Following: South
A/N. This is a collection of three stories presenting different outcomes in answer to a question that woke me up at 3 a.m.: what if, after throwing Belle out of the Dark Castle, Rumple had realized the danger he'd put her in, and had followed to make sure she was safe? And what if, instead of going whichever direction that episode 2.11 takes her in (let's say it's east), Belle had gone a different direction?
She didn't understand him. Of course not; he'd given her no information, all these months, to go on. So when he threw her out it was shock, then confusion, she showed him, in those blue eyes that hid nothing. And when he still gave her nothing to understand, she finally turned to the response he'd wanted: anger. She gave him a thorough dress-down, noble lady that she was, before spinning on her heel and marching from the dungeon, from the castle, from his life, and expecting at every turn to be followed and pleaded with for forgiveness, because she assumed this was some fit of pique born of heat that would quickly die down. She didn't know it had come from the coldest place in his heart, how long it had festered there, because she didn't understand.
Did he owe her an explanation, one human to another? As he listened to her heels clacking rapidly across the tiles of the Great Hall, he thought to follow, only to give her the explanation she deserved and could take comfort in. . . and think better of him for. Even just "for my son" would help. From the moment she'd dropped from his ladder into his arms, he'd known he would have to rid himself of her, but even by then it was too late to do so painlessly. If only he hadn't been so weak as to let loneliness dictate his dealings that day in her father's castle-turned-battlefield, and all the rest of the days she'd stayed. If only he'd kept her in the dungeon until he could trade her for something more precious, as he had told himself—as he had lied to himself—that he intended to do, when he first demanded her as his price. But there was nothing more precious than Belle, and he was worse than an old monster: he was an old fool.
If he followed her, if he gave her the explanation she deserved, she would cling to him. She would begin to bargain with him: "If we do this, if we do that, we can stay together, find Bae together." She didn't understand the cost of magic, as he did. She didn't understand the cost of foolishness. No, the best gift he could give her was righteous anger, the only goad that would drive her away and keep her away. That would enable her to let him go and seek a safe happy ever after for herself. Maybe someday, with her grandchildren gathered around her for some grand occasion, she would remember the old monster with a puzzled fondness, but she would never understand.
Hours later, as he spun worthless straw into worthless gold, he remembered she'd gone without her bag, without her cloak, without her clothes, without money, without a map. . . . without a weapon to protect herself. There were sudden breaks in the road that led from the Dark Castle down the mountain to the nearest village, and she'd only traveled that road once. There were jagged cliffs and wild things; there were evil queens and other enemies of the Dark One that would snatch at any opportunity to take revenge or leverage power. He'd sent her away with less than she'd had when she arrived. Such cruelty was pointless.
He had to follow. Just to provide her enough to take care of herself.
It was not difficult. Her essence was burned into his memory and would remain there long after she had passed from this life and into the next. He packed her bag with her clothes, money enough to travel the world, and a charm that would keep her from harm. Then he followed.
He found her at nightfall, cold and confused beneath a barren tree. She was a noblewoman; she didn't know how to read the stars to find her way home, how to forage, how to shelter, and he was an old, cruel fool for throwing her out like this. Cruel to her, foolish to himself, because if he'd thought of her protection as he was plotting his own, he wouldn't have put them into this position. He could have set her up somewhere safe and comfortable. He could have sent her away with a clear conscience.
But now he'd have to do something about it. He sat in a distant tree as he watched her and thought. She shivered. If only he'd thrown her out in the autumn, she would have fallen leaves with which to make a bed. Her stomach rumbled. If only he'd thrown her out in the summer, she could pluck fruit from these trees. But no, he'd thrown her out in the spring, when rains had turned the road to mud, and now the hem of her dress was wet and she would die of a chill or starvation if the wild things didn't get to her first. How could he be so short-sighted? So self-absorbed, that he didn't think of these things?
She sat among the roots of the barren tree and removed her broken shoes. She tucked her wet feet under her skirts, made a pillow of one of the roots and tried to sleep, but every nightbird call, every leaf rustle kept her from rest.
There was only one thing for it. He conjured a cottage in the woods, made it bright and tight and welcoming, and he conjured a disguise for himself, and he leapt from his perch and approached her, slowly, hobbling on a stick, as he so well remembered how to do. He made certain to be noisy about it, awakening her before he'd come too close. Still, her eyes flashed fear in the moonlight until he'd stepped out into the clearing and she could see what approached her: a very old woman, heavy with a basket and a hunched back.
"Hello, my child," he stopped and waited for a sign of acceptance before he came closer. "However did you come to be in this predicament?"
She slipped her shoes back on, watching him warily. "Hello, old mother. I, uh, I've lost my way."
