AN: For acciofirewhiskey's prompts 'windmills pepper the land' and 'by the by'. Probably be around 5-7 chapters. Enjoy! Reviews are welcome and greatly appreciated!
Baelfire was seven years old when he first realized he was poor.
It wasn't as though he'd thought he came from a wealthy family. He'd always been aware that there were other families with nicer clothes and more toys. But the realization that his family was on the lower skirts of poverty had not been a pleasant one.
Their dinner that night had been meager. A few crusts of bread and an unhappily small bowl of porridge had barely settled Baelfire's stomach. But he'd eaten all of it and then looked at his father with surprise.
"Why aren't you eating, papa?" He'd asked.
His father had brushed away his question with an aside. "I ate earlier, son." But Baelfire knew this was a lie. It had been a long day. His father had spun and spun but at the midday break, all they'd had was weak tea. At first, Baelfire couldn't understand why his father wasn't eating. But that night, tossing and turning in his bed, he realized the truth. There hadn't been enough food for two.
Baelfire felt he grew up that day. He'd always been a little more mature, a little worldlier than his peers, but now he was more determined than ever to be so. He stopped complaining about the never ceasing workdays, the lack of money for toys and clothes, his father always being too tired to play. Baelfire became determined to do whatever he could to lighten the burden upon his father.
On the morning of his eleventh birthday, Baelfire woke early. It was a clear September day and Baelfire smiled, pleased that the sun was shining. He pulled on a clean tunic and breeches and walked toward the sound of his father's spinning wheel.
Rumplestiltskin glanced up from his work. "Morning, Bae," He greeted him tiredly. "Happy birthday, son."
"Thanks, papa," Baelfire replied, taking a seat next to him. He took a clump of wool at his father's feet and began to clean it.
Rumplestiltskin stopped him. "No, no, son," He gently pulled the wool out of Baelfire's hands. "Not today. Go out and play."
"But papa," Balefire protested. "I don't need to play. I want to help you."
"Oh, Bae," Rumplestiltskin smiled sadly. "I don't have money for presents or sweets or anything to give you today. And I'm sorry for that. But spend the day playing with your friends. One day won't make a difference."
Baelfire wanted to argue but Rumplestiltskin looked simply too disappointed and guilty. If there was one thing Baelfire couldn't stand, it was the sight of his father loathing himself. So he picked up his cloak, hugged his father, and exited their little hut, blinking in the sunlight.
Rumplestiltskin and his son lived on the outskirts of the village, near the edge of the forest. Their house was small, barely three rooms, with a tattered, patched roof that leaked during the rainy season. North of their hut were fields of sheep, windmills peppering the land.
Baelfire could never say that his life was perfect—his father's weary eyes and their constant poverty prevented that—but he was content. He knew he was cherished and loved by his father and he loved Rumplestiltskin in turn. And Baelfire was a loyal son. His only wish was not for himself, but that his father might heal from the demons that plagued him.
"Baelfire!" He turned to see his friend Crispin running to him.
"Hullo," He said cheerfully. Crispin had always been a loyal friend. He had a generous heart to match his merry blue eyes and was stocky enough to threaten anyone who bullied Baelfire, or made fun of his father.
"Happy birthday, Bae," Crispin got the formalities out of the way quickly. "Hope you get lots of presents."
"Oh, stacks," Baelfire lied. "Papa won't let me open all of them, says it will take too long." He could tell by the sympathy in Crispin's eyes that his friend knew this was a lie, but it was a mark of their friendship that Crispin did call him on it.
"Well," Crispin said. "We're playing Warriors out in the woods—want to join? I'll let you use my slingshot, since it's your birthday," He added benevolently.
Baelfire's eyes lit up. Crispin's slingshot was a beautiful weapon, made out of real mahogany with a fine deer-hide strap. It was the envy of every boy in the village.
"Sure," He said eagerly. He reverently accepted Crispin's slingshot, fingering the wood gently, looking up to beam at his friend.
"Okay, we're going in the woods," Crispin directed. "You can be my team's archer, so climb a tree, and when you see Drosdan or Gormal, take aim and fire!" His blue eyes sparkled with mischief. "I'll head them off with my mighty sword!" He picked up a long stick, about staff length, and raised it triumphantly.
"Aye, my liege," Baelfire said solemnly. "I'll be quick as a sprite!" And with that, he darted into the woods, eyes searching for the perfect post.
Baelfire wasn't allowed to stray too far into the woods, but he was so excited about the game, he went a little deeper than usual. From far off, he'd seen the perfect tree, maple, with just enough height to see anyone coming from either direction. Even better, it was near the forest path, where he presumed his friends would frequent. Gleefully, he gathered up a few pinecones as ammunition in his cloak as well as a few heavy rocks. He wasn't going to hurt anyone; Baelfire was not a cruel boy, but it was rather fun for whoever had the honor of carrying the slingshot to do a few test shots with real rocks.
He climbed the tree swiftly, found a relatively comfortable branch, and agreeably began to wait for his fellows. The day truly was perfect—there was nothing Baelfire enjoyed more than the sound of the forest and being safely tucked away in the canopy of green.
He heard footsteps and voices. Eagerly, he peeked through the leaves, looking towards the footpath, eyes scanning for Drosdan or Gormal.
He saw neither. Instead, there was a woman in a light blue cloak, backing away from a rather imposing figure in dark green armor. Baelfire frowned, listening.
