The only thing that stops Rumpelstiltskin from flinging the vial against the stone wall is the knowledge that if he did it and no longer had the evidence before his eyes, he would be tempted to repeat the process.
The two hairs inside the glass remained just that despite the amount of black dust he sprinkled them with. He instantly knew it was no mistake, yet… He refused to believe it at first, adding more of it, shaking and cursing when nothing happened. He tried reciting enchantments, projecting his emotions and adding a drop of mermaid tears - good for healing but not as the catalyst needed to produce the desired reaction. The two hairs didn't even twist around each other, stifling to the opposite sides of the glass, separated and dead. It meant only one thing: the girl loves him not.
The realization hits him hard and his fingers grasp the table to help him stay upright. His claws leave long scratches in the polished surface and now he will have to discard the expensive item because the marks will remind him of that moment when he failed to be loved.
The memory of the passion they shared last night only makes it worse. He wants to weep but his eyes remain dry. He wants to rage and break things, to cover the floor with shattered glass and smashed things, but he cannot bring himself to do so. Rumpelstiltskin wonders if those are the signs of going mad, because after the initial shock, he feels...nothing. He is incapable even of anger. He is not even human enough to feel the emotion other people can. He is nothing more than a morphed, worn shell of a creature, still wasting air because fate is a cruel bitch and he is too cowardly to end his existence.
He spends several hours just numbly staring off and into space, occasionally shifting his glare to the vial. His body is frozen motionless and he can already feel the warm rays of morning sun creep up his leg. And then he feels the magic stroke down his spine. He is being summoned and his hunch tells him it's Isabelle. The girl who was but no longer is Belle.
Rumpelstiltskin wraps his hands around himself protectively, trying to hide even though there is no one to see him. Only when his fingers meet the silk of his shirt does he remember that his coat is still in the room. He left it in a rush or perhaps subconsciously he wanted to return.
He is devastated but when the call repeats several times, the magic tingling through him more insistently, he feels the anger finally take over. He grabs the vial and tosses it at the wall with a snarl. He needs to put an end to this. Belle is dead, Isabelle cannot replace her and any feelings she might experience are as fake as the words of a siren. She doesn't love him and on one hand, it shouldn't matter because she is still interested, she has clearly shown she wants to be with him. But it makes all the difference in the world. He will fetch his bloody cloak and break up with her. All the agonizing efforts he put into their renewed relationship have been a waste of time. Isabelle can do well on her own; he will give her what she fucking requires of him (once more) and he will never see her again. She must drop this annoying habit of calling upon him every time she breaks a nail. He is the mighty Dark One, for fuck's sake and not her slave, promptly running like a puppy to lick her toes at first beckoning.
When Rumpelstiltskin appears in her room in the tavern he's puzzled for a fraction of a second because it seems empty. Then he feels someone press against his back, her small arms sliding around his middle.
"I missed you," she whispers, rubbing her cheek against the fabric of his shirt and Rumpelstiltskin clenches his teeth harder.
He turns around swiftly, faster than she can register, and before the girl reacts, he pushes her roughly against the door, pinning her body in place with his own. Only then does the man take the time to look at her properly and he feels his mouth go dry. Isabelle has done her hair up in a messy bun, leaving her neck exposed, only partially obscured by the high collar. She's wearing his coat and judging by the open front which does not cover her completely, there's not a single other thread of clothing on her. It's strange seeing her dressed in leather and the coat is too big for her in the shoulders. He has trouble deciding if he finds the whole situation arousing or infuriating. His eyes linger on the pendant between her breasts, half-hidden by the soft curves.
"My clothes disappeared last night," she explains. Rumpelstiltskin snaps out of his thoughts when Isabelle nuzzles the hollow at the base of his throat and her hot tongue leaves a wet trail on his skin.
"What do you think you're doing?" he snarls and grabs her face none too gently, making her look up. The brazen creature just smiles at him widely or as wide as his restraining hand allows her smile to stretch.
