Here's my Rumbelle Secret Santa gift (made with human & feline love alike) to my delovely Blessedlunatic!

Prompt: "Dark Castle - potion goes wrong"

That nightfall from a long, long time ago brought with it a biting cold the likes of which the realm had not seen in many winters' time. So cold and grim was the earth that The Dark One himself noticed it, felt the chill seep into his bones and snuff out any lingering trace of warmth it could find. Rumplestiltskin wrapped his coat tighter around himself and hastened his pace. His leather jerkin was of excellent use for prancing, less so when one had to make his way - and a long way it had been - through an unyielding forest.

You see, against all common knowledge, for many books have been written and endless words whispered about, it appeared that even the immortal ones could feel the cold. Even more so when the enduring soul was Rumplestiltskin's, and on a night such as this, so alike another from hundreds of years ago. The night when he had entered the very same forest a father, and emerged a desperate soul on a quest.

In every hollow pit in the ground that gapes at him and threatens to swallow him whole, Rumplestiltskin thinks he recognizes ancient traces his nails had left there, in the very same spot where the portal that took his son away from him closed. Every meadow he passes might be the one where he had spat and cursed at the Blue Fairy, for conniving that sinister plan to strip him of his powers and the only family he had left. And, despite so many bleak years since, the feel of the rough bark of this tree or that is still overly familiar to him, vivid from that night when he had rested his cheek upon it and wept.

Rumplestiltskin never knows why he, without fault, chooses the forest path to get back to the Dark Castle, making no use of the magic, crackling at his fingertips and demanding to be set free, which could easily transport him back home. He thinks that maybe a part of him, the small scrap that is still human and refuses to surrender to the darkness, craves the memory of that fateful night, as it does the memory of another dire day that has come a long time after.

Yes, he welcomes the pain these recollections bring, if only to make himself suffer and pay for what he's done. And he needs the shame and regret alive and breathing fire beneath his skin, because it is the only way he knows how to feel warm again. True that it is a particular kind of warmth, one born out of anger and despair, but he welcomes it nonetheless. Because as the sorrow of loosing his son washes through him anew, so does the desperate need to get Baelfire back, no matter the cost. And then, rarely and for a brief moment in time, all the things he had to do to get back to his son seem to make a little bit of sense.

It would make sense sending her away, wouldn't it? Belle. He had her love, and yet he chose to cut her out. But he had to, didn't he? For his Bae. For Belle herself. He needed to hold on to his power, and she needed to be protected, far away from it.

"She died."

"Papa!"

"You trust me to come back?"

"You coward, you promised."

"Don't break our deal."

"Why won't you believe me?"

"I expect I'll never see you again."

In the three hundred years he has been living on this accursed earth as the Dark One, Rumplestiltskin had committed innumerable despicable acts. Some had been more shocking and gruesome that others, a few he had drawn twisted pleasure from, many he had despised himself for. But, deep inside himself where his shrivelled little heart still beats its chaotic rhythm, he knows that the biggest mistake he has done had been sending away the only two people he had ever truly loved.

It is not often for one to witness the Dark One collapse onto his knees under the burden of his memories, and sob amongst trees and under stars. It is rare for Rumplestiltskin to do so, and even rarer still for him to feel, as he scrunches on the ground and claws his nails into the dirt in his misery, something warm pressing itself insistently against his back.

He's rendered motionless for a moment, stunned by the novelty of sensation, before he gathers his wits and spins on his heels - as fast as he can as to surprise his attacker -, only to come face to face with two very wide, very blue eyes.

The thing pushing itself against him is... a cat. A very small one, white with little streaks of black that look more like blue in the moonlight. There are spots of chestnut fur on all her paws and the tip of her tail, and it would look comical weren't for the utter impossibly of stumbling upon a domesticated cat in middle of the forest, in the dead of night. The creature is shivering and looks a little worse for wear, and yet all it does is stare right into Rumplestiltskin's eyes, undeterred and with a curiosity that belie the fact that it has just met a rather unpleasant beast. Not that the little thing is pleasant by any means, no. It is entirely too strange, and looking far too fierce to make Rumplestiltskin feel comfortable in its presence.

It is in that particular moment that Rumplestiltskin's discomfort increases tenfold, for the tiny thing decides to launch itself at him. He has no time to cross his arms protectively against his chest for he instantly finds himself with a lap full of cat, the furry creature nestled tightly against his belly and, thankfully, in no apparent rush to claw his heart out.

"Cat..." Rumplestiltskin says warily, just because he doesn't know what else to do. As expected, the sound of crickets and an almost inaudible purr he might as well have imagined are the only things he hears in response. He waits, unsure of how to proceed on his own, and stunned that he is actually waiting for a cat to make the next move.

He can feel the softness of the thing, its solid warmth through his shirt and scales, and it is not an unpleasant feeling. It's warmth, and even if it isn't inside his chest or burning in his veins where it should be, it's still there and his for the taking.

"Wee kitten, shoo now..." he adds, although there's little conviction in his voice by now, and the desire to prowl the little thing off him dims by the second.

No more inclined to dislodge the ball of fur from its nest against his chest, lest he finds himself with new scales made by her claws - or at least that's what he tells himself -, Rumplestiltskin decides to welcome this little distraction from his thoughts and cradles the thing in his arms, tucking it inside his coat to offer it some shelter from the cold. Cat secured, he gets up to his feet and resumes his way back to the Dark Castle.

It's a strange feeling, he muses as his feet crush dead leaves in his wake, after so many years, to no longer emerge from this forest alone.