Towers and Basements
Chapter Four
Prometheus
Author's notes: Special thanks to my betas, Jacqueline and TrueLove'sMiss, the latter of which has some VERY wonderful stories for this ship. Couldn't do it without you, ladies! Also, thank you for the continued support from my readers. Just a warning, this chapter takes a definite trip to the dark side. Blood and broken bones galore from here on out.
She left the Dark Castle, just as she was told to do. Remarkably, it was not raining that day. Belle had read thousands of books in which it always rained when one had to embark on a journey with a broken heart. The blue skies and sunlight mocked her pain, making it worse than if it had been a tempest outside.
She was unsure of where to go; only that it had to be far away from Him. Belle wasn't quite sure whether she was more sad or angry. She was extremely angry. It twisted at the muscles in her back and shoulders, and churned deep within her stomach. It caused her nails to bite into the delicate palms of her hands, leaving vicious, red half-moon marks. The sadness seemed to be pushed back into an out of reach place in her mind. It pulled at her heart, tightened her throat, and pushed tears out of the corners of her eyes, but it was a dried out stream surrounded by an inferno.
She looked back, and saw that he was watching her from his tower. Belle lifted her chin defiantly, and then did the one thing her nurse had always told her no lady should do. She spat at the ground, spun around, and walked away. Had it been a childish thing to do? Yes, very. Did she feel better? No, but she was fairly certain he had seen, and she hoped that the gesture stung like hell. Stupid man. She hoped the silver candlesticks and then fob watch she had taken from him before she left were things he would miss.
The elements conspired against her once night fell. Belle was still miles from the nearest inn, days from her father's home, and the frost that fell about the forest was the killing kind. She spent that first night in a makeshift home, constructed from twigs and foliage, nestled between two large oaks. Her cloak provided very little protection, and she lacked the key ingredients for a fire. The mere fact that she had not died in her sleep that night had been a miracle.
The next day proved warmer, and she managed to reach the inn by mid-morning. Situated in a plain, but warm room, Belle wrote to her father, informing her of his return. She hoped that Rumpelstiltskin would still honor his end of the bargain in protecting the kingdom. She had not broken any deal with him, he had driven her out.
She stayed at the inn for three days. In that time she managed to develop a mild drinking problem, and dispense romantic advice to a love lorn dwarf. The advice had been encouraging and heartfelt... and mostly brought on by the ale she was consuming. Belle found herself to feel less and less bitter about Rumpelstiltskin's rejection when she drank. It made her more nostalgic for his presence, if anything.
At the end of the third day, her father's men came for her. They did not speak to her, and she thought they were a bit rough, as they ushered her to the carriage. Belle did not get indignant with them. Undoubtedly her father was displeased with her, and had instructed the men to not treat her with the usual deference. It was orders they were following, not an actual need to harm her out of malice.
When Belle was brought to the Great Hall of her home, she was shocked to not find her father sitting at his throne, but her.
"My friend, the Queen," Belle murmured by way of greeting.
"What was that, my dear?" The Queen inquired, cocking her head to one side.
Belle performed a curtsey, trying very hard to bite down on her resentment in the face of the woman who had destroyed her life.
"Your majesty."
The Queen rose from the throne, and walked towards Belle in a slow, deliberate fashion. Belle felt positively bedraggled in comparison to her majesty's artfully styled hair and face, and tight black ensemble. The Queen was an elegant dragon, and Belle was a brown field mouse.
"Your father does not wish to see you, Belle. In fact, he wrote me as soon as he knew you were returning, begging me to intercede. He felt that I could help to clean the black mark of your association with the Dark One by taking you under my wing. If your choice of partner had not been so... intriguing, I would never have even bothered."
"I'm to go with you?" Belle asked with a gulp. The closer the Queen came to her, the more Belle felt her courage falter. She felt as though the older woman was going to open up her jaws, and snap them down upon Belle, devouring her whole.
"Yes. I would like to help you. Just because you were the whore of a demon, doesn't mean you are hopeless."
Belle's eyes widened. "I never-"
"Do. Not. Take. That. Tone. With. Me. ... Dear." The Queen looked to her left and to her right, where two guards flanked her. Without waiting for an order, the men approached Belle, and each grabbed an arm, dragging the girl from the throne room.
"Make sure you keep an eye on her during the journey, boys. Who knows what sort of magic she picked up living with him."
Belle was certain that being taken under The Queen's wing did not mean becoming a lady-in-waiting.
