Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down:
I am fear'd in field and town: Goblin, lead them up and down.
—Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream
In the prison underground, nothing ever changes. There are no days and no nights, no clear skies, no storms. There will be no sign of the curse here when the time comes. But Rumpelstiltskin will know. He's seen it coming for nearly a year now.
Tonight. It will happen tonight.
Of course, things haven't played out quite as he predicted. He's disappointed in himself for that. He doesn't like losing—that's why when the opposing forces in this realm butt heads, he just laughs and gives them both a hand. He'll play along only so long as his game is rigged, win-win. But somehow, this time, in what might be the biggest game he's ever played, it's gone wrong.
The Queen came to him not long ago, just as he knew she would. She needed his help and he was only too happy to give it—for a price. She listened coolly as he gave his terms.
"Fine." Unsurprised. Impatient.
"I wasn't finished yet!" he sang. It was delicious. He could hardly contain himself. He was pushing it, he knew—pushing her, but how could he not? She was so desperate, so very, very worried.
At his last condition, the queen's eyes narrowed. "That's quite a lot of power you're looking to gain."
"The same to you, my dear! What you've got in mind is no cheap trick. It'll take sacrifice—cooperation." He leaned in close, bringing his head through the bars. "You need me for this. So take the deal."
Her eyebrows rose. "You're not the only creature in this realm with magical knowledge."
"Oooh, but no one knows this curse like I do!" he crooned, pointing a single long-nailed finger at her.
She shook her head. "Surely there is someone else." Her voice fell to nearly a whisper. "There must be."
For a moment, neither spoke; they watched each other in silence, the air between them seeming to grow cold, their pretense of friendship slipping.
Rumpelstiltskin smiled. "What's wrong, dearie?" he asked, the words dripping sweetness, a vocal caress. "Don't you trust me?"
"I don't see why I should," she replied. "Given what you just asked of me. Given that you've been communicating with her."
"I can hardly help it, dear," he said quietly, a trace of bitter laughter in his voice. "I am in her prison. If she and her charming husband decide to drop in, I can't exactly turn them away, now, can I?"
The queen leaned in close, her black eyes wide with disbelief and fury. "You warned them," she hissed. "You told them they could save their child."
"No!" He made a horrified face, held up a hand in protest and clarified, "I told them their child can break the curse."
She seemed to study him, black eyes gleaming in the torchlight; then slowly, a small, dark smile formed on the queen's face.
"You had better hope it does," she said, voice low, with all the weight of an official decree. "Because youare going to suffer in this new world of mine as much as any of them. I'll not help you." And with that, she vanished, leaving behind only a momentary wisp of smoke and a stifled dread that tingled through his whole body.
So abruptly alone again, in the claustrophobic cavern of his prison, Rumpelstiltskin giggled. The sound echoed softly.
She'll come back, he thought, slinking back into the dark corners of his cell. If she wants to enact this curse—and she does, she does so badly—she'll come back.
But she didn't. Somehow she figured out, without him, how to cast the curse. She must have. Because the future hasn't changed in that regard, as far Rumpelstiltskin can see. It is still coming. And soon.
The torches that light the tunnel to his cell have all burnt out. It is utterly dark. Idly, he climbs the spear-like bars of his cage by feel, dragging his hands across the cold, damp surface of the ceiling when he reaches the top. At least he knows the child's name. There is still that. He'll lose most of who he is (he'll lose, lose, lose) but names will always hold power for him—when she comes for them, still bearing her true name, he'll remember and he'll rise.