Oh my gosh, the revieeeeeeeeeeews! And the follooooooooooows! And the faaaaaaaaaves! Holy crap, I don't think I've ever had this many people interested in my writing before. You're all so awesome. Thanks for the feedback and love.
Warning: chapter is very long. Hence why it took me about a week to write it. Can't say if they'll all be this long. Probably. Hope you enjoy it.
Also, can anyone tell me where the term "Marchlands" came from regarding Belle's homeland? Some people have used it in fics and I don't know the source. I just called Sir Maurice's domain the Marshlands because the opening shot of his castle showed it near what looked like swamps. So yeah. Uber creative.
Rumplestiltskin's departure couldn't have been better timed. No more than a quarter of an hour after the imp magicked himself out of the cell, the guard arrived with Belle's second meal. It would be the last before another long, cold, lonely night. Fatigue from restricted movement and the unexpected encounter stiffened her legs. The unpleasant sensation did not stop her from scrambling to her feet and approaching the door with enough haste to catch the guard before he left. She didn't want to appear desperate, but, well, appearances mattered only so much at this stage.
"I wish to send a message to the king," Belle announced with regained poise. She hoped she sounded poised.
The guard snorted and looked at her askance. "Any petition for your release is a waste of energy, miss. Better keep quiet and wait for it to be over."
Belle pushed her words past his grim declaration. She stood close to the door but resisted grasping the bars. "His majesty has proposed that he might spare me if I can be of use to him. Tell him I've decided to cooperate. Tell him . . . that I will spin straw into gold for him, if he promises to let me live."
The guard's sharp laugh knocked her back not out of surprise, but by its rude dismissal of her admittedly outrageous request. She almost questioned her sanity while listening to her warden's mirth – he clutched his chest and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. Her memory of Rumplestiltskin alone assured her that the task could be done. She fought against the doubting voice that wondered whether she hadn't dreamed him up in a stupor. To check herself, she touched her bodice. The corset was still unlaced underneath. She couldn't feel the shape of her mother's ring pressing through the chemise against her stomach. The exchanged had been real, she chanted in her mind.
"Oh, that's a good one!" the guard said after he decided he'd laughed enough at her expense. "Yes, I'll be sure to tell the king that."
"Be sure you do," Belle pressed, all seriousness. "And tell him that he must provide me with straw and a spinning wheel by tomorrow morning. I want to have all day to work."
The guard chuckled some more, though the first spurt had a hint of bewilderment at her somber tone. Her eyes locked on him as he walked away. Air returned to her lungs when he stepped out of view. So did common sense. How could she hope to convince anyone, let alone the king, that she could do this? He'd made the original remark in jest, not out of genuine expectation. The convenience of it would rattle Dathomir's nerves and probably earn either his anger or amusement. There was no way to tell which it would be. What was he really risking, though, by giving Belle a chance? Straw and spinning wheels were hardly applicable as escape tools. Well, the spindle perhaps could be forged into a dangerous weapon or a lock-pick.
Belle dismissed the notion. Besides, worrying over Dathomir's response would only wind her up. She scooped up her meal and ate while eyeing the rats that darted across the stone floor. When she finished she stood, brushed the crumbs off her dress, and stepped back to give the rodents room to grab and run. She certainly wanted for better company. Besides being carriers of disease, the vermin couldn't occupy her mind with conversation or insight into their favorite books. They could serve only as objects for observation and distraction. Expecting to be on her own for the rest of the night, Belle knelt down and watched her companions nibble and scurry. They squeaked to each other, which made her smile and wonder if they could in fact talk to one another. Oh, the things she was resorted to rely on for mental activity. Could've been far worse, though. Her mind and body, becoming more at ease, slowly yielded to slumber.
She couldn't recall how long she'd been asleep when a rude banging awoke her. Darkness met her opening eyes. Her heartbeat filled her ears and echoed the banging against the dungeon door.
"You!" said a harsh, unfamiliar voice. "Wake up! Stand in the presence of the king!"
Belle gasped. Was she dreaming? She slapped herself on the cheek while trying to stand and not trip over her dress. The sting assured her, despite the dizziness from standing suddenly. She picked up her hem and hustled to the door. A peek through the barred window revealed faceless shadowed figures outlined by torchlight. In an instant the towering body of King Dathomir filled her vision. He craned his head down and glared at Belle through the bars, for which she suddenly felt rather grateful.
"What nonsense have you spouted at my guard, Lady Belle?" His leonine voice managed to hover beneath a hushed growl. It still made Belle quiver. "If this is a jest, I'll have your head on my breakfast plate by tomorrow morning."
"This is no jest," she answered as firmly as possible. She snuck in a swallow before continuing. "You said that I would be useful to you if I could spin straw into gold. That I will do, if you spare my life."
Dathomir truly growled this time, like a real lion. Then he snapped his gaze to the guard on his left. "Open the door."
The man obeyed with a mumbled phrase of subservience. Belle jumped back and nearly bumped into the wall behind her. The cell lit up with the torch in Dathomir's hand as he entered. The door promptly swung shut after him. Belle dreaded the worst. She couldn't stop herself from shaking, even when she clamped her arms around her and lifted her chin so her gaze met his. There was no way she could feel safe, or brave, until Dathomir placed the prison door between them again. Yet somehow she remembered to curtsey, buckling knees and all. Dathomir seemed to approve; his expression become a touch less fierce.
