Dearie of Mine
Snapegirlkmf
A/N: a companion piece to Do You Believe in Magic. A mother's love will endure anything for her child. Happy Mother's Day!
25 years earlier
The Enchanted Forest:
A baby's thin hungry wail echoed through the cottage, prompting a hung over and grouchy Malcolm to shout, "Shut that sniveling brat up before I do it for you, Alanna!"
"Go back to sleep, you sot!" snapped his wife of only two years. "He's hungry."
Malcolm held his ears and moaned. "My head's about to come off, woman, and the brat is making it worse!"
His wife rolled her eyes and threw back the covers. "Maybe if you didn't play that last hand of cards your head wouldn't be hurting, Malcolm!"
Her husband groaned pitifully. "Alanna, don't be devil me now!" Then he buried his head beneath his pillow.
The woman who was now known as Alanna, but who had been born Ariadne long ago, just shook her head in disgust. She hated to admit it, but she was growing tired of Malcolm's excesses—both with the drink and with gambling. She had to admit she might have been a fool thinking she could change his profligate ways by being considerate and understanding and thinking her love was enough to bridge the gap between them of culture, integrity, and intelligence. Though she had to admit Malcolm could be clever when he wished. Unless he was drunk. Then he had no more sense than a brainless sheep.
Ignoring her groaning lump of a husband, Ariadne swung her legs over the box bed and stood, going to the small wicker and wood cradle which hung from the roof beam. She had woven it herself, using her skills as a spinner and a sorceress, so her then unborn child would have a place of safety and beauty to rest in.
Her son was crying shrilly, and she bent and scooped him out of his softer than silk blanket, which was colored a beautiful lavender and blue, and yet another gift woven lovingly during her pregnancy. As she cuddled her beautiful boy to her and patted his back, she murmured softly in the dialect of her ancestors, "There now, my wee one, my dearie. Hush, sweet boy, Mama's gonna feed you."
Her son's face was all scrunched up and red from his howls, his fuzzy tuft of brown hair sticking up as if he'd been surprised or caught in mischief, she thought as she moved into the rocker by the stove and lit a lamp with a wave of one hand. Her magic had been drained by his birth, as she had cast a powerful protection charm over her newborn, for though people here knew her as Alanna the healer, she was actually one of four sisters—powerful enchantresses who guarded Mystic Wood, and in her time she had made a powerful enemy of a vindictive evil sorceress named Lillith Borgia. She knew Lillith was always looking for youngsters to corrupt or to drain of their magical Gift, and this little one would be prime for her deranged games, especially because he too was as strong in magic as his mama.
Ariadne undid the tie on her robe and opened it, singing a song she could recall her mama singing to her when she was child.
"Baby mine, don't you cry. Baby mine, dry your eyes . . ."
Her son's wail quieted as he quickly latched onto her and began to suckle, making small contented noises as he drank, bringing a chuckle out of her mouth as she was reminded of a pink sucking pig that her papa used to have while she was growing up on the family farm. As her son nursed, Ariadne eyed the little imp with loving violet eyes. The baby seemed to have inherited his papa's eyes, but they were nothing like Malcolm's. They were wide and trusting and innocent, full of curiosity and wonder. His hair was golden brown now, though it could darken as he grew.
She supported his fragile head with a hand, thinking how unbelievably precious this baby was to her, this miracle she had created with the man she had loved . . .and a part of her still did. Just as a part of her still waited for Malcolm to become a responsible adult and begin providing for his new family instead of depending upon his wife's doctoring to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table.
Her hand cupped the downy fuzz and she smiled down at the perfect wee babe and thought of how proud her sisters would be if they could see him. She felt a pang of loss so deep that her whole being wept silently, though her eyes remained dry. This is the life you have chosen, and the price that had to be paid, she reminded herself. Few were the enchantresses who chose a mortal life, or as close to one as she could get, over their magic. She had known when she had settled here and allowed Malcolm, the suave rogue, to catch her eye, that having a husband and a child would carry a steep price. It had. For she could feel her magic slowly draining from her, like blood from a wound. Yet whenever she gazed upon her son, she felt only overwhelming love and she knew that she would do it again if it meant holding him in her arms. Her son was worth every bit of trouble.
Lenore Athena, and Cassandra, I pray someday you will understand my choice . . . and look out for your nephew. For though I love my husband, I know what he is . . . and I cannot trust my babe to him. Feckless Malcolm will forget about him somewhere, caught up in the lure of a game of chance, the siren call of the drink.