"That much is clear. Have you no chaperone? No carriage about?" When, wisely, she didn't answer, he continued in his grandmother voice, "You needn't fear me, child. I'm far too gone in years to be a threat to anyone. The animals told me you were here and needed help, else I never would have left my hearth to wander in the woods."
"The animals told you?" She doubted the claim.
"They told each other, and I eavesdropped."
This she could accept; still, she stood, ready to flee, not yet trusting. He supposed he had Regina to thank for that. . . and himself.
"I too am alone, since fever took my husband and wanderlust took my son, years ago." He inched forward, careful to remain in the moonlight so she could see his movements clearly. "Someday, I suppose, I shall have to move into the village, where the sanitation will likely finish me, if the soft living doesn't take me first. But for now, I prefer to remain in my home." He pointed with his walking stick. "It's just over there. A wonder that you overlooked it."
Belle dutifully glanced in the direction he pointed and her forehead creased in confusion and suspicion.
"Will you come, or are you quite comfortable sleeping on that old tree?" He raised a single finger to stay her answer. "Before you decide, I should perhaps warn you, since you seem a stranger to this wood, that it was a long winter and the wolves are hungry. As I am," he turned away from her, moving toward the cottage. "As, the growling of your stomach tells me, you are." He kept moving, not looking back.
A twig snapped, informing him she followed. He smiled slightly.
Upon arriving at the cottage, he entered first—she remained yards behind, not yet trusting—and left the door open so she could see inside: the comfortable chairs, the welcoming lantern, the bubbling kettle hung over a gentle fire, the table laid with a platter of bread and cheese. A kid bleated from the front yard and he shooed it away. "No, Ruth, you can't come in. Go find your mother."
This made up Belle's mind, as he knew it would: she assumed one who is kind to animals must also be kind to humans. She would learn better someday, but for now, she followed him inside, pausing at the threshold. He let her take her time, busying himself with stirring the contents of the kettle, laying another log on the fire, setting another place at the table. He put a smaller kettle on the fire to heat water, sliced the bread, laying a slice on each plate. Still she remained in the doorway.
"Close the door, please, or Ruth will come in. You can leave it unlatched if you prefer."
She closed the door.
He carried a bowl to the kettle and ladled out a fragrant stew, carried it to the table and set it beside a plate. He filled the second bowl and carried it to the table, and still she hadn't moved. He drew up a second chair to the table—the arrangement of the furniture suggested that while at one time, two had lived here, only one now occupied the house. He set his walking stick aside, placing it in easy reach, careful of it as one who had long needed such an aid would be. He remembered that detail well.
"Well, d—child, as you can see, there's enough for two. Join me if you like, or continue to block my door, it's up to you, but I can hear your stomach grumbling from over here." He dropped tea leaves into two mugs and filled them with water, carried them to the table. "My name is Elsbeth, but those who buy from me in the village call me Mother." He seated himself and slathered cheese on the bread. "You needn't share your name, if you don't want to. Or give me a false name; it's all the same to me."
He took a large bite of the bread, and that broke her. She entered, withdrew the empty chair from the table and started to sit, then hesitated. "I'm muddy. I'm sorry, I made a mess of your floor."
"I suppose you didn't notice my shoes are no cleaner." He shrugged, closing his eyes in pleasure as he chewed the bread. "Life is messy." He smiled as he swallowed. "Naomi produces the most delicious milk and cheese." He spooned up some stew, blew on it to cool it. "The stew is thin; for that I apologize. It was a long winter." He swallowed the stew with another smile of contentment. "Ah, but the right spices can make one forget the lack of meat." He pointed his spoon at her bowl. "Eat, or not, it's up to you, but there is enough for a second bowl if you like the first."
She ate.
She helped him clean up, afterward, and accepted his invitation to sit beside the fire. He fought the temptation to conjure a hand spindle, lest he reveal too much, but his hands needed something to do so he brought forth knitting needles and mended a frayed sweater. "I have an extra pair of needles. Do you wish to knit?"
"Oh. . . no, I. . . never learned." She folded her hands in her lap, awkwardly, as though suddenly aware of their uselessness. "Thank you. For the food, the fire." She shivered and pulled her chair closer to the fire.
He clicked his tongue and set the knitting aside. "Old fool that I am," he muttered. "I forgot about the condition of your clothes." He walked to the back of the cottage, drawing aside a curtain to reveal a small room containing a bed and a wardrobe. He took some garments and a rough towel from the wardrobe and laid them on the bed, then returned to the main room, where he took up his knitting again. "Go in and change into something dry. My clothes may be a bit large for you, but they're warm. You can take the kettle of water with you and wash off that mud."
