Ruins of a Contract

Summary: Morgan le Fae may have abandoned her last son, but that doesn't mean she could turn down the opportunity to help him when the chance presented itself. So, when a healer speaks of a contract he's just gained for a second-born child, she acts. Set in the universe of Ruins & Battles, prior to Ruins of Camelot.

Had the healer not been one of hers, Morgan would never have known about the contract. However, since she maintained a reasonably sized network of magic users across the Enchanted Forest and every other realm she had contact with, Morgan learned about the interesting little document when Fendrake visited the crystal cave to provide an update of what went on in the world Morgan had intentionally shut herself away from.

Most of their conversation revolved around the Black Fairy, of course. Danns' a'Bhàis had not been exiled for too many years, and Morgan knew her old enemy too well to expect that Danns' would remain quietly in the faery lands if she could do anything to get free. Danns' was undoubtedly plotting and planning, and whilst Reul Ghorm had been adamant about how secure her exile was, Morgan was not so trusting. So, she kept in contact with people like Fendrake, mostly minor magic users or healers, just to make sure that what the Blue Fairy told her was the complete truth. It so often wasn't, after all. Reul had always been a master of twisting the truth just so.

Yet Morgan did not expect the news Fendrake imparted so casually when she asked if anything else interesting had happened, offering him a cup of tea while they sat next to her fire.

"A spinner tried to kill me." The healer shrugged. "Poor man was probably shaking too hard to do the deed, so I offered him a drink and then a contract, instead."

Morgan arched an eyebrow. "Most people don't accept attempted murder quite so cavalierly." She certainly wouldn't have. Morgan was no particularly sweet soul of goodness herself; she had killed many times, and knew she'd do it again if she had to.

Fendrake snorted. "If I had a wife like his, I'd probably want to murder someone, too. Just on the off chance I might get caught and get away from the harpy."

"That bad?" As a habit, Morgan tended to side with the woman in any dispute; she supposed that was her own biases showing. Having been forced into a marriage against her will and found herself generally miserable until she took control of her own life, Morgan knew that her sympathies were a little skewed. Yet she wasn't blind, either, and knew that some women were simply horrible human beings.

"That and worse." Fendrake shook his head. "Poor bugger. I think he might have hoped I'd kill him if he wasn't so desperate to save his dying son. Kid got bit by a snake. He wanted the antidote."

"Did you give it to him?" She eyed Fendrake carefully, not sure she liked the casual manner in which he spoke of a dying child. Morgan knew that she'd never been the best mother; three of her children had been murdered, one ruled a kingdom he had tried to murder his father to inherit, and she'd abandoned the last. Yet she never had been able to stand by and let a child suffer, price of magic be damned.

"I made a deal with him, yeah. Gave him the antidote in exchange for his second-born child." He laughed. "Given the state of his marriage, I doubt that harpy was sleeping with him, anyway, so it was the nicest thing I could think of."

Morgan stamped down on her fury, desperate not to think of her own lost second born son. Gwaine had done his best to defeat the Black Fairy, but in the end, he'd still been murdered, and no one knew what had happened to his wife or two sons. "You think trading the life of a child for a child was nice?"

"An unborn child, sure. Same thing must've occurred to him, too, because the poor spinner couldn't sign fast enough. I was surprised that he could read, given that it was in the Frontlands, but he scrawled his name well enough. Didn't pay much attention to the contract, but they never do."

The Frontlands. Suddenly, Morgan felt cold. Surely that was a coincidence. It had to be.

Didn't it?

She had abandoned her last son in the Frontlands, had left him with his father in hopes that a human life would be what he needed. No mere human could live for long in her crystal cave; she'd already expended all the spare magic she had to keep Accolon there, and could not do the same for another (even had she cast her lover out; the spells were done and not transferable). Fendrake was magical enough to endure the pressure for some time, but he was not truly powerful. After a day or so, he would have begun to wither, but her purely human son would have lasted mere hours.

How long had it been since she had last seen him? Morgan had looked in on him when he was seven or eight, and seen that he was well cared for by two spinsters. Spinsters. No. It had to be a coincidence. Fate was not so...so forgiving? Truth be told, Morgan had no idea how old her last son would be, now. She had a hard time telling how much time had passed outside her cave. Mostly because I do not want to know. She kept a careful eye on the world to make sure Danns' a'Bhàis did not return, but she did not count the years. She was afraid to.

