The king was old. Care and guilt had worn away at him. Care, because he was a good king and had done all that was required of him and more to keep his people safe and happy. Guilt, because the price of that care had been heavy. He thought now, at the end, of his long dead wife and of his child, his Belle.

There were laws in the land, very strict ones. It was not required that the king rule alone, but it was considered less cruel. His own heir, a cousin eager to take the throne, was a widower of many years. The man's son, Gaston, was too old to bear the cost that had been heaped on the king's own daughter.

He should have walked away, he thought. His wife had tried to make him, to convince him he did not need to be the one who shouldered this burden.

But, if not him, then who? There would only be another suffering in his place.

He looked out the window as he had every day since accepting the crown. The city was beautiful, the streets clean and well-ordered. Houses of polished stone glowed in the light of the setting sun, spacious and warm. Beyond the city gates lay fields and orchards. The coming harvest would be plentiful as had all the harvests before. The craftsmen became cleverer in their sleep, building everything from aqueducts to windup toys. The scholars of the city were famed for their knowledge. The elders who advised the king were known throughout the world for their wisdom. Yet, the greatest powers of the land spoke the lowest farmer as equals, with courtesy and respect.

Only the king, honored for the great burden he bore and the great price he paid, was given special reverence. All stilled when he approached, bowing low, not daring to meet his eyes.

His wife, his beloved Colette, had begged him to refuse it. They had argued and, in the end, he had won. The great price had been paid. Colette had fought the guards when they had come to take Maurice to the coronation. The guard had understood her grief and restrained her as gently as possible.

When Maurice returned, she had refused to speak to him or even look at him. All he could do was set guards to watch her. For weeks, she had sought a way to undo what could not be undone. Then, at last, she seemed to accept it. She calmed, putting away her madness. Maurice had begun to hope—just a little—she might forgive him. Till the guards brought him word of her death.

They had grown careless, they said. She had seemed to accept the inevitable at last and made her peace with what must be. They began to relax their watch, hoping she would be well, giving her the chance to walk away from the life he had brought her in the only way left.

Maurice had never been accounted a wise man. He deferred often to the word of his advisors. But, he had read the chronicles of the kings before him. He knew this tragedy was only one more in the long train of what kings had borne.

He went to his daughter after the funeral—never touching her, of course, never speaking to her. The guards would have stopped him even if he had been foolish enough to attempt it. There was a cost to being king, and he had agreed to pay it.

He told himself that, over and over again, knowing himself for a hypocrite. He looked over the last letter his wife had sent him.

We are taught this is the price we pay. But, we are not the ones paying it, are we? I, for one, cannot accept what is bought at such a price.

He had never expected to become king. He was of only a minor branch of the royal family, anticipating nothing more than to live peacefully and happily, fulfilling duties that seemed well within his power to bear. But, the auguries had been read and the oracles had spoken.

Gaston and his father were lucky. They had had years to prepare once the fates had chosen. Neither had ever been so foolish as to love what must be given up.

What must be given up. The price we pay. The land was kind to those who lived here, the people at peace when wars waged beyond their borders. Some few malcontents could not reconcile themselves to what must be. They walked away from the beautiful city, never to return. But, he had never been one of them. Till now.

He spoke the name three times. In a flash of smoke, the Dark One appeared.

X

Rumplestiltskin was not in the habit of coming quickly when called. The Dark One had a certain image to maintain, after all. But, some summons were worth it.

He'd heard about the little town in the mountains, of course. Who hadn't? For most people it was scarcely more than a tale for children, the wonderful city without want or sorrow—or no lasting sorrows. As a man, he had not believed it. As Dark One, he had learned it was true. The city was real.

It was also eternally bound against all horrors and evils, including him.

So, when he was called, he paused only long enough to reach out with his second sight. No dangers lay along this path, not for him, though he did see rather a few where the city was in flames or falling to ruin once he came. A part of him laughed at the thought. So, what else was new? The more human part, the spinner he had once been, hesitated at what he saw. But, he controlled his powers and made his choices. If the city was to be destroyed, it wouldn't be by him—or not by accident.

He knew who the ruin of a man before him was even without his sight whispering King Maurice. Besides sitting on a throne—always a strong hint—it was the king who maintained the safety and (if the stories were true) the perfection of the city, not an easy job by the look of him. He was the only person who could summon the Dark One into this land.

