37

The bars of his cage hold immense interest for him – they fascinate him quite. He is staring at them: rather thin, fragile, criss-crossing at mishappen angles, almost all of them slightly twisted, for he has given them much shaking over the time he spent inside. Not in the hope of breaking free – the nature of his imprisonment is magical, and it is not the cage that is holding him. The cage is just a formality, a visible symbol of his predicament. It has no other purpose other than to put him in his place. No, he shook them simply in frustration, in a show of emotion just as formal as the presence of these bars; for his jailer knows all the depth of his anguish without him showing it.

He is not shaking the bars now. He is not moving at all. He just sits there, in the darkest corner of the cage, staring at the repeating pattern of crosses, noting every twist and bend, trying to insert some deeper meaning, perhaps even some magical pattern, into their grid. The fabric of existence is a continued thing; what we perceive as a break is probably just a complicated fold; all things are connected. If there is a meaning to his life, twisted and torn beyond salvaging, than there must be a meaning to those crossed bars, a meaning to every bit of rust, to every scratch, to every shape and shade.

He is not hoping to achieve anything by his staring. Even if he would find a meaning to the pattern, he'd do nothing about it. It's very simple, really: as long as his mind is occupied with this pointless task, he can keep other thoughts at bay.

There is little light penetrating the gloom of the cellar – probably through the cracks in the roof. In this light the bars are just visible, so he keeps staring at them. Trying to shut his mind.

Not really succeeding; they still come – the thoughts, the images, the voices; all these voices that were assaulting him so fiercely, not so long ago – their echo is still there, in his closed mind, rippling over the surface like waves from a distant earthquake would ripple the surface of the ocean.

That morning – yesterday, was it just yesterday? – when the wicked wench came to shave him – to draw his blood, really, to invade yet another part of his life and contaminate it, and the boy inside him was, finally, so appalled by her insinuating familiarity that he urged them to break free. 'I cannot – she has my dagger', he said. 'Oh, but I can!', he answered, taking over.

That rush through the forest – breaking of branches, sharp smell of rotten leaves, dull daylight; frenzied, improbable freedom. What did he hope to achieve? Where did he run? He could not run far – his body was not magical – was not strong enough to hold them both for long.

They changed, again.

His boy's voice, screaming at him: 'Let me take over – it is Emma, I need to see Emma!'

The witch's voice, screeching at him: 'Come back! I summon thee!'

Her voice, quietly pleading with him: 'Please come back'.

So many voices. But her voice, the softest, called stronger than them all.

Coming up to her door – knowing that he'll see her, soon, he'll see her right this instant; the irrational faith that all would be well, if only he'd see her.

He has become too much himself as he run to her door – with the boy silent, that wicked creature could sense him – she almost managed to pull him back.

So the boy took over, again.

What did he hope to achieve? He knew nothing, remembered nothing; he could do nothing. He had just worn himself off, trying to do what he wasn't meant to do.

But at least he saw his Emma. At least he told her things he needed to.

And then…

No.

He would not think of it. He cannot.

That twist in the grid, up there, second bar from the right – what a peculiar shape. Was it always like that, and he just never noticed?

That voice, his voice. Silent forever.

No.

Trying to shut his mind, closing it on itself; trying to save what is left of him.

And that evil thing standing there, staring at him. Gloating.

Taking in his every shiver – his every rugged breath.

And then it comes – the scraping of gravel against the shovel; dull thud of gravel thrown on the coffin. Louder than thunder, making his ears burst. Coming like a heavy blow, crushing him on the floor. Making him reel with pain.

Again. And again. And again. Beating the life out of him. Cutting him from the light.

Locking him there, inside the grave.

And she keeps staring. Transfixed. Fascinated. Breathing shallowly in her loathsome excitement.

Yet he is past caring, past feeling her stare.

He just stays there on the floor, where he fell. Curled into a ball. Unable to even cry – no tears would come, nothing to release the pain. Forced to look at his life, as it ended now; forced to look back and admit: it was meant to pass. Everything he did was in vain.

He was not meant to be a father; that much is certain. He was warned against it; cursed over it. He was meant to never see his boy: his life was the price allowing his son to be born. He did not pay the price, he stayed alive, and spent the rest of his life running from his creditor. His fate is a harsh broker; it wanted a life – a life of one of them. When his son was but a boy, he was meant to die in a war; meant to fight and to die as his father refused to. He kept bargaining with fate – he bought his son some time. Yet in the end, things came to where they were meant to come. One of them had to die – it was inevitable.

And his boy died because his cursed father could not.

A life spent running and fighting. A life spent suffering and inflicting pain. All for nothing – all just to buy some time.

