Maids and Merchandise (Chapter One)
Title: Maids and Merchandise
Author: audreyii_fic
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Rating: PG
Characters: Rumpelstiltskin, Belle, Regina, Cora (Rumbelle)
Genre: Romance/Angst
Warnings: None.
Summary:
Wherein Rumpelstiltskin doesn't modify his deal with Cora, and Belle's responsibilities at the Dark Castle include the girl who will cast the curse to end all curses. (FTL AU. Rumbelle.)
You want to find your son. You will find him. It will not be an easy path. It will take many years -- and require a curse. A curse powerful enough to rip everyone from this land.
You will not cast the curse. Someone else will. And you will not break the curse. Someone else will.
Ten years later
The Dark One is a legend -- and as with all legends, the stories change every time they are whispered by old women over winter fires or dramatized by minstrels in the marketplace. He is the deal-spinner, the blackest of the black powers; a wave of his hand can level the mountains, a drop of his potion can poison the seas. He snatches maidens from their beds and babes from their cradles. To speak his name is to summon him. To summon him is to risk your very soul.
In girlhood Belle had listened with rapt attention to the tales her nursemaid shared while mending petticoats by candlelight, and naturally, as with any child who grows up surrounded by such anecdotes, she developed her own concepts of the monster's visage. From her youthful imagination grew a straight-backed wraith who towered over even her bookshelves, his broad frame cloaked in flowing robes of ebony, faceless beneath his silken cowl and silent as the grave.
It is thus the imp lounging casually on her father's throne could not be less what Belle has pictured. His voice is reedy and sharp as he mocks their pleas for assistance; when he stands, he's only few inches taller than herself. The ostentatiously-jeweled broach at his throat sparkles. His hands flicker in wide, theatrical gestures. There seems to be no end to his smiles -- diabolical though they are.
She is so distracted by trying to reconcile this short, strange, scaly man with her initial expectations that Belle nearly misses it when he demands her as payment for aid against the ogres.
But only nearly.
"No," her father says at once.
"The young lady is engaged," Gaston adds. His muscular arm pulls her away, shielding her protectively -- and pointedly. "To me."
If anything, the men's outrage only adds to the Dark One's amusement. Oozing condescension, he retorts: "That would only matter if I wanted to wed her, dearie. Which I don't. Believe me, I'm not looking for love." Then he folds his hands at the small of his back, just above the slitted edge of his spiked coat, and regards them expectantly. Daring them to inquire further.
Belle does. This is her fate they're discussing, after all. "So... what are you looking for?"
"Glad you asked!" He dances two steps forward -- everyone but her father and Gaston takes two steps back -- and very slowly, very deliberately surveys her from curls to slippers. "I need aid with a few rather specific tasks at my estate," he says after a moment, deigning to meet her eyes; his pupils are slitted like a snake's. "Ones that are best suited to a, shall we say... feminine touch."
Gaston's grip tightens with outrage; her father swears through gritted teeth.
"What do you say, dearie?" the Dark One chirps, addressing only her. Light words and light feet, he's not the monster of Belle's imaginings, but danger still radiates off him in waves. "Best decide quickly; I can hear the beat-beat-beat of the enemy's drums, can't you?"
She can.
"Get out," her father snaps. When no one moves, his voice raises to a roar. "Leave!"
Their salvation's penetrating gaze shifts to Maurice, and something closer to a genuine smile playing about his lips. "Well, well -- sacrificing an entire town to spare your child. You're a better parent than most." Then he twitters, seriousness gone, and adds: "Terrible king, of course, but better parent. I'm sure it will bring great comfort to your villagers as the ogres tear them limb from limb."
A leaden silence hangs in the hall.
Finally the Dark One shrugs, casually, as though this is no more than a barter for a skien of spun wool. "As you wish," he says, heading for the battle-battered door. "Enjoy the next few hours; they'll be your last."
Belle is not brave. She's always wanted to be, but wishing does not make it so. The most terrifying thing she's ever done is steal a plate of blueberries from the cook, for which she took a sound tongue-lashing upon being caught. To go with the most powerful sorcerer in the world, who is disinterested in love but desires her feminine touch... well, that's in a rather different category than kitchen thievery.
Do the brave thing, her mother always said, and bravery will follow.
On her back beneath a beast is better than rotting amidst the ruins of her town.
"No, wait," she calls.
And Rumpelstiltskin turns on his heel with a smile. "Yes," he purrs, "I did think you might see things my way."
***
The transportation spell makes Belle vomit. It's not a natural thing, for one's flesh and bones to flash from one location to another, and the cold, creeping feel of magic crawling along her skin only increases the sense of vertigo. The silver lining is that she's not eaten today -- having been too nervous about the Dark One's impending visit -- and so very little comes up as she dry heaves into the grass.
"Watch your dress, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin sounds entirely too amused for her tastes. "You'll never own another like it."
