Prologue: The Price

A/N. A little personal wish fulfillment, set after "Welcome to Storybrooke."

"The absence of the Witch does not/Invalidate the spell"—

"Long Years apart can make no—" Emily Dickinson

The shop door banged against the wall, so hard had it been shoved open as David and Emma barreled in. Only later did it register with Emma that the little customer service bell above the door hadn't rung: much later, she learned Gold had tired of its constant interruptions of his restoration work and had disconnected it.

"Gold! You have to help us," David blurted, even before Gold emerged from his workroom.

The cane tapped smartly against the wooden floor as Gold passed through the curtain separating the workroom from the store. "I'm a wealthy man who owes neither money nor favors to anyone. I don't 'have to' do anything, Mr. Nolan."

Emma tried to smooth ruffled feathers. "He didn't mean it that way and you know it. He's rattled, like we all are, because Mary Margaret's so depressed she can't get out of bed. You'd be just as shaken up if it was Belle—" And then she realized what she had said and clamped her mouth shut.

"It is Belle," Gold corrected in a low voice. "Suffering, depressed, and beyond the reach of her loved ones."

Emma bit her lip. "I'm sorry. Let us start over, okay?"

David took her lead. "We need your help. Mary Margaret needs your help."

Gold moved behind one of his counters, creating a barrier between them and him. It was not lost on him that David was attempting to take advantage of one of Rumplestiltskin's few weaknesses: like almost everyone else in the Enchanted Forest, the imp had fallen into a special fondness for Snow.

"Archie's talked and talked to her, but he can't get her to budge. Granny's been over a dozen times, all the dwarves, the kids from school—nobody can cheer her up," David said.

"This is Cora's final attempt to destroy Snow and achieve Regina's admiration," Gold replied. "Not many of us achieve victory from beyond the grave. It's up to you whether Cora wins or not."

"Then there is a choice," Emma butted in hastily. "If there is a choice, there must be a way for us to beat this. . . this curse."

"I suppose you could consider it thus, metaphorically. Though there's no magic involved, only the work of a master in the art of psychological manipulation and torture." Gold's face darkened.

He'd never admit to it, but Emma had a strong hunch as to why he looked ready to bite the head off a rabid bat: she suspected he too had been a victim of that master, probably more than once. The thought suddenly flashed into Emma's mind that perhaps Cora had provided Hook with the poison that had nearly killed Gold, perhaps even used magic to determine Gold's whereabouts and sent Hook on his merry way. How else could Hook have known where in this wide world to find one then-ordinary man? Cora may have been a whole lot smarter than Storybrooke had given her credit for. . . smarter perhaps than even Rumplestiltskin?

Ever practical, David cut to the chase. "Do whatever magic you need to do to cure her. Whatever the price is, I'll pay it."

"Careful, dearie," Gold muttered, "I smell desperation, and that's a dangerous scent on you. As it was on your wife." He picked up a rag and pretended to dust the clean counter, granting David a moment to collect his poise.

But David wouldn't take the moment. Instead he pounced, as a cub on a sleeping elder tiger might, taking advantage of what he perceived to be an advantage: Gold's seeming concern. "She's been like this for five days! She won't go to work, she won't eat, she won't talk to us—"

"I saw her condition for myself, remember?" Gold interrupted.

David got up in the sorcerer's face. "Then you know she's wasting away. What are you going to do about it, 'dearie'?"

With two fingers, Gold pressed against the knight's chest, effectively pushing him back. "And why should I do anything?" From the corner of his eye he saw an objection forming on Emma's lips, and he directed his next comment to her, fully aware that this would be news to her. "Which, I suspect, is precisely what you said when you became aware of the conditions to which your guards were subjecting me after you conned me into your prison."

Gold's lips peeled back, revealing his teeth. "Or need I remind you, Prince Charming? Is your memory of the good old days a little rusty? You threw me into a damp, dark cell carved into an abandoned mine and lined with fairy dust—a substance which not only robs my kind of any magical abilities but also makes us ill, and in large enough doses or long enough exposure, can cause cancer. And in that cell, with its average nighttime temperature of 42 degrees, what was it now that you provided for comfort? A bed? Hmm, no, no bed. A chair? No, not a chair either. A blanket? Not a single thread. Water? Yes, there was water, a bucket brought in every morning—after the guards had taken turns pissing in it.

