Thank you, thank you, thank you all again for your reviews and love! I'm thrilled to know so many people are enjoying the story. For those of you curious about "Pearls of the Deep" or "Entirely Up To You", they will be updated in due time. No promises on how soon, but most likely between the end of this week and Christmas. For those in the middle of finals, good luck to you!
King Dathomir waited to grace Belle with his presence until night had chased away the sun's light. The imprisoned beauty was sitting on top of the bed of straw and recalling a few favorite stories she'd committed to memory. Watching Rumplestiltskin had put her in the mood to dig up tales related to spinning. She hazarded to think her mother had whispered a bedtime yarn about a girl who lived with her stepmother and stepsister. The girl was kind, hardworking and uncomplaining, starting her chores in the early morning hours and carrying on into the evening to the point that her bones ached. Her stepsister, on the other hand, was too lazy to be bothered to help, and the stepmother allowed her to loll around the house while the girl labored relentlessly.
One day the girl was spinning next to a well (why near a well Belle didn't understand—her mother had no answer to offer when she asked about it), and she pricked her finger on the spindle. When she went to wash off the spindle, she accidentally dropped it. The girl feared her stepmother's wrath, so she jumped in after it. To her surprise, the well's bottom turned out to be a portal to another realm—a beautiful world filled with magic and strange, fantastic creatures. She encountered a finely-dressed lady—had she been a fairy? A witch? Belle couldn't remember. In any case, the woman took the girl on as her servant. After a time she became so impressed with the girl's industrious and gentle character that she let her return home with a generous gift of gold. The stepmother was outraged to see her stepdaughter adorned so lavishly, so she made her own daughter prick her finger and leap into the well. The mysterious woman quickly perceived the stepsister's idleness and sent her back home blackened with soot and tar.
Belle smiled upon reaching the end of the tale. How curious that she not only remembered a story about spinning, but it involved a mysterious, otherworldly benefactor and gold. At least Belle had no stepmother or stepsisters to worry about. Just an imposing king.
And shortly thereafter the man himself appeared, flanked with guards who crowded outside the door while he entered. Though weary and hungry, Belle stood and curtsied to the king as she'd been taught from childhood. He thundered in with heavy stride and right away spied the tall pile of gold thread. The light in Dathomir's eyes when they touched on the sight startled her. Disturbed her. He looked like a man luststruck, hungry for what he saw. He knelt down and touched a strand at the top of the heap and rubbed it between his fingers. His breath practically shuddered. Such a passionate fervor for something that, while monetarily valuable, could never return his reverence. Did he really love gold the way ordinary people love one another? Belle loved books—at times more than certain individuals—but they could never completely replace friends or even good company. She quaked when Dathomir's gaze moved to her, and she saw for a tiny moment the same ravenous fire directed her way. But a mask of restraint drew itself across his eyes like a curtain. He stood as straight and dignified as ever.
"I must say I'm impressed." He marched over to her. The floor shook with his steps. Belle slowly inhaled and clutched her dress, trying to not look like a cornered rabbit. "Such a fine talent, milady. Such a useful talent." The hunger crept back into his countenance, now in his voice as well as his eyes. His gloved hand, smelling of horses and blood, gingerly scooped up Belle's. She felt not only his eyes, but the eyes of his men all over her, even through the barred door. She didn't dare look their way. It took immeasurable steel to hold Dathomir's gaze, and still she flinched when he grasped her other hand with just as much deceptive gentleness.
"Oh, Lady Belle," King Dathomir breathed, leaning down to her face. "Where have you been all my life?"
The impassioned tone nearly smote Belle with horror until she looked him fully in the face and detected the faint hint of mockery in the glint of those cold grey eyes. He made himself sound as though he would wed her—or bed her—there and then. Why did he enjoy this so much? Why did men enjoy toying with her and torturing her? Rumplestiltskin did, too, though perhaps not to this degree. Because she was pretty? Because she didn't scream and spit obscenities at them, or swagger like a man? Because she appeared weak and helpless? The muscles in her neck constricted and her teeth clenched behind soft, sealed lips. Her tolerance for Dathomir's presence was rapidly disappearing.
"I take it you are pleased, then." Belle forced her throat and tongue into obedience. She'd held her own against him this far. Now that she'd fulfilled his desire, what more could she fear from him?
