Warning: This chapter includes depictions of torture. If that's not your cup of tea, read the first scene and then skip to the last scene.

Chapter Three—"The Price"

One Year Ago:

"But I'm a villain," he said softly, meaning every word, "and villains don't get happy endings."

Fire was already spreading outwards from the wound in his chest, and Rumplestiltskin knew he didn't have long. His curse was screaming wildly in his mind, fighting against the very idea of ending things this way, but it was the only way to save those he loved…and that was more important than anything else. For once in his long life, he was going to do the right thing. No matter what it took. No matter what the price.

He twisted the dagger, and within seconds, Rumplestiltskin and his father vanished in a flash of blindingly brilliant white light. Pain surged outwards from the wound, engulfing them both, and though Rumplestiltskin did not cry out—he was too focused, all but shaking with determination and resolve—Malcolm did. Magic, both Rumplestiltskin's protesting curse and pure white power surrounded them, pulling them into a vortex of agony and energy. The world went black, then gold, and then white again, and suddenly there was nothing.

Moments of emptiness passed. Was he floating?

He was alone. Time had no meaning. Nothing happened—until something did.

The first thing he tasted was grass, sticking up his nostrils and in his mouth. His eyes were still closed, and the left side of his chest still throbbed, thumping in time with the beating of his heart, hard and fast and painful. Slowly, he forced his eyes open, blinking when a blade of grass poked into his left eye. Everything hurt, and the left shoulder of his expensive suit felt stiff, as if it was covered in blood.

Maybe it was.

Swallowing, Rumplestiltskin slowly forced himself into a sitting position, his limbs shaking as he did so. It was so quiet. And the sunlight was brighter than he would have expected, or at least brighter than the day had been in Storybrooke—

Storybrooke. His head whipped around wildly, but he was in an empty clearing. Utterly empty. There were trees less than fifty yards away in pretty much every direction, but no sign of civilization at all. Judging from his surroundings, he was somewhere on the west end of the Enchanted Forest—centuries of memory told him that that specific breed of elm tree only grew there. But there was no one else there. No sign of life whatsoever.

Had Regina cast her curse yet? Were Belle and Bae all right? What if—

With an effort, he shoved his desire to panic down. Regina would come through, even though she'd hate the cost of what she had to do. That meant the others would probably be along shortly, depending upon how long it took Regina's curse to meet Pan's and how much time had passed since he'd killed himself.

Ah. There was the rub. He'd killed himself and—

That was why it was so quiet. The magic-blocking cuff was still on his left wrist, but it didn't matter. The whispers no longer filled his mind, driving him towards murder and mayhem and rage. His curse was broken. Silent. Gone. For the first time in three hundred years, Rumplestiltskin's mind was solely his own. The darkness that had controlled his soul for so many years was…gone.

The fingers of his right hand closed on a familiar ribbed hilt, and he turned his head to look at the dagger. Blood glistened on the blade, his and Pan's both, filling the delicate engravings and starting to dry already. Holding his breath, Rumplestiltskin turned the blade over, looking for the letters he had seen there for three centuries.

The dagger was blank.

He was free. He was utterly without magic, but he was free. Rumplestiltskin had wondered, very briefly, if sacrificing himself to save Henry in Neverland might wind up like this, if the magic inherent in a self-sacrifice might save him and break his curse, but he'd not dared to hope. Even when he'd planned to kill Pan for the right reasons, he'd not really thought that it would save him. He was the Dark One, after all, and even sacrificing himself to save his grandson would probably not be enough to do both. Odds had always been that he would simply die, and he'd made peace with that. So, when he'd come out to face Pan without magic, the thought had never crossed his mind. He had only wanted to save Bae, Belle, and the others—

"You have come a long way to return to us, Dark One."

Staggering to his feet, Rumplestiltskin spun to face where the voice had come from behind him. No one had been there moments earlier, but the familiar taste of magic was in the air. It was sharp and tangy, power overlaid with darkness, a flavor he knew well. His right hand closed desperately around the dagger; it was his only defense now that he was without magic of his own, but judging from the sudden appearance of these people, he would stand no chance.

Had he magic, facing off with these five would be simple—not that he would have stuck around for a drawn-out fight; that wasn't his style at all. Even without it, he could see that the tall red-haired woman who had spoken was the real threat. Although the four individuals behind her were all clearly magic users—two of them had small balls of magic in their hands already—she was the threat. Rumplestiltskin had never seen her before, and had never heard of anyone even remotely like her, but he knew power when he saw it. And that woman had power.

Fantastic. I have nothing save my formidable intelligence to get myself out of this one.