"You expect me to believe you? To believe in such a farce? Or are you trying to amuse me?"
"I wish to prove myself," whispered Belle. She cleared her throat and tried to speak louder. "I have the means to do what you have asked of me, except the materials. I beseech your Majesty to give me a chance. A spinning wheel and straw are all I ask."
"You can spin straw into gold?" Dathomir's tone softly transformed from rage to curiosity. It helped Belle breathe a little more freely.
"Yes."
"Why did you not say so sooner?"
A blush stole over her cheeks. She hoped the firelight did not betray her. Should she lie? It terrified her to think what might happen if Dathomir learned of her involvement with Rumplestiltskin – would he place her at the mercy of the clerics? Would he use her as a tool to imprison the sorcerer? As much as Rumplestiltskin disturbed her with his appearance and character, she did not wish him ill, nor did she want to be responsible for his misfortune at the hands of the king. If she lied now, however, and Dathomir learned the truth later . . .
"Well?" Dathomir remained where he stood, but his eyes did their best to crush her with the weight of their intensity.
Belle clenched her hands before dropping her shoulders and sighing in apparent resignation. "I knew you wouldn't believe me had I told you the day you sentenced us to death. I have kept it a secret for fear it would be used against me, or tempt suitors who were only interested in wealth."
The left corner of Dathomir's full lips turned up. "And how did you acquire this power?"
"I've always had it." She needed to avoid as many details as possible if she expected to uphold this falsehood.
"Did your father know of it?"
"Of course; he was too good a man to force me to use it."
"Then he was a greater fool than I thought." The king snickered and smiled widely.
Belle was known at home for her gentle disposition. Violence did not sit well with her, even against those who hurt her or her family. It then angered her all the more that Dathomir's remarks stirred such rage that she contemplated slapping his face or scratching out his hateful eyes. Her eyelids fluttered to keep her tears at bay. She swallowed again and inhaled to cool her insides and temper her words. "Spare me, your Majesty, and you shall have your gold. Do we have a deal?"
She didn't know why, but her bluntness provoked a chuckle out of the king. His suspicion did not seem to occupy the forefront of his mind anymore. No doubt he still didn't really believe her, but his irritation retreated and permitted his more relaxed, conceited self to take charge. He took hold of Belle's chin and lifted it, exposing more of her face to the light.
"You are full of surprises, aren't you?" He held her gaze for a minute longer than Belle cared for or thought necessary. She quietly gasped when he released her. "Very well. You shall have what you need. And I expect results, sweet lady. If I find you have been playing me for a lark, be sure that the day will not end without your head nestled atop a spike."
Sleep did not come so quickly this time. A dozen different fears kept Belle's eyes wide and alert as the night deepened. The mice and rats wouldn't stop squeaking. Why couldn't they leave her alone? She had no food to draw them out. Nothing but the dirt of the floor and her tattered skirts. Not even a blanket had been provided to shut out the cold. Belle shifted time and again to make herself comfortable. The floor refused to be forgiving, and it left her joints sore and likely bruising. She should've thought to ask the king for surplus straw to lie on. Maybe she'd be able to take some tomorrow, should everything go as planned.
That, of course, was partly why she couldn't sleep. It was easy to imagine all the ways in which it could go wrong. Rumplestiltskin may not return. Why should he? He had her ring. She'd refused to surrender any other form of payment. He'd extracted all the value he could from her. The only reassuring thought she could fix on was the fact that Rumplestiltskin was not renowned for being an outright thief. He did, from what she'd heard, uphold his agreements. It was a small, cold comfort, and it did little to help her relax. Her eyes barely caught a moment's worth of rest before rosy tints of dawn shined into the cell.
When the dungeon door turned on its hinges, Belle shut her eyes and feigned slumber. The last thing she needed was another confrontation with either the king or his servants. The shuffling of booted feet, sluggish and heavy, indicated the intrusion of a pair of burdened guards. She didn't need eyes to know what was happening. She just hoped that bringing in the straw and wheel was all the guards intended to do while in her cell. Before too long she picked up the first heartening sign of her relative safety. Though the guards tried to pick up their feet in delivering the straw, more than one yawned quite loudly. Their low, tired voices also calmed her. Belle dared to whisper a sigh. She wasn't the only person in the castle who needed more shut-eye. They were much more interested in their beds than her. She stayed very still so as not to attract their attention and to let them finish their work. For an hour, Belle found something soothing in the rustle of straw being carried in and dropped on the floor into what must have become an impressive pile, judging solely by the number of trips. The noise didn't ease her mind enough so she could sleep – it was wiser not to even in the presence of sleepy guards – but her nerves didn't shudder as if she were about to be attacked.
Once the guards left for good, Belle opened her eyes and saw a hill of sun-bleached straw taller than she occupying an entire corner of the cell. It glowed in the pale-pink light of early morning. Strangely beautiful, she thought. All at once, tiredness cast over her like a spell. She couldn't keep her eyes open for another minute, and, in truth, she was thankful to escape reality again for a little more time.
