He was not paying attention as well as he should; a stray finger was pricked on the spindle of his wheel.
A sleeper's deep dream-voice called out his name.
Rumplestiltskin.
He would always feel the tickle of his name on his skin, like a raw nerve being rasped. The dagger exposed him so, and protected him so much more. He sat at his spinning wheel, the wood knocking gently, rhythmically. His dark, horned nails scraped away the varnish in some places as he spun, and they scratched more deeply when he felt the pull of the voice.
He flicked his frog eyes around the candle lit room, looking for the source. Such a powerful call must have come from near by. Rumplestiltskin stood and walked away from the wheel. He heard it again, more softly
Rumplestiltskin.
He shook his head and started at the wheel again. He believed it to be a case of children frightening each other in the night, with tales of the imp who would steal them from their beds, conveniently forgetting that the true monsters were the ones who traded them away. The voice returned, so loud, so strong.
RUMPLESTILTSKIN.
The final call knocked him from his chair. He then knew what magic this could be, who had used it and why. Maleficent was no stranger to Rumplestiltskin, and the wheel he spun at was traded to him nearly a hundred years ago for a sleeping curse. She had used this very wheel to take dispose of an ignorant king's daughter and the whole of their kingdom. It was petty revenge, and not just a small amount of jealousy on Maleficent's part. Something about love for the king denied her by her position as a fairy, and a fall from those oh so honorable echelons.
He knew just where to go to find the sleeper. The dreamer of the longest dreams called out, tormented by a body that grew no older, and a mind who had so little to remember and grow wise. He was surprised at her tenacity after so long, though maybe it had more to do with the spindle than her own power.
Rumplestiltskin wanted to return to his work, but the voice was so compelling. She was calm and so sad… like his voice in his head. He took his dragon hide jacket from the back of his high-backed chair at his long, empty table and closed his eyes. He dreamed himself beside the sleeper.
And then he was.
He opened his eyes. It was so silent he could almost hear it.
The room was in tatters. Nearly a century of disuse and a spell that only encompassed the people, not the castle. The bedclothes were coated with dust, cobwebs, and stray dead leaves. Most of the windowpanes were empty of glass; those that remained were cracked or missing pieces. The rugs were no longer beautiful, but looking vaguely like rotten skin and cracked leather. Tapestries hung from the walls, crucified and vague. Their original intent lost in years and dirt.
It all spoke of barrenness. Absence. It looked how the Dark Castle felt. It made his heart skip.
At the center of a large bed, lay the sleeper. Her long, golden hair lay spread around her head, her face the picture of ease and restfulness. Her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth were smooth, untroubled. She was not a moment older than the day she fell asleep. She was a clean spot rubbed into a filthy window, almost possessed of her own internal light. The small crease between her fine gold brows was the only thing betraying the thoughts within.
Rumplestiltskin walked toward the end of her bed, standing at her feet. His leather boots echoed for miles around, not a single soul shuffling in the hundreds of rooms to deaden it. He stood above her, taking in her milk-white skin, her purity set off from the decay and dust of everything around her. Her blue long-sleeved gown was still perfectly in tact, some how encompassed inside her curse. Her hands lay on either side of her body, empty and perfect. He wondered what color her eyes were.
"Well, dearie," he spoke in his low, calm (sad) voice. He didn't need to show off for this one: sleepers always saw the truth in their dreams. "What is it you need of me?"
He had a brief flicker where he saw himself sitting next to her and touching his hand. The crease between her brows deepened ever so slightly. Without even his usual nervous giggle, he walked around the side of her bed, seated himself, and took her hand into both of his green-gold ones.
And then he was falling.
The castle ripped away from underneath him, and he gripped her hand tightly. He remained seated, as if the bed were still there. It felt like it was still there, but all around him was a miasma of thunderclouds and choking greenwood smoke.
You came.
There was no audible voice, and the young woman's lips didn't move, but Rumplestiltskin heard it. He looked into her face, trying to act as if this happened every day. He had to pretend for his sake, as she could see the fear in him without trying.
"You didn't leave me much of a choice, now did you?" he said, trying to regain his footing on an invisible floor in the midst of a realm beyond his understanding. She was truly queen here.
I need your help. The curse needs to be broken.
The clouds roiled a little at her request. He glanced up, judging whether or not his coat would protect him from a lightning strike. This was no place for a reckless man like Rumplestiltskin. A false move would have rather unfortunate results.
"I suppose I could help with that, but you do know it comes with a price."
I know the stories, sir.
He was taken aback by the address. Monster, demon, creature… they were all as much his name as Rumplestiltskin. Even when she was put to sleep a hundred years ago, his existence was a matter of legend. But sir… sir was not a form of respect he was ever shown.
"What is your name, dearie?" He honestly could not remember. This kingdom had been lost to the ages, and when it fell, it was of no real interest to him. He was more concerned with building up his complex chains of deals, prices, and payments than Maleficent's silly revenge.
Aurora.
Of the dawn and morning, he thought. Appropriate that her given name implied awakening and a fresh start. Because there is no fresher start than that of someone who has been asleep for decades.
Perhaps this little jaunt was worth his time.
"I see, and what would you be willing to give in exchange for your freedom?" he asked, his mind trying to piece together what price the magic would exact. He was calculating the balance. It would be high; the curse was powerful and the magic required to bring a prince here to break it would be great.
What would you ask of me?
It was the best answer she could have given. A question for a question; this princess was no fool. He was impressed that one so young could respond so well. He had expected her to say "anything." That's what foolish young women always said.
"How about your first born? That should do nicely," he said, a small smile creeping over his features. It was a test: she could not possibly be as interesting or good as she looks. The curse left her in perfect innocence and purity, but all people had a price they would be willing to pay. A hundred years cursed would make her desperate, Rumplestiltskin was sure.
I would never.
The clouds around them were picking up and they roared with the wind. Her state of mind was not peaceful, her voice was no longer calm and sad. She growled, unnatural and livid. He coughed, trying to get a clear breath of air. His hair blew back away from his face, and he bared his teeth at the pressure of the changing atmosphere. Deep in his knee, he felt an old, old pain.
"Now, now, dearie," he said, his voice betraying his nerves. "A simple 'no' would suffice."
The clouds lightened slightly, and the heavy smoke receded. He shifted on the bed that was not quite there and looked into her face. Not knowing what else to do, Rumplestiltskin felt into her future. He saw a single child, a little girl. All auburn curls and smiles. One that Aurora would not have long to enjoy unfortunately, but that was not for mentioning now; the situation was too delicate as it was.
"What about her name? May I have that?" he knew that the price would not cover the cost, but it was one he was willing to pay. This woman could kill him in her dreams if she wished, and that was not how he would prefer to go. He supposed he could factor that in, if the magic allowed: a name and his life for her freedom. And there was always power in names.
Belle.
"Such a pretty name," he said, his voice lower than the thunder surrounding them. Any child raised by this Aurora would be worth knowing. He would have to remember this kingdom, and the prince he found to rescue her for future reference. He could feel the dream fading away now, her power over him releasing slowly but surely.
"Well, then," he said, the clouds now receding and the room returning around him. "I believe we have a deal, Aurora. Are you ready to awaken, sleeping beauty?"
The smallest movement in her hand tightened her fingers around his. He took that as the signature.
"The deal is struck." With that, he stood and walked away towards the Marchlands. He knew of a merchant prince there who might be worthy of this woman.