His hand curled around locks of russet tresses, his other pressed against the contours of her back. It was his Belle. She was alive and whole and here, where she was always meant to be, where he had dreamed for so long to have held her on and on: in his arms, by his side, where none, not even the Gods, could hope to reach and break them asunder. His palm reached up, stroking the curls as his head rested beside hers; tears slowly streamed from widened eyes, his heart pounding against his chest, desperate to return in its rightful place beside her own.
And yet, all too quick, her back pressed against his embrace, her head lifted up, and her gaze, curious and confused, met his own teary orbs. Most of all, her words struck home. Her father cut her off, shut her out... He summoned clerics to cleanse her soul with scourges and flaying... She died. His shaking hands only sped, wide eyes narrowing in a second. Regina.
A giggle bubbled form his lips, manic and grating, even to his own ears. Oooooh, it would seem that Her Majesty deceit had been rooted for far too long. Such as shame it would need to be pruned so quickly for her plans, for her ultimate triumph. But such a pretty sight it would be, to see it all tear down from her lovely, spiteful world, hm? "Why, your father, of course." His tone once more regained his mania, eyes brighter than they should have been. "Your stout-hearted father and his all-too willing clergy. A...frightful tale, but spun carelessly by so willing a Queen," his voice ended almost in a hiss, yet not directed at her. Never again, never.
The Queen! Your friend, the Queen! A pang hit his heart, his eyes softening as he held her gaze again. His brave, beautiful Belle. Just what had she faced, all those years away?