Written for chocolatechippedteacup during tumblr's annual rumbelle secret santa (her prompt: night terrors, slow and steady.)
T rating due to being inspired by SNK/AOT (more notes about that at bottom), which is heart-wrenchingly painful and ultraviolent but also a great story.
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the advance of strength
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They all start the same way: unnatural thunder rattles her bones and her skin crawls in anticipation. The earth shakes and trees crash in the distance; however, she is strength and dignity. She remains, standing firm and alone.
Usually alone.
…Sometimes the bodies of the fallen or wounded are strewn at her feet—if injured, they beg to be carried away. She grabs one soldier, throws him over her thin frame and walk-jogs as far as she can. The others, maimed and broken, plead with her to take one of them instead. They call and call for help, resounding louder and louder until her whole body shakes from the tremors and screams and she bolts up in her narrow cot.
Those other times, she looks down to see the mutilated, lifeless body of one of her own. She drags the unidentifiable body behind with her as she runs, but the blood and mud mixed on her hands makes for slippery grip, and the body is lost behind her. With a sickening crunch, it is crushed underfoot by her pursuant. A hot, terrible breath wells up behind her neck, and she awakens with her nails drawing blood from her palms, clutching an imaginary weapon.
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She had been Captain of her own squad for a long time. Her determination and circumstance of birth had delivered her easily into the position of knight-trainee; and, when the second war had started, she had pushed her energies into military training directly under Advance Commander Gaston. She was grateful he had taken her under him and improved her specialized combat, but he had been harder on her than most—for Gaston was dubious of women, and born into one of those high-blood families that frowned on the perpetuation of female militants. Of course, since the high toll of the last war, there were far too few men for such selectivity. She had been born into a world in which death dispassionately favored neither sex: perhaps she would never die in the throes of childbirth, but it was likely that one day soon she may serve as an ogre's meal. Her father had wept great watery tears the day she left: she reassured him that this was her choice. Just as it had been her choice to train as a squire and protect the towns from evildoers, now she would train as a foot soldier and protect her world from a greater evil. Better to die in battle than wait behind the Marchland walls and ignore the daily tolls of lifeblood. Better to pay the price than to live a comfortable, guilty life.
Of course, her small stature worked in her favor, especially within the front lines of the Advance Legion: her agility was her strength, in this case. Ogres lumbered about, relying on their size and imperviousness to blows—but deft warriors flew using strategy and lightness to deliver the kill.
In the Advance Legion, she was valued for both her tactical and combative merit. It did not take long for her promotion to Captain-Guard Corporal of the Left Flank, third only to Gaston himself.
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Nightmares again.
These dreams have been bothering her especially since Commander Gaston's death. He always seemed so stoic to her—someone she had found hard to respect at first, but likewise a hunter, able to track the ogres day and night. He had been furious whenever they lost soldiers, and that had been the driving flame that had burned within him. Oh yes, there had been strife between them in her younger days, but he had not let that get in the way of their work together. The women in the Legion may have fantasized over Gaston's handsome face (and she may have laughed at them more than once, having been personally subjected to the cruel routine of his brutal-but-effective training regimen), but he had been more than that—a valuable asset and leader. Now, she was second-in-command, and could see the candle that was her life swiftly shortening.
The nightmares only grow worse.
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She forces herself back to sleep and reawakens before dawn. Upon pulling her trousers and military affairs on, she sits at her desk and starts composing a letter by the light of a guttering candle. The sun rises pink and orange, and a horn call sends soldiers bustling from their barracks.
"Corporal?" She freezes, and her hand knocks against the still-burning candle in her attempt to shove the letter away. Hot wax drips against her hand, and she hisses in pain.
She looks up, and young Phillip is there, wincing in sympathy. He rushes to the other side of the room and grabs a washing basin, sloshing the water onto her floor as he strides over the rug. She nods in thanks and dips her hand in, soothing the burn and cradling her arm. The wax crumbles off, but her hand still hurts from where the flame had rested a moment too long upon her hand.
