He remembers hearing once that more than 45 minutes in a completely soundless chamber would be enough to drive a man mad. He's not sure how long he's been in this cell, deprived of light, of sound, of any sort of human presence. He's fairly certain it's been a day. Or maybe a week. A year? It couldn't be more than a year, could it? He's tried to scream once or twice and even that's been swallowed up by the hell that he has been relegated to.
He was sure in the first day he became aware of the rush of his blood through his body. A rhythmic pulsing that starts in one ear and then goes to the other. And then back again. Over and over and over. He feels it more than hears it but sometime after the first hour (day? month?), he's certain it's sound. Real sound. Coming from the walls, the floor, the ceiling that he cannot see. It lives with him, day in and day out for years (centuries?). And he focuses on it, knows he can control it if he can just find the source.
He's not even sure how long he's tried to locate it, moving blindly about the room, hands thrown out in front of him. There's nothing to trip on. Just walls to run into. Walls that are close, too close, closing in on him. He's sometimes sure the room is hundreds of feet long and sometimes sure it's a box no bigger than the width of his arms, no taller than he is.
It changes. He's sure it changes and so he runs, no limps, hobbles his way around the room to try to find the source of the sound, to find a door, to find anything.
He screams soundless screams. For days, years, centuries.
He had magic once. He's sure of that. Magic that could produce fireballs, that could raze the box to the ground. But now he is hobbled, nothing more than a crippled spinner who cannot even practice his trade. His hands ache for his spinning wheel. A way to occupy himself, to make him forget. The creak of the wheel would stop the sound coming from around him. He knows this. It's always been able to settle him.
But they haven't even allowed him that much. No dignity. He still remembers their faces, pinched, tired, eyes narrowed. They couldn't even look at him as he knelt on the floor, frozen in place, his face a mask of horror as he was helpless before them. He tried…tried to plead his case, tried to explain, tried to do anything. But it was not enough. It never would be.
You are not family. He hears the words inside his head. Strident, angry. You have never been family.
But Henry…but Bae…But that is not enough. Baelfire is dead. And Henry is just a sad reminder that he has never been enough, never can be enough. He comes to his shop under false pretenses. And he knows this. He knew this even while teaching him to tend to his shop, while pretending he wanted to get to know his grandfather better. You're the last connection to my father. Besides Emma, of course. But he's the last direct blood relative on that side of the family. It made sense. But even he knew it wasn't true.
No one wants to get to know the monster.
The truth. It doesn't even sting anymore. It is a reality, nothing more. He'd sigh if he dared make a noise in that all-encompassing darkness.
But he doesn't dare.
He breathes deep.
He thinks about it. Go ahead, make a noise. Do something. They expect it, he's sure of it. A shout, a scream, a railing at the fates that have brought him here. Fists pounded on walls he cannot see, cannot feel. They are standing outside the room, waiting and listening. They've been there for a hundred years, wondering. When will he do it? When will he try to break free?
Can he break free?
He raises his hand, tries to form a fireball. Nothing. The magic fizzles before it even has a chance to form a spark.
They are watching him. He's sure of it. Somehow, peering into the darkness, able to see him. Small and pathetic and curled into a little ball in one corner. Is it a corner? Are there corners? Perhaps the room is round and he can roll around in it…
There is a mirror on one wall. He doesn't know how he knows this. But he does. He can imagine it. The Queen watches. He knows she's there, watching him. Always watching…waiting…her old enemy drawn low before her. He can imagine her haughty stare, the slight raising of her lip. Disdain.
Disdain and hatred.
Disdain and hatred and disgust at what he has become.
He is nothing.
Nothing.
He has never been anything.
Never.
Now more than ever as he waits in silence, in darkness, senses dulled and an ache somewhere deep inside. They bring him food. They are not that cruel at least. It magically appears in the room with him (and the metal tray sitting steadily on the floor leads him to believe the room is not round…or perhaps the tray is round…perhaps he is round and the world is topsy turvy).
He hears himself chew…when he manages to stomach some of what is left for him. The rushing sound within his ears diminishes for moments, replaced by the sound of his mouth moving. He clacks his teeth together, chatters, just to hear a sound beside that one.
He's been there so long he's not sure he's ever been anywhere else.
