Note: For those waiting for her to say it, I don't think this Belle will ever tell Rumple he's not a monster. That's not such a bad word to her. Monsters aren't as terrifying to her as some of the men she's known.

X

Back in the Marchlands, watching as Belle swirled around the dance floor, Rumplestiltskin had almost been tempted to relent. He'd felt an ache inside him. She was so much more beautiful than he remembered. He had known a poor peasant in rough woolens with callused hands and stray hairs always slipping out of her braid. Now, she was like a jewel that had found its proper setting at last. Her tall lover might not impress him (or anyone) with his wit, but he was a fitting match for her: handsome, of noble blood, and heir to all these lands. He was also (Rumplestiltskin grudgingly admitted) a great warrior, nothing like the coward she had married.

Rumplestiltskin knew enough about Gaston's part in defending the Marchlands to admit Gaston didn't just look like a balladeer's idea of a noble knighthood, all tall and shiny and just standing around waiting for someone to cast him in bronze; he was the genuine article. He had fought Ogres and planned battles. He had organized defenses and helped the Marchlands stand as long as they did. True, military matters had eaten up what little brain power he had. But, you can't have everything, can you? Tall, heroic, and less wit than a brick. If you didn't mind having to actually listen to him for the rest of your life while craning your neck to look up and pretend you were interested, Rumplestiltskin supposed he could see the appeal.

And he was tall. Had Rumplestiltskin mentioned tall?

Rumplestiltskin had been cruel when he came for Bae. He knew it. After what Belle had done, he told himself, he had a right to be.

And, yet, once he had Bae, once they had gone and left her behind, that would have been enough. He'd made his deal with Maurice. The Marchlands would be protected and prosper. Belle would have gone on with whatever she had with the stupid, man-shaped tower.

There had been times when he would have done worse. If he had met her in the early days of his curse, still giddy and drunk with power, still . . . learning how to think and act like a man again (sometimes. Other times, humanity was severely overrated. Not to mention more boring than a conversation with Gaston), he could imagine the revenge he would have taken. He could have torn her still-beating heart out of her chest and let her watch as he crushed hit to dust before her eyes. Better yet, he could have taken her lover's heart and crushed that before her eyes (the thought still amused him. It was just as well his deal with Maurice precluded killing his heir in interesting ways. Or uninteresting).

Even when he came for Bae, angry as he'd been, there was a part of him that was glad he hadn't met her again till now, when he knew he wouldn't hurt her. Much.

He had seen her glide through the complex steps of court dances as gracefully and effortlessly as a swan on the water. Her deep red skirts blossomed out like a rose as she spun, then closed protectively around her, like a moon flower facing the dawn, as she stilled.

Beauty was a shallow thing, he told himself. But, let her have it, beauty, and wealth, and the adoration of kings. He would leave her here, safe, protected, valued as if she were the princess she seemed.

And, if taking her son was a little like ripping her heart out . . . he could live with that.

Or so he'd told himself. Till he'd seen Bae dragged into the ballroom, shaking with fear. Till he'd seen Belle's terror and desperation as he tried to take the boy (and not felt even half the satisfaction he'd expected, no matter how he played the part). Till he'd seen Bae's own terror and known he couldn't be the dark shadow that ripped a boy out of his parent's arms.

Till he'd seen Belle's love for the son she'd born to a man she despised, a man she'd left without a backward glance.

Till he'd seen her work through crippling pain rather that break the deal she'd made that let her stay near her son.

They'd come to a kind of guarded peace since. He began to give the boy some of his lessons in the library when Belle was there. "All the better to distract you, dearie," he'd said when they kept interrupting her as she tried to work (which would have felt more like a victory if Belle hadn't been smiling so warmly when they did it). He watched them from his tower as Bae played in the gardens, his mother watching over him or joining in on his games.

Then, one day, as Baelfire was busy working over a list of sums Rumplestiltskin had given him to figure, he pulled a book out of one of the still untidy shelves, The Tale of Britomart, and handed it to her.

"What's this?" Belle asked.

"The story of a woman knight," Rumplestiltskin said. "Britomart. She went on a quest to rescue her true love. She also rescued quite a few other people on the way. And saw the world." He saw the light in Belle's eyes as he said the last. Ah, yes, he might not understand everything she had done, but he knew her that well. "Read it and tell me what you think."