Of course she won't. Probably she'll never wear a stitch of clothing for the rest of her life.
She cannot suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with nausea. But, swallowing back a mouthful of bile, she reminds herself: her sacrifice has saved her village. Hundreds of people will live long and fruitful lives, free from the shadow of war, and just for her, only for her. Surely she has gotten the better end of the deal... no matter what comes next.
It is a steadying thought.
Rumpelstiltskin -- what is she to call him? Sir? Master? Dark One? Probably not his true name -- is surprisingly patient, rocking back and forth on his heels and twisting his fingers into intricate tangles as Belle fights to regain her equilibrium. At last she manages a deep breath and straightens, ready to take in her new home--
--only to find herself beside the fence of a modest, ramshackle, straw-thatched cottage. Bedraggled chickens peck around a muddy yard; the slanted evening sun turns the side of a nearby barn to reddish-gold. The buildings sit on the edge of a wide, open field, where a cool breeze plays games with grasses standing free of winter snows. There are no neighbors, no village. They must be very far to the south.
"This is your estate?" Belle asks, somewhat bewildered. She'd pictured the Dark One living somewhere... well... darker.
"Why do you ask?" There is an edge of warning to his intonation. "Would it be beneath you?"
She blanches. "No, of course it's not, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply--"
Rumpelstiltskin stares hard at her through hair fallen loose over his face -- her words die in her throat -- before his nose wrinkles. It takes Belle a moment to realize this means he's entertaining himself at her expense. "Not to worry, dearie," he says, opening the gate with a snap of his fingers, "the Dark Castle is rather more grand than this. We're only here to pick up one of my trinkets before heading home."
"Oh. Right." Belle nearly trips over the hem of her gown following him; had she known she'd be traipsing across wallows posing as gardens, she would have asked to change clothes before leaving home. Too late now. "And-- and what trinket are we here for?" she pants, pulling one ruined slipper free of the muck and brushing aside a curious hen.
"You'll see soon enough, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin steps up onto the porch -- his boots miraculously mud-free, Belle notes with some bitterness -- and raps his knuckles against a warped oak door. "Little pig, little pig," he coos, "let me come in."
A few thuds and a muffled curse come from within the cottage, and then the entry swings wide to reveal a pink-cheeked, pudgy man with thick lips and no neck. He's shorter than both his visitors, and Belle has to admit that, harsh though the comparison is, his upturned, snubbed nose does make him look decidedly... porcine. His glare turns to shock as he sees just who is standing on his doorstep. "Ah," he squeaks -- oinks, really. "M-Mr. Dark One, sir. What-- what a delightful surprise."
"I'm sure it is, dearie, I'm sure it is." Rumpelstiltskin smirks, a malevolent gleam in his eye. "Oh, no need to look so frightened; I've brought you some good news."
"You-- you have?"
"Indeed. The best." The smirk widens to a grin. "Your services? Are no longer required."
"What? You-- you can't mean that, surely." Beads of sweat pop out on the man's already moist forehead. "We've done everything you asked, everything, always we have, the missus and I, we've raised her up good and proper, given her whatever a soul could ask for, you've seen it yourself, girl's never wanted for a thing, not since the very hour you brought her to us, I swear on my sainted mother's grave!" He turns to Belle, and she realizes uneasily that he's about to fall to his knees. "I beg you, milady, have mercy--"
"She's not a lady," says Rumpelstiltskin, cutting the man off with a gesture. Somewhere in the babbling pleas for clemency his expression had shifted from malicious glee to irritation. "Not anymore, that is, so there's no point in throwing yourself at her feet. And what I mean is that our deal is concluded, dearie."
The man pauses. "You... it is?" he says after a moment, looking ready to faint with relief. "Truly?"
"Yes. Now do us all a favor: shut up, and bring me what's mine. I don't have all day."
"Oh. Yes, yes, of course, of course. She's out with the missus, fetching water from the well." He edges out the side of the door frame, keeping as much distance between himself and the Dark One as possible. "I'll just... run along and fetch her." Rumpelstiltskin nods curtly, and the man sets off running through the yard; he squelches through the mud, nearly kicks a rooster, and falls over his own feet turning by the barn in his efforts to obey Rumpelstiltskin's command as quickly as possible.
Her employer only giggles at the display. "Oh, dear," he says, "I hope he doesn't give himself a heart attack. Though the meat would fetch a pretty price; bacon's always the better for a few extra layers of fat."
"Bacon?" Belle blinks in surprise. "But he's not-- he's not really a pig, is he?"
"Not at the moment, but who knows what will happen when he dies. I'll have to check in on the day of his funeral -- or roast. Whichever."
"So... he was a pig, once?"
"Indeed. Nasty enchantment, that one. He and his wife were minutes from slaughter." Rumpelstiltskin raises an eyebrow at her. "How do you think I got him to owe me a favor?"
