A/N: Happy New Year!

Meet the family and enjoy the chapter!

Chapter revised 9/5/2024.

Chapter 13: No Place Like Home

The house is cozy, but far too small for the number of people in it. The room we find ourselves in serves as both living space and dining room, the kitchen little more than an alcove attached to it. Arran and two women- the youngest balancing a baby on her hip- stand behind a row of eight children, hands on the shoulders of the youngests to keep them in place.

It brings me a small amount of amusement to be able to so easily tell who was born into the family and who married in; despite varying complexions, builds, or facial structures, we all share the same wavy brown hair and dark eyes.

Phelan sweeps his hand around the room dramatically. "I present to you the descendents of Elizabeth d'Corbin. Everyone, this is my Aunt Faolan."

The eyes of the children widen almost in unison. "The witch?!" The eldest boy says excitedly.

"Aedan!" One of the women chastises; I assume this to be Phelan's wife, as her green eyes and straight, sandy-blond hair distinguish her from my blood-family.

"Mage," I correct with a charming smile. "But it's alright. You guys don't get many magicians around here."

That's mostly because Pelagios started burning them when he took the throne. I've always gotten the feeling that I'm responsible for that rule.

Phelan snorts at my comment. "Isn't that the truth. There are more in this room than in the rest of the country."

"So what can you do?" The boy pipes up again.

"Aedan." Phelan's wife repeats exasperatedly.

"I doubt that we can keep them quiet, love." Phelan says, and for a second there's such tenderness in his face that, for once, he doesn't look like Tor. "Auntie, meet my stunningly beautiful wife, Aisling."

Aisling rolls her eyes at the flattery, though the smile she gives him matches the description perfectly. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Faolan. Elizabeth has told us all so much about you.

"I hope not. I'd rather you start out with a good impression of me." That earns me laughs from the adults and scattered giggles from the children, though I doubt anyone in this room knows just how bad a 'bad' impression of me could be.

"She says only good things, Aunt Faolan." The other woman, a good few years younger than Aisling and obviously a d'Corbin, chimes in. With a wicked smile- good to know that runs in the family- she adds, "For the most part, anyway."

I grin, amused and oddly proud. "I'm going to want to hear about those other parts. You look alot like Elaine did at your age, you know. Phelan, is there something you want to tell me?"

"Mum was pregnant when you were here last. We found out two weeks after you left."

I beam. "She always wanted a little girl, and from the looks of it she had a fine one. Who are you named after?"

"No original names for your generation either, Auntie? I'm Tara, after you and Mum's brother."

I shake my head, but smile. "You lot have got to bring in some new names with your kids. We have enough people named after many-greats-grandpa Fillin in this house. Please release us from that curse. "

Phelan bursts into laughter, followed immediately by the children. The oldest and most talkative boy, perhaps eleven years old, scoops up the toddler next to him. "Meet Fillin, Auntie!" He laughs.

"My oldest." Tara adds.

"Speaking of-" Phelan interjects, nodding to the boy holding little Fillin, "Auntie, meet my oldest son, Aedan."

"Pleasure to meet you, Great-Auntie." Aedan recites, his words notably rehearsed until he breaks script to add, "Did you really kill a sea-dragon?"

"A long time ago. Who told you that story, your Grandmum Elaine or your dad?"

"My Pops."

"Good, you got the fun version. And who are these strong young kids?"

The children have been positioned in front of their mothers, and the rest of Phelan's brood are introduced in quick succession. Aedan and Oisin are the elder brothers of Daithi and Eimear, a boy-and-girl pair of twins who are barely five. All four were apparently preceded by Bethanny, a striking girl of fourteen with her mother's beautiful face and her father's chocolate hair and eyes. Tara is almost a decade younger than her brother, but already has three children: a girl just under six, the toddler Fillin, and baby Darragh.

I try to keep up with the onslaught of names well enough, and know the even bigger challenge will be matching them to faces. I've suddenly become a great-aunt to eight, three of which are brown-haired, dark-eyed five-years-old who look virtually indistinguishable to my eyes.

I don't think that the kids even know that Rum is here until I'm being introduced to littlest Darragh, and by the time I'm done fawning over the baby their glances at him have turned from furtive to openly curious. Aisling is shooting them silencing glares that go completely unnoticed, and Phelan flashes Rumple an sheepish smile and a half-shrug. The Dark One's hood still hides much of his face, but he seems more amused than uncomfortable with the attention.

I step closer to Phelan, and Rum takes the hint to step forward and stand next to me.

