Disclaimer: I don't own Once Upon a Time, and am making no profit from this story.

Summary: Dark Ones don't die. Instead, their souls are transported to the Vault, where they remain for eternity with nothing save each other and their own darkness for company. Despite his sacrifice, Rumplestiltskin was no different. A story in three parts.

The Vault

Part I:

Villains don't get happy endings. As last words went, they weren't too bad. Had someone asked Rumplestiltskin what note he'd prefer to go out on, he'd certainly have told them that a clever quip needed to be in there somewhere. Not that he'd expected to die like this. Not by his own hand, and not for such a reason. But this—well this, he would have expected.

When the white light cleared, he was standing in darkness. Cloying, heavy darkness, rather like Pandora's box, but with company. The kris dagger was still clutched in his hand, and there was a rip in his suit over his heart, but he was otherwise intact. There wasn't even a slight ache in his shoulder, and he imagined that he could feel his heart beating in his chest, despite having stabbed himself in it not long before. He felt shockingly human amidst the heavy feeling of evil around him; the evil was so thick and potent that they almost seemed to be underwater.

They.

A quick glance revealed that there were eighteen other faces looking at him, watching him, judging him. Few looked human as he did; most featured the scales and outer evidence of the curse he'd once known so well, hard-bodied and harder-edged, oozing evil from their very pores. Some faces were ghostly pale, others razor thin, but none looked happy. Rage filled the air, poignant and sharp. He could taste their desperation, could feel the magic swirling impotently around each one of them, burning for release it would never be given. They were trapped here, as he was. Where was he? A holding tank for the most evil souls a curse had ever spawned?

Rumplestiltskin supposed he should not be surprised. There would be no peace for one such as he. Not even in death.

Looking around as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see walls of ice and stone. Black ooze dripped from the ceiling like giant icicles, sometimes landing on the inhabitants and making them shy aside as if burned. Glancing up—and studiously ignoring the fact that the others were all staring hungrily his way—Rumplestiltskin studied the ooze dispassionately, his well-trained mind tripping through centuries' of knowledge to decide if it could actually hurt him or if the effect was purely psychological. His body felt solid enough, but he had the feeling that it was merely a manifestation of his subconscious desire to appear alive. Was that the same for all of them? Surely it had to be.

This place—the Vault of the Dark One, the echoes of his curse supplied—looked rather like many cultures from the Land Without Magic assumed Hell must look. Curious. So far as Rumplestiltskin knew, the legends of their land didn't depict a black and red underworld of darkness in which the evil suffered for eternity. But here he was, and Rumplestiltskin instinctively knew that this was for eternity. Yet another price of the Dark One's curse—it owned his soul in life, and would do so in death. Utterly.

There were no creature comforts, no furniture, and no rooms other than this one. Just a vast cavern of black ooze and shimmering walls that spat fireballs at random intervals. Comfortable, certainly. Would there be demons along to torment them, or were they expected to do that for one another? Rumplestiltskin rather expected the later. His compatriots seemed more than perfectly capable of making one another suffer for all eternity. Nineteen Dark Ones, stripped of their power and their magic—each by one who also resided in this vault. There were no friendships here, he knew, only temporary alliances born out of a desire to make someone else suffer. The vault was home to the vicious and the cruel, the tricky and the powerful, the most dangerous beings to ever inhabit the Enchanted Forest. This was the price, in the end, Rumplestiltskin knew instinctively. They would spend eternity battling against one another, all over a curse none of them still possessed.

Glancing down at the dagger in his hand, Rumplestiltskin knew that was not completely true. Dead or no, he was still the Dark One. So much for the hope that sacrificing himself would break him free of that curse once and for all.

The others were approaching; he could sense them as much as he could see movement out of the corner of his eye, wary and furious faces glowing in the acidic red light. But it was the one to the far right that spoke first, his deep voice full of amusement:

"Ah, it's the cowardly spinner at last. I was wondering how long it would take you to arrive—though it appears that your cowardice helped you avoid death for quite some time. I suppose it must have been useful after all."

