It's been a while, so I feel obligated to update at least one story and wish you all a Happy Valentine's Day! I just wish I had a chapter finished and ready to upload that better fit the holiday spirit. This . . . is going to be a bit painful. (I'll probably need to go back and edit this later, so please forgive typos, general errors and bad writing for the time being).
Belle's hands and arms ached more than she expected by the time she'd finished rolling up all the gold. She'd put extra effort into winding it as fast as she could before Dathomir's return. The coiled threads would be easier to move than haphazard strands, which meant a shorter visit from the king. If sore arms were the price for that, so be it. She sighed gladly watching the last coil fall to the stacked mound on the floor. Her second food tray arrived. The evening meal came just before Dathomir. She'd been timely.
They had been timely, rather. Rumplestiltskin spun more gold in less time than before. How she did not know. Magic probably had something to do with it. Could he bend time to his will? Or did he spin at an inhuman pace that, due to their shared occupation, Belle failed to notice? She'd have to ask him and hope he was willing to part with a trade secret.
Though her hands hurt, they could still grip the wooden soup bowl and pick away at what parts of the bread looked edible. Labor left Belle famished, and without Rumplestiltskin around there would be no complaining voices over the meal. She hated it when people complained about things they couldn't change, or weren't willing to change. Sometimes comfort could be found in griping about misfortunes. Just thinking about hers made Belle feel worse, though. Dismissing the imp's remarks about the food, she downed the soup in a few gulps. She ate what she could of the bread and left it in a corner for her rodent cellmates. She was still standing when a troop of footsteps coming down the hallway to her dungeon door. She ran back to her meager straw bed, laid down the blanket she had around her shoulders, and covered it with the hay. Her calloused soles scraped against stone like sandpaper as she sprinted to the door, close to losing all sensation thanks to layer upon layer of toughened flesh. She tugged at her clothes to straighten them. She gasped. Her dress! She'd forgotten it was gone. That was bad for two reasons.
There was no time to think of a plan or excuse. The door flew open. Dathomir marched through it and headed right for the wheel and the gold. Not even a greeting, and barely an acknowledging glimpse. Good. Belle would not reprimand his rudeness. She didn't need questions she had no safe answer for.
The king's reaction to her horde was much the same as last night's, except his shock wasn't as pronounced. That allowed his greed to shine all the more. He smiled far too warmly, far too affectionately to suit his otherwise staunch, square face. Belle had never seen him smile like that at any person. Had he no family to love? No friends? For a short moment she watched Dathomir and sensed something in him as tragic as it was twisted. For a man to love gold so much wasn't natural. Maybe there was some unhappy part of his past that brought on this attachment.
The impact of that tragedy—the surge of pity she felt—dissolved when Dathomir's eyes found her and was replaced with agitated repulsion. It was a well-practiced pastime of theirs despite their handsome silver-grey color. "Well done again, milady."
Belle nodded and curtsied. "Thank you, your majesty." She looked up to see Dathomir towering above her, making her flinch. It was hard trying not to turn away.
"Your talents have been wasted. I'll be sure to remedy that." His voice was muted thunder inside his broad chest. Belle wanted to flee to her corner of straw and wool for shelter, and not have to face this beast of a man. Being brave, if this was it, wore her out.
Somehow her bravery had not so tired her so with Rumplestiltskin. It should have. Rumplestiltskin wielded magic—a power stronger than any sword, rope or lash. He should've frightened her more than Dathomir, even if he wasn't much bigger than her. Well, if her bravery could withstand the reptilian sorcerer, it should be good enough against the king.
She clenched her hands. "As it pleases your majesty."
"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Dathomir as he came close enough that Belle's chest—her barely covered chest—brushed against his. He bent down until their noses were half an inch away from touching. The smile from earlier lost its gentleness and none of its voraciousness. "Truly I am. You're a sensible woman, whatever else your disadvantages."
Without forewarning, he turned and snapped his fingers at the guards. One, his arms laden with a bundle of cloth, came into the cell. Belle's heart started to pull down to her feet as though a grapple had snagged it. On top of spinning gold, he expected her to mend clothing, too? With what, the gold thread? She had a mind to object when Dathomir took the bundle and opened it to reveal the top piece as a wine-colored peasant's bodice, followed by a simple beige blouse and a brown working skirt underneath.
"I think your gown has suffered enough." The king showed off his teeth, enjoying the joke tucked away in his remark. "Change into these. I will give you tomorrow to rest, then you spin again the day after. My guards will bring you straw for you to spin every other day. Maybe two days apart."
