A/N: Just saying, do not own OUAT. Love this story and I'm so glad that the prompt "Belle is offered the Dagger" inspired me to do this! I hope you all enjoy!
Seated at the right hand of her father, Belle stoically overlooked the war table. Each piece on the map was carved out of smooth, polished stone the same blue grey as the ocean they could see from the windows on the East side of the fortress. They had intrigued her as a child, each one was meant to be played with in her juvenile mind, like the chessboards her father had indulged her over time and time again. As an adult, she lamented the naivety she held then, and now, whenever she looked at that board, it was people she saw, names floated around her mind, and with each tactical move, Lady Belle mourned another battalion.
These pieces, as the standing figures for real men – men of their fortress, of their village – fathers, brothers, uncles, sons, and even her old companions at play had seen the face of that map and seldom had come back home again. She couldn't bear to watch them disappear into the drawers, as the ogres destroyed each battalion.
It had all started innocently enough, taking the pieces and putting them in the back chamber of the fortress chapel. She set them on a small table with a candle for each, lighting them every day. As more and more pieces got added, Lady Belle requested shelves.
Wooden shelves, no expense and no trouble, were added to the room and Belle continued to add pieces and candles in turn, as they were needed.
As it grew, Belle continued to pay her respects daily, cleaning and keeping it without a word. Often times, when she found her way to the chapel, she'd find someone from the fort in front of the growing shrine, paying their respects. Soon after the dropped knees, lowered heads, and murmured prayers, small tokens began appearing as well. Some trinkets were traditional offerings to the gods, wishes for loved ones to return or be spared. More often than not, the toll for safe passage to the underworld was put in front of the dimly lit candles.
At first it was only for the fortress, only for those inside that were connected to the leaders of the military movements. But, Lady Belle had never been shy about going into the village, and when she did, she saw the other lives affected. She spoke with them, heard their grief.
She brought the matter to her father's council. She demanded their cooperation in allowing the villagers to come and mourn their own. They had resisted, quite vehemently, at her insistence, but Lady Belle was not prone to giving up. Her determination won in the end.
They had agreed to allowing Lady Belle to open the chapel to the village. Granted, it had to be under restricted time, when there were guards available, but Lady Belle had fought stalwartly for her people's right to come into the fortress and mourn their dead, so the times were set in accordance with the docks, their main source of income in the village. Additionally, high holy days were not to be restricted at all. Each god's day was a time in which the people could and should be welcomed to their protectors, and encouraged to pray, in hopes of a swift end to this conflict and the return of their loved ones.
Lady Belle's efforts on behalf of their subjects earned her quite the reputation amongst Sir Maurice's council. She wasn't just a bauble to be looked at and admired for her polishing, and duty to the gods and her people. She was shrewd and determined, an unrelenting force for her people.
Once word spread of Lady Belle's efforts, villagers came in droves every day. The chapel was undisturbed, despite the predictions of the council, and proper respects paid. Surely, the tokens left behind became more rustic, lacking the craftsmanship of the finer goods paid by those who lived there, but Lady Belle thought them just as lovely, and perhaps, even more telling. Often times, she would have to steal herself away while visitors came to pay respects, unable to watch the grieving families mourn the ones they loved, and offer the last of whatever they had to appease the gods for safe returns.
Belle had paid more than her share of passages to the afterlife, gold pieces and finery finding its way to the shelves seemingly every time she approached. The council (and even her father) disapproved, but Belle was still as stubborn as she had ever been, and if it was going to help, she was going to leave it.
And as she was ever sure, despite the protests and assurances of the council, nothing of Lady Belle's, or anyone else's, had been stolen from the shrine.
But, as Lady Belle's offerings accumulated, so did every other villager's. The chamber of the chapel was only so big, and Lady Belle feared that this war would not be over before the tiny space would no longer fit all of the flowers, tokens, candles, and war pieces. But, she would maintain the space as long as she could, dutifully tending to each and every offering and candle.
Pieces continued to find their way into the chapel chamber, and villagers too. Lady Belle tried to give them space, as much for them as for herself, but she found she was unable. She came to know them, came to know their names, and eventually their stories – the names of the fallen they came to honor and pray for, carrying their memories with them. It seemed almost as though the place became a site of pilgrimage, and each pilgrim had a reason for coming.
