He felt like he'd been waiting for this to happen for a long time; expecting it, preparing for it. And yet on the day that it happened, he found himself woefully underprepared for the challenges that met him.

He knew Aunt Lizzy wouldn't last long, not after the woke to find Aunt Mabel had passed as they slept. It wasn't that Aunt Lizzy was weak, just that Aunt Mabel was the backbone. She had been the talker, the commander, the wise sage, and the determination of the household. She was the Captain, steering the two of them in their small family's pursuits. With her gone, he had tried. He'd taken care of Aunt Lizzie in her grief the best he could, fixing tea and meals over the fire, spinning twice as much as he used to day and night so that not even the flow of money would remind her of her missing sister. But nothing had seemed to work, and from where he sat now, a log in the middle of the forest, shovel in hand, he supposed it was silly that he'd ever thought it would have worked. Though they were never two to talk much of their past, he knew that they'd been together for all of it. He had no need to guess what Aunt Lizzy had died of; he knew it was a broken heart.

He buried her beside her sister, in a secret place in the woods. He knew what the townspeople said about them, and he knew what they did to supposed witches even after they died, and he couldn't stand the thought that someone or anyone would dig them up and burn their remains on a pyre. It was one of the reasons he'd worked so hard over the last few months to make sure that production of yarn stayed right where it always had. His hope was that when people finally asked, they would have been past for months and he would be able to ensure the safety of their bodies. Maybe then he could carve some headstones for them. But until then, the two saplings he'd planted over their graves would have to do.

He sighed as he gave the spot one last look, then wiped tears away with the back of his hand and shouldered the shovel he'd brought. "I'll make you both proud, eh," he muttered before walking back to their old home. He stayed there simply because he didn't have anywhere else to go, and there was truly nowhere else he wanted to go.

He'd prepared for the loss of his aunts, but he had never prepared himself to live without them, and as the weeks stretched into months, he found that was what he truly should have been preparing himself for. The cottage was quiet without them. Not that they'd been loud when his aunts had been alive, but there was always noise. There was always the creak and whine of a whirling wheel, the shuffle of fabric as they moved about and their dresses swished with them, and the noise of metal against stone as they cooked. Alone, he found their cottage was much bigger than he'd ever thought it was and the two silent wheels that his eyes always fell on as he spin, were dreadful reminders. Some days, as he stood before his own wheel, two steps forward, three steps back, he found himself crying. Not blubbering as he had when he was a child, but just crying. He tried everything he could think of to alleviate the loneliness. He found himself going on walks through town and the village, he tried singing as he spun, he took up knitting with some of the extra yarn he worked on the Saxony Wheel, and then he tried doing nothing but spinning, throwing himself into his work. But it felt useless.

He could never produce the amount of yarn and thread the three of them had made together. He had no idea how much of the industry the three of them had taken up until he was the only one of his workforce left. Other spinners started popping up here and there in town, and before he knew it, he was in competition with them. But economics were something that he'd never truly understood. His yarn was superior, they all said that it was.

"But Margie is willing to give me hers for half the price you are asking for Rumpelstiltskin. Superior or not yours isn't cheap."

"Please…take it for half that price then," he bartered and begged. He'd learned. The first time he'd been confronted with this he'd turned away, vowing he'd find someone willing to pay for his own, but instead of selling his thread he'd watched as inferior spinners took his business and he'd had to learn that half price was better than no sell. Besides, he had a secret weapon that the other spinners didn't have and that was history. The moment he lowered his prices to match theirs they bought from him because they always had, he was reliable and friendly and at the heart of it all they wanted to be loyal to the boy they had watched grow up. And though Mr. Oak supplied many of those same spinners with wool from his sheep, he always saved the best for him, and unlike the others who paid more for it, he hadn't changed the price Rumple paid in all his life. Buy low, sell high. He remembered someone telling that to him in his life, though he couldn't remember who, but he was at least relieved that even with the fluctuating price he was still following that rule.

