Summary: The queen has a job for her. Belle has other plans. (Rumbelle. Sure to be AU by the time season 2 hits)
—
The Heart of the Matter
Or
The Play's The Thing
—
The last thing Belle expects is to be face-to-face with a loaded crossbow.
There's an easy familiarity between the man and his weapon that keeps her from dashing into the green foliage; as good as she's gotten hiking trails all over the countryside the past few weeks, she knows that she would be dead before she took two steps. What remains to be seen is if he'll pull the trigger anyway if she doesn't.
"What are you doing in these woods?" the man asks. "Don't you know they belong to the queen?"
The words echo in her head from that fateful night, spat at her with a bitterness she hadn't thought possible: Your friend, the queen. That, more than the bow, keeps her where she is.
"Let me guess," she says, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Woman in black, red streak in her hair?"
There's something wrong with his gaze: Instead of looking her in the eye, his eyes are focused on a spot right between her eyes. That's where he intends to put the bolt, she realizes. "It's purple now," he confirms.
And suddenly, the paranoia Rumpelstiltskin had displayed in the wake of their kiss seems far more real than it has any right to be. Certainly nowhere near as baseless, if this man in her employ was anything to go by; less of an excuse than Belle had originally believed.
In that moment, all she wants is to be far away from this place. Her heart flutters inside her rib cage like a trapped bird, slamming against her chest in an effort to escape its confinement even if she can't. Then, pulling her dignity around her like armor and tilting her chin upwards, she looks the man directly in the eye: "I want to see her."
For a second she thinks she can see some sort of emotion flicker across his face, but it's gone before she can name it for what it is. "It would have been kinder to have killed you," he mutters, gesturing for her to go before him with his free hand.
Not with his weapon, she notes. For all his apparent confidence in his abilities, he doesn't let his obvious upper hand blind him to the possibility of her using it to get the better of him. There's something about that demeanor of his that tells her he's no soldier; something not so rigid, but no less defined. Still, that makes him no less dangerous. Quite the contrary: It's a kind of dangerous that she has no experience with.
This is a man who knows how to watch and wait. He won't drop his guard because she's a woman, something most of the soldiers she's known don't see fit to learn. And she should know: She's been around enough of them during the war to know otherwise. This is, unless they knew dangerous women personally.
Like the queen, if she was indeed as terrible as implied.
"What have you brought me, my huntsman?" a familiar voice calls out from the main path, and any remaining doubts that the queen and the woman she had walked with might not be the same person were wiped clean away.
The tip of the arrow presses into her back; it takes a moment for Belle to realize that she had stopped walking.
As they move into the queen's line of sight, Belle finds her courage starting to fade. "A girl. I know you, don't I?" the queen says, pressing forward before Belle can get a word in edgewise. "Yes, we met on the road some time back. Whatever are you doing here? I would have thought you'd be off with your former master in some sort of lovers retreat. You simply must tell me everything."
Belle doesn't know what it is about her – the sheer force of her personality or perhaps the look of dramatic beauty she has so carefully cultivated about herself – but she finds herself wanting to curtsey to the other woman. Or, far more likely, the remnants of a lifetime's worth of training in royal protocol. And while the daughter of a vassal lord knows her courtesies, it's sheer force of habit from her time with Rumpelstiltskin that keeps her from doing so in a timely manner.
Unlike the exaggerated curtsey she had given when presented with a rose to match Rumpelstiltskin's own exaggerated bow. Partly mockery of courtly conventions, partly the sweetness of a would-be lover playing at storybook ideals for his lady, the boyish attempt had a charm that she had responded to with an eagerness of her own. None of that was here with the queen to tempt her back into such behaviors.
And, just like the last time they met, she secretly enjoys the freedom that comes with flouting the rules. Besides, it's not as if this particular queen has any idea who she really is, dressed as she is in a simple blue dress and white blouse – the clothing a girl might wear from any number of villages. An ordinary girl who wouldn't know how to curtsey, let alone when to.
No, in that illusion she feels certain she is safe, and little else. Instinct tells her to get out, get away, but experience tells her that she needs to do so delicately. With finesse, not blunt force. Something had to be said; but what?
"I wouldn't know where to begin," Belle confesses. That at least had the ring of truth to it.
"Did it work?"
"Did what work?"
"True love's kiss," the queen replies with a forced lightness that sets her on edge. It's too artificial to sound like anything but prepared and practiced speech to her ears.
