Several days passed and several chests were filled to the brim with the golden thread spun at the wheel of the Dark One. Several times the king had cursed at him once he'd visited the treasury and found no coin or jewels there, but chest upon chest of 'sodding string!'

Again, so careful with his words, he told king Maurice that spinning straw into gold was his best way of conjuring the fortune Avonlea needed to rebuild itself in the eyes of the world.

His best way. Not his only way.

He'd barely kept a straight face as the king angrily accepted his word as truth, and commanded that he double the number of chests be filled by month's end. Meanwhile the king's advisor scurried off to send out missives in search of a blacksmith who could work the thread into coins.

And so it was by his own design that Rumplestiltskin was left well enough alone in the tower. What he'd told Belle days before had been true. He needed a quiet place to be alone and work. He lost himself as he spun, so deep in the business of forgetting himself that he often let the bowl overflow, his thread coiling over its rim and all over the floor.

No matter.

The long stretches of work were broken only by a pair of knights who would switch out the full chests with an empty one. They always told him of their gratitude, yet their eyes pitied him his slavery.

That was no matter as well.

Rumplestiltskin accepted their thanks and the measure of acceptance extended to him - an open seat at the knights' table, a seat he could rarely take as the king so delighted in his forced performances during the evening feasts - but then the knights would be on their way to take the gold down to the treasury, and Rumplestiltskin would find himself alone once more.

He didn't mind being alone. He was the Dark One. His road was a lonely one. Centuries ago he had tried to fight that truth. Once, he had tried to live amongst people, in the same village, the same house he'd lived in when he had still been a man. A husband. A father.

But that had been centuries ago.

He'd burned the village to ashes shortly after losing his last tie to that place and began the life of a demonic nomad. For a time he had gone wherever he was called, making deals, collecting relics toward the curse that could tear through realms...

A grand plan had formed and he found himself in need of a place to keep his collection of relics, a place where he could grow ingredients and brew potions, a place to think.

And also...when his son returned to him, when they were together again, a family, he would need a place for Baelfire to rest his head. A safe place where no knight or piper or fairy could take his boy again. His son deserved more than a hut in a village of scrounging peasants - he deserved a home of sturdy stone, not patched grass and mud. He deserved a yard to play in rather than the woods where he was always scraping himself or coming home covered in dirt and brambles. He deserved a place with books, yes, books! When he came home, Baelfire would be taught to read stories and history, he would learn laws and figures and medicine and become a great man someday because his father was so much more than that spindly little coward he'd once known, he had seen so much and traveled so far. When Bae came home...when I find Baelfire again...

Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat and sniffed, ignoring the sting in his eyes as he looked down to see the thread piled on the floor. He huffed at himself and took up the bundle, tossing it in the chest.

The lone window looked out over the land. It was dark now. He'd been spinning for the last three hours without pause.

Nightfall already? Where does the time go?

He vanished from the tower and reappeared in his dungeon cell. All told, the space was just as confining as his room in the tower - a fitting cage for his beastly self. Still there were some small comforts. He'd been given a cot bed, pillows and blankets to keep away the chill of the dungeon and he was sure he had Belle to thank for that.

Belle.

Such a strange girl, so determined in befriending him. He knew why, of course, but nonetheless it was odd. Regina listened to his teachings, accepted his guidance and strived for his approval, but she was no friend to him. She would betray him, try to seize power for herself as soon as she felt ready enough to challenge him.

Mentoring angry young women was a dangerous game.

He didn't need his Sight to see this. Regina was as selfish and deceitful as her mother, though perhaps she was not as sly.

To this day he wasn't sure if he was more hateful toward Cora or more impressed. She was a singular woman to have bested the Dark One. It was perhaps why he hadn't killed her yet.

Rumplestiltskin cocked his head, turning his ear up to the ceiling. The dungeon was below the kitchens, which in turn was below the main hall where the evening feasts always took place. Since his spinning began, he had been given a grateful reprieve from dancing and singing before the court audience.