"You need to make a change, boy," Mr. Oak informed him one day when he went up the hill to buy what he needed. It made no difference to Mr. Oak that he had just turned twenty. To him, he was always only "boy" and would be to the end of time. The same way Mr. Oak would always be not only his supplier but the man who had taught him to shave and shear a lamb. He was far more a father to him than his own lowlife father had been. And yet sometimes the advice he passed on to him, made little sense. Make a change? What kind of change?

"Sir?"

"The light's gone out from your eyes, the things you once loved are things you love no more." He hadn't been aware that there was ever "light in his eyes", nor could he see what the man was talking about. Was he talking about his aunts? Or his spinning? He still loved his aunts, he missed them every day from the moment he woke up and looked around their empty cottage to the time he shut his eyes and heard the sounds of his own breathing. But he did feel like his desire to spin had faded somewhat. Before it had always been something fun he did with his aunts. Now it was a business and while he loved to spin, the idea of the business, of prices and buying and selling and competing for it…he wasn't too keen on that.

"You need to move on, you need something new to do, a new idea to believe in, a new dream to pursue."

"Haven't any idea what that could be," he muttered as watched his old friend shift bales of hay for his horses. Mr. Oak had recently taken on an apprentice in his old age, though where the boy was now, he had no idea. Perhaps he'd sent him away, he did that sometimes when he wanted to have a conversation with him, which could only mean that this was not just talk, but an actual discussion he'd walked into unprepared.

Mr. Oak suddenly put his hand out on his shoulder and squeezed hard, forcing him to look him in the eye and stop moving. "There is a time in every man's life when he's on his own has to make for himself a new life, a new home. He finds himself a wife, has a few kids, passes his trade on to them as it was once passed onto you."

"My father's business-"

"I'm not talking about that coward! I'm talking about the trade your mothers passed on to you." He felt a flare of anger and fear roll through him. He knew what he was talking about, that he was referring to the spinning his aunts had taught him, but the use of "mothers" automatically had him thinking about the Black Fairy, and what her legacy was in the world. What his aunts had left him was far better than anything his parents would have taught him, and far better than what his parents had ever done in the world.

Putting it aside he chose to ignore the last part of Mr. Oak's advice and instead concentrate on the first part of it because it seemed to him that was where all of it fell apart. "I have been making my way in the world, I've been doing all I can to have a fresh start."

"In the same home you were raised in?" Mr. Oak questioned. "Living there because your aunts are gone and it's easy isn't finding a new way, Rumpelstiltskin. That's something your father would have done, but you…you are different, boy. Do not be afraid to strike out on your own just because you are alone. You're not, you have me, and all you need to do is ask."

"Sir?" It was all he could think to say. He'd always known Mr. Oak to be a gentle and wise soul, but at the moment he sounded like an old raving lunatic. It was as if there was something he was trying to say to him, but he couldn't quite catch on.

"There is a property down in the village that no one has ever put a house on. I'm giving it to you."

"Sir?! The money!"

"Money isn't a problem. We'll arrange some kind of rent at a fair price once you are done putting a house together."

"Sir, I don't have the money for property beyond what Mabel and Lizzy left me."

"Haven't you been listening? I'm giving the property to you."

"But Sir you're…you're a shepherd."

Mr. Oak suddenly broke into a wide smile and laughed. "And you think that's how I make my money?" he laughed again.

"Sir?"

"The village is mine, Son, always has been. This is more of a hobby to keep me busy when I'm not worrying about rent and tenants." Shock ricocheted through him as he suddenly saw his old friend in new light. He owned the village? It was his property? The tenants were his?! He supposed that could be the reason why no one ever said anything bad about the shepherd. He owned the village…what a wonderful life that must have been!

"Rumpelstiltskin, I want you to listen to me now. I've no children of my own, only a wretched nephew who inherits the land when I die, but you are the closest I've ever had. Take the land. Build yourself a new home like any man would, then start a family. It's the way the world works."

Again, he ignored the last part of his instructions, but not because of bad memories, it was just because he couldn't get past the first part.

"I'm no carpenter, I've no idea how to build a home."

Mr. Oak smiled. "That's what you need me for."

