Rumpelstiltskin.

He turned, like a hound catching the scent of prey on the wind. Like a twisted prayer, his name whispered across miles, calling to him. A slow smile spread across his face as he skipped a step. This was his favorite part, before he knew who would be calling on him. Like a subtle little flirtation, a glance across a crowded room, it spoke of promises yet to come.

Of course he knew it was probably another distraught farmer's daughter suffering under the yoke of a new stepmother while pining for some country prince. It actually disappointed him, the absolute mundanity of a place so otherwise steeped in magic. There was always a dragon to be slain, a fair maiden to be rescued. Always ending in so many pleas for mercy in the face of true love. He bared his teeth in a hiss; as if that were a reason to break a bargain that had already been struck. Magic always had its price. A warning he told every one of his potential customers. If they did not like the price, they did not have to strike the deal. However, when each party possessed something the other wanted badly enough, a deal could always be struck. It was amazing how desperation consistently brought out the worst of humanity. Just as it brought out yours, a small voice in his head whispered.

The pull of his name tugged again, and he smiled, his momentary irritation forgotten. He could always pretend that this one would be different. No desperate bargaining, no selfish motivation.

Sighing, he pulled out a small mirror from his pocket, the only reflection he ever dared to trust, enchanted as it was against the Queen's prying eyes.

"Show me," he whispered, running his hand over the face of the mirror. It was dark for a minute, but in a moment the glass cleared to reveal a bucolic scene; cottages outlined by a brilliant sunset, and a young woman with eyes the color of a summer sky. He frowned. She did not seem to be troubled in any extraordinary way that would require his unique services. There were no tears, no signs of familial abuse, and no outward signs of poverty. In fact, if he had to fancy a guess at the girl's mood, it was…triumphant and relieved.

Not once in the many years he had been in the business of dealing bargains had he seen someone relieved to see him. Wary, worried, sick, crying, dying, certainly. But relieved? He blinked. Frankly, it was slightly disturbing.

He wiped the mirror with his hand again and the image cleared. Tonight he had other things to worry about. With a small wave, the door to his tower opened, a wave of magic releasing the wards securing it. He kept his most vile creations locked away here, curating them for future use. It was amazing, the breadth of human creativity in causing each other pain and misery. He was merely the broker.

This particular little project was particularly nasty. Seemingly innocuous, the softly simmering cauldron smelled like bluebells and honey. However, upon imbibing the smallest thimbleful, the drinker would immediately forget. The specifics of the potion however, were more vague. Activated by the essence of an individual person, it was not guaranteed how much a person would forget. Such a highly prized commodity, he mused, the ignorance of a spotless mind. He preferred to keep his memories close to him, wrapped around him like a cloak. He had made many mistakes in his long lifetime, but he knew better than to make the same one twice.

He frowned as he absentmindedly stirred the potion, his mind drifting back to the girl in the mirror. How had she even gotten a hold of his name? There were very few places in the realm where such information would even exist outside of folklore and hearsay. He shuddered to think what would happen if every peasant with a problem started calling on him unsolicited. Names had power, and his more than most.

Grimacing, he straightened up. This would just not do. He needed to find out more about her, preferably before she decided to call on him again.

Besides, everyone has their price, and he would find hers. He always did.