Rumplestiltskin bowed with a flourish. "Your majesty," he trilled. "What a pleasure to meet you at last. How may I be of service?"

At the sound of Rumplestiltskin's voice, Maurice's eyes snapped up, alert. He looked as though he had once been a strong man. It was there in the set of his bones and in the loose, wrinkled folds of yellowed skin sagging over him that must have once had a bit more muscle to bulk them up.

"Rumplestiltskin," he whispered hoarsely.

"The one and only. At your service—if the price is right and job is amenable. Let me guess: extra years, long life, a bit of health and strength to get you through the day? Or perhaps just a makeover? I can suggest several good creams for the complexion, if you'd like them. I think the right moisturizer would do you wonders."

"I want you to destroy this place."

"Well, I can't say as I saw that one coming," Rumplestiltskin joked, still grinning. He doubted very much Maurice meant what he'd said. Unless he did. He wouldn't be the first king whose mind cracked under the strain of the job. It would be a bit boring if he had. Rumplestiltskin had had higher hopes when he answered this summons. He supposed this was what he caught a glimpse of, the wild chance the king would talk him into leveling the place. Or helping his majesty do it on his own. Highly doubtful Maurice could offer him anything tempting enough for that. Still, he ought to be able to wrangle the wording into whatever deal he did make into leaving him a doorway to come and go freely in the future. Surely, despite all the tales of universal happiness, there ought to be a handful of entertainingly desperate souls to be found once he go hunt them.

And, here was the king, offering it all to him. "Subjects annoying you too much?" Rumplestiltskin drawled. "The life of a pampered royal finally getting to you?"

The king slowly heaved himself up off the throne. "I have something to show you," he said. "Alone. There are guards outside who will insist on coming with us. There are guards also at the place who will stop us. Can you deal with them?"

Deal with them. Rumplestiltskin felt an uncomfortable tingle. It was one of his little joys in life to find the loopholes those who thought they'd made a deal with him had left in their bargains. Oh, he didn't trip them up too often and he didn't let them fall too hard. Usually. But, words were dangerous weapons. People shouldn't forget that.

The king wasn't being careless. He'd left the way open. Rumplestiltskin could kill the guards, put them to sleep, or simply have them looking one way while he and Maurice trotted by. Maurice didn't care—or not as much as he cared about whatever it was he was going to show him.

The man was dying, Rumplestiltskin thought. A few hours if he overexerted himself. A few days if he did not. And he knew it. Whatever he was spending his last breathes on, he thought it was worth it.

Rumplestiltskin waved a hand. The guards outside the door stood frozen in a single, blind moment as Rumplestiltskin and the king walked past, reviving once the Dark One and his host were out of sight.

It was a long walk through several corridors and up numerous flights of stairs. Maurice had to stop to catch his breath several times. The color beneath his nails was turning blue. Rumplestiltskin didn't actually throw any small spells of healing at him, but he did let the weight on the man's tottering feet lighten and made the air a bit richer for him to breathe. No point in him dying before they got where they were going, was there?

They reached a certain hallway. At the end of it was what looked like a door to a common closet, a storage space, nothing more. Except common closets didn't have soldiers standing in front of them. They stiffened at the sight of the king. "Your majesty!" one of them said, scanning the hallway behind the king and growing a shade paler. His hands tightened on his spear. "Where are your guards, you majesty? What are you doing alo—"

Rumplestiltskin waved his hand again, cutting the man off. It hadn't sounded very interesting anyway.

"They're only frozen," he chirped merrily, watching the king like a hawk. "Not harmed at all. Would you prefer I do something a bit more permanent? Off with their heads?"

The king ignored his offer and his humor. "You're a master wizard, by all accounts, Dark One," the king wheezed. "Do you sense what's behind that door?"

Rumplestiltskin said nothing, though the truth was his skin tingled with the sense of . . . something. Not quite magic, not quite a spell, he didn't know what it was. "Not . . . precisely, your majesty. It has an . . . ugly feel."

Maurice gave a bitter laugh. "I should have summoned you long ago. You will call me a coward for not doing it when you see inside. Or you will see I am the greatest traitor of all men living for bringing you here. Look inside. You'll understand."

Rumplestiltskin didn't move. "Is that why there are guards there? To keep anyone from taking a peek? Do I get turned to dust if I open it?"

The king laughed again. "Oh, no. The guards are to stop me. Anyone in the city may come here and look. Most do, sooner or later. None of them—none of them—has ever tried to—to change what is inside themselves. Not that it would make a difference if they did. That is the great secret of our land, only the kings may undo what has been done here."