Over the next few days, he would ask a few questions, and she would tell him about which part she was reading. "I would have liked a magic spear like hers," Belle said wistfully at one point.

"To slay monsters, dearie?" He grinned toothily. "To slay me?"

Belle laughed and shook her head, amused at the suggestion. "In the story, the real monsters are men attacking . . . attacking anyone weaker."

"I seem to recall some Ogres who do the same."

Belle's eyes darkened. "Yes, that's why I would have liked the spear. I could have gone with my husband when the Ogres attacked. I could have been with him when. . . ." She shook her head, unable to say it. "I could have helped."

It shook him. Later, he thought of a hundred pithy things he could have said, words that would have drawn blood. Helped the Ogres finish him off, dearie? At the time, all he could see was the grief in her eyes, real and raw, as if the war were yesterday. There was none of the anger or disgust he expected, no justifications for abandoning her coward husband.

He spent a long time spinning that night, trying to make sense of it. She'd left him for another man. Rumplestiltskin had learned about Jones—Hook, as the mermaids called him—as he'd tracked Belle. The man was the last person he'd have wanted near his son, much less rearing him. That was what Belle had chosen to replace him.

But . . . he knew how cruel the villagers could be. He remembered the way they looked at him when he returned. Or didn't look at him, their eyes moving away in shame whenever he came by. They wouldn't even speak to him unless they had to. Except Hordor and his bootlicking toadies.

Kiss my boot.

Rumplestiltskin remembered Hordor looking down on him while Morraine stood by, trembling. He remembered Hordor's eyes on the girl, the hungry look in them as his gaze took in her honey-gold hair, the way he slowly lingered over the slight curves that were more a promise of the woman she would become than actuality. "It's treason to avoid service," Hordor said. "I'll take her now." He grinned at Rumplestiltskin. "She'll ride with me."

Till the day he died, Rumplestiltskin would never regret Hordor's death.

That had been the man ruling the village when news came of Rumplestiltskin's cowardice, his survival when everyone else died. Even before that, Belle had faced the long months of pregnancy alone. There had been no one to help her, to try and lift some of her burdens as she struggled to maintain their small holding. When the time came and Bae was born, had she even been able to send word to the midwife? Or had she struggled through the pains and dangers of childbirth on her own? No one had ever told him. The villagers never spoke of Belle. Hordor never gave Rumplestiltskin more than crude, graphic speculations of her life with Jones. And her disgust with her husband. Rumplestiltskin knew nothing else of what her life had been during that year. Or how hard it had been for her.

He remembered the fear that had haunted him as his leg slowly mended. The seer had prophesied that, if he died, his son would grow up fatherless. So, he knew—he knew—his son would live.

He didn't know if Belle would.

Rumplestiltskin's mother was gone before he could remember her. There were women enough who died in childbirth or the complications after. Belle was so small and slight. As he'd lain in the healer's tent (they'd allowed him that much, a filthy pallet where the coward could lie untended in a corner, to live or die as the gods willed), it had hardly seemed possible her tiny frame could harbor another life and still live. He'd cursed himself time and again for his carelessness, getting her with child when he knew he would have to leave her, when he might die without ever seeing her again.

When he'd forced himself into his hobbling run when he'd finally reached home, when he'd thrown open the door and seen the emptiness inside, the fear that had risen up in him, the fear he wouldn't let himself name, was he had come too late and Belle was dead.

He'd never thought of her leaving.

Women don't like to be married to cowards.

Maybe she'd been right. Maybe the scorn and viciousness she'd faced was already more than she could bear. Maybe—maybe she'd even been trying to protect their son. Rumplestiltskin remembered the casual cruelty that had been meted out to him, day by day. Had someone threatened her, hurt her, made her fear for Bae's safety if she stayed?

Years later, when he had his power, when Morraine was gone past even his ability to recall, Rumplestiltskin tracked down Jones. Disguised as a wealthy merchant with a load of goods to ship—and pretending to believe Jones' claim of being an honest business man—he'd invited him to dinner at an inn while they discussed the deal. Jones drank glass after glass of wine, then shot after shot of aged whisky. In return for the liquor, Jones poured out the sad, sad story of his life. He'd grown especially maudlin as he talked about the great beauty who'd left him.

