Rumpelstiltskin is a masochist. There's no other explanation. No other reason why he would stand there and watch her walk out the front door, blazing in a cloak he wove from living fire.

With any luck, Zoso muses, we'll actually be rid of her this time.

Rumpelstiltskin is not amused. He tries to distract himself by diving headfirst into his work, rearranging the books on his shelves by the first letter of their last word, checking his alchemical lab and noting which supplies he's out of.

You wrote that already, Zoso points out after nearly an hour.

"I did not."

Yes, you did. Unicorn blood. You've got it written four times. And you've got fire salamander skin twice.

Rumpelstiltskin glances at the list—the letters crawl across the parchment in every direction like a nest of frightened vipers. Unicorn blood and salamander skin aren't the only ingredients that have been repeated.

You see? Zoso says. You're useless now that she's back. She's off now; let her go.

"She came back last time." It comes out as less than a mutter.

No, she came back the time before last. Last time, you threw her out and then dragged her back all on your own.

That's the problem. She never agreed to come back, and even if she doesn't know it, the contract between them is dissolved. By all rights, he can't keep her here. Not against her will, anyway. And that means he has to give her the choice to leave. A fair choice, just like before.

This time there's a festival in town, celebrating harvest time. He's sent here there with an order for any sorts of trinkets and baubles that might befit his collection and as much gold as she can carry—more than enough to last her a few months, if she's careful. Long enough to find refuge in some far-off place, where nobody knows her name or her associates.

The thought of it is enough to crack the tower windows.

Tell me you're not going to do this again, Zoso sighs. Don't waste the day waiting up here. Go do something productive. Take a bath. Hunt. Pursue a career in fashion design. Just quit moping already.

And Rumpelstiltskin fully intends to do something productive. Eventually. Any minute now, actually. Any minute. As soon as Zoso shuts up.

Any time now.

The command strikes him like lightning, so fast and so strong that it brings him to his knees. He doesn't even try to disobey—without a thought he plunges through the window in a shower of glass, summoning up the wind to carry him as he falls. Panic floods his senses, and he can't tell if it belongs to him or someone else. His thoughts don't form straight lines anymore, and he's left reeling inside his own head as the wind carries him closer to the source of the compulsion.

The command was a single word.

Help.

He tastes blood in his mouth—not the ichor that flows through his veins, but blood. Human blood.

He prays it isn't the first vestige of a vision. He doesn't have time for that now, and he doesn't want to know what the future has written. She needs him. That's all he can process anymore. She needs him.

And he's not going to leave her alone this time.

He whips through the air, barely seconds between his leap and his arrival in a wide clearing just to the side of the road. Magic crackles in his wake, but they don't see him.

Oh, but they will.

There's five of them, ruffians in the mismatched garb of those who scavenge off their kills. One of them is swearing and advancing, his face contorted in rage, his left arm darkened with blood from a gash along his shoulder.

Belle stands across from them, backing away as the wounded man advances, a blood-stained dagger gripped in her hand. She stands defiant even in her retreat, her teeth bared, but Rumpelstiltskin can taste the terror in her every breath, as potently as he can the cocktail of fury and desire and the thrill of a chase. Two more slide into place from behind her, snatch her by the arms and hold her in place.

"Leave me alone," Belle snarls. Her commands, meant for other ears, slide harmlessly past Rumpelstiltskin.

"Sure thing," says the wounded man. A dead man—he just doesn't know it yet. He advances, a cruel smile filtering through his yellowed teeth. "As soon as we're done with you."

He lunges. She gets one arm loose tries to lash out with the dagger, but he doesn't get close enough for her to cut him.

No, you need bones for that, dearie. And at the moment, the man is no more than a puddle of skin and sinew.

Screams fill the clearing, Belle's among them. But even as she screams she's fighting—kicking, clawing, thrashing. Visible at last. Rumpelstiltskin dances among her attackers, turning this one to stone, burning that one alive, trapping that one over there inside a tree that grows up around him in the blink of an eye.

And stops.

The twisting threads of the dagger's magic tighten around him, knotting his muscles and freezing his bones, tangling his magic at the tips of his fingers. Suddenly he's frozen, powerless to do anything but stare.

Belle is on the ground. One of the largest of the bandits stands over her, his shirt cut and torn from her attack, the magic dagger in his hands.