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong man, dearie," he replied casually, shifting his weight so that he was standing more evenly. Even after healing his leg in Neverland—properly healing it, not just managing the injury with magic as he had for so many centuries—Rumplestiltskin been unable to shake the habit of putting more weight on his left leg than his right. Had it been worth it, leaving himself powerless? He'd know soon enough.

She smiled, porcelain smooth skin crinkling slightly at the corners of her mouth. The woman, whoever or whatever she claimed to be, was truly beautiful. Stunning was perhaps a better word, with flawless features framed by flaming red hair. Her face was too perfect. There was magic working here.

"Rumplestiltskin, I presume?" the woman asked. Her voice was low, almost soothing. It immediately put him on his guard.

Still, he smiled his old sly smile, knowing that the threat of power was almost as good as power itself, and a bluff was only a bluff if your opponent knew you were lying. He twirled his left hand for emphasis. "But of course. And you are?"

"That will keep," she answered easily, and something in the tone of her voice gave him pause.

Rumplestiltskin studied the stranger—all five of them, truly, but a second evaluation revealed that the silver and black clad woman remained the most dangerous of the bunch. The man and woman at her back were more overtly dangerous, and were clearly trying very hard to distract him, so he kept his eyes on their leader. Meanwhile, his mind whirled over possibilities, probabilities, and the slightly odd feel of magic in the air. Centuries of knowledge and study hadn't abandoned him when his curse broke, and the answer came to him almost as quickly as she deflected his question.

"I knew the fae had escaped the curse, but I did not expect to see you wandering this far out," he commented mildly, watching the other four faces. Aside from the dangerous two, there were two other men, an interesting fact in itself. There were no male fairies, only male fae, and they were rare indeed. Yet this woman had three of them with her, undoubtedly to send a message of some sort.

"You are clever," the fae leader replied, a smile touching her face. For some reason, she seemed happy with that knowledge. Worry knotted up in his stomach, but Rumplestiltskin smiled.

"I aim to please."

One smooth white hand came up, and long fingers curled slightly. Even with the cuff on, even without magic, he could feel the power building up, could feel it hesitating in the air and ready to strike. The red-haired fae smiled.

"Oh, you shall indeed."

He opened his mouth to respond, but magic lashed out and the world went dark before he could say a word.

Hands on his shoulders pushed down, and even as Rumplestiltskin clawed his way back into consciousness, those hands shoved him down on his back. Hard.

The impact with the stone floor knocked the wind out of him, leaving him gasping for air. Fingers buried themselves in his long hair and yanked back, making him yelp in pain. Before he knew what was happening, a blindfold wrapped itself over his eyes, tightly enough that he saw stars beneath the cloth. Disoriented, a moment passed before Rumplestiltskin even started to struggle, and by then there were hands on his wrists and ankles both. He tried to fight, but he'd always been slender and he was still weak from the wound in his chest. The fae—they had to be fae—overpowered him easily, holding him against the cold floor.

Magic tingled over his skin, fast and sharp, making hairs stand up on the back of his neck. One spell swept down from his head to his toes, and a different one swept back up along the same path. The first was merely exploratory, but the second vanished his clothes and left him naked.

"What—" Rumplestiltskin tried to protest, but the moment his mouth was open, an iron cylinder shoved into it, making him gag as cold metal knocked against his teeth, shoving down into his throat.

Metal pressed up against his nose, blocking his airflow and forcing his head back with the impact. But a hand remained anchored in his hair, yanking Rumplestiltskin up short when he tried to escape the gag. Straps, also made of metal, jerked tight against his neck, and Rumplestiltskin choked as he felt the gag buckle tightly into place. The straps connected to the mouthpiece and plate over his nose by hinges, and the entire contraption was very rough. The metal edges cut into his skin even as the gag itself sliced his tongue open, and Rumplestiltskin tried to cry out in pain. The gag muffled it down to a pained whimper, but at least he could breathe through a small hole in the faceplate.

Sort of. The gag restricted his airflow significantly. Panicking, he found himself gasping for air while the fae fastened metal of some sort around his wrists and ankles. This material was cold, too, but lighter and smoother than the iron gag. Still, the bands tightened, and then he felt the tingle of magic and they tightened again, squeezing bones together painfully. Another cry tore out of his air-starved chest, setting off a round of choking and coughing whist he struggled for air. Several long minutes passed before Rumplestiltskin could control his breathing, and he finally managed to suck in a somewhat calm breath.

Then metal closed around his neck, shrinking down and shooting magic into his system. Nerve endings exploded, and stars exploded in front of his eyes. Rumplestiltskin tried to scream, only to be unable to find enough air to do so. Thrashing helplessly against the hands holding him, he convulsed in pain, struggling for air while he continued trying to scream. Several minutes passed as magic raced through his system, darkness ripping and slashing and clawing into him. But the fae held him down until the convulsions stopped, and the magical attack finally died down.

