Rumplestiltskin. That’s what he used to be called, at least, that’s what that peasant girl called him. He guessed it was his true name, he didn’t know anymore. Once uttered, it ceased to have any power. Now he was an old, grizzled man, good for nothing but a bit of sewing.
“Well, that’s that,” he said, setting the needle and thread down. “What do you think, Anastasia?”
The black spider on his head peered down at the fabric. “Not bad, Rumps.”
“Thanks. As long as the mistress likes it, then all will be well.”
Anastasia rubbed his balding head with one leg before disappearing up to her web where she’d wait patiently for dinner. Rumps had to go find his, a not so easy task what with the arthritis and back pain.
Damn, but it was hell to get old. He ought to seek out that mole over by the well and see if he had any news. Mistress was due back any day and Rumps like to have time to prepare.
Yawning, he decided to forgo eating and just go to bed. That way he could get up early enough to catch the mole on his breakfast run.
Rumps closed his eyes, pulled his blanket up to his chin, and lost himself in memories of a peasant girl crying in a room full of straw.