Being summoned was never a pleasant experience. A piercing pain would shoot through her whenever the king called. It grew in intensity when she ignored it like she did now. She could hear the king's voice reverberated through her being. Unable to withstand the torture she presented herself to him. "What took you long to appear before me, Hira?" the king asked, eyes hard as steel. She recounted her doings to the king and he nodded in satisfaction. With the enslaved ogres, they had safeguarded their western trade routes that were prone to banditry. The kingdom may have stabilised and the king feared, but there would always be one person who would defy the law.
Hira was about to magic'ed herself back to her station at the king's dismissal when she noticed a single red rose on the king's table. Bile rose in her throat. Over the passing months, she had noticed the king's growing infatuation. The changes started gradually; first, with the king's temperament. He was no longer volatile—easily ignoring his advisors' and servants' blunders. He even chose to spend most of his days with the storyteller. Although he donned his masks, Hira wasn't blind to how he slobbered over the woman like a beggar begging for attention. If she allowed this to continue, the king would free the storyteller and her life would be forfeit. As long the king had her enthralled, she remained bound to him, but everything has a loophole. Thus, she began plotting her survival; besides, the castle was full of desperate souls to ensnare.
It wasn't long till she found her pawn.
Caleb was a young man who found happiness at the bottom of his pint. So strong was his love for it that there was not a day where he didn't have less than five of them. Getting thrown out of taverns and beaten up for his debts became a weekly routine. His work in the castle's kitchens suffered and he was nearly dismissed when the reeve caught him stealing bottles of wine. Lucky for him, his sister was the reeve's wife. If not for her pleading, he would be crawling on the streets instead of nursing his empty stomach as he was now.
Someone grumbled an insult behind his back. Turning his bleary eyes on the person, he threw an insult at him. Slurs were traded, until finally, temper rose and they got into a brawl. In his inebriated state, Caleb ended up with a bloodied nose and broken teeth. Hefting himself up and screaming curses at his assailant he left the castle grounds and took the road leading to town. No one noticed the ominous figure that hid behind the shelves. Neither did they see the wicked smile before she magic'ed herself away.
The pouring rain caused Caleb to take refuge in an abandoned hut. His need for mead was temporarily put on hold as he waited out the rain. Busy keeping himself warm, he didn't notice an old woman approaching the hut. The dull thud of her staff on the murky ground alerted him to her presence. The startled man turned to look at the comer. She nodded her head in greeting and flashed a crooked smile before taking a seat on a rickety chair. A long stretch of silence hummed in the air as the pair stared out the broken windows.
"Wretched weather today ain't it?" the woman broke the silence.
"Like every other day," grumbled the young man.
"I'm headin' to town, but the rain destroyed my wares. What about you, young man, yer headin' somewhere?"
Caleb answered rudely and hoped it was enough to stop any lines of questioning. It didn't. The woman prattled on about her life and the people she had met. Occasionally she'd ask him if he had done the things she had, to which he answered monotonously. Their conversation, if it could be classified as such, was stilted. That was until they got to the topic of the king.
The elder of the two cackled as the young one listened with rapt attention. She wove him tales of a dagger that controlled the Dark One; stories of the riches and power to be gained if one controlled it.
"If only he would part with it," Caleb said wistfully.
"Oh he does," the woman smirked. "He has to eat; sleep; bathe at one point. There must be a time where he takes it off. Just imagine the sheer power you'll wield!" she chuckled, baring her rotting teeth.
The young man asked how the woman knows this but she never answered his question. Instead, she took out bottles of mead from her basket, one that Caleb sworn wasn't there before, and handed it to him. Looking at the offering like a man dying of thirst, he gulped it down like water. The old woman could see the pieces of puzzle moving in the man's head; a light of hope and greed burned in his eyes before he fell into an unconscious sleep.
When morning came, she was gone.
Blaming it on the mead, the young man headed to the castle. A nagging voice at the back of his head however, could not stop seducing him with a future of power and wealth.