"Corporal Belle! Ma'am!" He salutes her, waits. Cocks his head, apologetically—in a way that she used to find similar enough to her stallion (enough so that her squad had named the draft horse after him on a sunny summer's day a lifetime ago).
She stares at him, weary.
"Breakfast is downstairs, we are waiting for you, ma'am." He mumbles rather than announces, and salutes as she passes him. They go downstairs.
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There are four in Belle's squad—three, really. Mulan, Robin, and Phillip have been working under her command for years, even before this most recent and unexpected promotion. They work well as a team, and they are among those she would trust with her life. Phillip and Mulan are the brute strength—always clear in their intentions, always attacking head-on. Robin and her are the stealthy ones, who wait and enrage and confuse their enemy and attack when least expected. Together, they are an élite force, an unrelenting team.
Rumplestiltskin is their fourth. He cleans their gear and makes their food when they are on the move. He files her reports, mends torn clothing, and, in general, fusses over the cleanliness of their quarters. He is a light man, only a little taller than herself. He must have had the same position, in his team: kill striker, relying on agility and speed. His records indicate that his ankle has been shattered, rendering him useless in stealth combat.
She may wonder if the rest of her squad suffers these nightmares, but she knows that he does.
Belle had lightened his sentence at military tribunal—his service to her squad in place of the death penalty usually dealt to a deserter. And since then, he had never entered combat, despite reentry as a uniformed soldier. She wondered what he had seen: a man bitten open, or a comrade's skull smashed open on a tree, perhaps? Either way, he had run, and Gaston, like a bloodhound scenting fear, had found him.
"Have him, if you like," Gaston says to her suggestion, sneering as Rumplestiltskin hides his face, expressionless, "you do what you like with the coward. My gift to you for your hard work."
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And so she takes him back to her squad, who meet him with mixed reactions.
"You are privileged—" Mulan hisses at him immediately, "to work for the strongest squad in the Advance Legion. To serve under the Corporal is honor."
Likewise, Robin values honor and responsibility above all else. He will not speak to Rumplestiltskin, who may as well be an ogre to him. After all, isn't one who deserts his companions one who leaves them to die?
They call him a coward behind her back, and it is Phillip who calls them out on it.
Phillip had had a brother who fled from the military during those first skirmishes, years back.
"He was held hostage by some of the more intelligent ogres," Phillip explains quietly over supper, "the things they did to him, the things he must have seen—so, he ran." He finishes somberly. "Sometimes… sometimes, well, a soldier cannot fight anymore."
And she's seen it—men who cannot speak, wide-eyed with terror: women who clutch their sides and rock back and forth with the fear. Nothing could have prepared her for that initial sight: the ogre tall as it was, even hunched over. The rattling in her bones as it bellowed and stamped forward. She can understand the fear, however much she has learned to abandon it.
After her observation of Rumplestiltskin and conclusion that he could still have been useful as a tactical mind, she had pushed for a change in the law, and eventually the punishment for desertion had lightened immensely.
Her entire squad had seen her in tribunal court that day as she worked through her logic and rationale—even him, standing in the shadows, behind the broad shoulders of her loyal warriors.
"If a soldier is not willing to die brutally, they become a danger to their team, and they should leave the military or enter one of the tactical ops. Better to dismiss them after due consideration than have them turn tail and risk lives at the worst moment. We cannot have less than the best on the front lines. I will not allow ill-suited soldiers to be a burden to their cadre," she states.
Her squad had treated their fourth differently, after that. And after he had shown a gift for strategy, even harsh Mulan gave Rumplestiltskin wordless respect. And he had looked at her strangely, a look that was close to accusation and argument but also somehow admiring.
"I deserved death penalty," he states when the others are all gathered outdoors by the communal fire, "but you decided to take me under your command, even though it might discredit you to the tribunal. Why?"
