Holy hell, this chapter wound up being longer than I thought. Just shy of 8k words. I thought about splitting it up into 2 segments, but neither section had the impact I wanted it to go for, and I'm kind of dead set on trying to end the story on an even 40 chapters-note, so I appreciate you bearing with me in terms of chapter length, as I have much left to wrap up and hope to do future chapters justice. Anyways, enough rambling from me. I hope that you are continuing to enjoy the story for what it is!
CHAPTER 32
OH, God. Oh, God. She was not doing this. She was not doing this. She. Was. Not. Doing. This. Oh, but surprise! She was! Claire had no idea how she had managed to talk herself into this stupid bloody mess as she stalked after Gaston down the same woodland path that he had taken to reach the front gates of his friend's castle.
She huffed as she pushed the hood of her cloak down, running her slim fingers through her dark hair. She tugged the thick woolen cloak around her tighter as she walked at a brisk pace, heading towards the Prince's castle.
Why? Why was she so stupid?
A part of her wished that she could have followed Gaston's instructions and done as he'd bid her and stayed put, but her stubborn legs would not follow his order.
What had gotten into her? She wished she could tell herself.
The brisk cold winter air that whipped her hair off her shoulders, coming loose of its plait and pinked her cheeks felt strangely warmer than usual, though that could have just been the blood rushing to her cheeks, as all the while she walked, she thought of their kiss, how steeped in passion it seemed to be.
Before she could contemplate turning around and disappearing into the thicket of the Wolves' Woods, a flash of red appeared out of the corner of her eyes in a hazy blur.
She squeaked from the sudden sight and halted in her tracks.
With a few blinks and a brush of her long dark hair, she looked across the way and her blood curdled to ice in her veins. A single tear left her sore and stinging eyes at the strange but gruesome sight in front of her and as she looked at the strange vision of a cloaked stranger dragging Gaston Dupont's lifeless body, what was left of him, it felt as though her heart was ripped out from her, causing the stranger's head to whiplash sharply in her direction.
"Gaston!" Claire screamed over the whipping of the harsh winds of the forming blizzard around her, suddenly oblivious to anything but the bloodied and motionless form of the man she was growing to care for, perhaps even love, laying dead and being dragged in the snow.
Her screaming sobs sounded in her own ears even louder than the shout of the hooded stranger, who clamped a hand over their ears and from underneath the hood of his or her cloak, shot Claire a reproachful look, though she could not see the man's face, she heard him scoff and her overactive imagination could picture him rolling his eyes at her.
"Quiet, one more outburst like that, and I'll have your tongue that must be hung in the middle so it can wag at both ends engorged," the stranger barked in a hoarse voice, his tone sounding reedy. "Do you want to draw the attention of every wolf that lives in these damned woods, girl?" the stranger snapped.
It was a man, judging from the sound of his voice, though what the stranger wanted with the mangled corpse of Gaston's body, Claire hadn't the faintest idea, nor could she let this man take him.
Claire did not recall what happened next, only that the strength in her legs began to fail her, and only the strong grip of the cloaked stranger as the man darted forward with an alarming speed, appearing almost magically close that she abhorred it, held her in place.
She did not remember her chest hyperventilating or her soul plunging into a dark abyss as she looked upon the handsome soldier's mangled corpse. The image of the life that the two of them could have built together came crashing down on her like a tidal wave.
The stranger finally thought to cover her sight with a calloused hand and a numb embrace, and then her tears came pouring, showing no signs of stopping anytime soon.
"Come back…" she whispered, her voice muffled against the thick woolen fabric of the man's robes, her throat hollowing. But the soldier's body remained still and lifeless on the blood-stained snow beneath them. "Don't leave me, Gaston, you...you promised me you would come back…" Her shoulders heaved in pain.
How wrong could it be to wish that Gaston was not dead?
There was no denying she ached for him.
"Don't rid of me," she pleaded. He had promised he would return. And return he had to, in whatever form, whatever shape, Claire would welcome Gaston.
"Haunt me, ravage my dreams, haunt my nightmares if you must, but come back," she pleaded, her words escaping her lips as a hoarse, choking sob.
Claire squeezed her eyes shut as the thick scents of blood and death wafted their way through her flaring nostrils, and she swallowed down hard.
It was all she could do not to vomit. After a second, the stranger relinquished his grip on her and stepped back, proceeding to continue to drag the body of Gaston Dupont through the snow, all the while mumbling a series of curses under his breath that made her cheeks flush.
Panicked, not wanting to let this stranger make off with Gaston's body to do God only knew what, she frantically darted forward.