A long moment passed before she could find her voice, and it took all the control Morgan could muster to make herself sound normal. "Do you remember his name? The...spinner?"

"Sure do. Long one, not what you'd expect from a peasant. I was surprised he could spell it." Fendrake chuckled and sipped his tea while Morgan resisted the urge to throttle him. She contented herself with glaring.

"The name, Fendrake."

"Oh. Sorry." His smile was easy; Fendrake had never been the most relevant man. "Rumplestiltskin. Not one I'll ever forget."

"Rumplestiltskin." Morgan repeated the word slowly, turning it over in her mind. "A strange name indeed." Curiosity piqued, because Fendrake was right. Peasants were not usually so grandiosely named, and names had power. Perhaps this one meant something. Was he a prince in disguise? A fae out in the land of the living? The latter was dangerous, and made Morgan sit up straight.

"That's the name, yeah." Fendrake looked like he'd grown bored with the topic and hadn't noticed her sudden interest. "So, I was thinking of traveling to the Marchlands, because—"

"Let me see the contract."

Fendrake blinked in confusion. "Why?"

"Are you really going to begin questioning me now?" Morgan rolled her eyes. Fendrake had been in her employ for some time, and he'd never cared enough to question her.

True to form, he didn't really care enough to do so now, either. Shrugging, Fendrake summoned the contract, which Morgan watched appear in a swirl of red smoke. He extended it to her. "I don't know why you want to see it, but here."

Morgan wasn't about to tell him, either; if Fendrake hadn't figured out that a contract designed to detect the blood relationship between a father and a child could tell a canny magic user more about the father than just his name, Morgan was not going to tell him. Fendrake was a decent healer, though hardly a careful one, and she had no desire to educate him in the higher ways of magic. Not when a potential fae might have already escaped—and reproduced!—from exile. If that had happened, she would have to—

Morgan's fingers touched the paper, and she almost jerked back in shock. She had already mustered her magic, reaching out, stretching, feeling what connections the signer of the contract might have...and she had not expected those connections to circle back onto her.

Snatching the contract out of Fendrake's hand, Morgan laid the threads for her detection spell out more carefully the second time, focusing her eyes on the signature scrawled across the bottom of the page. I should not have done this, she knew. Her heart was already clenched in her chest, promises to forget her last son falling to pieces at her feet. Morgan had made the only choice she could, and yet...

Her son was a man, and had a son of his own. A boy, it sounded like, who had been bit by a poisonous viper that had nearly killed him. And her son had turned to Fendrake to heal his child, because he had no one else to go to. What have I done? I could have healed his child in a heartbeat, even with my power ebbing away by the day, and yet here I sit, sipping tea and doing nothing.

Morgan felt sick. Her grandson had almost died before she even knew he existed, and now her second grandchild would belong to this lazy, jovial, and utterly unimportant healer. She was a more terrible parent than even she had taken herself for.

"I'll take that back now, please." Fendrake was starting to sound nervous; even in her weakened state, Morgan was worlds more powerful than him, and he looked worried that she might try to keep the contract.

She was tempted. Beyond tempted. But no. No, she had lost that right, and even if she had revealed herself to her son now, what would be the point? He was a man. Married, with a child, and without magic. He couldn't join her there—and wouldn't want to, given that his wife and child wouldn't be able to, either. And Morgan had a duty to the world to watch and to wait, no matter how many centuries it took. She had to remain alive, had to be ready to bring down Danns' a'Bhàis again when the time came.

No, she could not leave. And her son could not come there, even if it entered his mind to forgive her for abandoning him. Morgan knew it wouldn't, of course; she knew what she'd done, and even if it had been for the best, she deserved no forgiveness. But I can give him this one thing.

"Of course." Calmer now, she extended the contract to Fendrake, who snatched it quickly.

He eyed the contract suspiciously, as if afraid she'd done something to it. "Thanks. I'll take my leave of you, then."

Fendrake started to rise, but Morgan held up a hand to forestall him.

"I would have you do something for me."

He froze. "Such as?"

"Return the contract to the spinner. I will compensate you, of course—perhaps with that new life in the Marchlands you crave, away from the Dark One who hunts you?"