"Well, everyone," I begin, and the children's eyes snap eagerly to me, "I'd like you to meet my friend and partner." I remember how Arran took that choice of words, and add, "Business partner."

"Rumplestiltskin." As usual, he rolls his r's and bows dramatically, and the younger children giggle at his high-pitched, playful voice. A nudge from their mothers, and they dip into bows and courtesies of their own- or near enough to it- and chorus greetings in return.

"Business partner?" Tara questions, eyebrow arched skeptically.

"Why are you lot so nosy? Yes, business partner."

"Now, now, little wolf," Rumple mock-scolds, "We all know that you've fallen for my stunning good looks."

"Rum, when you're around, the most attractive trait I can think of in a man is silence."

"Speaking of your good looks, Mr. Stiltskin…" Tara interjects, and tension wraps around my body as I anticipate her next words. "There is a rule in this house: no one wears a hood past the threshold."

I'd completely forgotten about that, and Rum and I exchanged nervous glances. It was my mother's rule; I'm told that when my father's men came to collect Tor and I, they all wore hoods, and the abduction of her children had something of a traumatic effect on her.

A heartbeat passes in complete silence, wherein Rum moves not an inch to obey the order, and my family suddenly has a much keener interest in the Dark One. Tara and Aisling are waiting expectantly; as more seconds pass their faces become sharp, suspicious, and the children become much more curious.

"Well, little wolf?" Rum asks, and I look from him to my assembled family. I have no idea how they will react to Rumple; they barely have mages in this country, let alone ones with scaled skin and a mane of curly, wiry hair.

"It's a house rule." I say, and sweep a silencing glare over adults and children alike. Do not be rude, I'm saying, and they seem to grasp that; parents' hands tighten on children's shoulders, and the children in turn lean forward.

Rumplestiltskin reaches up and tugs his hood down with one hand, immediately running the other through his hair as if in a last-minute attempt to comb it. The light catches on the scales across his face and neck, and the younger children utter an awed woah almost in unison.

"Mr. Stiltskin, are you a dragon?" One of the five-year-olds queries politely, so genuinely curious that none of us can help but smile- though Aisling does so sheepishly. Must be one of the twins.

Rum crouches down to talk to the child, flashing his gentlest smile. "I'm not a dragon, lass. I'm an imp." His eyes flicker subtly to me, a silent message passing between us. Well, most everyone with the guts either calls him an imp or a demon, so why not?

"Mr. Stiltskin-" Aedan begins, and, sensing the impending avalanche of questions, I jump in.

"Sorry to interrupt, lad, but before too much longer there's something I want to say."

Concern, nearly hidden but still there, attaches itself to the face of the adults. "What is it, Auntie?" Phelan asks lowly, levelly, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. Gods, these people are jumpier now than Mum and Elaine were, and they had to deal with the Barking Beast roaming around.

"It's nothing bad, if that's what you're thinking. Seeing as I've missed thirty years of birthdays, I think you and the kids are owed some presents."

"Wait, really?" Aedan asks.

"What are the limits, Auntie?" Bethanny, the teenager, asks warily.

"For fourteen years of missed birthdays? Anything you can think of, lass."

"Faolan-" Tara interjects.

"This applies to the adults too, you know." Aisling's eyes go wide, and out of the corner of my eye I see a grin spread across Phelan's face at his family's joy.

"Are you serious, Faolan?" My nephew's wife asks softly.

"Aisling, the last time I was here, I got Mum and Elaine this house and land. There's nothing you would ask for that's out of my reach."

Aisling looks dazed. Tara does as well, touching the wedding band on her finger as though for comfort, and then glancing down at it with the bittersweet expression of someone who wishes they could share their excitement with the person they love. If someone killed her poor husband, I think, chest filling with cold anger, They're going to die painfully.

The kids, meanwhile, have immediately started voicing their ideas, each getting progressively louder to be heard over the others.

"A puppy!" One of them yells. "We can finally have a puppy!"

"You might have to ask your parents about that one, lad." I jump in, looking to Phelan.

My nephew exchanges a glance with his still-bewildered wife, grinning all the while. "Why not? We've been thinking about getting a hunting hound."

It takes more self-control than it should to not laugh at the irony of that statement.

"Yes!" He practically shrieks, fist pumping the air.

"Oisin! Stop shouting!" His mother commands, and the boy's smile widens even as his face flushes.

With the children suitably distracted, I slip closer to Phelan. "Get me a list of anything the house or the family needs."

"Auntie, we can't thank you enough."

"You won't be thanking me at all, Phelan. I'm supposed to provide for my family." I lower my voice to add, "And when you get a minute, you and I need to have a little chat about those bear attacks your father was talking about."

