A/N: Hello! I am, in fact, alive. I know it's been an ungodly amount of time since I updated, but I come bearing gifts! I have one chapter for you now, and another to be released in a few days once you've had the chance to read this one.

I've also been editing and improving the first few chapters of this fic, to clean up both the quality and the content in regards to plot. Chapter one and some of two have been combined into one chapter, and the other half of chapter 2 was added to the beginning of three. I'm also working on a short prologue. All this will be uploaded and go into affect in no more than a week at most.

Since I know not everyone bothers to read these notes, I'll post a short announcement about the prologue and the upgraded first few chapters a few days after I post chapter 10.

Also, a huge thanks to everyone still interested in this story! It's my most popular one ever (so far), with 76 follows, 49 faves, and 25 reviews as of now, and I couldn't be happier. I never thought it would be considered all that good, especially after I've been spending alot of time looking back at the first few chapters (oh how I cringed). I'm eternally grateful to everyone for humoring me as much as they have with this little idea of mine.

Anyway, thanks and enjoy!

Chapter 9: Home, Part 1

I'd decided I was going to kill Rumplestiltskin.

Not because he killed my brother's love, or because he cut off my brother's hand, or stuck the Kris Dagger through my mentor's heart.

No, I was going to kill him because he was sitting in my house, complaining, and not lifting a hand to help me move any of the priest's things into my study.

"I told you to give me a minute. Not my fault you bounced off the barrier. Be grateful it wasn't trapped, too."

Moments before- he hadn't been carrying anything then, either- he had tried to follow me into my library-study-artifact room, despite my warning to give me a minute to lower the blood-magic barrier I have around it. He wasn't to happy when he was thrown down the hallway.

"Be grateful I don't incinerate you, little wolf." he growls. I roll my eyes; death-threats between us have lost any factor of fear. Partly because I can't really die, at least not permanently; partly because, if he hasn't done it yet, he's probably not going to.

"Oh, I'm trembling, really." I stroll into the study, setting the last stack of thick books on the round wooden table that occupies the center of the room. Then I rejoin Rumplestiltskin in the hall, leaning on the doorway and watching him glare at me. "Give me your hand." I say at length.

"Why?"

"Just do it." I say. He makes no move, so I add, exasperatedly, "Trust me."

He stalks forward, trying to be intimidating as he stops only inches away. "I trust no one, little wolf. Least of all you."

I grab his wrist with my left hand, the other drawing the bone-handle knife and slicing it across his palm before he has time to react. The imp hisses in pain and jerks away violently, glaring at me murderously, and I roll my eyes again. "Oh, don't be such a baby." Still, I let the knife hover in the air as I turn his hand over and pass my own over his palm, healing the wound.

I turn back to the doorway, once again grabbing the blade and using magic to manipulate Rumple's blood from it's edge, holding it in a small, tight ball in the air. I sheath the knife to be able to use that hand, feeling for the blood-magic barrier, which glows a dark red across the doorway in reaction. I bring my other hand up, using one to manipulate the barrier and the other to weave the ball of blood into it.

"What are you doing, dearie?" Rumple asks, curiosity getting the better of anger.

The blood has gone from a ball to a web, the slightly lighter shade of red criss-crossing the barrier in what resembles a spider-web crack; both glow ethereally, and I lower my hands, the crimson wall fading from view.

"If it works, you mean?" I make a point to ask, because I have no idea if it will. I've never tried adding a second bloodline cue to my barrier, and I have no idea if it will emit him now. "Well, if it works, this is me putting a small bit of trust in you."

In all honesty, it's me not wanting to raise and lower the barrier every single time the Dark One leaves and enters the room; the prospect is dauntingly tedious. But the trust thing makes me look alot better, so I go with that.

Rumplestiltskin steps up to the doorway, stretching his arm out experimentally. When it passes through the doorframe without resistance, he steps through. "Impressive, little wolf." he says; for all his knowledge, this seems to be the first time he's seen that trick. That's one thing we have in common- it's the first time I've seen it, too.

"I know." I say, strolling past him. My study isn't a particularly big room- about twenty feet wide by fifteen feet deep. It's sparse furnishings include the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that line all four walls, three filled with books on anything and everything related to magic. More books sit in piles scattered across the floor, the tallest coming up to my hip. To the right of the doorway, set into that same wall, a fireplace interrupts the shelves, a recent addition to stave off cold- among other things.

