The man lounged in the royal throne of Anglia as though he himself were king. Cross-legged, leaning back, fingers dancing on the wooden arms of the rather simple chair. He wore leather breeches with matching boots that laced up to his knees, and a velvet vest of deep maroon. His skin, tinged with green and gold, shimmered in the candlelight. A small man, quick and slight, but his presence seemed to fill the room.

Belle's tired arms drew her sword without even thinking. "And who the hell are you? How did you get in here?" She expected to hear the steel of the few men around her, feel them draw closer and tighten around this strange intruder. To her dismay, her men had frozen where they stood, simply staring at the man on the throne. Not discouraged, Belle took a few steps closer, sword raised. It, too, was still coated in a thick layer of blood.

"You've never heard of me, dearie? Odd that, considering the circumstances of your birth. Gotten bigger in the nineteen years since I saw you last, haven't you?" He bared his teeth at her in a sickening smile, and Belle wondered briefly if he could breathe fire, too, so like a dragon he seemed with vicious fangs and scales for skin.

She could feel herself pale and the goosebumps that rose upon her bared flesh as the realization hit her, harder than an ogre's blow. "You're him," she hissed. "Rumpelstiltskin."

He leapt from her dead father's throne, bowed low to the floor with a flourish. "At your service, princess."

Before Belle knew what was happening, he had her hand in his grasp-the hand that was not brandishing the sword-and was in the process of bringing it to his lips. "Get away from me!" she growled, ripping her fist away from the Dark One and swinging her sword at his neck.

He batted it from him as he would a particularly irritating fly, and when Belle attempted a second strike, this one faster than the other, Rumpelstiltskin tore the blade from her and threw it to the floor. If anything, his smirk grew wider. "Ah ah ah. Come now, dearie. You don't want to destroy your once chance at saving your kingdom's precious heir, now do you?" He giggled and clapped his hands. "Not that you even could. Destroy me, that is."

"We do not deal with murderers," Belle said, the words spat from her lips in disgust. Her right hand flexed-it felt empty, naked without her sword in it, as if she was missing a significant piece of clothing, or a limb.

Rumpelstiltskin's expression was one of mock offense, eyebrows raised with a theatrical pout to match. "Murderer? Me?" He fixed his black gaze onto Breven, several feet behind Belle. "And what sorts of stories have you been filling her pretty little head with?"

Breven opened his mouth to answer, but Belle was already in the middle of her fierce retort. "The truth. About how you killed my mother. Broke your deal to save us both."

He shook his head. "What an interesting way to tell the tale, for I believe the deal was to save you-nothing was ever said about the queen herself. The king only had his regrets when he realized that his heir was not to his liking." A few steps in Belle's direction, but she refused to back away. "I believe that was you, dearie." He shrugged, raised his palms in a gesture of hopelessness. "Now, enough of these old deals. They leave a stale taste in my mouth. Nothing like the sweet flavor of desperation I taste now." His tongue, pink and lizard-like, swept across his thin lips. Again, he turned to Breven. "That is why you called me, is it not, Sir Knight?"

Belle swept around, turning to her chief advisor. "You called him?"

Although Breven had always been older than her, nearly as old as Belle's father, with deep battle scars and gray hair slowly fading to white, never before had he looked so old, so worn, as if a strong wind could knock him down forever. "I did, my lady," he said. He motioned to Gaston, limp on the table-the healers had all fled at Rumpelstiltskin's appearance-and continued, "We must save him."

"And you think evil magic is the way to do it?"

Breven nodded. "You heard the healers. It is the only way."

Belle returned to her cousin's-her betrothed's-side. His skin was grayer and duller than storm clouds, and the brown-and-yellow pus-that killing rot that would reach his heart-leaked through the neatly-applied bandage in a putrid stain. His brow was slick with sweat, and his lips trembled, as if overwrought with unspoken words. Her hand slid along his once-strong jawline, down to his neck, to feel the wavering pulse that uneasily clung to life. Even in those few seconds, Belle could feel it slipping farther and farther away. She kept her eyes on Gaston-poor, dying Gaston-when she managed to make herself ask, "And what is your price, Rumpelstiltskin?"

"My price...is you."

"No!" Breven roared.

And Belle looked up, to see Rumpelstiltskin long, reptilian finger pointed right at her. She rose from Gaston's side, and glared at the Dark One.

Moments passed, five, then ten, and finally Rumpelstiltskin cleared his throat. "This is the part where you faint in horror, dearie. Or are you slightly hard of hearing?"

Belle cocked her head, almost as if in concern for the Dark One's mental state. "I am no bargaining chip. What misimpression did we give you to believe that I was?"