My nephew nods, suddenly grim. "Of course. Mum has something to tell you, but when you're done, we can talk."

"Where is Elaine, by the way?"

A door in the far corner opens, and Arran slips back into the living room. His face is drawn and tired, and he nods to Aisling.

"Bethanny," Phelan's wife says, voice loud and clear enough to be heard by all, "Why don't you take the children outside to play awhile before dinner?"

My eldest grand-niece glances at her grandfather and her mother; she didn't miss the look that passed between them, either. "Aedan can watch them, Mum." She protests, and I'm reminded for all the world of myself, and how Ian and I were shooed from the house when Pops and my older brothers had something 'adult' to discuss.

"Now, Beth." Bethanny scowls, scoops her toddler cousin up, and herds the smaller children towards the door. "And stay in sight of the house!"

The minute the door closes, I ask, "What's going on, Arran?" He looks to his children, unsure of whether to answer, and my patient meets its end. "Somebody is going to suck it up and bloody tell me where my sister is!"

"Elaine is buying healing herbs from an apothecary in Astolat." Arran says after a moment. "She should return shortly."

Fear runs up my spine. "Healing herbs? Is she sick?"

"She wanted to tell you herself. It is not our place-"

"Arran, tell me what's going on." It comes out as a command, and my brother-in-law's face hardens.

"I will not-"

"For gods' sakes, Pops, she deserves to know." Phelan interjects.

"When Elaine gets back-"

"Shut up, Arran." I snap, tired of hearing the same excuse. "Phelan, what's going on?"

"Faolan-"

"Shut the bloody hell up." I repeat, and look to my nephew expectantly. His face waivers, caught between his own morals and a child's conditioned obedience to their parent. "Whatever is going on, it was urgent enough to call me home. I can't help if I don't know what the problem is."

"Phelan-" Arran begins, and this time Rum beats me to the punch.

"I wouldn't push her, dearie." He says innocently. "She can be rather dramatic."

Phelan shoots my partner a grateful look and glances back to his father, holding the older man's gaze for several seconds. "It's about Grandmum." He begins, and my mind stalls; Arran huffs and stalks out the door.

I barely register the exchange; Rum moves closer, brushing his hand against mine to quietly catch my attention. I focus on his face, and nod reassuringly in response to the concern I find there, though I'm still trying to wrap my head around my nephew's words.

"Grandmum?" I question, and Phelan's attention turns back to me. "As in your grandmother, my mother."

"Yes, Auntie."

"What is it, little wolf?" Rumplestiltskin asks quietly.

"Mum's gotta be over eighty by now. Phelan, you're telling me that my mother is still alive?"

The thought had never occurred to me, that I might get to see my mother again, and as the concept finally begins to register, something like hope, like joy, flickers to life in my chest. I can tell her about the lullaby, I realize suddenly; ever since Thanatos drug it from the depths of my mind, I can hear it clearly. She would love that I remember it.

"Yes, Auntie, she's alive. She's-" My nephew stops short, takes a deep, shaky breath.

His wife slips her hand into his, and everything clicks in my head. My heart drops to my stomach.

"Bloody fucking hell." I curse under my breath. "She's dying, isn't she?" Agitated energy hums through my veins, some kind of mix between anger and frustration and fear, and I pace to the door and back as I growl, "Not a word when Tara was born, not a word when your kids were born, but now, now she gets in touch, when my mother is bloody dying..."

Phelan almost seems to physically flinch every time I mention death, and I trail off when I finally notice that.

"We didn't know how bad it was, Faolan." Aisling explains gently. "She was feeling poorly for a while, but the sickness itself came on suddenly. We thought she would pull out of it, but she's only worsened."

I stop then, when I finally see the hope buried on their faces.

They think I can save her. I stop in my tracks, searching their faces and finding the hope buried there. The trust they have in that idea, in me, and the starkness of reality set against it, sends a lance of white-hot pain through my chest.

"I'm not a healer, kids." I tell them softly, feeling the weight of their hope- and their impending grief- starkly.

"Auntie, you've done it before." Phelan protests, though something in his voice is suddenly unsure, afraid. "That time Mum cut herself cooking, I watched you heal it."

"That was different. Cuts, small things-" I cast through my mind, trying to find a way to explain my situation. "What I have- my magic- it's not meant for this. The emotions it draws from, the intentions in it, they aren't meant to heal."

"You said you knew both." There's something almost accusing in my nephew's tone, though I know it only stems from fear.

