10
AN ORDINARY MAN
'So you were a man once?.. An ordinary man'.
Belle to Rumpelstiltskin, OUAT 1-12
Duty is the most important factor in a life of a princess. She would have loved to have all her time to herself — to read another book, to have a long walk on the hills, to fool around with her fiancée Gaston, to daydream in the garden. But her time did not belong to her alone — it belonged to her people; that's what Mother always said, and she worshipped her mother and would never oppose her. So when Mother mentioned something, however unpleasant, and brought up the word 'duty' she knew she had to do what was required. Even if it meant spending a long, tiresome and hot day visiting sick and poor people in the village.
Her pretty youthful face must have registered her irritation with the task, so Mother lifted an eyebrow and said: 'It is your duty as a princess, Belle. There will come a time when you will be their queen. They must know you and love you — they must have fond memories of you. And besides', Mother sighed, 'Besides, seeing your pretty face would cheer them up. These are not the best times for our kingdom... The ogres are so close. People are scared'.
Naturally after that she had no choice but to load a cart with various useful and pleasant things, like fresh fruit and children's clothing, and to take a couple of guards ('No more than two, Belle, people must not think you are afraid of them'), that were there more to help her carry things around than to protect her, and set out to do her duty.
Despite the heat and the bleakness of life in the village, she actually enjoyed that day. She was genuinely curious, and found it easy to listen to people complaining on their various troubles; and she had read enough books to be able to find appropriate words when she felt that they expected some response from her. All and all, it was not such a bad day, but she was glad when it drew to an end; they have actually turned back towards the castle when her gaze fell upon an especially forlorn little house, more like a hut, actually, that stood at the very edge of the village. It would seem deserted but for the tiny smoke coming from the chimney and the bleating of sheep on the back yard.
One of the guards caught her look, and shook his head. 'I wouldn't trouble visiting this place, Your Highness. The man who lives there is not worth your charity'.
'Why?' Her curiosity was sparkled immediately.
The guard answered with a vague wave of his hand. 'Some people call him the village coward, some — the village idiot. He is a weird and lonely man, crippled as well, and people stay away from him. He is a great master of spinning, though — if not for that, they would have driven him out of the village already'.
She frowned. 'That hardly seems fair. Why would they shun a good spinner, why would they despise a cripple? There are plenty of people out there injured in Ogre Wars...'
'Ah, but that is it, exactly!' The guard nodded enthusiastically. 'They say that Rumpelstiltskin injured himself because he was afraid to fight. People don't forget such things'.
She frowned more. She really did not want to go and see this man — she was sure he was unpleasant, smelly and crazy, and he definitely had the weirdest name. But the word 'duty' loomed in her mind again, and she imagined her mother raising her eyebrow: 'What? You missed the house of a man whom people despise just because of some rumors. Do you know what they will say now? That even the princess in her great kindness wouldn't come near him. It would make his life even worse than it already is!'
She sighed, and looked into her crate — she still had one basket of fruit left.
'I shall visit him. It will not take long', she said.
The guard shrugged his shoulders and followed.
As she came closer to the hut she was once more struck by its' forlorn, almost neglected look. It reeked of unhappiness and despair; the air around it seemed darker and heavier than elsewhere. It was obvious that the person living here did not care what people would think or say about his leaking roof or his weedy garden — he didn't care for himself and his dignity. She shuddered inwardly: in her young age she could not imagine how someone could give up on himself so completely; in her young age, life was full of hope and promise.
She walked to the front door with her basket; guards lingered at some distance.
At the door, which looked creaky, she paused and listened, trying to imagine what was waiting for her inside. The only thing she heard was a smooth, continuous rattle; must be the spinning wheel, she guessed.
She took a lungful of air, and knocked at the door gently.
The rattle stopped abruptly, and she heard sounds of agitated shuffling, and a thud of something falling on the floor, and then uneven limping steps hurrying to the door. The door flew open, and a man appeared at the threshold, his hair rumpled and his clothes disheveled, but his eyes glowing with such intense joy that her breath caught.
His voice was harsh with emotion as he started speaking: 'Bael...'