"You never saw anything like her," Jones said. "Like one of the cathedral angels—" the town they were in was noted for the glorious diorama of angels on its cathedral ceiling, "—but down where you could get your hands on her, you know?" This had been followed by an earthy chuckle and a lengthy description of some of the things Jones did when he got his hands on her, and even lengthier descriptions of Belle's enjoyment of it.

Rumplestiltskin had made a promise not to kill Jones, not then, but it had been a near thing.

"She was insatiable," Jones had said at one point. "Sold herself in every port we went to. Always said I was the best lover she ever had, but it wasn't enough for her. Then, she went and sold herself to that lord. . . ."

There had been more, more than Rumplestiltskin ever wanted to know, but he made himself listen.

No, he might understand why Belle would turn to Jones, but he would never understand the rest of it.

Except—except—

He saw her with their son. He saw shades of the woman he remembered as they discussed books and faraway lands. Although, when he asked her about her own travels, Belle looked pale and turned her eyes away, saying only that she had never seen much more than the docks of any place Jones' ship had visited. Remembering Jones' story, he hadn't pressed her for a story he didn't want to hear.

It might have been true, that she hadn't seen much of those lands. She pressed him with questions about the places he had been, her eyes alight with curiosity. The observations she made, based on what he told her or what she found in books, were intelligent and often shrewd—but they never betrayed more knowledge than she claimed to have.

The same thing happened when she served tea to some of the people—well, some were people, some weren't, not really—who came to make deals with him. She was always the proper servant (Rumplestiltskin wondered how she learned that, though he supposed she'd had servants enough since he knew her). Belle never interrupted or asked questions beyond a murmured query of how they liked their tea or was the chair comfortable enough for them? Her eyes always properly downcast (disturbingly downcast, Rumplestiltskin thought. There were lands where commoners didn't even dare look at their betters, but Rumplestiltskin hadn't thought the Marchlands were among them).

But, afterwards, she would ask questions. She was never too inquisitive. When Rumplestiltskin let her know a certain subject was off-limits or just between himself and whoever had come to him for a deal, Belle let it drop (that sometimes disturbed him, too, knowing how curious she was. But, he could see how life in Maurice's court would teach her when it was safer to let a question go).

Of course, Rumplestiltskin only let her deal with his safer clients. Some she saw might still seem terrifying, depending on her views of tentacles or razor sharp teeth, but their business was innocent enough—or something they could make sound innocent while a servant was in the room. He didn't let anyone who might have tried to use Belle—or Bae—against him near her. When some of his visitors came to call, he told Belle to keep Bae in his rooms and not leave them till he told her (overcautious, he knew, with the protections he had on Bae and on the castle, especially on the wing where Bae and Belle were. That still didn't mean it wasn't a good idea).

She had become a puzzle, one he couldn't piece together.

That was part of the reason he made the decision he did. The other reason—the main reason (so he told himself)—was Bae. A boy should have a chance to play with other children his age. Although Rumplestiltskin wasn't about to set up an orphanage in the Dark Castle (though the thought of the look on the Blue Fairy's face if she heard he had was almost enough to make it tempting), there were other ways to let Bae find some playfellows.

Rumplestiltskin waited till Belle brought him his tea to show her his preparations. She came in carrying a tray and a full set of cups—although he was alone, he had "forgotten" to tell her once or twice when he was having guests, just to see what she'd do (remain calm, that's what she did).

Once she was in, though, he couldn't resist grinning. "Look at these and tell me what you think."

Belle put the tray down on the table and cautiously came over to see (he had, perhaps, given her reason to be careful when he grinned like that). He saw her eyes widen as he held up the hooded travelling cloak. It was, he knew, a magnificent travelling cloak. It was and lined inside and trimmed along the edges with black lelaundel fur (only in the warm lowlands did people practice the perversion of wearing the fur on the outside of the coat instead of on the inside where it could do some good). The outer cloth was black silk embroidered elaborately with more black silk and decorated with jet. It was a cloak befitting an empress.

"You're going somewhere?" Belle asked.