He's a demon, cast out, deprived of light until he withers away to nothing. He's forgotten. And he's not even sure what is worse at this point. To be hated or to simply be forgotten. Tucked away and someday everyone can say Do you remember…And they will nod and shudder and go on about their days. Wishing they didn't remember, relegating him to memories that come forth in their worst nightmares. He almost…
Yes…
He almost…
He's not sure how long he's been there (days? weeks? years?) when he starts to hear voices. Soft at first, but then louder. They drown out the constant pulsing sound that surrounds him.
"You have to understand…" comes the first voice. It's cut off. And he's sure he knows who it is. His brain tries to track it. Male. Tall. Blond. Yes. A true hero. He remembers even if he doesn't remember. He is something he will never be, something he can never hope to be.
"We had to." That voice comes with a bit of hesitancy, a little bit of a whine to the voice. Small, his mind says. Female…snow…Snow? Yes…he remembers her name. Her name is Snow. A ridiculous name at best, named after a weather phenomenon that kills hundreds in the tiny villages high up in the mountains year after years.
"He took it back, love." This voice makes his stomach roil with anger. He launches himself at one of the walls, colliding hard with it, a snarl lodged somewhere in his throat.
There is silence on the other side and he wonders if they can hear him, sense him, if they know his pain and rage and the anger that sits just beneath his sternum, lodged there like a pill he cannot swallow.
And he's not even sure if that anger is directed inward or outward. Maybe it's going in all directions at once.
Does it even matter?
"I want to see him." That voice is clear. Clear as a…well…Belle. He knows that voice. He knows it well. It haunts him day in and day out. She's left. Left him behind. She's seeing the world and that has been the only consolation he has had all these…months or years. She is safe. She is away from them, from him. From the people who would harm her because of him.
And she is doing what she wants to do at long last.
But he hears her now and he's not sure if it's hallucination or real.
It seems real.
Which perhaps points to its being a hallucination. He has not heard another voice since he was…imprisoned? Locked away? Forgotten? Why now? Why here?
Why her?
"You can't," comes the first voice again.
"Belle," the second says and that name sends a shooting pain right through his shriveled blackened little heart.
"I want to see him." The voice is stronger now, closer. And there's such a weariness to it that he's sure it's no longer a hallucination. Belle never sounds like that. Not in his memories, not in the hallucinations he's had of her. She is always smiling, always happy, always with her nose in a book. She's a breath of fresh air, his flicker of light in the darkness. He cannot see her any other way.
But this Belle sounds tired. Her voice is tight and low, as if she's seen things. And she has, he's sure. She's seen him die. She's seen him betray everyone. She's seen him betray her. And it's changed her. It must have.
"You can't," starts one of the voices and then cuts off. Almost painfully. He'd smile if he wasn't so sure the world was currently upside down. Which way is up? Down? Up is down? He's not even sure anymore. The room has been silence, silence and deadness and the feeling of cracked glass lodged beneath his fingernails, for so long that he's not even sure if this is reality or if his mind has simply fractured beyond repair.
"Open it." The last is said with a forcefulness he's not sure he's heard from Belle since the very beginning. All you'll have is an empty heart and a chipped cup. He has less now.
But the door is opening and he skitters backward and for a moment he can see the room. He's not even sure what color it is. It's bright. So bright. And his eyes shut against the pain, against the bright light he can still see at the edges of his eyelids even though they are slammed shut against the intrusion.
He tips back, rolls, and when he finally comes in contact with the wall (so not round, then), manages to curl himself into as tight as ball as possible.
There is silence.
But he no longer hears the blood rushing in his ears.
He hears the ticking of a clock.
The sound of footsteps in the distance.
The rustling of paper.
Normal sounds. Sounds that he had been used to. Sounds that startle and scare him. Foreign sounds…you must make them stop…
And then one voice in the darkness of his world.
"What have you done to him?" Her voice is soft, raspy. The words are spoken on a slight gasp.
"We had to…" One of the others starts, his voice trailing off. The Prince, he realizes. A prince of of a kingdom that no longer exists. Not here. Here…where is here again? His world is reduced to this tiny dark room and he keeps eyes shut. He's not sure he can see anyway. Did they blind him? But no, he can see light at the edge of his visions, flickering as people move between him and whatever the source of light is.
