14

The road leading from the castle winded through the trees, clouded with dusk, and disappeared in the darkness as the forest thickened. He did not know why he was watching it, standing by the window of his study where he retreated to brood, for hours now. It has been hours. She wasn't coming back. Why would she? He told her not to, and she had no reason of her own to disobey his order.

It hurt. It hurt that she left, so easily, so eagerly. It hurt to know she wouldn't want to return – wouldn't even think of it. It hurt to realize, with absolute clearness, that everything that happened between them did happen only in his mind. The thought that it was a good thing, anyway, that something light and wonderful has entered his life, even if in such a contorted way, didn't help. He might have been consoled that he had known love, at least, even if such a hopeless one. He wasn't. He might have drawn comfort from the knowledge that he did a good and right thing in letting her go. He didn't. It still hurt.

Hoping, against hope and reason, that she'd come back, that he'd strain his eyes just a little bit more and see her returning figure on the dark road – walking briskly, swinging her basket – was the worst. Hope hurt the most.

That was why, when she did appear on the road, exactly as he imagined her, he didn't believe his eyes at first. He had to close them, and look again.

It was true.

She was coming back.

He ran down the stairs, leaping across the steps, trying not to choke on his heart, which jumped right up his throat. He sat at the spinning wheel, nearly tripping it over, and tried to appear nonchalant, knowing that he was failing, dismally. He was sure she'd see right through him, see the state he was in – she did possess an uncanny ability to penetrate into his soul.

Stop it, he told himself. She has no such ability – you have invested her with it in your obsession with her. She cares nothing for you. She is just a curious child, and she wants to hear the story that you've promised to tell her.

She entered the room, carrying the basket of straw. His stuttering comment on the fact sounded pitiful even to his own ears. She brushed it away: 'Come on, you are happy that I'm back'. Her face smiled at him through the spokes of the wheel.

'Oh, if only you knew', thought he. 'I am not unhappy', he said aloud.

He meant his voice to sound light, but he sounded nervous. She seemed changed, somehow. She lost all her shyness, she was remarkably easy around him; she had a decisive 'no-more-of-this-nonsense' air about her. This unnerved him, slightly. No, this unnerved him greatly. He wondered what brought on this change in her. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that she was, actually, here again. She came back.

He turned away from her radiant face, and started fussing with the wheel, fingering the spokes, wishing there was some more effective way to hide his reaction to her, to gain some time to get accustomed to the fact that she was near him – unbearably close to him.

She didn't give him time. With pitiless decisiveness of youth she closed the distance between them – she walked around the wheel, placed her hands on his shoulders and whispered into his ear: 'You promised me a story'.

She touched his shoulders. Her face was just an inch away from his. What's come over her?

He was too stunned to even get exited.

'Did I?' His voice betrayed him, yet again. No nonchalance here, no easy forgetfulness.

She moved again, she took the spindle from his hand, brushing it lightly and sending shivers across his entire body; then she sat on the stool by his feet, making him start and give a little exclamation of surprise – she was like a small whirlwind of happy activity, and he was caught in the middle of it, mercilessly attacked by her light touches, by her closeness, by the wave of warmth she excluded. Everything he dreamed of, everything he pictured in slow and sensual detail came rushing on him – the state of intimacy that he imagined would take months to achieve was achieved in a matter of seconds, and he was plainly overwhelmed by it all. She paid his embarrassment no heed – ruthless, as all young people are she didn't give him time to collect himself.

She placed a hand on his thigh, as if it were a completely natural thing to do, and said: 'Tell me about your son'.

His mind was blank. He was looking into her eyes, breathing in her breath, and burning where her hand touched him.

She didn't display any sort of shyness at their closeness. Did she not realize what she was doing to him? Perhaps she didn't. She looked up into his eyes; her face was alight with interest and curiosity. She was a curious child, and she wanted her story.

Unfortunately, he had no voice to tell it.

'I… lost him', he stammered. 'There's nothing more to tell, really'.

He expected a disappointed frown, and hundreds of questions – in her newly acquired brashness he'd expected her to pester him with questions.

Instead, her face became mellow and dreamy, and her eyes misted over with tenderness. 'And, since then, you've loved no one. And no one has loved you'.

Her voice was just as her face – full of dreams, gentle. What was happening to her? Why did she move so close, all of a sudden?

Why did she spoke of love?

Could it be?.. Could it be happening?

He looked into her loving eyes, and whispered: 'Why did you come back?'

She gave a small apologetic smile. 'I wasn't going to. Then…' Oh, that dreamy, gentle look again! 'Something changed my mind'.

With that, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Awkwardly, like a child pecking a parent on the cheek; trustingly, as if giving her life over to him; innocently, as if pressing a flower to his face; hopefully, as if seeing the light; gently, like a lover; powerfully, as if casting a spell.