Oh, please. Could she not see this was a woman's cloak? "No, you're going somewhere, dearie. The cloak is for you."

Belle paled (really, she did that so often. What was her problem?). "You can't—you promised—we had a deal—you can't send me away—!"

"Then, it's a good thing I keep my deals, isn't it?" he snapped. Doing Belle a good turn was like drawing teeth. From a hippopotamus. With tweezers. As he knew from experience. "It's almost All Souls." All Souls, the festival of the dead. It was a time to remember, mourn, and to celebrate the lives that were lost. "I thought you and Baelfire and I might go to a village near here. Your story will be that you're a rich widow on a journey stopping to observe the holiday." Keeping All Souls was important here in the mountains just as it was in the Borderlands. A traveler would be expected to stop and observe it—and the village in question would give a warm welcome to the stranger who stopped to keep it, even if she weren't clearly a very wealthy widow (which she would be) who would scatter a few gold coins before she left. "They keep a tolerable inn. Bae can have some time to play with children and stuff himself with soul cakes. And you can light a candle or two for the dead, if you've a mind. Here, look. . . ." He pulled out her black velvet dress, now repaired and good as new. He brought out another done more in the style of the Frontlands—or what had been the style for rich women in mourning three centuries ago (the village, which saw a fair share of those who came to make deals with Rumplestiltskin, would be unlikely to notice exactly how unusual that dress was). There were boots, gloves (he hadn't even bothered trying to clean the pair she'd oozed and bled in), and everything else she might need.

Belle ran her hands through the soft fur of the cloak (Rumplestiltskin remembered her running hands through wool in the merchants' stalls, assessing its quality before buying any for him to spin). But, her eyes were worried. "A woman traveling alone, especially one who seems rich, is easy prey. Are you sure Bae will be safe?"

"Oh, perfectly. First, it's a very civilized, little village. Second, harming a traveler on All Souls? They wouldn't dream of it. Third, a good share of my guests pass through there. The villagers know not to cause strangers trouble. Some of them are stranger than they seem. Fourth, you will have me there as your manservant." He bowed as theatrically as he knew how. "I'll handle any trouble."

"A manservant. With scales and fangs. Is that common here?"

"I'll be in disguise, of course."

"Of course."

"Don't doubt me, dearie. You'll see. You'll have a wonderful time."

X

The Dark One couldn't resist showing off, Belle saw. From the moment their coach came speeding up to the inn doors, then came to a sudden halt that would have been impressive if the coachman was handling one horse, not four. Not that she was sure the black, shadowy steeds were horses. She'd never seen signs of any animals besides messenger birds at the castle.

The Dark One had turned himself into a man of average height, average years, and very average appearance—except for his eyes. Those were still his yellow-streaked, lizard eyes. The innkeeper had been startled when he saw those but recovered quickly. Belle wondered if he knew who his guest was, but the man showed no sign of fear or panic as he ushered them into a private parlor where a hot meal was already laid out for them.

The festival was barely beginning when they finished. Belle and the Dark One both agreed Baelfire could go out and play with the village children, who were gathering on the village green along with everyone else. In the Frontlands, children would go from house to house, singing cheerful prayer-songs for the dead and receiving soul cakes in return. Here, the Dark One told her, the children still sang, but the cakes were given out on the green before the dancing began. They had brought a large hamper full of them. The Dark One, playing manservant, carried them for her and set them out on one of the tables.

Musicians had already set up and were tuning their instruments while couples gathered. Belle had left her cloak back at the inn, only putting her black shawl over her shoulders. The village didn't seem that much farther down the mountains, but the weather was much milder. For a small village, they had collected a good assortment of entertainers. Belle saw a fire-eater and several jugglers, a dancing bear, and a dozen other entertainers.

The bear worried her. "Should we let Bae wander around alone?" Belle asked. She felt a familiar rush of fear. After so long at the castle, this village—so similar to the one she'd lived in—had been like a dream. She'd forgotten the dangers a place like this could have.

"He's watching the puppet show," the Dark One said, pointing. The puppet show was several yards away. It took Belle a few moments of searching to spot Bae. He was standing with a group of children, laughing at the antics of foolish dragon and a cowardly knight.

"How can you see him?"