He hears the sound of feet across the hard floor. Heels. Of course. His Belle always wears heels that bring her close to his height and he constantly worries that she'll trip, fall, hurt herself. He often tried to talk her out of them, but she was having none of that. And so he worries when it's icy, when it's raining, even when it's nice out.
She's there then. He can feel her in front of him, the heat radiating off her body. And then cool hands are on his face, lifting his chin up. He doesn't even realize that he's curled into a ball in the corner of the room, chin tucked into his chest. Small. He needs to be small. He remembers that from his father, hide from them Rumple my boy, they only mean us harm, and nights tucked in the pantry, cold and dark and frightened.
But she is there. And her voice…"Oh Rumple." Her hands brush the hair out of his eyes and he tries to open them. Tries, so very hard. He wants to drink her in. He wants to smile. But he can do nothing more than blink his eyes once before he shuts them against the light.
And then he feels her stand. "I'm taking him with me." Her voice is resolute and it causes the most amazing amount of noise from the others. He tries to skitter backward, hands up over his ears.
"You can't…"
"But he…"
"He'll hurt someone…"
"Belle!"
All the words come at once and he wants to just hide, shut the door, keep them all out. Even her. She's the most dangerous of them all, he remembers. She has power over him, can influence him, and he remembers long nights in bed in the comfort of her embrace and cold days when he stepped outside and betrayed her.
Always betrayal…
Oh Rumple…
And he knows she hasn't forgotten those betrayals. It's still there, in her voice. She won't ever forget.
Oh Rumple…
He focuses on those words because they are all he has. He hasn't heard his own name in what must be forever. How long has it been anyway? He cannot find words to describe the amount of time.
But Belle is back in front of him and she repeats herself. She is taking him with her. And he doesn't even know where. But gentle hands reach under his elbows. "Rumple," she says and her voice is hushed, darkened by something that he cannot even begin to comprehend. She pulls at him and he realizes she wants him to rise.
Has he stood in any of this time?
He remembers pacing the room at first but now? No. He has hidden in the corner, curled into a ball. It has been a century since he has stood on his own two feet.
"Rumple, we're leaving." There's silence at her words this time and he dares to lift his head. He still can't quite get his eyes to open in the harshness of the light, but he reaches out a hand toward her. "Yes," she says and the word is encouraging. "You need to rise." She speaks like she's trying to tame a wild animal. And maybe he is. The beast in his cage. But she is letting him out and he's afraid of the big bad world beyond the darkness he has lived in.
"I…" His voice gives up as he tries to form the words and her hand comes out to briefly touch his cheek.
"Don't speak," she murmurs and he remembers that always, always, she has been his strength. She is now as she gets her hands below his elbows and he allows her to draw him to his feet. He is weak there, sways, her arm wraps around him before he has a chance to fall back to the floor.
Beasts do not walk, my dear…they crawl, skitter across the floor, like insects, unwanted and alone…just waiting for someone to crush them beneath uncaring bootheels…
"Come on." The words are whispered in his ears as she pulls him forward.
He shifts, manages to lift a foot and put it front of the other. She makes a small noise. Approval. He can't remember the last time he heard such a thing. And so he puts another foot forward, and then another. His head rests on her shoulder. He can't open his eyes. He can't see. He can't look at them.
They say nothing as he feels them pass beyond the door. He hears shifting, people moving out of their way. Then Belle again. "Let us go." Her voice is firm.
And they do. Continuing their slow crawl down what he thinks is a hallway, to a door, to the outside.
He feels air on his face for the first time in what must be centuries. Air that is moving, air that is cool. He drinks it in with a small gasp and he feels Belle shift beside him as he does so.
"It's dark out," she says and her voice is still quiet. "You can open your eyes."
But he doesn't. He can't. Not yet. It's a dream and opening his eyes will bring him back to that darkness, to that place that he knows he belongs but never wants to be. A tiny windowless room, dark and dank with his own sweat, his own tears, his own blood.
He pushes away from her, tries to stand on his own. His legs go out from under him and she catches him. As she always does. "You don't have to…" The words come out on a croak. Is that truly his voice? He can't remember the last time he spoke that many words in a row.
"I do," she says and he wonders if she knows how amazing her voice is. The silky sound of it caresses his ears, brings him back to a time before…before he was this. Before he…well…just before…
He tries to speak. But the words do not come. "Come on, Rumple," she says at last and the arm wrapped around his middle tightens a little bit. "Let's get you home."
