Maids and Merchandise (Chapter Three-B)
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.)
If Belle were inclined to think anything positive of Rumpelstiltskin at the moment, she would have to admit that his enchanted, driver-less carriage is very impressive. It barely jostles as they travel over muddy and rutted roads, and, in spite of the open sides, they are never touched by the frequent bouts of dreary spring showers. Even after four hours, she has not yet grown sore the way she would when traveling to distant kingdoms with her father; and Regina is so comfortable that she has long since fallen asleep, curled on the red velvet bench seat, her head in Belle's lap.
But she is not inclined to think anything positive, and so maintains a silence colder than the rain. Luckily the Dark One seems in just as foul a temper, and thus has also been uncharacteristically taciturn.
Foul temper or not, though, he is Rumpelstiltskin, and eventually he starts to fidget, peering out the windows to scowl at passing trees. "We're losing track of him," he grumbles. "This forest is too thick."
Belle raises an eyebrow. "Maybe we should return home."
He snorts derisively, and says nothing.
Another quarter mile passes, but now the silence is not as total; Rumpelstiltskin drums his black claws restlessly against the seat, and Belle shifts under Regina's weight; she's lost all feeling in her right arm. Regina only lets out a tiny snore and burrows deeper into Belle's cloak, her hair falling in her face. Belle strokes it back before the girl catches any in her mouth.
She's so young.
"Don't do it," Belle says suddenly. "She's just a child. Don't put a bow in her hands and order her to kill someone. Please."
Rumpelstiltskin rolls his eyes. His scaly skin reflects the thick emerald of the woods; he looks greener than usual, more alive. "What do you think she's been learning all this time, dearie?" he asks, voice absolutely soaked in derision. "She's the apprentice of the Dark One. Did you imagine I've taught her to rescue kittens and crochet doilies?"
"N-no, of course not." What Regina has been learning from Rumpelstiltskin is something Belle has put a great deal of effort into not thinking about; to do so makes her uneasy. "But there's a difference between brewing some kind of... I don't know, a potion that turns someone into a dog, and murder."
"Depends on what becomes of the dog," Rumpelstiltskin says airily, waving his fingers as though the distinction is meaningless. "Besides, this is hardly the last person who will die at her hands."
Belle stares at him in horror. "You can't know that."
"Of course I can." He grins at her expression. "Oh, yeah, I see the future. Did I never mention?"
The casual, devastating statement curls through Belle's mind like a wisp of smoke. It takes her a long time to speak, but when she does, her words are firm. "I don't believe you."
Rumpelstiltskin blinks. "What?"
"I don't believe you. Everyone decides their own fate, Regina included."
"Dearie, the point of fate is that you can't decide it -- and believe me, I know hers."
"And I suppose you've never been wrong?" Rumpelstiltskin glances away for a half-second, and Belle points at him with her free hand. "Hah!" she cries, triumphant. "You have! You have been wrong!"
"The details of the path hardly matter," he says dismissively. "The destination is always the same."
"Not if you choose otherwise."
"You're really not following the concept of prophesy here, are you?"
"The only certain prophesy is a self-fulfilling one."
"Maybe I want this prophesy fulfilled. Ever consider that?"
Belle pauses, considers this, considers him... then shakes her head. "No," she says, almost surprised by the confidence in her tone. "No. You don't. Even you're not that dark."
Rumpelstiltskin smiles at her. It's like a death grimace. "You're right -- I'm darker." He leans close. "Much darker." Then he glances out the window again, and raises his hand; the carriage comes to a stop. "Now, as much as I enjoy your absurd sentimentality, I think we should speak to our fellow traveler."
Belle repeats: "Fellow traveler?" but Rumpelstiltskin doesn't elaborate; he only takes the thief's bow from where it is tucked to the side and hops gracefully from the carriage. Belle slides out from under Regina -- the girl snuffles for a moment before rolling over to hide her face against the cushions -- then accepts Rumpelstiltskin's hand in assistance. Refusing his help is tempting, but nothing would be proven by falling flat on her face in the mud.
On the other side of the crossroads stands a barred cart bearing prisoners and an official seal, driven by two soldiers in black cloaks with blacker looks. Beside them, a well-dressed man climbs from an ill-kept chestnut; Belle watches in distaste as he nearly stumbles to the ground before pulling a flask from the chestnut's saddle and drinking deeply. It's not even noon and the stench of whiskey carries from fifteen feet distant.
"What are you doing in my woods?" the man challenges. His words would be authoritative and possibly intimidating if he weren't listing to the right with every step.
Either Rumpelstiltskin is in a forgiving mood -- unlikely -- or feeling mischievous -- probable -- because he accepts the impertinent greeting without offense. "Pardon the intrusion, sheriff," he wheedles, sounding like nothing so much as Berkshire the Man-Pig. "I'm lookin' for a thief. He attacked me with this bow." He raises the weapon and waves it beneath the drunken sheriff's nose.
Belle would have to bite her lip to keep from smiling if she didn't know that the Dark One's mood could shift in the blink of an eye. Like a half-grown tiger cub, he might suddenly decide this man is less fun to bat around and more fun to dismember.
"I traced him as far as these woods," Rumpelstiltskin goes on, all dreadful, deeply facetious earnestness, "and then he vanished."
The sheriff's eyes have been on the bow since the moment Rumpelstiltskin raised it. "Yes," he says softly, touching the bent wood with a gloved fingertip. "I know exactly who you're after." Then he glances back up. "But I also know who you are, Rumpelstiltskin."
Belle is surprised the sheriff can recognize anything while in this state, but Rumpelstiltskin just beams. "My reputation precedes me. Excellent!"
"Yes -- as does your penchant for making deals." The sheriff smiles, and Belle doesn't like the ugly look in his eye. She also notices the men guarding the prison wagon carry the same expressions of leering amusement. And they're directing it at her.
Belle is an adult woman. She has not lived her life locked in a tower. She knows perfectly well what sneers like that portend.
The sheriff continues to smirk insolently at Rumpelstiltskin; whatever this man thinks he knows about the Dark One, he hasn't heard the whole story. Or his life goals include getting cursed. "I'll tell you where you can find your thief--" he takes another swig from his flask "--if you give me something in return."
