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What's in a name?	By : jinna1979 Category: Fairy Tales, Fables, Folklore, Legends, and Myth > Fairy Tales Views: 16599 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction,I do not own Rumpelstiltskin. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons,living or dead, is purely coincidental

Chapter List
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Rumpelstiltskin hated the fact that there was so little he could do for Millicent. If only she had agreed to join him in the land of the fey - then he could have easily spirited her away - but now he was no longer welcome in that land and there was no where that either of them could go. He had thought that providing for her needs, such as bringing her food, would at least improve her situation, but he had not anticipated the mob that came banging at her door. He was caught off guard by the angry crowd, and had not been invisible as he stood near Millicent's door, but the crowd paid him no heed. After enough people filled the hallway, he just looked like another person in the mob.

The sheer number of people meant that there was little Rumpelstiltskin could do to fight against them and once again, he was trapped by a sense of powerlessness. Even if he could remember all their faces, to retaliate against them after they parted would mean wiping out half the castle's staff. The crowd spoke in angry and terrified tones, relating to each other the horrific way in which the baker had died. The baker's death was gruesome enough to not need any embellishment, and yet, people spoke of bits of body parts scattered throughout the whole kitchen, and blood coating every wall. They described the vermin as being possessed and rabid, foam frothing from their mouths, with claws as sharp as little daggers. The cloud of insects that descended was apparently so thick that the whole room turned as black as night. A few of the servants and maids were looking rather green with nausea as the story was being related, but most of the listeners and story tellers seemed to take a sadistic thrill in the grisly tale. The word 'Witch' was tossed about freely, and some commented on Millicent's unnatural beauty, unable to hide the jealousy in their voices. Far too many people had the look of bloodlust in their eyes, as a guard pounded on Millicent's door, yelling for her to come out.

From his place in the crowd, Rumpelstiltskin could not see Millicent as she was dragged from her room, but he could sense the terror radiating from her. His heart was breaking within his chest, and he wondered if he should just use faerie dust to render her unconscious, but there was no telling what this crowd would do with an unconscious and beautiful girl in their hands. Moreover, anything he attempted to do against the mob would only mean a backlash against Millicent, and he could not let his reckless actions cause her more harm than they already did.

He followed the vindicative crowd as they descended the stairs down into the dank dungeons, and watched in agony as they threw her into one of the open cells as though she were nothing but a rag doll rather than a human being. A few of the more petty-minded crowd members spit on her, and Rumpelstiltskin's blood boiled with rage. He would remember their faces. Even if he could not kill them, or do anything that overtly resembled magic, he would find some way to make them suffer.

The crowd eventually dispersed with an air of self-satisfaction. Rumpelstiltskin remained however, making sure to use his invisibility. Some of the other prisoners in the dungeon had perked up at the arrival of the crowd, curious to see the newcomer, but most of them were listless from lack of food and water, unable to do anything but groan in misery. The sound of Millicent's sobs filled the dungeon, echoing off the walls and Rumpelstiltskin went to her, wanting to pick her up and take her away from all her misery. Though he did have some minor glamour abilities, all glamour did was enhance one's beauty, and he had none. He did not want to hear Millicent's sobs turn into screams of terror if he were to approach her, glamour or not.

"I know how I can make you feel better, missy," one of the prisoners in the neighbouring cell said lewdly, as he stared at Millicent's body and grabbed his cock through his ragged trousers. Furious, Rumpelstiltskin punched the prisoner in the face with an invisible fist, and the filthy man fell on his backside, his eyes wide with confusion, pain and fear. He scuttled away to the farthest corner of his cell and didn't say another word.

Millicent was oblivious to what was happening around her, unable to see through her teary eyes. Her sobs eventually died down, and turned into shivers. There was no cot or mattress in the cell, but there was a pile of straw near the back wall. The whole place stank of urine, feces and mildew. It hardly mattered though, for she knew that her own odor was no better. She sat up and wiped her eyes, looking around at her surroundings. The dungeon was lit by a single torch which cast long and dark shadows through the whole room. Half the cells seemed to be occupied with prisoners, which ranged from burly looking men, to half dead skeletal beings. Most of the prisoners seemed lost in their own misery, but a few of them looked at her with a naked desire that frightened her. The looks in their eyes made her suddenly grateful for the bars of her cage, and she laughed bitterly at the irony.

