They're all fools. Cowering, frightened specks that will eventually be brushed off the parchment of history. And they are whispers and skittish pacing these days. He may be stuffed down here, away from the light of day and supposedly kept from the outside world.

But Rumplestiltskin can feel the delicious tension in the air, gathering magic twisting tighter as the days pile up, hours leverage. She is close now, close to unleashing in the curse and setting it all into motion.

And these simpletons think he knows nothing of what is being set into motion. They are the ones who know nothing. It is so utterly ridiculous that it sends him into maniacal fits of laughter. It passes the time. They do not understand that he could free himself with a flick of his wrist (and a simple drop or two of the carefully hoarded ink he keeps).

What had the poor minion said? Oh yes, cracked, that one is. Just before he dropped from the ceiling in one of his favorite of the dramatic ways in which he could startle the ones ranked low or unnecessary enough to be stuck 'guarding him.' It was a wonder he hadn't broken all their brains by now. No, not their dear little heads. Only the minds within them. He loved to play with them, like the cat with its mouse. Dead mice were no fun.

He walks a tight rope as the magic makes the air fairly spark with energy. Some moments he feels he will explode, or perhaps that's only his mind. They visited the other day, lovely Snow, and David-Fake James with such contempt for the one who had only ever helped the pair of them. It seemed something like a slap to the face, particularly when he remembered they hadn't even bothered to grace him with an invitation to their wedding. Manners, sadly, grew lax by the century. Fitting that the end was near.

And yet it wasn't. Because she was swelling with child, and he knew. He knew it was time. And when she gave him the single name, because no one broke deals with Rumplestiltskin… well in that moment it all fell into place. He had only to bide the little time left. He will welcome twenty-eight years of oblivion. It will be a blessing.

His fingers are scribbling over the page, again and again. The urge is to hurry, hurry, hurry, but he curves the name over and over, exact and carefully duplicated. Four simple letters.

The magic is building around him, and he's so close to the casting that he can taste it. Dreams and visions are filling his head these days, and it's too much, and he craves more distraction than feeble mortal minds and parchment.

Emma, again and again. And it's a distraction. Paltry, lasting only a small stretch of time, and never enough. Never enough to forget the one name that's driven him for ages now. The eight letters etched into his heart or the three simpler, affectionate ones dearer still. Bae.

With a cry of rage, he flings the quill across his cell. He'll find it again later. He always finds it again. And he climbs up again, wanting to get away from what he can never leave. Because he knows one need not be a chamber to be haunted.