He had provided instruments to learned players instead and happily let them be the night's entertainment. Shedding his day clothes and shuffling into his makeshift bed, he was content to listen to the music. He had no true need for sleep, but sometimes it helped - particularly at times like this when he was feeling especially smothered by memories of his past.

He looked to the wall where he'd clawed hashmarks into the stone, marking his days in Avonlea. Just beside the marks he'd affixed Belle's drawing to the wall so he could see it before he slept. A simple thing, the idle drawing of a gown by a young woman who believed it beyond her right to even dream of such a dress.

He quirked his lips as he thought of his friend. Friend? Yes. Why bother to deny his fondness, when he had already admitted the primal pull to claim her?

Fine, then. His friend.

She who placed her people, this miserable little country, over her own fate. She who challenged a king to be kind to a monster. She who was both intrigued and terrified of that same monster. Poor girl. Such a conflict it must be, to pity the slave his chains, all while knowing that slave would slaughter his captor if given a chance toward freedom.

It wouldn't matter in the end.

What came of his time here was yet to be seen. Rumplestiltskin pulled the blanket close over his shoulders. He grew weary of the commands forced upon him. He wanted to go back to the castle he'd built for his son, he wanted to revel in his collection and snipe at Regina.

But he could not. Avonlea held him, it had already held him for weeks. How much longer must he stay?

He knew the answer to that already.

The fool king would never release him, the man had tasted power after a decade of impotent peril. No. Maurice would never let him free, and he could not approach Belle for help. She feared his wrath more than she cared for him, and rightfully so.

He blinked heavily, willing his mind to calm so that he might find some sleep, and begin a new day.

Belle lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and finding no answer in the stones above. The princess was restless in body and mind.

Her thoughts touched on Gaston, the savior knight and her intended. Together they would mark Avonlea's rebirth as a thriving kingdom, lifted from peril, having both defeated the ogres and captured the Dark One.

The future her father envisioned was bright yet it filled Belle with unspeakable dread.

Her father, herself, the entire kingdom was complicit in the enslavement of the most powerful sorcerer there ever was. Only Belle seemed to think on what the end price would be for commanding his magic.

The gods knew it would be steep. The gods knew, it would be paid in blood.

Belle both feared and was intensely fond of Rumplestiltskin.

He was remarkable in so many ways. His power. His striking appearance and dress. His wit and humor. Truly, he was unlike anyone she had ever known.

Was his every word a deception? He was the Dark One, the Devourer of Hearts and the Defiler of Virgins. The legends spoke of infants being bartered, of the women who refused him being rendered barren hags, of whole kingdoms burned to ash and villages swept away in great floods on his whim.

And yet she had seen him do a kindness to the orphaned children just days before. They joined in the nightly feasts enjoyed by all in the castle and the clothing they wore was new, but what was more, Rumplestiltskin had conjured a toy for each of them. Simple cloth dolls and stickmen, but more than any of them had had since their birth into the wretched kingdom that had killed their parents and left them at the mercy of those who remained in the castle.

Belle had asked him about it, but he had only rolled his eyes and told her she was mistaken - "I did no such thing, the scamps stole those toys!"

Still the children played their game of following him in the courtyard and corridors, scattering when he turned to face them and he smiled every time.

He was capable of such kindness, yet he still claimed he'd only saved Avonlea under her father's command. Had he been given the choice he'd have let the ogres have her country.

His moods were so changeable, he could be joyful, melancholy and enraged in the blink of an eye. He spoke of things he had seen in other realms, the variations of themselves and the lives they lead together. He made open threats against the throne. He hinted strange and suggestive things to her.

Belle thought on the day he'd stolen her away with him, the day she'd learned his name. Rumplestiltskin. An ancient name from the lowlands. He'd answered some questions and evaded others. Then, he'd revealed himself to her.

Not his whole self, yet it was more than Belle had expected.

