Scourges and flaying. Jumped from a tower.
He mourned for endless days, for being almost immortal, his days were endless. Unlike hers, which were limited from the start, and the too-short years which Fate had promised her were stolen by the unforgiving intolerance of religion and society. Rumplestiltskin supposed it was pointless to hate Maurice for surrendering her to the clerics: the duke was born a weakling; he lacked the backbone to rebel (oh, but the Dark One would punish him anyway, when he'd finished with the clerics).
Rumplestiltskin grieved, and because he was the most powerful being in the realm, so was his grieving. No one and nothing could break through his grief. . .
Except that which made him powerful.
In the depths of his torment, his magic shook him out, set him flat on his feet when it reminded him of his role in the world by producing, in a fire-vision, the contract between himself and Belle.
Nothing had been written between them the day they had made their deal, but a contract had been drafted just the same and signed by their unqualified vow: forever, he'd said; and forever, she had agreed; and magic had bound them. The contract would be fulfilled; nothing either of them could do would invalidate the contract unless both of them agreed, of their own free will, to terminate the agreement.
Belle hadn't agreed.
Of his own free will, Rumple had initiated the termination–but Belle had never accepted his offer. By the rules of magic, which not even the Dark One had power to break, the contract lived.
The words of their vow glowed in the contract his magic forced him to see: "It's forever, dearie." Not "It's until I panic over my growing love for you and chase you away." And Belle's answer: "I will go with you forever." Not "Until I die." The contract contained no codicils, no escape clause, and both parties were bound through magic to fulfill the bargain as written.
He'd broken one contract and magic was still exacting a heavy penalty for it, every day of his life for the past three hundred years. He couldn't begin to imagine the payment magic would take out of him if he broke another deal.
Frustrated, though he knew the effort was wasted, he waved his hand to rewrite the contract, but magic refused to obey. He then attempted to burn the contract, but magic simply reversed direction and burned his fingers instead. Magic, it seemed, would tolerate no more of Rumplestiltskin's shenanigans. So he slumped in his chair like a petulant child and tried not to think, which of course compelled him to think, and worse, to feel.
Their vow of forever, though it may have been spoken under duress by one of the parties, and uncharacteristically in haste, without thought for the word's true meaning, by the other party, was written in magic. It was indelible. His commitment to Belle and hers to him was guaranteed to transcend distance and time. They were bound to be together no matter what any circumstance or person– themselves included–did to part them.
At the moment of this realization, Rumplestiltskin stopped grieving and came back to himself.
Only he, as an immortal and a mage, could walk through the Last Gate with the expectation of walking back out again. He evoked that privilege now, waltzing into the Mist World, without a faltering step waltzing across the nine frozen rivers. At the Great Mansion of the goddess Hel, he threw wide the doors with his magic, and he strolled–for he was the Dark One and never hurried–boldly into the mead hall, where the goddess held court.
"I have come for the woman Belle," he demanded without preamble.
A powerful magic, perhaps even greater than his, launched him forward to the foot of the table, where he could be scrutinized by the three diners (and, from the corners of their eyes, the wine bearer and the two servers). He stood straight, unblinking, for right, and more importantly, magic were on his side (or rather, he theirs). "Pardon, Majesties, but I come on urgent business, by the compulsion of the terms of a magic-bound contract."
"You would be The Deal Maker then," one of the women spoke. She peered at him curiously. "Interesting."
"Such rudeness would not be tolerated," said the male diner, "except we are all servants to a power greater than ourselves."
"Even we must answer to magic," said the earlier speaker.
The woman at the head of the table patted her mouth with her napkin and waved the servants away. Though they obeyed immediately, the servants cast backward glances, and Rumple knew they'd be listening behind closed doors. No matter. In fact, perhaps it was best he had witnesses.
The mistress of the mansion revealed no annoyance as she made introductions. "Father, sister, this is Rumplestiltskin, the Dark One. Rumplestiltskin, may I present my sister Freyda, lady of Folkvangr, and my father Odin, lord of Valhalla."
Rumple bowed his deepest bow. "Majesties." He stood in the presence of gods, but his cause was just, so he stood unafraid.
"A magic-bound contract, is it?" Odin mused. "May we see?" It wasn't really a question.
Rumple produced the contract within easy reach of the god, who perused it before sending it along to Hel and finally to Freyda. Rumple waited, quietly confident: not even they could refuse him.
"It's valid," Freyda declared before returning the contract to Rumple, who returned it to the Archives of Magic.
"As we knew it would be," Odin said. "We know of you, Rumplestiltskin. The Dark One who does not lie."
"Belle of the Marchlands, is it? I am sorry, Rumple. You will not find her here," Hel said.
Rumple allowed himself the briefest of smiles. Not in Helheim. Then Belle did not die a suicide, as Regina had claimed, nor by accident or injury. That meant then she died a hero and had been welcomed into the realm of the honored. As was only fitting. Rumple turned to Odin. "In Valhalla, then?"