Until now, Belle had never imagined she'd see the Dark One look irritated to be making a deal. There's little he enjoys more. But his voice is reluctant as he says to the sheriff: "What do you want?"
The sheriff points directly at Belle. "A night with your wench."
The men on the wagon snicker.
Belle saw this coming, more or less; that doesn't make it any less disgusting to hear. But she's not worried, not really... until Rumpelstiltskin turns to look at her and she cannot, cannot, not for love nor money, read his expression.
He could, she suddenly realizes.
He could.
She's only a possession, after all, one of his trinkets, no different than the golden chalice that sits on the great room's pedestal. He could trade her to the drunken sheriff, the sheriff and his men, and there would be absolutely nothing she could do about it. Her well-being is solely dependent on the mercurial benevolence of the most powerful sorcerer in the world.
It is a wretched, crushing feeling.
But the slap of awareness, however painful, strikes only in the space of a single heartbeat. Rumpelstiltskin pivots back to the sheriff. "She's not for sale," he says evenly.
The sheriff laughs this off, ogling Belle in a way that makes her wonder if her clothes have turned transparent. "You can't part with her for, say, an hour?"
Rumpelstiltskin is silent.
"Twenty minutes?"
She recognizes with a distant, morbid resignation that the deal is good. It wouldn't even delay their journey.
"Let me think," says the Dark One.
She gave her word. She gave her word and so she will not plead, she will not cry, she saved her village and that's all that matters, but she will ask him to at least place a sleeping spell on Regina so the girl doesn't hear--
--the sheriff is gagging, Rumpelstiltskin is giggling, and there is something slimy and pink clasped between his claws.
Belle gasps.
It's a tongue.
"I propose a new deal," her employer says, waving the purloined flesh in the sheriff's face as the other men scuttle backwards in a hurry. "I give you this back, and in return, you tell me everything you know about the man I am hunting." He titters. "Do you agree to my terms?"
The sheriff makes a choked noise. He claws at his throat.
"What was that?"
Another choke.
"Oh, I'll take that as a yes, then." A swirl of his hand turns the tongue to black smoke, which promptly flies back into the sheriff's mouth, who grabs for it as if to reassure himself that everything has reattached itself as it ought. Belle's half-tempted to look herself.
"Now," says Rumpelstiltskin, merriment gone, "start talking."
And the sheriff is all too willing to obey. "The thief that you're after," he blurts out, "I've been chasing him for years. He ruined me. He stole the woman I love--" an expression of genuine grief passes over his face "--and made me the laughing stock of all of Nottingham."
Based on what she's seen, Belle rather suspects the sheriff did a well enough job of that all on his own; Rumpelstiltskin, on the other hand, sounds almost sympathetic as he asks: "Where can I find him?"
"Last I heard, he was hiding out in Sherwood Forest."
"And his name?"
The guards glance at each other anxiously; the sheriff scowls. "Robin Hood," he mutters. "He goes by Robin Hood."
"Wonderful. Our deal is concluded." Rumpelstiltskin allows the sheriff to retreat towards his wagon before he calls: "Oh, wait -- just one more tiny little thing before you go."
The sheriff halts mid-step.
"You, dearie," says Rumpelstiltskin, "have insulted my wench, as you so charmingly referred to her." He crooks a finger, reeling the other man back in. "So let's see just how civil that tongue I put back in your head can be. Apologize."
Belle's mouth drops open, as does the sheriff's. "Apologize?" he echoes stupidly.
"Yes. It means to beg someone's pardon. Shall we deal for a dictionary first?"
The sheriff glares at Belle, scanning her with narrowed eyes. She glances down at herself; her cloak is wrinkled from the carriage ride, and beneath it her peasant dress, sensible enough for her housekeeping responsibilities, features faded spots in the skirts from weeks spent scrubbing stone floors. His lip curls. "But she's--"
"She's mine, dearie, and that puts her above any queen you've ever bowed to in your short, pathetic life. A life which, I should point out, is getting shorter all the time." Rumpelstiltskin -- no, the Dark One -- steps forward and points down at the mud beneath their feet. "Beg. Her. Pardon."
"I don't--" Belle starts to protest, but the sheriff, red-faced with both drink and humiliation, is already getting to his knees. "I'm sorry," he mutters.
"No, no, no, a bit more prettily than that," Rumpelstiltskin says, lilt brimming with danger. "I've come to know this girl, and I can assure you, she is very difficult to please."
A shudder passes through the sheriff's body; he bows his head lower. "I apologize, milady," he manages through clenched teeth, "for my boorish words. I regret any offense I may have caused you, and I most humbly beg your pardon."
"Granted," Belle says at once, wanting this moment to pass as swift as possible.
Rumpelstiltskin glances back. "Are you sure that's good enough for you, dearie? Would you like him to spend some time as a snail until he learns proper manners?"
"What? Of course not!"
"A mouse?"
"No!"
"A lizard, then."
The sheriff looks ready to faint.
"He's apologized, and I've accepted," Belle says desperately. "Let's just go."
Rumpelstiltskin stares at her for a moment, then sighs theatrically. "You're lucky the wench has such a generous heart," he tells the sheriff. "Be on your way now, and pray our paths don't cross again."
The sheriff cannot scramble back onto his horse fast enough, and when Belle climbs into their enchanted carriage, she is relieved to see Regina never even stopped snoring.
***
Her relief is short-lived.
It's not an hour before Rumpelstiltskin brings the carriage to a halt once more, and this time he reaches over to Belle's lap and shakes Regina's shoulder. "Up you get, dearie," he says. "It's time for your lesson."
Belle grows cold, her stomach sinking down to somewhere near her shoes as Regina blinks owlishly. "Did you find the thief?" she asks, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
"He's nearby," Rumpelstiltskin tells her.
"He is? How do you know?"
"I have his name; a person becomes very easy to track after that." He lifts a hand, forestalling the further questions Belle can see Regina burning to ask. "That's for another day. Now the longer you take to get out of this carriage, dearie, the further you'll have to walk." Regina scrambles out, all legs and coltish youth; Rumpelstiltskin points at Belle. "You too, little maid," he says.