She'd shocked herself in knowing that she wanted to touch him. To feel the patterns of his soft scales under her hands, the ridges over his back, arms and shoulders that gave way to the softer flesh on his front. What was even more shocking was her flash of excited thought - what was there to stop him from touching her?

They had vanished away from the castle, no one knew where they had gone or even that Rumplestiltskin could leave whenever he chose. He had taken her away to where no eyes could see them.

"It's just us here, Belle."

He could have brought his clawed hands to hers. He could have touched her face, her waist, her breasts. She touched her own breast idly as she thought of this, his hand replacing hers in thought. He could have kissed her, devoured her, overwhelmed her with his fangs and forked tongue...what's more, he could have taken her right there on the rocky shore of that lake with no one to witness their debauchery.

To be devoured, taken by the Dark One-

Belle didn't know what to make of her thoughts. If she should have such thoughts at all, they should center on Gaston, the man she would soon call her husband and then her king.

Rumplestiltskin should never even be considered in such a way. He was the Dark One. He wasn't even human. Perhaps that was what had so captivated her. He was not man, he was not beast. By his own admission he was something entirely other and there it lay, her fascination with him: because he was so different from anything she'd ever known, her thoughts lingered on him in all ways.

Belle frowned to herself in the darkness.

And him, smug and vain creature that he was, he probably knew her wicked thoughts and was delighting himself to know of his effect on her.

Well.

She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, and resolved not to think of him for the rest of the night.

She did, however, dream of him, and cursed herself upon waking.

Time passed.

The princess and the mage continued with their friendship. Seeing them together in the courtyard or library became a casual sight, accepted by most in the castle. Even the king thought little of the pair, much to the disgust of the clerics.

Their eyes never strayed from the Dark One.

Always, they watched him as he performed entertainments during the evening feasts and always they watched as he cast the magic needed to replenish Avonlea.

All those of the court, the servants and nobles housed there, all of them had grown to love the Dark One for the miracles he performed: killing the ogres, raising the land, bringing the rain. The knights welcomed him to their table as if he were one of their own, every lady was free with her smiles and fond wishes, the nobles invited him into their talks of philosophy and agriculture.

Even the damned orphans followed after the Dark One wherever he strode, clutching the toys he'd given, calling him "new father" - a title even the demon seemed to find disturbing.

The elder clerics grew more frustrated and anxious with each passing week. Praying brought no gods down to smite the devil that walked in their house, and they dare not raise their objections to the king - the crown was too deeply bewitched to hear any ill words spoken against the Dark One, the king's master was masquerading as a slave.

The enemy ruled the castle, basking in love freely given, smug and satisfied and so clever in his corruptions. They all feared a house divided and what's more, they feared their princess, their beloved Belle, to soon be beyond saving.

Her reaction to their caution was proof enough of where her devotion truly laid.

It had been a mild afternoon as the summer swept into autumn, and they had happened upon the princess in the library. Already she had earned a shade of disdain from the elders for her love of reading - so like the late Queen in her love for the written word, yet so like her father with her stubborn streak spanning miles. That combination paired with her upbringing had produced a woman hellbent on having her own way, and fearless in the face of their authority. The clerics knew their days were numbered, all counting down to the day Belle gained the throne.

Of course, what good was it to remind her of their allegiance to the gods above when she was already openly in league with the Dark One?

Still, they tried. For her soul, they had to try. Surrender was no option for a cleric of the Avonlean faith.

It had become a rare sight, the princess without her companion, and the elder of the pair had seized his opportunity on entering the library.

The elder had decades over the princess and his younger protege, yet no one would know it the way he rushed to the woman and knelt before her, casting her book aside, seizing her hands into his. "Princess, please hear me, you must not cavort with the creature!"

Startled, Belle tried to pull her hands from his but he did not release her.

"What do you mean?"

The elder cared nothing for the woman's title or his tenuous position in the castle - truly, he feared for her. He feared for them all. "You have allowed yourself to become seduced by the creature's power. It is said that the Dark One enters your bedchambers at night."