Belle bites her lip.
She shouldn't reprimand a demon.
She really shouldn't.
But.
"I think you got the favor by taking advantage of a desperate person under a curse," she answers tartly. If she is to be with the Dark One for the rest of her life, doing... Gods only know what, she is at least going to make her opinion known. "And I think that's unkind. No, it's more than unkind -- it's cruel."
Rumpelstiltskin stares, mouth slightly open, for a solid minute. Finally, just as Belle's fairly convinced that she's about to be turned into a pig, the Dark One begins to chuckle. It's a surprisingly normal sound. "You know, dearie," he remarks, "with all this saving villages and running errands, I forgot that we haven't met properly." He bends a knee and bows with a melodramatic flourish. "Rumpelstiltskin is my name... and taking advantage of desperate people--" he looks up, back still bent, eyes glinting "--is what I do."
She responds with a curtsey born of habit, not esteem. Years of etiquette are not easy to shake. "My name is Belle. And I don't."
"You don't yet," he corrects. "Life is long, dearie. Very long."
Before Rumpelstiltskin can expand on this unsettling statement -- though Belle is half-hoping he won't -- the man-pig scuttles back up the path, redder-faced for the effort. An equally hoggish woman follows in his wake -- and behind them both, carrying a water pail, follows a girl of perhaps ten. Her eyes are on the ground; the turn of her bow mouth is sullen and obstinate. Two dark brown braids reach past her waist and swing with every step.
"Here she is," calls the man, breathing heavily as he approaches the house. "Hale and hearty as last you saw her."
Tilting his head, Rumpelstiltskin presses his hands flat together and taps his fingers in a little rhythm. Belle thinks he looks like nothing so much as a farmer evaluating a new piece of livestock. "Not plague-ridden, at least," he declares after a moment. "That counts for something."
The girl starts at the sound of his voice, realizes who is standing on her porch -- and promptly drops her pail. "You're back!" she says blankly. "They didn't say you were back -- it's not my birthday, is it?"
The hoggish woman pales. "Of course it's not, milady," she whispers, fear coating the admonishment. "I've taught you to understand a calendar at the very least, haven't I?" She places a meaty hand on the young girl's back and pushes her forward. "Now be a good lass and show your manners, or his lordship will think we've brought you up wrong."
Thus prompted, the girl sinks into a low, thoroughly inelegant bow; and in spite of her peasant-cut skirts and too short sleeves, Belle can easily see shades of the striking beauty this child will become. "Well met, Rumpelstiltskin," she mumbles, the greeting obviously foreign on her tongue. "It's... it's nice to see you again."
Rumpelstiltskin watches her through narrowed eyes, but says nothing. The only sound comes from the chirping of crickets in the fields. Belle has never found that noise to be soothing; it always makes her feel like she's being watched.
After a moment, the girl turns to Belle; her gaze lingers with bold curiosity over the golden dress and muddy shoes before glancing back to the Dark One. She demands: "Who's that?"
"Regina!" the man-pig hisses.
"What? He's never brought anyone here before."
Her words seem to shake Rumpelstiltskin out of his trance; he sighs in a much put-upon fashion. "It would seem I am doomed to spend today making introductions," he says, waving between them. "Regina, this is Belle. Ah ah ah!" A wagging finger stops the girl's second curtsey. "No need for that, dearie -- she'll bow to you, not the other way 'round. She's your new maid."
Belle's mouth drops open.
"I don't need a maid," Regina says to Rumpelstiltskin, regarding Belle with clear skepticism. "That doesn't make sense. Why are you giving me a maid?"
Rumpelstiltskin shrugs as though it's no-never mind to him. "Well, someone's got to keep you out of trouble in the Dark Castle," he says nonchalantly. "I'll be training you in magic, not tucking you into bed."
"I-- I'm coming live with you?"
"Yes."
"In the Dark Castle?"
"Yes."
"As your apprentice?"
"Yes."
"Today?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
Rumpelstiltskin rolls his eyes. "You've yet to learn basic conversational skills, I see." He points at the cottage door; the hinges crack as it slams open. "Pack whatever you see fit and say your goodbyes, dearie -- you'll not be returning to this place."
Regina all but sprints into the house; her guardians trail behind, bowing obsequiously as they go, until it is only Rumpelstiltskin and Belle left on the porch.
"That's not a trinket," Belle says after a moment. "That's a child."
"No difference."
"There's an enormous difference. Where are her parents?"
Rumpelstiltskin's glare of warning is so cold, so fierce, that even Belle cannot bring herself to continue the line of inquiry. "I'm sorry," she says hastily. "It's not my business. I just... it would be nice to know -- if I'm to care for her, that is."
"Care for her?" He sniggers and turns to look out over the fields, drumming his claws against the porch rail. "I didn't say anything about caring for her. There's no point in that. All I need is for you to look after the girl."
Belle frowns. "I don't understand."
