A/N: So, I finally got fed up because I don't think that Regina's "take him to my bedchamber!" and her subsequent abuse of Graham in Storybrooke will be addressed in the show. He had free will in Storybrooke my ass. I find that so sickening and wrong, so I'm addressing it here. This is basically a look at the emotional aftermath of Regina's abuse.

Behind Closed Doors

The pad of Belle's index finger danced along the steel rim of her cup. Although she'd tried to ration the precious water, she'd emptied it within an hour of receiving it. In the stark silence of her cell she could overhear the faint crush of her skin against the metal and it made her yearn for her childhood, when her father had taught her how to make music using her fingers on the crystal lips of his champagne flutes.

The thick wooden door groaned against the uneven stone floor as it opened, sounding like a kicked beggar. Belle lifted her cerulean eyes and her stomach audibly vibrated in response to the man standing in the doorway, one hand clenched around the steel handle of a new cup and the other flat, palm upturned and filled with a dulled metallic bowl. She attempted to rise and moved forward, but the dangling chains reminded her of her place, so instead she stood, patiently waiting for him to make his way across the small cell.

His head was swaddled in ripples of brown hair like the winter coat of a dog, but there was something ragged about him that reminded her of a wolf. The lower half of his square face was blanketed in a beard, one she'd watched grow like a thicket in the months that she'd been held captive. Unlike herself, he seemed well nourished, though quiet; always entering and leaving without so much as a nod. As he set her food and drink on her cot, today was no different, but Belle was determined to change that.

As he reached to take her empty cup from her, she rested her free hand upon his. He seemed startled and froze beneath her touch, as if the chains were restraining him instead of her. "Thank you," she whispered. His eyes conveyed his confusion and she nodded her head towards his daily care package. "For the food."

"You – you're welcome," he said, his voice scrappy, like two chipped knives shredding against one another. It sounded as though he hadn't used his voice in quite some time.

"What's your name?"

His eyes searched hers for traces of trust. "H – Huntsman."

Belle's jack slackened and her brows curved. "That's a title. I asked your name."

The Huntsman let his head lob against his chest, avoiding her pleading gaze. "I have none."

The thought had never crossed her mind before, but she suddenly wondered if he was captive too. "Well, Huntsman, I'm Belle." With his head downturned as it was, she suddenly noticed something in his hair. Several clumpy strands matted in crust. She pitched forward on her tiptoes and squinted, trying to decipher if the crust was really a shade of burgundy or not. "Are you hurt?" Belle instinctively lifted her arm, but the chains held her back from reaching the suspicious spot on his head.

The Huntsman flinched back, causing the cup to lodge free of their respective hands and clatter to the floor with a metal tang. He quickly bent down to retrieve it.

The clang echoed in her ears, reviving the moment buried inside her mind when she'd dropped Rumplestiltskin's tea tray. A rush of adrenaline gripped her heart. It made sense now: he was a servant. She quickly stepped forward and pressed her hands to his shoulders, holding him down with a firm yet gentle touch. "It's okay," she eased. "I won't hurt you, just let me look." She expected a struggle, but to her surprise, his body limped beneath her hold.

Belle gave his shoulders a reassuring squeeze before she began to weave her fingers through his hair. Rust colored flecks began to speckle her faded hands. Blood, just as she'd feared. As she dug deeper into his locks, she parted and pressed them back, revealing the pink flesh of The Huntsman's scalp. Her breath hitched when she noticed the crescent shaped scars, most scabbed over, but some freshly inflicted, as if someone had dug their hands into his hair and gripped his skull like a ball. She ran her thumb over one of the fresh wounds where the blood was still ripe and she felt him cringe.

"Let me help you." Belle took a step to the side, keeping one hand on The Huntsman's shoulder as she used the other to reach for the new cup of water he'd brought to her. She pulled it to the edge of her cot and then tore off a strip of her bedding, dipped it into the water, and began to dab carefully at the sores. The off-white fabric began to turn shades of rusty orange and red. "How did this happen?"

The Huntsman shook his head beneath her fingers.

Belle nodded softly for her own benefit. She continued until she could see no more blood, fresh or flaked, and sat her bloodied strip beside her cup. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

The Huntsman lifted his head back and their eyes locked for a beat, then he carefully began to remove a heavy silver wolf fur pelt, followed by his wool undershirt. He turned, revealing his bare back to her: raw and raked with crimson streaks like bars of a prison cell.

Belle collected the makeshift rag again, rung it out and re-dampened it. She knelt behind him and stroked the cool fabric against the wounds, wincing each time he did. Her mouth opened and a sound scarcely more than a whisper escaped: "Did the Queen do this?"

"The Queen does what she wishes."

Belle's wrist ceased to move while a terrible thought began to germinate in her mind. It almost didn't seem possible, but the wounds to his back and the wounds to his head…the Queen was certainly powerful enough – and cruel enough – to inflict such violation. Belle's heart constricted. She'd known victims in her past; women. Some of them had even been her very own ladies in waiting. They shrank back at physical touch too. She curled her wrist and continued to tend his back for several more minutes. "You should try to find some salve for these so they don't turn to infection. If I had any…"

The Huntsman pulled his shirt back over his head and secured the pelt around his shoulders. His eyes were glassy. "Thank you."

Belle nodded.

"I have to go."

"Of course." Her eyes belied her smile. "I'll see you tomorrow."

The Huntsman didn't answer, he simply collected the fallen cup and her metal tray from the day before and hurried from the cell, the door groaning again on his way out.

Belle eased herself onto her cot and picked up her water cup. It was mostly empty and tiny swirls of red tainted what was left. Her fingers resumed their endless dance.