He searches her for an answer, but she will give none.
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They stand at attention at the bottom of the stairs: Phillip slides into line, and her soldiers give her joint salute. She gives a signal.
"At ease."
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Breakfast is a quiet affair—she is strangely quiet and troubled this morning. Normally, she might read from one of her books, or request a story about Robin's old training squad. Sometimes, Phillip amuses them all with lovelorn flutterings over his fiancé, Aurora (and he is hotly offended if they laugh at his overwhelming praise of her loveliness).
Rumplestiltskin appears, tea at the ready. He knows how she likes her tea: hot, overly creamy, with a hint of honey sweetness.
She cannot appreciate this: her thoughts are dwelling on her nightmares, phantom footsteps pounding through her brain.
He places the teacup on the table, serves the rest of them after her. Finally, he sits himself on Belle's right side; in that flourishing way he seems to do everything. She doesn't react to the meal being placed in front of her, and so Rumplestiltskin touches her hand delicately. Had it been anyone else, she may have jumped in surprise—but she, and her entire squad, have become accustomed to Rumplestiltskin's sudden and often unpredictable motions.
"You must eat," he pleads: "you haven't been getting enough sleep, have you, Corporal?"
He loosens his grip in shock as he espies it: the red welt on her hand has swelled up in size, and she has not even reacted to the pain his touch has provided.
"I'm sorry," he hastens to say, "so sorry!"
"Are you alright, Corporal?" Mulan queries.
Of course: the burn on her hand. She feels sickened. They must think she has grown weak. They must think she is not fit to serve.
"Training," she orders. "Mulan, Robin—close combat together. Phillip—horseback maneuvers. Then clean the cows and fix the stirrups on yours."
Rumplestiltskin waits for a command, and displays surprise when she offers him none. He sits, silently.
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She had read his entire file before going to the trial, of course. Former spinner. Enlisted in Mid-guard Legion during the first ogre war, deserted within weeks. Family: none known. Ogre kills: five assists, a respectable number. Before Gaston's reign, the military hadn't the resources or organization to track down every deserter, to make an example of them. In her opinion, defection trials were a waste of time and resources the moment the second war began. Of course, she had not known how well-versed in law Rumplestiltskin was until she had attended the tribunal.
When asked to give his own defense, he had stood up, a slight, shaking man. Next to her, Gaston had given a bored 'hmph!' and drifted off into military-planning mode, scribbling plans erratically in the margins of a loaned book of wartime poetry. She winced.
The whole room felt shock when, instead of citing excuses or denying his guilt, Rumplestiltskin stood up and listed every place on his militant contract where he had broken trust, effectively asking for retribution from the tribunal.
Perhaps it was a mark of defiance, but Belle had seen potential.
And now, she plans to make use of this potential.
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He is still waiting, quietly. She finishes her tea, and he quickly lifts the teapot and refills her cup and his own—that one that she had chipped and he, for some reason, had been too reluctant to throw away. Another one of his oddities, she supposes. Another layer she has yet to uncover.
She wonders what his nightmares were about. Probably not teacups, she muses. She swings her leg over the other suddenly, crossing her legs and tilting her chair back.
"I want you—" she starts, and beside her, Rumplestiltskin splutters into his precious cup, probably at her sudden disruption of the silence, "I want you to help me write my will."
He stares at her, horrified and paling. His hand shakes as he places the teacup in its saucer.
"I—I can't!" he protests, shaking his head furiously.
She abhors pulling rank. "It's an order."
"But, Corporal—"
"Please, Rumplestiltskin."
"Corporal Belle." He says, hoarsely, "don't die. Don't you dare."
She grasps his warm hand in her own, pulls it near to her heart. "I won't. But help me, please?"
He only nods, frowning. And he doesn't let go of her hand.