"It's simple, really. There are a lot of nasty things lurking about my estate; she'll need kept from poking her nose in where it doesn't belong whenever I am traveling or managing personal matters. Children are always insatiably curious, and I can't have her getting damaged." The words are bored and dismissive, as though he's instructing her on how to feed a pond full of goldfish. "Oh, and she'll need a bit of rearing: basic education, etiquette and the like. I do presume you understand how to train a noble?"
"I-- I suppose I do, yes. I spent some time at the Eastern Palace before the wars."
"Good enough. I doubt she'll need it, but one can never be too careful." He sneers out at nothing. "Names do have power, after all."
Through the open loft window Belle hears the unmistakable sound of items being thrown into a trunk. "Is she to be a courtier, then?"
"Gods, no. That would be a frightful waste of talent. No, I'm going to make her into a sorceress."
"Oh." Belle blinks. "I had no idea you could start training this young." There are a few magicians in Avonlea -- or rather, there were, before the wars and the rise of the clerics. None of them had been in the same league as the better-known spellcasters of the realm, let alone the Dark One, but even their minor tricks could go terribly wrong. Belle has never heard of anyone studying magic before the age of twenty.
"There's no time like the present, dearie, and she's more than powerful enough for the basics." He waves his hand dismissively. "But don't worry -- if her brains start to leak out her ears, I've got a lovely set of rags to help you mop up."
Belle makes a noise in the back of her throat, which causes Rumpelstiltskin to grin and, of all things, tap the tip of her nose. "That one was a quip." His manner is only a harsh mimicry of playfulness. "Not serious."
Belle exhales in relief. "Right."
"And you'll need to look after the estate as well as the girl, of course. You'll serve the meals, clean the Dark Castle--"
"Yes."
"--dust my collection, launder the clothing--"
"Got it."
"Good. I suppose I could manage it all on my own, but, well, I don't want to. It's dull work." He smiles. "As I said, these tasks are better suited to a feminine touch."
It's a testament to the long day that his words take several moments to sink in; when they do, Belle can't stop herself from gaping at him like a fish. "You... that's what you meant?"
Rumpelstiltskin only raises an eyebrow. "Why?" he asks innocently. "Were you expecting something else?" His smile widens as Belle's face grows hot with embarrassment. "Ah, I see. You thought I was that sort of monster, did you?"
"No! I mean, well, yes, but-- but I had just--"
"Did you somehow get the wrong impression?" He presses a hand to his heart with an exaggerated expression of offense. "Why must people always be so quick to leap to conclusions?"
"But the way you said it--"
"And your father and your betrothed must have thought the same... well, I suppose you'd best not break our deal, then." He leans in close, so close that his lips nearly brush her ear, and Belle stiffens in instinctive alarm. "I've heard all about the clerics of Avonlea," he snarls. "Try to run away, and I suspect you'll find your old home isn't as welcoming as you might wish."
Not an hour ago she sold herself into indentured servitude, but this, this, is the most insulted Belle has ever been in her entire life. "I wasn't planning to run away," she says evenly, refusing to flinch back from the feel of his hot breath against her cheek. The crickets are chirping ever louder. "I promised to go with you, and I don't go back on my word."
She tried not to let the depth of her anger bleed into her tone, but it seems she failed, because when he pulls back the Dark One's expression is honestly perplexed. But before he can speak -- if he's even going to speak -- Regina appears in the doorway, green cloak tied about her neck. Behind her, the man-pig carries a small trunk.
Rumpelstiltskin glances to Regina. "Is that everything?"
"My dress, my petticoat, my apron, my stockings, my gloves, my other gloves, my hat, my other hat, and the books you gave me on my last birthday," the little girl recites promptly.
"No need for the books, dearie; we'll be going far, far beyond them."
"Oh." She furrows her brow for a moment, then asks, words hinged with hesitation: "Can they come anyway?"
Rumpelstiltskin sighs. "If you insist." He gestures to the trunk; it vanishes in a swirl of purple smoke.
Regina's eyes go wide. "Will you teach me to do that?" she asks excitedly.
"Oh, yes. That, and much more." He looks over the girl's shoulder to the nervously shifting peasants still hovering in the doorway. "Consider your debt repaid," he tells them. "And if you find yourself being fattened for winter slaughter, feel free to call on me. I might even answer."
The peasants can't seem to bow low enough; they also bow to Regina, who only nods back. Belle observes with some discomfort that the couple makes no move to embrace this girl they must have raised from infancy, nor vice versa. It makes her long for her father. She didn't get to say goodbye. Not really. She'll never see him again, and she didn't get to say goodbye.
She reminds herself that her village is safe. That is all that matters.
A twist of the Dark One's wrist, and the cottage, the fields, the world melt down into darkness.
Belle feels queasy all over again.
***
Next: Wherein Regina is stubborn and Belle can't find the linen closet.