The sinking feeling returned. Rumplestiltskin did say he would come back to negotiate a long-term agreement, but good gods, every other day? "May I ask how long my services will be needed?"
"As of now, indefinitely." Belle expected him to laugh the way he did at her and her father's expense. Instead he sent a shocked jolt through her by hooking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Not a problem, of course."
"No, your majesty. Not a problem." Belle couldn't verify her answer's integrity in that moment. Rumplestiltskin would offer her a means of continuing this task for a while. But the conditions of that arrangement had yet to be settled, and she was not looking forward to it. He might press hard now. With her "skills" proven to be dependable, she was in an even more desperate spot. She would have to comply with his wishes. The imp might still try to extract a promised favor, probably one requiring real sacrifice. Belle, lost in where to turn for hope, closed her eyes and remembered his face from today. The wrinkled smirks, the glittering skin, the murky eyes. The way the corner of his mouth twitched when true emotion fluttered across his features, free from the masking grin he enjoyed showcasing. The way his muscles slackened under her handkerchief as she wiped off the sweat. The awkward motions his hands made taking the cloth from her, and greeting her farewell . . .
He might use his earlier kindnesses to justify ruthlessness later, but maybe—maybe there was a slim chance these gestures meant he was more invested in her welfare than he realized. Wisdom demanded that she assume the former; her heart still clung to the latter.
In a matter of minutes the cell was again empty of gold, guards and king. Belle had accepted the new clothes and pressed them to her chest. They were coarse and warm, a luxury after the weighty burden of her gown, no matter how fine the silk. As she covered her modesty with them, her brain fumbled over any logical explanation of why no one noticed that she was in her underthings. Had she heard Dathomir right? Had he said, "Your gown has suffered enough"? Was he being ironic? Why did he not ask her about her dress, and state of dress? Even gold could not be that distracting. There was no natural reason he wouldn't have noticed. Either he was being an unexpected, uncharacteristic gentleman, or somehow his and his guards' vision had been enchanted into seeing an illusion.
Rumplestiltskin. She now had two questions for him when he returned. Belle chuckled at it all and finished changing. How did her life become so bizarre? Maybe that was the price for consorting with scaly, childish wizards.
It'd been a quiet, boring day of solitude. Belle started hankering for tomorrow when Rumplestiltskin would be back spinning and, she hoped, in a talkative mood. Dathomir left the spinning wheel with her, but without the straw the dungeon was too vacuous. Comfort eluded her for every position she assumed on the floor or against the wall, and even on the mat of straw. She spent most of the day walking around to keep her blood pumping and her spirits up. She also recalled books she'd read. Stories of adventurers and monsters. Historical chronicles of kings and their realms. Encyclopedias on animals on land and sea. Poetic verse that nourished her with its music. Her internal library was stocked enough that she could distract herself from the yawning silence, and the grief-fueled nightmares that threatened to creep in when her guard lowered in sleep. One day she'd be able to think of her father without tearing up. Some day far away.
She had perused only a quarter of that saving store of knowledge and literature when the hairs on her arms stood up, and a cool shudder wracked her body. She turned without thinking on it. There was Rumplestiltskin, mouth strung up in a smirk, hands folded in front of him. The dragonhide coat had returned. He looked more like he had the first day. Some instinct told Belle to take this as a bad sign.
He was dressed for business. The imp spread his hands and bowed like when he initially appeared from nowhere in her cell. Belle had an urge to revert to her state at that time: afraid, uncertain, heartbroken. But that had been before she'd seen him without the coat—when he'd dressed like a bard in an expensive but ordinary shirt and vest. Before he had let her sit close to him and told her how he came from the Frontlands and encountered the ogres that frightened even him.
She raised her eyebrows at him and curtsied with a matching hint of mockery.
"Good day, milady," he said. 'New warbrobe, I see. No quite as stunning as your last article."
"It's more appropriate for a prisoner."
Rumplestiltskin chuckled and stepped toward her. "That may be, but rags do not suit you at all. They could have given you something not so plain and ventilated."
The blouse and skirt had been victims of time and hungry moths. Belle shrugged. "They'd go to ruin like the first dress, anyway."
The wizard conceded with a nod. Belle's memory was at once jarred and she, with unintentional rudeness, cut in as he was about to speak. "I have a question."
Though taken aback, Rumplestiltskin arched his eyebrows with interest. "Yes?"
She relaxed at his demeanor. "Last night, when Dathomir and his men came to visit, they didn't seem to notice that I was . . . underdressed."
