39

He cannot sleep.

He stays on the camp-bed in the back of his shop, Belle cuddled by his side, sleeping quietly, holding his hand, her hair spread across his chest; her breathing is even, her eyelashes flutter softly in her sleep as dreams speed through her mind. Peaceful dreams, it seems – she smiles in her sleep.

Let her sleep; she needs rest – she was exhausted, her strength stretched almost to the limit by all recent events; he could see it from her tense face, shadows under her beautiful eyes; he could sense it in her hysterical gayety; in her desperate desire.

Let her sleep, let her get her much-needed rest.

Let her have what he cannot.

He cannot sleep, and he cannot rest, for every time he closes his eyes, he returns there: into his cage, into his cellar filled with creeping shadows and bleak thoughts. Returns into that night, the night he overstepped his mark; returns to see the trapdoor open, and a dark figure emerge against the paling sky of dawn; returns there to hear her steps approaching, to hear her quick breathing; returns to see her glazed, blank eyes gleaming at him from the shadows.

He cannot sleep, he cannot close his eyes.

He looks at his bride, sleeping by his side; looks at her dark lashes, at her parted lips, at her delicate hand resting on his heart. This hand, this hand that he loves so much – how it trembled as she reached out to touch him; how hungry her lips were; how feverish her look…

He averts his eyes, and stares at the dust dancing in the sunbeams shining in stripes through window-shades. The sun is setting; it will be dark soon. Night will come soon, and she'd wake up, expecting his kiss – his touch. Her eyes would look at him with longing; her fingers would reach to caress his face.

And he'd feel it again – this urge to draw away. From her hands, those hands he loves so much; from her eyes, the eyes that always brought him light; from her lips, that promised him salvation; from her longing, now tainted…

These hands touching his face, pressing his dagger to his cheek. These lips whispering into his ear, brushing his skin.

These fingers holding his dagger up.

His insides constrict, his heart gives a painful start; he has to swallow, hard.

All hands, all fingers of all these girls, handling the tool to control him; menacingly, self-righteously, winningly, gently, hesitantly, carelessly; handling his dignity, his freedom, his heart, the symbol of his self; handling it around, passing it to each other as if it was a toy, a plaything.

'Go to your cage, doll'.

Cold sweat covers his brow. His breathing is shallow.

He feels sick.

He cannot sleep.

He cannot rest.

He cannot forget.

He cannot forgive.

He cannot breathe the same air this creature does.

He feels the presence of his dagger in the next room.

It calls to him. 'Why don't you take me?.. Why don't you use me? I am yours, and we both know it. Whatever you said, I am yours, for she agreed to be yours; everything she owns belongs to you, and you knew it well when you asked her to be your wife'.

He tries to close his mind, to shut his ears to this silent call. His tries to turn his mind to the only thing that can console him – that could always console him: her love.

He pictures the moment of their reunion. Her careful steps as she entered the shop; her tense back as she closed the door – so collected, so courageous, his beautiful princess, getting ready to face him, not really knowing what to expect. Her eyes shining as he kissed her – her lips quivering with approaching sobs – her tears warm on his skin.

Talking to him of love, and holding that thing in her bag all that time.

Handling it to him with proclamation of his freedom.

How generous.

Dropping it carelessly on the counter by her handbag as she rushed to kiss him; forgetting all about it, her thoughts turned to love and happiness and future.

Forgetting what it must mean to him. Not knowing what it must mean to him.

Forgetting what he has lived through.

Forgetting his loss.

Not knowing what it means to lose a child.

How can he blame her? She didn't have to live through this, and thank God for that. She has no way of knowing how it feels. None of them have; all of them, all of the good ones, they all think they lost many things in their lives; they knew separation, they knew fear and pain. Yet none of them ever held their dying child in their arms; none of them had to stumble through the wood away from his dead body, urged forward by the hand that killed him; sneered at; powerless to fight back.

None of them had to close his heart to love, so that his loss wouldn't kill him.

His throat catches, momentarily – he cannot breathe. His eyes go dark.

None of them knows. And yet they dare to judge him.

All of them, feeling so superior and self-righteous, coming to 'stop' the witch – to 'help' him. Unprepared, deluded, pompous fools, full of declarations, unable to use their wits.

Emma, coming to fight the witch with her pirate along – daring to show her face in front of him in a company of the man who replaced his son in her heart; so soon, he just died, he was just buried, and already she forgot him…

So soon.

He enjoyed drowning the pirate – that man who stole his wife, and then stole his son's love.

He enjoyed Emma's humiliation as she saved and kissed him, and lost her powers.

Served them right.

'How could you stand by my side after all that I've done', he asked Belle, just now. 'It wasn't you, it was Zelena', she said; believing the best, as always.

'It wasn't always Zelena', he told her. Speaking the truth – trying to explain.

And there she went with her 'promise me you wouldn't hurt her', again – as always.

Unwilling to understand. Not ready to listen.

Joining them in their readiness to judge him; taking his dagger; assuming she does have a right to hold it; joining them in their opinion that he has to be restrained.