She sets her shoulders. "I'm not going to stand by and watch you teach that child to kill," she tells him.
"Well, you're welcome to sit, if you'd like," he retorts. "But you will watch. That's the point of this whole expedition -- to show you what your actions have wrought." He points to the door. "Now come along, or I'll use a spell to carry you after us like a sack of flour. And I suspect that would upset your delicate stomach."
Belle huffs out an angry breath, but climbs from the carriage and follows nevertheless.
The most alarming thing, she notes as they walk, is how not alarmed Regina seems to be. She can't stop peppering Rumpelstiltskin with questions, and several of them are truly disturbing. "I've never shot a bow before," she tells him, stumbling as her foot catches on a tree root. "What if I miss?"
"This one can't miss, dearie."
"Will I need more than one arrow?"
"Not if you choose the right spot."
"But where is the right spot?"
"Where would you like it to be?"
Regina pauses, frowning thoughtfully. "The heart," she says after a moment. The frown deepens, and something dark shadows across her face. "He shot you in the heart."
"And you didn't like it when that happened," Belle interjects hastily. "You didn't like it because shooting someone in the heart is wrong."
"But he did it first," Regina argues, using that eternal comeback of children through the whole of history. "It's only fair."
"That's not how it works, Regina."
"Lady Regina."
Belle may explode with frustration. "I'll call you a lady," she snaps, "when you act like one. Ladies do not shoot people."
"This lady will," says Rumpelstiltskin. He stops in his tracks and points through the trees. "Found him."
They peer through the mists as one. It's true: beyond between the mossy pines, perhaps a hundred feet away, the thief stands next to a pathway, hidden -- though not hidden enough -- against the side of a tree. He is very clearly watching the road, if it can even be called such, overgrown as it is.
"I think he's waiting for someone," says Regina.
"Good. His friend can pick up the body."
"Listen," Belle pleads. "Listen to me, both of you. It's still not too late to turn back."
"Turn back? After coming all this way?" Rumpelstiltskin hands the girl the enchanted bow; it shrinks down once again to fit cleanly into her small hands. "What a terrible waste of a morning."
"He spent three days in the dungeon. You've had your pound of flesh."
"And there's still a few more pounds to go." He squats down next to Regina, pulls a golden arrow free from the quiver on his back. It doesn't shrink as the bow did, and her grip is awkward. "Here," he tells her gently, showing her how to notch the arrow as though they're preparing to fire at nothing more than a haystack. "It fits against the string like this... no, just a little higher, on the nocking point... and--"
"Wait," says Belle. "Look: there's a wagon coming."
There is. A horse-drawn cart rattles down the dirt path, nearly dislodging its cargo with every yard traveled, until the thief steps out of the trees and holds up a hand. It immediately comes to a stop, and the thief approaches the wagon bed where, just visible beneath a thick pile of blankets, a gray-faced woman lies still as death. Even from here Belle can hear her breath rattling.
"That must be the one he stole from the sheriff," mutters Rumpelstiltskin. A muscle twitches in his jaw. "Let's send her home, shall we?"
Belle stares at him in disbelief. "Send her home? To the man you wanted to turn into a snail?"
Rumpelstiltskin's cheeks shine ever-so-slightly more golden -- a blush, Belle realizes with surprise -- but still says: "I imagine his manners will improve once his wife's seducer is six feet underground."
"No, that's not-- I don't think the sheriff said they were married. Did he?"
The gold deepens. "She-- well, it's hardly--"
"What is he doing?" interrupts Regina. She goes up on tip-toe to better see the drama playing out before them, then answers her own question: "He's using the fairy wand on the woman." They watch as the thief waves the wand an inch above the sick woman, from head to toe, holding it gently as blown glass. As he does, the gray fades from her skin, leaving behind a rich, warm brown.
Her eyes flutter open. The thief smiles broadly and touches her cheek with the softest, most tender of gestures.
"I was right!" cries Belle, nearly light-headed with relief. "He did have a good reason for stealing the wand: he needed it to save the woman he loves!"
Regina cocks her head to the side. "That's an awful lot of magic he just used," she remarks. "He's going to pay big price for it."
"The biggest," Rumpelstiltskin confirms. He tilts the bow back up and readjusts the girl's grip. "When you pull back, keep your arm away from the--"
"Stop it!" Belle steps forward and grabs hold of Regina's wrist. "You both saw what happened! There's no reason to--"
She doesn't get to finish her sentence. Rumpelstiltskin waves his hand, and suddenly Belle is five feet back and three feet in the dirt, planted like a tuber. "That's enough," he growls. "No more interference, little maid."
"Don't you dare -- Rumpelstiltskin, you let me up right now!"
"Oh, don't make me gag you as well."
Regina glances back at where Belle claws at the loose earth; she bites her lip, then says: "Just wait for a few minutes. Then you can get out." She looks at Rumpelstiltskin. "Right?"
"Of course, of course." Regina exhales in relief as he indicates where the thief is now helping the woman climb from the cart. "Right now the throat is better exposed, so if you--"
"No. I want his heart."
Rumpelstiltskin pauses, and studies his apprentice. "All right," he says slowly. "The heart. Picture it in your mind. Keep it there. It's an enchanted bow. You won't miss."
They don't need an enchanted bow, Belle notes in despair. The thief's back is facing them fully as the woman lowers herself to the ground; even she could hit him from here--
No. "She's pregnant!" The swell of the woman's belly is unmistakable. "See? He wasn't only saving the woman he loves -- he was saving the mother of his child."
"You're assuming that the child is his," Rumpelstiltskin snarls.
There will be no help from that quarter -- and anyway, he isn't the one holding the bow. Belle looks to Regina instead. "Regina, you must listen to me," she says urgently. Her feet are beginning to go numb in the cold earth. "I know he's a thief. But he stole with good intentions."
Regina shakes her head. "Intent is meaningless."