The ichor freezes in Rumpelstiltskin's veins as he looks into the eyes of his new master.

"So now you're scared, are ye?" the bandit growls. He inches toward Belle. Rumpelstiltskin can't move, but his golden eyes narrow. Rage scorches his senses. "Who's this, then? Your sweetheart? She important to you?"

The compulsion loosens around his mouth. He can speak again, but only to answer. He doesn't trust himself to form words.

"How 'bout we make a deal, eh?" A nervous laughter creeps up around his two remaining fellows as they eye their dead. "You stay nice and far away, and we won't do anything to this pretty little dear. How's—" He doesn't get the chance to say anymore before the rock collides with the back of his skull. He drops like a shot bird and Belle stands over him, her face white, her fingers still wrapped around the bloodstained stone.

She turns, slowly, ever so slowly, to face the last two men. The rock is in her hands. Her hair is wild. Lightning and flame crackle in her clothes.

Her breath comes in gasps, but her voice is steady and deadly calm: "I suggest you run."

Outmatched and alone, they don't need to be told a second time.

She stands there, defiant and proud, until they pass the tree line. As soon as they're out of sight her knees begin to shake and she sinks to the ground. Rumpelstiltskin materializes under her, catches her, guides her to clear ground away from the bodies.

Idiot, Zoso mutters. You think she wants to touch you? After what you just did?

But Belle is shaking too hard to protest, and he isn't about to let her go.

He won't ask her if she's all right. He knows better than that.

"Did they hurt you?" he asks instead, his voice too low in her ear.

"What—" She sounds faint, and he draws her tighter against him. "What are you going to do to them?"

He's already memorizing their faces, their scents, in preparation for the curses that he'll send after them. "Whatever you want me to do, Belle."

She buries her face in his shoulder, and he can feel the convulsions there, the spreading dampness as she tries and fails to keep herself from crying.

"Leave them. Let them go." Sobs thicken her voice, but there's strength in it.

Even without the dagger's command, he can't make himself refuse.

Rumpelstiltskin has to reach out for the dagger, still clutched in the dead man's hand. His magic can loosen the corpse's fingers, but it has no power over the weapon.

Congratulations, Zoso says. It's yours again. Try to keep it hidden this time.

His benefactor doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence before Rumpelstiltskin presses the dagger into Belle's hands. Zoso utters a string of swears; Belle just looks at him, her eyes wide with leftover shock and fresh confusion.

"Shall I take you home?" He isn't sure why, but he can't bring his voice above a whisper. She nods—soft, faint, dazed—and he lifts her in his arms, cradles her while he reins the wind to take them back. They cross miles in minutes, and in less than that he has her in the room that was once his. When he sets her on her feet she staggers and sways; he isn't sure if she's reeling from the shock of the attack or of travel. He's had hundreds of years to get used to both.

"You'll want to get cleaned up," he says. With a sweep of his hand the door to the washroom opens, the tub filling itself with steaming water. She takes a step toward it, another, and then looks at him over her shoulder.

"Please." Her voice hasn't stopped shaking. "Don't leave."

"Nobody's going to come after you in the bath, dearie." He parts his hands in innocence and plasters a harmless smile on his face. He won't think about what she could be implying. She's still coursing with adrenaline—he can smell it on her. He remembers his own first day on the battlefield, the dizziness, the desperation, the overwhelming need to be close to somebody, anybody, just to make the terror go away.

He's grown since then. He's had hundreds of years to learn about the little human idiosyncrasies that he's lost. He knows all the words to say, all the right touches to chase her fears into blissful oblivion. He could have her in a heartbeat.

The prospect revolts him even as it makes his mouth water. He's made countless deals with countless souls in the throes of desperation, left them ragged and broken from the consequence. He won't do that to Belle.

Not again. Not like this.

But the dagger's magic ensnares his feet, keeps him steady. Belle's eyes are squeezed shut, and she's still shivering as she wrenches words out of her mouth like teeth.

"Please. Don't leave me alone. Horrible—horrible things happen when you're away."

The dagger is still clutched in her hand like a lifeline, but she might as well have plunged it into his chest. He's not entirely sure if it's the magic or her words keeping him rooted to the floor. "I'm not going anywhere, dearie."

A tremulous smile crosses her lips. "Thank you." And she vanishes into the mist of the washroom, the doors shutting behind her.

