To all known to him, Gaston was an honest man. Strong, brave, and well deserving of his place in the castle, a member of the knights sworn to give their lives in service to Avonlea and its people. He was young in years, however in Avonlea, with so many men dead in the fields, he could be counted among the elders in several villages. He had seen enough blood to drown mountains. He had wept at the death of family and friends alike. He had known terror down to his bones.
Yet he was a knight.
His country was weeks from being devoured yet he refused to abandon the motherland. His oaths held true - his vows drove him. Avonlea was his home and he would give his last breath to defend it.
It was why he had departed the mountains, leaving his fellows and riding his horse to ground. Gaston dismissed the thought of the stallion - it had died miles back, first collapsing along the road and then...
Forgive me.
He'd left the horse to its exhaustion and pressed on alone, forcing himself faster once he heard the panicked shrieking of the animal as the ogres found it.
There was no time to grieve the loyal beast. He had to make it to the king.
This last, mad hope. It was either sent from the gods or Hades himself, a desperate miracle and he could not fail. For miles it was his only thought, to make it to the castle, the king. For this, he pushed himself harder, faster and faster, then harder still.
A small, singe prayer; if his heart should burst within his chest, then so be it, so long as the red thing burst after he completed this last task.
The sight of the castle on the broken road gave rise to tears in Gaston's dark eyes, but he could not stop to sob.
There could be no relief until he delivered the key to Avonlea's rescue.
His Majesty King Maurice of Avonlea had more to contend with than any man in the line of kings before him.
He slouched on the throne, safe behind the only enchanted walls in all the land, his heart heavy with dread. The wards would not hold for long. It was the ogres. Ogres, advancing on his country from all sides, eating their way through his army's defenses like a tide of acid. A cancer. For every ogre slain, three hatchlings were born into the world to take its place.
For over a decade, the king had agonized over the monsters' advance into his realm. He had been driven to desperate acts; striking fruitless alliances with surrounding kingdoms, pleading to fairies for protection, sending wave after wave of men to their deaths, bankrupting the castle coffers and for what?
Nothing short of miracles could rid Avonlea of the hoards that surrounded it now.
Whatever joy Maurice had known in his time as king had been swallowed by this massive, unyielding threat. Constant dread and sorrow had taken its toll on the man; he was Avonlea made flesh - dying a slow death, decaying on his throne and condemned to wait for the final killing blow that would end them all.
The king knew he was to die. He could feel the truth over him as sure as the blood sky. The ogres would break the fae wards, storm the castle and come for him. This was a truth he could never speak. For Belle. For the sake of the people who remained, those who lived in the castle, the servants and nobility alike, those who did not, could not, leave Avonlea because there was still hope...no, he would not give in. He would not admit defeat.
Yet the king knew.
Avonlea had been doomed from the day the first ogre crossed into the country.
So, when a young knight dragged himself into the main hall, sweating, panting and but a breath away from collapsing, Maurice expected to hear nothing but news of yet another failure, more ruined men. More death.
"Sire, that knight is returned from the mountains." Stated an advisor at his side, an older cleric who had served Maurice's father before him. Off the king's blank expression, the cleric continued, "We allowed a small contingent to venture there to scout for the ogres' course of advance."
Whatever remark Maurice might have made was interrupted, as Gaston didn't wait, he heaved himself forward and ventured as close as he dared to the throne. Both Maurice, the cleric advisor and several of those gathered in the grand hall tensed as Gaston reached to his belt and withdrew a curved, ornate blade.
"Sire, the dagger of the Dark One." He declared, before anyone could interrupt him.
There. It is done.
A shocked silence surrounded the men.
If true, then Gaston held in his gloved hand, a blade imbued of such vicious black magic that legends of it had passed between generations for centuries.
Stories of a demon mage who dealt in favors, the fables growing with every retelling, embellished between generation and culture. Any such tales had long been forgotten by the besieged common folk. Maurice remembered the stories of the Dark One all too well, however. The magician with a black heart, an evil soul bound to a dagger.
Limitless power for he who held the blade.
The king rose from his throne, shocked hope blooming painfully in his chest. The gods mock me with this, they have forsaken Avonlea for years, and now this? It cannot be, it cannot! "How did you come by this?" He asked, voice a rasp and eyes fixated on bright curving silver.
Those gathered in the throne room - broken men, the knights of the king's guard, the few remaining nobility and a gaggle of ladies in waiting - leaned in closer to hear Gaston's response, silent and joyful. This beautiful young knight! He who holds the cursed dagger holds the last hope for our people! Yes! Yes, how could it be?
Gaston cared nothing for accolades now. In truth, the man was beyond exhausted. But he had made it this far, and his king had asked after the tale.
"It was brought to us by a young woman who crossed our path in the mountains. She had been running for days and near collapsed at the sight of us, from relief or shock I cannot say. The captain ordered me to feed and provide to her what we could. In aiding her, she told what she had been forced to endure, tormented and held captive by the mage. In her confinement she had learned the truth of its power, that he who should hold the dagger will control the Dark One. She had stolen it but the creature so terrified her that she gave the blade to me before taking a horse to seek out her family in the nearest village. The creature has a habit of abducting young women and forcing them to...attend him in his lair."