Author: audreyii_fic
Fandom: Once Upon a Time
Rating: PG
Characters: Rumpelstiltskin, Belle, Regina, Cora (Rumbelle)
Genre: Romance/Angst
Warnings: None.
Summary:
Wherein Rumpelstiltskin doesn't modify his deal with Cora, and Belle's responsibilities at the Dark Castle include the girl who will cast the curse to end all curses. (FTL AU. Rumbelle.)
You want to find your son. You will find him. It will not be an easy path. It will take many years -- and require a curse. A curse powerful enough to rip everyone from this land.
You will not cast the curse. Someone else will. And you will not break the curse. Someone else will.
Ten years later
The Dark One is a legend -- and as with all legends, the stories change every time they are whispered by old women over winter fires or dramatized by minstrels in the marketplace. He is the deal-spinner, the blackest of the black powers; a wave of his hand can level the mountains, a drop of his potion can poison the seas. He snatches maidens from their beds and babes from their cradles. To speak his name is to summon him. To summon him is to risk your very soul.
In girlhood Belle had listened with rapt attention to the tales her nursemaid shared while mending petticoats by candlelight, and naturally, as with any child who grows up surrounded by such anecdotes, she developed her own concepts of the monster's visage. From her youthful imagination grew a straight-backed wraith who towered over even her bookshelves, his broad frame cloaked in flowing robes of ebony, faceless beneath his silken cowl and silent as the grave.
It is thus the imp lounging casually on her father's throne could not be less what Belle has pictured. His voice is reedy and sharp as he mocks their pleas for assistance; when he stands, he's only few inches taller than herself. The ostentatiously-jeweled broach at his throat sparkles. His hands flicker in wide, theatrical gestures. There seems to be no end to his smiles -- diabolical though they are.
She is so distracted by trying to reconcile this short, strange, scaly man with her initial expectations that Belle nearly misses it when he demands her as payment for aid against the ogres.
But only nearly.
"No," her father says at once.
"The young lady is engaged," Gaston adds. His muscular arm pulls her away, shielding her protectively -- and pointedly. "To me."
If anything, the men's outrage only adds to the Dark One's amusement. Oozing condescension, he retorts: "That would only matter if I wanted to wed her, dearie. Which I don't. Believe me, I'm not looking for love." Then he folds his hands at the small of his back, just above the slitted edge of his spiked coat, and regards them expectantly. Daring them to inquire further.
Belle does. This is her fate they're discussing, after all. "So... what are you looking for?"
"Glad you asked!" He dances two steps forward -- everyone but her father and Gaston takes two steps back -- and very slowly, very deliberately surveys her from curls to slippers. "I need aid with a few rather specific tasks at my estate," he says after a moment, deigning to meet her eyes; his pupils are slitted like a snake's. "Ones that are best suited to a, shall we say... feminine touch."
Gaston's grip tightens with outrage; her father swears through gritted teeth.
"What do you say, dearie?" the Dark One chirps, addressing only her. Light words and light feet, he's not the monster of Belle's imaginings, but danger still radiates off him in waves. "Best decide quickly; I can hear the beat-beat-beat of the enemy's drums, can't you?"
She can.
"Get out," her father snaps. When no one moves, his voice raises to a roar. "Leave!"
Their salvation's penetrating gaze shifts to Maurice, and something closer to a genuine smile playing about his lips. "Well, well -- sacrificing an entire town to spare your child. You're a better parent than most." Then he twitters, seriousness gone, and adds: "Terrible king, of course, but better parent. I'm sure it will bring great comfort to your villagers as the ogres tear them limb from limb."
A leaden silence hangs in the hall.
Finally the Dark One shrugs, casually, as though this is no more than a barter for a skien of spun wool. "As you wish," he says, heading for the battle-battered door. "Enjoy the next few hours; they'll be your last."
Belle is not brave. She's always wanted to be, but wishing does not make it so. The most terrifying thing she's ever done is steal a plate of blueberries from the cook, for which she took a sound tongue-lashing upon being caught. To go with the most powerful sorcerer in the world, who is disinterested in love but desires her feminine touch... well, that's in a rather different category than kitchen thievery.
Do the brave thing, her mother always said, and bravery will follow.
On her back beneath a beast is better than rotting amidst the ruins of her town.
"No, wait," she calls.
And Rumpelstiltskin turns on his heel with a smile. "Yes," he purrs, "I did think you might see things my way."
***
The transportation spell makes Belle vomit. It's not a natural thing, for one's flesh and bones to flash from one location to another, and the cold, creeping feel of magic crawling along her skin only increases the sense of vertigo. The silver lining is that she's not eaten today -- having been too nervous about the Dark One's impending visit -- and so very little comes up as she dry heaves into the grass.
"Watch your dress, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin sounds entirely too amused for her tastes. "You'll never own another like it."
Of course she won't. Probably she'll never wear a stitch of clothing for the rest of her life.
