23

They say that sometimes for people who sustain prolonged torture comes a moment when the pain, which was building up so as to become unbearable for human flesh to take anymore, turns into a twisted pleasure; the sufferer's brain, incapable of mastering the agony, inverts it, and the torture victim experiences extreme arousal and sexual tension. Agony turns into ecstasy; pain becomes literally orgasmic. It is a coping mechanism provided to our bodies by nature, but there is no coming back from this state, no normality for the survivor. Physical wounds could heal; the damage to the brain is permanent – it just snaps, loosing all connection with reality, all judgment of relative value and meaning of things.

He had read about this horrible phenomenon somewhere. He was living through it now. That moment there, on the car park, when he turned from his victim to face her and his darkened gaze has met her beautiful eyes, alight with excitement and wonder and awed admiration at his disgraceful behavior, was when he started his descent into hell; yet, when the raging flames licked his body, he felt the burns as caresses. That was when he understood the full scope of what he's done; the depth and the irreversible nature of his guilt. And that was when he first felt the liberating madness that comes with knowing that there is no redemption. She was lost forever – turned into a damaged creature that couldn't be saved, and he was lost with her. They were damned and doomed, together. And the temptation to go down with thunder and flames proved too strong to resist. They were beyond salvation now. They could enjoy their damnation at least.

He never fully felt his darkness, never let it flow unchecked; in all his actions there always was a measure of control, born out of survival instinct, perhaps. There was no reason to control it now for, having ruined her, he had no reason to survive. How ironic, how pitiful, and how cruel of him was to want her with him in his darkest hour. A strong man would have left her rather then drag her down with him. But he was weak; he always was a coward – he feared loneliness. He wanted her near, even if it destroyed her further. He wanted her, even if she was not, truly, herself. He was that eager for love. He could not live without her, and he could not die without her. It was quite simple, really.

When he first saw her there in the bar, playing pool, laughing and drinking, he felt physically sick. His eyes lost focus for a second, and memories rushed back to him: he seemed to be looking at his wife, there in the tavern where she had met her pirate, and gambled with him, and laughed, and drunk. For the first time the resemblance struck him and he realized, with dismay, that they were alike, the women he loved. Dark hair, abundance of locks, bright eyes and bodies that advertised the enjoyment life brought them; they were full of life, the women he chose. Their bodies promised they'd teach him to live fully, too. But in Belle, there was always something else – something more. She did not only promise – she did teach him to live differently. Other women needed something to light them up. In his wife's case, it was fantasy – a dream of a strong man, which she eventually realized with another. For Cora it was magic – magic borrowed from him, magic that eventually made her jealous and resentful of him. Belle needed no outside light. She was the light. And now the light was gone.

All the time he frantically went around town, confronting the Queen, asking the Prince to help, some part of his mind was elsewhere – screaming in pain, cursing itself, drowning in guilt. However strongly he blamed Regina, she really just brought to life the horror he created. Everything was his fault. It was his curse that contained this ruined girl in its depths. He was the perpetrator of her fall. His imagination created her, his will robbed her of grace. How could it even happen if, as he perfected the curse, he believed her dead? Did his very love, which went on so persistently, holding her in his heart as a fixed image, made her part of the disastrous scheme? What darkness, what unimaginable darkness he had in him to plan that for her – to turn her into this nervous, insecure, damaged girl, burdened with suppressed horrors she had to drown in wine, so unloved and so eager for love and affection that she needed cheap comraderie of drunks to cheer her up, dressed to invite trouble and was ready to flaunt herself on any passing man?

He needed to undo what he's done. He needed to bring her back. He needed to save her. He was ready to do anything for that. His will was once strong enough to oppose true love. Surely his will would be able to bring it back to life? Ah, forget the great magical events – they were always hard to predict. He needed to simply take her off the streets. He needed to protect her, as he promised he would. Who would have thought he'd have to protect her from herself?