"You...you know about that?" Fendrake looked like he was out of breath, and Morgan couldn't blame him. Any magic user with even a modicum of intelligence feared the Dark One. She certainly did, particularly knowing what she did about the elemental darkness inside whichever fool had taken on the mantle this time.

Morgan smiled mysteriously. "You are hardly my only source of information. And I have contacts in the Marchlands, as well as the means of providing for your journey there."

"You've got a deal." Fendrake didn't even hesitate, bobbing his head eagerly. He really was afraid of the Dark One; was there something else Morgan didn't know about?

But that hardly mattered. If the Dark One—or his feckless master, the Duke of the Frontlands—wanted to chase Fendrake to the Marchlands, that wasn't Morgan's problem. What mattered was returning the contract to her son, because it was the one and only thing she could do to make his life better.

I deprived him of a mother, but I can return his second child to him.

Milah was gone.

A month after her disappearance, Rumplestiltskin still wasn't sure what to make of that. His wife was dead. Despite their problems, despite how she'd come to hate him, he had loved her. Or at least he had, once. Once, he'd been utterly enamored of her, of her spirit and her daring. He'd been so flattered that such a bold woman had ever even looked his way, and when Milah had accepted his marriage proposal, Rumplestiltskin had been over the moon. He prefered to think of those days, now, as his homage to her. Milah might have despised him, but he'd earned that. And she deserved so much better than being taken as some pirates' plaything. Just thinking of it made Rumplestiltskin squeeze his eyes shut, struggling not to imagine Milah being—

He hadn't saved her, either. Even a decade spent as the town coward couldn't reconcile Rumplestiltskin to that, but what was he supposed to do? If he had fought, Captain Jones would have killed him. And then his boy, so recently healed from the viper's bite, would have been left without a father as well as a mother. He'd done the right thing, even if the people of Hamelin sneered at him for not having stood up to a ship full of armed killers. Sometimes, knowing he had been right actually made him feel better.

Guilt continued to eat away at him for lying to his boy, though. Baelfire had asked what happened to Milah, and he'd told him that she was dead. But you don't know it was a lie, he told himself firmly, limping his way towards the hearth. The fire had died down, but he didn't have much wood to keep it going. It was only fall, a little chilly outside, yet not nearly as bad as it would be. He'd have to ask Bae to help gather kindling, but any day he spent harvesting firewood was one more that he wasn't spinning, which meant food would be scarce for their table.

At least Milah isn't here to gamble all my earnings away, he thought, and immediately felt guilty. Rumplestiltskin would have rathered have her there, have her berating him and gambling their money away, than to have her dead in such a gruesome way. After all, he certainly deserved her scorn. He always had.

Taking a deep breath, Rumplestiltskin tried to push those thoughts away. It did no good to dwell on them, not when he had so much to do. There was a trading fair in town in just a few days, and if he could scrape by on what firewood they had right now, he could build up enough thread to maybe buy some staples for the winter, just enough to make sure that Bae didn't get sick again…

Thinking like that made him glance at his son. Bae slept peacefully, snuggled under the ragged blankets that were piled up just so, with the holes in each blanket covered by another one so that cold air never got in. His boy wore a happy smile that Rumplestiltskin couldn't bear to take away from him, so he goosed the fire up as best he could and decided not to wake Bae yet. He could go out and get a bit of wood himself, and then rouse the boy later. He wouldn't be able to carry much, but it would be enough.

It would have to be.

Limping to the far wall, Rumplestiltskin pulled his cloak off of its hook and threw it around his shoulders. He couldn't afford to get sick like he had last winter, when Milah had been so angry and he'd barely been able to stay awake, let alone spin. This winter he was all Bae had, so he had to be smart.

Looking over his shoulder at his boy made him smile, at least. It was with that warm feeling that Rumplestiltskin eased the door open, careful not to let it creak and wake Baelfire. Luckily, he glanced downwards before stepping outside—the habit of a longtime cripple who couldn't afford to step on even the smallest obstacles. Otherwise, he might never have noticed the rolled up piece of parchment lying on the ground just outside his door.