"I do, lad. But… it's hard to explain, Phelan. Light and dark magics don't really like each other, if that makes sense. I can't do much more than the basics in healing."

And learning that much had plateaued the rest of my training for over a year. Zoso had called it a bastardization of my magic and tried to warn me about how hard it would be, and that it could stunt my maximum power level, but I was determined to learn to heal for my brothers' sakes. Now I feel his frustration starkly.

"Auntie," Tara interjects, "You have to do something."

"I didn't say I wasn't going to try. I'll do everything I can. I just… I can't make any promises."

"That's all we could ask." Aisling says, but a look at her face, and Phelan's, tells a different story. Stop believing in miracles, kids, some part of me wants to tell them. They only happen in fairy tales.

Outwardly, I run a hand through my hair. "Alright, let's take a look. Where's she at?"

Phelan looks at me with that damned hope still burning on his face. "That door goes to her room." He nods to the door in the far corner that Arran came from not moments ago. I stare at it for a long moment, dread building in my chest.

"Thank you for telling me all this, Phelan. I know Arran isn't happy with you for it."

"My father's happiness is not important right now," My nephew snarls, before remembering his manners and adding with a tight smile, "But you are welcome, Auntie."

I return the strained smile and start forward, brushing Rum's hand in silent request as I move. I cross the room with purposeful strides- determined, resigned- only to hesitate in front of the door. Rum has to rock onto the balls of his feet to avoid running me over, and he glances down to me, concerned and understanding.

"This is going to bloody suck." I mumble, and Rum rests a comforting hand on the small of my back.

"Such an optimist, little wolf." He teases quietly, despite the tenseness on his own face. It suddenly occurs to me that I may have put him in an awkward position, having thrust him into the middle of personal and deeply emotional family affairs amongst people he barely knows. I'm just full of great decisions lately.

"Always." I reply with a tight smile. I look to the door, take a deep breath, and open it.

The room is dimly lit, and I crack the door just enough to slip in, instantly wary of letting in too much light and disturbing the sole occupant. Rum shuts the door behind us, and I reach for lycanthrope night-vision.

For the first time in nearly thirty years, I see my mother.

She's sound asleep, but even several layers of blankets doesn't cover up how much weight she's lost. She'd been round-faced and plump in middle age; now her face is gaunt, and the arm resting atop the blankets is little more than skin and bones. The sight sends a spark of pain through me, and I pad forward, every hunting skill Tor ever taught me channeling into moving silently.

"Bloody hell, Mum." I whisper under my breath, taking in the yellowed, sickly pallor of her skin and the few wisps of wavy, bone-white hair left on her head. It makes my stomach twist uncomfortably, and I take a deep breath, focusing on that action until my world narrows to only the rise and fall of my own chest. I shift that razor-focus to the memory of the meadow near my childhood home, where my brothers and I ran and held mock sword-fights and napped in the summer heat.

When I can almost hear Ian laughing, I call my magic.

I never quite got used to how light magic feels when used in full force. After so many years of tapping into darker stuff, something about this type of power always seems soft, uncertain, unreliable. Breathing carefully, painstakingly aware of how easy it would be to break concentration, I hold my hands out and trickle power into my mother's body.

The diagnostic spell sweeps over the disease. It's spread almost like an infection would, but instead of the tendril-like impression of an outside invasion, I'm hit more with a general atmosphere of unhealthiness; her body is struggling to continue its functions, and tiring. The disease concentrates in places where growths of twisted and deformed tissue seep into the things around them. I follow the spread back to the source, touching each growth with soothing magic to ease the pain- because I already know that, with how widespread it is, I can do little else. When I find the origin- a small organ behind the stomach- I sense first it's weakness, how it struggles to continue its work.

Then I feel the disease that grows there, and my concentration snaps.

My eyes fly open, and I take a ragged breath, swaying on my feet, heart pounding in my chest, light-headed from exertion and grief and fear. My minimalist healing training tells me that there is no medicine, no potion or spell to cure this, and the fear that runs up my spine only sparks anger. Why is light magic so bloody useless? I think bitterly.

I rack my brain, searching for a more unorthodox magical solution. I visualize my study, running through a mental inventory of the artifacts I have, looking for anything that could prolong her life, but few of my possessions were designed to heal, and those that can have a price- and the more powerful the artifact, the more effective it would be, the steeper that price is.

The Candle of Niflheim. I almost laugh aloud, for both my own stupidity and relief. I turn on my heels and stroll for the door, my legs shaky from the exertion of unfamiliar magic. Then Rum is suddenly in my path, blocking the exit. He searches my face for several seconds, concern etched on his. "Is it bad?"