"Oh, I am." Dathomir lightened his tone raised his head to give Belle space to breathe. "You've done very well."
"Then you will let me go."
A pregnant silence preceded the shockwave of laughter that Dathomir released inside the cell, and which his guards were quick to accentuate with their own. Belle started from the volume of the sounds as well as their meaning. Dathomir spoke before she could string a question together.
"Who said anything about letting you go?"
An unladylike sputter burst from her mouth. "We had a deal! We agreed—"
"I agreed to spare your life. Were those not your words?"
A cold breath of air brushed the back of Belle's neck, or so she thought. It was more likely she was descending into a state of shock and terror. Those had been her words. A stuttered gasp set her windpipe burning as she attempted to fight back a sob. How could she have been so dense? So stupid! She'd been more careful with her wording with Rumplestiltskin, yet she'd allowed this little detail to slip her by. Oh, she would live all right. No doubt Dathomir had every intention of letting her live out the rest of her days in this dungeon until she died of disease or old age.
"Your Majesty," she peeped. Any other words died like lonely embers on her tongue. Her dignity would not allow her to beg for her freedom yet. Her insensible pride would not let her to kneel or crawl for this man, and that fact further fuelled her self-directed anger.
"Do not despair, my fair spinner." A rattlesnake's hiss was more welcome than Dathomir's joviality. "I reward those who serve me well. I have agreed to spare your life for this gold you've spun for me. If you want more from me, you will have to spin more gold."
Belle almost failed to stop her eyes from rounding at this statement. She bowed her head to hide her expression. The angle let her glimpse at her grubby toes sticking out from underneath the hem of her dress. Black streaks obscured both her pale skin and the tiny rhinestones the studded the shimmering, tarnished fabric.
"But first," said Dathomir, "I think a bath and a change of rooms is in order."
A pair of guards took their cue. Before Belle could think or speak, they clamped their hands around her shoulders and dragged her out of the cell. Refusing to be hauled around like a sack, Belle jogged to match their pace and refrained from arguing or struggling. The urge to resist arose now and then with the rough shoves and unfeeling snickers when her clumsy feet caught on the uneven stones of the corridor floor or the stairs that brought them down to a room more putrid than her cell. Belle briefly assumed she'd been brought to her new chamber of confinement until the guards started tearing at her dress. Panic robbed her of sense and restraint. She screamed and fought off their hands, which gave them permission to summon two more guards to capture her wrists and hold them out to her sides while her original escorts finished stripping her. The sight of more guards carrying in a large bucket of water made Belle feel foolish for the tears that coursed down her face. She swallowed any further impulse to weep.
Dathomir observed the washing ritual himself. He granted her the small mercy of having two female attendants clean her instead of the guards whose eyes danced up and down her body before the king sent them on their way. Belle's relief decreased as the women assaulted with sponges and unkind hands – they were as disinclined to treat her with compassion as everyone else. Still, at least they didn't ogle her. They only grimaced with weary wrinkled brows and chapped lips. She distracted herself by reading their faces and figures. Their clothes were decorated with stains, rips and dust. The skin hung from their arms and necks, and streaks of grey ran from their temples to the napes of their necks. Time and circumstance hadn't been merciful these women. That made it easier for Belle to forgive them for their brusqueness.
How many people suffered within the walls of Dathomir's castle? How many more outside it suffered under the thumb of his rule? She really had no idea. Maybe he was actually an effective king at a distance. In person nothing but his good looks recommended him. Her opinion of him continued to erode as he watched her as the women scrubbed her most intimate places. His expression was both cold and possessively intrigued. Snapping her gaze away from him, Belle instructed herself to look at him as infrequency as possible. Whenever the women forced her to face his way, she closed her eyes.
She felt sore yet refreshed when the women were through. After they dried her with a towel that chaffed her and tore away lose flakes of dry skin, the king ordered them to dress her in the same clothes as before, then commanded that the guards bring her to down to one of the larger dungeons. "You will have your spinning wheel and straw in the morning," he announced to her casually, not even waiting for her to be completely dressed before he waved his farewell and left. Belle did not grieve his departure. Her only concern lay with the guards, and whether they would behave themselves without the king overseeing them.