The Dark One wiggled his fingers. "Magic, dearie. Don't worry. He hasn't been out of my sight. And he won't be."

They wandered past other booths. The Dark One paused to watch a magician, the unmagical sort with scarves up his sleeves and a good supply of sparkly dust to throw in the air. When the man was done, he threw him a gold coin to Belle's surprise.

When he finished, the Dark One tossed him a gold coin, to Belle's surprise.

"He did a good job," the Dark One said. "Creating magic without magic is harder than most people realize. Besides—" with a flourish, he pulled out a gold coin, made it vanish in his hand, and pulled it out from behind Belle's ear. "—I admire a fellow practitioner." He tossed the coin to Belle, giving her one of his dramatic bows.

Just then, the musicians started up another tune. Belle turned, surprised. It was a dance tune from home. She hadn't heard it once since leaving the Frontlands.

"How do they know that song?" she asked. "I haven't heard it in years—centuries. How did they learn it?"

"Is it from the Frontlands?" the Dark One asked curiously. When Belle nodded, he said, "There were refugees from the war who spread to many lands. I suppose one or two of them wound up here—or taught songs to someone from here." He looked at her uncertainly. "You're in mourning, but All Souls is a time to honor the dead. No one would think anything of it if you joined the dancing." He nodded towards some of the others lining up. Belle wasn't the only one in black. "No one would think anything of it if you didn't," he added quickly. "But, it is Frontlands music. I'm sure I could find you a partner."

"I don't know." Belle looked around at the crowd of strangers, suddenly remembering another crowd standing silently as Hordor meted out his justice. "Would you dance with me?" she blurted out, then reddened. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"No," he said. He gave her a smile. It was very small, but it seemed kind. He offered her his hand. "I don't dance often but I think I remember the steps. If you would dance with me?"

Belle felt a flutter of trepidation, wondering if she was getting into more than she realized. Don't be silly, she told herself. You asked him. And he offered to get you a different partner. Sliding her shawl off and putting it by a tree, she took his hand and let him lead her out onto the green.

Several of the tunes that followed were from the Frontlands, the dance steps only a little altered over the years. Others weren't too different from ones Belle knew. She was able to follow along without too many missteps. Some of the dances involved trading off from one partner to another. Belle started with the Dark One and came back to him at the end. But, the steps between were unnerving, as she went from stranger to stranger. She was glad to find herself safe beside him again.

They ended with the Ghost Dance.

Candles were brought out. Most of the dancers had brought theirs, though a few scrambled to booths to get one before the dance began. The Dark One handed her one she was sure he hadn't had earlier. Bae, looking very solemn and tired but (amazingly) not ready for an exhausted tantrum, appeared beside her. The Dark One handed him a candle as well. The candles were lit and the people holding them began to dance.

In the Frontlands, they said you danced the Ghost Dance together or you danced it alone. The candles were the only partners. People held the lights as if the they were holding an invisible companion's hand. Some people, who had danced every dance, now stood on the side and watched. But, all the people in mourning, those who had joined in the earlier dances and those who hadn't, took their places on the green.

The steps were slow and thoughtful, easy enough for Bae to follow along. In this village, the singers were silent and no one spoke as the music played, but Belle remembered the words sung to it long ago in a village that might or might not still exist.

Somewhere in a hidden memory
Images float before my eyes
Of fragrant nights of straw and of bonfires
And dancing till the next sunrise.

They didn't dance till sunrise. It wasn't even midnight, Belle thought. Most of the people here were farmers. Harvest was just past but, even with today being a festival day, they would have gotten up before dawn to feed the animals, milk the cows, and tend to all the other work that couldn't be put aside till All Souls was over.

Belle went through the steps, thinking of her dead as she looked at the light in her hand, seeing soft brown eyes in a familiar face.

I miss you, she thought.

When the music ended, the dancers blew out their candles. It was traditional to silently think a prayer at that moment as they stood in the dark. Belle doubted she was the only one who found herself pleading for the impossible.

Rumplestiltskin, please, come back to me. I need you.

There were hands on her shoulders. "Here," the Dark One said, putting her shawl around her. "It's getting cold. We should be going in." Belle murmured thanks.