The king had no interest in the depravities of a monster, and so made no remark on the wily servant girl. His focus was only on the blade, the power it could command. Already his mouth watered at the thoughts spinning through his mind.
New hope. Unending prosperity. Vengeance.
"And yet you have held this power, only to gift it away?"
Still standing before the throne, Gaston lowered his eyes for a moment. He thought it strange, that he had fought in several battles, but that his heart should hammer now on making a request of his king, and such a small request at that, in light of the gift he had just presented.
"I have no need of a slave, even one so powerful as he. I took the blade with the intention that a greater man than I could command the Dark One to restore our country. I...I do request a boon, your majesty."
"Name your price, knight." If this was indeed the dagger of legend, then the king was ready to promise away anything. Anything.
Gaston cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "I...I request the hand of your daughter, Belle."
King Maurice didn't even look up, eyes too busy taking in the inscription etched into the blade. Rumplestiltskin. An incantation or enchantment, perhaps.
"Granted. You will wed when she comes of age."
Gaston nodded, relief washing over him. "I thank you, your grace."
The king dismissed the young knight's gratitude, and took the blade for himself. He gripped it, and good gods I can feel it!
Magic thrummed from the blade over his bare skin. Power. Unlike anything he had ever known. Joy, rage and sorrow all at once. Truly, it was intoxicating.
" 'Tis a small thing after this gift." No more waiting. "Tell me, how do I bring it forth?"
"Hold the dagger, like so," Gaston gestured, "And summon him by title."
King Maurice stood taller for all the eyes watching, held the dagger before him and called out, "Dark One, I summon thee."
There was no thunderclap, no rise of flame or roiling fog to announce a new, powerful presence in the main hall. Rather, the appearance of the Dark One was quite subtle. So subtle that no one realized him until the creature deigned to speak. One moment there was nothing, and in the next, there sat the imp on the edge of the long banquet table, a goblet of wine in one clawed hand, a half-eaten bread roll in the other.
"And who are you to summon me?" The creature demanded, hardly sparing the king a glance up from his buttered bread. Clearly, his supper had been interrupted by the summoning, and he'd taken some of it with him to the Avonlea castle.
The other knights drew their swords against him and the ladies drew back in startled terror, but the Dark One paid them all no mind.
To his credit, the king did not show his fear. Never in his years had he seen a man bearing the features of a dragon or...perhaps this was a dragon in the shape of a man, some ungodly blend of man and demon, and infinitely powerful besides.
That the king showed no fear was a testament to his underlying desperation. If the dagger held no sway, then the demon would sure enough kill them all for the insult of having been summoned. It ends, the king thought, ready. Be it by the hand of the Dark One or the castle overrun by walking nightmares, this is my last day. I will see my Collette on the other side of death, and I know our Belle is safe. That is a small blessing in all this misery.
"Mind your tongue, demon. It is your king who summons you." Maurice declared, all bravado, drawing himself up and stepping closer.
"I've killed for less disrespect than that, and I bow to no man." The creature hissed, finally turning to look at the king directly.
Maurice paused as his heart kicked in his chest; the Dark One was a terrible sight, and unpredictable besides. Nothing could stop the creature from leaping at him, tearing into him with claw and fang or the monster might just hiss an ancient word and Maurice could crumble into dust, the blood could boil in his veins or the entire castle could collapse down around them, the end of all Avonlea.
But the king was a desperate man.
If the legends of the Dark One were true, then there was only one choice.
He would command this demon to do all that must be done.
"I hold your dagger, Dark One. You will obey me."
The Dark One dropped his wine, the goblet slipping from a nerveless talon. "How did you find-?!"
"Your prisoner, she escaped with it. Now the power over you rests with me."
And there it came over the face of the Dark One, a sly, dangerous smile.
Despite the grin, it was clear that murder was on his mind. "Hmm. Clever girl. It's so hard to find good help these days! So you have my dagger, king. What do you want with me?"
So quickly were they coming it. "I want you to drive back the ogres from our land. Forever."
The Dark One rolled his eyes. A strangely human gesture. "And how would you like me to accomplish such a task?"
"I don't care how, so long as the ogres no longer pose a threat to my people." The King snapped, bloodlust rising at the promise of retribution against those that had killed so many of his countrymen. "This land has bled for a decade. Kill them. Eat them. Change them into birds if you want. I just want them gone."
"Oh, is that all?" The Dark One groused.
"I don't care for your disrespect." A sudden, cruel smirk curled the lip of the king. He tightened his hold on the dagger hilt. "Kneel before me, creature."
And just like that, the Dark One did.
Those assembled in the throne hall watched, terrified and awestruck, silent with wonder as the Dark One's eyes widened, the blackness within expanding to encompass his entire gaze, and his body complied with command. There the creature knelt, bent in fealty, silenced by the curse.
Gaston dared to break the stunned silence that hung so heavy in the air. "The dagger controls the beast, my lord, just as the legends told."
Amazed, the king kept his gaze steady on this monster kneeling at his feet. "Gaston, you will ride with me to see the ogres from our land. No longer a knight, you now head in the king's guard."
Exhausted beyond measure was Gaston, but his loyalty was too deeply ingrained to refuse. He was an obedient dog. "Your highness, I thank you."
"No, it is Avonlea that thanks you."
From his place kneeling on the floor, Rumplestiltskin narrowed his eyes.