"You're real," the king choked out. "You're alive!"
His incredulous eyes took in the sight of the slight boy standing before him. "My boy!"
He pulled his son into a tight hug. The boy's dark mane tickled his cheeks and he buried his face in it. Slowly, he pulled away to look at his son's face. He still had his baby fat around his cheeks and they were pink with life. The eyes however, were apologetic. A tiny hand reached for his calloused one and squeezed it.
Baelfire told him of the Northern Lights. He told him its intensity coincides with the fifteenth that it created a bridge between the spirit world and that of the living. Once the light diminished, he'd be gone. The king howled and begged him to stay. He only quieted down when his son cupped his cheek. Opening his eyes he looked into a pair of sad brown eyes.
"I came to tell you that I love you. My passing was no fault of yours." Baelfire smiled. Oh how he missed that smile. "And I want you to know that I heard your stories, yours and the Storyteller's." Rumpelstiltskin started at that.
"I heard them and I loved them." His boy looked at the sky and then back at him. "I have to go now. Sorry, Papa." Like a pathetic dog he whimpered and tried to grab his son, but his fingers went through the boy's body.
"Yes, son?" he said feebly when he son called him.
"The storyteller, trust her with your heart." With that, his boy disappeared.
Helplessness settled heavily in his chest. It was enough for madness to tear away at his last shred of sanity. Was he even sane to begin with? 'Trust her,' his son had said. How could he do that when everything warned him against her? He wasn't blind to the Dark One's uneasiness and his advisors warned him of his attachment. They told him of Belle's hidden agenda, which they failed to prove. Regardless, he should keep her away from him. No good came to those who associated themselves with him.
He missed his son, now more than ever. What little he tasted of that brief happiness left him wanting more. Its raw intensity frightened him. His mind told him to search for Belle, only she can quench his burning need. But he needed to stay away before he did something unforgivable. When he came to himself he found he was standing in front of her door. Lost in his warring thoughts he did not hear the movements behind the door. It opened to reveal a concerned pair of eyes. The lithe woman all but dragged him into her room and led him to his chair—the one he always claimed when he was in her room. His brain hardly registered it when she told him his hands were freezing. Daring a glance at her eyes he saw the hints of concern amidst a sea of curiosity. He lost all sense of composure when she touched his face.
He could not go on like this: crushed with emptiness and desiring something he can neither have nor be worthy of. For the first time in years he wanted to be deserving of someone. Tonight had awakened that despair he had repressed. If his son were here with him these hollow feelings would disappear. Baelfire's presence would end these nonsensical feelings for Belle, because that was what they were—irrational emotions brought about from years of loneliness. It was lunacy to think she would welcome his affections. Belle deserved better. He needed his son to keep him balanced and her safe. He needed his son because he was the only person who could love him. Without Baelfire he is lost, and it showed in his first request to Belle. Instead of asking for his son, he wanted power. What kind of father had he become?
"Belle," he whispered, "I know what I want for a second request." She looked at him with dread but he was too clouded with grief to notice it. "I want my son."
Empty brown eyes looked at the toys his father laid out. Maids stood as close as they could to the farthest corner of the room. The closest one stood on shaky legs, eyes constantly darting to the door. His father was oblivious to it all and smiling with maniacal eyes. Taking the stuffed toy from his father, he tried to feel the softness of the fabric. He couldn't of course, just like everything in this world of the living. Food turned into ashes in his mouth, water into air and touch into nothingness. Oh he felt so empty, devoid of everything except for a yearning to crossover to the spirit world.
Belle would look at him through sombre eyes. The servants said she had changed—walking with heavy shoulders as if an unseen weight was wearing her down. Her strained smiles looked stretched and brittle on her gaunt face. He never tried to comfort her. How could he when he himself was confused by his surroundings? Sometimes she would find him staring out a window, quietly waiting for the Northern Lights. She never said anything, only stood there by his side—his silent companion. Once, she came to him to apologise. Told him she tried her best to dissuade his father, but like the Dark One she was bound to him. Belle was nice; he liked her a lot. She promised she'd find a way to send him back. Baelfire frowned sadly at the memory. It was a futile endeavour. His existence was worse than the hands of Death ripping his soul from his body. He was neither living nor dead.