Claire was amazed she could even summon the strength to move and firmly planted the heels of her boots into the snow, anger quickly overtaking her grief, at least temporarily, for which she was grateful.
"What are you doing? Where are you taking him?" Claire demanded, trying to keep her voice as level-headed as possible, though even the hooded stranger, whose details of his face she still could not quite make out could not be seen beneath the long hood of his cloak. "Why do you want him?" she asked in a voice that was choking and positively trembling with emotions amid her hysteria, as nearly frozen tears slipped from the edges of her burning eyelids.
It was a moment or two spent in uncomfortable silence before the stranger spoke and shattered the silence between the two of them.
"There is no time for talk, child," the hooded man said brusquely. "I'm leaving with him into the heart of the Wolves' Woods, with or without you, and you can either come with me and allow me to heal your handsome hero, or you can stay out here and be food for the wolves and go the same way that he did. Your choice, pretty little poppet," he answered in a low voice that Claire could only describe as a low, vicious sounding hoarse growl.
"L—leaving? Wh—what? I—I don't understand, sir. I—into the woods?" Claire repeated, baffled. With wolves stalking every crevice of the forest and no weapons?
The hooded stranger did not look like he had any weapons on him, save for a dagger he wore in a sheath on his right side, and a relatively large one at that, with a carved hilt.
She blinked owlishly at the weapon and finally managed to tear her gaze away from it, enough to catch the cloaked man staring.
"Aye, lass. Come. Quickly now." Without waiting to be asked, the hooded stranger strode forward and tugged Claire's hand, and then proceeded to wind his gloved hand around her arm. "Stay close to me, you wouldn't want one of your pretty legs to be torn off by wolves because you failed to stick close by my side, now would you? Keep close to me and be quiet," he ordered in a tone that suggested to Claire it would be wise not to argue with the man.
Claire hesitated for a second, biting down on her windburnt bottom lip, and reluctantly allowed herself to be led deeper and deeper into the heart of the Wolves Woods by this strange man.
She could only hope that she was not making the biggest mistake of her life by choosing to put Gaston's life in his hands…
THE cloaked man led Claire through the thick brush of trees for what seemed like an eternity to Claire as she struggled to keep pace with the man's surprisingly lengthy and quick strides, given the fact that he was hauling Gaston's body behind him. The longer they trudged through the snow-covered woods, the denser the forest became. Claire silently marveled that the man carrying Gaston's weight was able to keep his gait steady.
"Why are you helping him? H—he's dead, monsieur, there is no way he can be helped," Claire asked, though it hurt her to speak the words, to be standing here just breathing as she looked at the cloaked stranger through her tears, clutching at a stitch in her side, heaving to catch her breath as she struggled to maintain an even pace to match the men.
She glanced curiously, sideways out of the corner of her peripherals, which was difficult for her as her eyes were filled with tears.
Claire watched in awe and surprise as grief twisted the cloaked stranger's face into a familiar shape, a look that Claire recognized well, a look of feral anger.
"Why?" She grimaced as her voice trembled with emotion. It was all Claire could ask as she furiously blinked back her tears.
"Why do you want to know?" the man answered again in a hoarse voice that had gone dangerously soft and quiet. "So, you can steal my secrets for yourself, missy?"
"I…no…" Claire stammered, utterly flabbergasted.
She held her tongue on an answering insult, for she figured it would do her no good to snap at perhaps the one man who might be able to help her and especially, help him. She shivered as the stranger was looking at her with eyes so cold that her blood turned to ice in her veins.
And the way that he was almost smiling at her mysteriously was enough to make her shiver. It was as if he was looking at something he liked very much and meant to possess one day.
Claire's chest swelled with an instant distrust of this vagabond, thinking that this man, whoever he was, was mocking her, and her dislike for him was almost imminent.
"I—I meant no offense, monsieur," she blurted out suddenly, coming to a halt just behind the cloaked man, all the while struggling not to look at the man's body, for fear of the bile rising in the back of her throat.
At this rate, not looking at the soldier's mangled corpse with half of his face gone and throat nearly ripped out was all that she could do to not vomit at the truly disgusting, gory sight.
"Please help me," she begged. "Y—you must," she pleaded, not caring that she sounded like a petulant child.
She stiffened as the stranger lifted his chin, eyes narrowing as he turned his head to the side to look at her.
"Must," he repeated slowly as if tasting the word on his tongue. "Such a strong word, a forceful word, milady. How very…French of you, I guess I would call this."
Claire breathed out slowly and tried to quell her racing heart as she furiously blinked back her near frozen tears.
She took several steps towards where the man stood in the snow, seemingly not of her own will.