"Home…" He has no home, no place to call his own, just a tiny room filled with darkness and memories and hate. So much hate. And not for others. Hate for the beast who tried to be a man, who has always belonged there, hidden far beyond the pale of humanity. It is the only world he knows, the only one he deserves.
But Belle pulls him away from it, and he knows she wants to pull him back into the light. And he doesn't have the strength to tell her no, to remind her of who he is.
So he follows her, her body tilted toward his, propping him up as they make their slow plodding way to the place she believes is home and never should be.
There are some things Belle will never forget. The day Rumplestiltskin came for her is one of them. She remembers his sharp gaze, the dragonhide coat, the way he seemed to be only part man…part…some other sort of beast. It was the day her entire life changed and is not one she would take back even if she could.
The other was her first glimpse of Rumplestiltskin crouched in his cell. She wasn't sure what she expected exactly. But the darkness beyond that door, Rumplestiltskin huddling in the back like a trapped animal, those were not it. He had turned his head toward the light, eyes only half open for a moment before they slammed shut again. His hair hung down into his eyes, lank against gaunt cheeks.
He had looked barely human there in the half light filtering in from the hallway. And worst of all, were the almost non-reactions of the rest of the group there. They looked on that scene and turned their faces away with shrugs. Only one person, Snow White, looked even embarrassed by the condition Rumplestiltskin was being kept in.
But Belle had watched as she steeled her shoulders and turned away in the end too.
Only Belle had helped him out of there. Only Belle had been there to wrap an arm around him and let him lean on her. There were stronger people there. David, Hook. But they stepped back and let her pass.
And so here she sits, back at the table that was once her own, in the home that was once her own. She hasn't been back since she left town at Rumplestiltskin's instruction. Her return, one year to the date she left, was as much a surprise to herself as it was to others. She's not sure what she meant to do when she pointed the Cadillac, Rumplestiltskin's Cadillac, back toward Storybrooke. But the longer that drive went on, the more she was certain.
She was going to reclaim her life.
And his.
If he would still have her.
But life had changed in Storybrooke since she left. Something had happened and while they speak to her of the Underworld and Rumplestiltskin turning on everyone, she knows they only speak half-truths. There is something more to their eyes. Sadness. A fierceness that she doesn't remember from before. Emma and Hook have been changed by their experiences. David's eyes look haunted. There are lines about Snow's mouth that were not there before she left.
The world is changed.
But no one speaks of it. No one says anything. And so she has brought Rumplestiltskin home, helped him into the downstairs guestroom, and left him resting there.
He does not speak over the next several days. She lives a half-life there in his house, eating without tasting the food.
She finds him in the guestroom huddled in a corner. He hisses when she turns on the light and she quickly turns it off. "Rumple?" She speaks quietly, but he does not respond. She can see movement there in the dimness, his hands raising up and covering his head. And so she leaves him be.
She brings him food every day and some days it's even touched. Most days it's not and she fears he's going to waste away in there. And if there's a small part of her that wonders if that's even possible, she tries to push it away. They are all afraid of Rumplestiltskin. And why would they be afraid of a powerless spinner? She remembers their not caring about his life and she expects that sort of callousness out of them now.
But fear?
It rolled off them in waves when that door opened.
Fear.
And why would they fear him?
She wants to ask him, but she's not even sure he's coherent after his time in that room. They tell her it's been months. Months. In a windowless, soundless, lightless room. His food there appeared by magic. No one spoke to him. They say It was for the best, Belle and frown. And she doesn't know what else to say, what questions to ask.
If she wants to know.
There's a part of her that isn't sure she actually wants to. But then she knows she has to. If they're going to have any hope of going forward, if there is indeed any hope at all, they have to start with honesty. On his end. And on hers.
It's over three weeks later when she opens the door and finds the small nightlight she's left in there turned on. She speaks his name on a breathy whisper. He turns to her then and there's something there, a spark, a little bit of Rumplestiltskin hidden there in the depths of a man who would be beast.
"Belle," he finally whispers and his voice is raw. She remembers his voice as being deep, soothing. Or high-pitched and shrill. But this? This is nothing she's heard before. It's as if someone reached in and tore his vocal cords to shreds and she's not sure if it's because he hasn't spoken in days (months, even) or if it's because he screamed himself to this point.
