He's only alive, because he cannot die.

The only way to kill him is for someone to plunge the blasted dagger into his chest, to take all his magic and all his power for themselves. To steal his curse. He wouldn't wish that horror on anyone.

So he lives, but only just. He doesn't eat, he doesn't sleep, he doesn't do much of anything but spin and even that doesn't soothe him as it once did. Because at least in the old world, when he was full of despair and brought lower than he conceivably thought possible, he had one bolstering thought. Baelfire was alive, out there somewhere waiting for him. And they would one day be reunited.

He doesn't have that comfort anymore. His son is dead, buried beneath the cold earth in the Storybrooke cemetery, in a land that was never his home. For a while after Bae's death, he'd had Belle for comfort. When the nights were too much to bear, she'd wrap him up in her arms offering soothing words, or else let him lose himself in her body, driving the demons away through the sheer power of her love.

But Belle is gone now too. It's been two years since he last saw her beautiful face, tear tracks marring her perfect skin, her blue eyes red from crying. He'd failed her and she'd left.

He doesn't blame her for getting out when she had a chance. What woman wants to be tied to a coward, and that's all he's ever been. He was too afraid to tell her the truth, too afraid to see the disappointment in her eyes. So he'd lied, deceived her, used her. She hadn't even been angry, just resigned and sad as she packed her bags and left his home. He's vaguely surprised no divorce papers ever appeared on his doorstep. She's technically still his wife, and sometimes on especially cold and lonely evenings he clings to that fact. But she's his wife in name only and since when do names mean anything?

Wherever she was now, he hoped she was happy. He hoped she'd found adventure.

Usually he tried not to think about Belle or Bae, numbing himself to every thought until he just existed, floating like foam on the waves. But every so often his memories invaded his carefully blank mind, torturing him with their beauty. He had a son, he had a wife, now he has nothing but a house filled with dusty relics, himself included.

There is a knock on the door, or so his addled mind tells him. But that can't be right. No one has knocked on his door in over a year. The Charmings tried at first, then Regina, banging on his door for what felt like endless hours crying out for the help of the mighty Dark One. But they eventually realized it was futile. The Rumplestiltskin they knew was dead and buried in the graveyard next to his son. This shell of a man wasn't worth their time.

And so they left him in his slowly decaying house and pretended the pink mansion on the edge of the woods didn't exist.

The knock sounded again, louder this time and echoing through the oppressive silence of his mausoleum. The wheel stills beneath his hands, and he glances in the direction of the door.

Then the doorbell buzzes.

It's not a dream. There's someone there.

Rumplestiltskin is in no fit state for company. He can't remember the last time he washed his hair. He cannot even remember the last time he looked in a mirror. There's been no need.

He glances down at his body, still clothed in the same suit he was wearing when Belle left. It's tattered and dusty and stained. His magic sustains him, but only just. He's thinner than he's ever been, his hair long and matted around his shoulders, a scraggly beard across his chin. If anyone were to see him like this, they wouldn't recognize him. Not as the trickster and dealmaker and definitely not as the suave pawnbroker. Even the poor spinner he'd been lifetimes ago wasn't as wretched as the man he is now.

The banging on the door and the buzzing of the bell grow more frantic. He's not sure what makes him stand from the wheel, his ancient bones creaking at the effort. He hasn't opened that door since the last time he threw Regina off his porch and warded it against intruders. But something drives him to it now.

He unlatches the lock and slowly pulls open the door, the bright sunlight outside making his eyes water as they slowly adjust from the gloom within. He's blinking like a newborn babe and he can't make out who is standing before him until his vision clears and he makes out a pair of cerulean blue eyes, wide with horror.

"Rumple?" she gasps, her voice sweeter than his recollections even if it is inflected with shock.

He cannot keep himself standing any longer. His legs give out and he falls to his knees. He's done it, he's finally lost his tenuous grip on sanity. She is a hallucination and nothing more, but if this is a dream he doesn't want to wake.

"Belle," he sobs, his voice broken and harsh. It's the first word he's uttered in almost two years.