It was midwinter and bitterly cold when he found them.
The woodsman's cottage was little more than hovel, half buried in snow, tucked away in the deepest part of the Enchanted Forest. Trees cradled it like skeletal fingers.
He left no footprints behind; no path to mark from whence he came.
The inside of the cottage is dark. Windows are covered to ward out the cold and their dying fire casts a paltry light. A litter of hollow-eyed children- four in all, with stick-like limbs and protruding bellies- peer at him from around their mother's skirts, but they cannot penetrate the shadows beneath the hood of his peasant's robe.
"I'm sorry, I have no hospitality to offer a stranger." With bony fingers, the woman pulls a threadbare shawl more tightly around her shoulders. It is not the cold that makes her shiver.
"A mercy, then, that I ask for none." He takes in the single room in a glance; its worn furniture and floors scattered with straw. A pot of watery nettle stew hangs over the hearth. Five settings are laid for dinner. There is no plate at the head of the table.
"Rather, I've come to offer it."
Her spirit, like her fire, is a dying ember, but not entirely extinguished yet. "Who are you?"
A gaunt smile stretches the corner of his mouth. From beneath his cloak he produces rough-hewn wooden box, far too bulky to have been concealed within it. Two of the children mutter and nudge each other, absorbed by the impossibility of such a trick.
Within the box, a treasure far more valuable than gold.
"Whatever you require, this box will provide," he says, as she removes the loaf of bread with trembling hands. "Food, clothing, medicines- anything you truly need."
A heavy woolen blanket emerges next. Then a small pile of apples.
"Thank you- oh, thank you," Her voice is barely more than a whisper. The rest of the children have begun to whine, roused to life by the smell of fresh bread.
The box slams shut with a thud.
"Not so fast. My hospitality comes with a price."
"What do you want? Anything I possess- name it."
There is a terrible silence, and then his voice like the creak of a rusty hinge. "Anything?"
She squares her shoulders and tries to find his eyes beneath the hood, but there is only shadow. Her children will not survive another fortnight. He could demand the moon in the sky and she would ask only for time to retrieve it. "Yes."
A mottled, black-nailed hand emerges with an elegant gesture, one finger pointed at the smallest of the children. "That one." She's a pale little thing, barely old enough to walk, with gaunt cheeks and hair like straw. A faint wheezing sound emerges from her chest with every breath. Slim pickings, but needs must.
With a gasp, the mother pulls the girl behind her, as though she's afraid he's going to snatch her child up right then and there.
"The choice is yours, dearie," he says, low and quiet, and very nearly gentle. "I'll not force you."
"W-why do you want her?" her voice trembles but doesn't break.
"As a gift for my lady. She can bear no children of her own."
Her fingers dig into the child's shoulder, the flesh itself refusing to be parted from its own.
"You will never see her again," he adds. "But know that she will live in comfort unimagined, for the rest of her life."
He waits, patient and unmoving as stone, as the fire dies in the hearth and her shoulders begin to shake with barely-suppressed sobs.
Mastering herself before her tears can fall, she kneels in front of the girl. "You'll go with this man, he's going to take care of you," she says with a too-bright smile, straightening the child's dirty dress and tucking her hair behind her ears. He looks away.
"Be a good girl. I love you."
He offers no words of comfort or condolence. No platitudes or justifications. Merely sweeps the girl along in front of him, guiding her short unsteady steps with one hand on her shoulder.
"Wait- let me get her something warm-"
"There's no need."
In the morning, after their mother has finally wept herself into exhaustion, the girl's brothers will open the door and follow the twin pairs of footsteps leading away from the cottage. At the end of the garden path, still buried in snow, the smaller pair disappears- as though the child had been lifted up and carried.
Shortly beyond that, the other pair vanishes as well.
Rumplestiltskin sets the child down and sheds his peasant cloak once they're safely ensconced inside the Dark Castle.
The warmer air makes her cough. He can smell the sickly-sweet rot that fills her lungs with every little breath. Could smell it even in the woodsman's cottage. Even well-fed, this one wouldn't have lasted the winter. It's just as well.
There's a small tug on the hem of his waistcoat and a mumble that sounds like 'hungry'.
Her hand is small and warm in his as he leads her to the dining room.
The residents of this castle pay no heed to the cold, and so even in the depths of winter the curtains have been drawn, revealing an ocean of whiteness blanketing the courtyard. It is to the window that the child wanders, slipping her hand out of his, seemingly entranced by the snowy landscape until he calls her back with a word.
At a gesture from him, the massive table is filled to groaning with delicacies- breads and roast meats, veritable mountains of cakes. It's a feast fit for a princess.
Her eyes go wide at the sight of more food than she has ever seen in her short little life, and she dashes for the table with a delighted squeak. He catches her up under the arms, standing her in his seat at the very head of the table. There is only one other chair at this feast set for two, and he sinks into it with a tired sigh, unmoving except to occasionally push a tray of sweets or a basket of fruit within her reach.
He does not rise until she has eaten her fill and is dozing gently, curled up in his chair. Her breathing is soft and her belly distended.
The grandfather clock against the wall has long since wound down, and so he does not know how long he stands there, simply watching.
Careful not to wake her, he gathers the child up in his arms. She is an impossibly slight weight against his chest, with her head pillowed against his shoulder.
Down twisting stairs and long corridors, in the dark, forgotten parts of the castle, the air is even colder. Spiders scuttle in the far corners. The child gives another little cough in her sleep, but doesn't stir.
In one corner of the dungeon there is a door, latched shut from the outside. The bolt lifts and the door opens smoothly at his approach, filling the air with a smell like dust or decay.
There is no furniture inside, no bed, but there is a large pile of straw in one corner of the floor, and this is where he deposits the still-sleeping child. She whines and stirs a little at the loss of contact, but doesn't wake.
In the opposite corner of the room, standing facing the wall, there is a woman. Her head is tilted sharply to one side, like a broken doll.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, Belle," he says quietly, placing one hand on her back so as not to startle her. She makes no sound or indication that she's heard. "I know, I know you don't like being in here. It couldn't be helped."
He turns her around gently to face him as hands flutter over her fretfully, tucking the matted hair back out of her face, tilting her head back upright to a more natural angle. It was a losing battle. He had never quite been able to knit the bone back together correctly.
She stares up at him with something he optimistically thinks of as gratitude. Her fingers curl, one hand digging into his sleeve. It's been too long since she's eaten. His own fault. He couldn't bring himself to-
Was this not the least he could do for her, after everything?
But the last one had been too old- had struggled too much and broken her neck again; the brittle bones in her fingers snapped like dry chalk. He'd had to finish it himself.
She doesn't protest when he cups her face in his palms, nor when he presses a dry kiss- no harm in kisses anymore- to her forehead.
A milky-white cataract has started to spread over her eyes, obscuring them, but he remembers when they were blue. He remembers a still-living woman, who stood where his Belle was now. She had looked at him with flushed skin and blue eyes full of defiance and called him coward. He wished he could tell her that she had been right.
He brushes a detached spider leg from her mouth as one would a child with crumbs.
"There now, that's much better. I've brought you supper."