Bae chose that moment to turn into a cranky six year old up hours past his bedtime. "I don't want to go in," he declared. "It's too early!"

"Time for bed, young master," the Dark One said. "Everyone else is going."

"Don't WANNA!" Bae yelled.

The Dark One hoisted him up like a sack of grain over his shoulder. "Noooooo!" Bae howled. "Not tired! Don't wanna!"

Belle sighed. Bae could be a perfect angel most of the day. But, keep him up late (or let him miss meals—she'd been in terror of what Jones might do to the child sometimes when Bae had been forced to go hungry), and a little demon appeared. He wasn't the only child his age to be throwing a tantrum—some were even older—but it didn't make it any easier to deal with. "Bae, what would your father say if he could see you?"

"Papa's not here! Papa's dead!"

"It's All Souls Eve. He's probably watching you right now."

"And listening," the Dark One said. "I can guarantee he's hearing every word you say."

Belle shot him a look. You didn't mock ghosts, especially tonight of all nights. He gave her look of exaggerated innocence. What was wrong with what I said?

As an argument, it seemed to work with Bae. He suddenly stopped howling and looked around. "Where?"

"Hard to say," the Dark One said. "But, much closer than you think, that's certain."

Bae peered into the darkness. "Papa," he said. "Thank you for sending Lord Gaston away. And Captain Jones. I hope his ship sank. Amen."

Belle reddened, not that anyone could see it in the night. "Bae—"

"No, no," the Dark One said. "As a prayer to the ancestors goes, what it lacks in form, it more than makes up for in sincerity." He gave Belle a sidelong look and, hard as it was to tell in the dim light, what looked like a sly smile. "Or do you disapprove of the sentiment?"

Belle looked away. "Whether I approve or not, asking the dead to call down curses is—is impious."

"You may be right," the Dark One admitted. "Fortunately, people can call down me, instead. It would be impious for people to treat me with piety, don't you think? So, there's no problem. Although, I think—" his voice turned odd, almost shy. "—I think your husband is watching out for you. More than you know." Belle wondered at the change in his voice but, before she could ask any questions, Bae gave a loud snore. Followed by another.

The Dark One's eyes went wide in the moonlight. "Is he always this loud? How do you sleep in the same room?"

"It's the way you're holding him," Belle said. A shoulder in Bae's stomach and his head lying lower than his chest. Of course, he was snoring. "Here, let me take him."

The Dark One handed Bae over. Belle held him in her arms, letting his head rest against her shoulder. The snoring didn't stop but quieted considerably. She paused and tried to wrap her shawl around Bae, but it was hard to do that and hold him at the same time.

"Let me," the Dark One said. Belle stood still as he adjusted the shawl so it covered both of them. "How's that?"

"It's good, thank you—and, thank you. For taking us here. And—and for dancing with me."

"It was my pleasure." The smile he gave her this time had no edge of mocking or irony. Belle felt a cold shiver, but his next words reassured her. "I mean to be a good foster father to Bae," he went on. "I know my reasons for taking him see strange, but I mean to do right by him."

He had also been among the people holding a candle this night. "The deal you made to protect someone. That was Morraine?"

He was silent. She didn't know if he was angry, or surprised she'd asked, or just searching for the right answer. The silence stretched on, and Belle found herself clutching Bae protectively, not sure what the Dark One would do. ". . . .Yes," he said finally. There was a ragged edge to his voice. "I promised to protect her and her mother. To keep them safe." He looked at Bae and gently touched his tousled curls. "I swear to you, I won't fail again."

They reached the inn. The innkeeper was there. Belle wondered if he'd been to the festival or if he spent the whole night here, waiting for guests to return. Or maybe he had some magic or his own. Maybe, like the Dark One taking them to his castle in an instant, the innkeeper magically appeared at his door every time there were guests, no matter where he'd been. That could be inconvenient if he'd been in the privy. . . . Belle decided Bae wasn't the only one who was tired. She smiled at the ommkeeper as he assured them there were fresh sheets on the beds, good fires built up in the hearths, and hot bricks tucked under the blankets to keep them warm.