"Rumple." She's on her knees at his side before she can even think of what she's doing. Her hands touch his shoulders. Lightly. He doesn't pull away and it's perhaps the first time he doesn't.
"Belle," he repeats, brittle edges and insistence that she's not quite expecting. She feels breathless as he reaches out and lightly touches her face. He says nothing more as she leans her face into his touch. Just a little. It's been so long. One night before she left for good, before he sent her away, before he gave her the world.
She doesn't want the world.
That's why she's here. That's why she's come back. The world is a lonely place to be when you're on your own. And she has been. An entire year of wandering from place to place, making short connections with people before moving on, never to see them again. But here…here is where her heart is.
"Rumple…" she starts to say but he cuts her off when he suddenly leans forward. A streak of light spilling in from the doorway falls across his face. Half in light, half in shadow.
"I took it back," he murmurs before falling back into the darkness.
"You…"
"I took it back," he repeats and thrusts his arm forward. She shakes her head, eyebrows low, head cocked slightly to the side. And then she sees it, wrapped tightly around his forearm. Black and heavy, and then she knows.
He slides backward, curls himself into a small ball, and he's gone from her. She tries to speak his name, but nothing comes out. She wants to ask him why. But she doesn't. She leaves him in the room, curled away from humanity. She retreats.
She doesn't know what else to do.
It's the middle of a terrible storm when Snow White comes by. They've lost power some hours ago and Belle is sitting at the kitchen table when she hears the pounding at the door.
It's been a week since Rumplestiltskin told her the terrible, confusing truth. And she still doesn't know what to make of it. He hasn't said another word and she knows she should feel relieved that he was honest, but instead she feels numb.
He is the Dark One again.
And she feels like somehow she has failed him.
When she pulls open the door and yanks Snow in, the other woman looks a little embarrassed. "Sorry," she says as she drips water on the floor.
Belle just shakes her head.
"I brought candles!" Snow says. The words are bright…too bright, awkward. She doesn't know if she's come here of her own volition, if she's just curious. Or if someone insisted on sending her to the lair of the beast.
She reaches out a hand and takes the candle Snow is offering. "He's the Dark One again." She doesn't know why she says it. The words have gone around and around in her head. Over and over and over again. He's the Dark One he's the Dark One he's the Dark One. She remembers his being the hero, his being her hero, and she wonders what happened.
Snow lets out a huff of hair. "You know." And the words are not a question.
"You know," Belle says and she hates the way her voice rises in pitch as the words come out. "You know and you didn't tell me."
"We…"
"What happened?"
Snow shakes her head. "I don't know." She retreats, just a step, but Belle rushes forward.
"You must know something." The words come out on a rush.
"We were all marked. We all went to the Underworld." She gives a small shudder at that and Belle tries to imagine what they've all gone through. She's read stories, after all. "Emma…she said he had to go and left it at that. And Gold? I don't even know Belle. He was changed…somehow. But I don't know how. None of it made sense. Like…it was some sort of nightmare." She holds her hand to her head. "It's all so fuzzy."
"But the Dark One…"
"I don't know, Belle. He told us himself and he wasn't exactly forthcoming with information." Snow gives her that look and Belle understands. "You know Gold."
Belle smiles. She doesn't mean to, but she knows Rumplestiltskin and knows him well. He plays his cards close to his chest, revealing nothing more than what he has to. The problem has always been that he's kept those things from her to. She doesn't expect him to be perfect. But honesty. No matter how bad it is. It's all Belle has ever asked of him.
"I do," she finally says. "He told you?"
"He did. And I don't even know why. He just…threw a fireball at some creature and said 'Oh yeah, I'm the Dark One again' and kept going. But there was something there Belle. I don't know. I know they all blame him and I understand their locking him away. But there was something else there and I don't know what it is." Snow clutches her hands to her chest and her eyes are strangely wide.
Belle reaches out a hand and touches her briefly on the shoulder. "I understand…"
Snow nods once and leaves. She's said her peace. And has left Belle to contemplate. She takes a deep breath and turns back inside, shutting the door firmly behind her. There is more to Rumplestiltskin taking back the mantle of the Dark One than mere power alone. She knows this. And she doesn't know why learning of it made her heart plummet and her stomach turn.
She should know better.