The summer sun smiled brightly on the vast land, unaffected by the insignificant humans moving about the day to make ends meet. A lone figure sat hunched on a stone bench. His dark, greenish hair curtained his profile. He was entranced by an object that he did not hear the crunching of leaves caused by heavy boots.
"That was my favourite book as a child." Belle's silent approach jolted the king from his musings.
Taking a seat next to him, Belle couldn't help but grin when the king scooted away.
"Thank you for the present. I never got to thank you properly," Belle started. The king looked at her with confusion. "You lifted the restriction. Thank you for that." His shoulders were tensed but he gave her a tight smile nonetheless. If she squinted hard enough, she could see the deep tinge of red that coloured his cheeks. This was how their conversation always started: awkward, tentative, and stilted. Taking pity on him, she pointed at the book and told him of its contents. She told him her favourite tales and their characters, talking with gusto at the climax of each story. Slowly but surely, the man opened up to her.
"You and my son have the same taste in adventures, it seems. I have lost count on the number of times the healer had to treat him after he acted out parts of the escapades," the king said with a hint of warmth in his voice. He opened the book and flipped to a tale of a nutcracker prince. It was his child's favourite. She could hear the smile in his voice when he told her this, his hair blocking her view of him. Soon they found themselves in a comfortable discussion about fairy tales and his son—talking in hushed tones as if they were sharing precious secrets of their hearts.
There was no mistaking the wistful look on Rumpelstiltskin's whenever he spoke of his son. An idea came to Belle and she bit her lower lip before forming it into words. "Would it be too presumptuous to suggest we read your son a story?"
At the king's scowl she quickly added, "It was once said on the fifteenth of every month, spirits roam the land of the living. Whether there is a grain of truth, I do not know. What I do know is you never give up on a chance. That way Baelfire knows you still remember him... still loves him. Maybe... just maybe it'll help you to heal." The storyteller watched as the king's eyes took on a faraway look. When he turned his sights back on her, she was taken aback by the raw emotions in his eyes. It wasn't until the king told her to breathe that she noticed she was holding her breath. No one could convince her that the soft tug at the corner of his lips was not a smile. She refused to believe it was anything but that.
Ever since Belle suggested reading to his son, the king often found himself standing outside her door, hand raised and ready to knock. He wanted her there with him—to spin her stories of course since she was the better storyteller. Not because he liked their exchanges or the fact that her presence soothed him. His courage always faltered as soon as he convinced himself of his intentions. This was why he always found himself alone at his son's grave on the fifteenth of every month.
Today, the king once again stood in front of an all too familiar door. He was beginning to hate that door. As he was about to walk away a muffled voice piped up, "You should stop this nonsense." His body thrummed in response. He wondered briefly on this feeling of... anticipation? Nervousness? Waving the foreign emotions away he collected himself before opening the door. An ethereal loveliness greeted him, temporarily dismantled his mask. He babbled nonsense about being as healthy as a spring chicken when she asked of his wellbeing. When her azure orbs light up with merriment, his thought his heart might burst at her radiance. He knew in that moment he might be in deeper trouble than he initially thought.
Large pine trees hid the place from view. In the middle of the clearing was a mighty oak tree, sheltering a lone grave. The grave was not what the storyteller expected. Its modesty surprised her. A soft bed of grass covered the raised earth and wild flowers grew sparsely around it. A marble tombstone with carved golden letters was the only luxurious thing within the vicinity. On it, she noticed the rough engravings (she suspected it was the king's handiwork):
You dance inside my chest,
Where no one sees you.
Rest now, Baelfire, my Little Truth
Belle approached the grave and kneeled at its side. Her hands traced the engraved words.
"My little boy loved it here."
The storyteller raised her head and saw the king kneeling on the opposite side.
"He had many adventures on that tree. Each one succeeded in greying my hair," he recalled softly. Soon she found herself listening to his recollection of his son's escapades. The underlying sadness in his words was ever-present beneath the jovial front. When he found himself lost for words, she gestured to the book in his hands.
Their fingers brushed when the kind handed her the book. Sitting where she kneeled she began reading the story of a little tin soldier, ignoring the lingering tingles where the king's fingers' brushed hers.