He wagged a finger at her, and had the audacity to wink. "Ah, so we have a witty little girl here. But in my deals, even a princess can be a price. For the life of your king, I expect you in return."

"The princess is betrothed, Rumpelstiltskin. She will be our queen," Breven said.

"What? She cannot be queen in her own right, so you marry her to that-" he pointed at the unconscious Gaston, "-pathetic excuse for a king to let her rule? What a pity." But the wide grin on his face belied his words; clearly, the Dark One found Anglia's predicament to be hysterically hilarious. He gave Belle a sideways glance, "You've always been a pawn in their game, dearie. What's the difference, becoming a pawn in mine, instead?"

Belle stood still, considering his words. "May we have time? To make our decision?"

Rumpelstiltskin bowed, as though he was a proper, courtly gentleman. "All the time you require. Or rather-" Here he wiggled his eyebrows. "All the time that your dying king has left. I won't be able to bring him back from the dead, dearie. Remember that." He whirled around, made to leave with a snap of his fingers.

"Wait!"

"Yes, dearie?" He turned back to Belle, interest piqued.

"What is it you want me for, anyway? To trade me off to some royal family or another when one of them happens to need a princess?" Belle remembered the fate of the shepherd's infant-the story went that he became a part of one of Rumpelstiltskin's other deals, someone somewhere who needed a newborn son.

Again, that sadistic giggle of amusement. "Oh no. You shall simply become one of my prized possessions. An ornament, really. In addition, my castle needs cleaning every so often. The dust does get rather thick. I'd rather have someone pretty doing it, if I can help it." And before Belle could reply-undoubtedly with words full of rage-Rumpelstiltskin vanished in a plume of purple smoke.

Belle stumbled to her father's throne-where that monster had been sitting minutes before-and collapsed. After cradling her head in the palms of her hands, attempting to collect her thoughts, she looked up at Breven. He stood in the center of the hall, beside Gaston. "What do I do?" She was empty of hope, her words a thin whine that echoed through the empty room-her men had already withdrawn, dismissed by Breven after Rumpelstiltskin's disappearance. "Can I not be queen in my own right, truly? That would fix all of this mess."

"Except for Gaston," Breven replied.

Her sigh was heavy. "Except for Gaston."

"I know you do not love him but-"

"He has the training to be king. And I do not. I am a general and a strategist and a warrior, but know nothing of governing itself. I know." She stared down at her bloodstained skirt, watched the fabric stain the wood she sat upon.

I will play my part in this kingdom, pleasant or not. They will remember me, Belle thought. "Will Anglia accept me as queen in my own right, if Gaston dies? With you by my side to help me, of course."

Breven hesitated. "Perhaps, but only for a short while-they and the rest of the council will insist on your marriage."

"To whom?"

"To any man young and able enough to sire an heir upon you." Breven did not soften his words, kept them blunt, for the sake of his princess. She would never bear with flowery phrases, those which glorified a terrible situation, and he would not fool her now. "A man who would become king over you, over your birthright."

She winced.

"Gaston would be content to rule at your side-the match was perfect. And a blood relative, too, taught at the side of your father-but your father did not foresee this."

"And-" she faltered. "And can Gaston rule without me?"

"I will not allow it," Breven said. His calm, soothing tones had transformed into a thunder-like rage.

"That may be our only option, unless you would rather I make myself a broodmare for some land-hungry foreigner." Her voice was steel, but then melted into softer, more malleable iron. "Tell me the truth. Can Gaston rule without me?"

"Yes. With some help, he can."

"The people will support him?"

"By right of his blood and-and his sex-yes."

She smiled, and it was almost weak, if Breven had ever seen weakness from his princess. "Then our decision is made, is it not?"

"A deal then!" Maniacal laughter, followed by a short pop, and Rumpelstiltskin was again in their midst, his arm curled around the throne upon which Belle sat. "You called me, dearie, with your heart, willingly or not. There's no changing it now, is there?" He giggled, his excitement tangible.

"I have no heart, but my mind is made up, I suppose." She was cold and brittle and fragile as ice, settled into the path she knew she had to take. "I have no other choice, for the sake of my people."

He offered her a feral smile. "That's right." With his thumb and forefinger, he drew a thin line through the air in front of her. "The deal is struck."

Belle struggled to take deep breaths, pretend that this was ordinary, that she had not just given herself over to most wicked sorcerer in all of the kingdoms, known and unknown. "What happens next?"

"Show me to our patient," he said, although he walked straight over to Gaston himself. Breven backed away from the Dark One, moving toward the throne. Belle sat slumped over, hands between her knees. He clasped her shoulder, realized how thin it felt without her usual armor. "You don't have to do this, my lady."