Lady Belle could not turn away from those that came to this place she had set up and fought for them to use. As they came through, sharing their stories with her, sometimes full of laughter and others sorrow, mostly both, Lady Belle felt the impacts of each life weigh heavily upon her.
While her father and his men planned this war, executed it to their best abilities, these people were keenly feeling its affects as it ripped their loves from them with little consideration. So, she continued to listen, carrying these pieces with her, and her reputation spread. Beyond the council, beyond the walls of the castle, the name Mother Dove came to be synonymous with Lady Belle.
But, a mother to her subjects could only hold so much grief, and it was only then that Lady Belle began to record the accounts she received. As many names and stories as she could recall flowed from the tip of her quill onto her strips of parchment.
She spent nights by the moon and candles, hunched over her writing desk, capturing their lives on paper, trying to give them a history they deserved. History was so often written without paying mind to the individual stories that created it. Lady Belle wanted to do it, and with each word that she elegantly scripted, a chip of the weight lifted, knowing that they were being immortalized on paper – paper that would go into the fortress archives. There was still grief, but it was smaller, manageable.
Her history, however, grew longer and more in-depth. The stories of their people intertwined with their past, with ogre wars before.
The council, naturally, scoffed when they heard tell of Lady Belle's project and her intentions. They declaimed a woman so bold to step over the work of 'real' historians had no place to do so, and begged Sir Maurice to stop her. Her father, for better or worse, was as stubborn as his daughter, and realizing this, would not attempt to disrupt her efforts. There was no stopping the Mother Dove.
Their lord had much more pressing issues to worry about, as the war continued to consume their lands, and surpass their own boarders. Ogres pressed forward, and their army depleted. Sometimes the destruction was faster than others, and there were many months of stalemate, leaving the chapel open to the hopes of people, and a place for not only their people, but others that began to come as well.
The council reached out to the leaders, and Mother Dove reached out to the people, welcoming them to a place of worship, where their armies started to join her own. Each army's colors started to trickle in; grey for the north, red in the west, and the south's merry green only happened sporadically at first. But, as time continued, more and more pieces were knocked off the map and began to speckle the shelves, and people came.
People continued to come from as close as five minutes to as far as ten days, and Lady Belle's chapel chamber seemed to be shrinking in size.
Her patience for her pilgrims did not cease, and Lady Belle continued to listen to them, though her writing was slowed. It was no longer just hundreds of people, but thousands, that had changed because of the war. The Dove could no longer write it all, but she continued to collect them. The weight steadily pressed back against her, but she had learned how to better carry it, and its weight was no longer a burden, but a powerful sign of devotion and faith, which she aimed to carry as well.
It made her older than her time, tired beyond her years, but the Mother Dove could not stand idly by and let her fatigue stop her from advocating for her people. Lady Belle devised a plan for a plain, stone structure. It wouldn't be much cost, but it would be out of the fortress, and an open space for anyone who wished to use it. She did not want to add to the expenses that were being devoted to war, but she also did not want to let it go unheeded, particularly as so many were desperate for a place to put their hope.
And as the Mother Dove demanded, the Mother Dove received. The council, desperate to appease their Lord, foreign Lords, and the gods, were unabashed in their reception for the idea, and more than eager to let Lady Belle oversee the creation and maintenance of it.
Lady Belle saw to it with every care that she could, and helped design the simple building that would live on their grounds. No ornamentation, strong stone that wouldn't crumble or break, but wouldn't be too expensive, and plenty of space for the offerings of whoever came to honor their loved ones.
So, her vision was speedily realized. Masons that had not left for war were hired to construct it and Lady Belle oversaw the removal of all of the offerings. She made trips daily, back and forth, carrying the most expensive trappings alongside home carved and created items with equal tenderness and care. Many of the gifts were fragile with age, weak from the dampness of the chapel and they needed to be handled by the only person Lady Belle could trust, and no one's hands were so protective and so gentle as the Mother Dove's.
Unbeknownst to Lady Belle, as she saw to her project, the council continued their outward reach. Further west still, a place of snow, mountains, and harshness, the council reached to allies who might yet be able to defeat the ogres.