And now you're trapped, Zoso mutters. Congratulations. Wasn't it a fantastic idea to give the girl the dagger? After all, she did such a good job of it the first time.

"She had a chance to defend herself, didn't she?" Rumpelstiltskin keeps his voice low so she won't hear him through the door. "She had the chance to call me."

And a fat lot of good you did. Couldn't even finish the job before she let that oaf snatch it up. Some knight in shining armor you turned out to be.

"Next time I'll be faster."

How about you make sure there is no next time? Make her give it back and keep her locked up inside. Spare yourself the headaches.

He sneers. "Well why don't you spare—" That's about as far as he gets before he feels it. Fingers running down his back, smooth and feather-light. They brush over him, zigzagging from shoulder to tailbone and then weaving back again.

Oh yes. This. Zoso gives a disgusted snort.

"What is it?"

It happens sometimes when they play with the blade. Another snort. Proper people don't play with the sharp end of a dagger. Grasp it by the hilt and nothing else. It's simple, but can these people grasp the fact? Of course not. Zoso keeps muttering, but Rumpelstiltskin has his own conclusions.

"Before," he starts. "I tasted blood—was that—" The thought promptly vanishes as the touches return—this time on his chest, sliding across his bare skin.

Annoying, isn't it? Zoso mutters.

"Sure. Whatever you say." Rumpelstiltskin's eyes glaze over, but not from annoyance.

What's she even doing with it? Isn't she supposed to be taking a bath? What kind a woman takes a dagger to the tub?

If Zoso had half a brain he wouldn't keep putting these thoughts in Rumpelstiltskin's head.

"Cleaning it, probably." His words keep catching. Those warm fingers on his chest are so very distracting. "Covered in blood and all that."

He will not look to see for sure. He will not focus his visions to the tub. He will not. But his resolve is fading by the second. Instead he forces his focus on her clothes—he can feel them, the magic that formed them and holds them together, discarded in the corner of the washroom (he will absolutely not think about the spell-heated water in the room's center). It's more difficult to manipulate them from here, unable to see them, but that helps divert his attention from her bath. He scrapes away the dirt and grass stains and dry blood, spins them into silk ribbons for her hair. He can't get much more complex than that at the moment. He wonders if she'll ever wear them—the blood of her enemies.

Maybe she'd find it too gruesome. Maybe she'll wear them proudly, badges of courage.

He's considering the thought with growing satisfaction when the door bursts open and she steps out of the steam. She's wearing a bathrobe now (woven from the feeling of climbing a stair that isn't there), and a blood-red ribbon is clutched in her hands. She looks calmer now. Surprised, suspicious, but calmer.

"What have you got there, dearie?" he asks innocently.

She levels her stare with his. "I don't entirely know. I found it with my clothes just now."

"Did you?"

"It wasn't there when I started my bath." She crosses the floor between them, standing tall despite her petite frame. The shock has faded; she wears the recent fear on her shoulders like a lion's pelt. "You didn't come in just now, did you?"

He wrinkles his nose in a private joke. "I think you would have noticed if I had."

"I'm not so sure about that." Her mouth twists into the bud of a wry grin, and he forces himself not to wonder at exactly what she means. "If you're going to come watch me bathe, at least have the courtesy to knock." The dagger's magic twists the command into place. He bows with a flourish and a comical shake of his head.

"As the lady commands."

Her smile widens, warm and sweet and suddenly a touch nervous. "I wanted to thank you. By the way. For rescuing me."

"Rescue? Hardly." His trilling giggle prompts a silent laugh of her own. "Just providing a distraction, dearie. You were doing quite well at being your own hero."

Her smile grows stronger. Bolder. More like the way she was before towers and clerics and words he never should have said.

"Is it everything you hoped?" he asks, like he did the first time she mentioned her secret ambition.

Her shoulders rise. "Is it ever?"

Oh gods, Zoso mutters. Enough already!

A quick exercise of the will is all it takes to throttle him and lock him up, silent, in the back of Rumpelstiltskin's head. He's gotten very good at it over the years, and even better in the last few months, but apparently he can't keep the effort entirely off his face. Belle's eyebrows arch.

"Is something wrong?" she asks.

"Just a thought." He waves it away with a twist of his hand, but that light is back in her narrowed, playfully suspicious eyes. He flashes her his widest smile. "Don't ask yet, dearie. It's a surprise."