"So dull and dark are the November days.
The lazy mist high up the evening curled,
And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze;
The place we occupy seems all the world."
- John Clare, November
For the first two days of October; the first two days of being home, she slept- the Dark One by her side. Sleep was no escape. The cruel reality of her past would come back to life in her nightmares. She didn't know how to dream anymore. There was no peace, no reprieve from her torment.
Did you know sorrow has a taste? Broken and bitter, heavy on your tongue. Poisonous.
It was as if her mind, even in what was meant to be a state of rest and comfort, was still locked in the prison. Locked in the tower. She could still feel the cold bite of the daggers against her skin, the whips tied with glass- to purge her of the evil, of her sin.
She had not sinned. The only sin or crime she committed in her short life was murder- she would never forget the sound of the blade piercing Gaston's heart, nor the dark blood that stained her fingers. To love someone- the sin she was accused of- was not a crime, no matter the perception of the ignorant, self-righteous rulers.
Bless me, Father.
No. There were no blessings. Only curses from her own father- her own flesh and blood. Cursing her as damned, condemning her to nothing but a half-life, a life branded as unclean. As filthy. As nothing.
The Dark One watched her sleep, his facy stony as he saw Belle's face twist with the onslaught of her nightmares. Though his face remained impassive, as still as Niobe at the pool, his hands clutched the wooden chair's armrests, feeling them splinter against his palms. He had to keep his fury, his hatred in check. His Belle had suffered enough and he would not allow her to see him in such a state. Granted, she had seen him angry. She had seen how his anger affected him and the others around him. He was not by any means a -cruel- individual, although others viewed him that way. He was merely a deal-maker. It was no fault of his own that others had no idea what they were asking for a mere desire instead of a want; a necessity. Had a stranger asked him for food or shelter, he would have gladly granted it to them, for a small price. But the other fools...that was a different story.
Yes, she had seen him angry. But she had never seen him with the look of murder, the look of unadulturated hate in his eyes.
Did you know sorrow and pain have a sound? The sound of your loved one crying. The sound of their tears hitting the floor. The sound of their screams as they try to fight through uncharted nightmares.
By the third day, he woke her as gently as he could, attempting to save her from the demons of her past. There was an unbearable ache, an unbearable hurt when she flinched from his touch. What had been done to her? What had been done to her to startle at a simple touch that wanted nothing more than to reassure, not lay hands of violence against her?
He had brought her hot soup. It had been so long since she'd eaten something sustainable. Her stomach burned as she swallowed the soup, no longer used to being nourished. For all her hunger, she couldn't eat much. Her body and mind were still weak, still struggling with the painful past and the new reality of her situation.
"Thank you," Belle said softly, slightly disappointed with herself for no apparent reason.
"You're bleeding," The Dark One said, no chirp to his voice, no teasing or playful tone.
Belle reached over her shoulder to her back, knowing one of the many lashes had indeed re-opened.
"I'm sorry," she cried gently, moving to cover her face in her hands. She thought nothing of herself- only how pathetic she was.
"You have nothing to be sorry for, Belle. The fault is not your own. But your wounds need to be tended to," The Dark One said. He knew she would scorn any contact, her body and mind untrusting of anyone and anything. This was confirmed by the sound of her cries turning into sobs.
"Please, Belle," he begged, the sound of her cries breaking his heart. "Please trust me."
For I have sinned.
She nodded, trying to will herself to stop crying. He was right. Her wounds hadn't been tended to at all during her captivity. It seemed to be another sick torture devised to break her down. It succeeded.
Belle took a deep breath and leaned forward as the Dark One untied the back of her gown, slowly and gently. He bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood when he saw her back. Numerous gashes, islands of cuts, myriads of open wounds scarred her back. He fisted his hands tightly, his nails cutting into the palms of his hands.
He conjured a bowl of warm water and clean cloths, knowing some of the wounds had been caused by magic. He was fearful to use any magic, especially against an unknown magic.
Belle gasped as the warm cloth touched her back, the pain radiating throughout her body. More tears flowed as the Dark One gently cleaned the dried blood and fresh blood from her back. They were tears of pain mixed with tears of...of what? Slight joy and happiness knowing that someone was caring for her?
Did you know sorrow has a scent? Bitter and sour, the scent of broken dreams and unfulfilled wishes. Of broken hope.
After what seemed to be hours, her back was cleaned of the blood. He conjured a salve next, thick and light green, meant to prevent infection and speed healing. At least physical wounds had a chance to heal; to scar over. The wounds of the soul and mind were a different story. No matter what, the scar tissue would never stay. It would always open up and allow the memory of the wounds to overtake.
"Why are you doing this?" Belle asked, her voice heavy.
"I'm sorry?"
"Why are you doing this? Taking care of me?"