"Life has not treated me very gently growing up, I'm afraid, monsieur. And my words in turn will never be gentle. I am sorry if I—I have offended you in any way, I meant no offense."
"Offend me?" The hooded man laughed, a bitter laugh to himself as the man threw his head back and stepped closer towards her, closing the gap between them, seeming to forget Gaston Dupont's lifeless body a moment. "No, no, my lady, I find that in your own way, you rather delight me, despite your force and your misguided notion of what you think it means to be ill-used."
The stranger stared deeply into her face, and for just a moment, Claire forgot that he was a good two heads taller than her, that she was the weaker of them both.
For a moment, the man with no name loomed over her, swallowing Claire wholly and overpowering her.
"You ask me why I save him? Because, as it so happens, mademoiselle, that your soldier boy here, your handsome hero is only mostly dead. There's a difference between mostly dead and all dead, it's very subtle but I can work with mostly dead, if not too much time has passed at the time of the...of the incident," the stranger murmured, his voice sounding much quieter and more subdued than before. "And why I save him when he's done nothing for me? I have my own reasons for doing this for him," he answered airily in a cold and dismissive sounding tone.
"Which are?" Claire fired back, without missing a beat, though she was unable to quell the note of hope from her voice, much less stifle the cry of hope that escaped past her lips at the revelation that Gaston was somehow, by a miracle of God, still hanging onto his life by a thread.
"My own," the stranger snapped in a clipped, biting tone that suggested to the baker's daughter that the topic was not to be pursued by Claire any further.
Claire clenched her jaw and did not flinch back.
Slowly, she nodded her head, fresh tears blurring the edges of her vision and making it difficult for her to get a read on the man's expression to see whatever he was thinking.
"Help him, please, I will do anything that you ask of me and help you however I can, monsieur, I beg you," she begged, with tears in her eyes.
She furiously blinked her lids, determined not to let the salty liquid flow from her eyes and down her cheeks, thinking that the soldier would have wanted her to be strong, if not for him, then for herself.
Claire sighed a ragged gasp and dug the heels of her boots deeper into the ground, never once reverting her gaze from him.
For a moment, there was perfect stillness between the baker's daughter and the stranger. Neither of them seemed able to breathe, much less move a muscle at all.
And then, the cloaked man sighed, and the heavy stillness between him and the baker's daughter was lifted. He turned from Claire slowly and stooped low to pick up the man's legs, grunting with the effort to continue dragging Gaston's corpse the rest of the way.
At last, they came upon what appeared to be the hooded stranger's dwelling that was nestled within the heart of the Wolves' Woods.
Claire gaped, her mouth going slightly slack as she took in the unexpected sight of a small hut, little more of a shack, really, that was sitting with overgrown vines on the bank of a curving but frozen over a stream.
The walls that had been erected were a strange combination of various barks from different types of trees and the remnants of what looked to Claire suspiciously like the remains of an old tent.
The thatched roof at least looked sturdy enough and would keep them sheltered from the worst of the blizzard. So small was this stranger's abode that Claire was not sure all three of them would be able to fit comfortably within its walls.
"Th—this is your home?" Claire breathed out, unable to help to comment on the house.
Her mysterious escort through the woods did not offer a response to her question. The man simply grunted wordlessly by way of response and motioned to Claire to follow as he hurried to drag Gaston's body into the hut and out of the cold bitter winds of the raging blizzard.
Claire hesitated and stared at the strange little hut for only a fraction of a second, but after a moment, the young woman managed to come back to herself a bit, and warily, she allowed herself to enter the darkened home.
Once she was inside and her eyes had a chance to adjust to the darkness, Claire found little within its walls to calm her fears.
A pit had begun to churn within her stomach as the light that was cast by what barely passed as a hearth was far too dim to see anything properly. However, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she quickly ascertained that her benefactor whom she had stumbled across was well practiced in not only the arts of healing but all manner of Dark magic, as well.
Claire's stomach clenched in fear at the thought of what she had brought Gaston into, wishing that there was another way to save the man's life, but she knew that there was no other way.
She had no other choice. She could not mend his wounds on her own, for she had never seen injures that were as severe as Gaston's, and if this hooded stranger could help her, then Claire was going to have to cast aside all doubts and aspirations of the man's personality and learn to overlook the more questionable attributes of this hooded stranger's curiosity, whatever those happened to be.
"Set him down on the bed, just there, my dear," the man spoke in a commanding tone without ever raising his eyes as he had darted towards a stack of shelves and was rummaging through them, gathering necessities and spare supplies that he would need to tend to Gaston.
Claire nodded in response to his order, though the man could not see it as his back was turned, doing as she was bid, and began making her way through the cramped room.
