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The princess had moved him into a tower, had given him clothes and a bed. Rumplestiltskin didn’t know what to think of that, didn’t know how to wrap his mind what had happened. He hadn’t even remembered what a bed felt like until she had told him he should lie on it. He had obeyed, of course, shaking and terrified and so certain that this had to be a trick. Eighteen years had passed since he had slept on anything save hard stone floors or wherever the clerics had left him hanging from or bound to. Intelligent though he’d been, Rumplestiltskin’s mind was frayed and ruined after so many years of ceaseless pain, and he barely remembered what to do with the pillow on the bed.But the princess had commanded him to lie down—she had the dagger in her hand—so he had. And then, much to his surprise, everyone had left. The guards, the princess, and even the clerics had left. He had been alone so rarely in the monastery; the clerics tended to take turns with him, giving him the pain he deserved for being such a monster. Once, Rumplestiltskin had fought them as best as he could fight someone who held the dagger. Once, he had tried to believe that he didn’t deserve the torture, but those days were far in the past. He knew what he was. He knew that he deserved the pain.And that was why he knew that this had to be some sort of trick. Some new game that they were playing. That thought left him curled up and shaking; he just knew that Bishop Chesson would send someone in soon to punish him for daring to lie on a bed. It didn’t matter that he’d been told to. He knew better. He deserved the pain. He deserved the punishment—Distant voices whispered in his head, dark and furious, but Rumplestiltskin shoved them away in terror. Giving into those voices always meant he’d be hurt more. And he was such a coward that he didn’t want to be hurt, even when he knew he deserved it. But he did deserve everything they did to him, didn’t he? Why? he had asked. He shouldn’t have questioned the princess, but he’d been so confused that he had forgotten to. “Because no one deserves to be in this much pain,” she had said, but it made no sense.He didn’t remember not being in pain, even when he curled up tightly and wrapped his arms around his wasted body. Two days after she sent him to the tower—commanding him not to do magic, not to escape, or not to do anything—the clerics came in. It was near midnight, so far as Rumplestiltskin could tell. He wasn’t sleeping, since he didn’t have to and closing his eyes only made memories and nightmares rise, so he heard the key turn in the lock and scrambled out of the bed before the heavy door even swung open. His head spun dizzily, and he almost lost his balance. A few days of being fed hadn’t made him less weak; he didn’t need food (the clerics loved to remind him of that; he wasn’t human, and didn’t deserve to be treated like one), but starvation could still make him feeble and clumsy. Desperately, Rumplestiltskin pressed himself into the corner between the bed and the wall, knowing that he shouldn’t, but unable to help himself. He just didn’t want to be touched, didn’t want to be hurt—“What are you doing?” Bishop Chesson asked, and Rumplestiltskin froze.He wasn’t even sure he was breathing. Chesson was the worst of the clerics; he was their leader but also the one who had convinced King Bertrand to embrace the Repentance Ritual. He had been the one to start the torture, and he was always there in the worst moments. His hands were the ones Rumplestiltskin feared most, and he could feel the tremors starting to race through his too-thin body. Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me.Perod, Chesson’s favorite assistant, closed the heavy door, but not before Rumplestiltskin caught sight of two other clerics outside, standing guard. But that left Rumplestiltskin alone with these two, and he shuddered as the door clicked shut. The tower was unused, save for storage on the bottom floors and the topmost room they’d locked him inside. No one would come. Not for hours yet.“Come here.” Those were the words Rumplestiltskin had been dreading, but long years of habit made him stumble forward. He moved quickly. Hesitation meant pain. Punishment.So would being in this room. That bed. Clothed—“You have forgotten your place,” the bishop rumbled, and Rumplestiltskin flinched. But not very far. He was not permitted to pull away. He knew that.“No,” he gasped desperately. “Please, no. I didn’t—I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t—I didn’t—”“Silence.”Rumplestiltskin’s mouth snapped shut. His eyes found the floor instinctively; Chesson was so close that he could feel the bishop’s breath, and Rumplestiltskin was shaking so hard. Suddenly, hands grabbed him, and Rumplestiltskin staggered as Perod roughly pulled off the tunic and trousers he’d been given. He didn’t dare fight. All he could do was cringe and cower, remembering the eighteen long years where those hands had brought pain and punishment. Once, he’d had power and had been able to defend himself. But now, even if he’d been stupid enough to fight, he was skinny and starved, almost unable to stand without dizziness knocking him off his feet. Both men were taller than him, and far stronger, too.Perod’s hands were harsh as he stripped him, but Rumplestiltskin just tried to stand quietly and accept what he deserved. Soon enough, he was shaking weakly between the two clerics, naked and shivering in fear.