"Bad? It would take a miracle to save her."

"Are you alright?" Rum says, worry thick in his voice, and I shake my head, grinning now. He pauses, a slow smile spreading across his face as he registers mine. "What miracle do you have in mind, little wolf?"

"I'll explain later, but it'll work."

"And if your nephew asks?"

"Then we just have to go make a potion that'll cure her." In the back of my mind, I feel vaguely guilty about lying about something like this, but I ignore it; their approval or disapproval of my methods doesn't change what needs to be done, and will only add time that Mum doesn't have.

"By all means, then, we should deliver the good news."

The adults- Arran, his children, Aisling- are all waiting expectantly when Rum and I emerge, though I don't fail to notice how far apart Arran and Phelan stand, and their pointed refusal to look at each other.

They huddle forward before the door is even closed behind me, and I run a hand through my hair.

"Good news?" Tara asks hopefully.

"You lot are lucky." I say sternly. "She didn't have much time left, no matter what herbs Elaine brings back."

"Didn't?" Arran questions, pushing closer. "So you've healed her?"

"I told you- well, I told them while you were off pouting-" I get glared at for that one- "I'm not a healer. I've burned down castles with less effort than that just took. But I know of an elixir that will help her."

"Thank the gods." Phelan says, relief written on his face. He grins teasingly. "I knew that you could do it, Auntie."

"Thank you, Auntie." Tara puts in. "I don't know what we would do if we lost Elizabeth now."

"Don't thank me yet. We still have to actually go get the cure."

"Why are we waiting, then? You should-"

Arran plows right over the rest of his daughter's sentence. "Elaine will be home soon. I'm certain that she'll be overjoyed with the news- we can't thank you enough, Faolan- but I am also certain she will want to know all that's happened before we do anything else."

For a minute, we all stare at him. "Pops-" Phelan objects, and Arran swings a venomous glare onto him.

"We are not performing some kind of black magic on her mother before she even knows what's happened!" He snaps.

Phelan glares at him. "You expect us to do nothing while Grandmum is in there suffering?"
"I expect you to let her sleep. In the meantime, food needs to be made, the garden tended- there is much more to do than nothing."

"Fine." My nephew practically spits. "I'll show Auntie and Mr. Stiltskin around the farm."

Arran glances to us for a second, gaze evaluating, and eventually nods. "Mend the southern fence while you're out. My back isn't what it used to be."

Phelan says nothing more to him, but bends down to give his wife a quick kiss on the head and mumble, "We'll be back in an hour, love."

When we emerge from the house, it's blissfully quiet. Though Listenoise is as grey and overcast as it always is, it is at least relatively warm, and the air smells of pine and wheat. Phelan leads us down a path that loops around the side of the house and continues towards a small wooden barn, and as we stroll down it my nephew casts a quick, hawk-eyed gaze around and falls back to walk next to us.

"What do you need to know, Auntie?" He asks quietly, referring to our conversation about needing to talk. "You have the short of it: I believe the Bete Glatisant has returned, and Pops doesn't."

"The bear attacks, yeah. But people die and disappear all the time, and if it isn't bandits, it usually is animals. You know that. So what else is going on?"

My nephew shrugs and avoids my gaze. "Livestock and people go missing. Loud barking is heard from the forest, and the deer population has dwindled."

"And?" I prompt; all of that could be attributed to his father's theory of wolves and bears, and I wait expectantly for further explanation, growing vaguely suspicious in the few seconds of silence that follow. We reach the barn doors, and Phelan heaves one of them open, saved from answering.

"As much as I just love the vagaries, little wolf," The imp says as we wait for my nephew to gather his things, "Some details would be appreciated."

"The Barking Beast- the Bete Glatisant- is the local monster. The royal bloodline has been hunting it for generations, and every time one is killed, another appears."

"Tell him the story, Auntie. Pops moved my things again, and the gods know how long it will take me to find them."

Rum cocks an eyebrow expectantly, and I shrug. "The official version of the story goes something like this: a princess lusted after her brother, and drew the attention of a demon that tricked her into sleeping with him- him the demon, not him the prince- by promising that he could make the prince love her. After the princess, eh, paid the price, the demon manipulated her into accusing the brother of rape. The king had the prince torn apart by a pack of dogs, and the demon-spawn the princess gave birth to was the Barking Beast. After the Beast was born, the king chased the demon off, and the princess was happily married off to some noble. Their son was the first Pellinore, from which the royal bloodline descends and takes their name, and he started to hunt the Beast to make up for his mother's sins."