Panting for air, Rumplestiltskin slumped weakly, and did not resist as the hands holding him lifted his shaking body, fastening additional shackles around his wrists and ankles. The restraints were not as restrictive as the bands, but they were still tight enough to hurt. They pulled his arms and legs uncomfortably far apart, and Rumplestiltskin cried out again as his chest and face crashed into a cold stone wall.

"Begin," the female fae's voice commanded.

Rumplestiltskin screamed as the whip bit into his back.

Months passed in darkness, in pain. The fae spoke to him rarely, usually only to bark a command which he would inevitably try to ignore. Rumplestiltskin's body weakened quickly; he was human and helpless, and the fae seemed to have little knowledge of human nutritional concerns. Or perhaps they just didn't care, and were happy to keep him functioning with magic instead of feeding him often enough. They gave him plenty of water, frequently dunking him headlong into a barrel of freezing cold water until Rumplestiltskin was near drowned, choking and struggling for air while he coughed up the water his stomach could not absorb.

Assuming they came once per day, it had been eighty-two days since the fae had taken him, eighty-two days of torture with no explanation. Rumplestiltskin's mind was in a constant whirl of pain and magic; the collar kept darkness swirling over him like a second skin when the younger fae were not there to torture him. The only respite he received was when he passed out from exhaustion or pain—

Hot irons touched his left side, right on top of broken ribs. Convulsing in the chains, Rumplestiltskin howled weakly in pain, his face pressed against the hard stone. Sometimes they chained his back against the wall and others his front; today was the later, and the hot irons moved on to his back.

Screaming into the gag, Rumplestiltskin felt flesh sizzling under the irons. After a moment, they lifted, and then moved a little to the right and then came down again, and he screeched. White flashed in front of his eyes, blindfolded since that very first day, and when the irons touched his skin for a fourth time, he felt hot tears splash down his face. The irons lifted and came down again, leaving Rumplestiltskin to shudder and shake, hanging weakly in his chains and sobbing in pain.

Right side this time; the smell of burning flesh filled the cellar. He yearned to know why they tortured him, what they wanted or anything—but he could only struggle to breathe through the agony. The only time the fae removed the gag was to near drown him, and they shoved it back into his mouth each time before he could begin to voice a question or even catch his breath.

The irons traveled downwards, burning his skin every inch or so as he shook violently in agony. The only good part about this routine was that it cauterized the still-bleeding wounds from the most recent whipping, but a human body could only absorb so much pain. Still sobbing, growing weaker by the moment, Rumplestiltskin's head began to spin wildly as he drifted closer and closer to unconsciousness—but then a fae's hand touched the back of his neck, and magic flooded into him, dragging him forcibly back from the edge. Renewed awareness slammed into him, and Rumplestiltskin screeched once more.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0

He'd lost count somewhere after one hundred and twenty torture sessions. Somewhere around that point, she had come back, and the physical torture had been replaced by an assault of magic like he had never felt before. It felt like darkness was trying to claw into his soul, like tendrils of sheer evil were working their way into everything he was and everything he could be—and pain ripped out of his insides with every breath he took. Rumplestiltskin could still identify magic, could still feel it racing through him and knew what it was doing, but he could do nothing about it. All his years of accumulating knowledge were useless, now. He was utterly defenseless.

She departed after another dozen or more sessions; he could not tell how many after the darkness lashed into him so strongly. Rumplestiltskin's mind tipped off the edge of coherency and started to float. Only the pain seemed able to make him lucid, and then only for short periods. He only shook and screamed, flinching when hands came close and struggling for air. She came more often as his mind grew foggier, as it started to tumble aimlessly through memory and…and something. Nothing made sense any more.

He didn't even know what she wanted.

A hand touched the back of his neck as he sobbed into the wall, magic still crackling over him, darkness still clawing into his soul. How she could touch him without it harming her was a mystery; this amount of power should attack even the caster. But her long fingers caressed the back of his head, moving slowly as Rumplestiltskin shook wildly.

"Do not fight it," she whispered, and he wanted to call her a fool because he wasn't fighting. He was only trying to breathe through the agony. The pain was so intense that he had a hard time remembering even his own name.

Rumplestiltskin, a voice in his mind whispered, and it sounded like Belle.

Belle. Her face flashed in front of his eyes, broken and horrified and proud because she knew what he was going to do to kill Pan, standing next to Bae while—

Darkness stabbed in, magic trying to shred his soul, and Rumplestiltskin screamed in pain, convulsing wildly. Her hand stroked his hair, her touch an absurdly gentle contrast to the power racing through him and making his limbs spasm.

"Just let go," she whispered, squeezing the back of his skull tightly and then releasing him. He couldn't hear her step back, but she must have, because then a whip lashed into the torn skin of his back, and Rumplestiltskin screamed again.