It took two long years and every penny he had. It took saving and starving, sleepless nights, and days that he worked so hard his fingers bled. But Mr. Oak had given him a new dream, a new light in his eyes. The property wasn't large, right on the edge of the village, but it was just enough. Mr. Oak taught him how to lay a foundation, fell logs and make them into boards, he helped him find rocks for the hearth, and chickens for the coop. It was no more than a hovel, but it was home. And two years later he sat in Mr. Oak's stable as he handed him a piece of paper, what he thought was the rent agreement. The old man wheezed as he handed it over to him.

"Just in time. That'll keep my nephew from treating you poorly when he inherits the land." Simply put, it was because his nephew didn't own that land anymore. He did. It was his own property, transferred into his own name. No rent would be due. It was a deed. "You are your own man now, Rumpelstiltskin. Live into it. It was hard to think of another gesture that had touched him as that one had and the first night in his new home, he stared up at the high ceilings with pride. It was one room, but well made. Enough for a couple of spinning wheels, a kitchen, a bed, and a loft. Now all he needed was to put people into it. Suddenly, the idea of a family that he'd so easily scoffed at before didn't seem like such a silly thing. But there were times it seemed like an impossible thing.

He had a home in the village now and was happy, but little else had changed. The villagers still saw him as the son of a coward raised by witches. They were skeptical of him, even when he sat outside darning socks and scarfs and shawls to sell in addition to his yarn. There were a few that would talk to him, but very little made an impression on him in the way one woman had.

He remembered the encounter with Milah as a young girl, he remembered being put off by her questions and freely given opinions, but the moment he'd moved into town she'd shown that she remembered him as well. She was always one of the few to stop by and say hello, she'd even sat in the yard with him as he'd worked to build it some days and carried on a conversation with him as she drew to pass the time. She was older now, probably about as old as he'd been when he met her and he couldn't deny that when he looked at her, he realized why men took wives. She was beautiful. She made him nervous and confident all at once in a way he didn't know was possible. Their conversations were few and brief, but they gave him enough to dream at night and fantasize about what it might be like if she one day lived in these walls and slept in the bed beside him. He liked her. But in moving into town, he was quick to catch up on gossip and realize he wasn't the only one.

"Oh! Rumpelstiltskin! You're out today! Fine weather to be outside, wouldn't you say? This is my friend Rolf, have the two of you met?"

He looked up from his knitting into the face of the dark-haired man before him that he recognized almost instantly. He was bigger than he'd been before, his chest had barreled, and his arms were thicker, but in his face, he could still see the boy he'd once known.

"Aye, we went to school together," he answered continuing his knitting without looking down so he could glare at the man.

"We used to play games together as children," Rolf laughed. "Racing on the ice was the favorite, but I'm sure Rumpelstiltskin here could tell you how that all fell apart, Milah."

He'd said the words with a smile, but he could sense nothing happy in his words. Only a challenge that he was quick to rise to.

"I remember nothing of you in those races. It must have been because you were always too busy watching my back while I was watching the finish line."

Rolf's smile vanished as he returned the silent glare he'd been giving him. Now it was his challenge that hung between them and had the lad grasping and searching his mind for something new to say into the silence. Lucky for him he'd grown up in quiet, he was perfectly comfortable waiting for him to drop the next word.

"Well…we'd best get going, Rolf," Milah finally commented. "Rolf's mother, her birthday is next week, and he's asked me to go to town and help him pick out a gift."

"No one knows women like another woman!" Rolf smiled.

"Funny considering how long you've known your mother," he commented, once again forcing the smile off the man's face. "I'm sorry I wasn't aware of the upcoming celebration," he quickly added, turning back to his basket filled with yarns and needles and one very special project he'd worked to perfection for an opportunity he hadn't seen until now. "You should take this…made from freshly spun wool, only a few days ago."

"Oh!" Milah unfurled the shawl, and he watched her eyes rove over it with something like envy and admiration. "It's beautiful!" she breathed with wide eyes.

Rolf quickly plucked it from her hands, balled it up, and let out a little snort. "My mother has no need of a shawl, and certainly nothing has haphazard as this."