It seemed the monarch had given his men very strict instructions to not touch her beyond taking her by the arms and delivering her to the new cell. For that much Belle was willing to be grateful to Dathomir. It did not endear him any more to her, but she was willing to believe him capable of an ounce of decency. She nearly granted him more when she observed the chamber she'd been reassigned to. More spacious, less rancid, and a slightly larger, although another slim window lingered high in the wall. Sparse shards of moonlight fell through the opening to let Belle see where she was. Her relief was again short-lived. The room was a welcomed change, but she soon understood its purpose. The king wanted her to spin more gold. Not just more gold to add to what he now had, but an even larger quantity of gold. Dathomir was planning on filling the cell with as much straw as he could squeeze into it.
A whine squeaked out of Belle's throat. She picked the warmest corner and sat down. So much for her bed of straw. A larger dungeon was no more comfortable. Tears filled her eyes again, but they were tears of exhaustion—a need for release. With no one to witness this time, Belle breathed deeply and let them fall. Her mind cycled through everything she'd endured this week—the terror of invasion, the betrayal of an alleged ally, the anxiety of separation from her loved ones, the agony of permanently losing them, and the helplessness of being some king's tool that spouted undeserved wealth for him. These things nibbled at her strength like rats on a wedge of cheese, and there was nothing she could do. Nothing but to play along and hope that Dathomir's satisfaction elevated to admiration, maybe even respect.
How to do that, though, without the power to spin gold? She had nothing to offer Rumplestiltskin now, except the promise of something precious in the future. Was she that desperate? There was no room to negotiate leniency with Dathomir. To say she could spin gold, do so, and then tell him that the power had unexpectedly disappeared would be madness. She'd be begging for death. The only remaining choice was ask Rumplestiltskin to come back.
Belle held it off. She let an hour slip past without surrendering to her fear. Her mind turned over every possibility. Escape, bribery, acceptance of death with her head held high—all qualified for a moment's consideration. How much worse would it be to whore herself to the guards than to place herself in the debt of a dangerous sorcerer? Well, there was one difference. She couldn't say with confidence that the guards would keep their end of the deal, or take the deal at all. Rumplestiltskin would do both. That much she could count on. Every minute of thinking through various scenarios brought Belle closer to a conclusion that left her with the same ill feeling she would've had looking over the edge of a cliff.
She did not wholly shy away from the edge. There was a way to combine two of her options. Offering sexual favor could still work, though with a new recipient in mind. It was the only thing of value Belle thought she still possessed. She was a virgin, too, which might ripen the deal.
For all the coolness she tried to muster meditating on such an idea, her guts squirmed. She spent precious energy stilling them. There was still a chance, she reasoned, that Rumplestiltskin wouldn't find the offer appealing. He hadn't set it on the table during their first encounter. She wondered why. Maybe a creature as old as he—if he was indeed as ancient as rumors indicated—had outlived his libido. Or he regarded human females the way people regard pigs or sheep—alien and undesirable.
Or he simply didn't find her attractive. Belle wasn't insensible to her beauty and the way many men responded to it, yet she did not fancy herself the devastating fantasy of anyone's dreams. Dathomir, who had admitted that she was beautiful, seemed as devoid of sexual interest in her as Rumplestiltskin. What strange men she was surrounded by. But she was probably overrating her looks. And, besides, she'd been living in filth for the last week. Only now could she imagine she appeared halfway decent, what with the thorough scrub she just received. Remembering it gave her hope that, should she make the offer, Rumplestiltskin would find her less repulsive.
Belle pushed the hair out of her face and stood. Her hands smoothed out the rolls in her dress. A blush passed over her face at how ridiculous she must have looked primping herself, but adjusting her clothes and hair served as much to bolster her courage as it did to make her more enticing. In a way she was glad she didn't have a mirror to ridicule her.
As she straightened the bodice again, a theatrical voice sang behind her, "Even amongst brambles and weeds, a rose's beauty never falters."
It never failed. She should have grown used to it, but Rumplestiltskin's sudden presence sent jolt of surprise up Belle's spine and sent her into a brief panic attack. Thankfully the effects of his appearing without warning were becoming more and more short-lived. Waiting first to calm down, Belle turned to the imp and huffed. Rumplestiltskin stood with his hands cradled in front of him and wore a very wide grin that forced him to squint. It was almost too wide to hide his crooked teeth.