Rumplestiltskin chuckled softly, the sound low in his throat and one that used to send people scurrying away from Mr. Gold. Although he would have been able to assume his old form, golden scaled and glitteringly dangerous, with a simple thought, he chose to remain human for the moment. One of the most interesting lessons he had learned in Storybrooke was that this old coward's form could inspire fear; he didn't need the mask of the monster to demonstrate his power. Besides which—this form reminded him of why he'd chosen to die, of how he'd conquered his curse and saved those he loved. He was more than the sum of his curse, unlike the man staring at him so victoriously.

Finally, he looked up, a small and knowing smile on his face. "Unlike you, dearie, I am exactly where I wish to be." Rumplestiltskin held up the dagger, very briefly, to make sure the others noticed it, and then it vanished with a twirl of his wrist. He still had that much magic here, then, enough magic to hide it where none of the others could reach without his cooperation. "Zoso."

Magic. The cuff had not followed him, though his suit had. This place was clearly driven by their desires, at least a little. Interesting.

"How did you—?" The presence of the dagger clearly startled the question out of his predecessor, but pride stopped him. Rumplestiltskin just continued to smile.

"Let's just say that our curse has died with me," he said with no small amount of satisfaction. And those I love did not. Baelfire could find a happy ending without him, Rumplestiltskin knew—perhaps the road to doing so would even be easier without having the Dark One as his father. And Belle…Oh, Belle. For her he had no illusions. She'd made him stronger, but he'd abandoned her again, and this time to a fate that no one could save her from. She'd lost her True Love, and what was left of his heart twisted within him. Belle would never be the same again, and it was his fault—but at least she would live. He could give her that much.

"That's impossible," another voice said, and Rumplestiltskin cocked his head to study this Dark One.

She was a tall woman, though never one who might have been beautiful, even before the curse. Her dark hair was tangled and wild, and her skin scaly but more blue than gold. Reptilian blue eyes stared at Rumplestiltskin as if he were prey to be hunted, doubtful and furious all at the same time. Her clothing was made of silk and fur, luxurious and sharp edged all at the same time. Were those lion teeth decorating her cloak? Rumplestiltskin rather thought so.

"Well, then we do have a problem," he replied, allowing the pitch of his voice to rise slightly and stringing the words together in a bit of a song. Instinct told him that he did not dare show weakness here, not with these people who were so very like the worst parts of his own corrupted soul. Showing weakness, showing the spinner he had once been, the coward Zoso expected him to be, would only doom him for eternity.

And if he was going to spend eternity in this place, this vault—and it seemed like he was, judging from the eighteen other faces looking at him, some more interested than others but all paying attention—Rumplestiltskin was not going to do it as a coward. He would do as he had done for the last three centuries: twist events and people to suit his purposes, and manipulate everything. He knew how to play this game better than many in the vault, and Rumplestiltskin had not died because he'd failed to play the game well. Unlike so many of his predecessors, he'd never lost the dagger. He'd never had to beg or manipulate someone into ending his life. He'd exited the living world on his own terms, and if this was how he would spend death, he would do that on his terms, too.

He had hoped for peace, but what would he do with that, without those he loved? Rumplestiltskin had not been at peace for any extended period of time since he'd gone off to fight in the Ogre Wars—or perhaps when Bae was a child, when it was just the two of them, and no matter how horrible their life had been, it had been theirs. Looking back on it, Rumplestiltskin thought he was happy back then, but there was no way to be certain. He'd been happy with Belle, too, in fits and starts amongst crises and heartbreak, but on the whole, his life had not been one of happiness or tranquility. Perhaps that was a good thing, because this vault contained neither…and he knew how to deal with that.

"I think you have a problem," yet a third Dark One snarled—he would have to learn their names, connect them with the bits of memory rolling around in his mind, for thinking of them each as the Dark One would only confuse matters.

