A/N Hullo again. As I stated in another piece, I'm in the process of reworking a lot of my older pieces so that I can improve them. I hope you all like the redone version of 'Belle'! Characters are, as usual, not mine.
In the time after her departure—after her removal, rather-Rumpelstiltskin couldn't bear to say her name, let alone think it.
The castle halls grew dark without her there. Curtains were replaced over the windows, and dust began to filter back into the nooks and crannies he had long since abandoned.
The door to her cell was firmly locked, as was the door to the room she had inhabited after he had taken pity on her, one frozen winter night.
If at all possible, he avoid the halls those rooms were in altogether.
The world outside did not change, however, and after weeks of holing up and hiding, Rumpelstiltskin fled from his castle. He drove himself out into the world, far and fast. Villages of people shrank back in terror as he rode into sight, and once again, citizens were reminded why they were to fear his name.
He made an effort to avoid the pretty young women begging for his assistance. Too many had dark brown locks or bright blue eyes, and they only served to make him angrier.
Months were spent away from the castle, ransacking villages who already shook at the sound of his name.
Months away did nothing to drive her memory from the castle, although months away did allow for dust to build up. Of course, that was dust that she was supposed to have swept away.
Rumpelstiltskin returned to the Dark Castle after a year had passed, notches on his belt and trinkets in his pocket, but his anger was not abated. His journeys had ended near the lakeside village from which his lady had come, and even being within a few miles of the place made him want to tear himself out of his skin.
Upon his return to the castle, he locked himself in his tower, ignoring the world he had tormented. He set to working for days, without sleep or food. The pains in his stomach made him shake, but he ignored them, smirking to himself and imaging the frustrated look that would have come over her face had she known—
No.
She tormented his thoughts, just as she had on the road. Wherever he looked, whenever he moved, she was there.
These sort of thoughts might have been what led to the burning of the library.
It was late, the night he did it. He may have been drinking, he may not have. Looking back, it all seemed blurry. What he did remember, though, was walking into the room and seeing a stack of books, teetering carefully by a cozy armchair. Upon closer inspection, he could even see the ribbon she had left as a bookmark in one of her favorites.
Something between a choke and a scream left Rumpelstiltskin's throat, and the flames were eating away at the books before he could register what he had done.
From there, the rampage only spread. He found his way into the kitchen, and the tea cups proceeded to be smashed, until porcelain covered the floor, alongside flecks of his own blood. Plates followed shortly, and his mind raged as the pieces flew around him.
All of the moments they had together were supposed to be destroyed.
All of the mornings, sitting, drinking tea in quiet companionship, he eradicated. The memories of her unquenchable curiosity— about the castle, the objects it held, about him— went up in flames with the library.
Fury drove him to the halls he had refused to touch for months, and destruction followed him as he stormed down the corridor.
Upon opening the door to her bedroom, however, he found himself faced with something nearly entirely different.
Rage drained from his features, and, half conscious, he felt his knees give out beneath him.
He met the floor with a sob, hands kneaded the soft rugs that had once warmed her tiny feet. The place still smelled of her, after all this time.
After minutes spent, curled on the ground and weeping like a child, Rumpelstiltskin stood, and looked through unclear eyes at the room before him.
The room was burnt, as well, but not before one lone dress was removed, sent away along with one chipped tea cup, to be kept where no one could see.
He would never think her name again, after this. Pillows spewed feathers at him, and the room stank, but he stood in the doorway and watched, none the less.
If one chose to listen, the night the Dark One went mad, a moan could be heard, despite all the noise. Throughout the purge, and in the flames, and in the crashing of porcelain chips, one low intonation could be heard, echoing throughout the castle and out to the mountainsides.
Belle.
Never again would the memories the two of them shared threaten his stability, he determined, stepping shakily away from her burning room. Never again would he think of the days they spent together, eating together, being together.
Never again would memories of how, when a storm fierce enough to shake the castle's foundations wrought its fury on the mountainside, she had come to him, and slept beside his wheel while he spun.
Never again would he think of how she had needed him, that night.
Never again would he think of how, now, then, here, forever, he needed her.
No.
No.
Her name would remain unspoken, and those memories would remain untouched.
But now, in the final moments, and as the fires burnt themselves to rest, he allowed himself one last time, to let the name fall reverently from his lips:
Belle.
Belle.
I love you.
I love you.