He hoped it would be easy – she was a good girl, only she lost her way, completely. He hoped that gentleness and care would soothe her – would induce her to trust him. That would have been something – that would have been a good start. But she didn't want his gentleness; she was not ready to trust him; he felt her teenage rebellion at every twist and turn of the conversation. What torture it was to hear her say the words and phrases from the past. What torture it was to understand that for this version of her truth was just as essential as for the old one, and he was just as unable to meet this, her simplest and most important need – for him to be honest with her. He could never show Belle just how dark he was, for fear of losing her, and Belle was strong. How could he show his true self to this little thing, already so scarred and damaged?

What a shock it was to realize that his darkness was exactly what she wanted to see; what a horror. Not only did he bring her to life inside the curse, by longing for her. It appeared that his darkest side did it: tired of being checked and suppressed, it sneaked into his planning and created a dark soul-mate for itself. The source of light was turned into the deepest of shadows and, manifested in the body which always drove him insane with want it now lured him into the depths of darkness. And the lure was irresistible.

The girl he wanted more than anything else in the world and had despaired to reach was answering to his call, finally, even if in a very sick way. How could he resist? She liked him; she wanted him – at least part of him. It was something. It was better then nothing. He longed for her so – he missed her so; it was such a long time since he touched her, and his whole body was aching for her. And here she was, standing so maddeningly close, smiling, looking at him invitingly, and yes, her breath smelled of drink, and yes, her clothing was more fitting for a slut than for a princess, yet did not all that – the recklessness, the glinting eyes, the exposed legs – advertise the very joy of life he always found so powerfully attractive? He refused to see all these things in his darling girl of old; but what if they were always there, and he was unfair in denying that this side of her existed? He did not show himself to her fully, and he did not see her fully. Perhaps it was just and right to correct that. Perhaps it was a good thing to be bad for her.

He was so, so confused. And, hoping against hope, reasoning against reason, becoming more and more aware of her closeness, smelling her excitement, feeling her admiring gaze, he was slipping, slipping, slipping further into the shadows that beckoned. The man who was secretly glad that she stopped his hand as he was firing the magic bow, the man who gloried in her grateful hug, the man who basked in her light stepped aside. The man who always felt guilty and neglected, the man bitter at the unfairness of the world, the man tired of being ashamed of himself stepped forward, and demanded what was due to him. Here was a girl that was ready to accept that other man. She welcomed him. He wanted to have her.

As his victim stopped moaning, having lost consciousness, he lowered his cane and turned to her, breathing heavily. It was not from the exertion; he was aroused. He never let his dark side run so freely with her around; it was incredible how physically exiting violence was if she watched him indulge in it. She looked at him intently. Her legs were drawn together; her hands were pressed to her hips, her breasts reached forward, as if inviting his touch. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes dreamy; she was biting her lip. She wanted him – there was no mistaking this look, he had seen it before, God, he knew her so well!..

He took a step towards her, and she instinctively stepped back, pressing herself against the wall. She looked so defenseless and open as she stood there, watching him, asking to be had. There was always something shy and reserved about his Belle when it came to bed; she never led, she just followed. There was nothing shy and reserved about her now, and he could not ignore the pull.

He stood in front of her, his hand reaching her neck, clasping it; he felt her shiver, and knew it to be from excitement. His face was very close to hers: 'Is this what you wanted to see?'

'Yes'. Her voice was but a whisper, her eyes were half-closed as she lifted her face towards him, asking for a kiss.

He run his hand down the length of her shoulder, and cupped her breast, feeling the hardening of her nipple even through her coat. 'Is this what you wanted to feel?'

'Yes'. Her voice caught, turning the word into a moan.

Still holding her breast, he let go of his cane, hearing it fall onto the ground with a dull thud, and put his free hand on her thigh, brushing his fingers upwards, reaching the hem of her stocking, feeling the smoothness of her warm skin, ignoring her surprised gasp, pushing her dress up. Her eyes closed, her breathing was shallow. She had thrown her head back against the brick wall.

His hand rested on her buttock – naked. There was no underwear, and his heart skipped a beat. 'If he', he jerked his head towards the prostate body on the ground as he spoke evenly, 'if he undressed you, he is going to die now'.

She opened her eyes, and looked into his. 'Let him live, for now. He did nothing'.

Desire ran through him like electric current, echoing painfully in every inch of his body. 'You came like that?' He pressed his lips to her exposed throat.