This one was male, and hardly looked like he'd ever been human. Oh, the scaly skin was familiar enough, though his had a green tint to it. His hairless head featured a quintet of horns, though, probably magiced there by his own spells to make himself look more fierce. Almost all evidence of humanity was gone from this creature; blackened teeth ended in sharp points, and his hands were claws instead of just featuring claw-like nails. This one hadn't wanted to be human at all, and hadn't wanted to be free of the curse. He'd reveled in it, sought the power out, hunted and killed his predecessor—the short and squat woman to the far left, who kept her angry distance from the one with horns. Arwan, Rumplestiltskin's memories reported to him suddenly, matching the horned face to a pair of centuries' worth of darkness.

Arwan had been the Horned King, a creature out of legend who had set himself up as a god-king, ruling several kingdoms by force for almost two centuries. Arwan was the longest-lived of the Dark Ones, and he was clearly proud of that fact. He'd lasted until a hero took him down—Taran, a pigkeeper turned king who made the mistake of killing the "Dead Lord" Arwan, and had thus inherited his powers. A good man turned monster, Taran had wound up even crueler and more bloodthirsty than his predecessor…but had always hated himself for it.

Interesting. His memories were starting to catch up with him; each Dark One knew at least a little about their predecessors, because the curse preserved something of the others for which the newest host for the curse could learn from. So he knew who these people were, knew their deepest darknesses and a little bit of their history. But none of them knew him.

That was an advantage he intended to exploit, so he turned to Arwan casually, mentally testing the limits of magic within the vault as he did so. There was not much of it, or if there was it was different than he was accustomed to, but there was magic. "Why ever do you say that, dearie?"

His tone wasn't any more friendly than Arwan's had been, though it was less angry, more playful. Not every Dark One had played the trickster, the imp. That had been Rumplestiltskin's preferred guise; most of his predecessors—at least judging from their current appearances—preferred to inspire sheer terror.

"You don't know how things work here, do you, little man?" Arwan growled, stepping forward to loom over Rumplestiltskin. "I don't care what circumstances you have arrived here under. You'll submit to me."

Ah. So Arwan thought himself the power here. A quick scan of the others' faces told Rumplestiltskin that was partially the case; everyone in here hated Arwan, but some of them feared him, as well. There were no friends in the vault, Rumplestiltskin reminded himself. Only enemies and temporary allies.

What else should he expect? This was not some pleasant afterlife, and these were not nice people. So Rumplestiltskin laughed at Arwan.

"Will I?"

Magic gathered immediately. Arwan did not even bother to respond, only attempted to smash raw power into Rumplestiltskin, hoping to hammer him into submission as he'd clearly done with so many others. Judging from Zoso's not-too-sympathetic smirk, he'd been Arwan's latest victim, some three hundred years earlier—but Rumplestiltskin brushed the attack aside with a wave of one hand. And he made it look easy.

Half the game is what others see, not what actually is, Rumplestiltskin knew. Arwan had thrown a significant amount of power at him, dark magic with teeth to rend and tear at an unruly opponent. But the power had not been unlike magics Rumplestiltskin was well accustomed to using himself, and far less refined. Magic here was different than in the real world, different even from the interestingly stifled version he'd brought to Storybrooke. It was both weaker and more distant, and utterly trapped in the vault. There were no outside power sources, and once the magic inside the vault was used up, there was nothing to do but wait for it to regenerate—

Except Rumplestiltskin did have an outside source. He had the curse itself. He had the dagger.

That was why he felt one type of magic and used another. He'd instinctively drawn upon the dagger, not the meagre magic inside the vault, the power that Arwan and the others continuously fought over. Few had the skill to section off a bit of it for their own use and keep the others out—and immediately, Rumplestiltskin filed away the knowledge of which ones did. Those were the quiet ones, the ones who had chosen not to make an issue of Arwan's supposed supremacy. They were the loners, then. Those three faces—no, four, for one was further in the distance and feigning disinterest—were studying him now, sensing as he did the same, walling off a bit of magic (and including that which Arwan had thrown at him) for himself. Rumplestiltskin might have had the dagger, but he had never encountered a situation in which possessing too much power was a bad thing. Those were the ones that would matter, he knew. Those were the ones he cared to impress.