She cannot suppress a shiver that has nothing to do with nausea. But, swallowing back a mouthful of bile, she reminds herself: her sacrifice has saved her village. Hundreds of people will live long and fruitful lives, free from the shadow of war, and just for her, only for her. Surely she has gotten the better end of the deal... no matter what comes next.
It is a steadying thought.
Rumpelstiltskin -- what is she to call him? Sir? Master? Dark One? Probably not his true name -- is surprisingly patient, rocking back and forth on his heels and twisting his fingers into intricate tangles as Belle fights to regain her equilibrium. At last she manages a deep breath and straightens, ready to take in her new home--
--only to find herself beside the fence of a modest, ramshackle, straw-thatched cottage. Bedraggled chickens peck around a muddy yard; the slanted evening sun turns the side of a nearby barn to reddish-gold. The buildings sit on the edge of a wide, open field, where a cool breeze plays games with grasses standing free of winter snows. There are no neighbors, no village. They must be very far to the south.
"This is your estate?" Belle asks, somewhat bewildered. She'd pictured the Dark One living somewhere... well... darker.
"Why do you ask?" There is an edge of warning to his intonation. "Would it be beneath you?"
She blanches. "No, of course it's not, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply--"
Rumpelstiltskin stares hard at her through hair fallen loose over his face -- her words die in her throat -- before his nose wrinkles. It takes Belle a moment to realize this means he's entertaining himself at her expense. "Not to worry, dearie," he says, opening the gate with a snap of his fingers, "the Dark Castle is rather more grand than this. We're only here to pick up one of my trinkets before heading home."
"Oh. Right." Belle nearly trips over the hem of her gown following him; had she known she'd be traipsing across wallows posing as gardens, she would have asked to change clothes before leaving home. Too late now. "And-- and what trinket are we here for?" she pants, pulling one ruined slipper free of the muck and brushing aside a curious hen.
"You'll see soon enough, dearie." Rumpelstiltskin steps up onto the porch -- his boots miraculously mud-free, Belle notes with some bitterness -- and raps his knuckles against a warped oak door. "Little pig, little pig," he coos, "let me come in."
A few thuds and a muffled curse come from within the cottage, and then the entry swings wide to reveal a pink-cheeked, pudgy man with thick lips and no neck. He's shorter than both his visitors, and Belle has to admit that, harsh though the comparison is, his upturned, snubbed nose does make him look decidedly... porcine. His glare turns to shock as he sees just who is standing on his doorstep. "Ah," he squeaks -- oinks, really. "M-Mr. Dark One, sir. What-- what a delightful surprise."
"I'm sure it is, dearie, I'm sure it is." Rumpelstiltskin smirks, a malevolent gleam in his eye. "Oh, no need to look so frightened; I've brought you some good news."
"You-- you have?"
"Indeed. The best." The smirk widens to a grin. "Your services? Are no longer required."
"What? You-- you can't mean that, surely." Beads of sweat pop out on the man's already moist forehead. "We've done everything you asked, everything, always we have, the missus and I, we've raised her up good and proper, given her whatever a soul could ask for, you've seen it yourself, girl's never wanted for a thing, not since the very hour you brought her to us, I swear on my sainted mother's grave!" He turns to Belle, and she realizes uneasily that he's about to fall to his knees. "I beg you, milady, have mercy--"
"She's not a lady," says Rumpelstiltskin, cutting the man off with a gesture. Somewhere in the babbling pleas for clemency his expression had shifted from malicious glee to irritation. "Not anymore, that is, so there's no point in throwing yourself at her feet. And what I mean is that our deal is concluded, dearie."
The man pauses. "You... it is?" he says after a moment, looking ready to faint with relief. "Truly?"
"Yes. Now do us all a favor: shut up, and bring me what's mine. I don't have all day."
"Oh. Yes, yes, of course, of course. She's out with the missus, fetching water from the well." He edges out the side of the door frame, keeping as much distance between himself and the Dark One as possible. "I'll just... run along and fetch her." Rumpelstiltskin nods curtly, and the man sets off running through the yard; he squelches through the mud, nearly kicks a rooster, and falls over his own feet turning by the barn in his efforts to obey Rumpelstiltskin's command as quickly as possible.
Her employer only giggles at the display. "Oh, dear," he says, "I hope he doesn't give himself a heart attack. Though the meat would fetch a pretty price; bacon's always the better for a few extra layers of fat."
"Bacon?" Belle blinks in surprise. "But he's not-- he's not really a pig, is he?"
"Not at the moment, but who knows what will happen when he dies. I'll have to check in on the day of his funeral -- or roast. Whichever."
"So... he was a pig, once?"
"Indeed. Nasty enchantment, that one. He and his wife were minutes from slaughter." Rumpelstiltskin raises an eyebrow at her. "How do you think I got him to owe me a favor?"