As she struggled and grunted with the effort to drag Gaston's body towards the bed, she could not help but look up towards the string of dozens of dried-out objects that hung in jars of all shapes and sizes from the ceiling.
Claire grimaced and pulled a face of disgust, scrunching her nose.
She hoped that whatever was in those glass jars had once been vegetation of some sort, and not any kind of animals.
Crockery and dusty jars were littered throughout every nook and cranny of the simple home's interior, and the unmistakable smell of spices hung in the air and the faint scent of what smelled like stew cooking over a cauldron that hung on a hook over a fire wafted through Claire's flaring nostrils.
The scent made her mouth water, though she shoved aside the thought of food from her mind.
She hardly noticed it as she peered back over her shoulder to look at her soldier. She could not allow herself to become distracted or stricken with fear or curiosity.
Claire angrily shook her head to herself, her jaw cut like steel, and silently chastised herself for her foolishness, vowing to remain focused on seeing Gaston nursed back to health, no matter the cost.
Once Claire managed to make her way towards the bed that was little more than a pile of quilts shoved in a corner, she grunted with the effort to lay him down gently. She very nearly cried out as she thought she saw his body gave a spasmodic twitch, but the man moved no further after that.
Neither did the man open his eyes as Claire dropped to her knees beside him, her face twisted and contorted in grief as she took in the mauled sight of the man's once handsome visage.
Her brow creased with worry, she clung to Gaston's hand perhaps more to steady Gaston than to comfort him, if he could even feel her presence somehow, in his half-alive state. She wasn't sure if the man knew she was there and held fast to the hope that he could feel her.
Claire did not realize that her fingers were shaking or that she was clinging to Gaston's hand like a lifeline. Claire's breaths hitched in her throat as she fought the battle to stem her tears and felt like she was failing as her host finally settled in on her side.
The man had lowered the hood of his cloak, revealing a thick tuft of greying hair that was still dark, cut short, and neat.
He rested a surprisingly clean-looking cloth upon the threadbare mattress that was little more than blankets.
Claire adjusted Gaston's form as best as she could by pulling the man's injured arm up to his shoulder, where a good chunk of flesh had been ripped right out of him.
Bile rose in her throat at the gore, but she did not release her firm grip on the man's hand, as she stared with a sickening sense of dread at the knives and other sharp instruments that the rag contained. Her gasp caught in her throat as her overactive imagination began to work on overdrive, imagining the tools' purpose.
"Worry not, Mademoiselle Renaud," the gentleman said, his accent slightly heavy as he caught onto Claire's fears. "Your fears are unfounded here," he explained, his dark brown eyes never quite leaving the work in front of him. "I will do my very best for your…handsome hero, dear."
He promised Claire this as if he already knew Gaston, and it did not escape her attention that this man, whoever he was, seemed to know her identity already.
Claire slowly nodded her head and swallowed down hard past a lump as it formed in her throat and her chest constricted, rendering her feeling rather lightheaded. She felt as though she wanted a deeper connection with this stranger who harbored a seemingly vested interest in restoring Gaston to full health, though how he managed to do that, she had not the faintest idea.
"What is your name, monsieur?" she whispered shyly.
She drew in a breath and held it as the man slowly swiveled his head to look at her, and she could see just how exhausted the stranger from the woods really was.
Something in his life was troubling him greatly, and Claire had a sinking feeling that it was not Gaston Dupont's current condition. He appeared as though he had not slept.
Yes, now that she was getting perhaps her first good look at the man since running into him, he was exhausted. His brow was creased with deep lines of distress. She did not know what could be causing such anguished despair, but she wished that she could help him.
If this man really could save Gaston, she wanted to try to help this man in whatever way she possibly could.
Though there was a part of her that regretted allowing this person anywhere near Gaston, Claire recognized, as she continued to harbor a twinge of caution towards the stranger, cautiously eyeing the jars hanging on the ceiling and wondering what their contents contained.
Almost as if sensing her apprehension, the man paused his initial examination of Gaston's mostly-dead body and smiled somewhat reassuringly at her, though it looked strained, as the skin under his eyes had begun to crinkle.
"Gold, milady," he offered, smiling. "Call me Gold."
AFTER making their initial introduction, Gold wasted no further time in getting to work cleaning Gaston's numerous wounds, starting with the less serious ones first. The man worked quickly and steadily, certain of his expert skills and his diagnosis of the man's hurts.
Claire quietly took on the role of the strange man's assistant. Before she realized her trembling hands had started to provide the help the older monsieur needed to do what he could for Gaston, she was gathering whatever instruments were needed at the ready, discarding soiled bandages, and holding back layers of festering skin. It almost made her retch, but she didn't.