Saying empty well-wishing things, just as Regina did in the barn when she dared to try and control him – dared to put him in his place.

None of them knows what it feels like to be in his place.

None of them lost a child.

None of them lived a slave.

None of them felt this rage, this physical frustration of having the greatest power on earth and yet being controlled by stupid, ancient piece of steel with your name on it.

None of them understands, she least of all, and that is a good thing. He would not wish her to feel a fraction of what he felt, ever.

It is just that he cannot hear these empty words, again.

It is just that he cannot forget how she took the dagger, and then dropped it, for kissing was more important.

Took it after the witch had been holding it.

Took it after Regina had been holding it.

How could she take it?

These girls. These silly, dangerous girls.

He grits his teeth; he clenches his hands into fists, disturbing her: she stirs in her sleep, mutters something.

His lips move as he silently calls her name. 'Belle… Belle'.

His eyes fill with tears as he looks at her lovely face, and his heart floods with guilt at doubting her, reproaching her, pushing her away, even mentally – daring to distance himself from her, even in his mind, after all they have been through, knowing the price they both paid for being together.

This girl, this girl he loves so much.

How can he love her now, when his soul is so divided?

He cannot love her while his life is poisoned.

He cannot love her while his heart is closed.

He cannot open his heart: his loss would still kill him, for nothing changed; his boy is still gone, this creature still lives, protected by all the good people in town.

He cannot love her while this creature lives.

Slowly, delicately he moves his fingers to free his hand from hers; carefully, not whishing to wake her, to break her peace.

Slowly, carefully he stands up.

She turns on her side, burying her face in the pillow where his head rested just a moment ago. She inhales his smell; she smiles.

He must do what he needs to do – for her as much as for himself.

He covers her with a blanket and quietly collects his garments, scattered on the floor. Barefoot, he walks into the next room.

The dagger greets him, smugly.

'I knew you'd listen to me. I know you well'.

'Shut up. You know nothing'.

'As you say, master'.

His hand lingers over the blade, hesitant. If only he could avoid it. If only he could see the way to live without doing it. If only he could forget his humiliation and his loss.

He closes his eyes, and sees those eyes again, looking at him through the bars of a cage.

He cannot. He cannot forget; he cannot live with it; he cannot avoid what he needs to do.

She'd understand.

This cursed thing, his dagger – it is right: he can take it, for she is his now, and everything she owns is his, just as everything he owns is hers. He can take it, and that wouldn't breach her trust. And even if not for this – God knows he did not think of this when he asked her to be his wife! He asked her because he wanted to, for years; he asked her because he wanted to be human; he asked her because it is right for her to belong to him in normal, real way, not through magical deals of the past; he asked her because he loves her and, in his now endless fight to be a man, he remembers that is what men do when they love… Yes, even if not for this new magical deal they made between them, if he told her, if he explained, she'd understand. Even she, with all her goodness, would understand.

But he cannot tell her. He would not find the words; he would not have the voice.

Her mind should not be contaminated by such darkness.

And this thing, this cursed, soiled blade, should never smear her hands.

She should not hold it, ever.

This curse is his. This blade is his; his bloodied hands are fit to handle it – no one else's.

Least of all hers.

He takes the blade that belongs to him, and disappears in a cloud of dark smoke, only to appear in another place.

To look at a girl though the bars of a cage.

So similar and so different.

That night, the night when he overreached himself and stumbled across the frozen field, feeling her hate and want, knowing he'd pay for what he did, and pay dearly; that night when he stepped into his cage, mad at himself and frustrated. That night when he sat sleepless, awaiting her next move. And she came, snapping the trapdoor open, her figure dark against the pale sky; her eyes blank with determination, cloudy with longing.

She stood there in front of him, clasping his dagger to her chest as if it was a cross; stood there carefully listing for him all the things she would do when she changes the past – promising him everything he ever wanted; urging him that it was a good thing that he lost his boy, for nothing stands between them now – they could be together; begging him to love her; pressing her face to the bars, trying to kiss him; crying; running away when he turned his face so as not to look at this spectacle.

Mad, mad, mad girl.

Yet, as he listened, he could not help thinking of another girl begging him to forget about his son and love her.

'It's quite simple, really: my power means more to me than you do'.

It was the truth then – awful and painful truth. It was the truth now – ugly and painful truth. He needed his power, needed it back so that he could restore his dignity.

When she run away and he was left alone, he was shaking all over – invaded by her madness, exhausted by her assault, sickened by the sight of her; despising himself for ever touching her. He fell on his knees, breathing heavily, waves of nausea hitting him.

Vomited, getting rid of her food and her wine, getting rid of the memory of her kiss.

He sat there for a long time, trying to think straight – forming a plan. Acting on it, charming a tool that might help him, there on the dirty floor of his cage, littered with bits of straw that he spun during his imprisonment.

Knowing that she'd slip, sooner or later; he'd only have to bide his time, and seize the chance when she is distracted, when she'd lose control; knowing that, being so obsessed with him, she would.