"Indicating just how much I've missed you," she says coyly and he tries to keep himself from digging his nails into her soft flesh. What is wrong with her? Why is she doing it? Did he simply not realize how wanton she was underneath the façade of her innocence?
"So you still desire the monster, dearie?" Rumpelstiltskin drawls in a sweet voice and feels her shiver when he brings his face close to hers, almost touching her lips.
"You're not a monster," Isabelle argues and the man chuckles. Her reply is prompt, almost as if she does it instinctively. She looks at him gravely and adds without any playfulness. "But if you were, I'd still want you."
Rumpelstiltskin lets go of the girl and steps back. She's lying, she must be, but he cannot figure out the reason why. He feels the urge to break her, to see her bend to his will, to show her how wrong and silly she is.
"Then I must show you the monster and prove you wrong," he offers and the thought is dark and shamefully arousing. "Come here," he beckons with his fingers and Isabelle obeys, watching him with large clear eyes, unafraid and not a bit worried he can hurt her.
"Kneel," he commands and the girl raises her eyebrows but she appears to be hypnotized and does as she is bid silently. She shifts her body on the dirty floor, folding her legs under herself to find a more comfortable position.
"Unlace my breeches," he says and he's already hardening when her fingers accidentally brush him through the leather. Her breathing quickens a little when she looks at his member, half-engorged and heavy right in front of her face and anticipates what will be asked of her next.
Rumpelstiltskin wonders how far her limits stretch, when she will spring to her feet and curse him and flee.
"Take me in your hand," he orders. "Stroke me."
He bites on his tongue not to moan as her nimble hands wrap around him and she gives him several tugs, watching as the velvety skin slides over hard shaft. She didn't see him quite that well the previous night, and studies him with curiosity, running her fingers along the curve of the vein underneath and then sliding her thumb across the slit and this time the man cannot restrain a grunt. Isabelle jerks her hands away.
"No, keep going," Rumpelstiltskin hisses and she blushes but complies.
He lets her explore him the way she wants while his fingers pull the pins out of her hair, watching the curls spill across the dark-red leather collar of his coat. Her curiosity and the obscenity of the act are intoxicating. Rumpelstiltskin coils a lock of her hair around his finger, trying to distract himself. His nostrils flare as he struggles to control his breathing and keep it even, but his body moves of its own accord, thrusting forward into her grip.
Her strokes become more confident and firm. She could easily bring him to a climax like that, especially when she cups his balls gently and presses them up against his shaft. But the darkness in him doesn't seek a release, it craves humiliation, seeing her disgust and her face drenched in tears, having realized just what exactly he is. A day ago he would shudder at the thought but today he wants to give in. It no longer matters. He tried so hard to be on his best behaviour, to suppress the evil in him, to give her space and choice and... all in vain. He wants to hurt her badly, to see the reflection of pain in her eyes that could match his own.
"Now kiss it," he orders and Isabelle's head snaps up. She looks confused but doesn't back away. "Go on," he presses, keeping his voice low and vibrating in anticipation, "you heard me. I said kiss it."
She doesn't scream in indignation, she doesn't tell him how sick and twisted he is, how much he repulses her, that she is done playing games and wants him to leave. In fact, she makes no sound. Isabelle tilts her head and unconfidently presses several dry kisses to the side of his member with feverish lips. His eyes roll back in his head; not so much for the sensation but knowing that she's actually doing it, down on the floor like that, the same lips he was afraid to kiss now caressing him intimately almost has him undone.
"Look up," Rumpelstiltskin demands and she does. The image of her flushed face (is she ashamed? Aroused? Confused?) and wide eyes will be imprinted in his memory for eternity.
"Wet your lips," he man presses and watches as her tongue darts out and strokes along the curves of her full lips. Isabelle seems in some kind of trance as she doesn't break the eye contact and squirms on the floor, expecting the next instructions.
"Part them and kiss the tip of it."
Slowly, she complies and her warm moist lips wrap around the head of his cock tentatively. It looks dirty, it is maddening and then her soft tongue swipes across him, sending sharp white jolts of pleasure prickling through his body.