Arwan he would intimidate.

"Is that the best you can do?" he asked with a laugh much like his old, high-pitched giggle.

Arwan's green horned face went purple with rage. Although the red light overlaid his expression with a demonic visage, Rumplestiltskin didn't even flinch. To show weakness in this place would mean—well, not death, for they were already dead, but eternity spent as someone's puppet, someone's slave. Rumplestiltskin had never once allowed himself to become that, and he would not start now.

"You'll pay for that, Spinner," Arwan spat, making Rumplestiltskin snort. Clearly, Zoso had shared the tale of his own death and said nothing complimentary about him. That, and Zoso's opening remarks, explained why Arwan naturally assumed he would buckle under even the slightest bit of pressure.

"I very much doubt that," Rumplestiltskin replied. Instinct screamed a warning, then, and he sidestepped to the left, magic tingling on his fingers and reaching out. The sweep of his left hand sent another Dark One flying away. Was this one some ally of Arwan's, or another who sought to put the newcomer in his place?

Rumplestiltskin turned to look at a giant of a man, slow of wit and swift of foot. The huge monster—complete with shaggy hair, brown scaled skin, and a bear-like appearance—lay sprawled where he'd been thrown, looking at the smaller man like he'd never seen anything like him before. Clearly his attacks were not often sidestepped, but there had never been anything wrong with Rumplestiltskin's reflexes, and if physical intimidation was common down here, he wanted nothing to do with it. He had received more than enough beatings during his days as the town coward, and would suffer no one to do so ever again.

Power was worth nothing if you could not protect that which mattered to you, and all Rumplestiltskin cared about down here in the vault was himself. Belle and Bae—and Henry, too—were safe in the world above. He could do nothing for them, and thinking about those he loved would do him no favors. He could become the Dark One down here, and nothing but. Manipulate and divide, use his intelligence and his learning to run circles around the fools amongst his predecessors. Those who were not fools he would ally with or find another solution for; this was a game that he knew well and had long since mastered. There were no regrets down here, nothing save darkness—

And yet Rumplestiltskin had become more than the sum of his curse. Had he not done so, he would never have been able to kill himself, and that knowledge made his heart twist into a knot. Yes, he still had a heart. How true was that for the others down here?

"Clumsy," he commented, looking at the Dark One—Bordenbleux of Arendelle?—who had to be of at least some giant blood. That one had not lasted long before Arwan had bested him. Arwan had already been a sorcerer of no mean power, and Bordenbleux had been glad to be rid of the curse. Now, he appeared to spend eternity as his successors' henchman, never to be free of his murderer.

That was the vicious nature of the vault, Rumplestiltskin mused darkly. Not only were they doomed to spend eternity in utter darkness, but they were also sentenced to share that eternity with their own murderers. Even me.

"I don't suggest trying that again," he told Bordenbleux, a smile flirting with his lips. "Loyalty to this one is not worth the price you'll pay."

Let them wonder what price he would exact. They all had sufficient imagination to dream up something horrible.

Two further confrontations later, a few things were clear to Rumplestiltskin's compatriots in the vault. Firstly, even though he'd chosen to maintain his human form, he was as amoral and hard-edged as the rest of them. Secondly, he did have the dagger, which gave him an external source of power none of them could touch—and trying to take the dagger from him resulted in immediate and ferocious pain. Rumplestiltskin had never been terribly fond of torturing someone simply for the sake of doing so, but he was certainly not above inflicting pain to prove a point. Killing any of the other Dark Ones was impossible, but hurting them was not, and as Rumplestiltskin quickly discovered, the black ooze dripping down from the ceiling caused far more damage than the random fireballs coming out of the walls. The black ooze was liquefied darkness in its purest and most vicious form, and it caused burns that took hours—days?—to heal.