She knew Gaston would have wanted her to be strong. For a moment, Claire did not think that she was afraid. There was a sense of purpose for her now, helping him.
Gaston had kissed her, and he had promised her that he would return, and return, she would hold him to that, in whatever way, shape, or form, she would welcome him.
She was not going to allow him to give up so easily. He'd been willing to sacrifice his own life for Belle and the Prince so that they would be safe from D'Arque's wrath.
Her blood boiled in her veins at the thought of the owner of the insane asylum and how the man had gotten away, but she could not allow her anger to cloud her judgment. Not when Gaston depended on her keeping a level and clear head to help him heal.
She was not going to give up and not going to allow him to quit. He sacrificed himself to protect those closest to him, and this time, it was Claire's turn to fight for Gaston.
As evening gave way to the darkness of night and the blizzard's winds outside howled and almost shook the foundations of the man's simple hut, Gold finally finished stitching Gaston's arm closed, laying aside his blades and needles and set to work mending his throat.
Claire was not at all surprised by this point to see tendrils of soft golden light start to emanate from the man's fingertips. She'd surmised that he was some sorcerer delved in Dark arts, judging by the jars on the ceiling.
Though she could only hope this sorcerer if he happened to be one, would manage to save Gaston's life. She watched with widened eyes as the soft golden furls of light snaked their way around the man's ripped-out throat and seemed to be mending his broken flesh.
Her jaw dropped as within a matter of minutes, he looked more or less as good as news, save for a few bruises. The wound on his arm, Gold quietly explained, would need a bit longer to heal, and would have to be looked after.
He swabbed the man's arm with a dark, foul-smelling salve that caused Claire to crinkle her nose and pinch it shut with her thumb and forefinger as he pressed a clean cloth towards Gaston's arm and set about making a makeshift bandaged sling for him.
Claire gingerly settled a patchwork, worn quilt around Gaston's frigid-cold body, exhaling nervously through her nose.
The worry and fear quickly returned to her tenfold as she noticed his lips were still an unnatural blue and his skin was far too pale from all the blood loss.
Monsieur Gold offered Claire what she guessed was supposed to be an understanding smile and sat on the edge of the mattress, letting out a tired-sounding groan as he rose to his feet.
"It's going to be a long night, Renaud," he said softly, looking like he was of a mind to reach out and pat Claire's shoulder, but thought better of it, as his arm fell limply at his side as he stretched and rolled his wrists to crack them, easing the many aches. "You're welcome to take off your cloak and set it over by the fire to warm. You will be more comfortable that way," the man suggested, and it was only now that their work on Gaston was mostly finished that Claire caught the faintest lilt of a Scottish accent to the man's soft voice. Never once taking her eyes off Gaston's still face, Claire nodded. The man's logic was undeniable to her.
"Perhaps you're right, monsieur," she agreed, beginning to unfasten the clasp of her cloak, moving away from the cot reluctantly to drape over a chair.
Gold quickly ducked outside his hut to dispose of the foul-smelling and soiled remnants of his work, returning a moment, brushing some snowflakes off his shoulders. He looked up as he noticed Claire studying him intently and quizzically as though trying to size him up.
"What's your name, milady?" he asked in a calm tone, his very presence somehow soothing to Claire's frazzled nerves as he calmly walked over to check the contents of whatever stew was cooking within.
He already knew her name, considering he had called her by her surname, but Claire supposed his asking her this question now, he attempted to ease her nerves.
As he lifted the pot, she caught its aroma wafting through the air towards her, causing her mouth to salivate, though she shoved aside the thought of food.
She would not eat again until Gaston woke, and the man kept his promise to return to her.
"Claire, monsieur. Claire Renaud," she said proudly. She looked towards Gaston. "And my…friend, he is…"
"Oh, I know too well who your handsome hero is. Your man here is the Widow's Wail, as they call him in battle for the men he's killed and the widows he's left in their wake," Gold interrupted, but without judgment in his voice. "I'm well aware of who he is. He and I….have met, you could say that I know a…relative of his, milady as they share the same name. Your soldier and mine look exactly alike, milady," he assured, his tone suddenly growing distant.
Claire felt her face flush red as her temper swelled, despite her confusion that Gold already knew her name.
"His name, monsieur, is Gaston," she corrected, coldly. Claire would not abide by anyone ever again placing on the soldier such a hateful name that he'd worn for so long.
Not after all the heroic things that he had done. She jutted her chin out slightly defiantly.
"Gaston Dupont of the village of Villeneuve, former military captain, and now the proud owner of the best tavern for at least fifty miles," she concluded, silently daring this Gold character to contest her words, almost half-hoping that he would so that she could correct his mistake.