"No, it's not!" Belle isn't eloquent, not the way Rumpelstiltskin is; she doesn't know how to spin words to gold, gold that glitters so brightly the listener is blinded. She only knows how to speak from the heart, and right now, in this moment, that may not be enough. "Look," she says, "sometimes-- sometimes people do bad things when they're trying to do good things. And they shouldn't, of course they shouldn't, but if they meant well, you need to-- Regina, if you fire that arrow, you won't ever be able to take it back, do you understand? That woman will be all alone, her child will grow up fatherless, and you will have been the one to do it. Can you live with that?"
The thief is gingerly helping the woman onto a horse.
Regina watches him, takes a deep breath, and raises the bow again. "Yes," she says. "I can. He shot Rumpelstiltskin."
And, sick inside, Belle knows Regina is right. She can shoot him, and she can live with it -- not because she's heartless, but because no one has yet taught her the difference between justice and revenge.
"I know you're angry," she tries one last time, "and I know-- I know you were frightened--"
"I'm not frightened." Regina's face flushes as she draws back the bow. "I'm not scared of anything."
"No, stop--"
--and Rumpelstiltskin grabs Regina's arm. "The cart," he tells her, voice flat.
"What?" says Regina.
"What?" says Belle.
"Shoot the cart." Regina continues to gape at him, and he snaps: "Now."
Regina looses the arrow. It buries itself in the side of the wagon with a dull thud; the thief and the pregnant woman start with alarm, then ride off as fast as their horse can move, hooves thundering against the earth, abandoning all else.
"I... I don't understand," Regina says to Rumpelstiltskin as he straightens up.
Rumpelstiltskin takes the bow, tucking it over his shoulder with the quiver, ignoring the girl's bafflement. "The thief knows we found him," he says, "and that we can find him again. Let him live in fear. Besides, my reputation can't spread if I kill everyone who crosses me, can it."
"Um... no?"
"No. Now back to the carriage."
Belle clears her throat pointedly, which seems to remind Rumpelstiltskin of her existence; he waves his hand, and Belle stands on the earth as though she was never in it. Not an extra speck of dirt clings to her cloak. "Let's go," he says. "I'm bored of this forest."
Regina obeys, still looking thoroughly confused, but Belle waits as Rumpelstiltskin continues to stare off into the mists, expression blank. After a moment, she says: "That woman would have told the world what happened. You could have killed the thief and spread your reputation just as easily."
"Are you trying to talk me back into shooting him? He's not gone far; the arrow would probably still hit its target."
Belle steps forward, watches the side of his face. "Thank you," she says.
"You've done no one any favors today, dearie." The words are harsh, cold, empty with bitterness. "The future is what it is. You've only delayed the inevitable."
"You mean you delayed the inevitable." He turns to face her -- starting a bit at her closeness -- and she points out: "I was buried waist deep in dirt, remember? You're the one who told her to shoot the cart."
Rumpelstiltskin is silent. Belle waits for an explanation, a reprimand, a lecture... but she waits in vain. He says nothing.
"Aren't you coming?" Regina calls from the distance.
Belle shakes her head and follows behind.
***
It seems to Belle that the return trip takes even longer than the trip out. Neither adults are in the mood to talk, and Regina grows crosser and crosser with each failed attempt to initiate conversation. Eventually she settles into her own sullen silence, playing with the edge of a golden arrow until she scratches herself; the corresponding drop of blood that appears on Belle's thumb makes both she and Rumpelstiltskin snap at the girl, who grumbles under her breath for the next several hours. As the sun sets Rumpelstiltskin conjures sandwiches, of which he does not partake, in spite of Belle's urging; Regina demands to know where they came from and whether magic can really create food or just move it from one place to another until Rumpelstiltskin threatens to dose her with sleeping potion for the remainder of the journey.
By the time they finally return to the Dark Castle, no potion is needed; Regina stumbles off to bed without urging, though she still complains to herself between yawns; and Belle, drained in more ways than she knows how to describe, feels as though she could collapse for a week. "If you don't need me for anything else," she says, resisting the urge to rub her eyes, "then goodnight, Rumpelstiltskin."
She very nearly makes it out the door before he calls her back into the great room. She sighs, but returns obediently, only to see her employer fidgeting as nervously as she's ever seen him. "There is something else," he says.
Belle waits. He doesn't expand on the statement, only looking into the fire. After few moments she prompts: "What is it?"
Rumpelstiltskin jumps, as thought he'd forgotten she was there. "Ah. Well. The, ah... the sheriff."
"Yes?"
He shifts his weight, drums his nails against the back of his chair, and studies the tapestries on the wall for a solid thirty seconds before he says: "Weren't you listening when I told you I wasn't that sort of a monster?"
"I-- I beg your pardon?"
"No, the sheriff begged your pardon. Because I made him beg." Rumpelstiltskin is glowering at her now, seeming, of all things, offended. "He insulted you, and I made him apologize, so why did you behave as though I was in the wrong?"
"Oh. That was-- it was sort of-- well..." Belle suddenly feels as awkward as Rumpelstiltskin looks; explanations have never come easily to her when exhausted, and she's already done so much explaining today. Or tried to, at least. "I... didn't like it," she says finally. "The way he knelt."
"Then you should have let me turn him into a snail."
"That-- no, that isn't what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
Belle hesitates, then hops up onto the table to sit; it seems too much to continue standing. "The people, they used to... they bowed to my father," she begins, trying to feel out the words. "Before the war, when there were still visitors our castle. And sometimes they bowed to me as well. But-- but they did it because they meant it. They bowed out of respect, or out of courtesy, or out of... I don't know. Many things. But not fear." She shrugs. Even her shoulders are sore. "I don't want anyone to... to kneel to me because they were forced to. Not even someone like the sheriff."
Rumpelstiltskin stares at her.
"But," Belle adds hastily, "he was rude, and he did offend me. And I know your intentions were good. So... I am grateful, for that. Thank you."
The Dark One mouths wordlessly for a moment, before managing: "It's no matter."
"That's not true, it does matter--"
But he's already striding from the room -- running, more like. "Off to bed with you, dearie," he says. "And don't think this long day is going to get you out of your chores; I expect breakfast at the same time as always."
"I-- yes, I understand," Belle says -- but only to the swinging door. He is gone.
***
Next: Wherein Belle has had quite enough, thank you.