Time was nearly impossible to measure in the vault. The ambient red light remained constant, and the curse ensured that none of them needed to sleep, so Rumplestiltskin could not even measure passing time with fatigue. He hadn't been wearing a watch when he killed Pan, but Rumplestiltskin suspected that, even if he had, it would have done no good. Time was meaningless in the vault, possibly stopped or possibly not running at all. Oh, the others spoke of being down there for 'x' amount of years each, but it seemed that they only counted the years based upon when their newest member had died. They seemed more interested in judging others based upon how long they had been the Dark One—and none of them were pleased to find that Rumplestiltskin topped that list, too.

He hadn't expected to. So little information was available on the curse he'd taken on so blindly that Rumplestiltskin assumed his own three hundred years were at least typical. He shouldn't have, however. Judging from the numbers his more helpful compatriots provided—Bordenbleux had become his silent shadow ever since he'd wrested the hairy giant from Arwan's control, and knew a surprising amount—most Dark Ones lasted perhaps two generations. A few lived longer, but Arwan was another anomaly. Between the Horned King and Rumplestiltskin, they had owned the curse for more than a full third of its existence, and that had been a fact Rumplestiltskin had not anticipated.

Nor had he really expected the variety amongst his predecessors. Bordenbleux, once free of his terror of the man who had killed him, reminded Rumplestiltskin of Dove in odd ways, a gentle giant who intimidated others because it was expected of him, not because he enjoyed doing so. Bordenbleux was a man of few words, too, most of which were mumbled out from behind the beastly face he seemed somewhat ashamed of. He'd been one of those who had been tricked into becoming the Dark One, following hard on the heels of Rasputin, who had—like Zoso—been trapped by his curse and those who claimed mastery over the dagger, and was finally desperate for a way out. Rasputin's ruse had not been nearly so clever as Zoso's, but then it hadn't had to be. He'd simply found Bordenbleux, the half-dumb, half-giant hard worker who gutter trash bullied, and given Bordenbleux a way to avenge himself upon those who hurt him and killed his sister.

The curse had enhanced Bordenbleux's intelligence a little bit, but it really hadn't needed to. Everyone in Arendelle had thought him stupid, but Bordenbleux had really just been quiet. His tenure as the Dark One had been so short that Rumplestiltskin sometimes wondered if Rasputin had already been in league with Arwan and simply looking for an intermediary to carry the curse while the other already-powerful sorcerer prepared, but even if that had not been the case, Bordenbleux had paid the price.

And the giant man was now bristling as Rasputin approached, a bear-like growl sounding deep in his throat. A miniscule amount of kindness had won Bordenbleux to Rumplestiltskin's side—that, and protection from the others, who were physically but not magically intimidated by the half-giant—but there were others he wanted to ally with, or manipulate, and it would do no good if Bordenbleux attempted to chase them all away.

"Enough, friend," Rumplestiltskin murmured, his eyes already on Rasputin. "Let him say his piece."

On a scale of clever to stupid, Rasputin clearly rated somewhere above brilliant, and Rumplestiltskin was fascinated to see that the other trickster sought him out first. Of all his predecessors' methods, Rumplestiltskin's own probably bore the most resemblance to this man's, although he'd never been tempted to play at being the power behind a throne. But he could admire the use of subtlety above power, even if it had failed Rasputin in the end. His carnal love for his Queen had been turned against him when the woman had stolen the dagger, and then he had found himself a slave to three generations of monarchs before he'd managed to trick Bordenbleux into stealing the weapon that "would keep people from ever hurting him again."

Rasputin drifted closer, his movements reminding Rumplestiltskin of a nervous rodent. Tall and narrow, Rasputin was built like a lamp post, with a pointed face that reminded him of nothing more than an ill-shaped lantern. Beady eyes stared out of a pale and scaled face; Rasputin's features had clearly tried to arrive at a compromise between human and monster, and embraced neither. His black hair was wild, and his beard tangled; Rumplestiltskin did not recall the other Dark One looking so out of sorts before, so why the change?