Odin shook his heavy head. "No, though I would welcome her, her vow prevents her from ever appearing in my realm."
Perplexed, Rumple turned to Freyda. "In Folkvangr, then."
The goddess smiled slyly as she shook her head. "Think, Rumplestiltskin: she is bound to you forever, and you are nearly immortal. Unless you die too, she will never see our realms."
"A ghost," he surmised. "If she dies, unless I'm killed with my dagger, she will remain with me as a ghost."
"Has a ghost appeared to you, Rumplestiltskin?" Hel inquired.
They gave him a moment for the question to sink in. . . .
It did, like a burst of spring sunlight after months of winter darkness. "She didn't die!"
"Her work in the realm of the living is by no means finished," Odin declared.
Freyda's crystal blue eyes twinkled. "It will take many, many years yet, Rumplestiltskin. Her work is you."
"Then what–" he lay down the missing piece of the puzzle. "Regina."
"The Fates knew what they were doing when they bypassed her in selecting the Dark One," Odin muttered, sipping his wine.
Rumple bowed hastily and turned to leave, but Odin called him back. "Wait, let us give you a little boost." As the god summoned a transportation spell, Freyda added, "Don't forget: magic will ensure this contract is fulfilled. Regina will not be permitted to stand in the way."
Rumplestiltskin emerged in a cold, round room, in one of the Dark Palace's towers, he surmised. A single torch in a sconce provided insufficent light for him to see where to step, so he conjured a wall full of torches. In the metal-walled space–for it was hardly large enough to be called a room–he discovered one water bucket and one narrow, flat-mattressed cot, and his blood heated in anger that his lady had been given so little with which to survive. Not a blanket nor a scrap of bread had been provided her–Regina would pay for that.
The prisoner, knees drawn protectively to her chest, squinted in the sudden bright light. Her long hair, matted from months without a comb, nearly covered a fresh bruise on her cheek, and when her mouth fell open in shock, she revealed a gap where two teeth had been.
With a groan Rumple rushed to her side–and she shrieked and pressed against the wall in a futile effort to escape him.
He didn't try to touch her then. He called her name softly and encouagingly.
Her feet scrambled against the mattress, which, he saw then, was spotted with blood and ticks.
"Belle, it's me. It's going to be all right. I'm going to take you home."
He held a hand out for her to take, but she shook her head wildly. "Trick!" Her voice was hoarse. "Another trick. Why don't you just beat me and be done with it?"
"Because it's so much more fun when you think it's your lover who's beating you," a velvet voice replied.
He spun to find the Evil Queen leaning, arms crosed, in the open doorframe.
"Hello, Rumple. Recovered from your mourning, I see, and you figured out my little game."
His mouth opened, ready to unleash threats and curses, but his rage robbed him of words.
Regina seemed to float as she approached and circled him, eyeing him critically–a ploy he had taught her to establish dominance. "Took you long enough. Or was it that you simply couldn't be bothered until now to reclaim your property?"
"I'm going to draw this out," he said. "Slowly, so that the anticipation will rob you of your sleep, your appetite, your sanity–as you robbed Belle. I will appear behind you at your dinner table, to whisper in your ear all the horrible things I have planned for you, and before you can catch your breath I will vanish, leaving you to wonder if it had just been your imagination. I will appear at the foot of your throne as you issue your daily commands to your servants, and before I disappear I will kill one of your guardsmen. I will enter your dreams and turn them into nightmares that leave you quaking and sweating, until not even the arms of your Huntsman can comfort you. I will drive you insane, and when at last you beg me to kill you, perhaps I'll show you mercy and grant your request. But for now," he flicked his fingers and sent Regina crashing against the wall, "I'm taking Belle home."
Perhaps it was the cool viciousness in his stance or the vivid descriptiveness in his threats, or just his use of the word home; whichever it was, Belle recognized him now and flew into his arms, burying her face in his shoulder. "Rumple."
The queen brushed herself off and chuckled. "Oh no. I didn't go to all this trouble to end up empty-handed." She raised a hand in Belle's direction. "Back, girl."
But nothing happened.
Regina summoned her magic until her hands glowed red, but still she couldn't force power from her fingertips. "W-what have you done?" she shouted. "How–in my own castle?"
"Not I, dearie. A higher power. I have a contract with Belle–bound by magic. Don't forget what I said, Regina. Your sleep, your appetite, your sanity are mine now." He transported Belle home.
As he tended her wounds and fed her broth, kneeling at her feet, as he bathed her and brushed her hair and clad her in silk and tucked her into bed, as he sat beside her, holding her hand throughout the night to steer her clear of nightmares, he realized nothing he could do would make up for his mistakes. He also knew that as her mind and body recovered from what Regina had done to her, her heart would recover from what he had done and hadn't done. Belle would forgive him; she had to, to accomplish the work the Fates had assigned her, and to fulfill her vow of forever.
And so that he could fulfill his, he would someday forgive himself.