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They pull out of the barracks a week later, and set up camp by the foothills beyond the forests of Avonlea. In front of her are the wagons for carrying back the dead. Behind her trails her squad, and she can see Rumplestiltskin standing on the threshold of her squad's quarters, a grim look on his face. As the horses turn the corner and leave the relative safety of the barrack walls, she sees him stalk off with quiet intent. Belle shrugs her utilitarian green cloak into a more comfortable position and looks forward.
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She sweats in her uniform as her horse thunders forward.
The skirmish had come quickly, decimating the front ranks. She can only hope and pray that they hadn't been cut off from behind.
"Split and regroup!" Belle roars over the thunder of battle and wind.
To her left, a soldier screams as she is dragged, kicking, from her cow-saddle. A crunch of bones behind her. She can only hope it isn't Mulan, no matter how selfish the thought.
Robin is still riding next to her, bow readied. He shoots an arrow into the eye of a charging ogre—direct on their weakest spot—and it perishes, arms outstretched.
"Split, I said!" she shouts. Screams rent the air behind her, and she squints her eyes forward to avoid looking back.
Reluctantly, Robin wheels to the side and disappears into the underbrush.
She can still hear a husky pant behind her, the towering ogre swinging to the side to swipe at her horse. She crashes into the dark wall of trees, and her poor Philippe bucks her off and canters sideways, parallel to the forest.
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The air is cold, and the wood quiet and dark and terrifyingly like the one from her dreams.
She thinks she is alone at first.
There is a man lying bloodied against some ferns, and he spots her quickly.
"Corporal—Commander Belle!" he hisses, and Belle's heart sinks as she kneels. Mulan is Corporal of left flank now.
"Soldier?" she questions, and he makes a feeble salute.
"Lancelot, Commander. Right flank. The ogres tore through the right side and the back as well as the front center. Left and center flank mostly remain, at last communication. Ma'am." He bats at her accidentally, and she offers him her strong grip. She cannot assess much, but his arm has been broken, and his chest looks bloodied.
"Up a tree!" she demands, and he looks about helplessly.
"Climb, or you will die." She explains in her coldest tone, and offers him a boost up.
He looks her up and down, most likely doubting all he's heard about her toned frame and élite status, but she pushes him forward, grunting from the weight as he steps onto her back. He groans, and swings up with his good arm. It must hurt like hell, but it is better than death. If she survives this, she will find him again.
But for now, she can only hope he climbs higher. She offers him a small, sheathed dagger as defense, and he takes it, pulling himself further up.
Her duty is no longer with her squad, or any individual. She must direct the entire Advance Legion, and regroup so that they can retreat without further losses.
Haggard, she turns and starts jogging through the dark wood.
Her trousers, once light and immaculately clean by the efforts of Rumplestiltskin, are now bloodied and torn. Her sword slaps against her thigh, and she pulls up dirt and loam with every pounding step. It coats her tall boots: blood and mud. She can hear roaring in the distance, and struggles to maintain a steady breath. No use in attracting attention: without a horse, and without backup, she makes an easy target. As she runs, she pulls out her notebook, stumbling as she struggles to draw a battle plan.
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She couldn't have predicted it.
The ogre peers at her from behind a tree, clutching her tiny dagger sheath and grinning as it chews…someone. She skids to a stop, frozen in terror. It never ceases to amaze her—how tall they seem when she is on foot.
It spots her and charges. She has but her sword: and for once her height is a disadvantage.
Unable to reach its eyes or head, she is weak. Normally, she might have Phillip or Mulan distract the ogre, and jump from a tree onto its unsuspecting neck. Then, with an upward thrust, she would stab at its eyes. Or, if she had a bow, she would shoot from a safe distance.
She does the only thing she can: runs like she swore never to do, tears filling her eyes.
A mistake.
The forward, back, and right have been defeated; Lancelot had said, face pale. Before he had died.
What she sees can only be called a massacre: a field strewn with the trampled bodies of her comrades-in-arms, and ogres lumbering to and fro, smacking one other in their greedy intent to feast.