Their Lord was old, but his son was strong, and virtuous. He was a good man with strong morals and dedication to their gods and cause. An agreement was reached, Sir Maurice reluctantly agreeing. As long as his daughter was faithful and true, as she had proved to be, she would agree it was best. It was best, for everyone.
They took dinner separately on the evening he was going to tell her. Lady Belle's sitting room was fitted for dinner, and the cook prepared her favorite meal. Belle ruffled, declaiming the expense, and her father's guilt overtook him. He assured her it was of no importance this evening, and Belle picked at her food, wary of the reasoning.
"What's wrong, Papa?" she asked, not for the first time directly looking into her father's eyes for search of an answer.
The Lord put down his fork and looked at his girl, exhaling softly. "We've reached out to the Mountains, m'dear."
It was Lady Belle's turn to put down her fork. "So far?" she asked, more than a hint of worry in her voice, "Is there no one else left?" Lady Belle's breath hitched in her throat. Would there be another flag adorning their shrine? Another symbol of a lost and destroyed people hung up for all to see.
Her father shook his head in silence. The air between them was tense, and Belle felt a miserable stab of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. "No one with enough men to help, Dove." The moniker had caught on even in the fortress, and Belle turned her crystal blue eyes upward, trying to see through what her father was saying.
"What do we have to offer them?" she asked, almost too bluntly for a lady of her station. But, it was not peacetime, and she was not going to shelter herself from the business of men. An alliance with her father was also an alliance with her, as far as she was concerned, and as keeper of the dead and stalwart defender of her people. If there was a price to pay, she wanted to know about it.
Again, it grew quiet. Belle knew they had little, especially to offer the mountain family. They were famous for their mined gold and jewels. Belle was very aware they had little to offer, even if their vaults were not completely empty, it was nothing compared to the wealth they had in the mountains.
"The duke," he started, "has a son."
Belle's heart dropped into her stomach as her throat went dry. "You still haven't said what we've to offer…"
The sadness in her father's eyes was enough to inform Belle of the choice he and his men made. "Belle, my girl…" he started to stand, and Belle put her napkin on the table. She smoothed out her skirt and stood as well, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. "You know sacrifices are to be made..." it was a lame excuse, but Belle could see he was sincere.
Sincerity did not lessen pain, however, and Belle took a deep breath, trying not to let her dismay be entirely obvious. "Papa," Belle said in a strained whisper, "when are they coming?"
His larger shoulders slouched. "A fortnight, if that."
"Is that how long I am to have to prepare?" She never really imagined this. It was all so unromantic, so disappointing to her fantasies about what love wsa like and how it was going to change her life. She had always known that love made the earth move, but she felt like it was standing still under her and she was moving at a million paces an hour.
He nodded. Two weeks. Fourteen days. That was how long she'd have to adjust to a life she herself did not sign away. Her chin quivered and she realized she could no longer be in front of him, she couldn't face him when her tears were burning hot in her eyes and another word might push her to an edge she did not want her father to witness.
No, it was best she left. Belle picked up the heavy skirt in her balled fists, glad to feel something keeping her nails from digging into her soft flesh, and turned. "Belle, please…" he called after her, but not with any amount of sincerity. He didn't want her to stop anymore than she did.
She shook her head, her hair brushing against her back, and she picked up her pace. She knew exactly where she wanted to go. She darted through the halls, unaware of the exact moment the tears started, but fully aware of their presence as they made thick trails down her cheeks. She maneuvered the corridors easily, past the few curious guards left (none of them would dare stop a crying lady), and out of the fortress walls she went.
She crossed the familiar pathways to the temple and burst through the doors into the dimly lit. Candlelight flickered and bounced off the walls of temple. Her footsteps slowed, but her breathing remained quick. The exertion had only just caught up to her, her heart beating in her chest and stays only expanding so far to allow her to catch up with herself.
It was quiet, apart from her breathing. The atmosphere almost instantly soothed her. It was a place of peace, and reverence. It was why she was in this predicament. All of the fallen surrounded her, and their weight was a burden she bore as the Mother Dove. She guarded them so fiercely, wanted to remember their lives so keenly, and now she determined whether more would join their ranks or they'd be overrun, and the ogres might defeat them – an endless array of possibilities were in front of her, based on the only two choices she had: she could take him or refuse the whole thing.