"What an unobservant lot!"
"Did you do something?" She fidgeted with her skirt, worried he might think she was being accusatory. "Not that I mind. I'm relieved. But I'd like to know."
"I just made sure they saw what they expected to see." Rumplestiltskin giggled and, hands pressed together, approached Belle, swiveling to face her at an angle. "Can't have them asking questions, now, can we?"
She released a breathy, half-hearted chuckle. "Right." Grateful as she was for the nonetheless vague explanation, they needed to get to the heart of Rumplestiltskin's posturing. If only they could go back to that closer place they'd entered into before. When she stepped toward him, however, he pivoted away without actually retreating. He wouldn't let her look him in the face, in the eyes. Disappointment pinched her, but she remained congenial. "I guess we have to have our talk."
"Ah, yes! What with Dathomir's increasing interest in your 'handiwork', you'll want to secure my services for a while. I doubt you have anything of material worth left on your person."
Indeed, though the question of whether her own person might have some value flitted in the back of Belle's mind. Some dread stirred in the nadir of her stomach. But worth was worth. She wouldn't dismiss it unless she believed her well-being was in danger.
"You must have something in mind," she offered.
A predatory smile slowly crept across his mouth. It was almost as menacing as the first he'd shown her, but something seemed to be . . . missing from it. Or so Belle fancied.
"I have given it much thought. I have, for instance, already considered your stubbornness over unnamed favors. Better we not waste our time by going through that dance again."
Well, that was good to hear. Belle nodded. She'd rather endure the painful process of weighing the cost of a set price than suffer the vulnerable uncertainty of what Rumplestiltskin may ask for in the unforeseeable future.
"I have reason to believe that Dathomir, after some time, will see fit to take your hand in marriage. His gold-lust will make him insensible to reason, and your charm and wit will only spur him on."
"You're kind," Belle said, her voice dry, "but if he marries me, I don't expect him to feel any love for me, as I'm sure I will not love him."
"And you can live with that?" He bent his head to one side, grin still present but losing its luster.
"I was engaged to another man I also didn't care for. An arranged marriage. It's the sort of thing a noblewoman is taught to prepare for."
Rumplestiltskin's gaze moved away from her to the wall directly in front of him. Belle risked drawing near to read his expression. His face betrayed little. Its stiffness gave the impression of an iron chest wrapped in chains to keep in its explosive contents.
She took another risk. "I don't like it, either, but I'm willing to do it if it's necessary. If Dathomir manages not to be a brute and allows me freedom, I can tolerate it. I only wish not to be locked up or belittled. It's not as though everyone is guaranteed True Love."
"True," sighed Rumplestiltskin. As he said it, his features opened up. The wrinkles from his smile softened, and his lips closed a little around his stained teeth. That fleetingly pensive, gentle expression encouraged Belle another step closer. She could now touch his shoulder if she wanted to, or fix the ruffle of his right shirt sleeve—it was partly tucked inside the cuff of the coat. But she let the space linger between them, compressed as it was. The invisible walls surrounding Rumplestiltskin's emotions were formidable, but not insurmountable. It might have been the call of a challenge that lured Belle into looking for gaps or loose stones to pull away. It wasn't just about a challenge, though. She knew what it meant to live in a castle guarded by high walls. If you had no one to share that castle with, it must become a very lonely place.
Her hand floated toward Rumplestiltskin's sleeve. She didn't think about anything more than adjusting the ruffle. But the wizard caught its approach and jerked away. He stepped back. The room and his expression took on a cool, razor-edged tension.
Rumplestiltskin hid his hands behind him and puffed his chest. "So, you'll agree to marry the king. And your happy union will procure you many treasures!"
Pulling her hand back, Belle struggled to restrain any bite in her tone. "Rumplestiltskin, I know you're not interested in treasure of the usual variety. Just tell me what you want, please."
"Of course." His voice dropped to a cutting whisper. Without appearing hasty, he smoothly narrowed the distance in a couple of heartbeats. She felt his breath before she saw his face barely an inch from hers. Everyone of late seemed eager to encroach on her personal space. The air from his mouth and nose teased her skin. Although she thought she'd grown accustomed to such inappropriate closeness, blood heated her cheeks. Her mind unwittingly responded with mortifying scenarios she'd imagined of him asking her for that special kind of favor reserved for the marriage bed. The thoughts sent chills down her abdomen. She feared she might twitch on accident and make him angry with her alleged revulsion of him. It might have been revulsion of a kind, but more of the situation than of him. The wizard, with his breathing and smiling, did not ease her nerves, of course.