"Isn't this getting old?" Belle sharply asked, not able or really willing to rein in her tongue.
"Not at all!" He was beaming with pride. She wished she wasn't torn between slapping him and smiling back. "Red roses are the loveliest roses of all. And you're sporting a very lovely shade of red right now!"
Belle might have taken his remark as flirtatious had he not succumbed to a giggling fit. No, he simply delighted in embarrassing her. Sadly she found it just a little amusing. His behavior infuriated her on the one hand, but she could hardly remain furious at him for acting like a delighted child. Well, she could, but fatigue and worry quelled any impulse to gripe over his rudeness. So Belle clasped her hands behind her and played on his good humor. "A lady must do what she can to look lovely, I suppose."
Rumplestiltskin sniggered again. Then his attention sharpened. He still smiled, but not with that juvenile openness she was beginning to recognize. There were more teeth in this smile. His eyes roamed, too, taking her in. "And to win her freedom, yes? How goes it with the king?"
Belle's humor vaporized like morning mist. A weight returned to her body, particularly in the center of her stomach. She straightened and held her chin level to counterbalance it. "He has decided to spare my life, but . . ."
"But he wants you to spin more gold. And you must if you ever hope to escape these dungeons."
Another chill ran down her neck. A few seconds were all Belle needed to link the threads together.
"You knew he would want more gold. You knew he wouldn't release me the first time."
She shouldn't have sounded or felt so hurt. One could not expect any less from the infamous dealmaker. This was Rumplestiltskin, a creature she could not call friend or even ally. The situation forced her to rely on him for help. He was not here out of good will. And yet learning she'd been misled still stung.
"What did you expect, dearie? Dathomir loves gold more than anything. Of course one day's worth wouldn't leave him satisfied!"
Against her will, Belle's eyes turned down to her feet. Still a fool for kings and sorcerers. But she wouldn't give in to self-loathing yet. Pride may crumble into dust, but her dignity—something purer and rooted in common humanity, not social status or even womanly worth—would remain untenable even in the face of humiliation. It would do her no good to hate herself over being taken in and made the tool of men. At some point, hopefully after this ordeal, she would forgive herself. For now the injury, which burned like seared flesh, would have to be borne. She would bear it, even if she doubted her own strength.
"Then I'm afraid I must ask you to help me again," she whispered after a long, thoughtful bout of silence.
"So it seems." A pair of speckled fingers hooked underneath her chin and tilted it up. Rumplestiltskin withdrew them as soon as their eyes met. His hooded, murky orbs stared into hers. Belle couldn't say whether or not he was enjoying seeing her so wretched. She checked the lines of his face for a telltale wrinkle or twitch. None. His visage emoted nothing but neutrality.
Belle balled her hands and kept her focus locked on the greenish-brown depths of his irises. So large and engulfing. She felt miniscule in their presence, like a krill gawking into the mouth of a blue whale. How could she be brave when confronting such caverns?
Do the brave thing, and bravery will follow.
"What do you require in return?" she asked with suggestive softness. Her limbs remained stiff.
Rumplestiltskin took several steps back to Belle's dismay. Either he didn't understand her meaning or he was determined to extract the promise of a yet-to-be-obtained reward. Belle opened her mouth to put her indecent offer into words. He cut her off with a raised finger.
"How about . . . your dress?"
The words hit her like a burst of light. Belle blinked away the blinding shock. "My dress?" A single glance at it left her still baffled. Frayed threads, black-and-brown spots, empty sockets where rhinestones had been—it was a mess. He must have been jesting. "I don't understand."
"I will spin straw into gold for the king tomorrow if you give me your dress." His tone floated high, but it was controlled and serious.
Too many questions occupied Belle's thoughts for her to even think straight. "But it's ruined," she squeaked at last.
Rumplestiltskin shrugged. "Nothing I can't handle." He raised his hands and slowly wiggled his fingers. A breeze rose out of nowhere, as did a purple cloud like the one the imp always disappeared in. Only now it encompassed Belle. She stopped herself from gasping and instead closed her mouth so as not to inhale the vapor. Air and smoke swirled around her and briefly obscured her vision of everything. A whiff of enchanted dust tickled the inside of her nose. It had that sweet and sharp odor she detected on Rumplestiltskin the first day. Just as before, it left her a little dizzy.