Her mind flitted in and out of dreaming. Brief moments of happier times juxtaposed endless nightmarish prophesies. Belle was certain she'd been married off to Dathomir, still wearing her ruined dress, and was forced to face a court of sneering, snobbish nobles who would never view her as an equal. She was also certain that the opposite ends of the royal hall were lined with the impaled heads of her countrymen, including her father and Sir Gaston, her long-gone fiancé.
A chill passed through Belle's skin as she woke up. Her eyes adjusted to the late-morning sun, little as there was in the dungeon. Just before then, her dreams had been half-interrupted by creaking. A gentle, monotonous creaking of wood. She turned over, away from the wall beside her, and spotted the leather-clad imp sitting on a stool at the spinning wheel, his back to her. He didn't seem to hear her move. The same brown and red coat he'd worn the previous evening covered his upper body. Sunlight danced across the silvery highlights in his kinked fallow hair and the subtle golden flecks on the hands that operated the spinning wheel. Her eyes followed the turn of the wheel and the line of straw twisted with twine that rotated on the axis to meet the sharp spindle. It was hard not to be awestruck seeing twine and straw wrap around the spindle on one end while a string of gold dropped down the other side and coiled into an already substantial pile on the floor.
While his unannounced reappearance left her a little uneasy, Belle diverted her attention to the fact that he was here, spinning for her. She wanted to watch him perform this wondrous ability a while longer. It really could be done! Restraining her excitement to avoid rudely disturbing him, she sat up and politely cleared her throat. "Umm . . . good morning."
"It's nearly noon," Rumplestiltskin remarked off-handedly. "Had a rough night?" A childish giggle bubbled out.
Was it that late already? She'd managed to get a few hours' sleep after all. Belle couldn't be sorry for it, but she wondered if it somehow annoyed him. He didn't sound annoyed, but that didn't mean he wasn't. It was still difficult to read him. "A bit, yes. I'm sorry I wasn't awake to greet you."
"Never you mind, dearie. But now you're up, you can make yourself useful." Still not turning around, he waved a hand toward the mountain of hay. "Fetch me more straw."
Belle didn't like the sharp command in his tone – he wasn't her master – but in this instance it was better not to make a fuss. He wanted to complete the work as quickly as possible, which would be facilitated by her assistance. "Of course," she murmured. The bones in her legs and back cracked from her hasty rise. She spared a second to stretch and sort herself out before approaching the pile. It didn't seem all that smaller since she first laid eyes on it. If he didn't work quickly enough, he might run out of time. The realization worried her but soothed her minor offense at Rumplestiltskin's tactless order. She stood on her bare toes and gathered as large an armful from the top as she could carry, then hurried to his side.
"Where would you like it?" she asked from behind the bundle.
"Right at your feet."
Trusting her sense of direction, Belle set the straw down. She then looked up at the sorcerer. He still didn't face her way, nor did he attempt to converse after she completed the assigned task. The creak of the wheel filled the room. Belle straightened with the intention of returning to her corner, but something kept her rooted in place. She studied Rumplestiltskin's profile. He had a long, crooked nose that curved down only slightly towards his mouth. His cavernous nostrils – well, the one she could see – stretched back to meet the deep crease that curved down past the corner of his thin lips. She'd described him yesterday as hawkish and reptilian, yet still somehow human. In spite of the not-quite-human, not-quite-animal features, in the midday light he wasn't really ugly or frightening. Not if one looked long enough. But maybe nothing remains as ugly as first appearances suggest after prolonged study.
"You find me an interesting specimen?" the sorcerer quipped.
Belle started. Heat filled her cheeks. Rumplestiltskin still trained his eyes on the spinning wheel, yet she thought she saw the beginnings of a smirk touch his mouth. "I-I'm sorry." Maybe she ought to leave him alone. It was rude to stare at anyone. But Belle couldn't stand any more silence. As much as it worried her that she'd offended him, she preferred his voice to the creaking wheel. "I was just wondering if . . . if there was anything else I could do."
He scowled and turned to her. He'd not expected that, it seemed. Well, what else was Belle to do? Sit by herself and fiddle with her skirt or nibble on her nails? Then again, conversation might hinder his progress. Already his hand slowed the turning wheel. He still managed to keep it going as he stared at her, eyes moving up and down, trying to decipher her intentions. She could've told him what they were if he just asked. She wasn't ashamed of her desire to be useful and active. Her only source of embarrassment was her assumption that there was anything else to do in this dungeon.
The helpless frown Rumplestiltskin had used yesterday returned. "Not really. I spin; you fetch me straw and take the credit. That's pretty much how this goes."
Her face still felt warm, but Belle couldn't banish herself from the imp's presence. Her insatiable curiosity overwhelmed her. She'd never met someone like him before. It was all she could do to reign in her desire to learn about what was unfamiliar to her. She fought back the horde of questions like they were hungry dogs. To compensate for this act of self-restraint, she sat down by the pile of straw and kept her gaze on Rumplestiltskin. The confusion on his face encouraged her. It was better than anger. "You do this often, then?" she asked while arranging her skirts in a more dignified fashion.
A trace of his earlier scowl, more vexed this time, worked its way into Rumplestiltskin's features. "I don't much care for small talk, dearie. Go . . . entertain yourself." He made a shooing motion.