Dropping to her knees, Belle was nestled in her voluminous skirts, the candlelight bouncing off the walls and playing off the satin-shine of the fabric. Dropping her head, her chin resting on her upper chest, Belle folded her hands in her lap, closing her eyes.
She had very little to offer, most her jewels had found their way here, and unless she took the dress from her back, which even the gods might disapprove of given the public nature of the place, she had nothing left. Nothing, but prayers, so Belle bowed humbly in the face of the deities she was entrusting the care of her people to, and started to pray.
There had been no room for forgetting even the most obscure of pledges to whichever god would hear her prayer. They'd been praying for ages, trying to ward off the ogre attacks and turn the war in their favor. Whatever repentance their kingdom was paying, Belle felt as though centuries worth of wrong were being atoned for, and she was carrying quite a bit of it on her slender shoulders.
But, Belle had no options left and she kneeled on the cold floor for a matter of time she couldn't even know, just whispering prayers that bounced off the walls and back at her, filling the space with her voice over and over and over again.
She couldn't even hear when she wasn't alone anymore. The red-faced daughter of Lord Maurice looked up only as she heard a clatter and grunt of frustration. Belle turned her head, curls flying over her shoulder. She saw a walking stick several feet from the fallen figure of a man and she hurried to get up, moving her skirts to get her footing. "Are you alright?" she asked softly, not wanting to disrupt the peace of this place, but never wanting to neglect a visitor.
She picked up the stick and continued toward him, when she was finally able to distinguish the visitor as a 'him.' He pushed himself up and Belle caught a glimpse of his face. Like so many others, he was worn with age, and dust covered, maybe even weary from extensive travels. She couldn't possibly know anything about him, outside of the fact he was not from their village. If he was, she would have recognized him.
The stranger sat up slowly and looked at Belle with a sort of tired appreciation, "Quite fine, thank you, m'lady." His voice was high, higher than she anticipated, and a curtain of mousey brown hair surrounded his angular face. When he turned to fully face her, Belle extended the walking stick toward him.
He extended his hand, and accepted the stick, wrapping his long, slender fingers about it. Nails, with dirt caked under them, clicked against the wood and Belle released it, hoping that he would be able to stand on his own.
The man tottered to his feet, using his stick to help him get to his feet. "I'm glad you're alright, Sir," Belle always used terms of respect to refer to the visitors, and he smiled meekly at her, finally pushing himself up to his full height.
He might not have been much taller than her, but the stoop made their eyes level. Lady Belle was able to meet his eyes, and they shone a sort of caramel brown in the muted light. He seemed so much older than even his weathered face allowed, just by looking into his eyes. "I've held tell of you, Mother Dove," he bowed his head, attempting to lower himself in respect.
Belle put her hand on his shoulder, unafraid and unwilling to stop him from hurting himself for her sake. "Please, don't," she instructed softly, not wanting to demand – as that would be counterintuitive to her desires at the moment, but her gentle cajoling got him to abide by her wishes and he straightened out again, both hands planted firmly on the walking stick. "No one need bow to me when there are more worthy of respect here," her eyes fluttered toward the wall of pieces and offerings, all markers of those who had passed on the field and then through these walls.
"Ah, you are truly right," he said modestly, taking a halting step toward the wall. "So many deaths," she heard his tongue click against the roof of his mouth, perhaps not entirely disapproval, but certainly some kind of grief laced his voice.
Belle nodded, taking a deep breath through her nose, watching the stooped, small man go. She didn't want to intrude on a private moment, and he sounded so sad, looked so humbled… "I'll be making my way…" Belle trailed off, her nose still full of sniffles and eyes still red from tears.
The man raised one hand and shook it, "Please," he turned to look at her, "I have a story. I hear you are a keeper of stories?"
It was certainly true. Belle's heart, mind, and shelves were full of stories that echoed in her mind every evening. And looking at this man, despite her own heavy heart, she could not deny him the favor of listening. So, she held her head high and nodded, "What you've heard is true."