Belle bites her lip.
She shouldn't reprimand a demon.
She really shouldn't.
But.
"I think you got the favor by taking advantage of a desperate person under a curse," she answers tartly. If she is to be with the Dark One for the rest of her life, doing... Gods only know what, she is at least going to make her opinion known. "And I think that's unkind. No, it's more than unkind -- it's cruel."
Rumpelstiltskin stares, mouth slightly open, for a solid minute. Finally, just as Belle's fairly convinced that she's about to be turned into a pig, the Dark One begins to chuckle. It's a surprisingly normal sound. "You know, dearie," he remarks, "with all this saving villages and running errands, I forgot that we haven't met properly." He bends a knee and bows with a melodramatic flourish. "Rumpelstiltskin is my name... and taking advantage of desperate people--" he looks up, back still bent, eyes glinting "--is what I do."
She responds with a curtsey born of habit, not esteem. Years of etiquette are not easy to shake. "My name is Belle. And I don't."
"You don't yet," he corrects. "Life is long, dearie. Very long."
Before Rumpelstiltskin can expand on this unsettling statement -- though Belle is half-hoping he won't -- the man-pig scuttles back up the path, redder-faced for the effort. An equally hoggish woman follows in his wake -- and behind them both, carrying a water pail, follows a girl of perhaps ten. Her eyes are on the ground; the turn of her bow mouth is sullen and obstinate. Two dark brown braids reach past her waist and swing with every step.
"Here she is," calls the man, breathing heavily as he approaches the house. "Hale and hearty as last you saw her."
Tilting his head, Rumpelstiltskin presses his hands flat together and taps his fingers in a little rhythm. Belle thinks he looks like nothing so much as a farmer evaluating a new piece of livestock. "Not plague-ridden, at least," he declares after a moment. "That counts for something."
The girl starts at the sound of his voice, realizes who is standing on her porch -- and promptly drops her pail. "You're back!" she says blankly. "They didn't say you were back -- it's not my birthday, is it?"
The hoggish woman pales. "Of course it's not, milady," she whispers, fear coating the admonishment. "I've taught you to understand a calendar at the very least, haven't I?" She places a meaty hand on the young girl's back and pushes her forward. "Now be a good lass and show your manners, or his lordship will think we've brought you up wrong."
Thus prompted, the girl sinks into a low, thoroughly inelegant bow; and in spite of her peasant-cut skirts and too short sleeves, Belle can easily see shades of the striking beauty this child will become. "Well met, Rumpelstiltskin," she mumbles, the greeting obviously foreign on her tongue. "It's... it's nice to see you again."
Rumpelstiltskin watches her through narrowed eyes, but says nothing. The only sound comes from the chirping of crickets in the fields. Belle has never found that noise to be soothing; it always makes her feel like she's being watched.
After a moment, the girl turns to Belle; her gaze lingers with bold curiosity over the golden dress and muddy shoes before glancing back to the Dark One. She demands: "Who's that?"
"Regina!" the man-pig hisses.
"What? He's never brought anyone here before."
Her words seem to shake Rumpelstiltskin out of his trance; he sighs in a much put-upon fashion. "It would seem I am doomed to spend today making introductions," he says, waving between them. "Regina, this is Belle. Ah ah ah!" A wagging finger stops the girl's second curtsey. "No need for that, dearie -- she'll bow to you, not the other way 'round. She's your new maid."
Belle's mouth drops open.
"I don't need a maid," Regina says to Rumpelstiltskin, regarding Belle with clear skepticism. "That doesn't make sense. Why are you giving me a maid?"
Rumpelstiltskin shrugs as though it's no-never mind to him. "Well, someone's got to keep you out of trouble in the Dark Castle," he says nonchalantly. "I'll be training you in magic, not tucking you into bed."
"I-- I'm coming live with you?"
"Yes."
"In the Dark Castle?"
"Yes."
"As your apprentice?"
"Yes."
"Today?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
Rumpelstiltskin rolls his eyes. "You've yet to learn basic conversational skills, I see." He points at the cottage door; the hinges crack as it slams open. "Pack whatever you see fit and say your goodbyes, dearie -- you'll not be returning to this place."
Regina all but sprints into the house; her guardians trail behind, bowing obsequiously as they go, until it is only Rumpelstiltskin and Belle left on the porch.
"That's not a trinket," Belle says after a moment. "That's a child."
"No difference."
"There's an enormous difference. Where are her parents?"
Rumpelstiltskin's glare of warning is so cold, so fierce, that even Belle cannot bring herself to continue the line of inquiry. "I'm sorry," she says hastily. "It's not my business. I just... it would be nice to know -- if I'm to care for her, that is."
"Care for her?" He sniggers and turns to look out over the fields, drumming his claws against the porch rail. "I didn't say anything about caring for her. There's no point in that. All I need is for you to look after the girl."
Belle frowns. "I don't understand."