When the mist dissolved, Belle didn't feel any different except for the vague sensation that she'd been touched by magic. Rumplestiltskin laughed and spread his hands, suggesting his work was done and that he was pleased with himself. As usual.
Belle looked down at her dress and yelped. The yards of silk shined clean and bright again, restored to their former glory. Not a jewel was out of place, and not a single loose thread could be found. Even the hem, which had suffered the worst from trailing across the grungy floor, was made whole and spotless. Belle had quite the difficult time picking up her jaw off the floor.
"But . . . but why? Why do you want my dress?" That should have been her first question. Incredulity was inhibiting logic at the moment.
"I like the fabric and color," said Rumplestiltskin with another shrug, as if that were all the explanation required. When Belle's dumbfounded expression refused to change, he added, "I've been looking for material for a new suit. Something for dressier occasions, like a ball. You may find it hard to believe, but dragonhide is not the easiest to move around in."
The young beauty, an alleged model of refinement, teetered on the brink of hysterical laughter. She couldn't understand what he was talking about. He attended balls? Needed a new suit? Made from a woman's dress? Were she to laugh and declare just how absurd this all was, however, he might become angry and change his price. Oh, if he wanted her dress, he could have it. She didn't care if he just wanted it to wear in secret, or even publicly!
"Deal!" she cried.
The imp quietly twittered and clapped his hands. "Good. Now take it off."
Ah. The giddy feeling the previous moment's hilarity had brought disappeared. Belle was actually glad for it. Now his request made a bit more sense. She wore undergarments, of course, but this particular dress' design required a sleeveless corset and a chemise held up by pins and cut low on her breasts. The silk provided poor insulation, but it was better than being left in her knickers, especially at night. The air in the dungeon made the skin that was already exposed stand up in goosepimples.
A deal was a deal, however. So Belle turned around and started to push the sleeves down her arms. Pausing, she checked behind her. Rumplestiltskin was still facing her with eyes riveted to her back.
"Umm, would you mind . . .?" She pointed her finger downward and twirled it.
For some reason the imp appeared surprised by her request, not to mention amused. Yes, whether or not he watched her undress wouldn't make much difference since she had no other clothes to change into. That didn't mean he couldn't show a little courtesy. Nevertheless, at her behest he did pivot away, and Belle made sure to thank him before she resumed disentangling herself from the gown.
At least it was not as difficult as getting out of a corset. Belle had it off in a matter of seconds. In the meantime she wondered what Rumplestiltskin's intentions really were. This might simply have been the first step toward what she'd been planning to offer him in the first place. Then again, maybe he got a jolly out of degrading her. Better not to assume either way, she decided before she gathered up the dress and, using it like a shield, brought it to him with business-like detachment.
The imp twirled back round at the clearing of her throat. "Very good!" His claws snatched the puffy lump of silk and lace. Belle stepped back, now protected by only a cream-colored petticoat, chemise and corset, and let her arms hang to the sides despite how much she wanted to salvage her modesty or rub herself warm. She put only a few feet between them so Rumplestiltskin could get an eyeful, and to make it clear that if he liked what he saw, she wouldn't run away.
His dark eyes did turn up to her after wasting a moment examining the dress. He looked at it, sniffed it, ruffled and rubbed it, even seemed to listen to how it sounded as he crinkled the material. Only after he was satisfied did he pay her further attention. When his gaze alighted on her half-naked form, his grin fell away.
Belle scowled and bit her lip. This didn't look promising. "Well?"
Rumplestiltskin dragged his eyes slowly up and down her figure, as if he didn't know what to make of her. Was she really that odd-looking to him? Another blush imbued her cheeks. Nervous hands fiddled with her skirt to make sure no part of it was riding high. Her heart pounded inside her chest like an angry rhinoceros trying to break free of its prison. His eyes eventually came back up to her face, and when they did she couldn't have run even if she wanted to. Her muscles had solidified into cold marble.
Her companion appeared tense in the shoulders himself, but that tension all at once dropped out of sight as he wrapped his arms around the rolled-up dress and pressed it against him. "It'll do."
To Belle, his crisp response held enough ambiguity to make her daring. A small swell of relief helped her regain mobility. She stepped toward him. "Really?"
"I should say so."