"Then you might wish to take a seat," he motioned to the floor, "it's a rather long story to tell."
In some ways, Belle wondered if this was the gods' answer to her prayers. Was this man coming to show her why she had to marry this young man from the mountains? Maybe he was giving her a way to answer her problems, a strategy not thought of. Whatever he was here for, Belle knew it couldn't be a coincidence, so, again, she tried to gracefully drop to the floor. It was a little bit less than decorous, but she managed. "I'd love to hear your story," she prompted.
The man continued to stand, gazing at the shrine. He was quiet for minutes that stretched on into infinity. She couldn't exactly see his face, but there was a gleam from candlelight that made it look as though his skin glittered. Belle blinked, unsure of what she saw, and then opened her eyes again, wondering if perhaps her own anxiety and the lighting were playing cruel tricks on her mind. "My son, my boy, he was summoned to fight." His voice was a mere whisper, and Belle had to lean further to hear him.
"What was his name?" she asked, hoping that perhaps this could be one of the final stories to add to her collection. Perhaps it would be over soon. And she wanted to make sure, if that were the case, if this was the last story, it would have to be complete. The man changed his grip on his staff, shifting his weight. "You should sit as well," Belle added, sensing the man's hesitancy to speak more. Some comfort from sitting, even on stone, might make him more open to speak with her.
He nodded, just slightly, and Belle watched as he moved to awkwardly sit. His leg was angled in such a way that she could almost see the sweat building on his brow. He was struggling, but when Belle moved to rise, he put his hand up, he did not want to accept her help, and Belle didn't want to alienate him. He sat, leg out and bent in what appeared to be some comfort to him, and the silence between them was palpable.
The man reached down and rubbed his knee, which seemed to be at a particularly odd angle. Belle tried not to stare, and she busied herself with her hands in her skirt. "When a child… is in danger," his voice was heavy, and he heaved a sigh, "do you know the lengths that a desperate father will go to?"
Belle sighed, nodding quietly. She thought about her father, alone at their dining table. He had reached out to a faraway kingdom, his last hope, and had only his daughter to trade in compensation for sacrifice. "I do," she answered simply, looking at this man, wondering how alike he and her father were, and what lengths they might go to in order to save a single child, or the metaphorical children of their holdings.
Again, the man was silent, though Belle could not know why, and he sat so still he might have been one of the statues that graced the entryway. "We," his voice almost cracked. "We ran."
Even though Belle had never stepped foot on a field of battle, she knew the punishment for deserters. Everyone knew. Her eyes went wide as her head snapped up, suddenly interested. The man dropped his chin, shaking his head almost in shame. "It did no help." Belle feared for the rest of the story would end like so many others. Boys, driven to fear and desperation, running and executed… Belle felt herself holding her breath as she looked at him, waiting on edge for what was going to happen.
"We were caught," he continued, "and my boy… his birthday… it was so soon, he'd be taken immediately." He shook his head.
Belle licked her lips, "What happened?" she prompted. His telling was so simple, there was not a detail to be found, and yet, Belle felt riveted. The way he told it captured her attention and the emotion in his voice clenched at her heart. His voice was so full of sadness, despair unlike one she had heard before – and Belle had heard so very much.
"I tried so hard to save him," his voice cracked, "but I lost him anyway," he whispered. He continued staring intently at the floor, as though it had just happened, and he was reliving every second of the pain of finding out his child was gone all over again. Belle, in a moment of perhaps poor judgment, rose up on her knees and scooted closer to him, within an arm's length and put her hand on his shoulder.
She squeezed lightly, and he looked so stunned that she would touch him, Belle recoiled for fear she had offended him by her action. "I'm so sorry," Belle finally stated, trying not to look too ashamed or embarrassed. This was a man in mourning, and having her look doe-eyed and apologetic without meeting his gaze, without giving him that recognition – she felt like it didn't give him the respect he deserved as the father of a victim.
"If there was a way," he started, not even really acknowledging her empathy, "to end this, Dove, would you?"
The question sat uncomfortably with her. "That's what we've been trying to do," she responded, feeling unprepared for the question as it was. She hoped the people knew they were not dragging this war on for profit or gain, as it had not benefited anyone. They were not living in luxury on the backs of their people. Belle settled back into a seated position, breathing deeply.
