A/N-This is a very simple, very short one shot taking place during Belle's imprisonment.
Pollen dusted the guards' gloves, and Belle knew it was spring again. There was no breeze, no rain to wet a window she didn't have, and the dry blades of grass stuck to her captors' boots dried and crackled overnight. Belle twisted the strands and frayed the grass into long, scattered lines. Her pile of dust and dead grass was wiped away four tick marks later. It went out with a half-empty bowl of food peppered with mold and a metal mug of water.
Belle scratched a new line down her wall. It dusted her fingers black and smeared across her palm.
"Done fighting yet?" Regina asked from the doorway. She crossed her arms, sweeping the trail of her sleeves along the floor, and cocked an eyebrow.
Belle shook her head and said, "No." Her hair, matted together and dry, flopped in her face, and she pulled it back with a few torn strips from her bed. The movement blurred the edges of her vision, mixing her black lines with the black behind her eyes. She smiled and played with a dried dandelion browned from dirt. "You should let some light in. It's almost spring."
"He won't come for you."
"He won't have to."
Regina pursed her lips and slammed the door with the wave of a hand. The rush of air blew back Belle's hair and she settled against her wall. She slept and sang, and sometime later when her stomach clenched at the thought of food, a guard finally brought her a bowl of mash that might have been vegetables once. Another tick mark on the wall appeared beside her head.
And another.
And another.
The food appeared without the help of hands, and there were no more boots for grass to cling to. No more seasons walked through her door, and Belle crawled to the edge of the cell. Her ear to the floor and her forehead pressed against the door, she scratched along the crack between the door and floor. Her fingers traced dusty words and she breathed in.
The bite of ice was in the air, and Belle knew it was winter again.