A/N. This concludes the story. Thank you for reading it.
He's going through the motions of preparing a meal, though neither of them is really hungry. He catches himself glancing repeatedly at his pillow, which still bears a faint indention, and listening for the skitter of her paws as she takes off after a mouse.
Belle works silently alongside him, making tea and setting the table. The shadows under her eyes expose her exhaustion—it's been two days since she last slept. Her shoes and her portmanteau wait beside the door as an unspoken question that they must address, later. But not now, not until they've grieved together. As they seat themselves at the table and hunch over their plates, the silence settles over them. It's strangely easy. Not even Bae would have been comfortable in such a long silence, but Belle allows it, and Rumple is grateful for it. She's giving him the space to breathe.
They end up scraping most of the stew back into the pot, but they fill the kettle time and again, taking comfort in tea. He begins to talk quietly about matters that don't matter but that he knows she'll take interest in anyway. Every now and then, he'll slip and mention Midnight. She responds with news of her own, sometimes slipping in mentions of Athena. They share letters from Janshai and Bae, and they speculate on how big Ely might have grown by now.
By sundown, Belle's shoulders droop. She needs sleep more than she needs the supper he offers to prepare. "You should get some sleep," he suggests.
"I'm afraid so," she admits.
"I'll walk with you to the inn—"
She sets her hand atop his. "Let me stay here. You need me."
He stares at her hand, then into her eyes. The magnitude of what she's offering overwhelms him. If she stays, even if it's just until nightfall, she'll be risking her reputation. And worse. If he allows her to remain, even if it's just until nightfall, it will be too hard for her to leave, too hard for him to let her go.
"And I need you."
Those words pierce his skin like sewing needles and begin to mend the rips in his soul that not even Bae's unwavering love had ever reached. He needs to be needed. He needs to be allowed to need someone. If he lets her stay, it's dangerous and irreversible, but he needs her to stay. His eyes wide, he can't bring himself to say the words aloud—to ask her to throw away her reputation—but he nods.
"Please." She peers up at him, the most vulnerable he's even seen her. "I need you to say it. That you want me to stay."
She's studying him, so close he could kiss her if he merely lowered his head. He won't compromise her, of course—though there will be some in the village who assume he has, when it becomes common knowledge that an unmarried woman spent a night unchaperoned in an unmarried man's house. Those who are acquainted with him will scoff at the notion, especially when they cast eyes upon his female companion: too cowardly to touch her, some will sneer, while his friends will claim he's too respectful to despoil a lady—though they'll puzzle at his foolishness in subjecting Belle to gossip.
Though it's been a long time, he's not entirely naïve: the gaze she's fixed him in is not passionate. She's waiting for him to catch her meaning and she's watching for his reaction when he does. Pinned by her raw gaze, he wrenches the truth from the pile of fears it's buried under. "Please stay, Belle. Here, with me, tonight."
"Not for tonight. For always." As his mouth falls open and his eyes widen, she hastily adds, "If you'll have me." Then, stubbornly: "However you'll have me, as your wife or. . . no."
"As my. . ." He stands up, and she follows suit. "Belle. . . your parents?"
"My parents know. They're holding out hope for—for another outcome."
"That you'll give up on me?"
She smiles wryly. "They know better than that."
"That I'll send you back?"
"That we'll go back. Together."
He groans and draws back, away from her. "Belle, the crown. Have you abdicated?"
"Not yet. I left in haste, as soon as I read your letter about Midnight. I knew I couldn't tarry."
"But the people need—"
"The people need a leader like me, but you need me."
"Belle, you'd be renouncing who you were born to be."
"No," she persists. "I've found who I was born to be."
"But the throne—"
"Will survive without me. Monarchs are born, live and die, but the people go on."
"But your whole life has been in preparation for you to lead."
"What good would I be in Avonlea when my heart is here with you?" She knots her hands in her skirt. "Don't send me away, Rumple. You'll break my heart, and your own too."
He stares at her in shock. He's met many brave women in his life, not the least of them, those who've thrown in their lot in this village, but Belle is the most daring of them all. He has no doubt she could take on the entire Council of Nobles singlehanded—which she would have to do, if he fulfilled her parents' wish and returned to Avonlea with her. His hands begin to tremble at the thought. But her too-truthful blue eyes pierce his defenses and he finds himself, despite himself, admitting, "I can't send you away."