"It's simple, really. There are a lot of nasty things lurking about my estate; she'll need kept from poking her nose in where it doesn't belong whenever I am traveling or managing personal matters. Children are always insatiably curious, and I can't have her getting damaged." The words are bored and dismissive, as though he's instructing her on how to feed a pond full of goldfish. "Oh, and she'll need a bit of rearing: basic education, etiquette and the like. I do presume you understand how to train a noble?"
"I-- I suppose I do, yes. I spent some time at the Eastern Palace before the wars."
"Good enough. I doubt she'll need it, but one can never be too careful." He sneers out at nothing. "Names do have power, after all."
Through the open loft window Belle hears the unmistakable sound of items being thrown into a trunk. "Is she to be a courtier, then?"
"Gods, no. That would be a frightful waste of talent. No, I'm going to make her into a sorceress."
"Oh." Belle blinks. "I had no idea you could start training this young." There are a few magicians in Avonlea -- or rather, there were, before the wars and the rise of the clerics. None of them had been in the same league as the better-known spellcasters of the realm, let alone the Dark One, but even their minor tricks could go terribly wrong. Belle has never heard of anyone studying magic before the age of twenty.
"There's no time like the present, dearie, and she's more than powerful enough for the basics." He waves his hand dismissively. "But don't worry -- if her brains start to leak out her ears, I've got a lovely set of rags to help you mop up."
Belle makes a noise in the back of her throat, which causes Rumpelstiltskin to grin and, of all things, tap the tip of her nose. "That one was a quip." His manner is only a harsh mimicry of playfulness. "Not serious."
Belle exhales in relief. "Right."
"And you'll need to look after the estate as well as the girl, of course. You'll serve the meals, clean the Dark Castle--"
"Yes."
"--dust my collection, launder the clothing--"
"Got it."
"Good. I suppose I could manage it all on my own, but, well, I don't want to. It's dull work." He smiles. "As I said, these tasks are better suited to a feminine touch."
It's a testament to the long day that his words take several moments to sink in; when they do, Belle can't stop herself from gaping at him like a fish. "You... that's what you meant?"
Rumpelstiltskin only raises an eyebrow. "Why?" he asks innocently. "Were you expecting something else?" His smile widens as Belle's face grows hot with embarrassment. "Ah, I see. You thought I was that sort of monster, did you?"
"No! I mean, well, yes, but-- but I had just--"
"Did you somehow get the wrong impression?" He presses a hand to his heart with an exaggerated expression of offense. "Why must people always be so quick to leap to conclusions?"
"But the way you said it--"
"And your father and your betrothed must have thought the same... well, I suppose you'd best not break our deal, then." He leans in close, so close that his lips nearly brush her ear, and Belle stiffens in instinctive alarm. "I've heard all about the clerics of Avonlea," he snarls. "Try to run away, and I suspect you'll find your old home isn't as welcoming as you might wish."
Not an hour ago she sold herself into indentured servitude, but this, this, is the most insulted Belle has ever been in her entire life. "I wasn't planning to run away," she says evenly, refusing to flinch back from the feel of his hot breath against her cheek. The crickets are chirping ever louder. "I promised to go with you, and I don't go back on my word."
She tried not to let the depth of her anger bleed into her tone, but it seems she failed, because when he pulls back the Dark One's expression is honestly perplexed. But before he can speak -- if he's even going to speak -- Regina appears in the doorway, green cloak tied about her neck. Behind her, the man-pig carries a small trunk.
Rumpelstiltskin glances to Regina. "Is that everything?"
"My dress, my petticoat, my apron, my stockings, my gloves, my other gloves, my hat, my other hat, and the books you gave me on my last birthday," the little girl recites promptly.
"No need for the books, dearie; we'll be going far, far beyond them."
"Oh." She furrows her brow for a moment, then asks, words hinged with hesitation: "Can they come anyway?"
Rumpelstiltskin sighs. "If you insist." He gestures to the trunk; it vanishes in a swirl of purple smoke.
Regina's eyes go wide. "Will you teach me to do that?" she asks excitedly.
"Oh, yes. That, and much more." He looks over the girl's shoulder to the nervously shifting peasants still hovering in the doorway. "Consider your debt repaid," he tells them. "And if you find yourself being fattened for winter slaughter, feel free to call on me. I might even answer."
The peasants can't seem to bow low enough; they also bow to Regina, who only nods back. Belle observes with some discomfort that the couple makes no move to embrace this girl they must have raised from infancy, nor vice versa. It makes her long for her father. She didn't get to say goodbye. Not really. She'll never see him again, and she didn't get to say goodbye.
She reminds herself that her village is safe. That is all that matters.
A twist of the Dark One's wrist, and the cottage, the fields, the world melt down into darkness.
Belle feels queasy all over again.
***
Next: Wherein Regina is stubborn and Belle can't find the linen closet.