And then he saw her, and his face fell — it crumpled into a mask of misery and tiredness, all life gone from him in one instant.
He cast his eyes down, and started to turn away from the door.
She was baffled, and annoyed.
'How dare you?!' Angry words flew out of her mouth before she had a chance to check them.
The man stopped, and turned back to her, his bony fingers trembling on the doorframe, humiliated regret brimming in his dark eyes. 'I beg your pardon, my lady. I must have startled you. You see, you knocked, and I thought... But that was silly of me. So very silly. He wouldn't knock... He'd just...' His voice trailed off, and he closed his eyes, shutting something out.
She had no time for his ramblings and she was embarrassed by his obvious misery, and consequently, being a young person and unable to suffer unpleasantness, she leashed out at him further: 'I said, how dare you?..'
He looked at her again, confused. 'I ask your forgiveness, my lady. I do not know how I offended you...'
'You called me by my name! As if we are familiar!..'
He stared at her in confusion, and it dawned on her: he did not know who she was. All this day that she spent in the village, all the commotion she caused, all these grateful smiling people — he was unaware of all that, sitting in this solitary hut of his.
When she spoke again, her voice was much softer and calmer. 'My name is Belle. Princess Belle. When you opened the door, you seemed to speak my name'.
'Oh.' He seemed very embarrassed, and his hand started shaking again. 'Oh, I am so sorry. Your Highness, I truly am. I had no idea... I didn't expect anyone... What can I do for you?..' He moved away from the door, gesturing for her to come in, if she wished so. 'Have you come for the wool? I have some very fine wool here, even if I say so myself. You wouldn't find better or even equal in the whole kingdom, not for any price... And I sell cheap — very cheap, comparatively... Of course with you there will be no question of paying, oh no, you can take anything you fancy, naturally, Your Highness...'
He walked into the depth of the house, limping heavily, indicating bundles of freshly spun fine wool with nervous gestures, and she felt the hotness of shame on her cheeks. If Mother saw her now, she would have been angry at her rudeness.
She stepped into the room, awkwardly holding her basket. 'You don't understand. I did not come to take your wool. I came to help you'.
He stopped in the middle of the room, leaning on the wooden table, and looked at her with genuine amazement. 'Help me?.. How can you help me?'
She indicated the basket. 'I spent the whole day in the village, visiting the poor. Your house is the only one I missed'.
His eyes lingered on the bright, lovely apples and oranges in her basket, and his thin lips suddenly twisted in a wry smile. 'I thank you humbly, Your Highness. But I am not poor, and I don't need your help'.
She observed the room — gloomy, scarcely furnished, windows dark, fire almost dying in an empty fireplace, his spinning wheel the only thing of quality in the whole interior. The place looked pitiful, though clean; it was obvious the man could not afford much comfort. Or perhaps he didn't care for comfort? There was nothing cozy or beautiful in his house; the only corner that looked... tended to was a shelf on which a piece of grey fabric lay folded neatly, along with a drawing — a portrait of a young boy.
'Perhaps not for yourself, you don't. But for your son? You have a son, don't you?'
While she was observing the room the man moved further away from her, towards his spinning wheel — there was a crutch on the floor: it must have fallen as he rushed to open the door, believing someone important came to see him; someone whose name sounded as her own; someone whom he would have been overjoyed to see... There was a crutch on the floor, and he stooped to retrieve it, and at the sound of her question he stiffened and leaned on it for support so heavily that she thought he'd fall.
His voice, as he answered her, was dull. 'There was...' His voice deserted him, and he had to pause. 'There was a son. I... Lost him. As I did his mother'.
She blushed, deeply. It was so unlike her, to stumble into something so terrible so bluntly: she always thought she was a kind and sensitive soul.
'Oh, I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me... I hardly know what I am saying... It has been such a long day...'
He turned to face her again, and she felt, for the first time, that he is actually looking at her, taking in her lavish dress, so unsuited for her today's task, as she realized now; taking in her silly basket, and her confused young face. And suddenly something new appeared in his tired, weather-beaten face, long-nosed and tight-lipped and drawn and wrinkled; his dark brown eyes filled with warmth and... pity and kindness.