Exactly who was this queen and what was her connection to Rumpelstiltskin? Belle had never gotten anything more than vague hints as he was screaming about betrayal. It was the missing piece of the puzzle that left her floundering in their respective wakes, making the best of the situations as she could.
There's no need for loyalty now that she's been released from her deal, there never was one now that she thinks of it, but… Even angry at him, even heartbroken over his treatment and dismissal of her, she never wants to hurt him. And the queen's eagerness makes her all too wary.
"…No," she lies, shifting her weight from one foot to the other to get a better sense of balance on the uneven path. "I'm really not comfortable with this conversation. It's…it's still fresh to me."
"You poor thing. You must be positively heartbroken. It's such a burden having a heart, isn't it?" the queen says, throwing a gleeful look over Belle's shoulder at the huntsman.
Whatever game they were playing amongst themselves, the huntsman doesn't rise to the bait; instead, he scans the forest – for prey or more trespassers, she had no idea.
"Join me," the woman in black says, linking an arm through Belle's. "There's nothing quite like watching a master at work; it'll be just the thing to take your mind off your troubles. Huntsman, find us something impressive for you to take down."
They follow the huntsman at a distance. Belle can't help wondering if the two of them even need to be here for this woman to put on her show. That's all it was: a carefully crafted play where only one of the actors knew their lines.
"Quite the view, isn't it?" she says. It takes Belle a moment to realize that the queen wasn't talking about the trees, and she lets out a nervous giggle.
It was the same thing last time. Though the partner had made her uncomfortable, the allure of a woman-to-woman conversation had drawn her in. Back at her father's castle, she'd had female friends to talk to about all manner of things. Girl talk had been something she had missed at the Dark Castle, and a void that was all too easy for others to see.
Relaxing a fraction, Belle casts an appreciative glance at the huntsman's leather-clad backside; absurdly, she feels even guiltier than she ever did sneaking peeks at Rumpelstiltskin when he thought she wasn't looking. It had been one of their silly, innocent games, and the mere memory of it causes a pang in her heart. Of all the things to be getting maudlin over…
When the huntsman stops, so do they. Peering out from the woods was a doe staring straight at them. Belle's breath catches in her throat – a deer this close was a novel experience for her. Even before the ogres had come to her land and run rampant, scaring away any game that had survived their assault, hunting had been a luxury only pursued by the men of her class. Somehow, she thinks this woman would have found a way around both those problems if she truly wanted to hunt.
The huntsman lowers his crossbow.
"Kill it," the queen orders. The deer starts at the harsh sound of her voice.
This time Belle knows the expression that crosses his face for what it is: disgust. But he obeys lightning-quick, the bolt in the heart of his target before she can even blink. When it's done, he pads softly to where the body lies and whispers something to it.
"What is he doing?" she finds herself asking before she can think to quiet herself.
"Being weak," the woman replies shortly.
He's praying, Belle realizes; it's something that she would have never thought to connect with the man who had aimed a weapon at her only moments ago. That such respectfulness would come from him, would be mocked by his mistress…
The veil has been ripped away, though it was a flimsy thing to begin with. There's a cloud hanging over her that was even darker than her clothing. Oh, yes, this woman would indeed find a way to be a hunter if she so chose; her weapon just happened to be in the shape of a man instead of a crossbow or a spear. And she has Belle firmly in her sights.
There might have been more of a chance running from the huntsman after all.
"What a fortuitous coincidence that we found each other," the queen mentions, looking down on her from her superior height. "I was just on my way into town, you see, to hire new help. I like to handpick those who will work closest to me."
There's a squelching noise as the huntsman pulls the bolt from the deer. Belle cringes.
"Do put that away, you're frightening the poor thing. Men can be such beasts," the queen adds conspiratorially. "It would be refreshing to have some female company in my home, especially one who knows about the upkeep a large estate takes. What do you say?"
Belle blinks. "I don't understand. You want me to be your caretaker?"
"You do have experience, don't you?" the queen says, crimson lips pulling up into a smile that was no doubt meant to be comforting. Instead, Belle feels like pulling her cloak tighter around herself in order to ward off the cold chill that went down her spine.
"I'm sorry, but I sent word to my father to expect me," Belle interjects hurriedly. "Thank you for the offer, though."
Any pretension of friendliness left the woman's face. "I'm afraid I must insist."