His hands stilled over her back, his mind trying to think of an answer. Any answer at all.
Bless me Father. For I have sinned. I have given my love freely to one who is damned.
He couldn't tell her the real reason. Why he was caring for her now. And it hurt him, to be unable to let her know. But he was a coward at heart, despite all his power. She'd view his answer as nothing more than torture, perhaps a way to have her in his bed. He couldn't let her think that. Not after the Hell she'd endured. Because of him.
"I broke our deal. There are always consequences to breaking a deal," he said, his hands gently rubbing the salve on her back. She shivered and he stopped.
"I'm fine. It just hit a tender spot," she said.
His hands felt cool against her skin, soothing the angry and jagged wounds. His tenderness surprised her. For months, she'd forgotten what i felt like to be touched so sweetly. Sweet tcouhes quickly turned to angry slaps in her mind. Struggling, she pushed the memory away.
"Crying is not a weakness, Belle," the Dark One said softly, sensing her anguish. Belle nodded tightly as she felt the tears fall.
Do you know the feel of sorrow? It's that unbearable weight upon your shoulders, spikes and needles at the soles of your feet preventing you from moving forward.
She cried softly as he tenderly bandaged her wounds, somehow sensing that this would be the only moment of tenderness and peace she'd experience from this point on. He made it clear he didn't want her. Perhaps he was doing this out of pity. The memories of what he said to her before banishing her were still too fresh, as fresh as the wounds he was tending to on her back.
"How did I get here?" Belle asked, suddenly. The last thing she remembered was running. Avonlea was a distance from the Dark Castle and it was unlikely in her state she could even manage to get here. Surely her father must have sent the guards after her?
Rumplestiltskin paused, unsure of what to say. He wanted to tell her the truth- tell he that he'd...that he'd missed her. He missed the way she'd sing as she tended the castle. The way she would smile playfully at him while he was spinning. He missed her. But for the months of her imprisonment at the hands of her father, he knew she was suffering. He was a coward, through and through. It wasn't until the night Gaston threatened to destroy her in more ways than one had he acted.
"Rumplestiltskin?" Belle asked again.
The love of the damned is an unforgivable act, child. By loving one, you yourself become damned.
"I was on my way for a deal...to collect on my end. As I left the castle gates, I saw you. You were hidden in the leaves and I could see you were hurt," he lied, the sour taste of the deception filling his mouth, stinging his tongue.
Silence filled the room, Rumplestiltskin still tending to the numerous wounds on his broken beauty's back. After her wounds were bandaged, he asked her to lie on her stomach. It was the only way for her back to heal. She complied, a distant look in her eyes.
The Dark One rose and made his way to the door, fighting the urge to hold her hand. Fighting the urge to comfort her; to show her how sorry he was.
"Rumplestiltskin?"
He turned around and saw Belle's eyes shining with tears, watching as one freed itself to fall.
"You were right."
"About what?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"There are no heroes. Ever," she said, letting the tears fall freely, no longer able to hold back the pain.
Did you know sorrow has a sight? It's the sight of the one you love crying, mourning for a future that never will be and crying out for love.
He left the room quickly, rage and sadness building inside of him.
He couldn't look at her without a murderous desire filling his head. She was a hero- no ordinary person would be able to endure such torture and live, all for the sake of one they loved. She had not deserved her pain. Any pain. Not by him or his cruelty; his desire for power and control. Not by her own father, whose hands should have been holding his daughter instead of brandishing a whip over her head. Not by those damned clerics, who only believed in a justice of their own, twisting it and perverting it to suit their own needs or beliefs.
He hated seeing her so untrusting. This was so far from the Belle he'd know, but pain or not, she was still his Belle. Even though she hid in the shadows, as if she wanted to be one with them. Shadows had a way if disappearing, not humans.
There are no heroes here. There are no villians. Only shells of empty souls and broken promises.
When she was well enough, she began to fall back into her routine as his housekeeper, despite his objections.
"You're not a slave here, Belle."
"I never considered myself one here," she replied, her voice steady even as her hands shook.
No amount of 'arguing' deterred her. In the end, he gave in. He could understand the need for stability and for something familiar. In his foolish lapse of judgement, his own comfort with the routine, he left her home alone. After all, there were deals to be done.
There are no angels. There are no demons. Only lost wisps of unanswered questions.
The days into November grew more and more difficult for Belle. Her body was safe, but her mind was constantly under battle with her past tortures. Her hands still felt heavy and warm with the blood of Gaston. Though her physical wounds had healed and left scars, the wounds of her psyche were another matter.
She found herself becoming desensitized. Was she really here? Did she exist? What was real? Was she real?
Her beloved Dark One had left an hour ago, leaving her alone in the castle. Though she was safe from the outside, it was the dangers lurking on the inside that ought her out.