The younger cleric paled at the accusation. The elder must be mad to voice such a thing - they would all be hanged for his words!

Belle pulled from the old man's grasp and hurriedly stood from her chair, "You are wrong! He has done no such thing! He's my friend, he would never-"

Turning on her now, the elder stood, easily falling back into his role of authoritarian when confronted with a girl who would challenge him. Why could she not see what was right before her? Was all the world so blind to the Dark One? "That vile creature is no friend to you, you must know this. The Dark One's influence has corrupted your mind and that of the king. It is too easy when he offers such displays of power and finery." Here he looked pointedly at her dress, the daily gift from her enchanted wardrobe. "Princess, please. Such evil as his is beyond your understanding. He plays the friend only to attack once your back is turned. I can see he has corrupted you already. Perhaps he comes to you and lifts the memory when taking his leave at night, or perhaps his visits please you-"

The younger cleric dared to warn his better, "You must not say such a thing!"

At once, any semblance of Belle's sweetness fell away, burned off in the fire of her anger, "How dare you speak to me like this?! My father will have you thrown from the castle! I'll have you both stripped of the order!"

Raising his hands, the younger cleric, Joseph, he sought to calm the enraged royal, though in truth he was in league with her anger. What in the seven hells was the elder thinking, to openly accuse her like this? To be stripped from the order would be the least of their punishments - accusing the princess of entertaining the demon in her bed was an offense that could very well be punished by banishment or death.

It is what we deserve. We have failed every last soul of Avonlea, yet we dare look down on them for loving the demon savior.

"Please, princess, it has been a trying time for us all." He dropped to his knees, a supplicant to her. "Please, please, we beg your forgiveness!"

Disgusted and furious, Belle waved them away. "Be gone from me, the both of you!"

Seamlessly, he appeared in the library. Stepping forth from nothingness, the Dark One emerged, his eyes on the woman. "I heard raised voices. Belle, what troubles you?"

Belle looked between him and the clerics, the shame of their accusation heating her face. She could not tell him, not when the memory of her dream was so fresh in her mind. "It's nothing."

He didn't believe her for a moment. Still, "If you're sure."

The woman drew herself up, straightening her posture and taking a deep breath. She prayed he didn't search her mind and learn the truth. "I am. These clerics were just leaving."

Rumplestiltskin knew who these men were - the priests and monks of the Avonlean faith, these men who prayed to the gods that never answered. These men were the only souls in the castle who had yet to thank him for his intervention with the ogre threat.

He, who had been compelled to save their wretched country and culture, he who had saved their very lives, was unworthy of gratitude in the eyes of their faith.

True, he was the Dark One, the Blackest of All Hearts and the Demon King...but really, he didn't feel that a simple 'thank you' should be beyond these holy men.

He grinned at the clerics, revealing his fangs in menacing glee.

Of course, they won't thank me when I-

"Ah, and so these are the clerics of the castle!" He sang out to them, and by the great gods, did he enjoy how repulsed they were to be in his focus. He was toying with them, openly reveling in their discomfort. "Strange. I've become so familiar with everyone of note in the castle," And here he walked the tips of his claws over Belle's bare shoulder, his meaning clear to the men, who looked horrified at the wicked thoughts he sent through their minds. Visions of he and Belle twining together like snakes, the Dark One's fiery crown, the true face of the curse. "Or so I thought, because I've not met either of you before. Tell me, what are your names?"

"Do not speak your name, brother!"

The younger cleric halted his words at the elder's warning, well reminded of the things the Dark One could do to a man on learning his name.

Though bested for now, Rumpliestltskin only shrugged. "Oh, you're both so shy. No matter. I'll learn your names soon enough and when I do, I will know you inside and out. But you really must excuse us, for Belle and I wish to be alone."

With a last parting glare to the clerics, the Dark One pulled the princess close to him and together, they disappeared in a cloud of smoke.