"Oh fuck," he mutters and she lets go of his member to grin. It's a knowing smile, a lustful one as if she realizes that even though he towers over her, she is the one in charge and holding the power.
He runs his thumb across her lip, hooking it inside and exposing her small white teeth.
"I did not tell you to stop," Rumpelstiltskin observes and the girl swallows noisily before returning to her task. She adjusts quickly, the licks ceasing to be random and narrowing to his frenulum when she realizes that this spot is the one that earns her involuntary groans from the man. Isabelle tries to take more of it into her mouth, stopping when the spongy head presses against the roof of her mouth and nearly gags her.
Her hands caress the tight leather of his breeches, but she neither pushes him away nor pulls the man closer. She lets the head pop out of her mouth and hums, running her lips along the side again, the sound she makes and her willingness making his testicles draw up to his body. The girl's hand closes around the base of his shaft and holds him steady while she flicks her tongue at the tip, looking up at him with her darkened eyes. She sucks the head into her mouth and it's too much, he won't last under this torturous caress.
Rumpelstiltskin grabs her upper arms and yanks her to her feet roughly, cursing as his wet cock bobs and grazes across her stomach in the opening of his coat.
"Get on the bed," he commands in a husky voice. "No, leave it on," he adds when the girl tries to slide the coat off her shoulders. She gets on the mattress, her hands limp at her sides.
"Spread your legs." There is blush blooming on her checks once again but she opens her thighs. "Wider."
Isabelle complies and he looks at her, wantonly stretched out for him, her chest heaving and both of them shaking with desire amid the wrongness of the situation.
"Put your fingers down there and prepare yourself for me," the sorcerer continues.
In truth, there is no need for it as he can already see how she is glistening with her own wetness. Isabelle's fingers tentatively travel down the slit and dip between her folds, lightly separating them to circle the tender opening. She whimpers as her own fingers keep exploring her swollen sex, stroking the sides of her clit, pinching and rolling it between them. Rumpelstiltskin can tell she enjoys giving him this show. There is even more moisture at her opening and her moans echo in the room, louder each moment. Her eyes open and she looks at him, at his thick protruding cock and she bites onto her lip. Her labia darkens and she must be getting close. Her hips thrust upwards and her fingers work her clit faster, but before she can orgasm, Rumpelstiltskin snatches her hand away.
She looks at him in awe, panting and mewling at the loss but does not attempt to pull her wrist from his iron grip. He looks her in the eye and sucks her damp fingers into his mouth.
"Rumpelstiltskin," she moans as his tongue swirls around her digits, cleaning up the product of her arousal. The man raises his eyebrows, indicating he is listening but not letting go of her hand. "I need... Oooh. Take me," she asks in an unsteady voice and he releases her fingers from his mouth.
"Very well, dearie."
His hand circles her other wrist and he pushes her hands together and up, pinning them to the mattress above her head. The grip is probably too hard but she does not breathe a word of complaint. He lowers himself on her, not bothering to discard his clothing and nudges her legs further apart with his knee.
Rumpelstiltskin presses into her, feeling her flesh give in under his assault as she accepts him into her body. She is still hot and silky-tight inside but he doesn't pause to allow her to accommodate to the feeling and he pulls back half-way. He thrusts back abruptly, hearing her gasp at the intrusion. He thinks he catches doubt inside her eyes as he begins to move inside her brutally, slamming himself into her with none of the previous tenderness he felt with Belle. The folds of the coat fall open, revealing her pale stomach and breasts, moving with the power of his thrusts.
But when he believes her to push him away, her legs wrap around him, holding him in place and guiding him deeper. She moans and thrashes under the man, a few strands of hair getting plastered to her damp forehead.
He keeps plunging into her mercilessly, feeling his body approaching release but it's just a physical reaction. His mind is distanced and he thinks about how ridiculously pointless the movements are, how silly his own groans sound to his ears and how obscene the wet noise of her lubrication is. He cums but it holds little pleasure, his climax almost painful as he indifferently empties himself inside the girl.