'Yes', she whispered into his hair. 'Yes, I came like that'.

His mind went blank – he could not stop now even if he wanted to; there was simply nothing of him left besides his need to have her, at once. He ripped her coat open; he pushed her dress up, and glanced at her. His breath caught. He let go of her for a second to unbutton his trousers; she stood before him, panting, skin of her thighs milky-white, hair between them dark. He put his hand there. She was wet. He growled, and turned her around, so that he was standing against the wall and she was facing him. Damn his bad leg, he needed to support himself against something. He pulled her up then, and rushed into her blindly; she clutched his shoulders, and her legs crossed behind his back; she didn't mind that her knees were grazing against the bricks. Their lips met, finally, and the sour taste of drink in her mouth was intoxicating. He bit her lip, and tasted the blood, and licked the wound, and sucked her tongue.

She cried out as she came. He hissed through gritted teeth.

They remained still for several minutes, entwined, breathing into each other's necks, his semen slowly leaking from her and smearing her legs.

Never in his life has he felt anything as intense as that. He was blinded by desire, stunned by the force of his release. The beast in him was free, and it roared.

He felt like an animal. God, he was an animal. He just had her on the street, against the wall, as a common whore. How could he? Where did the man who wanted to protect her go? Was using her like that the right way to win her trust? How could he debase her so?..

And how could he want her, again – how could he still be ready to have her, there inside her, if he really felt so guilty about it?

And she seemed to be happy. She uttered a gentle giggle, and raised her head to kiss him. He kissed her in return, and slowly put her on the ground.

Her eyes were smiling. 'Well, Mr. Gold, will you buy me a drink? I think I need one'.

She looked so much like herself as she smiled at him that it tore his heart. She looked so much like herself that it was impossible to feel regret for what he'd done. Anything, he'd do anything as long as it made her happy. Anything, as long as she felt good around him. Anything to keep her with him.

'And do not lie to yourself, you beast. You are happy to be free around her', said a voice inside him.

To her, he chuckled: 'Yes, my darling girl. Of course I will buy you a drink. Anything you want, you shall have it, didn't I say so?'

She snorted, and pulled her dress down, fastening her coat with a belt now that buttons were mostly gone. He buttoned up, too, and picked his cane. His hand around her waist, they walked towards 'The Rabbit Hole', and darkness followed at their heels, but he chose to ignore it.

Sitting with her in the bar, watching her lit up face he could not make himself think of the price he was going to pay for what came to pass today. His life was full of risky deals lately; it was obvious this one was going to cost him, too. But he could not think about it now. Not when she was so close, and so happy. He had spent years thinking her dead. She was alive now, and with him. Shouldn't he be grateful for that? He thought he'd die without seeing her again, just two days ago, and yet here he was, holding her. Shouldn't he be grateful for that?

He'd try and close his eyes at everything that jarred. He will not think of the laughter too harsh, or a phrase too coarse, or of a gaze dimmed with drink. She is still somewhere there, inside. She is hurting, but he would nurse her to health. He would bring her light back.

The voice inside his head, his own voice, whining and teasing, the one he had when he was mad and bad in the past, asked him, derisively: 'And how are you going to do that, Dark One?' He told it to shut up.

He closed his eyes, and drew her to him, and kissed her fully and deeply on the lips, finding her tongue, making her moan softly – right there, in the middle of the bar, in plain sight of everyone who hadn't drunk themselves into stupor yet. He suddenly felt wonderfully free and reckless. His power was back, his son was back, and now she was back, too. He could let himself go – he could let himself live.

He would not think of the price.

Her drunken breath was hot on his cheek, and the darkness clouding around them felt red-hot, too. 'You know, Mr. Gold, I think I have fallen in love with you', she said, her voice slightly slurring.

He looked down into her eyes – still magical, still hers, not empty anymore. 'Come on, my darling B… beautiful girl. I will take you home'.

She smiled, and leaned on his shoulder.

He suddenly felt like having a large and stiff drink, too. But he was drunk enough by having her near.

His mind slipped, turning his guilt and pain into ecstasy, sometime during the events of that night. He did not notice it. He could not – he was too lost in the magic of the moment, not caring that this magic was dark.