Disclaimer: I do not own Once Upon A Time. I'm just playing in their world for a bit.

Genre: family, hurt/comfort, tragedy

Rating: T, to be safe

Pairings: None outside canon.

Characters: Rumplestiltskin, Baelfire, Milah, Hook

WARNINGS: None, aside from the usual Rumplestiltskin heartbreak.

SPOILERS: All Rumple backstory, including "Think Lovely Thoughts," but references can come from anywhen, so all of Season 3 would be helpful. Absolutely serious here. If you have not seen THINK LOVELY THOUGHTS, please do NOT read this story until you do. It's not critical to this story, but I truly do not want to spoil that episode. Go watch it. Now. I'll be here when you get back.

Self-Prompt: What if Milah took Baelfire with her when she ran off with Hook?

A/N: Re-watching the flashbacks from Season 2's "The Crocodile" could be helpful, but not necessary if you know the story. This picks up at the end of Rumple's first confrontation with Killian (pre-Hook) on the ship.

A/N: Also, my posting frequency depends on my access to a proper computer with internet connection. Rest assured that I am several chapters ahead, and will not abandon this story.

Truly Become Dust

Chapter 1

Lost Boy

"Please, sir. What am I going to tell my boy?"

"Try the truth. His father's a coward."

The pirate captain turned his back on the poor spinner, leaving his crew to escort the man off his ship. Rumplestiltskin flinched as hands grabbed at him, firm yet considerate of his unsteady balance, to guide him back to the dock. Once they had him on the loading ramp, though, one of the men gave him a little shove as they let go, sending Rumplestiltskin stumbling down until his walking stick caught and bad ankle gave, and he fell hard on the dock.

Behind him, pirates laughed, and the captain barked out the orders to set sail. Nobody helped Rumplestiltskin to his feet this time, so he just sat where he had fallen, rough splinters digging into his palms as he watched life steal his wife away from him. Like it stole his father long ago.

He didn't move until the ship cleared the harbor and disappeared behind the harbor master's watchtower. He could have sat there forever staring at the fading ship if a young boy, just a few years older than his Baelfire, hadn't stopped to pick up his walking stick.

"Here, mister. This should help you up."

Rumplestiltskin jolted and turned to see the lad holding the staff upright with the end planted within easy reach of Rumplestiltskin's hand.

"Thank you," he said, but swallowed any other words he could have said as he pulled himself to his feet. He felt sick. Lost. He patted the boy on the shoulder and nodded for him to run along. The boy smiled and waved as he turned to catch up with his friends.

Rumplestiltskin turned to check the progress of the pirate ship, but it was gone.

What am I going to tell my boy?

Bae. He had to get home to his son. Everything else could wait. But how could he tell his son that his mother wasn't coming back? How could he tell him that he had failed to keep their little family together. Hi, son. Some pirates came and took your mama off to entertain a ship full of rowdy men. No. Questions would be asked. Maybe not by Bae. Maybe not even to his face. But there would be whispers if he let that be the story. Whispers that he should have fought for her. And maybe he should have, but what good would that have done Bae if Rumplestiltskin had died trying to get Milah back? There was no question in his mind that the moment he picked up that sword, the pirate would have run him through. Even if that man's supposed code of honor permitted Rumplestiltskin a moment to take a stance, even to strike first, what chance did he have as a cripple who had never seen real battle? The end result would have been the same. Rumplestiltskin bleeding out across the deck of the Jolly Roger and Milah held captive below.

Your actions on the battlefield tomorrow will leave him fatherless.

Never. He cheated fate that day, and would continue to do whatever was necessary to protect Bae from growing up without a father like he did.

That brought back memories he'd rather not dwell on, so Rumplestiltskin limped into the baker's shop on the way home and bought a meat pie with the few coppers he had left in his coin purse. He would heat it over the fire when he got home and give it to Bae. Maybe the comforting food would cheer the boy up as it had Rumple growing up with the spinner sisters. He decided he would say that Milah was dead. He would carry the guilt of the lie for years, but in the end, it would be less painful than allowing the village to know that Bae's father was twice a coward.

His ankle was hurting by the time he turned onto the lane leading past their little home. His neighbors largely ignored him as he limped by. Elena looked up from her laundry to give him a puzzled frown, but he pressed his lips together and shook his head to keep her from asking why Milah wasn't with him. The empty nausea was back. The dread of having to go inside and tell his precious son that his mother was dead.

Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Rumplestiltskin pushed open the door with the hand holding the small meat pie sack. The fire had died down, and the fading light made it difficult to see.

"Bae? I'm home. Where are you son?" He limped in and set the meat pie on the table, searching the shadows until his eyes adjusted. Then the panic set in. "Bae?"

The pain in his ankle was forgotten as he spun, taking in the empty room, the silence, the cloaks missing from the cloak hook by the door.

No. No, no, no, no, no.

His eyesight blurred, and he made no attempt to stop the tears. "Bae..." His ankle finally gave as he slid down to his knees, still clinging to the walking stick as if it were the only lifeline keeping him from drowning.

The pain in his ankle. The pain in his heart. Milah. Bae. How had he not seen it? The pirate took Milah. Milah took Bae. Milah who always wanted to leave, start over, see the world.

Milah.

Before he really knew what he was doing, his grip slid down the staff, and a strangled cry escaped him as he swung the staff, hard. The sketch of a palm tree studded beach that Milah had completed a month earlier was ripped from the wall and battered into the dust of the floor. Again and again he struck, until the strength left his arms and the walking stick clattered to the ground.

He wept in silence then, curled on the floor, massaging his eternally aching ankle, though whether to soothe the ache or to feel something other than emptiness, he could not say.