Usually the magical attack withdrew before they started to physically torture him, but not this time. This time the whips and the irons and the beatings came with the darkness, and she did not leave.

Three quarters of the way through the year, he was an utterly wasted mess of pain, owner of a mind that cartwheeled through memories and coherency without following any logical pattern. Some of the images flashing through his mind didn't even come out of his own past; they were like snapshots into someone else's life, like the memories that he had once inherited with the now-broken curse of the Dark One. But these were different, older, shadowed in pain like his own and so very hard to differentiate from the present.

Either that past or his own memories had entirely too much knowledge concerning torture, and he recognized nearly every method they used on him, from the rack to boiling water to weights pressing down on him and more. Once they burned his eyes out with the hot irons, though her magic fixed that some sessions later so that they could do it again as he howled and shook and tried to beg through the gag. That process repeated itself again and again until he flinched wildly whenever hands even started to come near his face, until one day she healed his eyes and they simply tied the blindfold back on as he trembled in fear.

They never asked anything, not even when she came. The female fae only told him not to fight it, clearly angered by something, but Rumplestiltskin could not comprehend what. Somewhere amidst the pain he came to the conclusion that their goal had to be to grind all resistance and sense of self out of him, but why? He was already terrified, utterly unable to fight them and willing to do almost anything in order to make the pain stop. But they never asked.

When they shoved something into his body and he felt it expand, Rumplestiltskin knew it had to be a pear. Le poire d'angoisser, the kingdom that had created the device had named it, and the petals tore into his innards as he screamed in agony. The pressure only increased as it expanded, and he thrashed in his chains with energy he'd not known he still had, sobbing wordlessly for the pain to stop.

It didn't.

Present Day:

They'd left him with his back against the wall that day, with stone rubbing against fresh burns as he dangled by his wrists, utterly unable to support himself. Breathing was so hard, but something kept his body functioning; was that part of the magic she had worked on him? There were layers and layers he could not identify, darkness and power and pain that tore through him at the slightest touch. Sometimes the magic attacked for days on end—or what he thought of as days, anyway; it might have been months—but for now it was silent. The lesser fae had left him alone sometime earlier, shaking and bleeding and sobbing for air.

Voices; he flinched helplessly. Any concept of time he'd once possessed had been burned out of him, but he'd hoped they'd be gone longer. A tiny bit of light crept in beneath the lower right hand corner of the blindfold, and his trembling grew more violent. His breathing came faster and harder until he was almost hyperventilating, choking for air around the gag as footsteps closed in on him. Another voice came, and then there were hands on his face—

Rumplestiltskin recoiled weakly, whimpering in pain and terror as fingers brushed against his broken left cheekbone, still swollen from a beating not too many sessions before. His entire body burned. He couldn't—he couldn't—

"Rumple?" a distant voice whispered frantically. It was female, but not her. Hands reached around the back of his head, untying the blindfold, and he shied away from the touch, but the blindfold came off, anyway.

"Regina, get down here!" the same voice shouted, and recognition twinged at the corner of his memory. Light in so much darkness. A beautiful face framed by dark hair, with blue eyes that looked at him as if…

The light—blue and magic—drifted closer as he tried to open his eyes, making him squint against brightness and pain when he tried to open his eyes. Someone else spoke as hands fumbled with the gag, momentarily pulling it tighter against his face and shoving the metal cylinder deeper into his throat. He choked helplessly, but then it was gone, and Rumplestiltskin could breathe more easily for the first time in forever.

"That's not possible," someone else whispered, and suddenly the chains holding him up released as arms caught him and lowered him to the ground. Two sets of hands brushed against burns and wounds on his chest and back, making Rumplestiltskin moan in pain. He couldn't stop shaking, couldn't comprehend what was happening as the shackles on his ankles released, too. His head was on something other than cold stone. Not the floor. Softer. Someone's lap?

He wanted to curl up and sob, but moving hurt too much, so he lay still, tense and trembling violently. A hand touched his face again, this time on the less damaged right side.

"Rumple?" she whispered. He knew the voice. Remembered.

"Belle…?" he croaked, his voice rusty from screaming and disuse. Her name was the first word he'd spoken in over a year, and he felt her shake in relief before he passed out.

A/N: Wow! Thank you again for all the awesome reviews! My heart is utterly warmed by the fantastic reception I received, which has certainly encouraged me to update faster. Stay tuned for Chapter 4: "The Impossible," in which Rumplestiltskin is his usual difficult self, gets in a spat with Regina, and generally tries to claw his way towards sanity.

In the meantime, I have a question for all of you! Do you think Rumplestiltskin is as magic-less as he believes, or will he be able to find a way to use magic?