A/N: Semi-graphic depictions of injuries in this chapter. A general warning that this story was originally rated M before I realized that you have to manually change the age rating filter to see M fics. Thanks for that, .

Chapter revised/rewritten on 11/14/2023.

Chapter 6: Playing with Fire

A one-minute detour later, and I appear square in the middle of Lord Frederick's throne room. The assembled crowd- from minors to nobles to castle servants- gasp in surprise and back away at the magician suddenly in their midst, a murmur and then a hush sweeping through the room.

"We have business to discuss, Frederick." I call to the man on the throne, my voice cold and flat and clear in the sudden silence. My eyes only settle on him for a second before my eyes skip to one of the advisors next to the throne, a young man in the extravagant purple robes of the city's archmage. Old pain stabs at my chest, the feeling as vivid as a broken rib.

"Guards!" Someone shouts- one of the nobles, I'd wager to guess. The guards respond instantly, and I hear the pair posted inside the throne room rush forward me, boots slapping the ground. With a wave of my hand a wall of fire springs up, crackling and spitting as it races out, stretching the width of the throne room from the floor to the high vaulted ceiling. The wall cuts the room in two uneven halves; on one side, the doors and most of the room, containing some of the gathered people and the guards. On the other side, the throne on it's three-step raised dais, me, and most of the people. For a long moment, the only sound is the crackling of flames.

I sweep my gaze around the people, zeroing in on the man who called for guards. I was right; he's a noble, in every sense of the word. Arrogant, soft in body and nerve, and at the moment, pale as a sheet. "Ah, mortals." I say flatly. "What an annoyance." With a wave of the hand and a deep pull of magic, everyone else disappears: the guards, the nobles, the commoners, all gone, transported outside the palace. I stretch my mind and pull again, and from outside there comes the deep resounding clinking of heavy chains as the drawbridge closes. Behind me the flames dissipate, leaving the room eerily silent.

"Ezra, I'd like a private word with Freddy here." I say evenly, gaze intent and focused as it rests on my former apprentice. "If you leave now, I promise that you'll both live to see the end of the day."

He won't do it. I know it, and he knows it, and Lord Frederick knows it. His survival instincts won't let him back down to me after what his betrayal did to me, and his intellect is aware that living to see the sunset doesn't guarantee they will live any longer, nor what state they will be in when that time comes.

He still looks so young, with his slicked-back shoulder-length black hair, vibrant blue eyes, and youthfully handsome bone structure. He looked so much like Ian when we first met. He acted so much like I did at that age. Where, in four years of training, did he develop his blind ambition? How did I not see it? My eyes trace the long scar running down half his face, from just under his eye to his jaw. A mercy compared to what I could have done, and a reminder of the weakness that kept me from what I should have done.

"Ellie." My apprentice greets cooly. "I suspected you might come."

"Call me by my given name or nothing at all, Ezzy." I snap, purposely drawing out the nickname he despises. "Only my friends get to call me Ellie."

"I see that you're still holding a grudge. It was only business, Ellyn. You should understand."

"Oh, aye," I bite back, "What's a little torture among friends? Maybe I should repay the favor."

It's an empty threat, though he doesn't know that. I took liberal revenge on the castle's interrogator when I finally got him alone, and would do the same to Lord Frederick if I had the time and opportunity, but I know that to do more than kill Ezra would also do damage to me. Frederick was willing to go so far in the hopes of acquiring the Neverland poison Dreamshade, but I couldn't do the same against someone I once cared for.

"Why are you here, witch?" Lord Frederick cuts in, and Ezra and I share a moment of belated surprise as we remember his presence. I turn my gaze to him; he's older, perhaps fifty, the hulking muscle of his youth still evident but starting to deteriorate. His voice befits a lord, commanding and confident. His eyes, however, are more that of a thief, cold and greedy, speaking of ambition in every way. Piercing, burning hatred leaps in my chest like flames on a torch, warming my blood and sending it pounding through my veins.

"Take a guess." I snarl.

Frederick looks at me with open disgust. "The Dark One is a vile creature if I've ever met one. It is fitting that you would be so concerned for him. You are kindred beasts."