He saw her for what she was — a tired, embarrassed child.
And he smiled.
'It is I who am sorry, Your Highness. I have forgotten all good manners in my solitude. A princess has come to my modest abode, and I let her stand in the middle of the room, and do not offer her anything... Please, take a seat, you must be very tired'. He limped towards the armchair by the fire, armchair that looked almost comfortable and even had a cushion on it, and turned it towards her, moving it closer to the table.
Gingerly she obeyed him, feeling somehow in the presence of a parent. He gave a satisfied smile. 'That's better. Here, let me take your basket — no need to hold on to it for dear life... Can I offer you anything to drink? Some tea, perhaps?'
She nodded, feeling on the brink of tears; she must have been exhausted, she felt funny, and she realized that something odd was happening: instead of helping this person she was accepting his help. But she couldn't do anything about it, she just sat there meekly while he fussed with cups and teapot, thinking dully: this man is so kind, how could it be that people in the village don't see it?
Presently, he brought over a tray: a plate of biscuits, a teapot, and two cups — a crude mug for himself, and a surprisingly fine cup of bone china for her. Catching her questioning look, he shrugged: 'It is the only decent piece of crockery that I have. It... It is chipped. I am sorry'.
She accepted the tea with a grateful smile. 'Oh, it's just a cup'.
That wry smile, again. 'It belonged to my wife. She always... aspired to a life that was better than the life she had'.
Belle blushed, again. What's come over her, why can't she say a word without blundering?
'I am sorry'.
'Don't be. She had her reasons to be unhappy, and it is all in the past now'.
Encouraged by his mild answer, she felt bolder and let her curiosity run free. 'How did she... Die?'
He lifted an eyebrow. 'Who said she did?'
'But I thought... When you said...'
'I said I lost her. That is all there is to it. End of story'.
They sat in silence, she looking at him, he looking at the surface of the table, clasping his mug with bony, long fingers. He had beautiful hands, she thought suddenly; industrious, dexterous hands. And wonderfully long eyelashes, casting shadows on his hollow cheeks. He wasn't that pitiful if you looked closely; his features were strong, his clothes, though very worn, impeccably clean. His hair had grey strands in it, but there was an abundance of locks. They looked... rumpled.
Rumpelstiltskin with rumpled hair. That was very sweet, actually.
What a curios, fascinating man.
A man with a mystery.
She always loved mysteries.
'Tell me about your son'. The words were out of her mouth as if on their own volition.
He lifted his eyes to her, and she saw something die in them. Yet he spoke — he answered her in a polite, even voice: 'I lost him. There is nothing more to tell, really'.
His fingers, clasping the mug, trembled again, and his knuckles went white.
She shook her head. 'This cannot be true. Tell me more. Perhaps there is some way I can help?'
He uttered a mirthless laugh. 'How can you help? Can you turn the time back? Stop the war with ogres?..'
Her heart missed a bit. 'He is at the frontline? But I thought he was young — a child?..'
He looked at her again, and this time some dark fury smoldered in his eyes. 'He was. He was thirteen on the day when the soldiers came and took him. This is the law, remember? Your father's law, Your Highness. As soon as a child, boy or girl, turns thirteen, they come and take them to the frontline. But perhaps the children of noble people are spared?..'
She turned pale, and felt her lips tremble. 'I didn't realize', she whispered, not really knowing what was that she spoke about. She knew about the law, of course — heard about it many times and thought it harsh, but sensible: ogres were advancing all the time, army needed fresh… blood. But she never realized before what it must really mean to people when they had to give away their children. What unimaginable, heartbreaking pain! And this man here lived through it — lived with it…
Her eyes filled with tears, and, upon seeing that, he smiled with same pity and kindness as before. 'Do not upset yourself, Princess Belle. What is done cannot be undone. The only thing that I can do now is...' He fell silent, abruptly, and stared into space, way beyond her, and she seemed to see shadows of past sufferings pass across his gaze. Lost struggles, unanswered pleas, despair and pain and guilt and pain again.
She bit her lower lip, and prompted: 'All you can do is wait for him, right?' He couldn't speak — he simply nodded, and she carried on: 'He is not dead, is he?'