She was right, of course. After nearly a week's journey with no rest and very little food, Belle was taken to the edge of a dark lake. From there she was dragged onto a boat, and ferried out into the water for a good hour before they reached a black stone tower.
Belle thought she had known what pain was. Once, when she was a little girl, she had insisted that her father buy her a stallion. Everyone knew full well that she was a tiny girl, and that a pony would suffice, but Belle would not have it. After a month of wheedling, her father caved. The horse was more beautiful then Belle had imagined it when she was reading about it in one of her story books. Her father forbade her from riding it until she had been properly taught, and never without supervision.
Belle did not like to be refused anything.
One night, she snuck into the stables, saddled the horse with all of the skill an eight year old could manage, and crawled on top of it. With a kick and a 'hyah!' she managed to get the stallion to leap over his pen. Unfortunately he leapt too high, and Belle was thrown headfirst into a nearby beam with such a force that knocked her unconscious for nearly a week. She lived in a feverish, pained existence, dreaming of her dead mother, the destruction of the kingdom, and a brutal end to her beloved father. She had nearly died of the fever that followed the concussion.
That was a scraped knee. It was nothing.
Pain was her whole life in the tower. Clerics were constantly at her side from sun up to sun down. They brought fire, and beatings. Sometimes they brought water, but only to hold her head underneath it for what felt like hours. The worst thing about it was that every night when they left, The Queen would emerge from the shadows with her magic. She would murmur her spells, and Belle's flesh would knit and heal, only to be torn and scorched the next day.
She had become a myth she had read long ago. Someone had stolen fire, and they were punished by living day after day having their body torn asunder, only to heal for another day's torture.
She was Prometheus. She had not succeeded in stealing, but she was punished all the same. Perhaps it was because she had failed.
Belle tried to escape once. She looked down the tower one night, and found the stones jutting out at such angles that she was certain with a little strength and clever footwork; she would be able to manage to climb down. She managed to make it halfway down the tower before she fell.
The landing did not kill her, but she knew she was on the threshold. Every bone in her body was broken, and something wet bubbled at her lips every time she drew breath. The darkness was closing in on her, and she welcomed it.
The Queen found her before death could claim her. For her punishment she was only healed bit by bit every day. Just enough to keep her out of the grasp of death, just enough to keep her conscious and aware. She no longer had the strength to do anything, but if she had, Belle would have used it to roll out of the window of the tower and finish the job.
Then came the fog. Belle noticed it from outside of her window, curling closer and closer. A laugh that wreaked havoc on her shattered ribs burst forth from her lips. Perhaps it was him! She had long given up on Rumpelstiltskin ever finding her, but perhaps it was. He was going to coat the whole world with his wrath, and hopefully end her misery.
The clerics were frightened by her raucous laughter, and then were even more so by the black fog. They fled the tower. Belle raised one healed arm toward the smoke, stretching her fingers to greet it like an old friend.
"Rumpelstiltskin," she murmured as it engulfed her.
When it lifted she was in the basement of the hospital, in a windowless room. She looked around confusedly, when suddenly she was hit with a blinding pain radiating in her skull.
It hadn't been a horse, she had been hit by a car... or had she? Her name was Rosalie French... No. No it wasn't. Thousands of new memories tried to intrude on the ones she had kept for years, and she fought it. It wasn't right. That wasn't her.
Now they were existing in tandem. She could not close her eyes without seeing relentless flashes of a duel existence, hammering viciously against her skull.
She thought she had known pain in the tower.
Belle felt an agonized scream tear from her lips. She screamed until she tasted blood in her throat. She screamed until the people in white came, and then poked her in the arm with a needle. After that, she did not do much of anything...
Gold was beginning to worry. The spaghetti he had prepared was getting cold, and Belle... Rosalie was not showing up. He wondered if she had gotten lost. His home was rather large, and it was easy to get turned around if one was not familiar with the territory. He decided to investigate.
What he found caused his heart to jump into his throat. Rosalie was wandering the halls in an oversized V-neck tee and blue jeans, barefoot, throwing open every closed door she found, and sobbing as she did so.
"Miss French," he whispered. She gasped and turned to him, her brilliant blue eyes glittering with tears.
"Why did you close the doors?" She asked in a tight voice, before crumpling to the floor in loud, wracking cries. He was at her side in an instant, gathering her into his lap, allowing her to sob against his neck.
"I'll never close another one, I promise. Shhh... Don't cry my girl." He was perilously close to tears himself, though he would never let it show.