That phrase, so concerned for him, digs it's way under my skin, inducing far more anger than it has a right to. The only reason I'm concerned for him is that I still need to use him to get to Neverland, and because I wouldn't leave any ally of mine to the treatment I know he'll receive here.

"Frederick, I'm going to use small words so your little pea brain can understand me: if you don't let him go, I'll burn this castle down with everyone still inside it." I flash a cold, lupine grin. "Your wife and children just returned from the capitol, didn't they? It'd be a shame for them to die on their first day home."

He surges to his feet, the hate I have for the man reflected back at me when I look in his eyes. "You wouldn't dare!"

I let a flame jump to life in my hand, shifting and sparking, and let my self-control slip, just enough that I feel my eyes take on an ember glow. I smile again, flashing too-sharp canines. "Try me." I snarl.

Frederick glares down at me, but in the next moment the calm and disdainful mask slips, and he's as afraid as I have ever seen him. He turns to Ezra and hisses, "Protect your lord. Remove that beast!"

For one heartbeat Ezra's disdain for the man is nearly palpable, and then his eyes dart to me, evaluating. My apprentice takes slow and measured steps down the stairs of the dias, robes billowing around him.

"You should leave, Ellyn." He warns, hands twitching in preparation of spellcraft, body tensed and poised for movement.

I laugh in his face. "Behold the Archmage of Avonlea: a hedge-witch barely out of his apprenticeship." I announce dramatically to the empty throne room. I settle a more serious gaze on him to add, "Haven't you ever heard that old saying? 'Everything you know I have taught you, but I have not taught you everything I know'."

A thought takes the flame still in my palms and swirls it gently around, drifting to the ground where it slashes like water, and in an instant it zips upward again, hovering at hip height as the flame grows and elongates until by my side stands a snarling, crackling wolf made completely of flames.

"Flame wraiths." I explain with a grin. "More flexible than a fireball and so much more my style, wouldn't you say?" I glance back over to Frederick as more wraiths spring to life, splitting my mind and pulling from my hatred until three, four, five stand impatiently in a semi-circle around me. The small pack is the limit of my control, but the blood still drains from the lord's face.

Ezra's expression is cold and calculating. "This does not have to end in blood, magistra." He begins, using that word for 'teacher' in some dying local language; it was the title he called me when he wanted to be respectful. "There is a dagger that commands him, yes? Help us break him, and I will command him to serve you. You desire Neverland, and we desire Dreamshade. Our interests align."

My rage leaps again as I think of Zoso and his last words to me, of what being bent to another's will did to him. The flame-wraiths momentarily flicker larger with my anger, and return to normal as I push it under control and actually think.

Rumple has been nothing but reluctant to come to an official agreement to help each other, and I am so sick of wasting time. If I can get the Dagger from him, if he has no choice but to help me, I could have Ian back within a year, maybe within a few months. And if I had the Dagger, if I could hand it to my brother when I apologize for how I left things… he would forgive me, then. Or if I could bring him the Dagger and Dark One both and kill Rumplestiltskin myself, and grant Ian his revenge while granting myself my full inheritance.

I eye Ezra and Frederick suspiciously. The two biggest problems with this plan are the company I'd be keeping during it, and the Dark One himself. It doesn't escape me that Ezra said I will command him. We both know I won't and can't hand him the power of the Dark One, not when he has betrayed me once already; because of that, we also both know that he'd only betray me again when I got close to the Dagger. And if we don't kill each other first, Rumplestiltskin would. I still stand by what I said to Ian: that trying to kill this Dark One is a suicide mission. Like every Dark One, he only builds on the power and knowledge of the one before, and this one is also far cleverer than even the average mage. The only way to assure my own safety would be to immediately kill him, but that would cost Ian the thing he's been chasing for decades.

"Maybe what happened a few years ago was just business," I begin slowly, contemplatively, and a wary hope flickers in Ezra's eyes at the prospect that I might bury the hatchet. "But it's personal now. I think I'd rather just kill you both."

"Thorn-" Frederick begins, calling Ezra by his chosen surname.

"We've prepared for this, Frederick." My apprentice doesn't look back once, tone brisk and expression severe as he steps in front his lord and throws one hand out to the side. A shimmering door of sickly green energy appears in the stone wall to the right, providing the lord an escape route from the room. "Silver arrows, wolfsbane. Find Captain Gregor. Go."