She sighs her relief. "I know it's a lot to put on you, all at once, especially after this morning. I don't expect any more of an answer yet. Just hold me." She approaches and he can't not offer his embrace.
"Ah, Belle, are we doing the right thing?" he whispers into her hair, but she's snuggled so tight against his chest and breathing so peacefully that he suspects she hasn't heard him.
After a long and, for her, comfortable silence, she lifts her head. "Rest with me." She rises holds out her hand. She leads him to his bed and takes him into her arms as soon as they lie down. Her head against his chest, she clutches his shoulder; his hands slide around her waist. She breathes slowly, and the rise and fall of her body against his comforts him like the blanket under which they've sought refuge. She wants nothing more from him than rest, and that's what he most needs right now too. Problems will wait for the hard light of day. He presses his cheek to her hair and closes his eyes.
"On your feet for the captain."
He fumbles for his walking stick, then for his footing. Even standing, hunch-shouldered, he's staring at a pair of freshly polished boots. Though he can't bear to lift his eyes, he can hear a smug grin in the feigned courtesy with which the pirate welcomes him aboard ship. "Well, where are my manners? We haven't been formally introduced. Killian Jones. Now, what are you doing aboard my ship?"
Rumplestiltskin stutters. He's had to ask many, many humiliating favors in his lifetime, from begging for food from his own father to pleading with drunkards not to beat him any more, but this is different, more dangerous. The pirate hasn't taken Rumple's purse; he's taken his wife. "Y-y-you have my wife."
The pirate is twice as tall and half as old as Rumple, and he's never had to walk with a cane. He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the ship's railing. "I've had many a man's wife."
"No. You see, we have a son and he needs his mother." It's pointless; Rumple knows this. He can spot a bully a mile away, and this handsome young swag is the king of bullies. But he can't walk away; he can't leave his wife to the mercy of these soulless creatures. He throws a quick glance over his shoulder at Jones' crew: one of them, perhaps, will be moved to intervene, for the sake of a child.
Jones continues to toss off veiled threats as if they were peanuts in a tavern. "You see, I have a ship full of men that need companionship."
Rumple gasps at the implication. The back of his neck prickles. "I'm begging you, please let her go."
He catches a sharp glance from the corner of Jones' eye toward the chortling crew. They both know how tenuous a bully's reign can be. If Jones shows the slightest hesitation or distaste for the game, his followers will begin to doubt him, and eventually question him, and one of them will rise against him to take his crown. There will be no mercy from the captain—Jones is incapable of that—but he could be undermined, in time, and if his prisoner can survive long enough, she may escape in the uproar. Rumple thinks he catches flash of uncertainty, or at least discomfort, in the pirate's eyes, though the man's relaxed posture belies any nervousness. Nevertheless, Jones moves to bring the game to a quick end. "I'm not much for bartering. That said, I do consider myself an honorable man, a man with a code. So if you truly want your wife back. . . . " He throws a sword at Rumple's feet. "All you have to do is take her."
Rumple stares at the metal, blinded by the sunlight reflecting off the blade.
A sword suddenly appears in Jones' heavily jeweled hand. He pokes the point at Rumple's throat, drawing a bead of blood. "Never been in a duel before, I take it? Well, it's quite simple, really. The pointy end goes in the other guy. Go on. Pick it up."
Rumple shudders, his breath coming hard and fast. He manages to pry his stare from the fallen sword to the one at his throat. He listens to the men surrounding them, praying for a protest from one of them. Where is this so-called "code of honor" Jones claims to have? Rumple's hands close into fists.
Someone guffaws.
Jones claims his victory, pricking Rumple's nose with his sword. "A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets."
"Please—"
A woman's shriek interrupts Rumple's plea. He raises his eyes, past the pirate's leather-clad shoulder to the forecastle deck, where a small form bound in ropes and strips from her own skirts struggles against dirty, grappling hands. While two men pin her arms behind her, a third pries her mouth open and pours rum into it. They're all laughing and taunting her with vivid descriptions of what they'll do with her, after the captain has had his turn. She tosses her head and manages to bite the fingers in her mouth. When the rum-douser howls, shaking his wounded hand, she screams, "Rumple! Help me!"