The imp held his spot. Belle, her head abuzz with conflicting inferences, took it as a challenge. He wanted her to come to him willingly. As she came closer, though, she started to shake. For her first experience at intimacy to be an item for trade depressed more than offended her, but to do it with a man she didn't love—and moreso with one she barely knew—left her quaking. What would he be like? Would he just take her the way she imagined the guards taking her were they in his place? Lust-driven and senseless to her well-being? But it wasn't only roughness she feared. To be so close to someone—skin to skin, plus something more—was in itself a terrifying thought. Belle could be a tactile person when the mood took her. She remembered enjoying the feel of her father's ermine-lined cloak under her fingers, and his large wrinkled hands in hers when either of them needed comfort or assurance. With certain people whom she cared about and trusted, touch wasn't a problem. With strangers, she preferred the safety of distance. It did not cross her mind until now that a sexual favor would require her to step well outside her area of comfort. She'd assumed she would endure it like she was enduring everything else.
She had to stop overestimating herself.
The only way to escape her fears was to abandon all thought. She pulled in her focus on the here and now—on Rumplestiltskin and his glittering skin and spidery hands which held her dress captive. The gown was the only thing left between them when she closed the distance. Nothing but their breathing filled the vacuum of quiet around them. The air leaving Rumplestiltskin's nostrils and barely parted lips lightly caressed the tip of Belle's nose. Even in the dark, she could see his expression pinch tighter and tighter with confusion. She almost fancied he'd pulled up the dress to create a buffer between their torsos.
They faced each other without speaking for a few minutes. Belle's knees shook so much they were close to knocking together. She had no idea what was going on in the imp's mind. Hope pressed against hope at the idea that he was solely interested in the dress. A preposterous notion. This payment would serve for only one day's worth of spinning, after all. Was he waiting for her to make the official offer? Once she did, she wouldn't be able to take it back.
No, she couldn't do it. She couldn't take the plunge until she knew for certain that was what he wanted.
"So . . . what now?"
"Now?" Rumplestiltskin furrowed his brow. The loose skin on his neck stretched as he swallowed. "Well . . . it's night, isn't it?"
Belle nodded, though she wondered why he sounded as nervous as she felt. "Yes, it is."
"So . . . we have a long day tomorrow. Which means we . . . we need our sleep."
A century seemed to pass by between when Belle opened her mouth and when sound actually came out. What did come out was the most guttural "Oh" she'd ever uttered in her life.
"What?" Rumplestiltskin immediately asked.
"N-n-nothing!" The air felt thin in her lungs. She laughed and gasped and felt a rush of dizziness go straight to her head. "You're right. I think I . . . need to lie down."
Her heart stopped when his hand came to rest on her bare shoulder. "Are you ill?"
Belle shook her head. "I'm fine. I just need sleep, like you said." She turned and hoped to see her straw pile. She didn't, and she remembered it was still in the other cell. It didn't matter. She couldn't look at Rumplestiltskin without experiencing another bout of wooziness. She fled to the corner beyond the sorcerer's gentle touch. After curling up in the nook with her head propped against the far wall, she let herself look askance at him. "See you in a few hours, then."
Wavy tresses brushed the top of the dragonhide collar and coat as Rumplestiltskin tilted his head. "You're sure you're all right?"
"Perfectly," she clipped. "Good night."
Belle didn't look at him again, but she guessed by the snort that he was less than confident in her answer. "Good night, then," he replied in a mimicking tone. She chanced to glance at him again as his form dissolved into purple dust being borne away by an unfelt breeze out the tiny window.
She didn't want to think about what just happened—what almost just happened. She didn't want to think about what it meant that he didn't understand or accept her offer. A frustrating enigma, that man. Belle should've been, and was to a degree, overwhelmed with gratitude at having her decency and virginity spared for at least a little while longer. Yet as she drifted into slumber, her hand crawled up her other arm and grazed the place where Rumplestiltskin's fingers had been. They'd felt cool but soft. They'd belonged to a man who, even with his scales and sharp teeth and unreadable eyes, harbored a morsel of tenderness in his manner. She didn't want to think on that, either. Now and then, however, her dreams slipped beyond her control. A pulsing fog filled her deep inside with a desire she dared not articulate even in thought.
Tonight her dreams remained undisturbed. Tonight she could sleep and wonder with a foolish girl's optimism what might happen in the days to come.