Lord Frederick glances between us one last time before he darts through the door. I crack my neck, hold my hand out to the side, and summon Durendal from it's sheath with a swirl of red smoke.

"It's so much more fun when they run." I tell Ezra with restrained amusement.

Ezra looks at me with a flat expression. "You need me. If you could get into his cell, you would've taken him already."

Before I arrived in the throne room, I took a brief detour to confirm that Ezra placed the same blood-magic barrier over my old cell that I remember from my own stay in these dungeons. Such barriers can only be crossed or altered by those who carry the blood used in the original ceremony- which, for almost all mages and our near-universal paranoia, is their own.

My jaw grinds as I am reminded of just who taught him the usefulness of blood magic. "I need your blood. You're just the unfortunate package it comes in."

His face twitches towards some bitter expression, making the scar down his cheek stretch. "You will not kill me. That much has not changed in three years."

For a second I recall waking in a pine box, screaming as magic burned the shadows of death from my veins. How I climbed out of the hole as the gravediggers shrieked in terror, though I have no memories of the foot-and-a-half of dirt I must have clawed through first. I remember standing in Ezra's room, still covered in blood and grave-soil, as I reclaimed Durendal and took my pound of flesh.

"Take it from me, boy: you'll be surprised by what you can live through."

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth, and my wolf-wraiths move in, snarling and crackling. For the next thirty minutes, the world is a blur of magic and violence and pain.

Nearly a half-hour later, I've finally managed to make it to the steps leading down to the dungeons. I lean on the wall and shove a staggering Ezra in front of me, uncaring when he falls to his knees. I've been using the point of my sword to keep him moving, and I give him a solid whack with the flat of my blade. If I could speak I would tell him to keep moving, but my throat is constricted from the effort of not crying out in pain, the wolfsbane and the half-dozen arrowheads in my back taking their toll. Magic and my unfortunate shoulder blades and ribs have kept them from sinking more than flesh-deep, but I'm slow on my feet and steadily losing blood.

Ezra heaves himself to his feet with an agonized groan, but we only making it two steps before he crumbles again. A werewolf growl jumps unbidden from my throat as I reach down and grab his arm, hauling him to his feet and shoving him forward. He stumbles again but manages to stay upright, putting a hand out to the wall for support. He pauses there, heaving for breath and glancing back at me with fear and hate. Burns lace the left side of his face and curlc down his neck and chest. His fancy mage's robes are in tatters, leaving the black and blue bruises doppled across his torso easily visible. A broken-off arrow shaft sticks out of his shoulder where I used him as a human shield.

I let him have his moment of rest, needing one myself. I let my sword point drop to the ground as I slump against the wall with my left shoulder against the stone. One of the arrows embedded in my back scrapes against the wall, and I draw in a sharp breath in as white-hot pain of flesh being cut.

Ezra glances back at me, smug at my pain. "Not feeling well?" he sneers.

I hit him with the flat of the blade again, and he yelps as I make contact with a bruise on his arm. "Shut up." I grind out, voice rough and ragged.

My vision begins to go blurry at the edges, and I know we need to be moving again; I can't lose consciousness before I get to Rumple. I pray we don't meet any more guards between here and there, because what magic I can conjure is going to keeping myself on my feet. I poke Ezra in the back with the point of my sword, prodding him into movement. A few agonizing moments and a turn down a narrow hallway brings us to the top of a staircase that descends below ground. Ezra pauses, drawing in a pained breath before plunging downward. I see what he means as I follow; pain shoots up my lbody as my vision flashes black. We both emerge into the dungeon staggering, and I have to use Durendal as a cane for one second as I gather myself.

I scan the room around us. It's dank and dim, the only light coming from mounted torches, and it reeks of blood and unsanitary conditions. It's walls are lined with cells on my left and right, but only one is occupied. Inside the left-hand cell farthest from the door- and from us- a man slumps forward on his knees, unconscious, his arms stretched up over his head by the shackles chained to the ceilings. A stainless, gleaming, steel-like collar is fastened around his neck. I draw in a shaky breath for both pain and remembered pain; the cell they kept me in has not changed an ounce, save for whom it holds.