Ones of the walls contains not books, but artifacts and enchanted weapons, sitting freely or in display cases. They have been magically trapped; anyone (other than me, of course) who gets within two feet of that wall would be automatically immobilized, and would stay that way for a good twenty-four hours without outside assistance. If they somehow get passed that, they would be incinerated if they touched anything.

Smack dab in the center of the room is a lone wooden table, it's surface, the two chairs, and the floor around it now covered in piles of books from the priest's study. I took everything that could be of use, though I'm looking specifically for any kind of spellbook. That's going to be hard to find; sometimes spellbooks of a more unorthodox kind can give off the feel of dark magic, faint but there, and it's something that would narrow the search to a few, powerful tomes. These things belonged to a Hel priest, however, and they've been used in or been around enough black rituals to have started to absorb some of it. Between some of my artifacts, the books, and the Dark One, the room is practically humming with dark energy.

I'm quick to warn Rumple of the wards over the artifacts shelf. I don't know what they would do to a Dark One, and I don't care to find out; the venture sounds annoying at the least, and problematic at the most.

So, of course, he strains my warning by strolling over to the shelf, staying a good few feet back, hands clasped behind his back in a I'm-not-touching-anything manner as he runs his eyes across the gathered items. The imp's eyes skip over knives, shortswords, cloaks, cups, and an item that appears to be two candles, one black and one white, joined by a brass-looking setting in the middle.

Rumplestiltskin's eyes settle on the small chest; it sits in the middle of the shelf at slightly-above eye level. It's made of a solid black, metal-like material, complex symbols engraved across every surface. There's no lock or keyhole on it- instead, where one would expect those things to be, is a raised circle of that black metal, engraved into which is a triangle with wavey lines along the outside of it's edges.

"What's this?" he asks, rocking forward as though to take a step, before he remember the wards and settles back onto his heels.

I glance up at his face, noting the keen interest with which he's eying the box, and debating whether or not to tell him the truth. In the end, I settle on the more morally-correct of the two options; if I can't get that thing open after all this time, then he can feel free to steal it and try for himself.

"I inherited it from Zoso." His muscles tense at the name, something I can understand. If I had been tricked and manipulated into the Dark Curse, instead of willing taking it on (as was my right, I can't help but recall) I would hate my mentor as well.

"He left his things to his apprentice?" The current Dark One asks, scrunching his nose in a distasteful expression.

"Of course he did. I was his heir as well, if you recall. Almost everything he had is mine."

The statement hangs in the air; we both know what the only thing I didn't get was. I wonder if he has the dagger on him. The thought is sudden and intrusive, but I glance at him anyway, trying to discern the answer. If I could get it from him…

Then what? You control him for as long as you need him, probably bringing about your own demise? You stab him with it and take away Ian's chance at revenge? There's no way that ends well.

Still, the temptation is there.

"What's in it?"

"Don't know. I never could get it open." Now he looks intrigued, so I stroll forward and pluck the item from the shelf, walking over the table and setting it in front of one of the chairs. I settle in the chair opposite it and make a non-committal motion with my hand. "Feel free to try. It's nearly indestructible, has no lock that can be picked or opened by magic, no point of weakness at all really."

It's probably the result of several Dark One-level enchantments, which may or may not be something the current Dark One can counter; ergo, Rumple may or may not be able to get into it when I couldn't.

In the end, the answer to that is no. He spends perhaps ten minutes on it, casting several spells, before he props his head on his hand and looks at it in puzzlement, not going to admit defeat, but obviously stumped for the moment. I send the chest back to it's place on the wall with a flick of the wrist.

"Now, thank you for your invaluable help moving all this stuff. I'm going to start going through some of these books." It's a dismissal, and I take a book from the top of the nearest tower and set it in front of me. It's dark leather, belted shut with an archaically-designed strap and buckle. I start to undo it as Rumple strolls for the door.

The Dark One starts to say something, but it's then that I open the book's cover, and everything else is drowned out by the sound of the explosion that blows me into the bookshelf with tremendous force.

The sudden pain radiating from my body gives me psychological whiplash; one second I'm sitting in my chair, the next most of my bones are broken and I'd bet that some of my organs are ruptured. My chest labors to suck in air, every breath an effort, and my visions swims, blurring and un-blurring in time with my heartbeat, (though that may be a trick of the mind caused by a concussion).

Rumplestiltskin appears in my field of view, though the faint scent of pine and other mountain trees tells me that more than my vision does; it's not an unpleasant smell, I note, something that's he's probably gained from the geographical position of his castle.