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.)
If Belle were inclined to think anything positive of Rumpelstiltskin at the moment, she would have to admit that his enchanted, driver-less carriage is very impressive. It barely jostles as they travel over muddy and rutted roads, and, in spite of the open sides, they are never touched by the frequent bouts of dreary spring showers. Even after four hours, she has not yet grown sore the way she would when traveling to distant kingdoms with her father; and Regina is so comfortable that she has long since fallen asleep, curled on the red velvet bench seat, her head in Belle's lap.
But she is not inclined to think anything positive, and so maintains a silence colder than the rain. Luckily the Dark One seems in just as foul a temper, and thus has also been uncharacteristically taciturn.
Foul temper or not, though, he is Rumpelstiltskin, and eventually he starts to fidget, peering out the windows to scowl at passing trees. "We're losing track of him," he grumbles. "This forest is too thick."
Belle raises an eyebrow. "Maybe we should return home."
He snorts derisively, and says nothing.
Another quarter mile passes, but now the silence is not as total; Rumpelstiltskin drums his black claws restlessly against the seat, and Belle shifts under Regina's weight; she's lost all feeling in her right arm. Regina only lets out a tiny snore and burrows deeper into Belle's cloak, her hair falling in her face. Belle strokes it back before the girl catches any in her mouth.
She's so young.
"Don't do it," Belle says suddenly. "She's just a child. Don't put a bow in her hands and order her to kill someone. Please."
Rumpelstiltskin rolls his eyes. His scaly skin reflects the thick emerald of the woods; he looks greener than usual, more alive. "What do you think she's been learning all this time, dearie?" he asks, voice absolutely soaked in derision. "She's the apprentice of the Dark One. Did you imagine I've taught her to rescue kittens and crochet doilies?"
"N-no, of course not." What Regina has been learning from Rumpelstiltskin is something Belle has put a great deal of effort into not thinking about; to do so makes her uneasy. "But there's a difference between brewing some kind of... I don't know, a potion that turns someone into a dog, and murder."
"Depends on what becomes of the dog," Rumpelstiltskin says airily, waving his fingers as though the distinction is meaningless. "Besides, this is hardly the last person who will die at her hands."
Belle stares at him in horror. "You can't know that."
"Of course I can." He grins at her expression. "Oh, yeah, I see the future. Did I never mention?"
The casual, devastating statement curls through Belle's mind like a wisp of smoke. It takes her a long time to speak, but when she does, her words are firm. "I don't believe you."
Rumpelstiltskin blinks. "What?"
"I don't believe you. Everyone decides their own fate, Regina included."
"Dearie, the point of fate is that you can't decide it -- and believe me, I know hers."
"And I suppose you've never been wrong?" Rumpelstiltskin glances away for a half-second, and Belle points at him with her free hand. "Hah!" she cries, triumphant. "You have! You have been wrong!"
"The details of the path hardly matter," he says dismissively. "The destination is always the same."
"Not if you choose otherwise."
"You're really not following the concept of prophesy here, are you?"
"The only certain prophesy is a self-fulfilling one."
"Maybe I want this prophesy fulfilled. Ever consider that?"
Belle pauses, considers this, considers him... then shakes her head. "No," she says, almost surprised by the confidence in her tone. "No. You don't. Even you're not that dark."
Rumpelstiltskin smiles at her. It's like a death grimace. "You're right -- I'm darker." He leans close. "Much darker." Then he glances out the window again, and raises his hand; the carriage comes to a stop. "Now, as much as I enjoy your absurd sentimentality, I think we should speak to our fellow traveler."
Belle repeats: "Fellow traveler?" but Rumpelstiltskin doesn't elaborate; he only takes the thief's bow from where it is tucked to the side and hops gracefully from the carriage. Belle slides out from under Regina -- the girl snuffles for a moment before rolling over to hide her face against the cushions -- then accepts Rumpelstiltskin's hand in assistance. Refusing his help is tempting, but nothing would be proven by falling flat on her face in the mud.
On the other side of the crossroads stands a barred cart bearing prisoners and an official seal, driven by two soldiers in black cloaks with blacker looks. Beside them, a well-dressed man climbs from an ill-kept chestnut; Belle watches in distaste as he nearly stumbles to the ground before pulling a flask from the chestnut's saddle and drinking deeply. It's not even noon and the stench of whiskey carries from fifteen feet distant.
"What are you doing in my woods?" the man challenges. His words would be authoritative and possibly intimidating if he weren't listing to the right with every step.
Either Rumpelstiltskin is in a forgiving mood -- unlikely -- or feeling mischievous -- probable -- because he accepts the impertinent greeting without offense. "Pardon the intrusion, sheriff," he wheedles, sounding like nothing so much as Berkshire the Man-Pig. "I'm lookin' for a thief. He attacked me with this bow." He raises the weapon and waves it beneath the drunken sheriff's nose.
Belle would have to bite her lip to keep from smiling if she didn't know that the Dark One's mood could shift in the blink of an eye. Like a half-grown tiger cub, he might suddenly decide this man is less fun to bat around and more fun to dismember.
"I traced him as far as these woods," Rumpelstiltskin goes on, all dreadful, deeply facetious earnestness, "and then he vanished."
The sheriff's eyes have been on the bow since the moment Rumpelstiltskin raised it. "Yes," he says softly, touching the bent wood with a gloved fingertip. "I know exactly who you're after." Then he glances back up. "But I also know who you are, Rumpelstiltskin."
Belle is surprised the sheriff can recognize anything while in this state, but Rumpelstiltskin just beams. "My reputation precedes me. Excellent!"
"Yes -- as does your penchant for making deals." The sheriff smiles, and Belle doesn't like the ugly look in his eye. She also notices the men guarding the prison wagon carry the same expressions of leering amusement. And they're directing it at her.
Belle is an adult woman. She has not lived her life locked in a tower. She knows perfectly well what sneers like that portend.
The sheriff continues to smirk insolently at Rumpelstiltskin; whatever this man thinks he knows about the Dark One, he hasn't heard the whole story. Or his life goals include getting cursed. "I'll tell you where you can find your thief--" he takes another swig from his flask "--if you give me something in return."