He'd retreated to a shadowy alcove after his last encounter with Arwan, leaving the Horned King bleeding in puddle of black ooze and seeking out some solitude for himself. Near as Rumplestiltskin could guess, that had been several hours previously—or, at least enough time for the others to decide that no one else wanted to challenge him at the moment. Sekhmet, a tall, dusky-scaled and skinned woman, had preceded Arwan, and although Rumplestiltskin had dealt with her a little less viciously, he'd not exactly been kind. Sekhmet had attempted to stab him with a piece of stone clearly (and cleverly) sharpened out of the very rock walls around them, a weapon Rumplestiltskin now owned, much to its creator's fury.

He was slowly working out the pecking order in this place. Arwan had clearly been on top—or at least thought he was; there were several outsiders whose positions remained murky at best—and Sekhmet had been not far below him. Rumplestiltskin's current visitor, Rasputin, fell somewhere in the middle, far above Bordenbleux and Zoso, and yet below the two who had challenged Rumplestiltskin. He didn't think Rasputin was here to challenge him, but if he was, the taller man was going to find himself in for a world of hurt.

Rumplestiltskin might not have enjoyed causing pain, but he was perfectly capable of doing so.

"What can I do for you, dearie?" he asked, not bothering to pitch his voice up a notch or two. His normal human voice seemed to unnerve the others far more than any amount of imp-like posturing could, so for now Rumplestiltskin kept to his Storybrooke form. He had, however, exchanged his custom-tailored suit for a set of far more practical leathers, much like he'd worn in Neverland. Expensive suits, after all, were not made for environments like this.

Rasputin's quick little eyes flickered left, and then right, up and then down, looking everywhere but at Rumplestiltskin. For a man who had dictated a kingdom's fate for four generations and had possessed untold power, he certainly possessed an interestingly nervous tick.

"An alliance," the stick-like Dark One finally said.

"Now, why would I want that?" Rumplestiltskin asked, leaning back against one of the rock walls, careful to pick a spot where there was currently no black ooze dripping.

"It's to your advantage to ally with me," Rasputin wheedled, his snake like expression only highlighted by the way he strung the words together in a hiss. "Most of these fools are creatures of brute power, not subtlety. You need someone who knows the lay of the land, who can…help you navigate these rapids."

The not-so-subtle attempt to manipulate him made Rumplestiltskin laugh. So far, he'd stuck with demonstrating power himself—carefully utilized and applied with laser-like precision, but power all the same. He'd kept his own manipulative tendencies in check, preferring to quietly watch and wait. After all, he had a lifetime in the Vault ahead of him, and although Rumplestiltskin fully intended to be the power that mattered in their private hell, he was willing to establish himself slowly. Rasputin, he gathered, though clever and manipulative, was not so patient. He was probably the smartest one in this private hellhole of theirs—possibly smarter than Rumplestiltskin, though he'd not go so far as to assume that was the case—and was used to his intelligence outclassing everyone else's.

"How so?" he asked quietly, studying the other sorcerer. Unlike many in the vault, Rasputin was a true sorcerer, and although his vast knowledge of magic wouldn't serve him any better than it would serve Rumplestiltskin here, the fact that he'd bothered to learn magic to augment his power said a lot about him.

Rasputin smiled. "If you have to ask, you need my help."

Oh, he was clever. Now the question became: to play him or to play this straight?

"I know what you're doing, dearie," he replied coolly, looking his much-elder counterpart in the eye. Which Dark One had Rasputin been? Fragmented memories told him that the whipcord thin man fell early on, sixth or seventh, maybe? "Not that I terribly mind, but it does take one to know one, if you know what I mean."

Clearly, Rasputin did not; all he got was a puzzled look in exchange for the quip. Apparently sayings from the Land Without Magic had come to color Rumplestiltskin's speech patterns a little bit. Rasputin's confusion quickly turned into a frown. "I am not—"

"Of course you aren't. Nor have I ever been guilty of manipulating someone into doing my bidding." Rumplestiltskin smiled thinly. "So if you're going to dance this dance, you're going to do it on my terms. Understood?"

"Answer me one question first," Rasputin hissed, but all the while, Rumplestiltskin could see intelligence whirling behind the rage in his eyes. "Do you truly possess the dagger, or are you playing these fools already?"