He pulls his softening cock out and sits upwards immediately, tucking himself in and turning his back to Isabelle.
"Satisfied, dearie?" He spits, his voice full of loathing. He's tricked, he's lied and he's killed. Now he has abused another being, who trusted him and accepted him even as he forced her to do these indecent and depraved things. "That is what you called me for, isn't it? Is everything to your liking?"
The words drip like acid, but can he really do any more harm?
Her hand touches his shoulder and he suppresses the urge to recoil. He feels dirty but no water in the world can remove the feeling of filth clinging to him. Isabelle's hand slides lower across his chest and he can see the red marks on her wrist. It makes him sick to his stomach.
"Yes," she says simply, rubbing her face against the damp hair at the back of his neck. He tenses up under the touch.
"And why is that, dearie?" He wants to call her bluff because he cannot take anymore lies. He needs to get up and leave, to get as far away from her burning touch as possible but something holds him in place.
"Because you guided me. Because you showed me how to please you better and I am grateful."
Her words stab him and he covers his face with his hands. Dear gods, what is she saying? But then, Belle saw him kill and forgave him. Is there anything she would not justify? Anything she would not accept in him?
"Don't you think it was wrong?" He prompts with a desperate moan. Why doesn't she see? What kind of illusions is she nursing?
"Wrong?" Isabelle sounds genuinely puzzled and he thinks no one could be as cunning or stupid to keep lying to him. "Could any deed between two people who love each other be viewed as wrong?"
She squeaks as he throws her hands off him and turns around, digging his clawed fingers into her forearms through the leather.
"Don't you ever dare say that again!" He shouts, shaking her like a rag doll until her teeth chatter. "Do you hear me? Never. Again."
He expects her to cry or scream but she glances up into his narrowed eyes calmly.
"You are hurting me," Isabelle says patiently. "Please let go."
Rumpelstiltskin releases her, curling his hands into fists and bends down, hiding his head between his knees. He chokes on dry sobs and shivers when her fingers reach his hair, trying to soothe him.
"I do not understand," the girl whispers after a while. "Why do you say that?"
"Because you cannot love me."
"If you just left yourself believe that someone..."
Rumpelstiltskin snaps back up, looking at her with wild eyes.
"It doesn't matter what I believe. It is you, dearie, who is incapable of love," he says bitterly before adding almost inaudibly. "Because of me."
"Why you..."
"We have known each other before," the man interrupts her. "Before I saw you in the garden that day. That's how I knew your name. That's why I never demanded anything in return for the deals." Rumpelstiltskin swallows heavily before continuing. "She loved me, you know," he says almost apologetically. "Belle... You. Really, really loved me." He thinks she will laugh at him, because truly, isn't the idea of someone loving him more bizarre than anything she could imagine? Isabelle nods seriously, sliding her hand into his and giving him a reassuring squeeze. "You gave up your heart to save me and for a year I have believed you to be dead. But then I spotted you, alive and beautiful and completely oblivious to who I was. I didn't want to break the memory spell. You seemed happy. Safe. I tried to keep away but you summoned me time after time and..."
"And you could not deny me because you still love me, or that image of me."
He gave her a painful smile.
"Brilliant logic. As always."
"But why do you say I cannot love you?" She studies him, trying to believe, trying to understand.
"You have no heart. No real heart that is able to love."
"I think you're wrong, I..."
"Oh you believe it, no doubt. Yet yesterday, when I attempted to create the true love potion, using your hair, nothing happened."
They sat in silence, but Isabelle kept her hand in his.
"Could there be some mistake?" She asks carefully. "Or... Or some other way."
Rumpelstiltskin grabs her hand, cautious of the marks he left previously and his eyes become feverish.
"Would you, really? B-belle," he stutters the name and flinches. She understands now, how much pain and regret it brings up and tries to kiss the sadness away from his features, pressing her soft lips to his right temple.