They went up to their rooms. The one she and Bae shared had two beds in it. The Dark One had his own chamber but he helped her put Bae to Bed, pulling down the blankets as she lowered Bae in before finding his nightclothes. He was worn out, Belle thought. Little boys and puppies, they could be all energy one minute and completely collapse the next. He didn't come close to waking even once as they got him undressed and into his nightshirt.

"Are you using a spell on him?" Belle whispered.

"No." He looked at her innocently. "Are you?"

Belle laughed, then covered her mouth, smothering it. Just because Bae slept like a log was no reason to push her luck. "If mothers knew a spell for that, all of us would be using it."

"Hmm, and with dire consequences for the world as we know it, no doubt," the Dark One said, grinning as he tucked the blankets in around Bae. He put away Bae's shoes while Belle folded his clothes. As she put them away in Bae's trunk—the Dark One thought they looked more convincing as travelers with trunks instead of just a small satchel for one change of clothes—he reached over to hang Bae's travel cloak on the peg near it. Then, his hand closed over hers.

Belle felt a surge of fear. No, she told herself. That's not what he means by it. It was just their hands meeting by chance. Or a friendly gesture. Or—

But, his hand was still holding hers before he gently turned her towards him. Gaston was rarely gentle—not harsh or cruel, but not gentle—but Jones sometimes was. When he began. Never by the time he ended.

He's not like that. He doesn't look at me that way. He can't—For a moment, looking in his eyes, she thought she was wrong, there was nothing to be afraid of. He looked at her so kindly.

Then, his other hand brushed against her cheek. The hand that had held hers released it, slipping around her waist and drawing her closer to him. "Madam—" he whispered, his voice husky. "Belle. I. . . ." The hand that had brushed her cheek touched her lips. He leaned in, about to kiss her.

She shoved him away, stepping back from him. Her legs bumped against the bed behind her. There was no place else to go. She'd seen how strong he was, and she was small and weak. The Dark One didn't need magic to beat men like Gaston and Jones. He could just break them with his bare hands. There was nothing she could do to stop him from doing whatever he wanted to her.

The Dark One's face went from surprised to irritated. "Does this form not please you, my lady?" he said, the mocking edge back in his voice. He changed, and Gaston stood in front of her in all his court finery. "Is this better?"

Belle pressed back against the bed, shaking her head, horrified.

"No? What about this? Do you prefer this?" And he turned into Jones.

Belle's knees were shaking. She collapsed onto the bed, unable to stand, even though that was the last place she wanted to be. She turned away, unable to look at that face, closing her eyes to block it out. It didn't help. He would take her—he would force her—with Bae only a few feet away from them. She felt herself shaking.

Don't cry, she told herself. Don't wake Bae. Don't let him see—Crying had excited Jones and made him crueler. But, there were times she had been too numb and hurt to cry any more or do more than lie there dumbly as he hurt her. Those times had made him furious.

But, she couldn't wake Bae. She couldn't let him see this. She couldn't.

She heard the Dark One make a sound of disgust. "It's no matter, Madam. You've made your feelings perfectly clear. I bid you goodnight." Then, she heard the door close.

Belle looked up and realized the Dark one had left. She was alone in the room.

Belle didn't undress or get into bed, she didn't dare. But, she gathered up one of the blankets and shoved it against her mouth to muffle the sound as she sobbed.

X

Note: Er, I feel the need to put in a defense of both Rumple and Belle, here. Belle is seeing what's happening through her past trauma. She's aware of how vulnerable she is and she expects the worst to happen when a man makes any kind of advances towards her—because that's pretty much what has happened since Jones got ahold of her.

Rumple is being thicker than usual, but he has three hundred years of believing a lot of lies he was told back when he didn't have three centuries experience at reading people. To him, Jones and Gaston are the men Belle preferred to him. He didn't know he was ripping open every emotional wound Belle has—including some that had finally begun to heal because she was beginning to let herself trust him and feel safe around him. All he got was that Belle was rejecting him. Again.

Note on the Music: Forgot to mention this sooner (oops, sorry). The lines from The Ghost Dance song Belle remembers are from Loreena McKennitt's All Soul's Night. While I love McKennitt's music, the rest of the words to The Ghost Dance are different as is the music. These lyrics were just too perfect. While I'm not sure what The Ghost Dance sounded like, if you've every heard a crystal harmonica play, I'm sure that's part of it.