"For exercise—ah, now there, your guards were quite thoughtful. I was provided several opportunities for exercise, running from their whips and swords and torches, dodging the rocks and buckets of slop they threw at me. And what did your guards feed me at the end of the day when I was too tired to run any more? Oh yes, a meal from the royal kitchens, prepared, I'm sure, by your own chef: a plate of cold, meatless pottage—oh, forgive me, prince, I exaggerate: there was meat—the meat of a cupful of maggots that garnished the plate.

"And to break the monotony of the one hundred and twenty-one days I was a guest of your prison, did you send me books? Did you provide a window so I could have some sense of the world outside? Did you send me visitors? If the rats and worms that shared my cell could be considered company, then I suppose I must admit, I had visitors.

"You call Cora the epitome of cruelty and Regina the queen of torture. But you, Prince Charming, were not so very far behind."

Emma stifled a gasp, giving Gold the small satisfaction of knowing that, when father and daughter went home tonight and were safe from public oversight, David would have a lot of explaining to do to win back Emma's respect.

Gold seemed to suddenly remember the dust rag, and he resumed his unnecessary chore, but not before a quick glance informed him David had the decency to redden. Pretending to rearrange some merchandise so he could dust a shelf in his cabinet, Gold picked up an object—and then stared at it, remembering its origin: a worn old leather kickball.

"You're different now. You see it, don't you? You hurt people all the time."

Rumplestiltskin/Gold had carried his pain, every second of it—every insult, every slight, every push, every slap, every kick. . .and worst of all, every abandonment—for so long it had putrefied and petrified until it had become immobile, insoluble, and nearly all-consuming in him. Nearly—except for the little light that managed to break through, the fragile sliver of light through which his love for Bae and Belle survived. And among the amazing properties of that light was the power to forgive, though it had gone long unused. As he rearranged the leather ball, he suddenly felt the foreign urge to use that power, to put the hatred behind.

"You were once a good man."

As Snow had done for him, when she spared his life. As would make Bae proud. As would overjoy Belle, if she still possessed her memories and had the context to understand the change.

"There's still good in you. I see it. I've always seen it."

Something had happened to him, five days ago, when he had made his peace with the world and had released his grip on life. Maybe that inner light had bored its way through the boulder of pain. Maybe, through the sacrifices Bae and the Charmings had made—yes, to protect themselves from the witches, but to protect him too—he'd been forced to admit he needed help, needed other people. Or maybe he had just gotten tired of all the effort it takes to remain forever angry with everyone. He wanted to let it go. But he was still hurting, the wounds still weeping as though freshly made. He needed help to forgive them.

As—it occurred to him—Snow needed help to forgive herself.

"Why don't you just give up this obsession with vengeance? You know it will never make you happy."

David, barely out of boyhood when he had become the leader of the land, had grown up a bit too since the savior came to town. Gold came to realize that now as David raised eyes full of shame and regret and said, offering no defense or excuse, "I'm sorry. I knew what was going on and I allowed it, to keep you weak so we could control you. It was an inhumane thing for me to do, and ungrateful, after the help you had given me and Snow to find each other. I was wrong. I hope you'll forgive me."

Emma's eyes, which widened in surprise at first, now shone with pride. This was the Prince Charming she'd expected: this was the father she deserved.

Gold's hands froze. For the minute it took David to voice his apology, the impenetrable mask slipped and Gold allowed them to see him stunned—and needful of this apology. Then David hesitantly extended a hand, not sure if it would be accepted in friendship or sliced off, and Gold blinked and a mask dropped down again, but not the hard, smug mask of before: a mask of unflappability, but through which honest eyes offered a cautious trust.

Gold shook David's hand. "That was my price." He picked up his cane and came out from behind the counter. They trailed him to the door. He started to flip the window sign to "closed," then shrugged and yanked the sign down and tossed it aside. He held the door open, and when Emma and David had passed through, he locked it. But just before they climbed into the squad car, he held up a staying hand and addressed them both. "I. . . I too ask forgiveness. . . for the threats I made against you, the traps I laid. . . the ingratitude I showed for the times you helped me."

David nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Gold." And Emma squeezed the pawnbroker's arm.