My vision starts to be taken over by black as he reaches my sides and drops to a knee. "Don't touch the book." I wheeze out. My heart stops before he even has the chance to attempt a healing spell.

I go through the usual cycle of watching memories. They're not the same ones as last time; what memories I see have a tendency to vary, usually never producing the same combinations twice. The only constant is the order: they're always, without fail, chronological.

I see a time after my magic had started to awaken, when I was perhaps eleven, and lit a bully's pant leg on fire. Liam and Tor had been nearby at the time, and it was only the shouts of 'Davey' that had snapped my attention away and ended the display. (The nickname had really caught on by then; Ian especially only called me Ellyn or Ellie when he wanted to show that he was being serious).

I watch myself be cursed and then killed for the first, and see Zoso's colorful reaction to his apprentice being assaulted on such a level. I watch Zoso die, meet my mother for the first time while searching for Tor in Listenoise, listen as my birth father's heart ceases to beat during my last days in Camelot and the adjacent kingdoms.

Next I remember Ian's face when we reunited after a few years apart, how he tells me of William's death and I tell him of Tor's. A flash of a relatively quiet moment when I sailed as his second mate and quartermaster, Captain Jones and Davey Jones; Milah was complaining about how all the tales were naming me as Ian's first mate, and her simply as his broad, making for some mostly-good-humored banter between the three of us.

I meet Vali, then see him for the last time in a long while as Hel's messenger tells him just what I did during our trip to Niflheim; I stab my only apprentice and light Frederick's palace on fire, leaving Ezra to burn or bleed out, whichever comes first. I hold down a laugh as Rumplestiltskin is flung down the hall by my barrier.

Then I wake up. When the usual pain and screaming has passed, I get a bearing on my surroundings, ignoring the frantic beating of my heart.

I lay on a bed, a goose down mattress of good size. The room is unfamiliar, though the scent of pine and other trees comes to me, giving me a guess of where I am before I see or sense Rumplestiltskin. Said imp leans on the door, to the right of the foot of my bed, arms crossed as he waits.

I sit up alittle straighter, running a hand through my hair. "How long was I out?"

He pushes from the door and takes one step forward, feet shoulder-length apart, hands clasping behind his back. Every muscle seems taut and tense, restraint and anger in the way he holds himself. He looks formidable. He looks angry.

"If I had known, little wolf, that I was entering into an alliance with an imbecile, I would not have accepted." His voice is low and aggravated, any impishness gone from it.

"Of course you would've. It makes it easier to manipulate things to your advantage."

He's across the room in seconds, leaning over my bed, a hand on either side of my head framing me in.

"If I wanted someone to manipulate, dearie, I would have found someone far less obstinate. If you and your reckless cheat me in this deal-" A predetory smile cracks his face, and one of those giggles escapes him, the sound quick and mirthless, "Well, no one breaks a deal with me, little wolf."

I prop myself up on my elbows, putting our faces only inches apart, ready and planning to growl back a reply- about how he can't exactly threaten someone who can't die, about how my recklessness is my own choice. But a different angle pops into my mind, and I smile cheekily.

"Most people go with 'Please don't die again'." I say, patting his cheek patronizingly- because that's his whole problem, isn't it, that a foolish mistake cost me a life and inconvienenced him? He jerks back, straightening to put distance between us, looking flustered; he was expecting an argument, not pretentious friendliness.

I crack a grin at his reaction to the physical touch. For someone with no care for personal space, it seems to startle him when I return the favor- probably because of my very vocal protests against him doing it.

I throw the covers back and swing my legs off the bed, stretching and standing. "I'm going to head back home, get to work on those books. If all of them are trapped or warded, it's going to take awhile to dismantle them." I remember the energy that hung over the books; how much of it was because of a lifetime of being around dark magic, and how much of it was because of the enchantments placed on them? If the latter outweighs the former, the sheer amount of time this might take is daunting.

Setback after setback, I think bitterly. More than two and a half decades trying to get to Neverland, and it seems that the years just keep rolling by, my goal dancing in and out of reach tortuously, never close enough to grasp, never obtainable. The waiting alone is enough to drive a person mad.

I push my thoughts away. "If you need me, you know where to find me." I say, nodding and teleporting myself away.

I appear in my study. It's relatively unharmed; the shelves are cracked (one bowed in slightly), the chair is in splinters, and the books, though unharmed, have been scattered in a crater-like pattern. All in all, I got off easy.