"I would if there were something to entertain me," Belle retorted before she could stop herself. His unkind response provoked her. Maybe capture and imprisonment had taken a toll on her manners. Honestly, though, she was starved for verbal intercourse.
"Well, I'm not here for your entertainment," he snapped. His eyes and a scaly finger pointed at her. "And if you insist on distracting me, you can be sure this straw won't be spun by sundown, and then where will you be?"
What little vehemence Belle possessed in her body left her. She'd been foolish to think she could just chat away with some dark wizard who wanted nothing more to do with her beyond the deal they'd struck. A pang she wished she could will away sat in her chest. With a sigh, she lifted her knees and hugged them to her, then rested her mouth and chin on her forearms. Her gaze moved from Rumplestiltskin's face to his shoes. If that still bothered him, he could just sit there and take it like a man. She wasn't moving. He'd need her to get more straw for him eventually, so there was no point in pouting in the corner.
The creaking returned to its original rhythm. Belle snuck a glance back up whenever Rumplestiltskin plucked strand after strand of straw, twisted it with a line of twine that generated from somewhere inside his odd leather jacket, and fed it through the wheel. The process managed to mesmerize Belle enough to make her forget his earlier warning about talking with him. She hungered for knowledge and understanding. Prison hadn't changed her.
"Why do you use twine?"
If Belle had given the matter more thought, she could've answered her own question. She found herself more delighted than anxious, though, to feel Rumplestiltskin glowering at her. Oh, she was asking for trouble, she knew—but, blast it, he wasn't making the waiting process any easier. And probably in spite of his better judgment, he did answer her, albeit very tersely.
"Straw isn't ideal material for spinning," he said through clamped teeth and a forced grin. "It snaps very easily, especially when it's as dry as this." He gestured toward the pile she'd placed beside him. So, not all his anger was aimed at her necessarily. He hadn't been given a very viable substance to work with. But he did say he spun all the time.
"I suppose, then," she mused aloud, raising her voice enough that he could hear, "that you prefer spinning wool instead."
"Indeed." A half-whistled sigh passed through the imp's crooked teeth. He didn't appear to be in the mood to exhibit the same level of flamboyance as yesterday. Belle actually appreciated that. He wasn't trying so hard to project a façade. His tone did bounce around in the upper register and even lilt in a sing-song way, but not as forcefully. Belle grew pensive. She turned over a few thoughts and left him to spin a few minutes in silence. He became more composed and at ease in the absence of speech, although Belle noticed a lingering crease in his forehead. Maybe . . . if she could help him feel less agitated, he might be more accommodating.
The seed-sized idea sprouted into a hypothesis that Belle couldn't resist testing. She stood up and padded over to the other side of the spinning wheel. Rumplestiltskin's eyes started to look her way, then immediately fastened their attention on his labors. It didn't matter. The beauty squatted next to the gold that curled at his feet and examined it. It glittered like the flecks in his skin. When she touched it, the strands bent beneath her fingers. The gold was just as pliable as straw and twine. She forgot how delicate gold could be. It was a soft metal; in this form she could probably unravel it with her bare hands, though she felt sure she lacked the strength to actually break the strand. But a pair of scissors could cut through it. She therefore handled the material with care, picking up the end between only her thumb and forefinger while gingerly pulling a length of it along her palm.
"It's still very beautiful," she said, smiling. It was true. The incredible transformation struck her as a work of art. Even now, sitting close to the spindle and watching it turn, she couldn't determine when or how the change happened. Her smile brightened even more at the mystery. She loved a good mystery.
Her eyes checked on Rumplestiltskin and, to her surprise, met his. He kept rotating the wheel and feeding the straw and twine, but he also watched her with an unreadable expression that made her smile retreat. Belle did like mysteries, but they could be unsettling or frustrating.
In a moment of panic, she dropped the gold. It fell into the lap of her yellow dress. "Sorry. Should I not touch it?"
A hint of bewilderment peeked through his otherwise stoic mask, indicated by his slightly parted lips and dipping eyebrows. "It's just gold," he said with a slight headshake. "It's still the same value."
Belle didn't know how to respond. His stare frazzled her more than she expected. She tried to be more relieved than shocked by his veiled assurance. Instead her eyelids blinked rapidly and her mouth twitched into an embarrassed smile. She ducked her head away. Warm pinkness flooded her face. Why did she have to be such a graceless, awkward girl? Why couldn't she exude confidence the way every other noble she'd ever met did? She could feign it from time to time, but that was hardly the same as believing in it. Her mother told her that by doing the brave thing, the feeling of bravery would eventually come to her. Well, she was waiting on it. It could come any time now.
A minute went by before she had the nerve to look back at Rumplestiltskin. When she did, she saw he was back to the wheel, no longer scrutinizing her. He was also definitely smirking. Wonderful. Rumplestiltskin was laughing at her. Not out loud, at least. Belle felt torn between joining him in his amusement and crawling back to her corner. She decided to set aside her pride and chuckle quietly. Rumplestiltskin instantly threw a questioning look at her, to which she answered with a sheepish smile. His puzzlement didn't really dissipate, but a grin accompanied it. For once they shared a similar feeling: neither of them quite knew what to make of the other.
