((Congrats, this wins Creepiest Idea Ever Award.))
They called her the Corpse Bride, the dead body the Dark One toted around on his deals. Encased in a glass coffin, she wore a wedding gown, one arm at her side and the other resting over her stomach. Dead flowers were woven into her long dark curls, pale as winter, but beautiful all the while.
No one was quite sure where she had come from, but she wasn’t an especially old tradition. It wasn’t like anyone had the courage to ask, either.
"So can you?" The fisherman asked, "Restore what the flounder took away from us?"
Rumplestiltskin hemmed, “I dunno,” he turned to the coffin beside him, “Can he, dear?”
The corpse remained still, and after a moment, the lid to the coffin opened.
"Go ahead," Rumplestiltskin pointed down to the arm at her side, "…ask for her favor."
The fisherman tentatively approached, reaching in to take her cold hand. He kept expecting for her to lunge towards him, but she kept her serene composure. He brought it up to his lips, and kissed.
Nothing happened. At first he thought that maybe it just took a moment… But no. The Corpse Bride’s color was not returning. Frantically he kissed it again, then a third time. But she remained as pale as ever.
Rumplestiltskin clucked his tongue, “She doesn’t like your intentions, dearie.”
"No please! No, just give me a chance! NO!"
A cloud of violet smoke engulfed him, and all that remained was another red rose for his beloved. But not all the roses in the world were going to bring her back.