Chapter Text
You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.
The brand was still etched into his skin: a pale scar, the lasting mark of dark magic.
Blurred images passed over his eyes, but he couldn’t say whether they were memories or hallucinations. There was the rush of wind in his ears—a thousand echoing screams—and a woman’s voice, breaking with tears, calling his name.
Neal…
The key to the Dark One’s vault… the resurrection spell… the warning. Resurrection is the darkest magic of all. You cannot reach into Death without bringing back Its shadow.
The price of magic came so dear.
Neal, come back to me… Neal…
Running through the woods—the trees a blur of black and green, reaching for him with claw and teeth—too many voices, too many voices in his head—
Bloody hell, Swan. What did you do?
Ripped in two. The stitches between their souls had torn open, and he felt himself dying…He was fading fast, and his father’s eyes were fixed on his, frozen in terror.
I did what I had to.
The keychain… The one she’d worn around her neck and he’d carried in his pocket. The one his son would remember him by.
I couldn’t lose him. Not again.
The dagger. The jagged blade; his father’s name burnt into the steel, with malice and murder and misery. The source of his dark power, the anchor of black magic. Her fingers curled over his, holding the dagger to his hand.
There’s always a price, Swan.
He was slipping away. His last words fell on deaf ears.
He’ll never forgive you for this.
“Emma, don’t—!”
I know.
Emma swallowed hard, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Neal’s motionless form. His hand had slipped from the hilt of the dagger and laid on Gold’s chest, from which the Dark One blade still protruded. Gold’s eyes stared sightlessly at the sky: no longer shrewd and piercing, but dull and vacant.
“Swan.” Hook’s voice was rough, rippling with unconcealed anger. “Get up. We have to get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving him,” she said numbly, not looking away from Neal.
“Yes—” he caught her elbow with his hook and pulled her to a stand— “you are.”
“Let me go!” She tried to wrench her arm away, the sharp steel biting into her skin. “Hook—!”
“Think, Swan!” he hissed, glaring at her. “The Darkness is going to be siphoning out of that damned dagger any minute now, and it’s going to be looking for a host! You want it to be you?”
Emma glowered, not answering. She knew he was right, but—
“Go!”
He flung her forward, and she half-stumbled, hands and knees landing in the mud-soaked grass. In a daze, she picked herself up and began running. Trees and branches blurred past her, even as the damp earth dragged beneath her feet, caking her boots in mud. Flying monkeys screeched overhead, and a woman’s howling scream pierced the air.
Zelena.
She’d be looking for the dagger. It was her only true leverage: insurance that the Dark One would do her bidding. Her own skills in magic were not a guarantee of victory; but if she possessed the dagger—
Emma froze.
The dagger.
They had left the dagger behind.
If Zelena got her hands on it…
“Neal,” she whispered, feeling like she was going to be sick. “Oh, God… what did I do?”
Pain.
Terror.
Oblivion.
He stood in the eye of the hurricane. The Darkness tore into his flesh, eating into his soul—it wriggled like a serpent, forcing itself down his throat and penetrating his heart.
His darkest memories, like the slashes of a whip:
“Don’t break our deal!”—and the sudden release of his father’s hand—falling through realms—
Lies.
“This ship can be your family, your home!”— the Lost Ones emerging from the shadows—dragging him backwards—down to the depths of the jungle—
Betrayal.
“You have to let her go, so she can fulfill her destiny.”— leaving her behind—not even a goodbye—
Guilt.
“You can never see Henry again.”—Pan’s last revenge— the yellow Bug fading into smoke—Emma and Henry gone forever—
Loss.
He screamed as the Darkness swarmed around him, feeding on his anger, his grief, his haunted mind. It consumed him, and he consumed It: they were one and the same, anchored to each other, his soul bound to Its very essence.
He felt it: every letter carved into the dagger, searing into his skin. N-E-A-L—(“names have power, boy”)—C-A-S-S-I-D-Y—(and now there was so much power in his name)—
The hurricane rose, lifting him into the air, whirling around him so fast it was blinding. He couldn’t see—he couldn’t breathe—and all he could hear were his own deathly screams—
The world was so still.