Belle quickly overcame her shame and played with the gold again. As she did, an idea dawned on her. She began winding the thick thread around her hand into a flat coil, handling it with as much care as before. Finally—another activity to keep her from dying of boredom. Not a very challenging endeavor, but it had a two-fold benefit. She could keep her mind and hands a little busy, and she could stay near Rumplestiltskin. While she preferred conversation, companionable quietude worked for her, too, now that she had an occupation in hand. Literally. Her nerves quivered only when she thought she noticed the imp staring at her some more. She couldn't confirm it with just peripheral vision, nor did she want to really stop him. If he was going to pay attention to her, however, he ought to throw in some tête-à-tête to make it more appropriate.
The gold continued to come, so Belle remained busy neatly winding it until she caught up with Rumplestiltskin's spinning, and his pile of straw ran low. "More straw," he ordered. Belle whipped her gaze up at him, pausing in her current task but not surrendering her post beside him. She waited patiently while his countenance shifted from expectant to irked. Then he sighed and, grimacing like a schoolboy at the mercy of his headmaster, grumbled, "Please."
With a nod she set the gold down, rose and fetched another hefty bundle. The pieces poked her bare arms. They really were brittle and dry, a few snapping off just from her carrying them. After she put the pile on the same spot as before, Belle inspected the larger mound. The dent they'd made stood out more and gave her some solace. She skipped back to her place at Rumplestiltskin's feet and reclaimed the coil and awaited more gold to add to it. "How did you make out with the ring?"
"The ring?" Rumplestiltskin's eyebrows pinched together in concentration from braiding the straw and twine and pushing the wheel with a master craftsman's touch.
"Yes," said Belle, perturbed that he'd forgotten already. "My mother's ring. With the blue stone."
A pause; then the imp's face brightened with an unnerving grin. "Ah, of course. The one with magical properties." He used a facetiously conspiratorial tone while leaning toward Belle as he said "magical". Her heart sank a little at his teasing. When he sat upright, though, he sounded more sincere. "It did strike me as somewhat unusual. Made in Agrabah, I should think. Did your father ever tell you how he got it?"
"A sultan gave it to him, I think." Belle squinted trying to recall the details. It'd been so long since he last told the story—he'd relayed it to entertain his family, and her mother would show it off. After she died and bequeath the ring to Belle, Maurice didn't tell the story anymore. "I think he said the sultan had suspected his grand vizier was planning a coup against him, so he disguised himself as a peasant and observed the vizier in his dealings outside the palace. My father encountered him when the sultan was accosted by a group of thieves in the marketplace—they threatened him for his money. My father and his entourage intervened, not knowing who the sultan really was. He told my father of the suspicious vizier and warned him of his treachery. My father decided to send one of his own men to observe the vizier. The knight eventually returned and informed my father of a potential plot he'd overheard when the vizier met with the leader of a mercenary band. My father went straight to the sultan to inform him of what he learned, giving the sultan enough information to expose the traitors. The sultan then revealed himself as the peasant whom my father had saved. In exchange for his help on both occasions, he gave my father the ring – a family heirloom. I can't remember for certain if the sultan said the ring once housed a genii or bore some kind of protective magic."
"He gave that up just because some foreigner happened to save his life?" Rumplestiltskin tutted. "He overvalued the services your father rendered."
An angry spike of heat shot up Belle's spine directly to her head. "My father did a brave thing, and the sultan saw fit to show his appreciation. Don't mock them. If someone saved your life, how would you reward them?"
"I doubt anyone would try to save my life," he answered with a giggle. "I'm also not that easy to kill."
Taking a breath to calm herself, Belle eyed the imp. "Well, if there were a way to kill you, or at least hurt you, wouldn't you appreciate it if someone saved you?"
"Of course I would, dearie. It's just that I'm the one who steps in and helps people, not the other way around. And I establish my price ahead of time."
"What was my father supposed to do? Offer to help the poor man for something in return at the very moment the sultan was being robbed?"
Rumplestiltskin flicked his hand upward, as if that were the obvious conclusion. "Exactly!"
"Well," a frowning Belle sharply retorted, "my father isn't like you." Her mood darkened quite suddenly. All this talk about Maurice reopened the pain his death had left on her heart. She was partly aware after a minute that she'd referred to her father in the present. She expected Rumplestiltskin to correct her. Instead an awkward silence passed between them. He must have sensed her change in attitude. Either out of a desire to lighten the mood or to change the subject, he shrugged and flippantly replied, "Most people aren't."
Belle's arms and hands suddenly felt like they were filled with mortar. She stopped her work. Memories both old and new seeped into her consciousness like floodwaters. They were all she had left of her father. An intangible but hefty weight descended on her. The world seemed to be coming to an end. Oh, gods, she was going to cry. In front of Rumplestiltskin, who couldn't have cared less about her plight, and her tears would only remind him of something external to his concerns. Or maybe it was her pride—a noblewoman's pride, which she tried to counteract with humility—that reeled at the idea of crying in front of anyone. But at this moment she felt like an abandoned child. Her strength gave out. She unraveled without being able to stop it. Worse than that, she wanted to unravel. Being brave and holding in all her grief was killing her more than she realized.
It would be fruitless trying to elicit sympathy or consolation from Rumplestiltskin. She didn't dare let herself look at him when she got up and whispered, "Excuse me," then walked to the opposite corner. Even more ridiculous was her attempt to run away from this humiliation; there was nowhere to run. He'd hear her loud and clear no matter where she went in the cell.