Tears welled in his dark eyes, and his voice was hardly audible as he said: 'I don't know'.
Silence that filled the room now was palpable and heavy.
'How long has he been gone?'
He closed his eyes momentarily, trying to get rid of tears, and attempted a proper answer. His voice was husky. 'Two years. Three months. Six days. And eight hours… Give or take'.
She felt her enthusiasm stirring. 'Two years, and no bad news? But that must be good news, isn't it? They would have let you know if he... well... Was... Anyway, you mustn't lose hope! Mother says that we must always have hope!..'
He sighed ruggedly, half amused, half exasperated, and gave her his already familiar wry smile. 'How wonderful it is to be young. Your mother is a very wise woman, Your Highness, and you must always listen to what she says'.
'Don't mock me!'
'The thought never crossed my mind'.
His face seemed closed and collected now, and she suddenly realized that she struck a nerve with her mention of hope. 'You thought it was him, when I knocked, didn't you? You started calling his name?..'
He nodded, knowing it was pointless to deny it. 'Yes. Baelfire'.
'A strong name'.
'Indeed. His mother said he needed a strong name to survive having me for a father'.
Her train of thought continued its' run: 'And then you started saying that he wouldn't knock, you meant that he'd just come in, because it is his home... But why didn't you think it was somebody from the village?'
He shook his head. 'They never knock. They just open the door and demand what they want. And I give it to them. For a price. A man has to make a living'.
His face was very aloof now — as if, instead of being despised by all villagers, he despised them all. She felt uncomfortable — it was strange for her to see such readiness for isolation in a human being. Or was it pride? She realized he must be fiercely proud to survive his life in this village.
'Why don't you try and make peace with them? Surely they would understand you, if they knew you better...'
'And you feel you do understand me, Your Highness? When did you acquire that understanding — in an hour that you've known me?'
'You are rude!'
'I am reasonable'.
'No man can live alone, without love!'
'I am a difficult man to love, princess'.
She was flushed, her eyes blazed, she was out of breath. Why did she feel it was so important to convince this man, whom she met — he was right — barely one hour ago, that it is essential to trust people and to believe the best?
'I do not believe you. You just close yourself to feelings because that way it hurts less. But people must open up — they must give something if they want to gain something!'
A look of deep, deep tiredness came into his eyes, once again. 'Indeed. You are right, Your Highness. Everything comes with a price. I once knew a man who wanted eternal youth, and to gain that he gave up his child. I once knew another man who wanted to see his newborn son so much that he gave up his health, and respect of his neighbors, and love of his wife. And I once knew a man who would have given anything to save his child from danger and death... Only he had nothing to give. Not even his life; they wouldn't take it. They didn't want the life of a cripple'.
She sat silent, defeated by his sadness — by his experience and his pain. It dawned on her that here, talking with this sad man, she encountered a world of things she'd never read about in her books. It was so strange, so amazing that in this whole day, listening to different sorry tales, nodding in appropriate places, she never was truly touched by human emotions; and this man here, so closed and reluctant to talk at first, this man who refused her help, opened her mind in a way she never thought it possible before. She was fascinated, vexed, she felt she woke up — could it be that her mother hoped for something like that to happen when she sent her out to explore the village?
She opened her mouth, not really knowing what she was about to say: that she was sorry, yet again? That she was grateful? That she wanted to stay here, in this gloomy hut, for a long, long time, talking to this man, learning new things about him and herself?
Whatever it was she could have said, she didn't have a chance — heavy banging at the door interrupted her.
He winced at the sound. 'That must be some military type. Only soldiers make such racket'.
He limped to the door, leaning on his crutch, and opened it.
Her fiancée, Gaston, stood there frowning, and spoke to her, ignoring the master of the house. 'Belle, what is taking you so long? I came looking for you in the village, and the guard told me you were stuck in here for, like, forever!'
Gaston was such an oaf. She felt so ashamed for him.
She blushed, and lowered her eyes, and addressed Rumpelstiltskin in an apologetic voice: 'This is my fiancée. Gaston. It is... I guess it is late. I have taken a lot of your time... I am sorry'.