I sigh and make a motion with my right hand, and the books reassemble into stacks at the same time the shelves repair themselves. I plop down in the one remaining chair, cursing my own stupidity; the lowest hedgewitch would have known to check for traps if they sensed that much dark magic. This quest- get to Neverland, get Killian, capture the Boy King Peter Pan- has given me much: something to reach for, live for, a bigger gift than most people know. But with it comes obsession and desperation. Nothing in the worlds can stand in between me and my brother- not even, it seems, my own safety. That is a dangerous paradox; I need to be alive to rescue Ian, and I sometimes need to face death to get to that point. I must keep the balance between those two alternative- survive and get my brother back- because to have one without the other would be catastrophic.

That was why I couldn't stay with Vali. He curbed everything; obsession and loneliness, the desire to complete this quest of mine. It was intoxicating, wonderful, but it was pulling me away from the only family I have. He didn't know about my plan to get to Neverland, but he knew I was on a hunt for my brother, and he tried, acouple times, to convince me to give up, to accept what fate bring- or what it doesn't. It was a siren call that I knew I had to snap myself out of, no matter how much it hurt.

So here I am, all alone.

I force myself to my feet. "Enough of that." I say aloud. If there's one thing twenty-five years of this has taught me, it's that agonizing over the past will get me nowhere now.

"Enough of what, little wolf?" Rumple says from behind me.

I jump nearly out of my skin, whipping around. "Bloody hell, Rumple!" I shout, the long-buried accent peeking out to accompany the instinctive reaction.

The imp sits on the top rail of the chair, feet rested on the seat, leaning forward so the he doesn't tip both him and it backwards onto the floor.

Rumple grins smugly, oh-so proud of himself for startling me, one of those ridiculous giggles escaping- amused, this time.

I wave my hand, and the chair tips backwards as though pushed, throwing the Dark One to the ground with a high-pitched, strangled cry and a flail of limbs. I laugh, genuine and loud.

Rumple glares at me from the ground, and I grin wickedly. "That's what they call karma."

"And you're what they call a-"

Flames dance across my fingertips. "Choose your next words carefully, imp."

Rumple climbs to his feet, setting the chair back up. "I'm always careful with my words, dearie. They are things that can be too easily-" He flicks his hand vertically at the wrist, "Twisted."

"And speaking of twisted," I mimic the dramatic tone, "Why are you here? I have work to do, and I'm sure you do as well."

"Oh, I'm well aware of what kind of work you have to do." He waves a hand at the book still laying on the table, and it slides over to him. His hand hovers over the cover, fingers plucking at proverbial magical strings, and another wave of the hand blows the front cover open, revealing the first page.

The sheer ease with which he dismantles the trap is a stark reminder: whatever league I think I'm in, he's a step above. "And seeing as how well you started, you need someone more-" he makes a motion with his hand, "Precise."

I narrow my eyes at him, my first reaction to tell him that I'm just fine on my own, but logic stopping me; another magician- and the Dark One, especially- will speed this whole process. So I conjure another chair and sit down in it, the imp mimicking the action, and I glare across the table at him.

"Fine. But we're going to have some ground rules first."

"Oh, by all means." Rumple says with a wicked grin, in a tone that suggests they'll be heard but not heeded. My eye twitches.

"Rule one, personal space. You have your half of the table, I have mine. Two, don't go wandering the house. I don't care if you explore the shop, that's open to the public anyway, but stay outta everything else. Third-"

"Shop?"

Until now, he's been watching me with mockingly rapt attention, so the interruption stops me in my tracks.

"Yeah, I've got a shop at the front of the house. Minor magic, like weak potions and enchantments. Cheap tricks, really, but the locals can buy them. Being helpful keeps the town from putting together who I am. They don't connect the benevolent witchdoctor with-" I stop myself short of saying Davey Jones; the village my home is in is secluded, but on the edge of the sea, meaning the stories I'm more concerned about them hearing are from my time aboard the Jolly Roger. Letting it slip to Rumple that I knew Captain Killian Jones in any personal way will not end well for me. "-with other aliases."

Interest flickers through his eyes for a split second, curiosity sparked by my second of hesitation. He shifts, leaning forward, rapt attention turning genuine.

"Aliases, little wolf?" he asks curiously, probably the first sentence unlaced with sarcasm that I've heard all day.

"Third rule," I say, plowing on through gritted teeth, "Is that if you keep calling me little wolf, I'm going to get a nickname for you."

Now Rumplestiltskin grins, somewhere between predatory and amused. "I'm eager to see what you can come up with, little wolf."