The surge of sobs couldn't be abated. She crouched on the floor and, bracing herself against the wall with her head while her arms hugged her in a vice grip, let it come. She pressed her mouth against her knees. The skirts muffled her weeping. That much she could do. If only she could stop her frame from shaking and her lungs from burning with every gasp and sob. Nothing could hinder them, though—not even the intrusive knock on the door and the sound of a tray passing through the slot. She couldn't think on its implications while the pain held her in this chokehold. The only thought that entered her mind was that she wanted the guard to go away. She didn't have an appetite, anyway.
That fact did change after a while, though the exact amount of time eluded her. Belle couldn't tell how long she went on. Probably longer than she should've with Rumplestiltskin sitting by and having to put up with her noise. That must have been the reason that, a few minutes after the guard brought her food, she heard the tray slide over the floor in her direction until it nudged her bottom. He wanted her to eat and stop crying. She didn't. It was still some time before she looked at the bread and soup, and even longer before she entertained the possibility that she was peckish. The bread earned her attention first. Her little fingers picked at it and placed the tiny crumbs on her tongue to test herself. Her appetite returned like a cautious, frightened kitten. She still wiped away tears, but her breathing grew less sporadic and broken. When she couldn't eat any more, she turned far enough around to observe Rumplestiltskin.
Her behavior didn't seem to distress or interest him. He was still spinning. The straw pile to his right was once again nearly depleted. A different hunger filled her stiffening legs and cramped ankles. After standing up, Belle repeated the same motion of grabbing a large quantity of straw and setting it beside the magical spinner. She noticed the startled way he turned upon hearing her move to see what she was doing. Yet his face went stony when she stood by him and he looked up at her. He didn't want to betray anything, or he didn't know how to react. Belle couldn't decide which was true. Maybe both. She must've looked wretched with her tear-stained face, puffy eyes, ratty hair and soiled garments. A real fright—much more than him. The idea managed to bring back a smile to her face.
"What?" Rumplestiltskin asked, suddenly wary of her.
Belle shook her head, not wanting to answer. Then she changed her mind. Her curiosity likewise returned almost full-force, eagerly hoping to earn a meaningful response from the imp. "I was just thinking—you try to look frightening with your clothes and your expressions, but I'm pretty sure I'm more of a fright than you right now."
Rumplestiltskin looked her over. "Well, you could use a bath."
The young beauty laughed harshly. "Take it up with the king. I heard once he lets his prisoners have a wash only right before they're executed."
"No wonder these dungeons are so rank." The imp wrinkled his nose most disapprovingly.
This time Belle laughed more freely, if only for a second. Her eyes still itched with dryness and tears. She rubbed them and regarded Rumplestiltskin with a guilty frown. "I'm sorry about . . . that." She pointed toward the corner. "It's just . . . I miss my father." Belle wanted to say more. Her brain decided against it and instead jumbled all the many words she needed to express and expel from her system.
Rumplestiltskin made a hand gesture, while dismissive, was almost forgiving. "No matter." His gaze retreated and he resumed spinning.
The young woman's heart pattered with increased tempo. It was hard for Belle to determine if he was demonstrating kindness, or if he simply didn't care enough to be bothered by her grief. His manner, while often irreverent and even callous, didn't come across as heartlessly cold. Yet she didn't feel any more comfortable believing that he was saying or doing anything out of kindness. To believe that someone was being truly kind was to seduce oneself into trusting and relying on that person. Belle had learned that lesson before, though in less extreme situations. People could commit kind acts that masked less noble intentions. Manipulation could be passed off as charity or concern. It hurt her head and heart to think on such behavior, and it was ruining her improving mood.
Her eyes drifted over to the corner and the tray of barely touched bread and cold soup. Inspired, Belle departed from Rumplestiltskin only to return a second later with the loaf of bread in hand. She gave him a tap on the shoulder and said, "Here."
Rumplestiltskin's odd eyes widened when he saw her offering. "I'm not hungry," she explained before he could reject it. "It'll go to waste otherwise. You've been here all morning and you need your strength."
The thin, scale-covered mouth twisted as owlish eyes studied the bread. He didn't reach for it. "This is what they expect you to live on?"
"It's not that bad. A little hard, yes, and sometimes there's mold, but nothing that will kill you. Aren't you hungry?"
"I don't get hungry while I spin." That may have been true, but Rumplestiltskin acted as if the bread were about to come to life and bite his nose off.
Sighing, Belle trudged back to the corner and picked up the tray. She returned the bread to its place, side-by-side with the bowl of soup (more like boiled water mixed with cabbage juice), and came back to set the whole thing next to Rumplestiltskin's seat, a short distance from the gold. "In case you change your mind."
The sorcerer pshawed at the idea. "Oh, I'm sure I will."
Belle's humor returned with his sarcastic response. It stayed with her as she sat and rolled up the newly spun gold. But it was again disrupted. Looking at the tray, she mentally relived the moment when the guard came by with it. She'd been in the corner, and Rumplestiltskin . . .
"Oh!" Her face and body became awash with panic. "The guard! Did he see you when he came?"