"Really. Tell me what needs to be done. What it takes for me to make you believe my feelings are true."
Rumpelstiltskin jumps to his feet, offering his hand to her.
"Come."
"Uh... Like this?" She looks down at her half-dressed self pointedly and he quickly flicks his hand in the air and a moment later the girl finds herself dressed under his coat in the same - but fresher - clothes she wore the day before.
Isabelle has no time to thank him. The sorcerer pulls her into an embrace and her world disappears in the haze of his magic, as her stomach flips upon the sudden transportation.
They reappear on a small rocky island in the middle of the sea. She wraps the cloak around her, shaking as a sudden gust of wind chills her and throws small drops of sparkling water at her feet. She licks her lips, the saltiness almost intangible in the air as she turns her head around. The landscape is completely unfamiliar, although beautiful in a cold, severe way.
"Where are we?"
"This way."
Rumpelstiltskin is already dragging her towards an opening of a cave, hidden amongst the larger rocks and completely blending in with the wall above it. When the darkness wraps around them, the man lights a fire, cradling the flame in his left palm without any signs of inconvenience. Isabelle is tempted to touch the orange light, wondering if it is cool or hot as a real fire, but he is already urging her forward. She cannot quite explain the reason for feeling this way, but the place unnerves her and sends goose bumps down her arms.
"Rumpelstiltskin? What is this place?" Her voice seems small and frightened. The man stops and turns to her. The light in his hand throws long eerie shadows across his face, making his eyes appear sunken in and almost insane.
"When your heart was taken from you, it wasn't destroyed. The woman who did it used to bring her lover back to life." Now there is no mistake about it. This passage way terrifies her, carrying Rumpelstiltskin's voice across, his words echoing in the distance.
They start walking again and she grips his hand harder. As reluctant as she is to follow, Isabelle doesn't want to find herself alone and with no light here.
"Unfortunately," he continues sardonically, making it clear that whatever he is about to tell her next, was no coincidence or misfortunate event, "they didn't enjoy their time together for long."
They enter a large room, in the centre of which... Isabelle gasps, spotting a man on a raised pedestal in the middle of it. He is tall and could be considered handsome, if not for the paleness and the stillness of his features.
"Is he...dead?" She whispers, mortified, but Rumpelstiltskin only snickers in turn.
"No. Not yet, at least. This man holds your heart. If I take it and give it back to you, everything will be fixed. Things will be just as they have. Do you believe we belong together?" He demands insistently but she takes a step back.
It's too much - this terrible place, his words and the catatonic man in front of them. Rumpelstiltskin approaches him but her voice stops him.
"It will kill him, won't it?" It's not a question and she doesn't need any confirmation, as the way the man freezes serves for an answer. "Don't do it. Please."
"Don't you see? It's the only way, Belle. We can be reunited. You can love me. We have a chance to be together."
"But not like this. Not at the cost of his life!"
"What does it matter?" He is annoyed and disappointed and when she recoils from his outstretched hand, he looks hurt. "Is this your choice? Him over me?"
"Rumpelstiltskin, please..."
"He can't hear you or feel a thing! You don't even know him," he snarls. "And still, you are willing to give up everything?"
"There has to be another way."
"Very well."
"Listen, I beg you..."
Before she can finish the sentence, she finds herself at the doorstep of the tavern, alone and no longer with the dragon-hide draped around her shoulders. She calls Rumpelstiltskin's name, with pleading and hope, but he doesn't come.
"There has to be another way," she repeats with desperation.
Miles away in the Dark Castle, the sorcerer eyes the small bottle. He snaps his fingers, muting her call and blocking any further attempts to contact him.
"To the end of pain," he toasts, uncorking it and quickly pressing the vial to his lips. He tips the bottle and the cold potion slides over his tongue. Swallowing briskly, he does not allow the sour taste to linger in his mouth.
It works instantly, wiping away the memory of loss, disappointment and hurt. Clearing his head and freeing him from the bitter sweetness of recalling the face of his love.