"You must be blind!" Milah screeched grabbing it out of his hands and letting it lose again. "It's beautifully made."

"All the same," he muttered taking it back. "Thanks…but no thanks." Rolf tossed it back to him carelessly. "Let's go Milah," he stormed away, but something deep inside of him roared triumphantly. He'd bested his adversary, and they both knew it. And just for good measure…

"Here…" he handed the shawl back to Milah. "Take it then…for yourself. I can always make more."

He watched as a smile broke over her face, and she accepted the shawl. "Thank you. It truly is lovely!" she exclaimed, wrapping it around her shoulders. "I'd better be going."

But as she walked away he was mesmerized by the way her cheeks turned a deep red, and she pulled the shawl up over her nose to hide it. He watched as her back expanded, taking in a deep breath of whatever scent clung to the yarn and he had just enough time to imagine what it would be like if it wasn't just his shawl that was draped around her shoulders, but his arms as well.

So, this seems like a good time to talk about ages because we make a pretty major jump here, going from Rumple being 15 to 22 and Milah being 8 to 15. Ages throughout the chronicles are kind of how I kept track of the timeline. Not the timeline story/plot-wise, that is, timeline as in how many years passed between events. It's not as big a deal in these first two fictions, but when we get to the third next year it's a much bigger deal. That being said, in this fiction, age played the same use. Ages aren't really mentioned throughout the series, I assume it's because it would be too complicated to keep track of and open the writers up to plot holes. This actually helped me because it allowed me to write the story without restraints, but at the same time figuring out everyone's ages...not easy. There was a lot of "what's the maximum age they can be while looking that young" tied with "what's the minimum age they can be while looking that old"? For me, a lot of it started with the age I believed them to be either in the last season or at their death. So...for Rumple...once he becomes the Dark One he doesn't age, right...he's immortal. (I mean, we all know he's aging because RC is mortal and he's going to age, but story-wise, he's not supposed to age anymore.) So for me, my challenge was to look at him and say "okay season seven, he looks like someone in his 50's or around there." Then I had to go back to that moment he stops aging 1x08 and say, "what is a believable age to make him that he could pass for in season seven as well as that first season?" For me, it was easy enough. I chose the age of 50 for him. It pushes it for season one, he certainly looks like he could be younger but could he pass for 50 there too? With the conditions of the village? With all his worries? Sure. It's plausible. With Milah, she stops aging in season 2 when she dies. Fortunately, that actress doesn't really seem to age much between season 2 and season 5 (lucky her), but this is where we start figuring throughout math. She doesn't look 50 so she has to be younger. Rumple stops aging when Bae is 14 so if we stick with that number that means he's about 36 when Bae is born. For me, that was too old for Milah, so I lowered her age to a point I felt a woman could get pregnant but look the way she does in season 2 before Bae is born. For me, that put her at late twenties, 29 to be exact, when Bae is born. From there I added the time, that made her about 34 when she left, assuming that it wasn't long after Bae left that she came back that puts her at 45 when she dies. Then we ask ourselves those questions again. "Could she pass for 45 in 2x04 and 5x14?" Yes. It's a push. But yes, she could pass for 45. Any younger and the age difference was too much (aka creepy), any older and Milah would look too young.

So...this is a lot of information...what does it mean for you? Well, maybe nothing, but maybe this is something that fascinates you. Maybe this isn't something you care about, and it's just rambling, but for me, what this means to you, at the very least, is that everything here has been well researched and well thought out. The ages I've picked for them are not random or without thought, I've done my homework. It also means that I have ages for everyone (at least all the main characters). At any time in this series, if you have questions about how old someone is at a certain time, you can ask me, and I'll be able to tell you. If you don't care...I'm sorry, there will be times throughout this series that I make references back to age, but I promise it'll be less in depth than this. Thank you, Grace5231973 and Jennifer Baratta, for your comments on the last chapter. I hope that you'll like this one and be confident in the ages that I've picked for everyone throughout this series! Peace and Happy Reading!