If he fought and died then, on that long-forgotten war, he'd have died a happy man. But he wanted to be a father…

He was not meant to be a father, yet that is all he was. Not much of a husband. Not much of a lover. Not even a monster, really. Just a father.

And he failed. And, as he fell, he involved everything he ever touched into his fall. This town. These people who live here – his family.

Her.

All that, all this world to be destroyed just because he wanted a child – just because he wanted to love someone as his father never loved him.

Love is the most powerful magic in the world. It comes with the steepest price. And he hadn't done paying it, yet: he'd live to see everything he loved taken from him – disappearing as if it never existed. And it all will be his fault; and so he cannot even alleviate his pain with a thought that at least his boy lived – he loved, he had a son; he had a life. He cannot console himself with this, for everything his boy loved, everything he held dear will be destroyed now; it will all disappear and come to nothing.

And amongst all this destruction he'd stand watching, petrified, for he is immortal; and the evil soul who holds power over him would stand by his side, urging his destroying hand. Denying him death. Denying him peace.

How many times in his life he thought he was cursed – damned? He never felt it, truly.

He feels it now.

He closes his eyes, shutting himself from the world. Welcoming his realm – the darkness.

And then, suddenly, light breaks. Doors of his prison fly open, and he is flooded with light; harsh, cold light of a winter day, but light nevertheless.

She has come to him.

She entered this horrible, gloomy place, and she stands there at the end of the stairs, and looks at him – with such pain, and grief, and with such love – such hopeless love. And, looking into her stricken eyes, he knows that she remembers, now – she remembers how she came to him as he was caged in his castle, as he remembers it, too; that curse is broken for them.

Oh, what a difference there is between then and now.

'I will never stop fighting for you', she told him once. How can he tell her that it is time to stop, now? She'll achieve nothing.

'It is futile', he tells her, shying deeper into the darkness.

Yet she doesn't listen. When did she ever listen? She just stands there looking at him with her magical, magical eyes, and holds her hand towards him – urging him to hope. To believe. Urging him to live.

And, as it always is with him and with her, he is unable to resist her. Something – a flicker of light, a glimmer of hope – stirs in his heart. And he reaches to take her hand, his fingers trembling. And he feels her grip, and hears her sigh, and a shiver comes across his rigid shoulders.

He thought he'd never see her again, and here he is, holding her hand.

There are miracles in the world.

A scene comes to him – a scene from the past; two of them in the prison cell, in 'her room', as he sent her away. Her bitter, disappointed words: 'You were freeing yourself!.. You just couldn't believe I can love you!..' They both thought that was the end of them, then, yet it was just a beginning. She could perform a miracle for him, then – she could kiss away his curse. He did not let her, and she performed her miracle differently – slowly, gradually, insistently she brought to the surface the man she loved in him. He was free. He believed in their love.

But this man died. And, because he died, things changed, forever.

She fell in love with a human possessed by dark power. If she kissed him then, the darkness would have been gone, leaving his human body free.

She loves a dark shadow now – dark substance invested with human soul. If she kissed him now, the darkness would go, leaving his soul homeless.

She cannot free him. There will be no true love's kiss for them, ever.

If she'd kiss him now, he'd die.

And, even though he'd welcome death, he knows she'd never do him this kindness. She'd never kill him with her own hands – with her magical kiss.

She loves him very much, but she will not deliver him from pain. Not like that.

She seems to sense this for, contrary to what he would have expected of her, she doesn't rush into his embrace – she is not even trying to kiss him. She is hesitant – she looks at him hopefully, as if waiting for his advice: 'What shall we do now?' She is asking for the price before rushing into magic.

Good girl.

If only he knew what to tell her.

If only he had time to be with her, at least for a little while – to warm himself by her presence – for he is cold, so cold now; to heal his broken self by her great tenderness – for he is bleeding, inside, as if from an open wound, and he never noticed it until she came. But the vicious creature who owns him is never far – she comes again, sneering, waving his dagger around, as if he needed to see it to feel the power…

And she is chased away from him, crying – terrified. Convinced she is powerless to help him.

'Run', he ordered her, once. And run she did.

He taught her well.

And over the next few days, as his crazy mistress unfolds her plans and he is sent around town on ridiculous tasks to do her bidding, that image – her, running and sobbing; her, watching him in despair as he walks the main street at the heels of the witch and dumbly follows her orders; image of her defeated and hopeless – her, who had never lost hope – stays with him. And it helps him to build his own strength – it fills him with anger, with a wish to fight.