They don't spot her at first, but when the first ogre comes pounding out from the woods behind, her, grunting into the cold air, all eyes are on her. Within moments, she is surrounded, cruel smiles narrowing in on living flesh.
Because she doesn't want to see them when they reach her, she looks down.
Phillip, face stilled at her feet. Face locked in unnatural grimace.
She breaks. She screams, and screams, and screams.
And then there is blood slashed against her face, and she is blown flat on the mossy ground, and there is a shrieking silence.
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"Belle—my Belle," something is howling, inhuman in its grief.
A cold hand touches her face, wipes the red away with a kerchief. It is clutching at her fallen body.
From the feel of the grass beneath her, she knows she is still lying on the battlefield, and wonders why she isn't dead.
Gaston is. Lancelot is. Phillip is. Oh, poor Aurora.
Her eyes open, and she feels her pulse.
"Rum-ple?" She asks, and his face—his odd, different, strange—but familiar and recognizable—face floats into existence above her.
"Corporal Belle!" he cries, burying his face in her shoulder. He picks her up, lightly. She can feel her arm is bent at the wrong angle, swinging from her bloodied uniform sleeve. Funny.
"It's Commander Belle now," she corrects absently. Her head aches. What was that light? That smoke?
"Belle," is all he says.
"Oh, Rumplestiltskin, what have you done?" she asks, "What have you done?"
"It will be all better" he says, "You will be all better. I promise." He insists adamantly; "I'm going to protect you."
"The ogres!" she remembers, as he turns and surveys the empty field. No bodies—no ogres. Nothing but muddied grass and blood.
"Gone." He says harshly, and turns his attention back to her. His hand flicks over her, and all her aches are suddenly gone. She can see him properly now. He looks strange, like his skin has turned to discolored scales underneath that old uniform. And he is weeping openly. So is she.
"Rumplestiltskin," she repeats, "What have you done? What did you do?"
He gives her a messy salute as he sobs, then, in one of his ever-erratic motions, leans forward to kiss her desperately.
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They regroup quickly. The dead are lined up in wagons, and Belle is selfishly relieved to see that out of her old squad, only Phillip has perished.
Rumplestiltskin doesn't let go of her hand, but the survivors are too tired and disheartened to care about his odd appearance or this break in rank.
"I don't think I can be Commander," Belle confides in him during the retreat, and he reassures her, expression peaceful.
"Belle…you are so strong and…caring," he replies with hidden fierceness, "you could be the Commander. But you won't have to be. Ever."
And she believes him.
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The next day, the survivors of the expedition into ogre territory line up and await orders. Pain shines in their eyes, and resolve. Always resolve. They have seen death, but they will offer up their lives if it will keep their families safe another day.
"Soldiers of the Advance Legion," Corporal Mulan announces grimly, "we finally have the strength to rid this world of ogres once and for all."
Commander Belle squeezes Rumplestiltskin's odd-colored hand firmly, and he pulls her nearer in mutual comfort.
A day later, the war ends.
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A/N: Born from the desire to explore Warrior!Belle, paired with a need to write something that was almost a Shingeki no Kyojin/Attack on Titan AU (but for people who have never seen, read, or heard of Shingeki no Kyojin/Attack on Titan). So, erm, inspired by SNK? May properly AU it, one of these days. I take fic prompts, requests, and headcanon asks, also for other fandoms: just leave it in a review, PM me, or look under spacetimeladies on tumblr and contact me there.
Suggested listening from SNK soundtrack for those unfamiliar with SNK's mood/tone: 'Utsukushiki Zankoku na Seka' (Cruel Beautiful World), Nico Nico Chorus's german/japanese cover of 'Flügel der Freiheit', and Enn's english 'Guren no Yumiya' cover.
One day, the formatting for paragraphs will work with me. Today is not that day. Sigh.