And yet she makes this mistake time and time again. Her father once told her she was impulsive. Of course, he told her that in a fit of rage, and so she never quite took him seriously. But she understands more about herself now. A year of soul searching and she's realized that while Rumplestiltskin has made many wrong turns over the years, she has made some of her own.
She has those sins to atone for and while she understands that perhaps her sins are not as great as his, they are still her own and only she can own them. Only she can set them to rights.
Beyond that?
Well, beyond that it is up to Rumplestiltskin.
Time passes. He knows that it does. The sun rises and the dark little room he calls home lightens. Just a little. She has been careful to keep the curtains drawn, careful to prevent the light from the hallway from entering. It creeps in. Sometimes. He watches it and tries to stop it. But his magic is still beyond his reach.
He allows a nightlight late one evening when she comes by with it. He can see her then, focus on her eyes, on the way she watches him. She's near silent when she comes to him, bringing food and a few quiet words. Sometimes encouragement, sometimes something about her day. She says little and he says nothing and it's a strange sort of companionship they've fallen into.
He's moved everything into the corner of the room and sleeps in the other corner. She only takes note of it with a glance, eyebrows up, but says nothing.
He doesn't know what there is to say anyway.
She tends to a beast in her very home.
She should return him to his cage. But she doesn't. Of course she doesn't. Belle is steady, a balm to his weary and angry soul. She is the light in his darkness, the strength to his weakness. And she is stubborn. Forever stubborn. She refuses to put him back in his cage and instead seeks to bring light back into his life.
He no longer hears the rush of his blood through his veins. There are other sounds, small ones. Belle humming, as beautifully off key as ever. The whistle of a tea kettle. The creaking of the old house he called home throughout the curse and beyond.
They are familiar sounds, the sounds of life returning to normal.
And they terrify him. He clings to his normalcy, clings to the walls, tries to hide in the cracks. He is the monster under the bed, the demon who comes to them in the night. He is everything that is wrong with the world, his sins as countless as the stars in the sky.
They should have left him behind.
He begged them to leave him behind. But their eyes were dark and hooded as they dragged him along, bound by chains of fear, cuff around his wrist preventing him from breaking free. He wouldn't. Even if he could, he wouldn't. This is his world now.
And yet there is hope in the cracks around the doorway, in the ministrations of a quiet woman with a power all her own.
She brings him food and he nods in thanks.
She brings him light and he bows in supplication to her.
It is only as it should be. He is nothing. She is everything. And the world continues to turn while he hides in a pain his own making.
It's almost three weeks later that Belle hears a noise and her head shoots up. She's sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and a book she has been trying to read for ages. But her eyes will not focus. She can't remember the last time her eyes really focused on the book in front of her and she hates that. Because Belle loves to read. But she's exhausted all the time. Exhausted and worried and under a stress all her own making.
And so when she hears the creaking of the floor boards, she's not sure what to think.
She's not sure she's ready to face him.
She still doesn't know what to say.
But then he's there, leaning heavily against the door. He's found his cane and he uses that to keep himself steady. His eyes look sad, dark circles beneath them. His hair hangs lank down the sides of his face, his cheeks sunken in, and he's not bothered to get dressed in one of his immaculate suits. He looks like hell, she realizes and the thought almost makes her giggle. Almost. Because there is something there in his eyes that chokes it back before it can come out.
He stands there watching her and finally one hand comes up, just briefly. "Hey," he says and her heart constricts, leaving her feeling slightly breathless and just a little bit off balance. She grips the edges of the table, takes a deep breath.
"Hey," she finally gets out and tries to offer him a smile. His lips curl up in a hesitant half-smile, an echo of hers and they spend a moment staring at each other. "Would you…" she starts to say, shakes her head, takes another breath. "Would you like to sit down?"
He nods. "Yeah," he finally says. She waits for him to make his way to the table. His steps are slow, his body slightly hunched forward as he uses the cane to maneuver himself further into the room. She doesn't move, just waits for him to come to her. In days past she would have jumped up, offered him an arm. But she doesn't this time. She can't. She stays rooted to the spot, waiting…always waiting…
He finally sits, pushing the chair just a little bit further away from her as he comes to rest in it. As he leans forward, elbows down on the table, hands clasped together, he takes a few shuddering breaths. "I don't know if I'm ready for this," he finally says and Belle lets out a small huff of laughter.