"Com'on, Auntie." Phelan says from within the barn, throwing something from the loft and following it down the ladder. He throws whatever tool he just found in a bucket, slinging several large planks of wood over one shoulder and grabbing the bucket with the other hand, "Tell the man what really happened."

Rum grins. "Oh, please, Ellyn," He begs melodramatically, "I am just dying to know."

"That is some important family history you're making fun of there, Mr. Stiltskin." Phelan warns teasingly as he rejoins us. A flick of the wrist closes the barn door behind him.

"Set those down, lad. I got it." My nephew raises an eyebrow, but swings the wooden planks to the ground without question. I hold my hand out, and the boards iift off the ground and hover in the air.

Phelan grins. "You'll make us lazy, Auntie." He takes the lead again, strolling down the path just ahead of us, the boards floating next to us as we walk. To Rum, my nephew adds, "What Auntie just told you, that's the royal propaganda. The princess being 'tricked', everything she did being forgiven, and a line of noble kings risking their lives to set her mistakes right- you can see the holes in that story from miles away. Even if the Pellinores believe it-"

"They do." I put in, remembering my last conversation with my birth father.

"Of course they do." My nephew scoffs. "Delusional lot. The point is that that story is what the Pellinores want to believe about themselves. What actually happened, that's about this family."

"Then what is the real story?"

Phelan looks to me expectantly, and I shake my head. "Hell, I don't even remember half of it, and you guys tell it so much better than me."

My nephew chuckles. "Alright, Auntie, I'll tell it. First of all, the "brother" was a ward of the king, not a prince, and not any real blood of the princess. The princess thought she was in love with him, but after a bit of adventure, fell for someone else." He nods to the deteriorating castle in the distance that looms over the nearby town. "Her new beau was a dark magician who lived over there, in Corbin Castle."

I freeze in place. A dark magician, from Corbin. Son of a bitch. I glance at Rumplestiltskin, and see the same realization on his face.

"Are you alright, Auntie?" Phelan asks over his shoulder, brow furrowed with concerned.

"I'm fine, lad. I just haven't really thought much of this story until now." I look to my partner again. Well, Rum, you're about to learn more about Zoso's life than I'm sure you ever wanted to know.

Still shooting furtive, concerned glances at me, Phelan goes on, "As I said, the magician lived in Corbin Castle, and their relationship didn't go over too well with her family. The king's ward had rather liked the idea of marrying into royalty, and when the princess chose the local 'demon' over him, he forced himself on her. Afterwards, when the wizard and the king were after his head, the ward made a deal with the magician-king Math fab Mathonwy.

When the ward was caught, and the king sentenced him to be torn apart by dogs, the ward and Mathonwy cursed the princess to bear only monsters. The wizard was able to alter that, somewhat, and the princess's first child, the wizard's son, grew up human in Corbin Castle, and the curse didn't overcome him for twenty years. Meanwhile, the princess was married off to some noble who was more than happy to forgive her of her lover and bastard son if it meant he got to sit the throne. So the noble and the princess had a son, the first King Pellinore, and when he was grown he started the good old family tradition of hunting down the Barking Beast. When he succeeded in killing his half-brother, Pellinore and his half-brother's kids found out that the Curse of the Barking Beast passes down the family tree when one dies."

"That's how you get us lot, Stiltskin." Phelan concludes. "That's who we are: a line of bastards, who been outsmarting our royal cousins' obsession with killing us for two centuries."

Rum glances at me, raises an eyebrow. "Wasn't your father a Pellinore? Or did he think that he was supposed to be doing a different kind of hunting?"

"They didn't know. I actually don't know if Pellamos ever found out. He'd disguised himself as some lower noble so he could sleep his way across the countryside."

Phelan shakes his head. "How can you have two kids with a man, and not talk enough with 'em in that time to find out his full name?"

"Well, dearie, seems to me that they found other things to occupy them."

I laugh at that. "Well, that would explain the timeline. He thought Tor was his son, after all, so they must have really hit it off."

Phelan stops in his tracks. "Thought? Grandmum always told us-"
"It's complicated." I cut in. "Nearest we can tell, Mum's fiance had been dead for, oh, maybe three weeks when she met Pellamos. They can both swear up and down that he was Tor's father, but since Mum's next move was to ask His Royal Highness to foster Tor during the winter, I get the feeling that she was just trying to give her son his best shot."

My nephew looks at me for a long moment, and that, combined with the subject of my brother, sends a spike of dulled pain through my chest.