Looking at her with different eyes the next morning; finding himself able to joke with her. Finding the dark flame of dark hope warming him; thinking of his father and his lessons.

He walks into her cage, dagger in hand. He senses her fear – he can smell it.

He could almost pity her.

He is not enjoying it.

This is not the way he would have done it, if he had a choice.

He remembers her foot hovering over his dead boy's face, ready to step on it, and knows he has no choice.

He has to save his life – he has to give himself a future.

The blade cuts her body – plunges right through her heart, and she turns into clay, and crumbles to dust, gone without a trace.

He always wanted to kill someone this way; never tried it, though.

Feels good.

He walks out of the cage and stands in the middle of the room for a few moments, breathing heavily.

They say revenge is pointless – it never makes one feel better.

It does.

He walks through the town, calming himself; feeling the tremor gradually leave his fingers. Comes to the shop; enters through the back door. Checks on Belle: she is still sleeping.

He goes into the main room of the shop and looks at the dagger she forgot on the counter, the one Regina gave her, and his heart breaks with sorrow.

He never thought she'd have to handle it. It was not meant for her – it was meant for those other people. When he made it, this second, fake dagger, there on the sick-stained floor of his cage, he meant only to slip it to the witch instead of the real one, when chance would arise. He went around armed with it, waiting for this chance. And when it happened, when Regina defeated her and his dagger fell from those greedy fingers, he acted in a flash – when all the battered heroes were distracted, he took his dagger, and left a fake one in its' stead.

Seemed like a good idea at the time, to leave a fake dagger for everyone to see; they'd never know there are two daggers now; they'll never look for the real one, and he'd keep it safe.

And then Regina took the fake, and tried to control him: silly girl, blinded by her victory, denying him compassion in her triumph.

And he made a show of accepting that, smiling secretly; let her have it and let her wonder why it doesn't work properly, if she ever dares to use it.

Served her right for all her continuous efforts to better him.

He went back to the shop, looking suitably chastened by all these events; he had to get there to hide his reclaimed treasure. He knew he had no time to make a proper spell to conceal it, for he knew Belle would be coming soon – he felt her waking up, felt her heart fill with hope.

He hid the dagger behind one of the mirrors and stood there for a second, looking at himself; trying to recognize his own face – trying to come to terms with his new life.

Knowing he paid so dearly for a chance to live it that it must be possible now.

And then she came, holding the fake dagger never intended for her. Solemn. Self-righteous; urging him to be good and well-behaved. Unable to understand.

Wanting to kiss when he wanted to cry.

And he was trapped.

He should have told her the truth; she would have understood.

But he couldn't.

Too tired, too damaged, too abused; too pained to trust anyone but himself.

Not wanting to give her false promises – promises he'd be unable to fulfill. How could he promise her to be good and forgiving? It was beyond his power, however great it is.

He gave her the only promise of which he could be sure – a promise to love her forever. To belong to her, regardless of any magical tokens.

He asked her to be his wife, so that all his things would become, by definition, hers. So that she owns him, not some cursed piece of steel.

And she said 'yes', and she walked into his embrace, and his heart was flooded with his love and his guilt, in equal measures.

And they went to make love, leaving the fake dagger, the embodiment of his lie, of his heart, closed to love so that it could survive his loss, gleaming on the counter.

And his soul kept crying all the time his body gloried in her closeness.

And his body broke into sobs as he sensed that, even though he was free and had a chance to live, he would never be able to live and to love her while his heart is closed.

She urged him to tell her… Yet what could he tell her?

She shouldn't be told such things.

What she doesn't know couldn't hurt her.

He looks at his two daggers, as they lay side by side on the counter: so similar and so different.

Let them be.

He goes to his cabinet, the one in which he keeps the most important things, and places his dagger inside; seals it with every spell in his power – and his power is great.

He doesn't want to touch it again, ever. He hopes he'd never have to.

He takes the second dagger from the counter; it is a magical thing, too, it has inadvertently become a token of his proposal to her, and shouldn't be left unattended.

He comes through to the back room; quietly takes his clothes off. Lowers himself on the bed by her side.

She is so warm in her peaceful sleep; so soft and gentle; she smells so sweet.

He leans to kiss her shoulder, and closes his eyes, wearily; he is so, so tired.

He can rest now. He can close his eyes.

She stirs, shifting her body to be closer to him; opens her eyes, half-awake: 'Where have you been?'

He smiles, tapping the blade of the dagger, which he put on the floor by the bed: 'Brought you this – you shouldn't scatter your things around like this'.

She smiles, already falling back into sleep: 'Your things'.

He watches her sleeping face, feeling her peace quietly enter his soul, and whispers softly: 'No, Belle. No. This dagger is yours'.

She entwines her fingers with his.

He closes his eyes.

She'd understand.

She'd forgive.

He believes in her, even when he doesn't believe in himself.

She sees goodness in people, and when it is not there, she creates it. She made him a good man once; she made him whole once.

She'd do it again.

He can hope.

He can rest.

He can sleep now.