He shook his head at her. Clearly, she had misunderstood the question, and her ears burned with the realization. "If someone offered you a way to end it… a way to finally put all of this," he motioned, rather elegantly, she noticed, to the wall of tributes, "to rest in an instant, would you?"
Belle blinked. It seemed to be such a simple question. She could snap her fingers and this would be over. Tbat would require a miracle. Belle had ceased believing in the possibility of miracles when her mother had taken ill when she was a girl and there had been no fairy grandmother to heal her, and no wizard to grant her request for a cure. Miracles seldom showed up, particularly when one truly needed one. "I don't think that's possible," she admitted, unable to comprehend.
"There is a man... not quite a man, really," he informed her, "and he has all the power in the world."
"Rumplestiltskin," Belle supplied, without a question. She knew his name. It was impossible not to. He was a figure of fantasy, blown to mythic status by the nature of his trade: magic for a price. All magic, it seemed, had some repercussion. Belle was not sure she wished to tamper with magic.
The man in front of her nodded slowly, appraising her, and smiled just a little bit, in the oddest way. Belle could not tell whether he was pleased, or he wanted to do her harm. "You use the Dark One's name?"
She blinked. "Were I not to use his name what would I use? 'The Dark One?'" She shook her head, "I find it hard to believe he is as powerful as people believe him to be, or speak of him to be," she admitted, quite frankly to this man, "if he were that powerful to not even have his given name spoken, why hasn't he answered the prayers and wishes of my people?"
"That," the man cut her off with a wave of his hand, "is not how it is said the Dark One works." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, perhaps chiding the young woman for her ignorance on the subject. Belle flushed a deep pink. "His power – and service, derives from something much more special."
Something about his voice changed, Belle noticed, quirking her head to the side as it melodically lilted upward, taking on a – maybe not happier, but certainly more jarring tone for a moment. She closed her eyes, wondering if she was hearing the same grief stricken man that had just spoken so poignantly (despite so few words on the subject). Taking a deep breath, looking at him, she knew she must have just been imagining it. This was certainly the same man, and his voice could not have changed so drastically when he looked so meek and tired, burdened with grief. She tilted her head in response, unsure of what the man meant.
The stranger waited a moment before he spoke again. "There is tell of a dagger," he looked at her sharply, as if to gauge her reaction. "Enchanted to control the Dark One's loyalties." Magic. Belle frowned slightly, and the peasant man continued, "It is said to be hidden by the Dark One himself, so no one might find it."
"Then this hypothetical," Belle sighed, "is all but useless, isn't it?" she pointed out sadly. Her shoulders slumped, almost as though she had considered the idea of finding this dagger, of harnessing the power of a force beyond even her comprehension to save her people. Perhaps it was not just the desperation of a father that could bring a child home, or a kingdom to its knees.
The lame peasant giggled gleefully at her comment, flashing a smile that Belle swore was not his own, and his face shifted, it seemed. Perhaps it was her vision, maybe she was seeing things, but Belle thought, for a moment, his eyes shone yellowish green and skin glimmered. It was the same thing she had noticed earlier. Whatever was happening with the candles was certainly rubbing her the wrong way; she couldn't keep her head on straight.
"I know where it is," he practically hissed, crawling toward her. It was as though the pain in his knee was gone, and Belle felt her heart start to race in her chest. Who was this? What was going on? "I can tell you… for a price."
Belle scuttled backward, trying to be discreet, but also wary of this person. Perhaps he was a wizard, disguise and all to trap her – to curse her. Perhaps he had learned magic in order to avenge his son – the child lost to the war her father had been at the helm of for years.
"What would I do with it?" she asked, resolve on her face but trepidation pumping through her veins with each thump of her rapidly beating heart.
He rose, sans staff and walked slowly, so slowly around her. Belle remained seated, looking up at him, his features shifting, but indiscernible, almost as though a blurring, but transparent curtain were passing over him. "Why, control him!" he exclaimed, she could almost see teeth, she thought, in a wide smile that made her heart thump.