With him all but pressed against her, it seemed set that the words she imagined would drop from his lips. Belle lowered her eyes, almost closing them.
"What I want . . . is your first-born child."
Her eyelids snapped open. She whipped her gaze up at him. "What?"
"As payment for my services," he said slowly, "until the king takes your hand in marriage and renders those services unneeded, you will give me your first-born."
He had to be joking. Belle searched for any sign of concealed humor. There was nothing except his false grin, which curled nastily as she stared at him.
"No! How can you ask me that? I would never . . . I couldn't . . ."
"What's the matter, milady? You who treat marriage so coolly—why is this any different?"
The condescending hiss in his words provoked a degree of rage Belle had rarely ever felt. It shot through her chest and down her fingers. Before she could even think about controlling herself, she shoved him away with unexpected strength. Tears started to blur his half-stumbling form and the rigid edges of the dungeon.
"How dare you!" Even in anger, Belle could hear the childish whine in her voice—the pathetic sob of a helpless girl. Her rage boiled all the more. "It's not the same! People marry all the time without considering love! You're telling me to give up my flesh and blood, and without giving them any choice!"
"I'm not telling you to do anything," said Rumplestiltskin. The playful mannerisms were gone. They left only a growling creature in its place. What might have passed for a smile in poorer lighting was, to Belle's eyes, the grimace of a gargoyle. "You still have a choice. It's not as though you're sending the child to its death. But if you want to live to be queen, you'll have to pay the price."
The first flames of Belle's fury dwindled under the flood of sobs, tears and hurt. She felt she'd been thrown overboard without warning onto a landless, choppy sea, and with nothing to keep her afloat. "I don't want to live to be a queen! I just want to live! There must be something—"
"There isn't!"
His shout made her jump. A short moment of real fright caught her unawares. It eased away as she watched his face. He was baring his teeth in wolfish fashion. His hands were balled into fists; his head and shoulders thrust forward so he could throw his words at her. It was wrong. All wrong. He was too wound up. Too angry.
Belle couldn't stop the tears from slipping out the corners of her eyes, but she could quell her sobs with controlled breaths. She took a few quick inhales to steady herself. "Why are you asking this of me? Is it some kind of punishment?"
"It's just the price, dearie." He spat out the last word.
"You could have asked for this from the beginning. Why didn't you? Am I supposed to believe this has all been some game of yours?"
Rumplestiltskin's vicious grin came back. "Of course it's all a game. I'm an immortal wizard. What else am I going to do with my time?"
"There are plenty of other people, I'm sure, ready to make deals with you. People with far more to offer you. If you'd wanted to make me squirm—if that's what you enjoy—you would've done it sooner."
"Oh, but my dear Belle . . ." His smile grew more taut. "A person isn't really desperate until they've had a taste of hope. I gave you hope. That's all it was. Did you think you could sway me with your kindness? Make me your ally? Sorry, dearie. That's not what I do. Now, will you take my offer or not?"
Belle's face tensed with the tears she tried to hold in. Her efforts to stare through those walls of his—fortified with dragon leather and spearing words—were in vain. His glare and his snarl kept her at bay. The eyes and mouth behind them still had a human shape, a human softness, but it was getting harder and harder to see them. She couldn't stand it anymore. It was surrender, even though her words expressed the contrary.
"Leave, Rumplestiltskin. If that's your one and only offer, I don't want your help."
He straightened out of his aggressive stance. Her heart roll over at the subtle flutter of his eyelids, the stubborn grin, the nervous wiggling fingers. It wanted to stop beating as he took another step away. "Suit yourself. Call for me if you change your mind, but don't think my offer will stay open for long. And don't think Dathomir will take kindly to you when he learns you can't spin any more gold for him." The purple cloud of his magic wrapped around him, obscured his figure, then evaporated.
She was on her own again. Truly on her own. The dungeon sat still in its vacancy, Belle and the untouched spinning wheel notwithstanding. It waited with her to see whether the imp was bluffing. Belle did not call for him. She refrained from just thinking his name. His image loitered as a token of the company he's once kept with her, and the strangely tender moments that passed almost unnoticed. She wouldn't let herself think on the cruel being who'd left her to her fate. He'd left so that she would crawl back to him, cast aside her inhibitions and conscience to save herself. How many other women had he subjected to this choice? How many had taken his offer? In spite of his heated words and telltale ticks, he was back in his element. A devilish confidence buoyed him through their exchange, and convinced him to turn his back on her and let her come crying for help. He was sure she'd rationalize her way to agreeing to this deal. Give up her unborn, unknown child so she may live another day and maybe regain some comfort. A horrible choice had been forced into her hands, and one she felt herself becoming tempted to accept.