Gold seemed to realize his error and lowered his head in contrition.
"My apologies, lass, I meant no disrespect."
Claire's anger cooled, deflating the worst of her temper. She dipped her head in acceptance of his apology.
"Forgive me, monsieur, I am the one who should be begging forgiveness." She cleared her throat as a fiery blush crept to her cheeks. "I'm a guest in your home." She lowered her eyes, blinking back her tears. "You've helped me more than I had reason to hope, sir."
Monsieur Gold smiled considerably, lifting Claire's mood.
She thought he really did look better when he smiled. Something of his smile was contagious.
"Ah, there's no need, dearie," he told Claire. "I've done no more than I'm sure you would for someone else." His dark eyes bore into Claire's own as if the man were reading her very soul. Claire nodded, nervous.
The man let go of her hand with a reassuring little squeeze.
"Go be by your handsome hero's side, dearie," he sighed with an exasperated tone to his voice. "He needs you. I will bring you some soup if you're hungry."
"Thank you." Claire turned and rushed to the far side of the bed upon which Gaston lay, mended but unmoved.
Still not willing to put all of her trust in Gold, Claire positioned herself in such a way that the man would not leave her sight throughout the long night to come yet.
She sank to the floor beside Gaston as her tears began to sting at the edges of her eyes. Angrily, she brushed them away with a well-practiced flick of her finger, reaching for Gaston's hand and held it firmly in hers, as though she hoped she could be the man's beacon of light in his darkness, that he would keep his promise to her.
After a short while, Gold returned with a steam crockery bowl of a hearty-looking stew.
"Eat all of this," he ordered in a tone that suggested it wasn't up for debate. "You will need to keep up your strength, dearie."
Claire nodded and tried to smile, but it felt strained.
"Thank you, monsieur. You're very kind. I—I will," he answered. She wasn't sure why she trusted this man, but her gut instinct told her that she had nothing to fear from him.
Then she turned her tired gaze towards the man's face as Gold was intently studying her features, and she desperately motioned towards Gaston's form.
"Will he make it?" she beseeched the older gentleman.
Gold cautiously studied his patient and pressed his hand to Gaston's forehead. "I've mended his wound but he's still developing a fever," he informed Claire. "I will do what I can to lower the burning, but my talents can only go so far. The rest, I'm afraid, is going to be up to him."
Monsieur Gold gave Claire a somewhat hopeful look, though his expression was tinged with a dire warning that Gaston was not out of the woods yet before leaving to gather cold water with which to sponge at Gaston's forehead, in hopes of cooling down his body temperature and stopping his fever.
Claire's breaths felt thick, strange in her lungs almost, as she stared at Gaston Dupont's motionless frame and began to think of all the things she wished she had told him.
How she had taken a fondness to him even when he was interested in Belle but seeing as his attentions were fixated solely on her, she had chosen LeFou instead, but now that she knew LeFou's true colors and Gaston was finally beginning to see the light, perhaps there was still a chance.
A single tear slid down her cheek and onto Gaston's fingers which she continued to hold close to her heart. Unable to bear the distance that existed between them, Claire raised her face to Gaston's and placed a soft kiss on her lips.
"Please," she begged. "Come back to me…"
Claire could not help the tiny smile that tugged the corners of her mouth upward despite her worry for the soldier as she reached up and caressed the man's cheek.
Now that she was aware of and understood her feelings for the former military captain, that she could think it and not shy away, could she perhaps say it out loud to him?
Maybe, just maybe then, he could hear her, somehow?
"I…" she began, her words feeling rather clumsy and blunt, her tone sounding hesitant. Nevertheless, she steeled herself, shoving her nerves to the pit of her belly, and pushed onward. "I think that I…love you, Gaston."
Then, feeling just a little bit bold, she leaned down and planted another gentle, featherlight kiss on the man's lips.
She pulled apart after letting her lips linger a moment to study the man's face. Claire made to turn away to finally take her best bite of the stew Gold had brought her when the unmistakable sound of his voice rent the air.
"You too…Claire…I…promised I'd come back…"
Claire gasped at hearing his voice and melted into an overjoyed and loving smile, her face close enough to his that the relieved tears which fell from her eyes splashed onto the man's cheeks before she realized what was happening and she wiped them away with her hand.
She stared deep into Gaston Dupont's exhausted gaze.
He graced the baker's daughter with a weak grin of his own as he reached up with his non-bandaged arm to brush a lock of her dark hair that had fallen loose from its plait.
"Was I really gone that long?" Gaston asked, hoarsely.