She crawled towards the back wall and sat upon the damp mound of straw. As she considered her situation, it seemed as though she was almost better off in a prison cell than in her tiny room. Though it was certainly colder and smellier, at least there was more to look at. She closed her eyes and sighed, wondering how her sense of humour had become so twisted.

Slightly relieved that her mood was improving, Rumpelstiltskin left the confines of the dungeon in search of a blanket and whatever other comforts he could provide for her. He hated seeing her enclosed in the dark, miserable cell when she should have been wandering the hills and woods with the wind blowing in her hair. He knew he had to find a way to help her escape, but in the meantime, he would start with a thick, warm blanket. Remembering where the linens closets were, he made his way upstairs, and as he entered the room, he found himself deliberating between silk sheets, or a heavy woolen blanket. Though he would have loved to see her covered in finery, the wool was much more practical, and much less conspicuous. Taking the blanket, he then made his way downstairs and decided to stop by the kitchen to grab her a snack.

The body of the baker had been cleared from the kitchen, but a long smeared trail of blood was left in his wake. A few maids were on the floor, scrubbing the mess with grimaces of disgust on their face, while others were setting tables, knives and pieces of food back in their places. After all, their work could not be neglected even in the face of the appalling death of the baker. Servants worked with hush tense whispers, often looking up from their duties to the blood stains on the floors. It was easy to steal a loaf of bread and a jug of mead from the distracted kitchen, and satisfied with his cache, Rumpelstiltskin returned to the dungeon, placing the items in the corner of the cell. Due to the darkness of the dungeon, it was easy enough to leave the items in place with no one noticing, and Millicent was likely to assume that they had been there all along.

A couple of long, miserable days had passed before the King and his hunting party finally returned to the capital. Everyone was in good spirits, for it had been an extremely successful hunt, and the King had personally taken down a stag, a boar, as well as numerous ducks and pheasants. The courtiers that surrounded him were all sycophants, singing his praises, and trumpets blared triumphantly. The hunting party galloped through the town of watchful citizens and up to the castle gates, where crowds of people parted, and awaited the king with fawning anticipation. A great feast was to be prepared for the king's return, and throughout the castle, servants were rushing about frantically, trying to make sure everything was perfect. After all, their king hated laziness and carelessness, and to him, the sight of a cobweb, or a cup left out of place meant that someone had been remiss in their duties and deserved to suffer a long hard public whipping.

Though it was a magnificent hunt, the king had not forgotten about the miller's daughter, and the claim that she was able to spin straw into gold. He was just starting to feel like a fool for ever believing the miller's boasts and the idea of being stuck with another useless mouth to feed made him feel sick. The only consolation was that he could at least pound her virginal pussy until it was saggy and useless. In his mind, that was the only purpose of women, anyhow. That or they were expected to pour his drinks and clean his floors, and they were miserable at that task. Luckily, he had no qualms about whipping women as he whipped men, and women were more likely to scream in agony as they got whipped. It was much more entertaining than any jester or bard could ever hope to be, and cheaper as well.

As the king's horse pulled up to the castle, he dismounted and found himself surrounded by his royal advisors as well as his steward, informing him of what had come to pass while he was away. Most of the information was of little interest - a distant baron was feuding with his neighbour, an earl was late in paying a debt, another earl was looking for permission to marry an heiress. The most interesting and unexpected tidbit of information was actually from his steward. As the steward spoke, the king angrily hushed the other speakers around him, wanting to hear the rather fascinating tale. Apparently, the king's baker had died to most lurid of deaths, being swarmed by the vilest vermin in the castle, and the blame was all being laid upon the miller's daughter whom everyone believed to be a witch. The king was mildly disappointed at the death of the baker - after all, the man made the most decadant and delicious tarts - but the baker was demanding too much coin for his work, so it wasn't too bad of a loss. The miller's daughter on the other hand, was a whole other issue.

As the cog's in the king's mind started turning, it occurred to him that if the miller's daughter was truly a witch, then maybe the miller's claims about her being able to spin straw into gold were not unfounded. There was no shortage of straw in the kingdom, but the king certainly suffered a shortage of gold. After all, his rise into power had been a violent one, and he had required a lot of gold to make the necessary bribes to win certain noblemen to his cause. Moreover, he was heavily in debt to a lot of people who had helped to put him into power. Discrete assassins certainly did not come cheaply. The steward also informed the king of how the miller's daughter had been thrown into the dungeon, which drew a hearty laugh from the king.