He turned to her, stepping from the door, and suddenly gave her a conspiratorial wink, letting her know he sized Gaston up in one second, letting her feel that they were two of a kind, special people who really understood each other, and could have a good laugh at the expense of the world; it took ages off his face — for a moment he looked young and mischievous. Boyish, almost. He spoke with a smile in his voice. 'No need to apologize, Your Highness. I am glad I was of service to you — I hope you had some rest and enjoyed your tea. Here, let me take these fruits — I am truly grateful for the gift. But you must also accept a gift from me. People must give something if they want to gain something, isn't that right? Here, take some wool. It is very fine wool. Worth its' weight in gold, Rumpelstiltskin's wool is, people say. Pity it is so light, though'.
Numbly, she accepted his gift — he placed a bundle of wool into her basket instead of apples and oranges.
Gaston huffed at the doorstep impatiently.
Her visit was obviously over, but still she lingered, waiting for something — God knows what.
Crippled man with infinitely kind eyes seemed to sense and understand her hesitation. He stood in front of her, looked into her eyes and said, softly: 'And now you must go, Princess Belle. And I must stay here'.
She felt incredibly sad. His words didn't sound as ordinary polite 'good bye'; there was something final about them, something that set a wall between them, placing them in different worlds, never to come together, despite their kindred spirits. They were from different words, indeed, weren't they? She was a princess, and he was a village madman, living in a solitary dilapidated hut, waiting for his son, who would probably never come home... They were worlds apart, even as they stood in the same room. Yet she did not want to accept that.
'They say that if you find something worth fighting for, you never give up', she said, finally, feeling pompous and silly, quoting from a book when she faced someone who knew real life. Yet she went on: 'Your son is worth fighting for, and you mustn't give up. You will see him again. And... I will see you again'.
He smiled, a real smile now, no irony, just warmth and sadness. 'Oh, no. I expect I will never see you again'.
She started to shake her head, but stopped; he was probably right. And she did have to go.
Yet still she looked at him, unable to take her gaze away from his eyes and wishing, absurdly, that he would lift his hand, with his beautiful bony fingers up to her cheek, and stroke it softly, and draw her face closer to touch her lips with his.
His hand actually moved, ever so slightly, and fell back again.
His lips gave a tiny twitch, as he smiled again. And then he nodded, as if saying that she really, really should go now.
In silence, she joined Gaston outside, let him take her hand, and slowly walked in the direction of the castle; getting back to her life of a princess; getting back to her duties; clutching her basket with her other hand, feeling the soft touch of the fine wool that filled it.
Wool as good as gold, was it? It did feel very precious, somehow.
He stood at the door of his dark hut, looking at her retreating figure. His heart and mind were in turmoil. What a strange thing to happen. What a fascinating, amazing, irritating, adorable girl. Such a beauty; with such a kind, open heart. There was so much warmth in her — such readiness to see goodness in people and, if it was not there, to create it with sheer effort of will. She stormed into his house, with these magical blue eyes of hers, and in minutes broke through all his carefully maintained defenses. He told her things he never told anyone; he was upset by her, he was annoyed, he was elated... She made him cry. She made him angry. She made him smile. For these brief minutes that she spent under his roof he felt... alive.
He felt a person again — someone worth talking to, someone worth noticing and smiling at.
He felt a man again — stirred by her beauty, touched by her poignant naïveté, hopefulness, by all the glory of her youth.
For those brief moments when he talked with her, he was not lonely anymore.
She was sweet and naive, this little princess — this Belle. She would forget him soon — her life, so bright and full of promise, would take her elsewhere. It would take her to good places: she would marry this young man, so stupid in comparison to her, but so obviously kind-hearted and so handsome, she would bear him beautiful children. She would have a good life, and she would not remember her encounter with the village cripple — with a man who lived behind his spinning wheel in the hope that its' incessant rattle would make him forget his misery.