A weak gasp of laughter at Gaston's grim joke escaped past her lips and Claire's hazel eyes danced as she felt as though a weight were lifted off her heart.
"Long enough," she nodded, and sweetly leaned down to kiss him again.
Gaston tensed but quickly relaxed into her tender embrace.
When they broke apart, Claire helped Gaston settle back down onto the makeshift mattress and fluffed the pillows that were behind his head. He tried to stretch the stiffness and soreness in his muscles but was halted in his attempt by the white-hot flaring agony in his arm.
Claire quieted him with just the gentle touch of her hand on his shoulder.
"Do you remember anything of what happened?" she asked, hoping for his sake, that he didn't.
Gaston thought for a moment as recognition dawned on his features.
Then he turned towards Claire and smiled weakly at her. She supposed it was meant as a smirk, but he lacked the strength to tease her too much.
"You said you loved me," he said, reveling in Claire's declarations of her feelings and imagining her shock when was risen from the depths of his seemingly eternal darkness. "Was I dreaming?" he asked, a slight teasing lilt to his voice now.
Claire instantly blushed, her cheeks flushing with color, but dared not revert her gaze from the handsome soldier.
"No. It was no dream," she whispered, suddenly shy, as Gaston traced the sharp angles of the young woman's high cheekbones with the pads of his fingers, almost afraid that just touching her would cause his Claire to vanish.
"Then…I have died and gone to Heaven," he said, his dark eyes clouding over and misting with almost tears.
Claire vehemently shook her head, almost too overcome to even form the words.
"No, no, oh, no," she passionately asserted. "You're alive, Gaston, and I plan to keep you that way," she promised, nestling her head against Gaston's neck.
Even with the unbelievable searing pain of the wound in his arm, Gaston basked in the feeling of the young woman next to him. He breathed in her scent, smelling flour in her hair, and kissed it, sighing with as much contentment as his recovering body would allow him to.
Then, as his eyes adjusted, he began to take notice of their surroundings.
The dark, dingy conditions of whatever foreboding little room they were in brought a million questions to his mind.
This was no place in Villeneuve that he was able to recognize.
"Where are we?" Gaston asked, almost trying to laugh despite his caution.
As his eyes drifted around and took note of the jars hanging from the ceiling, guarded suspicion began to well within him.
The only thing which kept him from bolting from this strange patchwork pile of cots on a hard cot in the corner of the room was his newfound forming trust in Claire and his general unwillingness to let her go, now that he finally had a woman in his life who actually seemed to want his affections.
"A…a healer," Claire answered, suddenly apprehensive. She blanched as she realized how strange this place must seem.
Under normal circumstances, she would have never brought him here had they not been caught out in the middle of a raging blizzard that was still waging war on the elements.
"But this place looks more like a hovel," he remarked, with only the slightest twinges of distaste seeping to his voice as his gaze settled upon the vial of colorful looking potions and stacks of parchment paper that he was sure listed ancient spells, the dark magic of the foulest sort, much like the witch who had cursed Adam.
In a rush of understanding, Gaston tried to contain the worst of his shock, his efforts once again stopped by the immense pain in his arm.
"You brought me to a…a…" A warlock or a wizard is what he wanted to say, but lacked the strength. Even thinking the words sounded strange.
Claire's relief at Gaston's return to the world of the living quickly transformed into a look of utter despair as her face started to crumble.
"I—I had no choice," she protested, biting down on her lip. "You—you were dying. There was nowhere else, Gaston," she whispered, fresh tears pricking at the edges of her eyes. "I would have done anything to save you, taken you anywhere," she said in a hoarse, meek-sounding voice.
Gaston had not meant to upset her.
She'd watched over him somehow and had seen to his care, just as she had done for Belle all those months ago. He'd been returned to her, because of her efforts.
"Claire, don't." He quieted her, his fingers brushing against the brunette's quivering lips. "I know." Gaston tried to ease her mind as best as he could. "I'm not angry with you, just…concerned for our safety."
Claire sighed, leaning comfortingly into his hand.
"I'm alright. I'm not hurt. I've not left your side," she assured him. "And Monsieur Gold has given you the best of care. He's the one that we should thank. He saved your life." Claire smiled a bright white smile that almost made the man's heart give out right there on the spot.
"Who?" he questioned, narrowing his gaze at her.
Claire opened her mouth to speak, though before she could, a man's voice rent the air.
"Ah. Excellent. I see you've finally decided to join us. Good. I was hoping you would wake soon, I would have hated to have to journey to the Underworld and save you from the likes of Hades," the strange man known only as Gold announced with a snort and a rolling of his eyes in jest as he entered the hut, a pile of firewood in his arms. He looked more like a wild man of the woods than an actual, honest-to-God human.