Until now, Belle had never imagined she'd see the Dark One look irritated to be making a deal. There's little he enjoys more. But his voice is reluctant as he says to the sheriff: "What do you want?"
The sheriff points directly at Belle. "A night with your wench."
The men on the wagon snicker.
Belle saw this coming, more or less; that doesn't make it any less disgusting to hear. But she's not worried, not really... until Rumpelstiltskin turns to look at her and she cannot, cannot, not for love nor money, read his expression.
He could, she suddenly realizes.
He could.
She's only a possession, after all, one of his trinkets, no different than the golden chalice that sits on the great room's pedestal. He could trade her to the drunken sheriff, the sheriff and his men, and there would be absolutely nothing she could do about it. Her well-being is solely dependent on the mercurial benevolence of the most powerful sorcerer in the world.
It is a wretched, crushing feeling.
But the slap of awareness, however painful, strikes only in the space of a single heartbeat. Rumpelstiltskin pivots back to the sheriff. "She's not for sale," he says evenly.
The sheriff laughs this off, ogling Belle in a way that makes her wonder if her clothes have turned transparent. "You can't part with her for, say, an hour?"
Rumpelstiltskin is silent.
"Twenty minutes?"
She recognizes with a distant, morbid resignation that the deal is good. It wouldn't even delay their journey.
"Let me think," says the Dark One.
She gave her word. She gave her word and so she will not plead, she will not cry, she saved her village and that's all that matters, but she will ask him to at least place a sleeping spell on Regina so the girl doesn't hear--
--the sheriff is gagging, Rumpelstiltskin is giggling, and there is something slimy and pink clasped between his claws.
Belle gasps.
It's a tongue.
"I propose a new deal," her employer says, waving the purloined flesh in the sheriff's face as the other men scuttle backwards in a hurry. "I give you this back, and in return, you tell me everything you know about the man I am hunting." He titters. "Do you agree to my terms?"
The sheriff makes a choked noise. He claws at his throat.
"What was that?"
Another choke.
"Oh, I'll take that as a yes, then." A swirl of his hand turns the tongue to black smoke, which promptly flies back into the sheriff's mouth, who grabs for it as if to reassure himself that everything has reattached itself as it ought. Belle's half-tempted to look herself.
"Now," says Rumpelstiltskin, merriment gone, "start talking."
And the sheriff is all too willing to obey. "The thief that you're after," he blurts out, "I've been chasing him for years. He ruined me. He stole the woman I love--" an expression of genuine grief passes over his face "--and made me the laughing stock of all of Nottingham."
Based on what she's seen, Belle rather suspects the sheriff did a well enough job of that all on his own; Rumpelstiltskin, on the other hand, sounds almost sympathetic as he asks: "Where can I find him?"
"Last I heard, he was hiding out in Sherwood Forest."
"And his name?"
The guards glance at each other anxiously; the sheriff scowls. "Robin Hood," he mutters. "He goes by Robin Hood."
"Wonderful. Our deal is concluded." Rumpelstiltskin allows the sheriff to retreat towards his wagon before he calls: "Oh, wait -- just one more tiny little thing before you go."
The sheriff halts mid-step.
"You, dearie," says Rumpelstiltskin, "have insulted my wench, as you so charmingly referred to her." He crooks a finger, reeling the other man back in. "So let's see just how civil that tongue I put back in your head can be. Apologize."
Belle's mouth drops open, as does the sheriff's. "Apologize?" he echoes stupidly.
"Yes. It means to beg someone's pardon. Shall we deal for a dictionary first?"
The sheriff glares at Belle, scanning her with narrowed eyes. She glances down at herself; her cloak is wrinkled from the carriage ride, and beneath it her peasant dress, sensible enough for her housekeeping responsibilities, features faded spots in the skirts from weeks spent scrubbing stone floors. His lip curls. "But she's--"
"She's mine, dearie, and that puts her above any queen you've ever bowed to in your short, pathetic life. A life which, I should point out, is getting shorter all the time." Rumpelstiltskin -- no, the Dark One -- steps forward and points down at the mud beneath their feet. "Beg. Her. Pardon."
"I don't--" Belle starts to protest, but the sheriff, red-faced with both drink and humiliation, is already getting to his knees. "I'm sorry," he mutters.
"No, no, no, a bit more prettily than that," Rumpelstiltskin says, lilt brimming with danger. "I've come to know this girl, and I can assure you, she is very difficult to please."
A shudder passes through the sheriff's body; he bows his head lower. "I apologize, milady," he manages through clenched teeth, "for my boorish words. I regret any offense I may have caused you, and I most humbly beg your pardon."
"Granted," Belle says at once, wanting this moment to pass as swift as possible.
Rumpelstiltskin glances back. "Are you sure that's good enough for you, dearie? Would you like him to spend some time as a snail until he learns proper manners?"
"What? Of course not!"
"A mouse?"
"No!"
"A lizard, then."
The sheriff looks ready to faint.
"He's apologized, and I've accepted," Belle says desperately. "Let's just go."
Rumpelstiltskin stares at her for a moment, then sighs theatrically. "You're lucky the wench has such a generous heart," he tells the sheriff. "Be on your way now, and pray our paths don't cross again."
The sheriff cannot scramble back onto his horse fast enough, and when Belle climbs into their enchanted carriage, she is relieved to see Regina never even stopped snoring.
***
Her relief is short-lived.
It's not an hour before Rumpelstiltskin brings the carriage to a halt once more, and this time he reaches over to Belle's lap and shakes Regina's shoulder. "Up you get, dearie," he says. "It's time for your lesson."
Belle grows cold, her stomach sinking down to somewhere near her shoes as Regina blinks owlishly. "Did you find the thief?" she asks, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.
"He's nearby," Rumpelstiltskin tells her.
"He is? How do you know?"
"I have his name; a person becomes very easy to track after that." He lifts a hand, forestalling the further questions Belle can see Regina burning to ask. "That's for another day. Now the longer you take to get out of this carriage, dearie, the further you'll have to walk." Regina scrambles out, all legs and coltish youth; Rumpelstiltskin points at Belle. "You too, little maid," he says.