Rumplestiltskin scoffed. "Of course he didn't see me. As I said, you're taking credit for this. Did you think I didn't know that he'd be coming by to bring you food, or that he will come again in the evening?"
Feeling foolish, Belle stared at her lap. "Where did you go?"
"Don't fret, dearie!" he teased and scolded simultaneously. "I always honor my agreements. I will disappear when needed to maintain our little charade, but I won't depart until my end of the deal is complete."
"Oh, no, I believe you!" said Belle quickly, looking up. "But you do leave the cell when the guard comes around?"
Rumplestiltskin's eyes lit up after a moment of thought. "Ohhhhh. You're wondering if I make myself invisible." He giggled loudly. "Afraid I'll do something untoward?"
Belle watched his gesticulating hands, all at once worried. "Can you make yourself invisible?"
The imp released the wheel and flourished a hand. "I can do many things. Why shouldn't I be able to make myself invisible?"
She wished he'd stop saying that word so dramatically. He was both scaring her and making her want to laugh. "Well, can you, or can't you?"
Leaning sideways toward her, Rumplestiltskin stared unwaveringly into her eyes. His were shadowed from the sunlight, turning from murky brownish-green to coffee-black. It felt as though they were reaching for her, and she wasn't sure if that frightened or excited her. "Are you saying you would like a demonstration?" he queried in a hiss.
In spite of her quaking hands and the crimson color imbuing her face, Belle found a grain of courage to help her hold her ground. "Perhaps," she said, pushing any shakiness out of her voice. "Just so I know what I'm dealing with."
His mouth curled up on one side. "Are you sure that's a safe request?"
Her front teeth clenched her bottom lip. No doubt it wasn't safe. Neither was having a dark wizard in a cell with her in the first place. "I trust you."
It was a naïve move. Did she really trust him? She had no reason to. Whatever intuition had guided her to bestow it was on to something, though. The grin he'd displayed to her discomfort melted into a slack, disbelieving frown. His dark eyes rounded. For a trickster and an ancient, powerful magician, Rumplestiltskin didn't require much to surprise him. Or Belle had an uncanny knack for catching him off-guard. The discovery buoyed her confidence and stilled her anxious hands. She stopped biting her lip, too, and a good thing. Rumplestiltskin had started eying her mouth just before she answered his question. Now he pulled back to drink in the short, simple words.
Although she no longer trembled, Belle's nerves sat on edge from waiting and watching him. He glared right back at her, eyes keen but expression shuttered. As if needing an outlet for his hidden emotions, Rumplestiltskin drummed his dexterous fingers on his thigh. Belle lowered her gaze to them for a moment. The braided thread of twine and straw lounged over the same thigh. It should've concerned her that they were wasting time with this stand-off when he needed to be spinning. To her delayed chagrin, Belle was more curious about how often Rumplestiltskin cleaned his slate-grey nails, and how long it took him to don such snug trousers.
Two gold-speckled hands suddenly clapped on Rumplestiltskin's leather-covered knees. The imp bounced to his feet. Without a word, he snapped his fingers. A purple cloud materialized out of nowhere and enveloped him. The cloud shortly dispersed and left nothing in its wake.
Holding in a gasp, Belle pushed the gold out of her lap and stood. She fixed her eyes on the spot where Rumplestiltskin had been. When she realized how pointless that was, she switched to listening like a pointer hound and anticipating a breath of air from his movements or his lungs. She turned slowly, grasping her skirts as if her survival depended on it. She tried to make as little sound as possible. The cell remained silent. It offered little space to maneuver in, which made her begin to doubt that Rumplestiltskin was still there at all.
"Hello?" she whispered. She swallowed in spite of herself. "Rumplestil—"
Something tugged on the back of her skirt. It's been a strong, purposeful tug. Belle yelped and whirled around. She saw nothing, but a quiet titter emanated from the air a few feet away from her. She growled an "ooh" through her teeth while gathering her dress even closer to her. "That wasn't funny."
Another stream of giggles came, slightly louder but more elusive. It bounced around the cell walls and threw off Belle's sense of where the imp had gone. She tried suddenly throwing herself in a random direction to surprise him, but met only the air and, far too frequently, a wall. Her failed attempts earned more disembodied laughter.
"All right, you've made your point!" she cried after many minutes of this. When she saw the wheel begin to spin, she jumped towards it and swatted her arms around. Nothing. "I believe you! Enough already!" When he still didn't reappear, Belle circled round and round the spinning wheel. "Come now, you have to get back to work. You've had your fun. Just—"
Belle shrieked again when something she couldn't see interrupted her stride and sent her hurtling forward. Her arms and hands scraped against the floor, managing to protect her face from impact. Against her better sensibilities, Belle let the puerile trick rile her up. Back on her feet, she stomped to the spinning wheel and picked up the stool. She marched up and down the miniscule chamber and branded the furniture the way a soldier does with a machete to plunder his way through thick jungle foliage. The imp's giggles sounded less and less controlled, which made Belle hopeful that he could no longer help himself. She followed them and swung the stool his way and that.
"I said enough!" she huffed after a prolonged and vain pursuit of her tormentor. "At this point I'd rather be at Dathomir's mercy. Stop fooling around!"