All this I take in in a second as we cross the dungeon to stop in front of that cell. In front of me, Ezra sways on his feet, barely standing up. I ignore him as I summon a coin to my hand and throw it in between two bars of the cell. It bounces of an invisible barrier that shines a shimmering red for a second before disappearing from view once again. I take a step forward and dig the point of my sword into Ezra's back; his shoulders stiffen, telling me I'm causing pain.

"Take the barrier down." I growl; my voice is hoarse from the effort of both using magic and ignoring my injuries. Ezra turns slowly, and I let him, moving the blade away as he comes to face me and resting it threateningly on his chest when he does. The firelight reflects off the burns on his face, making them almost shine, and his breathing is loud and ragged.

He looks me right in the eye. "No."

He doesn't have time to react before I draw the sword back and slam the flat of the blade into the side of his head. He cries out and stumbles to the side, dropping to one knee. I yank him up by his hair and pin him against the bars of the cell to our right, pressing my sword against his throat.

"It isn't optional." I snarl, but I can see the defiance in his eyes. He's always had a resentment for authority. I'm about to snarl out a threat when I hear footsteps to my left, light and approaching at a leisurely walk. I cock my head to the side, listening; the amount of time in between the steps points to a shorter person, the volume of the sound to a small amount of weight, probably a slightly-built woman. Her brisk but unhurried pace means that she probably doesn't know about the bloodshed that has been taking place above her head.

I glance to the direction of the sound, to perhaps forty yards down from me, where the room ends and two hallways stretches to the left and right in a T. A young women, wearing a maid's apron and carrying a basket of bloodstained rags- I can smell the copper from here- rounds the corner from the left-hand hallway, coming to an abrupt stop as she sees us. Her eyes go as big as dinner plates as she takes in the scene, but I can't help but notice how her gaze immediately zero in on Ezra, not me, the blood-covered ember-eyed stranger with a weapon. Her entire face speaks of fear and concern, but for the archmage, not herself. She doesn't even bother to turn and run, seeming frozen to the spot. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her fear mirrored in the eyes of my former apprentice.

I shoot an exaggerated look between her and the magician a few times before allowing myself an icy smile. "Ah, I'm starting to catch on."

Ezra recognizes the look, and he twists as far as he can toward her without cutting his throat open on my blade. "Run!" he screams down the hallway at the woman, desperation thick in his voice. The maid, the servant girl he clearly has feelings for, doesn't budge. "Dammit Anne, run!" He shouts again, his voice more commanding than afraid this time.

Anne gets the message this time, dropping the basket and turning, but I throw a hand out and hold her in place with magic. Ezra shouts obscenities at me and shoves against me, trying to get me off him and get to the girl, but I drop my blade from his neck and replace it with my forearm, leaning into him and keeping him pinned. I see him trying not to wince at the pressure on one of his bruises.

"I'm going to tell you nicely one more time, and if the first word out of your mouth isn't yes, then your lover is going to be the one paying for it. Now: Take. Down. The. Barrier."

This time, my old apprentice hesitates in his answer. "I- I-", he stammers as he glances over my shoulder to the sole prisoner. Like his late liege lord, he is more afraid of Rumplestiltskin than he is of me, and he is starting to believe that I might actually kill him when he stops being useful.

"Ooh, wrong answer." I mock, and a surge of magic causes the woman to wail and crumple to her knees. I see the pure terror on Ezra's face as his lover convulses, and I keep the spell going for another second before a wave of dizziness and darkness hits my head, heralding unconsciousness and the possibility of death if I don't quite pushing my limits in this state. I let the spell fade out, trying not to pant even though my lungs demand it.

Anne quits her infernal screaming when the spell ends, doubling over to all fours and heaving for breath. I allow us both a few seconds of rest.

"Take down the barrier." I command again. Ezra's eyes are wide, filled with shock and fear and hate, but he doesn't answer after several seconds, and I call upon my magic again. The girl screams, curling into herself as her body twitches and jerks. Her shrieks continue on for what seems like an eternity, and I see the mounting panic on Ezra's face as he realizes I'm not ending the spell.

"Stop!" he yells. "Stop it!"

My vision swims. "Take down the barrier."

