The king didn't request her presence on the climax of his conquest. His plans fell in place and his dreams were finally realised after three long years. Everything was as he wished and peace finally descended upon the conquered lands. However, the same could not be said for the blood-curling screams erupting from the throne room. Lords and nobles from conquered lands who defied the king were personally tortured by him. It happened often enough that everyone measured the king's displeasure by the length of the scream. On those days, the castle inhabitants would make themselves scarce. No one wanted to face the irate king.

Another visible change came about in the castle, more specifically in the king, but no one dared to comment on it. When none of the council members could see the weakness in their policy, a servant did not steep his tea long enough, or the clean-up at his new territories were taking too long, the king would rant about them to the storyteller before blustering about the castle like a petulant child.

Belle didn't know why, but the king found a hobby in riling her up. It didn't escape her notice it started not long after her demand for reading materials. The first few times it happened, she wondered if he was so lonely to willingly subject himself to her idle chatter. Surely his ministers could provide more stimulating conversations? But as the weeks passed, she stopped questioning his motive. He was, after all, the only one who would and could talk to her. Deprived of human interactions, the storyteller latched on the king's company despite their differences.

Accustoming herself to his morbid humour took a while. When she learned to appreciate it, she found she rather liked his taciturn nature as long as she was not the recipient. As their familiarity with each other grew, she liked to think they had formed a reluctant friendship of sorts. Gradually, she peeled away the layers wrapped around the king as she oft did with others. She decided she quite liked the man she found beneath those masks. He was an interesting companion as long as his sanity was not overtaken by bloodlust.

One had to be a fool to not notice the shift around the castle. After years of shrouded in darkness, lightness was tangible in the castle's air. Whispers spread through the kingdom about this transformation and none expected this one particular change on a fine Sunday morning, not even the storyteller.

In the early morning of a Sunday, just as the sun was rising and scattering light over the land, Belle found herself staring out a high window.

A window that wasn't there yesterday or the months before.

A window where soft, warm rays of sunlight kissed her face in varying colours and patterns.

Gently, she traced its patterns, as if fearing it would shatter. She was startled out of her trance when a maid tapped on her shoulders. The woman told her the king requested her presence.

Belle could only look at the frumpy woman like a lost child. 'How did she get in?' she thought to herself.

"You're required to dine with the king, so be quick about it. Else he'll have my head on a spike." The confusion must be evident on her face for the woman huffed out, "Stop gaping like a goldfish. It is just a window and me, nothing to stare in wonder at."

"But—but why?"

"How would I know what's on the king's head! Maybe he has taken a liking to you. Maybe he has finally got it into his head that keeping you cooped up in here with only him as a companion is not doing any good for that pretty head of yours. Mind you, I've been in the same situation, and living alone with no companionship is enough to drive me mad within a week. Don't know how you managed it this long."

The old maid continued her babbling; she was impatient and most probably exhausted judging from the dark circles under her eyes. She ushered Belle to her bathing tub and the storyteller smiled when no candles were needed to light up the room. Not when the room was bathed in sunlight from four high windows.

As the day progressed, no one but Fate knew that the coming nightfall would mark the beginning of the permanent intertwining of the storyteller's fate and the king's.

The storyteller was reading by the hearth when the door slammed open to reveal the man who had consumed her thoughts throughout the day. He walked in wordlessly and sagged into a nearby chair—a bottle threatening to fall from his loose grip. As the unpleasant smell of liquor assaulted her senses, the king's bleary eyes looked into nothingness; his occasional hiccup broke the dark quietness.

Belle had one too many unpleasant experiences with drunken men. The sight of Rumpelstiltskin in such state vexed her. She refused to be shackled to a master who was no better than her last. Alcohol did nothing but blur your senses and judgement. It made you half the person that you once were. He was supposed to be the all-powerful Rumpelstiltskin, for God's sake! Belle was about to call the guards when the beaten man, for that was what he looked to her, snickered and broke into a monologue. Or perhaps he was talking to invisible beings that she could not see. He spoke of his harsh upbringing, his cowardly father, and his child. Stunned was the word to describe her when no kind words were spared for his wife and it became apparent that no amount of soothing could ease his bleeding heart. And so Belle let him rage until he finally lost himself to sleep.

Covering him in her blanket, her hand tentatively crept up to push away a stray lock of hair. The man whimpered his son's name. Belle couldn't help the sympathy formed in her breast. Finally, the last layer was peeled and she couldn't unseen what was in front of her. Yes, Rumpelstiltskin was still a power-hungry king and killed people on a whim. The old policies left part of his people in poverty, but they were just that, old. In the past year he managed to amass more wealth than anyone could fathom and implemented policies that improved the lives of his subjects.

King Midas' wealth was evenly distributed among the new kingdom and each city has its own appointed steward to oversee the distribution of provisions. King George's armies that once toppled cities and terrorised neighbouring kingdoms now stood as an army who protects the new kingdom from external threats. In spite of the mountain of bodies that burned in this quest for power, no one could deny that their lives have improved. Uniting the lands under one ruler was an overdue strategy.

At the crack of dawn, a blanket was neatly folded on the chair, now empty of its night occupant. A cursive thank you note lay on it.