The veneer of a glimmer was fading, he didn't look like the man who had walked in – he was shining and dark, his clothes remained the same but his skin… it morphed… like scales, and his nails grew... Belle watched the transformation transfixed. "Don't you want to protect your people, Mother Dove?"
A stab of pain went through her heart. She so desperately wanted to save her people, but did she want to make an offer in front of these memories – did she want to sacrifice their dignity and sanctity by striking the iron here? "I trust my father," she said weakly, pushing herself to her feet. He was standing taller now, not the crooked beggar who walked in, and Belle took a step back, her skirts in her hand, defiant.
"Do you, Dove? Is that why you ran here after he announced your… betrothal?" He laughed, almost cruelly, and Belle's jaw dropped. How did he know?
"Who are you?" she shot back, not wanting to be cowed into agreeing to something by perhaps a rival or some subversive force inside of the castle. Belle was not naïve, she knew there were forces out there that would have liked to see Maurice's holdings turn into someone else's.
He giggled in response, "All in good time, Dearie!" He stood up, finally, tall and straight, and rolled his shoulders. There was such contradiction about him – and mystery. Belle had never been fond of the supernatural; it was not a widely accepted way to solve problems in their lands. Their people were dedicated to the gods, that was for certain, but wizards and sorcerers existed on the edges of their society, only the truly desperate went to them, and it was seldom for a price worth the gains. "What do you say?" he grinned, "The dagger awaits, m'Lady."
The bow he dipped, Belle could not be certain it was not mocking her.
It was tempting. She had to admit, if it even existed. The idea that a power so great, so all-encompassing could be in her hands, and the war could be over because of her… Belle had always wanted to be a hero. But, did she trust this wizard? Did she trust him to do right by her and her people?
The way he smiled, the way he laughed – without introduction, Belle shook her head. All of the tales that started in this way, Belle was certain ended in certain doom for everyone. Regardless of their position as morality tales by the monks and priests in her land, she had grown up too invested in them to ignore them now.
Her voice gained more confidence, and Belle stood up just a little taller as well. "I trust my father." She stepped back again, away from him as his face changed. Gleeful to serious, and her stomach twisted. This was not to be the end of it, Belle could see by his grave expression.
"Always a martyr, aren't you?" his voice rumbled, and Belle thought, only for a second, she felt the stone foundation of the temple shake. "One day… there will be no recourse to take… no father to trust – to hide behind."
Belle's pride crumpled. She did not hide. But, it was her father's war and he was the strategist, not she. "When that day comes," Belle announced, defiant and loud, bouncing off the tall, cold walls of this place, "I may start my search for this magic dagger. I'll even summon Rumplestiltskin myself, if that is what it takes."
"You best hope, Dove," the man clasped his hands behind his back, leaning in, as his voice dropped to a whisper, "it's not too late then."
Belle nodded, accepting his words, but looking at him so strongly with flared nostrils and wide eyes. "For what it's worth," Belle added, hoping to soothe whatever tension there was, to not incur a curse, "I am sorry… for your story."
"It's not my story," he spat, and Belle was so alarmed she jumped back. She had offended him, she saw, and he disappeared into a cloud of smoke, a great purple mass that made the air crackle and pop and smell sickly sweet of magic. This sorcerer, whoever he was, was not to be reckoned with, and Belle was again left alone.
The smoke dissipated, the halls were silent, and Belle looked at the flickering candles, completely undisturbed by the display. Her heavy breathing was the only sound she could hear.
Belle had a duty to do, a holding to protect, and she needed to inform her father. She needed to trust him to make the right choices with the information they had. Whether that was sending a party of men to look for this famed dagger, corresponding with 'the Dark One' himself, or perhaps just pressing forward with his own plans.
Whatever the case, Belle dropped into a low curtsey, they kind one used to pay respects to royalty, at the wall, and bowed her head, exposing her crown – an ultimate vulnerability and sign of respect. When she stood up again, she looked at the wall, so many men – both who she knew and didn't, that she needed to pay tribute to. That she needed to honor.
So, she picked up her skirts above her ankles and ran. She ran back to the fortress and to her father. Papa would want to know, and in that case, when he finally did, he would perhaps have something to bargain with – more than her or her marriage status, and maybe, finally, these walls could be a memorial to the dead, not a living and changing museum of the state of war.