"For gods' sakes!"

I don't reply; the only thing keeping me standing is how much I'm leaning against Ezra.

"You're killing her!"

I blink the darkness from my eyes to regard the magician cooly, Anne's screams bouncing off the stone walls. "So I am." I say disinterestedly. Now Ezra really panics, glancing between his girlfriend and me desperately; wracking sobs start to sound in between her bouts of wailing.

I draw as much strength as I can from my wolf-blood, but I know my limits well enough to recognize that I can't keep this up for more than a few more seconds. It's down to a test of wills: if Ezra's resolve will give out before my consciousness does.

Brandr once recited an old saying to me after he lost his blade-hand to save his boyfriend: Caring is a length of rope, love is a noose. Anne is the rope that hangs Ezra.

"Alright!" he shouts over his girlfriend's noise. I immediately cut off the spell, and the screams cut off, replaced by sobbing; if I were more conscious, it would grind on my last nerves, but at the moment it's a miracle I'm still on my feet. I hide that as best I can as I drop my arm off his chest and step to the left, putting myself between Ezra and his lover.

I gesture at the cell agitatedly. "Hurry up." I growl. He glares at me, defeated, before crossing to the door of the cell containing the Dark One. Like me, he doesn't have much magic left in him, but I know he summons it because he tenses, and a split-second later the barrier responds, glowing that shimmering red. He places a hand on it, and it dissipating outward from where his palm touches it In only seconds, the barrier has vanished.

Ezra wraps a hand around one of the bars, leaning into it and breathing heavily. He turns his head to look at me, his eyes foggy and unfocused as he speaks.

"There." His voice cracks. "Now let her go." he adds, voice tired, but angry and oh-so determined. I look at him for a long moment, then glance over his shoulder to collar around Rumple's neck. Ice-cold rage sweeps through my chest, dulling thought and pain.

I raise my hand and vertically flick it at the wrist. There's the resounding sound of bone snapping, and behind me Anne slumps to her side, her neck at an unnatural angle. Ezra lets out a wail of pure animal pain and rage and throws himself at me. I don't know what he's intending to do in the movement- tackle me or shove me into the nearest cell perhaps- but my sword comes up, and all the city's youngest archmage does is impale himself through the stomach on my blade. His eyes go wide in shock, and he looks down at where steel penetrates through flesh as though not quite believing the sight.

When he falls forward, I step out of the way and pull my blade out in one practiced movement, leaving my old apprentice to meet the ground face-first.

The minute Ezra hits the ground, I lurch forward, managing to stagger over to Rumple's cell and grab a bar to keep myself up as my legs buckle. I shouldn't have cast that last spell, I think dimly as the world spins around me. Everything comes at a price, especially in magic, and it's been a long, long time since I've used this much energy, a long time since I've worn myself so thin. Part of that is that practicing magic is like using a muscle for me; the more I use it, the easier it gets, and the less taxing it feels. The other part is that I've rarely ever had to use my magic while under the effects of wolfsbane.
My moments of putting off my pain are over, I realize as I fumble with the bolt on the cell door. My insides burn with a ferocity, and the agony from the arrows in my back is almost blinding. I somehow get the door open and make it to Rumplestiltskin before I collapse to my knees right in front of him, putting us at close to eye level to each other.

My mind distantly takes in his state, and it's apparent to me how Frederick desperately wanted the dagger, because the amount of damage the interrogators have inflicted onto Rumple in less than twenty-four hours was spread out over the course of at least two days for me. His shirt has been reduced to next to nothing, exposing the extensive damage to his torso. Two distinct styles are written on his body. The fire and electrical burns are likely Ezra's work. The other is familiar, though I am distantly suprised that he managed to pull himself out of a suicidal stupor long enough to do this job. His style is blunt and brutish, all black and purple bruises and savagely broken bones; he's leading with his left hand now, the right too mutilated to grasp a quill, let alone make a fist.

These first two types are the ones familiar to me, but there's a third style that's completely new to me and brutally effective, and are evidenced by the parallel whip-marks across his chest and back; I can smell the blood more clear than I can see the cuts. Someone took the ninetails to him. Did Frederick get involved himself? Rage roils through me. I should've killed him slower.