"Excellent!" the king proclaimed, "Women think too much of themselves anyway. Especially the beautiful ones. That should put the bitch in her place." The king continued to chuckle as though he had heard a fantastic joke, and it seemed to him that life was just excellent. His typically grim demeanor was transformed into a cruel smile.

Rumpelstiltskin was just starting to make some headway in how he could help Millicent escape from the dungeons. He knew which guards had the keys to the cells, as well as when they had their shifts. He observed that there were usually two guards patrolling each corridor at a time, which seemed excessive, but Rumpelstiltskin knew nothing of the king's violent claim to the throne, nor how much that affected the king's need for protection. Rumpelstiltskin provided Millicent with as much comforts as he could, and had just managed to steal a prison key from a careless guard when the king finally made his return. Though the castle was typically abuzz with busy energy, the king's presence seemed to increase that energy tenfold. Everyone seemed to be running around in frantic agitation, working like little whirlwinds, their actions almost comically fast. The sudden change of pace threw Rumpelstiltskin off guard, and he was unable to implement his plan to free Millicent. In fact, he had to stay out of most of the castle, for despite his invisibility, servants and staff kept bumping into him in their chaotic haste. Rather than staying in the root cellar, he chose to stay with Millicent in a cell not far from hers. It was dark enough that no one noticed him anyhow.

Millicent had not moved from her spot against the wall, except to grab the wool blanket which she wrapped around herself. She munched absentmindedly at the loaf of bread, grateful that she even had food, for she never really saw the other prisoners eating. Sometimes she saw a few of them licking at spots on the floor, and once, she thought she heard the squeal of a rat being killed for food but other than that, there was very little action. She spent the long hours mostly daydreaming about how life would be like if she really were a witch. It was the label the angry mob had given her, and although she hated the injustice of being locked away in spite of her innocence, she almost wished she were guilty. After all, if she were a witch, she could curse every single last one of those pretentious servants. She would give them boils all over their bodies. Better yet, boils that itched, and had pus inside them, so that every time they were scratched, the boils would pop into a stingy pus filled mess. Or she would turn them into toads. Maybe she would turn them into swine, awaiting the butcher's knife. She could almost hear their screams of terror in her head. At the very least, if she were indeed a witch, then she would have the power to escape this miserable place. She sighed heavily, and took another bite of the bread.

Millicent's reverie was disrupted when the door to the prison was flung open, and a crowd of people entered into the dark depths. Millicent shied away, her breath shallow with fear, for she worried that the mob had returned, and would be wanting to inflict yet another arbitrary punishment upon her. However, this crowd of people was fairly calm, and at the forefront was a distinguished man who Millicent recognized as the king. Her heart beat rapidly, and she wondered if the king had come to proclaim her death sentence. However, he simply stood before her cell, unmoving.

"Bring me a torch!" the king commanded, unable to see the shadowy face of the girl in the darkness. One of the servants dashed off and returned with a torch, holding it aloft for the king so that the flickering light illuminated the prisoner. Millicent was huddled in the corner of her cell, looking like a wide-eyed feral cat that was trapped in a corner. Her hair was messy and tangled enough that a barbarian would have looked like a courtier in comparison. Her skin was a grimy and mottled brownish grey, and her dress was torn and stained. She stank of human waste, and looked like a mad woman. Millicent did not say a word, but simply stared in stark terror at the king.

"Show some respect or I'll have the eyes plucked from your skull!" The king snarled, offended by her gaze, and Millicent looked away, burying her face in her dirty hands.

"Have her cleaned, dressed, and brought to one of the upper rooms," the king commanded his servants. "The sight of her sickens me." He turned around and left the dungeons, most of the crowd following him except for a pair of servants and a guard. Jangling a set of keys, the guard opened the prison cell, and the servants came in and grabbed Millicent by the arms. Though it was not as bad as before, their grip still pained her bruises, and she whimpered. Her legs were cramped from sitting on the hard stone floor, so the servants dragged her the majority of the way until Millicent finally found her bearing. They walked through the corridors, climbing flight after flight of stairs until they came to a hallway where servants were carrying loads of straw into a room. Millicent balked at the sight of all the straw that was being brought into the room, but the servants did not give her a moment to pause and pushed her into the room. She stumbled but did not fall, and her eyes widened at the mountain of straw that filled the suite. Even if she somehow had the ability to turn all that straw into gold, the sheer amount of it would have leave her fingers bleeding and raw.

A/N: Finally! The king returns! If he were a real person, I'd like to kick him in the balls.... :P
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What's in a name?