Desperation clawed at her like beggars demanding spare coins, refusing to let her go even as she paced. To hold out meant to forfeit her life. There would be no mercy from Dathomir. So it was her or the child she'd never know, never raise, never teach, never love. Could she live with giving it up like that? Now, perhaps, yes, because the child was only a thought. An unrealized notion. But once that child came, even if it was Dathomir's, what then? After the trial of pregnancy and the agony of childbirth, to be then robbed of the fruit sounded like a special kind of torture.
Belle thought of her mother and what she must have borne to bring her into this world. Her mother, good and brave and kind, and armed with a loving heart like no other, would never have given her up. She remembered how, when still a child, her mother would come to tuck her into bed, kiss her and tell her that her love was a big as all the oceans put together. Belle would say her love was as big as all the sky, all the way out to the dimmest stars. It wouldn't have mattered how many children her mother might have had after her, had that happened. Belle had been loved because, to her mother, she was precious not because of her accomplishments or character, but by virtue of being her mother's child. Each child was irreplaceable.
She stroked her stomach, empty of the life it would one day hold if she lived long enough. It would be wrong to deny that child a chance at living, but so too would it be to let it live knowing its mother thought her own life more important. The tears surged up. Belle wiped them away and inhaled to stifle any new sobs. The silence of her prison clogged her ears while she sat down and leaned against a wall. A few sniffs and her breaths alone disturbed the air. Then came the footfalls. Weary and dulled to everything, she went to the door and spoke to the guard with her meal.
"I need to send a message to the king," she said.
"Another?" he joked, reminding Belle he was the same guard she spoke to a few days ago. He didn't try to run off first this time.
"Tell his majesty that I cannot spin any more gold."
It was interesting to see the fear that swallowed his eyes. It was her head on the line, not his. But Belle had no energy left to feel fear for herself right now that she didn't mind the display. It comforted her a little.
"Are you sure that's wise? Has it gone away? Maybe it will come back."
"I doubt it. I've lost the power, it seems. Please tell the king as soon as you can. I don't want to keep him waiting."
The guard lingered before sending the tray through the slot. He was careful, took his time. Belle took it without it spilling on the floor first. "Tell the king I am sorry," she added as he walked away.
"Not as sorry as you will be," said the guard with unprecedented concern. Belle managed to smile and nod.
Hours passed as uneventfully as they had before Rumplestiltskin's appearance. No second tray arrived when she expected, though. She had long lost her appetite, but this fact she alarmed her. It must have been evidence that the king had received the guard's message. Her insides bubbled from waiting like this, so she forced herself to walk around again even though her mood wanted her to sulk. She was back on the ground, however, when the recognizable ensemble of boots thumped her way. A sudden desire to make herself presentable got her up to brush off her clothes before Dathomir entered the cell. He should've stormed in as any outraged king would. His gait and mood were measured. Temperate. Belle shivered, but more disturbed at being back into a corner, she came forward and curtsied.
"Explain to me what is wrong," he said, low and even.
"I've lost my gift, your majesty."
"How can you tell? You haven't spun anything all day."
"I can tell when I don't have the power. It . . . comes and goes. I can't say if it will come back. I think not."
"You think not." Dathomir spoke so softly he almost sounded pitying. Belle held in a puff of air out of fear that it would suddenly be knocked out of her.
It went so quiet that the flicker of the torches could be heard. The guards outside breathed without a sound. No one whispered, gestured, snickered. Nothing. The silence began to choke her. Her gaze dropped to the floor from the weight.
"That is unfortunate," said the king. "I'm sure you can't help it."
Belle sighed. Yes and no. "No, I can't, your majesty. I wish I could."
"I have found," he continued, collected as ever, "that sometimes people think they can't do something, but what they are lacking is proper motivation."
She looked up again. "What kind of motivation?"
"The most pressing kind." Dathomir turned and motioned with his fingers. "Take her."
Belle gasped, then went quiet. Numbness took over. She barely felt the grip of the guards on her arms. A tight ball formed in her belly as they dragged her out of the dungeon. She didn't fight them. The ball warned her that she would need all her mettle to endure the next few hours, or days, if she had that much time. She would. Wizard or not, so long as her body stayed in one piece and her lungs could take air, she'd hold on and grit her teeth.