Many, many qualities made Rumplestiltskin unique: his powers, obviously; his cunning, certainly; his immortality, combined with his longevity, that gave him a jaded insight into the human psyche and a seldom-failing knack for perceiving what someone really wanted, as opposed to what he or she asked for. Even his name was unique: in the recorded history of the Enchanted Forest, there had never before been a Rumplestiltskin, and gods willing, there would never be another. He was truly the Dark One, the dark One. Singular. Unique. Alone.
This fact was made abundantly clear to him when one day he sought a deal with the Siren of Lake Nostros–also alone, but not unique: dozens of others like her guarded magic lakes around the world, all in the same way: by peering into the memories of those heroes who came to steal from the waters, then taking on the appearance of each hero's lover, then luring the bewildered and bewitched victim into a killing underwater embrace. Every would-have-been hero–young or old, man or woman, king or peasant, brave or cowardly–was tricked in the same way, then drowned with a kiss. Every one.
Except Rumplestiltskin.
Seeking the pieces for an elaborate scheme that would, when all the threads were pulled at the right moment, reward him with a mirror portal that his yet-to-be-born curse caster would someday need, Rumplestiltskin had come to Lake Nostros as all heroes do: for a flagon of water, the magical properties of which would heal any wound, cure any illness. Countless heroes had attempted the feat; countless had failed and died in the Siren's arms. But Rumplestiltskin was no hero.
He came to the water's edge ready to deal: a potion that would free the Siren from her wretched responsibility and allow her to walk among humans, perhaps to find adventure, perhaps to find true love, but most assuredly, to find something different from the monotony of guarding the lake. He came to the lake with his potion and his powers and his jaded cleverness, and from the shore he called her name–demonstrating already his special knowledge, for few knew her name.
In her glistening foam robes she rose slowly on a wave. She opened her piercing eyes slowly to take him in, his memories and his heart altogether, and her face shimmered and her form quivered, shaping and reshaping itself as she searched, as she searched, as she. . . .
On the crest of the wave she hovered, half-formed, glowing, seeking the memory that would reveal to her his beloved so that she could take on that form, enchant him with her kiss and lure him to the murky bottom of her domain. Shifting from form to form, she searched his mind and heart. An hour, an afternoon, and she screeched in frustration for she could not find anywhere in him the slightest remains of a lover.
He felt her cool, wet magic flow throughout his being, and he permitted her invasion, because he knew she would find no charming face to copy, no sweet voice to mimic, and when her own magic trapped her in its impotence, he knelt and filled his flagon.
He might have smirked at her, but knowing the reason for his victory left him depressed, for this was yet another way in which Rumplestiltskin was unique: in his long life, he had known no lover, neither Milah, who had once professed to love him, nor Cora, who had yanked out her own heart to keep from caring. No one had loved him and he, no one.
Rumplestiltskin could have robbed the Siren blind that day, but the pity in her mirror-like eyes told him he was the one who'd been robbed.
He got his portal, though.