She started to object, but his tone indicated he would brook no argument. "Your feet, dea—child, at least wash your feet." He shook his head sadly. "Those shoes have done more damage than good. I have a pair of sturdy boots beside the bed. Take them."
Belle stood, but hesitated. "I—can't pay you."
"You will," he said. "In the morning, before you leave, you will help me plant my garden. That will be payment enough for second-hand clothes and watery stew."
She seemed satisfied with this deal. Closing the curtain behind her, she changed out of her wet clothes. He could hear her sigh as she splashed water into the basin; as she washed, he could hear her hum a tune she used to hum while scrubbing the floors of the Dark Castle. He closed his eyes in longing.
He could keep her here. He could reveal himself and she would laugh at the clever prank and they could stay here, in this warm cottage, just the two of them, safe from evil queens, forever, as she had promised. She wouldn't resist: she loved him. Besides, she had nowhere else to go. He'd known that from the moment he escorted her from her father's castle: her family and friends would never welcome her back. Knowing he'd made her a pariah, didn't he owe her a home? Wasn't he obligated to keep his promise of forever?
He tossed the knitting aside, tented his fingers to think more clearly. He could bring his books and potions from the Dark Castle: nothing to it, just a snap of his fingers and he could continue his work here. It would be weeks, maybe months, before Regina realized he wasn't coming back to the Dark Castle, and though she would search, she would never find him here. The most powerful mage in the world, living in a peasant's cottage—ridiculous.
They would live quietly—he would accept no more deals; he would stop his flitting about. They would live comfortably. Happily. And in that quiet and comfort he would finish his work. Not the curse, no; he'd stop pursuing that wretched idea. It was all a trick of the Blue Fairy's, wasn't it? A curse would never take him to Bae; it would only entrench him and entrap him in his own evil. All the time he'd wasted on the curse. What a fool.
Not a curse. He'd bottle true love and then he'd find a way to use it to bring Bae home. Wasn't it a known fact that true love was more powerful than any curse? True love would change him, and then Bae would want to come home, and they'd find a way to be a family again. Bae would love him again. It would be safe to love Belle. Rumplestiltskin would have them both. With true love's magic he would be released from the Dark One, free to be a man again, a brave, strong, gentle man. Husband and papa: that would be enough for him. That would be everything.
She emerged from behind the curtain, her hair bound back, her face red from a thorough scrubbing. She'd changed into the faded dress he'd left for her. "Belle," she said. "My name is Belle."
"Thank you, child."
She slept in the bed. He slept in his chair beside the fire, claiming his old bones preferred it. She didn't believe him but she didn't argue. She awoke before he did and he found her in the garden, poking holes in the earth, dropping in seeds. Gardening was one of the practical skills she'd learned in her time at the Dark Castle. She'd figured it out from books; he'd been away too much to teach her. He wouldn't make that mistake again.
They planted the garden together, tended the goats, ate bread and cheese and porridge for breakfast. As he washed the dishes she said she would take a walk to get her bearings. He provided her a warm cloak and a muff, for though it was spring there was a chill in the air, and her hands were already rough and red from months of scrubbing the floors of the Dark Castle. When she returned from her walk he would give her a salve to heal her hands.
He baked a fresh loaf of bread, cut potatoes and carrots to strengthen the stew, poured goat's milk into a pitcher and set it on the table. They would have a fine lunch when she returned.
He sat beside the fire and knitted, wondering when he should remove the spell and reveal himself to her. Probably soon. Stale pranks loose their humor rapidly. As soon as she returned, then.
He wondered when he should tell her his grand plan. Perhaps tonight, after supper, as they rested beside this fire, content in each other's company. He would begin by telling her about Bae. That was one promise long overdue.
As soon as she returned, he would give her the truth he owed her. But first, he would confess he loved her. As soon as she returned.
At noon he went in search of her, assuming she'd gotten lost, or more likely, distracted.
At suppertime he used magic to find her, miles down the road. And then he understood she wouldn't return. He sat on a cloud and watched her walk away from his grand plans. From him.
He would tell her now. Drop down from the cloud, reveal himself, drop to one knee and tell her everything. He stood on the cloud, preparing to jump, but he was interrupted by the rumbling of carriage wheels.
The carriage caught up to her and halted. The little door swung open and a man and a woman hopped out, their clothes identifying them as nobles from the North Country, where Belle had once said she had cousins. The way her arms flew open for them, the way they kissed her cheeks and laughed in delight identified them as her kin or friends. They way they swooped her into their carriage, the driver snapping the reins to urge the horses into a trot, identified them as her new guardians. Her new family.
He threw a lightning bolt at the carriage.
Such an old, wretched, cursed fool. He waved a hand, turning himself back into the thing he was before, half-man, half-imp. Beast. Dark One.
At least, she no longer needed a home.