Several colorful nicknames fly across my mind, but I just lean back in my chair and regard him coldly for a long moment. Rumplestiltskin holds that gaze for longer than kings and generals and demigods have been able to, for far longer than I'm used to, waiting patiently for me to break it off. I narrow my eyes. Stubborn arse, I think, impressed.

"It's not something I plan to rush." I say at length. "When I think of something not utterly ridiculous, I'll let you know." Sure, I could say it without sounding so flatly disdainful, but if I give him the notion that he's tolerable or amusing, I'll never get him to shut up.

"I'm sure the anticipation will be unbearable." He says with good-humored sarcasm and a sly grin, somewhere between mocking and teasing.

"You'll find a way to cope." Is the similar reply. "Now, if you're going to insist on babysitting-" and that's exactly what this is, whether he denies it or not, though he doesn't try to- "then grab a book and get to work. We're looking for a specific spell. You'll know it when you find it, I'm sure."

"And what does it do, little wolf?"

"You have your schemes, I have mine."

"Care to share?" he asks, grinning alittle at the rhyming.

"Now where's the fun in that?" I ask back, with a small smile that's halfway between cold and mocking. I wave my hand, and the book on top of the nearest pile flies onto the table in front of me. I hold my right hand over it, letting my own magic combine with that in the book as I feel for traps. I find one, and set about dismantling it. "When you need to know, I'll tell you."

So, never.

"We'll see."

"Yeah." I say, tone revealing just how likely I think that is. "In the mean time, anything interesting in that book?"

He begins to flip through the large tome in front of him, and I concentrate on mine, pulling and ebbing the magic in the trap, unraveling a web that could do any number of dangerous things if it's manipulated incorrectly. It's a task that engulfs the mind, takes every inner sense to be able to cue off of and adjust for the reactions. This is the kind of magic I've always excelled at; elemental, emotional, fundamental. Feeling the energy of magic, instead of reciting the inflexible words and incantations used to help bring out my power in the beginning of my training.

That first day- more like half a day, really, because I didn't get back to my house until early afternoon- flies by. I get through two books, and Rumple finishes three plus the first one, before night falls and I send him home. I continue to work through the night, sleep calling all the while; coming back the edge of death is something that takes a toll on the body. But after being revived, after seeing my memories played back at me, sleep holds things that I'd rather not face.

Rumplestiltskin taps my shoulder the next morning to wake me; I'd apparently fallen asleep at the table. With my usual friendliness, my first action- purely instinctual- is to fling my arm out, a ring of fire roaring outward in a crescent-shaped blaze. The Dark One holds up a hand, and the flames part around him.

"Not a morning person, dearie?" he asks passively. I'm just becoming fully awake, registering his presence with a mix of emotions and rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands.

"Not really. I've developed a, uh, volatile reaction to being woken." Frederick's dungeon saw to that.

"So I gather." is the reply, and the imp plops down across from me in his chair.

My first rule- maintain personal space- lasts as long as it takes me to find his nickname: the middle of that second day. That day isn't too bad on the rule, just standing alittle closer than is really necessary when he looks over my shoulder at the tome I'm reading. He does it just to annoy me, I know, and in showing how mature I am, I return the favor, using his head as a armrest when he finds something interesting in the text he finally manages to open. (This invasion of personal space would be something we continued to do for the duration of our working together; with both of us just alittle unused to or unsettled by physical touch, its something we can do to annoy the other without being overly cruel).

A few hours after those first breakdowns of barriers, I finally let slip the name I plan to use to patronize him with.

I'm drinking from a flask at the time, the 'alcohol' in it at least half water; I don't drink as heavily as my brothers or father did, and for the most part even this is just for the comfort the familiar taste brings. It's familiarity is something I use to slightly sooths the nerves that the books and the imp bring about.

"Rum, Rum?" I ask, offering the flask. Rumplestiltskin's eyes flicker up from the book he's working on, a smile, ever trying to be predatory but with hints of amusement, crossing his face.

"Is that to be my name, little wolf?" The question is half mocking.

"I think it's fitting. The substance that gets me in the most trouble, and the person who gives me the most trouble."

He puts a hand on his chest, face so comically and dramatically mock-offended that I have to smile.

"Troublesome?! Me?!"

"Troublesome, annoying, problematic, whichever adjective you prefer." I say with a broad, teasing grin.

"Whatever gave you that idea, little wolf?" He asks, still so fakely offended, but a smile cracks his face. "Oh wait, I did!"

He laughs when I do, something I take as acceptance of the new moniker.