Baelfire was brought to the present when his father cupped his face. The boy took a quick glance at his father's eerie eyes before letting the toy drop. Turning away from his father he dragged his feet to his room, unaware and uncaring of his father's stiffened posture. He wanted to express his pain but no tears came for he could not remember how to cry.
Rumpelstiltskin sat alone in the privacy of his study. His unfocussed eyes stared at nothing in particular while his mind taunted him. The scene with Baelfire from earlier today burned in his eyes. The longer he wallowed in it, the more his mind replayed similar events from the past five weeks. He closed his eyes at the onslaught while his nails dug deep into the chair's arms.
The searing heat from the thin golden band on his index finger fed on his insecurities. Every single bone in his body screamed. They told him to use the ring to control his Baelfire and that it was the only means to get a reaction from his Little Truth. Rumpelstiltskin was abhorred at the knowledge that his son was a slave to the ring just as Hira was to her dagger. But that was the ways of the Echidnas' magic—each creation is controlled by an object. And whoever wielded the object has power over it. Instantly, shame enveloped the king. In his desperation he made his son a slave. Now, the temptations to control him were getting harder to resist. What a weak fool he had been to think such thoughts would never cross his mind.
The broken man moaned in his hands. He only wanted his son back, not the lifeless flesh who haunted his castle. Lifeless. Another moan escaped him. It was not a word he would associate with Baelfire. Now however, his son was nothing but that. This boy with his dead-looking eyes was not his son. He may look like him but the soul and spirit that made him Baelfire were missing. Was this why the Dark One said the dead could not be brought back and what Belle tried to warn him of?
There were a number of times where he came across Belle and his son gazing into the night sky. She would have her arms wrapped around his boy and they would stare blankly out a window. Sometimes they would whisper words that were lost in the cold night air. He dared not intrude for fear of breaking the tranquillity as those were the only times that Baelfire looked remotely content.
In hushed tones the servants said his sweet child was an abomination, an unnatural being that defied the law of nature. In anger, he silenced their whispers and fed himself lies. But lies are not meant to be permanent.
The king tried to bring life inside his Little Truth, but they all ended in failure. Baelfire begged to be laid to rest, but Rumpelstiltskin would never do that, so he held on despite the pain it caused everyone involved. Belle would look at him with sympathy, a look that would send him retreating to a dark place. He could not bear to see the feelings etched on her face. Could she not see his child was his lifeline? Without him he would regress to the monster everyone accused him of and destroy her with his desires. There was only so much of his wanting that he could control.
When a hand touched Rumpelstiltskin's shoulder, he coiled like a spring. "You need to free him, Rumpelstiltskin," said a voice followed by another gentle squeeze. Tender hands turned him to face their owner, but he could not bring himself to meet the owner's eyes. She talked of suffering, freedom, and consequences, but he listened half-heartedly. As her hands once again tried to reach out to him, he slapped them away. His study table became a barrier. He ranted at her, told her that nothing in the world made sense anymore.
At the end of his tirade, Rumpelstiltskin looked into the azure eyes of the storyteller. He imagined living a simple and different life where Baelfire was their son. Oh what useless fantasy. He closed his eyes at the torrential emotions.
Out there in the world Belle's death is certain. Many would use her magic and took advantage of her beauty. He had little choice but to keep her near, but he also dreaded what he might do with her just a hairbreadth away. Baelfire was the only anchor to his sanity. With him here he would not want for more… he wouldn't want her.
Even if his son was a mere shadow of his former self, Rumpelstiltskin loved him regardless of his state. His son's love was enough to sustain him. It had to be enough. Anyway, who wouldn't want a second chance at life? His Baelfire more than deserved to be given that opportunity.
Rumpelstiltskin barely caught himself from confessing his feelings to the woman who staunchly looked at him with dejected eyes. Belle should never know. Her rejection would smite him down.