Belle held in her screams, sprinting up the stairs to Rumpelstiltskin's tower, trying to out-run the shadows chasing her along the wall. She had never been more terrified in the Dark Castle—not even that first night in the dungeon—but now fear urged her forward, lending her a grace she didn't often find.

She flung the door to his tower open and slammed it behind her, still propelled by her forward momentum. "Rumpelstiltskin!" Her voice sounded like it was being pushed through a straw, the first part squeezing out and the second getting stuck round the bend before it all exploded in a burst of hoarse sound.

He looked up, lip curling, and his finger brushed the needle of his wheel, pricking him. "What—" He cut himself off with a gurgle, and then he slumped forward, unmoving.

"Rumpelstiltskin!" Belle's voice was so high-pitched, it was barely there, and she rushed over to lift him from his table. "Rumple, are you okay? Wake up!" She shook him, but all that happened was his head lolled back and forth. She looked at the wheel, needle glistening with a single drop of blood. What had just happened?

With the door closed, the shadows remained outside, so at least that danger was taken care of. All she had to do now was awaken her master. He was still breathing, taking deep, even breaths like he was asleep, and that gave her courage.

She knew enough about magic to know that if something knocked Rumpelstiltskin out, it was definitely going to kill her, so she went nowhere near the wheel. After shifting him around until his head hung over the back of his chair, she started to haul it as far from the wheel and the bench as she could. She wanted to put him in a bed, but lifting him sounded difficult, and there was no easy place for it, so the chair would have to do.

She propped his feet up and made him more comfortable—or what she hoped was comfortable, since it was hard to tell with him being unconscious—then set about to wake him up. Stroking his face didn't work, and neither did stroking his hair or pinching his arm or shouting. Perhaps he just needed time.

She settled in the corner with one of his magic books, looking up at him every few minutes and finding no change. For two hours, Rumpelstiltskin neither stirred nor moved, though he still breathed.

"What has happened to you?" she asked, eyes filling.

Whether or not the shadows were gone, Belle knew she was going to have to leave and get food and water. If Rumple awakened, he would need something immediately—and a wet cloth for his face wouldn't hurt, either.

Arming herself with a torch, she left the workroom and shut the door behind her. The light kept any unusual shadows at bay, and she didn't feel unsafe when she had to leave it downstairs so that she could carry her bag of bread and cheese, her pitcher of water, and her tray of cups and cloths.

Dabbing at his face did nothing, and neither did wafting food under his nose. She tried eating herself, but the longer he slept, the more she worried, and she managed hardly any crumbs of bread.

She sat vigil through the night, leaving the room only to get new books for her to read, and to take care of her own necessities. She didn't sleep, despite finding a blanket in the corner, and just continued to watch him.

When the sun came up, she knew she would have to get something done. Whether or not he was okay, if he woke to find her duties neglected, he would not be pleased.

Dusting could only distract for so long, though, and soon she was back at the tower, staring at her master. He looked more peaceful than she'd ever seen him, with a corpse-like quality that made him seem fragile to touch. She missed his restlessness and his tittering, he ugly laugh and black smile, but most of all she missed the way he looked when he was spinning at his wheel, lost in thought.

For three days, she kept this routine, but when the sun rose on the fourth and Rumpelstiltskin had hardly lifted a finger, she decided that enough was enough. All she'd eaten in this time was a few slices of bread, and she was convinced that he was wasting away before her eyes just as she was.

"You stupid wizard," she said, stomping over to him. She had managed not to cry since the incident began, but now she could feel tears building in her eyes, hot and electric. "You stupid, foolish, evil soul." She picked his hand up, studying the scabbed over prick on his index finger, and tears spilled down her cheeks. How could a wound so innocuous cause this?

"Sometimes, I hate you." She lifted his finger to her face, studying it. Then, gentle as a drifting snowflake, she touched her lips to it.

When she pulled away, there was a blue wisp of something, and the pinprick was gone. She squeaked, dropping his hand on his lap with a loud slapping noise. What had just happened? Had she used magic?

She had heard tales of ordinary people doing magic. Perhaps it came from a place of worry, of desperation. Perhaps any desperate soul could use magic, but Rumpelstiltskin found them before they had the chance to figure it out. Or maybe kisses were as magical as the stories said.

It was worth a try. She'd been shaking him and wiping his forehead for three days and none of it had worked, so maybe she should just summon up all the desire she had to wake him and say it with a kiss.

"I'm going to kiss you," she informed him, just in case he might wake up and stop her. It felt intrusive, like she was crossing an unspoken line, but wouldn't he be glad that she'd awakened him?

She leaned forward, lips puckered just a few inches above his, and the butterflies that crept into her ribcage weren't entirely unexpected. If she was honest with herself, thoughts of kissing her master crept into her dreams almost every night—though the circumstances were usually more pleasant than this one.

"I'm going to kiss you right now," she whispered. Were her emotions strong enough? Was she desperate enough? It was hard to tell with the sparks she felt in her cheeks and neck and fingertips.

She closed the gap between them, drawing his bottom lip into her mouth for just a second before releasing him, hand flying to touch her lips. They burned like a just-lit hearth, heat growing stronger as she remembered the way his dry lip had fit between hers.

Rumpelstiltskin awoke with a gasp like a man emerging from water, gripping the arms of the chair as he sucked in breath. When his fit calmed, he turned black eyes to her. She dropped her hand.

"Why am I awake?"

"What do you mean? You could at least thank me for waking you!" Had he meant to put himself to sleep? Had that been his plan all along?

"You?" He stared at her as though she were brandishing fire. "You woke me?"

"Yes, I've been waiting for you to wake up for—"

"My finger is healed." He looked at his hand, then stood up, wobbling only slightly. "What have you done? Who did you call?"

"No one! I've been here for four days with you, and I finally managed to wake you." She folded her arms, lips still stinging from her kiss. "You could be a little more grateful."

He advanced on her, then stopped short as if blocked by a wall. "How did you wake me?"

"I—I don't know." She looked down at her feet. Somehow, admitting that she had kissed him now seemed foolish and terrifying. "I shook you better this time, I guess."

He seemed to accept this—or, at least, he didn't ask any more questions—and swallowed. "Fetch me some tea. I'm parched."

"Yes, sir." She ducked into a curtsey and fled the room, despite wanting more answers. She could find them in a book later.