"I guess that's one theory, Auntie." Phelan replies doubtfully, sweeping his gaze over the fields we walk through before it settles on me again. "What happened to you and Uncle Tor? Grandmum never told Mum much, and Mum told us even less."

"That doesn't surprise me, with how the whole thing affected Mum. What did they tell you?"

"That Pellamos sent you and Tor away, to a land called Mysthaven." I wait patiently for him to divulge more details, but several heartbeats pass in silence.

"What, that's it?"

My nephew shrugs. "That's it. No one wants to say much about the abduction itself."

The word abduction sends a shiver of some odd, remembered anxiety through me, but I push it down.

"To be fair, Phelan, Mum would have only known what Pellamos told her."

"Which was?"

"That it was a better alternative than having us killed." I say it nonchalantly, and it takes my nephew a few seconds to register the words.

"Your own father was going to have you killed?" He exclaims, horrified.

"Oh, sure. I don't think he ever really cared much about us. He looked after Tor because he needed an heir to the throne, and when his wife gave him a legitimate son, they both decided it was time for the bastards to go. The whole killing part was the queen's idea- or so he said when I asked him. It's easy to throw your wife to the wolves when there's a sword at you throat."

Phelan shoots me a sideways glance at that final statement, and I vaguely wonder if he remembers how Pellamos died, and a mere three days after my departure from Listenoise. If he has suspicions, though, he says nothing.

We reach the fence Phelan is suppose to fix; to our left, it extends back in the direction of the house, and to the right it runs for nearly half a mile before it's bordered by forest. He sets his bucket of supplies on the ground, and I sweep a quick glance over the damage he's looking to fix. The fence is simple and wooden, made of three horizontal planks nailed to posts set in the ground; the top plank of this section is kindling on the ground, the middle is hanging by a single nail, and the post it's connected to is ripped halfway from the ground. I frown, maneuvering around Phelan to crouch next to the plank on the ground.

"These marks are from an axe." I observe aloud, tracing my fingers over the cut and glancing up to my nephew.

"Like Pops said, the neighbors aren't happy with us. This-" Phelan gestures to the ruined fence, "Is for not letting them track the Beast onto our land. If it hadn't been a full moon, they might've done a good bit more." He flashes a bitter smile that could almost be a grimace. "Good thing we have that pair of giant wolves hanging around, huh?"

"Maybe they need a third one to teach them not to wander around at night." I growl, rising to my feet with predatory grace, and Phelan's head snaps up.

"I appreciate the thought, Auntie," he says with a nervous smile, "But these people are still our neighbors. After the Beast has gone, we will have to rebuild our relationship with them."

Annoyance bubbles in my veins at my uselessness. "Fine. I won't terrorize the locals."

"What will we do without our favorite hobby?" Rum objects teasingly, and I grin- both at the quip, and at looking up to see that he's sat himself atop the nearest intact fence post. I swing onto the fence next to him and watch my nephew work. He rips that half-attached board from the post, tosses it aside, and draws a hand-spade from his bucket of tools; he'll have to dig the post almost half out of the ground to right it from it's current angle, and that will take time. It's the perfect opportunity to grab the Candle of Niflheim from my study, but one thing lingers on the edge of my mind.

"So, Phelan…" I begin, and he briefly glances up from his digging to acknowledge the statement, "What happened to Tara's husband?"

Grief passes momentarily across his face as he works. "Darach was his name. He was a good man, and a better father. The guards in Camelot cut him down." His voice is cold, matter-of-fact, but I still hear the anger buried in it.

I shake my head. "Of course it was Camelot, the world's most miserable city. I hear the Pendragons are worse than the Pellinores."

Phelan only grunts in response, and my mind drifts back to my own brief time passing through Camelot. Tor had stopped there for a few nights on his way here, all those years ago, and I had followed his trail; I vividly recall a gloomy city with a pervasive whisper of fear in the air, haunted by not-so-noble knights and seemingly never-ending threats of war from the neighbors. Judging by my nephew's expression, it seems that three decades have not changed much.

"What was his name, this man who killed Darach?"

"Doesn't really matter, Auntie. He's dead." There's something cold and all too familiar in his eyes. "There's nothing more important than family to a d'Corbin."

Good to know that that runs in the family, I think for the second time today, hopping from the fence."Speaking of, it's time to go get that cure for Mum."

"Pops won't be happy." He looks up now, cracking a strained but mischievous grin.

"A lucky coincidence." Rum quips, sliding to the ground as well, and I smile.

"We'll be back in twenty minutes, Phelan. Ready?" I ask Rum, and he takes the offered hand.

