He should have known better, he should have known to be careful not to break his little Belle. But she isn't his, and in the wake of her betrayal he shakes her like a leaf in a thunderstorm. His hands wrap around her wrists and wrench, pulling her forward and twisting her porcelain bones in his grip.

All he can hear is the roaring in his ears, the rush of betrayal and lies, all the lies, she lied she lied she LIED—and so he misses the sound of her bones grinding together. She whimpers, and he shrieks, spitting fire and blood until she turns away, trembling.

His fingers remain locked around her as he pulls her down, down, down towards the dungeon, to unforgiving stone and thin straw that makes for poor packaging. He throws her into the cell, and her knees meet rock with a sickening noise that does not reach his thundering ears. He leaves her to her regret, and ascends the stairs to the rooms where beauty bloomed.

Everything is a reminder, a betrayal of his trust for months, months, and he takes a knife to the memories, cutting them out and smashing them against his sanity, where they shatter. There is nothing to catch their fall, there, where bitterness makes for rough terrain.

The tea set goes much the same, but the chipped one gives him pause. Thoughts of harsh hands on her wrists come bubbling to the surface, and as they pop open and unfold he remembers, how purple and green had bloomed across pale cream, and bird-like bones had given feeble protest to his outrage.

He shudders, leaves the broken memories behind and runs past trophies and tea sets to the only thing that really matters.

She's asleep in the hay, peaceful where she lies, eyes closed and hands folded across her lap. Mottled vines snake around her skin, bleeding from her pulse and where his fingertips lay. They are a shadow of his misuse, a symptom of her abuse, and he backs away.

The wine, that night, is almost as red as the memories he left behind, scattered where they fell and shattered.