Beneath him, the earth was cool, covered by a thicket of frosted grass growing in the spaces between tree roots and fairy circles. Cracking his eyes open, he could see the forest looming over him, leaves and pine needles drifting lazily in the autumn wind. The sky was gray, but cloudless; and a smoky scent hung in the air, promising snow in days to come.
Neal slowly pushed himself up, grimacing as he put a hand to his aching head. The last thing he remembered was Emma’s hand on his…
A mad giggle sounded at his ear. “Awake, are you, dearie?” the familiar voice trilled. “I was starting to worry about you!”
Neal whirled around, eyes wide with disbelief. “Dad?”
There was no one there.
“Over here, dearie!”
He turned in the opposite direction, searching.
No one.
Neal stared at the empty forest, still rubbing his head. Had he hit it so hard, he was hallucinating?
“Hallucinating? My, how rude! I’m right here, lad!”
Neal let out a yelp. There he was: the imp, leering at him with a devilish smile. His skin glinted with scales, his eyes flecked like a lizard’s, and those spidery fingers that curled around the crooked dagger…
“Dad?” Neal croaked, unsteadily rising to his feet; inching closer. “What happened to you?”
“What happened to me?” The imp cackled, throwing his head back. “My dear boy, if there’s anyone you should be worried about, it’s you!”
“Me?” Neal shook his head, bewildered. “What are you talking about? I’m fine.”
“Aye, so you are.” The imp leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Ask yourself how that is.”
Neal stared at him. What the hell kind of question was that?
“Think back,” the imp urged him. “How did we get here?”
This wasn’t making sense. They’d already been here, they hadn’t gone anywhere. He and Emma had been traipsing through the woods—these woods—looking for… something, he wasn’t sure what. At one point, Emma’s hands had been clasped around his…there was a surge of electricity, and then…
Neal pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to remember. Everything was so mixed up now, and he could hear voices echoing in his head.
“And then she separated us,” the imp prodded. “Ripped us apart, didn’t she? Left us to die, didn’t she?”
“No, Emma wouldn’t do that,” Neal muttered, shaking his head. “She needed something… a name…”
“Names have power, boy.” The imp was suddenly at his side, crooning in his ear. “Oh-ho-ho, and such power yours has now!”
Neal impatiently shrugged him off, eyes tightly shut in concentration as he tried to remember. Zelena…He couldn’t remember why that name was so important, but it had come with a steep price. If he could just remember what that price was…
“She was crying,” he murmured, Emma’s face appearing before him in a fractured image. “She kept saying my name… and the keychain…”
“You wanted Henry to remember you,” the imp whispered. “You wanted her to tell him about you because—”
Because I was dying.
Realization struck like a bolt of lightning, jolting him into a whirlwind of memories—images flashing before his eyes—
“The dagger!” the imp hissed. “She put it in your hand—”
—he could barely hang on, her fingers curled over his to keep it steady—
“—you begged her not to—”
—she wouldn’t listen, why wouldn’t she listen—
“—she carried out the act—”
—he would carry out the sentence—
“He’s dead, boy!” the imp said gleefully. “Rumplestiltskin is dead, by your hand! The dagger is your master now!”
Neal shook his head, trembling. No… please, no…
“You are the Dark One now…”
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Because you killed your own father.”
“Get out of my head!”
But he was shouting at an empty clearing. The imp had vanished, as though he’d never been there at all. All that remained, was the crooked blade of the Dark One dagger, with two words scrawled into it:
Neal Cassidy.
He stared at it, transfixed with horror. It seemed to call to him… Protect us, it hissed. Keep us safe. But how could he stand to touch it? The blade that had murdered his father, that had twisted his own fate from mercy to misery…
“Goddamn it, Emma,” Neal whispered, his voice threatening to break. “What did you do?”