She has been a Lord's daughter once. At least that's who she thinks Belle used to be. She remembers herself as a child, stumbling on the wide, brightly-coloured skirts of the Ladies at the court, trying to find her bearings in the loudness of chatter and violins playing. She remembers wearing a gown herself, golden and delicate, and she remembers a room of her own, quiet, with a bed so grand and so high she could crawl to hide underneath. Her father, brushing her hair at night. Warm hands, tucking her in. The softness of her pillow, the warmth radiating from the fireplace. The smell of the old storybook resting on the night table.
She remembers the enormous ship that was supposed to take her and her father to a fairer country and better life, and the distinct taste of foods she was told had come from deep below the sea. She remembers being rocked to sleep by arms, the tides or both, and she remembers dreaming of adventures lived and wonders found, for in her dreams she is always a brave explorer of the world, and a vibrant universe of infinite possibilities is awaiting just for her.
She is unsure of when or why the kind, merry, loving people in her dreams have turned sad, angry and unyielding, and then into complete strangers, but at some point her dreams have turned to nightmares, and the nightmares turned real. There is no ship anymore, but nothing is as promised either, neither more just nor better. There are only doors forcefully closed in her face and cold pouring rain to seek shelter from. There is only Belle.
In a way, she is just as lost as she has been as a child. A grown woman here and now, yes, but still trying to find her bearings. Only that the pleasant chatter from before has turned to screams and sobs, and the music would not play for her anymore. She'd have to drop a copper or two into the purse of one of the buskers in Mitre Square for that, and a copper is a thing she simply does not have. Where would she keep her coins anyway, with her robes so frilly they let the wind near skin and soul, awfully cold that the wind is this close to the River Thames.
And so she walks these muddied cobblestones instead of the fine carpets of before, and oscillates amongst people with a far less kind disposition towards her. Now there's a different room to sleep in each night, if she's lucky enough to find shelter indoors instead of an unoccupied, dry spot under London Bridge. Warmth too is hard to come by these days. Food is mostly bread; it doesn't taste like much, but she isn't overly excited about the prospect of eating either.
If there is one thing that she ardently wishes is for people to stop staring, stop calling her names, let her and, with her, the memory of who she'd once been fade away in peace. But they never do, and so she walks to forget, them and herself, and struggles to hold her head high, maybe even finds a small smile, whenever the hurt doesn't cut too deep.
Rum helps. No, not the drink, although he does leave her light-headed sometimes. Rum is her friend. She doesn't know his real name, but she hasn't given him hers either. She should tell it to him, she thinks. One day, when she won't have trouble remembering it. He had brought her a rum mince pie once, nicked from the grocer's and delicious, and she had taken to calling him Rum ever since. She thinks he likes it. She thinks he likes her.
Rum has kind brown eyes and this wonderful, crooked smile, and, much to her dismay, unruly hair that always falls into his eyes no matter how thorough she is with brushing it. Rum is just a little bigger than herself, which isn't much, but he is her strength. He comes to her at night, on most nights now. He finds her wherever she puts her head down to sleep, whether it is a bench in a dark alley of the park or a secluded spot inside the public library - she likes the library best, the books make for warm, non-judgmental friends -, and lays down beside her, takes her in his arms. He's mostly quiet, her Rum. He is always warm, warmer than her book companions, warmer than anything she's ever known, and she burrows into him. His coat is furry, and the fur tickles her nose when she presses her face to his neck, and she giggles, but he never concedes to telling her the story of how he'd come to hunt down the poor animal. He thinks he'd hurt her sensibilities. She doesn't think she has any sensibilities left to be hurt. Rum's voice is soothing as he rocks her to sleep and whispers a song in her hair. She thinks she might know that melody, that she might have heard it a very long time ago, before, in her other life.
There are nights when neither of them can sleep and so they talk instead, and Rum promises to teach her to read. She's always craved this, to be able to read. There is this wonderful book Rum has, stashed away in his secret little hiding place, and he will bring it to her. A gift. She thinks she should give him something in return. She wants to give him something. And not just for the book, but for him as well. For holding her, for keeping her warm. For being her best friend.
A kiss, maybe? A kiss on the cheek or, better yet, a kiss on Rum's lips. She often finds herself drawn to his lips, catches herself staring as he tells her tales from that book of his, stories of far-off places, miraculous and magical. Rum's tales speak of sorcerers and princesses in disguise, of enchanted toads and magic beans, and she listens, smiles and breathes him in, presses her cheek to the soft cloth of his shirt, closes her eyes and imagines how it would be like to live those adventures with him. She would have to learn to ride a horse, and he would have to get a bit better at sword fighting, but they would travel those magical realms together. He would be with her always, and she wouldn't be cold, afraid or alone anymore. She'd have someone to care for, someone to love, and maybe someone to love her in return. She would like that. Yes, she would like that very much...
Come morning, Rum is gone. Rum is always gone when she awakes. Sometimes she thinks Rum might be but a dream.