All this I register in the back of my mind in the space of a few heartbeats. I reach my arm up and place a hand gently on Rumple's shoulder, trying to find an undamaged patch of skin to touch but coming up unsuccessful. I shake him gently, needing him awake. He doesn't stir.

"Rumple." I say insistently, my voice grating and barely above a whisper. I shake him again, alittle harder. "Rumplestiltskin."

He doesn't wake until I move my hand to his cheek and let my sword drop as the other comes up to his left shoulder. He jerks awake, flinching back from me, his unfocused eyes crazed and full of fear and hate. His breath comes in ragged, panicked gasps, and I let my hands fall to my lap when I see that physical touch is only scaring him. It takes a second for him to register who I am, and though he's barely conscious, in no better state than I am, surprise plays on his face.

"Ellyn?"

I grin cheekily. "Wonderful day, huh?" Rumple can only stare at me in shock. "I'm gonna get you out of those cuffs, and when I do you're going to owe me a favor. Got it?" I say. The Dark One stays focused through most of my words, but his head lulls forward during the last part. "Hey," I say, putting my hands on either side of his face and gently pulling his head up to look at me. His eyes focus in on mine. "Got it?"

He nods, and I lift my hands to the collar and reach around for the latch at the back, marveling how easily a supposed invention of Hephaestus yields to anyone not wearing it. Then I put right hand to his chest as I take my sword off the ground with the left; then I swing up diagonally, cutting through the chain holding his right hand to the ceiling. Without it to hold him in place he slumps forward, and if weren't for my hand on his chest and the other chain he would've fallen into me and taken us both to the ground.

He grunts, his arm probably incredibly sore. I lurch forward and up into a crouch, turn, draw Rumple's now-free arm over my shoulders and hold it there with my right hand. He makes a strangled sound of pain, and I have to take a deep breath and push the sound from my head as I slowly stand to support his weight. My legs almost go out from under me at the extra load, but I use my sword as a cane again, and after a second I'm swaying but still standing. Then, before my body can change it's mind and crumble, I twist and swing over Rumple, severing the last chain with one swing. Rumple's legs immediately go out from under him, taking me with him.

I barely manage to slump to my knees instead of falling forward, or, worse, on top of the injured Dark One. For a minute, we're both breathing heavily and trying to stay awake. My vision goes dark and my head spins, but it's Rumple's response worries me; a man in his condition should be screaming from the impact of an injured body onto stone, but he doesn't seem to be able to muster up such a response.

I force myself up agonizingly slowly and awkwardly sheath my sword with one hand. Then I adjust Rumple's arm on my shoulder and stagger to the door. I'm unaware of the space between this point and the outside of the cell, but the next thing I know, we've passed the door and are free.

I turn and lean against the bars of the cell, facing Anne's body as I catch my breath.

"Is there somewhere safe I can teleport us to?" I ask the Dark One in between pants. I'm not going to stay conscious for much longer, and neither is Rumple, and we need somewhere safe to collapse in; my shop-and-residence on the coast is too public for me to consider it a sanctuary in this moment.

"'Castle." Is all he says, his voice distant, almost non-existent. I figure he must mean the Dark Castle, but I hesitate at the prospect of going there; it's notorious for being warded to the extreme, and though the Dark One will most certainly be admitted by his own wards, I might not get the same treatment.

Darkness is closing in, making it hard to even see the cell bars my head is against, and I realize I have no choice in the matter. It's the Dark Castle or nothing.

I brace myself, slowly and painfully coaxing my last shreds of magic to the surface and into something usable. I distantly hear Ezra groan, and am even more distantly surprised that he's hasn't bleed out- yet. Rumple's head lifts slightly in that direction before going slack.

"Who do we have here?" he asks hoarsely,

I glance down at the only apprentice I would ever train, at one of the true friends I've had since my brothers were lost to me. Here was one of only two people I told about my Neverland-bound quest; here was a teenager that I put years into shaping into a man.

"He's no one." I say.

Then I reach for magic, and we're enveloped in a weak cloud of smoke. In Lord Frederick's castle, just as we disappear, a small shred of magic sparks and catches fire, growing and spreading up through the estate. All I know after that is that I fall onto something soft as darkness takes me.