Yet no amount of spinning can make you forget how your father abandoned you, and how you swore you'd never fail your child, if you ever have one. No amount of spinning could make you forget pain and shame of self-mutilation — the pain and shame of crushing your own leg so that you wouldn't lose your life on the frontline and would live to see your son. No amount of spinning would take away memories of a wife that deserted you, and of being a poor, miserable father, pitied by his own child. It would not help you forget your horror when you realized that your son is to be taken from you, and you cannot do anything — not even offer your own life instead of his; your life is not needed now, for once you crippled yourself to see your boy, and now you cannot take his place on the frontier... No spinning would make you forget your desperate attempt to escape, and being apprehended by soldiers, and beaten with their boots in front of your son's eyes. No rattle of the wheel would ever be louder then the sound of soldiers' fists banging at your door on your son's birthday, as they come to take him away to slaughter, and you cannot even get up from the bed to see him go, for your ribs are broken and you can hardly move. No spinning can make you forget the grip of his hand, and his brow pressed to yours as you embrace for the last time, and his voice saying: 'It is all right, papa. I have to go. You need to let me go now'. And him, walking out of the door, his beautiful boy, never to be seen again; and yourself, crawling out of bed, stumbling and limping and sobbing until you are out of the house, racked with pain, falling into mud, shivering in the cold rain, barely catching the sight of him being led away — and him, sensing your presence, hearing your howl, turning to give you a smile... And people from your village standing around, silent, shrugging their shoulders and walking away as you crawl sobbing back to your house — your empty house, with your boy gone and your life gone with him.
No, no amount of spinning can make you forget all that. But the spinning also wouldn't make you forget the light in the eyes of this girl, and her eagerness to know you, and her belief in happy endings.
And, having seen her and having talked to her, he realized he would not be able to get back to the life — to the existence — he led until she walked into his door. No news for two years, bad or good — that's bound to be good news, was that what she said? And, naive as she was, perhaps she was right. Perhaps he was wrong to despair — perhaps he was wrong to sit and wait for the blow to come. Perhaps he should take some action.
On the next day, he gathers the few scarce things he, the cripple, is able to take with him, and sets out for a long journey. He gives his sheep away to his amazed neighbors; he locks his house, and he starts limping away towards the frontline — towards the frontiers of the Orge War where his son was taken. He would seek him. He would ask around. He would help the soldiers in which ways he would be able. He would follow the army until he finds traces of his son, or finds his son, or dies. This is a much better way to spend his remaining lifetime than sitting at home, spinning and weeping.
'I will see you again', said Belle — he drops the 'princess' when he thinks of her, and he thinks of her often. No, she was wrong, though she said it with great conviction. She will never see him again, and he will not see her. And she will never know how much this hour spent talking to her changed him — how she gave him courage to live and fight. She made him stronger.
She... saved him.
He walks the roads of the war-ridden kingdom, asking about his boy, sometimes making progress, and sometimes chasing false trails. Soldiers, who sneered at him at first, come to tolerate and accept him. He never loses hope — he never gives up. And as he limps along roads, through mud and cold and dust and heat, he thinks of the girl. How she lives now, how she is happy with her husband, how she smiles and bites her lower lip and how her eyes shine. When he settles for the night, usually on plain ground or in a haystack, if he is lucky, he takes out of his sack his two most treasured possessions: his boy's scarf, which he kept on the shelf with his portrait, and the chipped cup that once belonged to his unfaithful wife — the cup from which Belle drunk her tea. He imagines he can still feel her touch on the fine china.
He imagines what it would have felt like to lift his fingers up to her cheek, and stroke it softly, and call her name in a whisper, and touch her lips with his, and see her eyes mist over dreamily, just as they did before she left him, and hear her gentle sigh.
Once, after several months on the road, he hears people tell that ogres have taken the Royal Castle, and that the Queen and the King, her mother and father, were dead. He painfully strains his ears, wishing someone would mention what happened to the princess — to Belle; wishing it, and deadly afraid to hear the worst. Yet no one knows anything about her.
He chooses to believe the best. He chooses to believe that her young husband took her away to safety in time, and they escaped to some other kingdom, and live there — happily ever after. She is a princess, his Belle, she must have a happy ending.
He walks the roads of war, searching for his boy, imagining her smiling eyes.