Warnings for violence and mentions of torture.

The Power of Names

The eve of the New Year was supposed to be a time of repentance in Avonlea, a time to atone for past crimes and clear the scales for the next year. Traditionally, the clerics would purge the darkness from the kingdom in their own special way, but not this year.

"I said no," Belle told Bishop Chesson, standing in the throne room with her head held high.

"But Princess—"

"Absolutely not," she repeated, remembering the horrible spectacle from the year before. Her father had always said that it was necessary, but Belle would not permit it. Hurting someone was never necessary. Particularly not when done with such insane relish.

"You are but Regent while your father is ill," the bishop argued, his narrow face pinched with anger. "The Repentance Ritual has ensured Avonlea's prosperity for fifteen years and must continue."

"I may be only the Regent, but I am also my father's heir," Belle snapped, glaring right back at him. She hated herself for the next part, but spoke anyway: "And my father may die before the month ends. Who then do you think will rule this kingdom?"

That did the trick. Holy man or not, Chesson knew he was outmatched. While King Maurice was ill, there was no one above Belle. Her father was in a coma, and not likely to wake. Her word was law. Chesson, however, continued to frown.

"We will cancel the exhibition, Highness," he grumbled.

But there was something in his eyes that bothered Belle, a hunger and a sense of victory she did not like at all. Chesson had always given her the chills; ever since childhood, she had known he was a dangerous man. Now that she was older, she could see the darkness in him, the monster lurking behind the pious façade. He spoke of purging darkness from the land, but this man was no saint.

"You will," she replied firmly, and then—impulsively—took one step further. "And you will return the dagger to me. Immediately."

His mouth flopped open like a dying fish. "My Lady—"

"I would remind you, Bishop, that it was my family that was trusted with the dagger. Not your order."

Chesson could argue, and he might even win. Belle's history was hazy, for she'd been very small when the Blue Fairy trusted her grandfather—who was then merely a lord—to hold the Dagger of the Dark One, but she knew that the clerics had only been called in later, once the Dark One proved difficult. Their task was to keep him contained, to keep the Dark One from hurting others, but Belle suspected that purpose had been corrupted over the years. Her family was the rightful custodians of the dagger, despite the fact that the clerics sometimes assumed custody of it in order to keep the Dark One in line. Still, the clerics did maintain day to day possession of the dagger, and if Chesson was willing to make an issue of things, Belle's fragile rule might be in danger.

Her councilors would tell her not to make such demands, but Belle refused to allow this travesty to continue. She'd never found any reference to the annual Repentance Ritual in Avonlea's history despite months of research. It seemed to have been created fifteen years earlier, first as a small and private event. Only later did it become the Old Year's Day spectacle of blood that the nobles fought to attend. It was the annual sentencing time for criminals, but the centerpiece of the event had become the Dark One himself, who was punished to drive the darkness out of Avonlea.

"Of course, Highness," Chesson said grudgingly. "The dagger is at the Monastery. I will return with it soon."

"No. Take me there. I wish to see where you keep him."

"It is not fitting for a lady—"

"I am no mere lady. I am Princess Regent, and you will take me."

Belle had been prepared for many things, but she had not been prepared to walk into a torture chamber and interrupt the clerics at their work. Clearly, Chesson had known where he was taking her, though, because he argued and tried to delay Belle even once she held the dagger. But she had insisted, and he led her down several sets of stairs, until they reached a windowless chamber that smelled of blood and burnt flesh. Belle fought back the urge to gag as her eyes found the man who was bound in the center of the room, dangling naked from the ceiling with his arms spread and entire body shaking in pain.

The cleric who had been whipping the Dark One did not stop until Chesson told him to; Belle found herself utterly unable to speak for the first several moments. She could only stare in horror. This is worse than the Repentance Ritual, she thought numbly. Does my father know about this?

But her father would not care. He preferred to let the clerics do their 'work'.

"Take him down," she ordered sharply, gripping the dagger tight enough to leave marks on her palm. "And get out."

The clerics obeyed, leaving the Dark One in a heap on the floor. He didn't move as Belle approached, just laid there and continued to shake. He looked strangely human, even though Belle knew he was not, scrawny and covered in whip marks, burns, and other wounds. He didn't look at her as she approached, with his strange eyes staring blankly at the far wall. Slowly, Belle crouched next to him, not missing the way he twitched away, ever so slightly.

"Can you hear me?" she asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes." His voice was raspy and full of pain.

"Why do they do this to you?" She couldn't ask the clerics, but Belle had read enough about the dagger to know that he could not lie to her.

"Because I'm a monster," the Dark One whispered brokenly. "Because I deserve it."

"…What?" He started to repeat himself, but Belle spoke quickly enough that he chopped off mid-sentence. "Don't."

He only flinched as he felt silent.

"How long have they been doing this?"

"I don't know."

"How do you not know?" Belle asked before she could stop herself, and he flinched again. He seemed compelled to answer:

"I don't know what year it is."

"How do you—" This time, she stopped with an effort, refusing to ask when she could guess the answer. "They keep you down here, don't they? Do you ever leave?"

A miserable shake of the head. "Only to be punished. Or if they want me to do…magic."

The Dark One's magic had put her grandfather on the throne, Belle knew, though her father refused to say much of how that had happened. Belle was now twenty-one, and her family had acquired the dagger—in some sort of trade, she vaguely recalled—when she was three.

"Have they hurt you since the beginning?" She dreaded the answer.

"Yes." Reptilian eyes finally found hers, but the pain and terror in them was so very human. He seemed frightened to ask: "How long has it been?"

"Eighteen years."

His eyes clouded over, and his expression went dead. Bell thought she heard a slight whimper, but she wasn't sure.

"No one deserves this," she said gently, looking at his broken form. The clerics would call him dangerous, but Belle just saw a man who had been abused for almost as long as she had been alive. She felt sick. "I'll put a stop to this."

"Why?"

"Because no one deserves this," she repeated. "Not even the Dark One."

"I do." His voice was tiny.

"No. I won't let it continue." Belle was burning with rage, but she tried to keep that out of her voice. She would deal with the clerics later. For now, she had a broken Dark One in front of her, and shouting would only terrify him. "Can you heal yourself?"

He looked away. "Not allowed."

"Why not?"

Wild shaking of his head.

"The clerics won't allow it, will they?" Belle whispered in horror.

"No."

"Well, I hold the dagger now. They don't. And I say you can heal yourself."

Confusion. Broken eyes found her again. "Why?"

"Because no one deserves to be in this much pain."

Fascinated, Belle watched as the wounds knitted, as a little color returned to pale golden skin. He looked better when he was done, but still emaciated and broken. Meanwhile, Belle studied the dagger.

"What's this?" she asked, gesturing at the word on the blade.

"My name." His voice was barely audible, and Belle suddenly realized that she'd never known he even had one. She'd always just thought of him as the Dark One.

"Rumplestiltskin," she tested the word out, and he looked at her like no one had said his name in eighteen years.

Then again, looking at the way they had treated him, maybe they hadn't.

A/N:This is an older story, written for the 2014 Rumbelle Showdown under the alias Purple Crocodile. I'm not sure why I never posted it before, but here it is!

Look for its sequel "The Power of Trust" to be posted within a week or so. In the meantime, please let me know what you think!