For once she had her way, though not in the way she wanted it. A pair of arms – visible arms – snagged her waist and pulled her back toward a warm body. The move shocked her enough that she dropped the stool before she twisted around to face Rumplestiltskin, just in time to endure another fit of ear-ringing giggles that shook his body and nearly infected her. Belle forced her peeved grimace to stay in place.
"You're going to alert the guards if you keep being so noisy." Her petite hands grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket to intimidate him. He only looked more tickled-pink.
"I wouldn't worry about that. As soon as you started talking my ear off, I put up a little barrier around the cell so no one could eavesdrop."
Belle was tempted to feel at ease knowing this, but she knew she should be apprehensive. If he decided to take advantage of their utter isolation in the worst possible way, she wouldn't be able to call out for help. The likelihood that she was in such a scenario right now crossed her mind. He clutched her against him, though not in a hurtful manner. His fingers splayed against her back in a firm but not unbreakable hold. Her arms, though pressed between their chests, still had some mobility. She tested them by moving her hands from the lapels to his shoulders. She nearly regretted it when the mirth evaporated from Rumplestiltskin's features. Suddenly he looked as uncertain as she felt about what they were doing. Seeing him almost nervous when he was the one with his arms around her helped Belle relax. An unexpected smile came, albeit one as awkward as any other she'd given today. Her gaze fled from his face and migrated down his coat. She noticed for the first time that the vest he wore underneath was composed from a similar material, only in black.
"I've been meaning to ask you—what is this made of?"
"Huh?" Rumplestiltskin roused himself with a blink and a headshake. "Oh, uh, dragonhide."
"Really?" Belle gasped in shock and intrigue. "How did you get it?"
He shrugged. "From a dragonslayer. How else?"
"You mean, you didn't slay it yourself?" Not certain why, she found herself glad that he wasn't going around killing unsuspecting dragons just to spice up his wardrobe.
The chuckle that answered her was rough and dry. "Oh, no, dearie. I've never been one for slaying monsters myself. I get other people to do it for me."
Why did he not sound delighted admitting that? He seemed to enjoy using other people for his own purposes. Belle didn't have the courage to ask or inspect his face. She concentrated on the jacket and running her fingers along its tough, glistening surface. It couldn't be easy to move in. Still, it had its aesthetic appeal. Its bizarre design and material impressed her. Fascinated her. Mesmerized her the way his hands had while he bound straw and twine together and spun.
Her tactile examinations were interrupted by Rumplestiltskin clearing his throat. "I see you still haven't relaced your corset."
Not sure how he knew that, Belle looked down her dress. He was right. She hadn't . . . Belle shot a glare up at him and shoved herself out of his grasp, scoffing in offense and hiding her bosom behind her arms.
The self-satisfied smile on Rumplestiltskin's lips did nothing to make her forgive him or want to get anywhere near him again. That turned out to be his intention, for he instantly sauntered over to the forsaken stool Belle had wielded just a minute ago, snatched it up and returned to the spinning wheel to finish his work.
Belle kept to her duty of fetching straw for him, but she no longer cared about rolling up the gold. She preferred sit behind him and lean against the straw. It provided her an opportunity to lace up the undergarment the imp had the audacity to gawk at through the top of her dress. As the pile shrunk with each succeeding batch of spun gold, Belle seized a chance to steal away a handful of straw—about the same size as what she gave to Rumplestiltskin per delivery—and arranged it into a makeshift mattress in the corner. Rumplestiltskin didn't notice it until the rest of the straw was gone, and a mountain of gold thread squatted next to the wheel.
"I know I shouldn't," Belle interjected in response to his inquiring eyebrow, "but the bare floor does a number on the body after a while. If Dathomir wants to throw a fit over it, let him."
Rumplestiltskin made no further comment, even if his eye did linger over her sleeping space with a mysterious expression she wished she could comprehend. It was hardly worth her concern. Her relief from seeing all the straw spun by sunset overshadowed everything else. She let herself smile at the imp again when he bowed with mock chivalry.
"Thank you, kind sir," she said in the same manner while curtseying. Then she became serious. Belle caught him by the hands before he could disappear in another puff of smoke. "Really, though, thank you." She wanted to say that she knew the ring wasn't what he really desired, and that she appreciated his willingness to do this, anyway. Intuition again intervened. If she spoke the truth, he might be offended and think she viewed him as weaker than he was. Belle couldn't say she understood why he did what he did. All she felt for him was gratitude, even if their arrangement amounted to nothing more than a business deal.
When she said her thanks and looked him in the eye, Rumplestiltskin tensed and squirmed. "We had a deal, dearie."
"I know." That didn't mean she couldn't be grateful. She gave his lizard-skin hands a squeeze and let them go. They hovered in the air, flailing their appendages like frantic spiders. Eventually Rumplestiltskin dropped his left hand while the other rubbed its thumb against the knuckle of the forefinger. His eyes appeared equally uncertain of what to do. Finally he turned away and took a few steps toward the door. Belle started, wondering if he meant to make a more conventional exit. The notion vanished when he spun around and executed another over-the-top bow. "Until we meet again, Lady Belle." Then he snapped his fingers, dissolved into air, and was gone.
The tired Lady Belle, suddenly feeling more alone than the night before, smiled ruefully to herself. "Until we meet again."