It was almost as if the man had sensed Gaston's awakening, as both Gaston and Claire slowly swiveled their gazes to regard their strange but endearing host.
Gold dropped off the firewood near the hearth and strode swiftly towards the bed in the corner, where he offered the flustered military captain no formal introductions but instead went about inspecting the makeshift sling he had created for Gaston's arm and feeling his skin for any signs of heat.
"Well, I'm pleased to announce that your fever has passed, monsieur."
The stranger's jagged smile was almost haunting in a way, Gaston thought, in a way that made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end, as it accentuated his words and made his gaunt cheekbones look even thinner.
His savior was gravely worried about something.
Gaston could not place the man's face, but he was sure he had seen this Scottish bloke somewhere, in another time and place, perhaps, but could not place him.
"Do I know you?" Gaston asked seriously, never once relinquishing his tight grip upon Claire's hand.
"I cannot say that you and I have met, monsieur, but I am familiar with one of your…distant relatives. You and he are almost identical, the likeness, was that you could see it for yourself, you would not believe me."
A strange, high-pitched giggle escaped from his throat as his gaze curiously flitted from Claire and then to Gaston to gauge their reaction to his statement.
Claire was startled but said nothing, too flabbergasted for words, while Gaston could only raise his chin in acceptance of the answer given to him by the man who had somehow saved his life through means of magic, he was sure.
He brought his confused eyes to Claire once more, finding her a much lovelier sight than the man with the short, cropped salt and pepper hair that had a way of staring at him, boring into his soul in such a way that made him feel uneasy.
"Where are we?" he asked, willing only to believe whatever she told him.
"We're in the Wolves Woods. Gold found you, brought us back here to heal your wounds," Claire gasped out in a pained-sounding choke, her expression strained as her brows knitted together with worry. "I was worried that you were…" Claire could not even bring herself to finish her thought. She could not voice the terror she'd felt of seeing his mangled, lifeless body.
Gaston pulled Claire to him with what little strength he had regained and kissed her forehead.
"It's alright," he whispered, wanting to give her some peace. After seeing Claire settle down and nestle against his chest, he once again eyed the ceiling curiously, his mind working on overdrive. "What of D'Arque?" he growled, noticing that Claire's face grew stricken.
"Gone," she whispered, confirming Gaston's worst fears. "He—he got away, Gaston," Claire said.
Gaston swallowed all the bile in the back of his throat and turned his attention towards the sorcerer.
"How are you living in the Wolves Woods?" he asked, dryly. "Are you a friend of Agathe's?" he said.
A dry laugh rose from the older man's throat as he ran his gloved fingers through his tuft of short hair.
"Aye. And I have my ways. That's all you need to know of me for the time being, Monsieur Dupont."
Claire and Gaston offered one another a cautious, guarded look, their concerns calmed, for the time being.
Though Gaston could not help but put a few walls up around his heart, keeping his suspicious deliberations of the nature of Gold's character to himself, he would allow her care, at least for now. It would give him time to place this man that he felt sure he had seen before, somehow, in another time.
He promised himself that even if he were not completely healed, that he and Claire would remain here as the man's guests only as long as was necessary. He was eager to return to the Prince's castle and check on Belle and Adam, hoping they were safe.
Soon they would be on their way. As if Gold could read the resignation that was dawning on Gaston's drawn and exhausted features, Gold sighed deeply, a strange look of forced satisfaction resting over his aged but still somewhat youthful features. He had seen much.
Gaston could tell that of their host right off.
"Very well then," the Scottish man insisted. "Let me bring you a bowl of stew, Monsieur Gaston," he insisted. "To rebuild your strength. You're going to need it."
His dark eyes were alight with a dancing, mischievous, but dangerous light that immediately set both Claire and Gaston on edge as to the man's intents.
"And then…I expect, Dupont, that you will give me something in exchange for my kindness here tonight?" Gold asked in a causal-sounding voice, with a hint of something deeper lurking just under the surface of his voice.
Gaston swallowed hard. "Whatever you ask, monsieur. I owe you."
Gold's smile widened, almost impishly so as he clapped his hands together in excitement. "Whatever I ask? A hefty promise indeed, monsieur, but I like it."
"What would you have me do?" he asked, watching as Gold straightened his gait and ran a hand through his hair, all the while never taking his eyes off him. Gold fixed him with such an intense stare that was almost acrid that it made Gaston start to shiver a bit.
When the older man spoke, his voice had gone deathly soft, and his expression as grim as a graveyard. His words chilled Gaston's blood to ice in his veins.
"You're going to kill D'Arque."