PART II. RAZOR-SHARP
A/N I've originally posted it on ao3 as a sequel, you'll see it's somewhat different (present tense and all), but for the convinience of the existing subscribers, I'll just add it here.
Buckets of love to you if you've enjoyed the story so far and left a review. I try to reply to them all and if i've forgotten, kick me. If you are that anon witch - yes, i am a hooker, an idiot, rumbelle hater and blah blah, keep sending me those i just get off on them.
I'm always open to suggestions, especially the kinky ones. Oh, and the updates will be slower, once a week i think cause it's still very much in progress.
Rumpelstiltskin watches impassively as the flame transfers to the wick, flickering before it rises up and gently blows the match off. A year, it has been a year.
Those, who say it gets better with time, are either liars or complete idiots. Because it doesn't fucking get any better.
He grips the edge of the table hard, leaning forward and fixing his eyes on the warm glow of the candle. The pain is still as sharp and intolerable as it had been, squeezing at his heart when he is alone and roiling his stomach when he is – very seldom – around people. It is wrong that life went on. It feels wrong to see someone laugh, to have the sun rise every day, when she isn't there. The world should have stopped and wept at his loss, shedding the tears he no longer has. What is the point in living, if every breath pushes him further away from the time they were together? Even her name is painful, stirring so much emotion, his whole body shakes at the sound of it.
"Belle," he whispers, his body trembling as if he expects a blow at being so bold to call it. Nothing happens, of course. Even the empty space of his turret doesn't not carry the sound far. He sighs and closes his eyes. "Belle."
Rumpelstiltskin knows she's gonebut knowing, realizing and accepting it are different. No matter what his mind tells him, he still hopes. Hopes against all reason for a miracle that will never happen.
He is bleeding even though no wounds are visible, except for an endless consuming nothing in his chest. Losing his loved one is the same as having his soul ripped out. That is, if anyone is optimistic or foolish enough to believe the Dark One even had such thing as a soul to begin with.
Rumpelstiltskin straightens and bares his uneven yellowed teeth in a savage grin. Oh yes, he muses, there is hardly any doubt left as to who the people of the fairy tale land should fear now.
He remembers it all too vividly. Regina's dress was dark red and only glistening damp spots gave away the patches where the fabric was soaked in her blood. Red had been her favourite colour, had it not? How fitting. To give the Evil Queen some credit, she wasn't scared at first, holding her head up high despite the flourishing bruises on her neck and the dishevelled hair. She even tried snapping at him, her sneering and lilting high voice slicing through him. "Your girl is gone", she said, "truly and forever we both know there's no coming back, and all because of you. What did you use to say? Dead is dead?"
His memory is foggy there, as his whole world turned red with the fury that boiled in his veins, but he thinks that was the first time he hit a woman. Not the Dark Ones, enslaved by the power before his time; no, him, Rumpelstiltskin, raising his hand at a female. He's not proud of the deed yet when he glances at his scaled hand, flexing his long clawed fingers, it feels strangely satisfying.
Regina told him everything, although the story was short. He knocked the Queen's breath out, by throwing his body against the wall, which it hit with an unpleasant crack. Not that Rumpelstiltskin cared how much noise he was making or whether her bones were intact; the witch would no longer need them after he was through with her and hardly anyone in her castle had the guts or ability to stand up to him.
He didn't want to believe her words, they couldn't be true. Yet he knew they were, when Regina's eyes widened with terror – true horror that had nothing to do with the pulsing waves of dark magic he radiated nor the pain she felt - and he turned to see who she was looking at. There, at the door stood a tall boy, who froze for a moment while his mind processed what he was seeing. A moment was enough, and Rumpelstiltskin immobilised the youth on the spot. His face was familiar, although he couldn't recall the name. Daly? Danton? Damon? Names hold power, but this one escaped him.
"Daniel," Regina chocked and the pieces of a puzzle clicked together. Oh, revenge could be so sweet sometimes. He made the boy disappear with a flick of his wrist and returned his attention to his ex-alumni and now a victim.
He played with her, enjoying her pleas – to save her lover's life if not to spare hers - and threats and the names she called him. But it got boring all too soon. Rumpelstiltskin looked around lazily and decided he was done there. Throwing another glance at the Queen he slowly moved toward an exit. And then he set the room on fire.
Her shrieks still echoed in his ears as he unhurriedly walked to the main doors of the castle. Stone doesn't burn well, unless you incinerate it with magic, in which case it is positively ablaze by the time you make your way out. The flames licked at his boots and he wrinkled his nose at the smell of burning leather but it mattered little; the fire did him no harm even though the smoke scratched at the back of his throat.
People rushed from the castle, and he let them. His business was with the Queen, not her subjects. He cocked his head, admiring the roaring orange and yellow flames and threw his head back, laughing. His maniac giggle – for he was insane at that moment - sounded unnaturally sharp in the night as he lifted his arms and danced to his own music, waltzing around the castle, mindless of any spectators. He knew Belle would not approve of violence and destruction, but it didn't matter. She wasn't there and she would never be.
When the merriment subdued and he frowned again, he returned home, materializing in the dungeon. The boy was there, hunched in a corner and when he looked up, Rumpelstiltskin felt like he was stricken by a lightning. The lad had blue eyes, and despite them being full of tears, the eyes betrayed no fear of the sorcerer. He silenced the pup with a shaking hand; somehow it felt that if he was to speak, Rumpelstiltskin would lose his mind entirely. He just stood and dumbly stared at those familiar yet alien eyes.