So begins a routine that lasts for months with little interruption. Rumple comes over, we work on the books, he leaves at some point. Every now and then we go out on deals, together or on our own. The work makes time go fast, continuing for days at a time for me; I don't really eat or sleep, and I'm spurred on by the slow progress. Though we can get through several books a day when we're lucky, and though not all of them are trapped or warded, there has to be close to three hundred of them, and some are so complexly enchanted that it sometimes takes a few days to get even one open.

Rumple's ease with magic continues to amaze me, as does his mind. We inevitably end up talking- one doesn't spend hours at a time with someone without a few discussions- and I can honestly say that they're probably the most interesting conversations I've had in decades. The sharp wit and sarcasm doesn't overpower the ability for deep thought, and we go back and forth for hours at a time, playing on words and talking about nothing in particular while we work.

The most refreshing change of pace about talking to the Dark One is that it's not constant; neither of us push to fill the silence, feel the need to hear ourselves talk for the sake of talking. Conversation is to make a point, gain insight, or just for a mental exercise that breaks the monotony. It's wonderfully unforced that way.

Enjoying his cleverness doesn't translate into enjoying his company, though. The incessant whispers are always there, he took so much from you and you could kill him, and the prompting of pain and anger and fear to instinctively go for my knife never quite leaves me. On it's own, an eternity of book research alone would never be enough to make me truly comfortable around him.

Not to say that he's the easiest person to get along with overall. Both of us have our bad days, where our tempers are short or old wounds are seeping pain, and we don't go without being short and even harsh to each other. It's never something we talk about or resolve, other than a passing, somewhat-sarcastic my apologies at the end of the day; if there's one thing the two of us have in common, it's those things at the base of our mood swings, and it keeps us from taking too much from those days to heart out of a mutual understanding.

What a wonderful thing, mutual understanding. No prying, no trying to get to the root of it. He has his past, I have mine, and we respect that what the other doesn't want to tell won't be told. Vali could never get that through his head; always trying to get me to open up, always digging into the wound and then working to fix it. He was such a good man, trying to repair what is broken, incessantly, whether or not I wanted him to. Rum doesn't have that problem; I am how I am, and he doesn't seem to care enough try and change it. It's a welcome reprieve from my last male companion.

News of our partnership starts to spread, jumbled and inaccurate, but being passed around all the same. When I venture out for deals, I hear variants of the same gossip.

"Did you hear what happened to those three princes a few kingdoms over?"

"The triplets, King Milhrage's sons? Last I heard they were organizin' a war."

"Aye, they were. Tried to get a magician's help in it, too, the fools!"

"What 'appened?"

"They tried to double-cross that witch who burned down Avonlea Castle. She killed 'em all in front of their war council! Blew the doors to the castle open, turned them into pigs and turned 'erself into a bloody wolf! The biggest wolf anybody'd ever seen! Ate 'em right up, she did, and their generals couldn't do a thing to save 'em."

"Yer lying threw yer teeth! Even if she could do that, ain't no way a whole council o' soldiers didn't lift a hand to help 'em."

"They couldn't do a thing. The bloody demon had the Dark One with her!"

The rumors vary heavily on the relationship Rum and I have. Most say I work for him, some say he for me; some have us painted as siblings, others as lovers. Either way, the general consensus is that Rumplestiltskin has an allie at his side, something that in itself causes alot of notoriety; Dark Ones aren't known to take companions, and it makes them wonder about what I have to be- and have to be able to do- to have gained this position.

This and my exploits make old monikers start to spread again: The Devil's Apprentice, The Demon of the Frontlands, the Dark Heir (which has somehow crossed the oceans from Listenoise to here). A new- and unimaginative- name joins the older ones, The Wolf. Deals strike up again- nobles wanting favors, commoners wanting help, a surprising number of rich people looking to hire an assassin. Though it has been a distraction up to this point, something put on a backburner the last half-decade, the intense, constant work of de-enchanting the priest's small library warrants more frequent breaks, so my deals resume in force. Even the name Davey Jones gains momentum again, sailors wanting help or protection on voyages. Those deals are few and far between, though, and I'm sure to keep Rumple far away from them.

I don't get to the point of being relaxed around the Dark One, but for lack of a better word, I get used to him. The sudden appearances and disappearances, the eccentrics and intimidation attempts, and the casual contact become more or less normal. His presence just becomes part of the daily routine; after six months, not being around him at some point in the day feels odd. Like making a mistake while doing something that's already muscle-memory.

