar and put in my order.
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, beyond it, the door. I set five shots of rum onto the table and arrange them into a neat row.
"Okay, mate, 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. We play till someone concedes or is too drunk to continue. 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 take a long second to focus as I summon my magic to wash the mild poison from my veins.
"Well, that's better in some ways." I mutter as I roll my head and crack my neck, because despite the clarity in my mind, it's return 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 back my own smile.
"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 Listenoise, 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. "I was apprenticed to him at… almost fourteen, I think it was. Graduated around twenty. He became this- well, I wouldn't exactly say father figure." A small part of me whispers that that's exactly what he was. "More like an older cousin who takes you under their wing. We still worked together a lot after I went independent, and shared some business associates between us."
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. The latter type of questions are where most of the dares and most of the shots start to come into play. After a while, though, when alcohol has loosened us up and we've become alittle more comfortable around eachother, we ask after 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. By the next morning I wouldn't remember much of what we talked on, only the vague sense that I enjoyed the conversation.
I do, however, remember two confessions on my part; the embarrassment of having revealed such personal thoughts to a virtual stranger has seared them into my psyche.
"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 discoveries to the imp who gazed patiently at me. "The bastard. He never told me he was the Dark One, not 'til the day he died. He pretended he was just another sorcerer! For years! Years he was 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, or an apprentice. He wanted an heir. That's why he trained me in magic and helped me with- everything. 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, but Zoso got attached. I'd already had one curse laid on me for knowing him, and he couldn't stand 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, the sound bitter and wholly without amusement. He slid me another drink. "The steep price of immortality, little wolf."
If my limited 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 ally, perhaps.
Noon of the next day finds me in the bedroom of my little shop on the coast of Ulstead. 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 peer 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 your memories of last night are probably lacking, I'll remind you of the agreement we came to.
In the pot is planted your magic bean. I have attached instructions on it's care. We have agreed to split the results if and when you can get it to sprout. If you 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 skeptically. If it works, it would be a genius idea, though I assume that we are both aware that there are no recorded instances of non-giants being able to grow it. My alchemist friend Cinaed is a master at growing his own ingredients, but even he would likely fail. After a second of thought, this compromise that the Dark One has come up with does solidify one idea of mine: that I have an ally. One who could easily kill me if I stop being useful, and one who likely would kill me if I became anything near a threat, but I still count it as a small victory.
I spend one day sleeping off my hangover before resuming business as usual. Though I nearly call for Rumple several times, my patience paper-thin after years of mounting desperation, I am able to control myself enough to allow several days to pass. I am determined to undo some of the damage I did at our reunion, to at least somewhat alter the impression that I am desperate for his help.
On the afternoon of the second day I get a messenger pigeon from one of my contacts, summoning me to the fledgling city of Avonlea. After spending five days in its lord's dungeon, and watching the apprentice who turned on me be elevated to the city's archmage as his reward, I've actively avoided the place. But the note is urgent, so I swallow my discomfort and ignore the distant phantom pain that makes my skin itch, and the next morning I stroll down it's streets for the first time in three years.
Zoso's cloak is thrown over my dark traveling cloths, the hood up and concealing my face. This time I do not wear my usual glamor to pull wandering eyes away from my sword; instead, I tuck the edge of my cloak behind it to prominently display the handle so that my contact can pick me out of the crowd. Murmurs ripple through the crowd around me, a rumor spreading like a plague and twisting my stomach into anxious knots.
Lycanthrope hearing alerts me to familiar footsteps falling in place just behind and beside me, keeping the man artfully hidden in my blindspot. I don't look back, but I do slow my pace and allow him to slip close enough to speak without drawing attention. The ex-assassin's voice is low and rough, riding under the noise of the crowd but confident that I will hear him.
"Your boy is getting himself into trouble, Davey."
"Whatever happened to good morning?" I grumble without real anger, though I add with some annoyance, "And he's not 'my boy'."
He hums contemplatively. "Perhaps not anymore. But a twenty-five-year-old archmage is quite the legacy for you to leave."
"He's an archmage in title, not skill. Jump to the point, Brandr."
He is quiet for a second as we turn a corner and the crowd momentarily compresses around us. "He may be Archmage in title only, but he is not entirely useless. He recovered the Mageslayer Collar last week."
My head snaps around as anger springs to life in my chest, glaring at the hooded figure in my peripheral vision. "A week? Why didn't you tell me? The fuck do I pay you people for-"
"You were not to be disturbed." He reminds me cooly; last week I was absorbed with preparing to meet with Rumple. He waits a second for any argument before continuing, "We had a plan to steal it back, but Ezra has already put them to use."
Horror begins to claw up my spine as I remember the rumour circulating through the cloud. "On who?"
"That warlock you were so interested in. The one with the overdramatic name-"
"The Dark One." I supply, voice hollow, heart dropping. Rage roars up to fill it's place in my chest, and I look back to Brandr. "Some friendly advice: prepare your syndicate for a power vacuum, and pull your informants out of the castle right now."
His hooded head tilts towards me in a nervous question. "What will you do?"
I step into an alley, and he stays on my heels. "What I should have done three years ago."
I disappear in a cloud of red-black smoke.