He couldn't do it, he couldn't bring himself to harm the boy, even though bile rose to his throat at the thought that this person lives when Belle… He was so obsessed with his own rage he didn't even look for the girl's body. It probably burned with the castle and he couldn't even give her a proper burial. Rumpelstiltskin didn't want to imagine what it would be like to touch her cold body, to roll her eyelids to cover over her turquoise eyes, closing them forever and to carry her to her grave.
The boy – Daniel, his name was Daniel – reached out for him, stretching his hand palm up and the sorcerer snapped back into reality. Well, something had to be done. He cast a sleeping curse, taking the lad's limb body to an island in the middle of the sea, where he'd lay dreaming until the spell could be broken by a True Love's kiss. True Love's kiss that would never happen.
Rumpelstiltskin exhales slowly as his fingers swipe across the candle flame. Fires can be both pretty and deadly and he finds it mesmerizing. His own flame was extinguished a year ago and it was his own fault. His left hand unconsciously wraps around small glass vial in his pocket and he grips the smooth cool glass. Forgetting potion. Simple solution to complicated matters. Memories are pain and he has always been a coward. But even though he brewed the potion, he cannot bring himself to drink it. Belle loved him and he cannot betray that, even if the memory of her loss can be too much to bear. Neither will he put an end to his existence, no matter how appealing that seems. She wanted him to live and he will grant her this last wish. Yet he carries the bottle with him as another reminder of his weakness.
Rumpelstiltskin pinches the wick and the delicate flame dies between his fingers. The corner of his mouth tugs up at that irony; putting an end to something comes easier to him than creation. He walks to his chair, slouching as he sits down. His eyes dart to the top left drawer under his desk and he purses his lips tighter. He will not do it, he swore to himself he wouldn't. He pushes the chair back and props his legs on the table, crossing them at the ankles. The drawer, or, rather, what is in it, still calls to him and he has to fold his arms on his chest not to open it. It's silly, it won't work, he's done it countless times before. But it is an obsession, a tick he cannot control and he promises it will be the last time when he slides the drawer open and reaches inside.
The mirror looks the same as it was the previous day when he took it out. The worn frame and the clouded surface are still intact, although he must have thrown the thing at every wall of his lab, but the protection spell holds well. He grasps the cool silver with both hands, raising it to his face.
"Show me my Belle," he orders, just like a thousand times before. His heart sinks a little, just like each time he glimpses dark curly hair on women (perhaps he should cast a curse to ensure no one possesses long hazel curls, almost red at the tips because it's too easy to mistake those girls for another one) and just as yesterday, the smoke swirls under the perfectly polished glass and nothing happens. To his own surprise, he puts the mirror away carefully. The day was longbut the night will be longer, he knows. Perhaps he should spin or perhaps he should create a new poison. If his mood doesn't improve – of course it won't – he may even try the effects on himself; there're some perks to being immortal.
Just as he stands up, he feels a warm tug of magic at the nape of his neck. Someone's calling for him. Considering the hour and the insistency of the pull on his skin, it's someone truly desperate. He cannot refuse a deal, they're both his strength and his weakness. He summons his dragon-hide coat, flicking at the spikes of his collar and dissolves in a cloud of thick purple smoke.
The man was desperatebut it didn't make him less pathetic, he thinks as he breathes in the rich night air and decides to walk to the outskirts of the village. Money, the oaf wanted gold as if it could solve his problems. Funnily enough, the price he had to pay was…
Rumpelstiltskin freezes because what he hears makes him weak in the knees. That voice could belong to only one person and she couldn't be… There's whispering and a soft trilling laugh and his blood goes cold despite the warm night air. He should leavebut he can't, he has to make sure.
The sorcerer creeps through the obscuring trees, getting deeper into the garden. His eyes catch a tall man holding someone's hand, but the other person is still out of his view. The man turns and walks away towards the mansion, while his companion remains. Rumpelstiltskin can feel his heart beating through his chest and it's a miracle the woman – because the voice was definitely female – cannot hear him. He knows he should disguise himself or become invisiblebut he just cannot bring himself to move, his eyes wide and fixed on the stranger. From where he's standing, he can only see the ridiculously volume golden dress. Then, suddenly, he is walking forward, taking in the sight of a tight bodice and bared shoulders, but the girl he's thinking of would never wear anything as flamboyant or revealing, not mentioning the corset that would squeeze the breath out of her. He must be under a spell for he cannot divert his eyes. She's not Belle, he tells himself, Belle is gone and you're just searching for signs that are not there. The hair means nothing, the similar voice is nothing and he should return before he's noticed. She haunts his dreams and that's why he sees what he wants to instead of admitting he'll never meet her face to face again.
The girl turns towards a rose bush and he hisses as if the sight of her profile burns him like acid. Because it does. She fully turns, her bright eyes searching forsource of the noise. Before either of them can say anything, Rumpelstiltskin lunches forward, gripping her around the waist and crashing her small body against his. She freezes in his arms but then starts to push him away yet the man only holds her closer.
"Belle, oh Belle," he whimpers as he holds her. "I've found you, Belle. Belle." His fingers feel the silkiness of her hair. If it's a dream, he never wants to know anything but this illusion.
He hides his face in the crook of her neck, because his eyes sting and he doesn't want to put her off with his tears. It's bliss, he's in heaven, because it is Belle, she smells like Belle and the weight of her is so familiar. It cannot be truebut her body is solid and he sobs dryly, relieved and terrified and lost.
And then the girl begins to scream.