She sighed as she removed the baby from her breast and put him up on her shoulder. He fussed and she patted his back, murmuring in the slow cadence of her ancestors, who had come from a world far far away, "Now, my wee dearie, ye must burp. Come on, Rumple!" She patted vigorously, no longer afraid she would hurt the baby as she had been in the beginning. In the two weeks since his birth, Ariadne had swiftly mastered the art of feeding, burping, and changing a child.
For Malcolm preferred to remain away, not even paying attention to his son unless he was woken up by the baby crying. She had tried to get her husband interested in being a father, tried to include him in helping her care for their son, but Malcolm was young and refused to take on any responsibility, saying that caring for a baby was woman's work, and that's what she should do. It made Ariadne despair and grow angry, for Malcolm had as much to do with the creation of this baby as she, yet he acted like a peacock, fluffing his tail feathers and strutting about, yet providing very little to his mate and chick.
"My sisters would say I made a poor bargain, dearie of mine," she cooed to the baby, who let out a belch. "Good lad!" she praised, knowing the baby couldn't understand but she continued to talk to him anyhow, as he was the only other person she could speak to this way.
Her son's eyes tracked on her, and she kissed his wee button nose and forehead. She loved how he smelled, of milk and the sweet honey and lavender lotion she had rubbed on him after his bath that night. She couldn't grasp how Malcolm refused to even hold him that much, declaring he smelled bad and was too squirm, like a worm. She shook her head. "Your papa has a bit of growing up to do, laddie. Yes he does that!" she scrunched her nose and made a silly face at the baby, who squealed with joy. She had already observed that for a mere two week old he was very alert and absorbed everything around him. He especially loved the sound of Ariadne's voice, and would look for her whenever he woke and she was not nearby, crying until she picked him up.
She cradled her son in the crook of her arm, then resumed feeding him, sighing when he began nursing again. She wished she dared contact her sisters to tell them the good news, but she dared not use her magic, for fear that the Spider Queen would sense it and find her and her offspring. With her magic ebbing, she knew she wouldn't be able to stand against Lillith, and she would die a thousand deaths before she let that bitch harm Rumple.
But perhaps she could send a letter? It would take a long time to reach Mystic Wood, but . . . it was better than nothing.
She leaned back in the chair, allowing the quiet peace of the night to steal over her, cloaking her in shadow and serenity. The moon hung low in the sky outside the window, and the sky was bright with sprinkled stars. She thought how when Rumple was older, she would show him the stars and teach him their names and show him how to find the constellations. Her son would grow up knowing everything she did, and she was as educated as any city university professor, despite growing up in Mystic Wood. She would make sure Rumple was also, and never suffered the taunts of others for being a "dumb peasant."
Softly, she hummed another old tune, then she said to her baby, "Dearie, when you're older, I'll tell you the story of the great spinners of our house, and those with the Gift of Prophecy. Your Aunt Cassandra is one, and your Aunt Athena is named after the legendary goddess Athena which our people worshipped long ago in another world. As I am named for another famous spinner, though she was a prideful mortal," Ariadne chuckled ruefully. "And so, in keeping with the legacy of my house, I named you Rumplestiltskin, after a famous spinner who could spin straw into gold," she told him.
Baby Rumple yawned, his mouth slipping from her nipple, his bright eyes at half mast. A drop of milk gathered at the corner of his rosebud mouth.
His mother gazed down at him lovingly. "One day you too shall spin magic, my son. I can sense it within you even now." With her eldritch Sight, she could perceive the magical core of the baby, it was like a small pool of golden energy within him, but she knew as her grew, so too would his power, and the fact that she could See and feel it at all told her he would be a powerful mage. "I will teach you what you need to know, but first I must make sure my enemies don't harm you."
It was why she had drained herself, and why she continued to do so, reweaving the protections about her cottage and her son and everything he touched. The protections were invisible to any eyes save those of another practitioner of the Art, and they made it seem as though her son was an ordinary child living in an ordinary home. She told no one of what she had done, not even Malcolm. She had learned early in their marriage that magic made her husband uncomfortable and most people here in the village did not approve of the arcane or anyone who used it. Ariadne had made great strides as the village wise woman, trying to dispel all the silly superstitions these village folk had about enchantresses, but she had only partially succeeded when she met Malcolm. After that, most of her time had been spent with him, and once she was married, she couldn't devote the time she once did to her cause.
Now her time and her magic would be devoted to making her son safe. She cradled the baby close, her own eyes drifting closed for a moment, and she slipped into a light doze, surrendering her weary body to the serenity of sleep. She had not known much peace since the birth of her babe, mostly because though Rumple was not a very difficult baby, his papa was another story, and all of Rumple's care fell upon her, as did the care of the cottage and meals. So she cherished this quiet time with her son, who snuggled contentedly in her arms, his sweet breath grazing her midriff.