She sets her shoulders. "I'm not going to stand by and watch you teach that child to kill," she tells him.
"Well, you're welcome to sit, if you'd like," he retorts. "But you will watch. That's the point of this whole expedition -- to show you what your actions have wrought." He points to the door. "Now come along, or I'll use a spell to carry you after us like a sack of flour. And I suspect that would upset your delicate stomach."
Belle huffs out an angry breath, but climbs from the carriage and follows nevertheless.
The most alarming thing, she notes as they walk, is how not alarmed Regina seems to be. She can't stop peppering Rumpelstiltskin with questions, and several of them are truly disturbing. "I've never shot a bow before," she tells him, stumbling as her foot catches on a tree root. "What if I miss?"
"This one can't miss, dearie."
"Will I need more than one arrow?"
"Not if you choose the right spot."
"But where is the right spot?"
"Where would you like it to be?"
Regina pauses, frowning thoughtfully. "The heart," she says after a moment. The frown deepens, and something dark shadows across her face. "He shot you in the heart."
"And you didn't like it when that happened," Belle interjects hastily. "You didn't like it because shooting someone in the heart is wrong."
"But he did it first," Regina argues, using that eternal comeback of children through the whole of history. "It's only fair."
"That's not how it works, Regina."
"Lady Regina."
Belle may explode with frustration. "I'll call you a lady," she snaps, "when you act like one. Ladies do not shoot people."
"This lady will," says Rumpelstiltskin. He stops in his tracks and points through the trees. "Found him."
They peer through the mists as one. It's true: beyond between the mossy pines, perhaps a hundred feet away, the thief stands next to a pathway, hidden -- though not hidden enough -- against the side of a tree. He is very clearly watching the road, if it can even be called such, overgrown as it is.
"I think he's waiting for someone," says Regina.
"Good. His friend can pick up the body."
"Listen," Belle pleads. "Listen to me, both of you. It's still not too late to turn back."
"Turn back? After coming all this way?" Rumpelstiltskin hands the girl the enchanted bow; it shrinks down once again to fit cleanly into her small hands. "What a terrible waste of a morning."
"He spent three days in the dungeon. You've had your pound of flesh."
"And there's still a few more pounds to go." He squats down next to Regina, pulls a golden arrow free from the quiver on his back. It doesn't shrink as the bow did, and her grip is awkward. "Here," he tells her gently, showing her how to notch the arrow as though they're preparing to fire at nothing more than a haystack. "It fits against the string like this... no, just a little higher, on the nocking point... and--"
"Wait," says Belle. "Look: there's a wagon coming."
There is. A horse-drawn cart rattles down the dirt path, nearly dislodging its cargo with every yard traveled, until the thief steps out of the trees and holds up a hand. It immediately comes to a stop, and the thief approaches the wagon bed where, just visible beneath a thick pile of blankets, a gray-faced woman lies still as death. Even from here Belle can hear her breath rattling.
"That must be the one he stole from the sheriff," mutters Rumpelstiltskin. A muscle twitches in his jaw. "Let's send her home, shall we?"
Belle stares at him in disbelief. "Send her home? To the man you wanted to turn into a snail?"
Rumpelstiltskin's cheeks shine ever-so-slightly more golden -- a blush, Belle realizes with surprise -- but still says: "I imagine his manners will improve once his wife's seducer is six feet underground."
"No, that's not-- I don't think the sheriff said they were married. Did he?"
The gold deepens. "She-- well, it's hardly--"
"What is he doing?" interrupts Regina. She goes up on tip-toe to better see the drama playing out before them, then answers her own question: "He's using the fairy wand on the woman." They watch as the thief waves the wand an inch above the sick woman, from head to toe, holding it gently as blown glass. As he does, the gray fades from her skin, leaving behind a rich, warm brown.
Her eyes flutter open. The thief smiles broadly and touches her cheek with the softest, most tender of gestures.
"I was right!" cries Belle, nearly light-headed with relief. "He did have a good reason for stealing the wand: he needed it to save the woman he loves!"
Regina cocks her head to the side. "That's an awful lot of magic he just used," she remarks. "He's going to pay big price for it."
"The biggest," Rumpelstiltskin confirms. He tilts the bow back up and readjusts the girl's grip. "When you pull back, keep your arm away from the--"
"Stop it!" Belle steps forward and grabs hold of Regina's wrist. "You both saw what happened! There's no reason to--"
She doesn't get to finish her sentence. Rumpelstiltskin waves his hand, and suddenly Belle is five feet back and three feet in the dirt, planted like a tuber. "That's enough," he growls. "No more interference, little maid."
"Don't you dare -- Rumpelstiltskin, you let me up right now!"
"Oh, don't make me gag you as well."
Regina glances back at where Belle claws at the loose earth; she bites her lip, then says: "Just wait for a few minutes. Then you can get out." She looks at Rumpelstiltskin. "Right?"
"Of course, of course." Regina exhales in relief as he indicates where the thief is now helping the woman climb from the cart. "Right now the throat is better exposed, so if you--"
"No. I want his heart."
Rumpelstiltskin pauses, and studies his apprentice. "All right," he says slowly. "The heart. Picture it in your mind. Keep it there. It's an enchanted bow. You won't miss."
They don't need an enchanted bow, Belle notes in despair. The thief's back is facing them fully as the woman lowers herself to the ground; even she could hit him from here--
No. "She's pregnant!" The swell of the woman's belly is unmistakable. "See? He wasn't only saving the woman he loves -- he was saving the mother of his child."
"You're assuming that the child is his," Rumpelstiltskin snarls.
There will be no help from that quarter -- and anyway, he isn't the one holding the bow. Belle looks to Regina instead. "Regina, you must listen to me," she says urgently. Her feet are beginning to go numb in the cold earth. "I know he's a thief. But he stole with good intentions."
Regina shakes her head. "Intent is meaningless."