"Now milady," The man said. "Make it easy on yourself. Just come back with me. I doubt Sir Gaston is even that angry, more annoyed than anything else."
"God forbid," The woman replied, a bit sarcastically. "Sir Rugen, I probably appreciate your fortitude in finding me even more so than Gaston. But I have no intention of returning. Ever."
The man sighed, as if his situation were nothing more than a nuisance. "Milady, I have my orders. If I have to drag you back, so be it." His hand clamped around the woman's arm like a vice.
"Rugen, let go," The woman's voice was sharp as a whip. "I mean it—let go!"
Baelfire knew what he had to do. A maiden was in trouble and it was up to him to save her. He grabbed a sizable rock from his ammunition and loaded it into the slingshot. He aimed carefully—he couldn't risk hurting the lady—he targeted the center of the rogue's chest, intending on knocking the wind out of him. He took a deep breath, and released the strap.
There was a satisfying whizz through the air and Baelfire eagerly watched to see if he hit his mark. He missed the offender's chest. The rock thwacked the man straight in the head with an almost sickening thud. And the man dropped like a fly.
Oops. Baelfire had meant to make the discourteous vagrant double over wheezing, not knock him unconscious. He blinked.
The woman stared at the crumpled form before her. Baelfire expected her to run, but instead she turned towards the forest.
"Who did that?" She called out. "I'd like to thank them."
It wouldn't be honorable to deny a lady that due. Baelfire shimmied down the tree and approached her.
"I did," He confessed. "I didn't mean to hurt him."
The lady smiled, lowering her hood. Baelfire felt a little dizzy. She was assuredly the most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on. She was tall and lovely, with piercing blue eyes and gently tousled chestnut curls. Her lips were vibrant, her skin fair…she truly looked like a princess from one of the old ballads. He wondered if she might really be an enchanted princess or perhaps she had fairy blood.
She inspected Baelfire's victim with an almost scientific interest. "I don't think your hurt him," She reported, nudging the unfortunate Sir Rugen's head with the toe of her boot. "He has a little scrape on the side of his head and he'll probably wake up with a nasty headache. By the by, I'm indebted to you." She flashed another smile and Baelfire continued to consider the possibility of her being a fairy.
He straightened, trying to appear taller. "It was the honorable thing to do," He said promptly. "No gentleman should lay his hands on a lady against her will."
She let out a light chuckle. "I'm lucky to have my very own David against this Goliath. Might I know my rescuer's name?"
"It's Baelfire, milady," He puffed up slightly.
"Baelfire?" Her blue eyes lighted up at the name. "A strong name. Apt for such a warrior." Baelfire grinned, feeling exceptionally proud.
"And there's no 'milady' needed. My name is Belle." She curtsied and Baelfire bowed low, just as his father taught him to do in case he ever met nobility.
He speculated at her refusal at being called 'milady'. She was clearly nobility—her clothes and clipped speech gave that away—and yet she had enough humility and grace to request that he call her by her given name. She was a rare creature and she was intriguing Baelfire more and more with every passing moment.
This was turning out to be good birthday.
"Why was he after you anyway?" Baelfire asked her curiously. Belle's lips quirked mischievously at the question.
"He is under fealty to my former fiancé," Belle explained, brushing off her skirts and examining the marks on her arm that Sir Rugen had left. "The latter being quite irritated that I broke the engagement and ran away."
Now Baelfire was very interested. A runaway bride? He immediately jumped to the worst conclusion and frowned fiercely. "Was he cruel to you?"
Belle raised and lowered one shoulder. "I didn't really intend on being around long enough to find out," She said decidedly. "I've seen him treat others quite…viciously. He was very gentlemanly towards me, but of course, our meetings were always chaperoned…"
She sighed. "I never really cared much for him anyway. I hate superficiality, and well…" She straightened. "No one decides my fate but me."
Baelfire respected bravery and he liked the fair amount of courage in Belle's eyes. "So where will you go?"
A shadow of doubt fell over Belle. "I'm not sure," She said slowly. "I want to travel, that much is certain. Although, for now, it's best I lie I low for a while, as Gaston will be looking for me."
It was at that moment that Baelfire had a brilliant spark of inspiration. He gasped excitedly and Belle glanced at him questioningly.
"I've got an idea," He said eagerly. "You should stay with my father and me until your fiancé stops looking for you! We can hide you easily!" This was perhaps not the whole truth, but Baelfire was so thrilled with the plan that he didn't quite consider all of the ramifications of it.
Belle, however, was much more practical. "Oh, I couldn't ask that of you, Baelfire," She bent slightly to kiss his cheek. "But thank you anyway, truly."
However, the kiss on Baelfire's cheek did nothing but make him more determined. "No, no, it's no trouble at all! It's a perfect scheme, Belle! Gaston will look for you in the inns and taverns where all the travelers go—he'd never look for you in the home of a poor spinner!"
A glimmer of realization crossed Belle's face and Baelfire knew he'd scored a point. "Well—I couldn't impose on your parents—" She began to search for excuses.
"My mother's dead!" Baelfire said cheerfully. "And my papa wouldn't mind a bit. C'mon, Belle! It's a good plan!" This was not strictly true and if Baelfire had thought it through a little further, he would've realized that his papa would most certainly mind a great deal.
"Well…" Belle said reluctantly. "As long as…as long as you're father's amiable to it, then I'd happily accept your hospitality."
"Excellent!" Baelfire beamed. "The deal is struck!"