“You have much to answer for.” Chesson grabbed his chin and forced his head up as Perod shackled his hands behind his back, and Rumplestiltskin stared at the bishop with wide and terrified eyes. “You have taken advantage of comforts you did not earn.”“But I didn’t…” Looking into those cold eyes made him trail off, gulping in terror. “Please punish me.” Those words tumbled out on their own, driven by eighteen years of pain and degradation. His voice grew smaller, barely audible. “Please hurt me.”“Better.” The response was clipped and controlled; Chesson usually was. But there was nothing controlled about the way the hand on his chin shifted to his throat, dragging Rumplestiltskin forward towards the sole table in the room. It stood against the wall closest to the door, a sturdy and old thing, probably as ancient as the tower itself. The table’s thick legs barely even creaked when the bishop threw Rumplestiltskin against it, though the wood did scrape against the wall as the Dark One’s midsection slammed into it.Gasping for air as the hand shifted to the back of his neck, Rumplestiltskin didn’t fight as Chesson bent him over. He just squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered as his ankles were kicked apart, not daring to resist. Perod’s heavy hand came to rest on the back of his neck, pushing him down as Rumplestiltskin shook violently. Hard hands fastened on his hips, squeezing painfully, and all he could do was try to brace himself. No no no no no no...Chesson shoved into him without preamble, making Rumplestiltskin cry out sharply. He had been raped almost daily for eighteen long years, by clerics and whatever other objects they felt the need to shove into him, but it hadn’t hurt this badly for a long time. He was used to it when he was torn open and damaged, but the princess had ordered him to heal himself. Now Chesson forced into him without sufficient lubrication, and Rumplestiltskin sobbed in pain as the larger man pulled back and then slammed back into him. Hot tears warmed his cheeks; his eyes were squeezed shut, but he could feel every twitch Chesson made, every thrust.“I’ll put a stop to this,” the princess had said. The princess had lied.“Be quiet,” Perod ordered, and Rumplestiltskin tried to swallow back his sobs and his cries. They would hurt him if he disobeyed; he deserved to be hurt if he disobeyed. But everything hurt, and he couldn’t stop crying even when he managed to reduce his sobs to soft whimpers.Finally, Chesson finished raping him, and the bishop took a moment to collect himself before grabbing Rumplestiltskin by the hair and jerking him back to his feet. “Why are you crying, Dark One?”“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. There was no way to describe the way eighteen years of being raped didn’t lessen the humiliation, the way that he was so afraid of the hands that touched his naked body. Hands meant pain, but he wasn’t allowed to pull away, wasn’t allowed to own his body.“Two days here and you’ve already forgotten your place,” Chesson marveled, and Rumplestiltskin cringed.“No…”“You deserve this,” the bishop reminded him, and Rumplestiltskin nodded desperately. He didn’t want to be hurt. Didn’t want it to get worse. Two days of not being hurt had been wonderful; he didn’t know what to do without the pain, but he had treasured every confusing moment. But he hadn’t asked for it. They couldn’t punish him for what he hadn’t asked for!Except they would, and he knew that.“You’re not human,” Chesson spat. “Your body belongs to us. You are just a monstrous thing that deserves pain. And you are certainly unworthy of this pity that has been bestowed upon you. Aren’t you?”“Yes,” Rumplestiltskin whispered brokenly. Chesson’s free hand poked at his ribcage, where bones had been splintered and cracked but were now intact. But they still all pressed into his dull golden skin, starkly visible and easy to count. And they were still sore, still weak. Then Chesson’s hand went back down to his hip, squeezing, and Rumplestiltskin whimpered in fear.The bishop sneered. “Clearly you need reminding of that.”“Please punish me.” It was the only right answer, Rumplestiltskin knew. The only way to avoid even more pain was to ask for it. He should have told the princess to leave him in the monastery. He shouldn’t have let them be kind to him. He didn’t deserve kindness or pity. He was a monster, needed to be contained and hurt so that he couldn’t get free. Freedom was not something he could really remember, anyway.{*********}