The fire hissed and crackled in the stove, but the sleeping mother and child barely stirred. Outside the stars faded as the sun rose, bathing the land in glorious light, and tinting the sky with a panorama of colors. As the first delicate rays stroked her cheek, Ariadne blinked and awoke, only then realizing she had fallen asleep beside the stove.
"Oh goodness!" she hissed, automatically rocking with one foot, and relieved that even in sleep she had maintained her hold on her baby. "Ariadne, ye daft idiot, ye could have dropped your wee bairn on the floor!" she scolded herself, tightening her grip on Rumple involuntarily.
Her son whimpered and squirmed, she relaxed her grip slightly and he settled back into sweet repose. His long thick lashes, that many a girl would have envied, were like a coal smudge against the porcelain paleness of his cheek. Rumple had the softest skin, like the inner petal of a rose or the best skein of merino wool. Ariadne knew that meant his skin was also very sensitive, and she mixed up a variety of lotions to protect him from the sun, rashes, and insects. Malcolm complained the boy smelled like a flower garden, but Ariadne informed him tartly that was better than smelling like a still or a tavern, and her husband quickly shut his mouth and stalked out to the barn, where he would uncover the bottle he had hidden in the hayloft and drown his sorrows in drink.
She drew the blanket up around him, cocooning him in warmth, and though again that despite her husband's flaws, he had given her the best gift of all in her son. The baby was not just her legacy, but living proof that something good could come out of a wayward soul like Malcolm. She had loved Rumple from the moment she had heard his shrill wavering cry, and when the midwife had placed him in her arms, she knew her heart would never belong to her ever again. For she had lost it to the tiny baby nestled in her arms.
Malcolm had been boasting about his son before he saw him, once the midwife had told him he was a father, and drinking heavily while his wife labored. But the first glimpse he had of his son, all redfaced and wizened from the birth, he had turned up his nose and snorted, "Looks like a pink larvae."
"Don't you want to hold him? I think he's beautiful."
Malcolm drew back as if she held out a viper. "No! Holding babies is for women."
"Don't be afraid," she coaxed. "He doesn't bite!"
Malcolm put his hands behind his back. "I said no, woman! I'm going to celebrate at the bar." He squinted at his son. "Puny thing, ain't he? Got a cry like a kitten."
"He'll grow soon enough," his wife retorted, clearly upset at his lack of paternal feelings. She began examining his tiny feet and hands, marveling at the tiny toes and fingers and miniscule nails.
Malcolm rolled his eyes and left, pleased that he had thrown a son, and not a worthless girl, at least, even if the boy was ugly and puny.
"Don't listen to your papa, dearie," she cooed to her son. "He's stupid with drink and doesn't know what he's talking about. But I do. You're as beautiful as the summer stars, my Rumplestiltskin, sweeter than honey, and one day you'll spin straw into gold just like your mama, and create wonders with your magic." Her voice grew softer and the baby stared at her intently, as if truly listening and seemed mesmerized by her. "Never forget, dearie of mine, that I love you best of all. You are my heart, my soul, the best part of me. I love you to the moon and back, forever and always, with everything I am. Welcome to the world, little dearie."
Then she had brought her lips to the petal soft head, kissing him right before the soft spot, where his wisp of hair grew thin, sealing her vow with a kiss.
Gold and purple sparks drifted over the newborn, and he smiled and tried to grasp them in his small fists, waving them.
"My bright brave son. Someday you shall be a spinner beyond compare, not just of wool or straw, but of destiny. Someday . . ."
Baby Rumple sneezed, unimpressed, then yawned, knowing without knowing how that the arms that held him were filled with a love so great and true that nothing else in the universe could match it. It was the first time he had ever felt such all consuming tenderness and passion. But it would not be the last.
His mother rocked him gently, then began to sing softly, her voice low and melodious, like a nightingale, a song she could recall her mother singing to her and her sisters long ago.
"Baby mine, don't you cry.
Baby mine, dry your eyes.
Rest your head close to my heart,
Never to part, baby of mine.
Little one, when you play,
Pay no heed what they say.
Let your eyes sparkle and shine,
Never a tear, baby of mine.
If they knew all about you,
They'd end up loving you too.
All those same people who scold you,
What they'd give just for the right to hold you.
From your head down to your toes,
You're not much, goodness knows.
But, you're so precious to me,
Sweet as can be, baby of mine."
A/N: Lyrics from "Baby Mine" by Alison Krauss.