When we once again stand in my study, I cross immediately to my artifact shelf, plucking the Candle off a display stand. One side of the candle is white with delicate black vines crawling up its length; the other side is black with gold runes inscribed down it, the two joined by what might be an intricate red-brass holder.

I turn it over in my hands, drawn back to Niflheim and all that happened there. It's been less than half a decade, but with all that's happened in these last twelve months, it feels much longer. Before, I felt a stab of pain every time I looked at this candle, but now the only emotion in my chest is disappointment- for wasted time, for wasted love.

Rumplestiltskin shifts closer to get a better look, and out of the corner of my eye I glimpse his expression- curious, sympathetic- as he studies my reaction. I vaguely wonder if he looks at anything with worn-out grief and regret, the way I look at this candle or the bone-handle knife Tor made me or Zoso's cloak.

"You asked me once, Rum, what happened between Vali and me."

I almost surprise myself with the statement, let alone the Dark One, but I don't regret it, and Thanatos's voice doesn't warn or taunt me from saying more.

"I did." Rumple begins slowly. "But you weren't very forthcoming."

"Yeah, well, when you see your ex, it can open up some wounds." I defend, smiling bitterly down at the Candle. "This thing, this is what happened between us. Or it's the result of it, anyway."

"You've peaked my curiosity, little wolf."

I huff and cross to the table Rum and I spent so much time at, leaning against it's edge. Rum sits next to me, our shoulder touching, and I pass him the Candle wordlessly. He turns it over in his hands, paying special attention to the ruins on the black half.

When he's least expecting it, I say, "It started when Vali proposed, and I said yes."

The way his head whips up in alarm nearly makes me laugh, is nearly enough to distract from the somber subject. "You did what?" He hisses, and I grin.

"I was in love, and younger than I am now. It makes you do stupid things." The smile falls away. "I realized just how stupid when I met his family."

"Hellish inlaws?" He quips, and I snort a laugh.

"That's the worst pun I've ever heard." But I appreciate the effort.

Rum passes the candle back to me and asks, genuinely, "What happened, little wolf?"

"What happened-" I take a deep breath before my next words, bracing for remembered pain, "Was that I overheard Vali talking to Hel."

"And?"

My hands tighten around the Candle. "And I found out that Vali only proposed because he thought marriage would make me the person he wanted me to be."

It had sounded so innocent in the first few exchanges I heard. Then there were phrases like settle down and accept reality; next there were phrases like give up magic and live a happy, normal, human life. Oh, the way Hel had laughed at him.

"I knew he was delusional, y'know? Just a little bit." My voice wavers slightly. "He always saw someone in me that doesn't exist- or that hasn't, not for a long time. And he was always talking about being a better person and healing and redemption. He'd built up this idealized version of me in his head, but I thought we'd gotten past those bloody fantasies of his. Then… then he planned to use one of the happiest occasions of my life to manipulate me, to get me to say the magic words and lose my immortality so he could have his-"

I'm not thinking, and my guard is down, and the words come tumbling out before I've even realized it. I stop short, fear lancing up my spine, glancing at Rum to see if he caught the slip.

"The magic words?"

Of course he did- which means that I've just given the Dark One a hint about how to end my immorality. What took Vali two years to earn has gone to a far more dangerous ally in one.

Bloody fucking hell, Thanatos was right.

"Nothing, Rum. Forget I ever said anything." I stand abruptly, taking several steps away. "We need to go work Mum's miracle." I hold out my hand, a habit by now, and Rum slides to the floor and takes it. Then he tugs me closer, fixing me with a serious look.

"Vali is a fool." He snarls harshly, and I crack a smile.

"That we can agree on."

In the next moment, we stand in a dimly-lit stone room. Cells line the walls around us, only half of them occupied. The nearest prisoners slowly start to register the sudden presence of two strangers, and I sweep a gaze across them.

"Who wants to make a deal?" I ask a room at large, and all heads now turn to us. Uncertain silence reigns for several seconds, and I wait patiently until a man stalks to the front of his cell. Rum and I move to meet him, and he looks us over appraisingly, paying special attention to the Dark One's scaled skin.

"What type'a demons are ya?" His voice is rough and deep, his tone conversational. I raise an eyebrow, sweeping my gaze first across him and next around his cell, to where his cellmate huddles in a corner, skeletal and bruised.

"What type are you?" I counter, and the man flashes a smile. I return it, sharp and predatory, and his amusement falters.

"What's your name?" I ask sweetly as he shrinks back, summoning a flame to my index finger and lighting the black end of the Candle.