A low laugh escaped before he could think better of stopping it; Rumplestiltskin just smiled. He'd refused to answer that question seven times already—from six different Dark Ones—and had no desire to prove that he remained in possession of the one item that had once slain each of them. Truth be told, Rumplestiltskin had no idea what it would do to any of them if they were stabbed here, in the vault, but he was quite certain that he wasn't the only one wondering. Arwan, for example, would have probably tried to kill everyone else by now, whereas Rasputin was probably more interested in it as a power source.

The dagger was the ultimate way to tip the scales in the vault, Rumplestiltskin had realized quickly. No one else had access to any power outside what existed in here, and while he couldn't access the entirety of the curse—much of it seemed stuck in the real world, or perhaps powering the vault itself—holding the dagger did mean that Rumplestiltskin could summon up more power than most of the others combined. He was careful about using it, and had so far only called upon magic resident in the vault itself, but Rumplestiltskin knew the dagger was his hole card…and that the others might actually form an alliance to take it from him if he didn't build up his own power first. Such an alliance would never last, but he would certainly not benefit from one forming at all.

That, after all, was why he was still talking to Rasputin, why he had bothered to pry Bordenbleux away from Arwan, and why he was planning to approach the quiet watcher who no one else seemed willing to talk to.

"Does it truly matter?" he answered Rasputin.

"Yes."

"Then I'll have to leave you to wonder," Rumplestiltskin replied, but one manipulator to another, that answer was yes. He had the dagger, and no one would take it from him.

"Of course you will," Rasputin snapped, but it was only for show. There was much about the long-dead schemer Rumplestiltskin knew he would not like, but they were now allies of a sort. Understanding flashed between them as their gazes locked, one Machiavelli to another. "Don't expect a lie to save you, spinner."

"Oh, I don't. And my name is Rumplestiltskin." He kept his tone playfully arrogant in response to Rasputin's obvious anger, but the silent communication was far different.

"Games won't save you, either, no matter what you call yourself." Not unless you play them better than anyone else, anyway, was what Rasputin meant.

Rumplestiltskin laughed. "Do I sense a hint of jealousy, dearie?" Your offer is accepted.

"Hardly," Rasputin snorted. Let them think what they will.

"Do be off before I have Bordenbleux do something utterly…un-regrettable to you," he said airily. I prefer to do my own dirty work, but I won't save you from the man you tricked into killing you, not unless you prove very useful.

Snarling, Rasputin departed, striding off to the corner he called his own and exchanging barbs with one of the women as he went. Was that Muriel? There was an obvious relationship between her and Rasputin, not friendship but perhaps something less insidious than hatred. He'd need to watch that, and keep track of if Muriel would become an ally or an enemy with Rasputin on his side. As much as anyone in this place is on anyone else's side, anyway, Rumplestiltskin mused. I think Bordenbleux is the only one amongst us who actually wants to be loyal to something other than himself…and that is only because he thinks it's easier than standing up for himself.

Yet Rumplestiltskin was not incapable of gratitude, and he had always believed in taking care of those who were loyal to him, from Dove to Jefferson to a half dozen others he'd employed over the centuries. But he sensed that none of the others down here shared that trait of his. An odd ball formed in Rumplestiltskin's throat, as it always did when he contemplated how he differed from his predecessors. So far, most of them had not caught on to his remarks about having brought their curse down with him; they assumed he was being facetious and no idea what he had actually done. There had been a reason, after all, that Rumplestiltskin had kept that magic-blocking cuff on. He'd known that their curse would not let him kill himself, no matter who he intended to take down with him.

Had the curse of the Dark One been so kind, he had no doubt that a good third of his predecessors would have chosen that road. "My life is such a burden," Zoso had said to him when Rumplestiltskin had killed him. And even Rasputin had not been the first who'd tricked another into ending his life. No, that tradition had started much, much earlier.

Would he have ever chosen that path, had he less to live for? Now Rumplestiltskin would never know.

A/N: Thank you for reading! For anyone who is curious, this story will have three parts, and is already complete. Up next, Zoso wants a word with his successor. Please let me know what you think!