"I don't know if I am either."
He looks up at her then and after a moment, reaches his arm out, sets it on the table. The cuff.
She nods. "You're the Dark One again," she says in response to his mute question.
"I am." And there's no pride behind those words. No, quite the opposite, his voice sounds scratchy with exhaustion.
"Why?" It's really the only question that matters. It's all that she's wanted to know since he first thrust his wrist at her to show her the cuff, since maybe even before that, since she found they were keeping him in a dark cage. She knew, somehow, that something had gone so very wrong.
He doesn't answer right away, looking away from her, eyes falling on the table, then staring into the space behind her somewhere.
"Rumple," she says and finally crosses the distance between them. She puts her hand over his, gently, carefully, afraid that if she makes the wrong move he might bolt, might crawl back to the dark hole he has dug for himself in the guest room of their home. "I just need honesty."
He doesn't meet her eyes as he speaks. "If I told you it was for the power, would you believe me?"
"No," she answers quickly. There was a time that she might have, a time she fell prey to the words of those around her, that she believed that he loved the power more than her. But she's seen the truth of it, seen the heart behind the darkness, the man behind the beast.
He nods. "Of course you wouldn't." The hand beneath hers turns then, his fingers gently grasping her own. She lets her hand rest in his, not sure if she should squeeze it for fear of crushing the fragile bones in her hand. He retreats after a moment, leaning back and pulling something out from inside his jacket.
The dagger.
He places it on the table in front of him and then flips it, turns it toward her. She reads his name and bites her lower lip. It takes her a moment, perhaps a longer one than she expects, but then her eyes widen and her head shoots up. "It's different." The words come out on a breathy whisper.
The dagger is different.
His name is still written across it in the same elegant scroll. But it's no longer black on silver. Instead the black is a deep scar across the blade, his name written in raised silver writing. She reaches out a finger and traces the letters. She remembers the way it felt in her hand before, the weight of it. But there's something else there, almost a vibration as her finger runs across it.
"I don't understand," she murmurs. It's different and yet not. It's still the dagger. It's still tied to his soul. He is still the Dark One. Locked away, cuff stopping his magic, gaunt and glassy-eyed, but the Dark One nonetheless. He reaches back out and touches her hand, just briefly. He's about to pull away when she grips his hand. His eyes shoot up to hers. There's a question there. "Tell me," she says and the words are harsher than she intends.
He keeps his hand on the table, hers wrapped tightly around it and then finally leans forward, grasps her other hand as well. He says nothing for a moment and she can feel his hands moving, caressing hers, making those strange repetitive motions she's noticed he makes when he's nervous.
"Tell me," she repeats and it's a command.
"Once, long ago…" He glances up at her and there's a small smile playing about his lips. "I feel like I'm telling one of those stories you love to read so much."
She can't help but smile back. It's a memory. A small one, an inconsequential one, but it's a good one.
"Let me start again." His voice is a mere whisper and she finds herself leaning forward to hear him better. "The Dark One was created out of malice, out of magic gone wrong. There was the Light One." He releases one of her hands to hold up his. "Not quite the same as that ridiculous story the Author created. The Light One was Merlin. His magic was…given to him. I'm not even sure how. It's been lost in the annals of history, I suppose. He used it for good. Pure good. But a part of it was stolen from him and used for evil. She gave into her lust for vengeance and thus the first Dark One was created."
"She?" Belle interjected quietly.
"Nimue. She was Merlin's…" He waves one hand in the air. "Lover, I guess."
"They were true love?" Belle asks on a gasp.
"Of a sort."
She nods.
He stays silent.
"And so this connects to you…"
"It does," he answers with, the words coming out rushed. "Merlin had to watch her not only sink into darkness, but wallow in it. She disappeared and he knew he had lost her to it forever. She came back for him once…"
"She turned him into the tree." She remembers now, her memories surfacing. Merlin had murmured something about love and his inability to fight it. And she knew. She just knew.
"She did," he confirms.
"Horrible thing, that."
Rumplestiltskin shrugs. "He felt nothing."
"But…"
He sighs, shuts his eyes. She can see the tightness at the corner of his mouth, the furrowed brow. "One day, someone would come along. Someone who would take on the darkness. And who could resist its call." One hand clenches into a fist before releasing, grasping hers again. Belle remains silent, waiting. "I once thought I was that person. I was the Dark One for so long and I thought I was doing all the right things, that the ends justified the means. I thought I was good. All those years, Belle." He shakes his head on the final words.