He imagined their kiss, over and over again. He imagined the softness and the tenderness, the wetness, the sweet pulling of his lips on hers – he was feeling it, now… He imagined the unraveling of his heart, and the onset of longing. He imagined sighing with wonder and awe – he was feeling that now, too. He never imagined this kiss to take him over so. He felt as if a great wave washed over him, drowning him and carrying back ashore instantly. He felt weak and shaking, as if coming down with a fever, and coming to after a long spell of sickness. He felt like he was dying – disappearing in her; and it was final, awful and unbearably sweet.

'What's happening?' His voice was small, as if he were a child.

She was exultant – her eyes blazed with triumph and hope. 'Kiss me again – it's working!'

'What is?'

He frowned. Something was wrong. Something about it – something about him – felt wrong.

She put her hands on his shoulders and said, looking into his eyes with devotion, and earnestness, and – yes, love: 'Any curse can be broken'.

And then he placed it – the uneasy feeling in him.

His leg, his mutilated leg was hurting.

He was human again.

He jumped back, tripping over his chair, as if she scalded him with boiling water.

The curse – she was breaking the curse. She was turning him into that shivering heap of damaged flesh and weak spirit and dirty rags he used to be. She was taking away his power – she was taking away his dignity. She was robbing him of his self. She was taking away his life – the meaning of it… If he were like that again, he'd never find his son.

How could she do this to him? Didn't she realize?..

But of course she didn't – how could she?

How would she know anything about curses, anyway?

He was stepping farther away from her, frightened and angry, shouting questions at her, ignoring her fear and pain. His fury helped – it always helped, all his magic used to be born out of fury, and it served him again. The awful weakness left him, he felt more himself again, and he looked like himself again – a glance at his hands told him so.

But his leg still hurt, though slightly – he felt a ghost of a limp as he rushed towards the mirror to rage at Regina. Why would she do this to him? Whatever did he do to offend her so deeply? Ah, but she was not to blame. This poor girl knew only hate – he taught her himself.

But Belle… She knew about love – she was love. Why would she turn love against him?

But of course it was all a lie. There was no love anywhere but in his head. She acted a hero – she was killing a beast. Proving herself… That's why she came back. That's why she was so eager, so determined. Oh, how cruel she was, and how powerful. How easily she fooled him with her loving look.

He was screaming at her, hardly registering his own words. She looked frightened, and shocked – she never saw him like that, he never let himself go like that in her presence. But still she found in her the courage to fight him.

'It was working!..'

Her eyes, her magical eyes looked into his, fighting his fury, trying to break into his soul again, convincing him, against all odds that she did love him, that she meant well, and it was all just a terrible mistake.

'Shut up!' If he continued to look into her eyes, if he would let her say what she wanted to say, he'd lose this fight. He'd believe her, again. And he'd be gone.

'This means it's true love!' She was shouting now, too.

She was reaching out to him, with all her being. It must have meant something for her. She was losing something, too. She said the words, and he knew them to be true. He could not doubt her. It was working. It was true love.

She did love him. Ugly and evil and incomprehensible to her as he was she did love him. She didn't really know him, but she loved him.

Oh how incredibly, impossibly cruel life was to rob him of hope, to turn his only consolation into the thing that kills him.

'Shut the hell up!' He felt it, there in the room – the magical power bigger that his own, ready to crush him if only he let himself listen to her, let himself believe the look in her eyes. It took all his will not to let it in – love splashed all around him like waves of an ocean. One moment of weakness and it would engulf him.

'Why won't you believe me?' She was pleading with him now, with tears in her eyes.

He got hold of her shoulders and shook her. She gasped, truly frightened.

'Because it is not about me believing you. It's about me losing myself. You don't know what you want. You don't even know whom do you want. You will not even know me if you win'. Oh, how much did he want to stop his ravings, and say the words; but if he did that, love would rush into his soul again, and he'd be lost.

How horribly and unnaturally calm he was, somewhere deep inside, as he searched for something to stop her, to stop the raging of the alien power around him. How incredibly he hurt at the knowledge of doom that befell them.

The words came, finally, born out of this awful inner calm, brought to the surface by fury and pain: 'Because no one – no one – could ever, ever love me!'

It worked. The power around him went still and sipped away, slowly, accepting the victory of darkness. The great flow of magic filling the world changed, subtly, again – he felt it moving, as it moved when Belle said 'forever' to him, such an impossibly long time ago.

She felt it, too, for she looked at him in horror, and it was not his face, distorted with fury, that frightened her.

She felt magic happening, as she did then.

She must have truly loved him to feel for him so.

The great coldness came over him, even in the midst of his rage. It hung over him as he dragged her to her cell, barren and cold again, and as he moved about the castle, crushing everything his eyes fell on. He could rave and scream all he wanted now, he could weep, he could roar in pain, he could complain and regret – it mattered not. He could listen to her accusations; listen, unblinkingly, how she called him a coward and doubted his ability to believe her and take a chance of happiness. There was no point to explain now, no point telling her that it was not about himself, or her, and certainly not about happiness. It really did not matter if she understood, not anymore. He could really let her go, now, and even the spell she put on him before she left did not matter in the face of greater things.

Love could not touch him now, nor would it ever.

It was done. He has cursed himself.