I can't say for sure if he gets used to me. For the first week, during the aforementioned game of annoying the other with casual physical contact, he tenses up almost more than I do, and I don't know if he just pretends not to care or actually grows accustomed to it as time goes on. Other times, I catch him looking at me like one looks at a puzzle that's been giving them trouble, something I dismiss because I do the same to him- study him when he's not looking, trying to fit together what's a mask and what's not (something I sometimes doubt even he knows for sure).

A recurring oddity that starts when Rumple's assistance does is waking up in my bed. It might seem like a normal thing, but most nights I don't even sleep, and when I do, it's usually because I accidently drift off at the table in my study. How I manage to get from one end of the house to the other, without remembering it, is suspicious; however, I have stumbled from one place to another when I'm almost asleep without recalling it, so it's a possibility that it's something I did myself. Either way, neither of us mention it.

Six months go by in this comfortable routine- a rather enjoyable half a year, once we get past the uncomfortable first weeks. I'm sitting in my usual chair in my study the night my world changes again.

The fire is blazing in the hearth, leaping and crackling, drawing my attention as a vision starts to come. The times that I See are rare, though I try to often enough- all the trouble I went to get the ability, sacrificing a life and using the Candle of Niflheim to fulfill my part of the deal, and I still don't get much out of it; I can count on one hand the times I've used it. But those few times make it almost worth it, and this is no exception.

The flames hold me, transfixed, and images dance behind my eyes- the towering pines of the Infinite Forest, Damian Albjorn's black eyes reflecting fire, consuming, destructive blazes that race through the trees. A little boy with blue eyes and a mop of brown curls cowering inside a lean-to, hands pressed over his ears, trying to block out the sounds of death around him.

Noise starts to break into my hearing, things from the real world- well, the present world. I ignore them, trying to push my vision furhter along the strands of time- just alittle more, let me see more, I don't know what's going on I have to find out- but it's slipping from me. I've never had much control over it.

"Little wolf." Rum is saying across the table from me; his voice is light years away, but drawing me back. I hold to the vision, hands flat on the table but fingers twitching as I move things this way and that, travel along one certainty to another, the two so alike that I'm able to manage it.

The glint of metal as a sword is swung this way and that, cutting down people indiscriminately. The scent of blood has filled the air, intrusive, overwhelming.

"Ellyn!" Rumple says, right next to me. The room snaps back into focus at the same time the Dark One puts a concerned hand on my shoulder.

I blink acouple times, then look up at Rumple; he's standing next to my chair, leaning over me slightly to peer at my face, looking- of all things- worried.

"Sorry, Rumple. I got lost in thou-" something goes off in the back of my mind, a magical alarm, something set in place months ago. It stops me mid-word. The Dark One tenses even more as he sees the change in demeanor. "Graham." I say. "Graham's in trouble."

Without hesitation, I teleport myself away, having only a vague idea of where I'm going.

I arrive to chaos.

I have just enough time to take in my location- the Ulvur tribe's camp, the Infinite Forest, why the hell is Graham here- before I dive out of the way of a silver-tipped arrow. I roll and come up with my blade drawn, ignoring the horses and their emblemless riders- mercenaries- as they charge through the camp, setting fire to huts and tents with torches and cutting through what resistance the tribe has offered.

I'm cueing off my premonition, paying no mind to the blood coating the ground and the people running and clashing. There- the lean-to, perhaps thirty yards to my right, situated against a huge fallen oak. I run in that direction, flat-out sprinting.

I haven't gone more than half the distance before something collides with me, sending us both tumbling to the ground. Bruised and disoriented, I try to scramble to my feet, only for a bone-cracking kick to the left shoulder to send me to the ground. I roll onto my back, swinging my sword, somehow still in my hand, in the general direction of my attacker. I finally see my opponent as the blade cuts a deep gash through his shin.

Damian Albjorn doesn't even scream- I doubt that he can feel the wound, with all the adrenaline that must be coursing through his veins. The chieftain eyes are wild, not really seeing me; he's seeing enemies and mercenaries and the sword-wielder beneath him and his people being slaughtered. He has a spear in hand, and at almost the same instant my sword bites into flesh he thrusts it forward and down. I throw up a magical shield, but the lance never makes contact with it. A blast of red-black magic slams into him from the right with all the force of an explosion, lifting him from his feet and blowing him twenty feet away.

Rumplestiltskin stalks forward, anger and power radiating off him in waves; I don't think I've ever seen him pissed. His steps are predatory and purposfull, and his body is stiff, tension in every muscle. Everything about him, from his eyes to his body language, is focused on the chieftain, on whatever violent fate Damian's actions have earned him.