She looks up at him then and his eyes are large, almost too large in his thin face. He leans forward slightly. "You did it for your son," she murmurs.
"Yes." The word comes out on a hiss. "I thought I was the one. And the Dark Ones in my head laughed. Laughed. And told me it was not possible. They taunted me, danced around me, filled my head with thoughts more terrible than you could imagine."
She doesn't want to even try. Belle has a vivid imagination. It's why books call to her, why she reads them and feels like she's been watching the action take place right in front of her. Walking through battle scenes, spying on lovers in their beds, watching the ravens fly. Seeing into Rumplestiltskin's mind, into his memories, is not something she feels she can handle.
"So you weren't that person."
"I wasn't," he confirms. "But I am now." The last is said as he leans forward once more, her hand. She allows him to this time, allows him to draw her just a little bit closer to him.
"You are?" And she can't help but feel a little bit excited by it. She can't lie to herself, though she often has. She likes his magic. When he's showing her something and throws her that look. Pride, excitement, just a small bit of cockiness behind the smirk. The command of the elements he shows. It's all quite exciting, the greatest adventure of her life.
Even if half the time the adventure has led her down dark roads, through twists she never wanted. But that's just the way adventures go, isn't it?
"I am," he says. And she hears something, lodged oddly behind his voice. There's pride but…
"You're scared." The words come out of her mouth before she can stop them.
He flinches, looks away. His eyes shut as he takes a deep breath. "My Belle," he murmurs. "You always did see through things, didn't you?" His mouth turns up at one corner as he meets her eyes.
She bites her lip, shrugs, looks away. "Not always." There's a whole world of experiences behind those two words. Hurt, anger, betrayal. She's trying to move past it. She's ready to move past it, but the thoughts still cause a strange dry feeling in her throat.
There's much to discuss, much to mull over. They are true love, but as she knows from so many books, the course of such love never runs quite straight.
"I didn't…" he starts to say, but stops, glancing down briefly at their entwined hands. "Well, it's no matter now, is it?"
"No." She answers him perhaps a bit too quickly. "I mean…" She falls silent then, the moment stretching out around them. There's the buzz of the refrigerator, humming along as they stay close but not too close. Rumplestiltskin's thumb is moving across her knuckles, almost rhythmic in it back and forth motion.
There's nothing companionable there, nothing settled. She hears him take a deep breath, sigh. His thumb falters for a moment and then begins to move again.
She watches the small movement, almost mesmerizing, before finally lifting her eyes to look at him. He's watching the movement too and his mouth is set in a thin line. He's a man about to walk to his death, about to face the end of all he holds dear. "Rumple?" she finally manages to get out.
His head shoots up. His eyes meet hers. For just a moment, then they slide away again. He nods. As if he knows what she's going to say. And he starts to pull away. She won't let him though, tightening her grip on his hands. She's sure it must be painful. She can see the way her fingers make indentations in his frail hands. "Rumple," she repeats, tugging slightly on his hand. His eyes rise to meet hers, blank, dark. "Do you…" She bites her lip, swallows hard. "Do you think there's hope for us?"
There's an almost imperceptible widening of his eyes. It's not what he expected her to say, that much she is certain of. She gives him a tremulous smile and his hand tightens on her own. "I'd like there to be," he says at last. Then a little bit stronger. "I think there is." He pauses, glances down and then finally back up at her.
She lets out the breath she didn't realize she was holding. Hope. It's a funny thing, hope. She hasn't had much lately, had traveled the country, wandering aimlessly from place to place, looking for it, desperate for it. And she finds it here. Back where it all began, fingers entwined with Rumplestiltskin's. There hasn't been much hope in their lives. Not for him, not for her, not for them.
"I think so too," she says after a time. There's a lot of work to do. And overwhelming amount. Mistrust, betrayal, anger, worry. If she thinks too hard on it, she'll be overwhelmed, frozen with fear. "One day at a time?"
He squeezes her hand. "Yes." The word is whispered. "One day at a time."
They'll get through it. She knows they will. And it will take strength. His, hers, theirs together. But she knows they can do it. That they will do it. There is no other choice.