He locks away his loss – locks it deep in his heart. He cannot afford it to rule over him. He cannot just stand and watch the witch's spell building; if he'd do so, then it means that his boy died for nothing. Even if he's destined to fail, he still has to fight. He must try and stop her, for he knows one thing: if she succeeds, some parts of the world he knows might remain intact. The witch would destroy her sister, but some of the people he knows might survive. All of them, perhaps, bar one: Belle. If the witch ever travels in time, she'd ensure two things: that her sister is never born, and that his love is dead. She uses her to torment him, here; but she'd kill her, there in the past, for there are two things she wants – life of a princess, and him.

She wants him for her sick, evil self. She'd make sure he and Belle never meet; she'd make sure Belle doesn't exist.

And he cannot let that happen.

So he endures the games his jailor plays with him; he plays along. She tells him to dress up – he does. She tells him to keep her company, to act polite guest at her dinner table – he does. And, as she mellows in his presence, and her eyes go soft as she looks at him, this wretched, mad girl, he remembers the time when they first knew each other – remembers how she looked at him then, eagerly, with a glint of obsessive passion in her eyes.

He knew strong women in his life, and he knew evil women. Yet never, never had he encountered anything like this – the possessive, jealous heart, so completely devoid of love that it knew no way of earning it; she could only demand and take things forcefully if they were denied her. She was so youthful and innocent then, but still he felt it – this… sickness; the profundity of evil in a heart so young was terrible, its' inability and unwillingness to fight darkness incomprehensible to him. He was the Dark One, but he knew what gave him strength to live – his love for his son, his desire to right the wrong he did him. So when Cora ripped out her heart so as not to be open to love, he shuddered in horror, but he understood; at least she did love, if she was afraid of her weakness. But this girl, with those hopeful, yearning eyes, this nervous giggle, imitating his own, those gripping fingers reaching towards his hands – she revolted him. She was so pretty, and he was always gullible to beauty; yet her he wouldn't touch with a stick. Her looks didn't matter, for her soul was empty, waiting to be filled with nothing but want. He must have felt the danger – he did feel it, otherwise he'd not have spurned her. Yet how could he have let her so near him in the first place? How could he have been so careless? He knew she had great power. How could he not foresee that she'd turn it against him?

But then, he had other things on his mind. A curse to built, a quest to commence.

A love to find.

And, as he eats his tormentor's food and drinks her wine, as he watches her cheeks redden under his gaze, and her bosom heave at his closeness, he thinks: this is her weakness. She wants to be loved; she doesn't know how to earn love – she just wants it handed to her on a plate. May be if she was given what she wanted – teased with what she wanted – it would break her defenses.

He is the Dark One. He can do anything. Surely he can spin the girl's head enough so that she'd lose control?

So he plays along with her. He nods and smiles.

She killed his son. Surely he has the right to break her heart?

He hates her.

It will be such a pleasure to step on her empty heart, and crush it like a snail.

Thus thinks and plans the Dark One, confident that he himself is immune to feelings.

But the human in him is strong and, the moment he touches her, and hears her sobbing sigh of joy, his stomach turns, and bile starts to rise up his throat. Everything about her – the feel of her skin, her smell, the moaning sounds she utters – are repulsive; he is disgusted, he is physically unable to bear her greedy touch. And it is to his revulsion that she reacts with rage and scorn, not to his feeble attempt to grasp his dagger; he knew the attempt was failed, knew it the second his skin touched hers, and crawled.

The Dark One cannot fool the girl whose kiss makes him shudder in disgust.

He takes her screaming calmly; he overreached himself, but he has no regrets. At least he made her suffer. At least he humiliated her – that wave of pain she emanates as she realizes that he tricked her was worth it.

What has he come to, if such petty victories are precious to him? How low did he fall?

She orders him back to his cage, and he walks away. He feels her rage and her hurt, physically pushing him – prodding him onwards.

And, as he stumbles across the dark yard, the enormity of what he just did hits him.

She killed his son, and he kissed her.

He stroked the hand that holds him in slavery.

He did not kiss Belle, as she held his hand in a cage, but he kissed this creature.

He kissed a woman whose foot hovered over his son's dead body, ready to step on his face… What madness prompted him to do it?

What darkness possessed him to even conceive such a thought?

Bile rises up his throat, yet again, and he brings his hand to his lips, trying to wipe away her taste – he is shaking all over, wanting to get out of the skin that touched her. His legs give way and, as new wave of her fury reaches him – as she weeps and rages at him, standing there, in the house, with his dagger in her trembling hand – he falls on his knees, filled with dread.

He committed a terrible mistake.

He'd pay for it in blood and tears.

He stands up, heavily, digging his fingers into the mud.

And he walks to his cage, as he was ordered.