I sit up, groaning as my shoulder protests. Rumple stops a few feet from Damian, holding his hand out. The leader of the werewolf tribe is lifted into the air; the Dark One flicks his hand to the right, and Albjorn is hurled that direction with astounding speed, slamming into a tree. Rumplestiltskin moves his hand left, sending him the other way into a tree in that direction- probably just a warm-up for whatever comes next.

I set my sword next to me to free up that hand, passing it over my left shoulder to heal it. The pain eases immediately, and I climb to my feet, summon the blade to my hand, and sheath it. Rumplestiltskin is still bouncing Damian off trees, though the latter seems to be losing consciousness.

"Leave him, Rum!" I shout. "We've got to get Graham out of here."

The Dark One looks back, rage still etched across his face, a muscle working in his jaw at being pulled away from his activities. He slams Damian into one more tree, but lets him fall, turning and strolling towards me before the chief even hits the ground. He stops before me, and I sense an argument coming on- something to the degree of 'what I do is my business'- but he seems to remember something, and his face loses the smallest fraction of tension.

"Are you alright, little wolf?" he asks, voice tight with caged anger, but slightly concerned.

A smile twitches at my lips; that would have been the kind of thing to ask before he went about battering Damian around like a cat with a mouse. I guess it's the thought that counts, I think wryly.

"I'm fine." I look around us. The mercenaries are chasing down fleeing tribes people, but most are escaping into the forest, and soon we'll be the only targets in the area. "Lets get out of here."

I finally make it to the lean-to, the top of which just barely comes to my bellybutton. I crouch down, peering inside. The natural darkness of night, combined with the deep shadows the inside of the makeshift house casts, means I almost miss the small form cowering in the back corner; if it weren't for the crescent-moon pendant of his necklace, which glows with a sanguine light, he might have been able to go unnoticed by the mercenaries.

When he sees me, he lets out a whimpering sound, shrinking back even further. I drop to a knee, trying to make myself seem smaller, using my most soothing voice when I speak; the one I used when Ian was sick or sad or just hurting in general when he was little.

"It's okay, Graham. I'm here to help. Remember me? I got you out of trouble with that blacksmith. We went to lunch together."

He slowly uncurls from the ball he's in, but he stays pressed against the back wall.

"Ellyn?" he says, uncertainty and tears making his voice waver.

"Ah, you remember me. Good, that's good. I'm here to help you, Graham. I'm going to take you somewhere safe. Just come here, lad. It'll be okay."

He stands- he's short enough that the height of the slanted ceiling mostly allows for this- and takes a few steps forward, before stopping. "Something's going on outside. They're hurting people. I don't wanna go out there." he whimpers, retreating a step.

"They're not going to touch you, I swear. I promised to help you, remember? Orphans stick together. I'll protect you, Graham, but we can't stay here." I hold my arms out. "Just come here, and I'll take you somewhere safe."

If he doesn't come out this time, I'm going to have to knock him out. I think distantly, starting to conjure a weak sleeping spell; though it's not the best option, he shouldn't be here during this, and if his fears are going to keep him from safety, the decision needs to be taken out of his hands.

It's unneeded; the boy apparently decides to trust me, the only friendly face that has so far come to the rescue, and he runs forward, wrapping his arms around my neck and sobbing into my shoulder. My own arms encircle him, one making small circles on his back and the other resting on the back of his head, smoothing his curly hair.

"It's okay, lad. I've got you. You're okay." I repeat softly, the action unwillingly drawing me back to the night after Ian found out Pops left.

I shift my grip on Graham's back and stand, taking him with me. He wraps his legs around my torso, clinging onto me as I hold him. He's not calming down, and the mercenaries are still drawing screams of agony and fear, so I do the responsible thing: I cast a spell, sending him into a deep sleep. Even once his breathing evens out, his body doesn't completely relax, arms still holding onto my neck with all his strength.

"He'll be alright." Rumple says at my worried expression. I think it might be the first time he's trying to be genuinely comforting.

"I hope so. Let's get out of-"

The sounds of the attack cut off. The cries of those being chased cease; the screams of horses and shouts of men die off in a second. The only thing left to carry on the breeze are sobs and the moans of the wounded.

"Ellyn!"

The word is shouted from only a few yards away, surprised as well as angry. Both the Dark One and I turn to it's source, and I register first the mercenaries dead behind the man, their horses riderless and confused.

For once, Rumplestiltskin and I have the same reaction at seeing Vali standing there.