"The deal is struck, Breven. And a good thing, too, before I can be talked into a more foolish decision."

"You really think that what you're doing is right?"

"For Anglia, yes. I decide my own fate, but more important the fate of my country." As for herself, Belle was unsure. At least I will not become a broodmare, at any rate, she told herself. Her eyes flew to Rumpelstiltskin, and she stood, walking cautiously toward him.

His hands danced across Gaston's chest, removing the bandage with care. Gaston groaned in pain, and Rumpelstiltskin quieted him with a mild shush.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

His fingertips crept along the circumference of the wound, paused, and began to pull on what seemed a like a delicate, invisible thread between his thumb and forefinger. "Pulling out the poison."

"With magic?"

"Aye, dearie. With magic." Gone was the taunting monster. Rumpelstiltskin's face was drawn right in concentration, all merriment vanquished by the seriousness of the task at hand. As he tugged farther and harder on this thread of magic that only he could see, yellow pus flowed from the wound like a fountain. The fountain of gore quickly turned black, but at the first hint of red, Rumpelstiltskin abruptly stopped, and the river stopped, too. "Wouldn't want to waste good blood as he's got so little of it left," he muttered.

Gaston opened his eyes. "What-what-?"

Belle stroked his forehead. "Hush. You're going to be fine." She tried put herself in his immediate vision, blocking Rumpelstiltskin from his view.

"Ah, let me close the wound now," he interrupted. With an invisible needle and string-more magic, Belle supposed-Rumpelstiltskin made stitching motions through the air, and she watched as Gaston's stab wound began to seal itself shut. All that was left was a long, white scar.

Gaston inhaled deeply, as if it was the first breath of fresh air he had had in days-indeed it felt to Belle as though it had been days, instead of mere hours. He took Belle's hands, cradled them between his own. "What's going on?"

Before Belle could answer, Rumpelstiltskin spoke. "Your betrothed has just made a little deal to save your life!" He clapped his hands in glee.

"Is that-is that-?"

"Yes, Gaston. The Dark One. Rumpelstiltskin. I made a deal with him to save you." She was pleading without realizing it, begging him to understand. Belle rarely had to plea or beg for anything, but now she felt she did, for one of the first times in her life. "Anglia needs its king."

"What did you trade?" He struggled to sit, but Belle tried to push him back down to the table.

"Good idea. Needs his rest." Rumpelstiltskin leaned over the pair. "We're leaving soon, dearie. Say your goodbyes."

"What? Belle? What's going on?" He pulled her hands to his newly-healed chest, clinging to her like a frightened child. "Belle?"

She tried to stay gentle and calm, for her cousin's sake. "I'm going with him. With Rumpelstiltskin. That was the deal."

"No. No, you can't-"

"A deal is a deal. My freedom in exchange for your life. Anglia needs its king," she said again, to convince both him and herself. She placed two fingers over his lips. "I have to go now. Rest up. Listen to whatever Breven tells you-he's your general now. Marry someone sensible and practical-she can be pretty too, if you like. But a woman who can keep your feet planted firmly on the ground. And yes, Gaston, let the grass of Anglia grow. No more burnings." She bent down. "You will be a good king," she whispered in his ear, like a soft prayer.

Belle stood, and turned away from her cousin, from what had been her future. She could not bear to look at him any longer, but she could hear the sobs that wracked his body. Her back was to her father's throne, as well. "Take care of him," she said to Breven, but refused to look at him, too. "Tell the people of Anglia that their princess loved them, did this for their hope of a brighter future." She felt as though she was dying, giving her own funeral speech. But before she went to her tomb, she was sure to pick up her sword, sheathe it where it belonged at her side.

Her gaze met Rumpelstiltskin's, and she stood straighter, head higher. "Shall I change into traveling clothes?" she asked, conscious of her shredded bloodstained gown. And to think I wore this for a celebration, she thought.

"Trust me, dearie. It's a short trip. And there will be clothes for you at the castle. Any trinkets you'd like to take? Dead mother's jewelry or an heirloom of sorts?"

Belle shook her head. "No. I've my sword. That's all."

Rumpelstiltskin shrugged. "As milady wishes," he mocked, coming to stand beside her. "Take my hand."

In those moments, Belle felt as though she was watching herself, rather than inside her own body. Like a spectator, screaming no at this young woman with the sword in the mangled gown, but the young woman could not hear her. She took the hand of the Dark One, noted its warmth, despite its scaly smoothness, like the skin of a snake.

And they were gone.