"Oh? Then, you open the door."

The king closed his eyes, like a man facing a great trial, and nodded. "You're right. It must be me."

He steeled himself and opened the door.

The inside was—mostly—what anyone might have expected from the outside. It was a closet, windowless and dark. A few mops stood in corner. There were dust and cobwebs. If it weren't for one thing, Rumplestiltskin would have guessed it had been forgotten and left closed for years, even centuries.

The one thing that told him otherwise was the child crouched on the floor. Its legs were curled up against its chest. He couldn't see if it was a boy or girl. The muscle on the legs was withered away and the bones were bent with rickets and disuse. Its long, brown hair was matted and thick with lice and fleas. He could see the many sores covering the too pale skin, especially around the thighs were the child sat in its own excrement, though the stench wasn't as bad as it could be. It was bound, he thought, by whatever magic was at work. There were bruises and a few pale slashes from whippings. Some of them, poisoned by piss and filth, had festered and turned red.

The child cringed against the light, turning its head away. "Please," it croaked hoarsely. "Please, I'll be good. Let me out." Wincing against the light, the child forced itself to look up. "Please, I won't be bad anymore. Please, let me out."

Its eyes were the same pale blue as Maurice's.

"Dark One," the king said. "What I want and the price I offer are one and the same. I offer you my only child. Take her, care for her. Let her know happiness and peace if she is still able to understand them. Treat her with all the kindness you can."

Rumplestiltskin listened to the king's offer in horror. All the kindness you can. Maurice wasn't being careless with words. If Rumplestiltskin wanted, he could fulfill the bargain by killing the child before she knew what he was about, giving her what kindness and peace—very final peace—he could.

Maurice knew this. He knew what he was bargaining for. If the Dark One could care for this child, heal it—her— and give her comfort, so be it. If not, let him kill her quickly and painlessly.

"Explain," Rumplestiltskin said.

"It is the magic that protects this city and all the lands roundabout," the king said. "Each king must offer a child, one who loves and trusts him. When he is crowned, the child is brought here, beaten, starved, haunted by nightmares, trapped in the dark. So long as this bargain is kept, so long as this one child suffers, our lands know peace and plenty. All our other children are free from pain or want because this child suffers.

"They all know she is here. Anyone who wishes can come and see. They believe anyone could free her. But, it's not so. Only the king has the power to do so."

"Hasn't anyone attempted it?" Rumplestiltskin snarled.

Maurice shrugged. "My queen would have. We kept her away. Even if she couldn't free her, she could comfort her. That couldn't be allowed. When she realized she would never be able to see her daughter again. . . . She said it was too high a price. She has an honored place in the royal tombs, a better place than waits for me. She was the only one in all the years I've reigned."

"Your city will fall if I make this deal," Rumplestiltskin said. "Enemies will breach its walls. This castle will burn."

"When?"

"Today. Tomorrow. A hundred years from now. Does it matter? The city will fall."

Maurice looked at the shivering child. "I knew that when I became king. I thought, then, that it was worth it to pay the happiness of one for the happiness of so many. Now, looking death in the face, I think I was wrong. Or I am growing selfish and senile with old age and can't leave my daughter here. They killed the last child when Belle was brought here, when I was made king. It wasn't quick. Will you take the deal?"

Rumplestiltskin reached down for the trembling child. She whimpered when she saw his claws but, at a whispered spell, she fell asleep in his arms. "How old is she?" he asked.

"She was five when she was locked up here. The spell here as kept her as she was. It's been over twenty years."

A child still, Rumplestiltskin thought. Whatever twenty years of crying in the dark had done, it would be a crime almost as bad as what Maurice had done to say it made her a woman.

"Give me her name," Rumplestiltskin said.

"Belle."

The imp nodded. "Then, we have a deal. And your city will fall."

Maurice closed his eyes. "Good."

The king bowed low to Rumplestiltskin before he vanished. It was the same bow his people gave him, honoring him for the price he paid to protect them.

He remained in that same position after Rumplestiltskin vanished. As the Dark One's spell faded from the guards, they saw the empty closet and the king, kneeling on the ground, bowing at nothing. Terrified, they tried to demand answers, but the king was already dead. He could not tell them who had taken his daughter and walked away.

X

Note: Yes, I reread The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas before writing this.