Bending to pick it up, Rumplestiltskin briefly wondered if it was a recruiting notice for the war mistakenly delivered to someone "unfit for service". Or maybe it was just another notice of taxes due. He had to swallow hard before unrolling the parchment; the later was far more likely than anything else, and Rumplestiltskin had no money to spare. Not that the Duke cared if the peasants starved. Rumplestiltskin and his neighbors were always struggling to put food on the table while the Duke and his nobles feasted and feasted, staying up late into the nights with songs and dance while the peasants—

Rumplestiltskin dropped his staff in shock.

It was the contract. Hands shaking, he unrolled the parchment further, finding his own signature at the bottom.

"How…?" The whisper echoed in the empty silence; there was no one else around. Dawn had barely broken; he was alone.

Yet someone had left the contract. Someone had returned this to him, had returned the second-born child he had signed away. Not that I will ever have another child, Rumplestiltskin thought sadly, glancing into the hovel to where Bae continued to sleep.

Milah had been so angry with him, and she'd died that way. Somehow, that thought was worse than anything, and this unexpected gift only served to highlight how terrible everything had become.

Staggering outside, Rumplestiltskin managed to shut the door behind himself before tears started streaking down his face. He couldn't afford to let Bae see him cry; the boy needed his father to be strong. But he was so distraught that he forgot his staff, which left Rumplestiltskin sinking to the ground with his back against the outer wall of his hovel.

"I'm sorry, Milah," he whispered, clutching the contract. He'd failed her, and even now that he could safely have a second child, what did it matter? Not that he'd ever really expected Milah to want a second child with him until she'd been angry about the option being taken away...but she had been angry. And that meant that maybe the love between Rumplestiltskin and his wife hadn't been damaged beyond repair.

"I'll take care of the boy." He could at least make that promise without hesitation. Rumplestiltskin tried to gulp back his tears. "I know you loved him, even when you hated me. But I'll make sure he's happy, no matter what it takes."

"Papa?"

Somehow, he hadn't heard the door open, but there was his brilliant and loving son, staring at him with sleepy eyes. "Is everything alright?"

"Of course it is." Struggling to his feet, Rumplestiltskin forced a bright smile onto his face. Baelfire was too young and too tired to tell the difference, so the boy smiled back. "Let's go inside and get your cloak, and then you can help me gather firewood. Would you like that?"

"Uh huh." The toothy smile warmed his heart. "Can we chase butterflies, too?"

"Only for a little while, but yes." They had lots of work to do, but Rumplestiltskin would have been a terrible father if he denied his son this little bit of happiness.

"Yippie!" Bae rushed into the hovel faster than Rumplestiltskin could follow, but then returned quickly with his father's staff in hand. "Here, Papa."

"Thank you, Bae." He bent to kiss his son's head before limping inside, wishing that he could ruffle Bae's hair. But he needed one hand for his walking staff and the other for the contract, which was still clutched tightly between sweaty fingers.

Once they were inside, Rumplestiltskin limped over to the wooden box that served as his strongbox, sliding it out from under the bed to drop the re-rolled parchment in. The box wouldn't stop a determined thief, not with the hinges so worn or the lock so old, but it was all he had. So, he took a shaky breath and placed the contract inside the box, staring at for a long moment before closing the box again.

"What's that?" Bae's voice came from over his shoulder, and made Rumplestiltskin jump.

"Nothing." He locked the box and slid it back into place. "Just something that was...returned."

He couldn't really bring himself to tell Baelfire what he had given up to save him. Not because he thought that Bae would think less of him, but because Rumplestiltskin was a coward at heart. He didn't want to explain to his son that he'd never have a sibling, or that his mother was never coming back. Rumplestiltskin also didn't want to answer the inevitable questions of how the contract appeared on his doorstep. Frankly, he was afraid to even wonder about that. Would the healer come back for it someday? Should he just destroy the contract and hope for the best?

Yet it had been signed back over to him. Rumplestiltskin had seen that at the bottom, underneath his own signature. No one owned the hypothetical second child he knew he would never have, but he was still so very nervous. It was probably best to destroy the contract completely, just in case someone stole it and tried to do something.

Heading outside with Baelfire, Rumplestiltskin told himself that he'd destroy the contract tomorrow...yet he never did.

For her part, Morgan did her best to put her lost son out of her mind. She could do nothing more for him, so she pushed her thoughts away and focused on the future. She had already waited centuries in her cave, after all, and Morgan knew that by the time she left it, her last child would be long dead.

There was nothing that could change that. Nothing at all.