She wouldn't recall how she had got the idea, but at the time, it seemed to make sense.
She'd cleaned the dishes and saw the metallic glimmer of a knife. It entranced her for some reason. Too long she had been numb and she was beginning to wonder if she could still feel. If she could still sense -anything-, whether it be pain or pleasure, fear or safety, love or hate.
We assign, in our minds- according to the beliefs of others- who the angels and demons are. Who the heroes and villians are.
She gently grabbed the handle and pressed the blade to her arm, her skin slightly feeling the cold steel, the sharp edge.
She gave no thought as she pressed down and drew the blade across her skin.
There was pain, a bright, radiating burst of pain that momentarily blinded her, her heartbeat echoing loudly in her head. But this pain was different. Wasn't all pain supposed to feel the same?
She looked down and saw a steady stream of warm blood flowing from her forearm to her hand and fingertips. It registered to her why this pain was different- different than the lashes of a whip against her back. Different than the brutalities she had endured by the hands of others.
This was her pain. Pain of her own doing, pain she could control.
She closed her eyes as she felt the blood drip down her arm slowly.
"Gods above, Belle! What have you done?!" Rumplestiltskin screamed.
Startled, Belle dropped the knife to the stone floor and turned her face to Rumplestiltskin, his eyes dark and angry.
We assign, in our minds- according to the actions of others- what is evil. What is good.
He said nothing as he drew a finger across the gash, mending the sinew and flesh together. She winced.
"Wasn't the point of your action to cause pain?" he asked sardonically. Belle felt a drop of water on her arm and looked up to see her Dark One shedding tears for her.
"Why are you doing this?" she whispered.
"Because you need to know that you are cared for. That you mean something to someone."
Belle scoffed and hid her laughter.
"No, Dark One. You've made it perfectly clear to me that your power will always mean more to you than I ever would."
Rumplestiltskin's hand tightened slightly on her wrist as he looked into her eyes.
"Cynicism has never suited you, Belle," he said, a warning in the tone of his voice.
"What have I left, Dark One? Tell me, please. I've been used as the playtoy of monsters, rejected by the one I love. What have I left, Rumplestiltskin?" she sobbed heavily, falling into his arms. Rumplestiltskin held her close, holding back his own tears.
"You have me, Belle."
We assign, in our minds- according to what others believe, what is real and what is imaginary. This is why we believe who is 'worthy' of love. Who 'deserves' their sadness.
When the first snow fell, Belle tried to bring herself more at ease with the fact she was safe. Even though he would never love her the way she loved him, it still meant something.
After the incident with the knife, he enchanted the blades, along with other cutlery, in order to keep her safe from her self. He no longer left home to do deals. If a deal was desired, they would have to come to the Castle. No questions. He had done enough 'favors' for others. Belle was the only exception.
It hurt him more than she knew. He wanted to tell her of his feelings. He wanted to hold her in his arms at night, to chase away the nightmares. The sound of her cries and screams pierced his dark heart and twisted his soul.
He wanted to tell her the truth. About Bae. About his lies. About his love. But lies are strange- they're more comforting than the truth. It's comforting, a security blanket of lies and deception, whereas the truth leads only to unknown sadness.
The nights grew longer for the both of them- both locked in prisons of their own making- his refusal to let his guard down and her inability to hate him, despite all he'd put her through. She knew, however, he was not to blame. He had not controlled the actions of her father, nor those of the clerics or Gaston. But how could she trust him again?
The nightmares hadn't stopped. She felt herself being transported back into the dungeon of her father's castle. Her father's face kept changing into that of her Dark One, the whip becoming his precious knife.
She hadn't been aware of the fact that she'd been awake, nor of the comforting arms holding her, stroking her hair. All she could do was cry and hold her Dark One.
"I'm so sorry, Belle," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. Belle caught the tone in his voice and for a moment, she thought that perhaps this was his way of apologizing- letting her back into the castle. Protecting her. Holding her as she cried.
"Please stay with me," Belle whispered, fearful of rejection. Instead, she felt him gently pull her down and wrap his arms around her, stroking her hair as he placed her head on his chest.
Her tears had stopped and she was now comforted, feeling a sense of peace.
"Difficult to love or not, I don't think I can imagine not loving you," she said softly, sleep taking over her.
The Dark One's heart stopped briefly. He heard the soft, even breathing of his Belle sleeping, finally at peace.
"I can't imagine not loving you, my Belle," he whispered before settling down with his beauty, holding her as gently as he could.
Author's Note: Damn plot bunnies. I thought I fed them, but no. Hah. This is going to be the last chapter I post for a while with this story because I need to get started with the next part of Beautiful Perdition and Haunting Me Tonight. But the next two chapters are going to have my special recipe lemon smut for those who can enjoy it, but it's going to have the dark feel to it, too.