"No, it's not!" Belle isn't eloquent, not the way Rumpelstiltskin is; she doesn't know how to spin words to gold, gold that glitters so brightly the listener is blinded. She only knows how to speak from the heart, and right now, in this moment, that may not be enough. "Look," she says, "sometimes-- sometimes people do bad things when they're trying to do good things. And they shouldn't, of course they shouldn't, but if they meant well, you need to-- Regina, if you fire that arrow, you won't ever be able to take it back, do you understand? That woman will be all alone, her child will grow up fatherless, and you will have been the one to do it. Can you live with that?"
The thief is gingerly helping the woman onto a horse.
Regina watches him, takes a deep breath, and raises the bow again. "Yes," she says. "I can. He shot Rumpelstiltskin."
And, sick inside, Belle knows Regina is right. She can shoot him, and she can live with it -- not because she's heartless, but because no one has yet taught her the difference between justice and revenge.
"I know you're angry," she tries one last time, "and I know-- I know you were frightened--"
"I'm not frightened." Regina's face flushes as she draws back the bow. "I'm not scared of anything."
"No, stop--"
--and Rumpelstiltskin grabs Regina's arm. "The cart," he tells her, voice flat.
"What?" says Regina.
"What?" says Belle.
"Shoot the cart." Regina continues to gape at him, and he snaps: "Now."
Regina looses the arrow. It buries itself in the side of the wagon with a dull thud; the thief and the pregnant woman start with alarm, then ride off as fast as their horse can move, hooves thundering against the earth, abandoning all else.
"I... I don't understand," Regina says to Rumpelstiltskin as he straightens up.
Rumpelstiltskin takes the bow, tucking it over his shoulder with the quiver, ignoring the girl's bafflement. "The thief knows we found him," he says, "and that we can find him again. Let him live in fear. Besides, my reputation can't spread if I kill everyone who crosses me, can it."
"Um... no?"
"No. Now back to the carriage."
Belle clears her throat pointedly, which seems to remind Rumpelstiltskin of her existence; he waves his hand, and Belle stands on the earth as though she was never in it. Not an extra speck of dirt clings to her cloak. "Let's go," he says. "I'm bored of this forest."
Regina obeys, still looking thoroughly confused, but Belle waits as Rumpelstiltskin continues to stare off into the mists, expression blank. After a moment, she says: "That woman would have told the world what happened. You could have killed the thief and spread your reputation just as easily."
"Are you trying to talk me back into shooting him? He's not gone far; the arrow would probably still hit its target."
Belle steps forward, watches the side of his face. "Thank you," she says.
"You've done no one any favors today, dearie." The words are harsh, cold, empty with bitterness. "The future is what it is. You've only delayed the inevitable."
"You mean you delayed the inevitable." He turns to face her -- starting a bit at her closeness -- and she points out: "I was buried waist deep in dirt, remember? You're the one who told her to shoot the cart."
Rumpelstiltskin is silent. Belle waits for an explanation, a reprimand, a lecture... but she waits in vain. He says nothing.
"Aren't you coming?" Regina calls from the distance.
Belle shakes her head and follows behind.
***
It seems to Belle that the return trip takes even longer than the trip out. Neither adults are in the mood to talk, and Regina grows crosser and crosser with each failed attempt to initiate conversation. Eventually she settles into her own sullen silence, playing with the edge of a golden arrow until she scratches herself; the corresponding drop of blood that appears on Belle's thumb makes both she and Rumpelstiltskin snap at the girl, who grumbles under her breath for the next several hours. As the sun sets Rumpelstiltskin conjures sandwiches, of which he does not partake, in spite of Belle's urging; Regina demands to know where they came from and whether magic can really create food or just move it from one place to another until Rumpelstiltskin threatens to dose her with sleeping potion for the remainder of the journey.
By the time they finally return to the Dark Castle, no potion is needed; Regina stumbles off to bed without urging, though she still complains to herself between yawns; and Belle, drained in more ways than she knows how to describe, feels as though she could collapse for a week. "If you don't need me for anything else," she says, resisting the urge to rub her eyes, "then goodnight, Rumpelstiltskin."
She very nearly makes it out the door before he calls her back into the great room. She sighs, but returns obediently, only to see her employer fidgeting as nervously as she's ever seen him. "There is something else," he says.
Belle waits. He doesn't expand on the statement, only looking into the fire. After few moments she prompts: "What is it?"
Rumpelstiltskin jumps, as thought he'd forgotten she was there. "Ah. Well. The, ah... the sheriff."
"Yes?"
He shifts his weight, drums his nails against the back of his chair, and studies the tapestries on the wall for a solid thirty seconds before he says: "Weren't you listening when I told you I wasn't that sort of a monster?"
"I-- I beg your pardon?"
"No, the sheriff begged your pardon. Because I made him beg." Rumpelstiltskin is glowering at her now, seeming, of all things, offended. "He insulted you, and I made him apologize, so why did you behave as though I was in the wrong?"
"Oh. That was-- it was sort of-- well..." Belle suddenly feels as awkward as Rumpelstiltskin looks; explanations have never come easily to her when exhausted, and she's already done so much explaining today. Or tried to, at least. "I... didn't like it," she says finally. "The way he knelt."
"Then you should have let me turn him into a snail."
"That-- no, that isn't what I'm saying."
"Then what are you saying?"
Belle hesitates, then hops up onto the table to sit; it seems too much to continue standing. "The people, they used to... they bowed to my father," she begins, trying to feel out the words. "Before the war, when there were still visitors our castle. And sometimes they bowed to me as well. But-- but they did it because they meant it. They bowed out of respect, or out of courtesy, or out of... I don't know. Many things. But not fear." She shrugs. Even her shoulders are sore. "I don't want anyone to... to kneel to me because they were forced to. Not even someone like the sheriff."
Rumpelstiltskin stares at her.
"But," Belle adds hastily, "he was rude, and he did offend me. And I know your intentions were good. So... I am grateful, for that. Thank you."
The Dark One mouths wordlessly for a moment, before managing: "It's no matter."
"That's not true, it does matter--"
But he's already striding from the room -- running, more like. "Off to bed with you, dearie," he says. "And don't think this long day is going to get you out of your chores; I expect breakfast at the same time as always."
"I-- yes, I understand," Belle says -- but only to the swinging door. He is gone.
***
Next: Wherein Belle has had quite enough, thank you.