Something snaps in his chest. Unaware of his own movements, he watches the pirate king's eyes widen with amazement as a sword point is thrust into his mouth. "Best not move, dearie," he warns the pretty pirate. "Lest I cut off your cowardly tongue." Jones attempts to step back, but Rumple presses an elbow into his chest. From the corner of his eye, he watches the crewmen warily. They aren't moving, nor do they appear to be particularly disturbed by the change in their master's status. Some of them even appear amused.
Rumple suddenly grins and barks over his shoulder. "You!" He's calling out a fellow in red wool cap. He never takes his eyes off the captain. "What's your name?"
Names, he's heard somewhere, have power, and he's taking it. "S-s-smee," the little man provides.
"Smee. You're small like me. Does he insult you? Does he call you Runt and make you fetch and carry for him because you aren't strong enough to haul ropes and tie down sails?"
"Yeah. . . ." Smee's voice darkens.
"You!" Rumple snaps at a lame man. "What's your name?"
"They call me Gimpy, but my name is Walhem."
"You're disabled, like me. Does he mock the way you walk, shove you if you're too slow?"
"Yeah. . . " Walhem raises his cane as a weapon.
From the corner of his eye, Rumple observes Belle smashing her boot heel into one of her captors' shins, then thrusting her palm into another's nose. As blood spurts, the men release her and she sneers at them.
"You! What's your name?" He barks at an old man.
"Me? Ewan."
"You're old, like me. Does he threaten to dangle you as shark bait because that's all you're good for any more? Make you scrub his chamber pot just to keep you alive?"
"Yeah. . . ." Ewan clacks his wooden teeth.
Rumple pushes his face closer to Jones', blows his breath into the pirate's face. "Then join me, every one of you that's ever been kicked or slapped or shoved or threatened by this coward. Stand with me, the lot of you, and without a single sword stroke we'll take over this ship and reclaim what he took from us. Draw your daggers and your swords, and he'll be the shark bait today!"
"So you can be captain and bully us like he does?" Walhem challenges.
"The ship is yours; all I want is to take my wife and leave. Stand with me and choose your own captain."
"Who are you, that we should follow you?" Ewan demands.
It's only fair, considering Rumple required their names. For just a moment he considers lying, lest these ruffians may have heard of Rumplestiltskin the Runner, but as recent memory after recent memory flashes through his mind, his chest swells and his shoulders straighten and the reply bursts forward, pushed by pride: "I am Rumplestiltskin, scribe of Ramsgate, inventor of the Spinner's Whistle, Lieutenant in His Majesty's Home Guard, veteran of the Battle of Domin Canyon, recipient of the Medal of Courage, father of Private Baelfire of the Avonlea Brigade, and defender and beloved of Her Highness Princess Belle, whom your moron of a leader has foolishly taken captive!" Only about half of those titles he came by honestly, but the rest, he knows will impress his listeners nonetheless. That's enough, that they believe he's all he claims to be; whether he wholly believes in himself doesn't matter.
Jones flinches and his jaw moves as if he would apologize, if he could speak around the sword stuffed into his mouth. Huzzahs start with Jones' bullying victims but quickly infect the entire crew, and when Ewan yanks the sword dangling from Jones' hand and Walhem snatches the dagger from Jones' belt, the rest of the crew presses forward, raising everything from swords to fishing knives to mop handles.
Rumple steps back as Belle comes flying into his arms and the crewmen surround their former captain. He slices the lobe off Jones' left ear ("To remember me by, thief") then shouts to the crew, "He's all yours, men!"
"Stand with me."
Belle is shaking his shoulder. "Rumple? What's wrong?"
"Shark bait."
"Rumple, you're having a nightmare. Wake up!"
He attempts to slash out with his sword, but she's pinning his hand. He sits up and pushes his eyes open. "What?"
She releases his hand to pet his hair. "You were having a nightmare. You almost hit me."
"Not a nightmare," he mumbles, rubbing his face. "Sorry, sweetheart."
"It's all right." She scoots out of bed and patters over to the water bucket. She brings back a dipperful of cold water that revives him with the first swallow. "Do you want to talk about it? I take it it had something to do with me. You were calling my name."
"Yes." He will tell her about it; there will be no secrets between them any more. But first, something emerges from his memory and grabs at it because his dream has signaled its importance. "Belle, I read something in the laws. . . . The King has the right to grant land and titles to commoners who have done great service to the kingdom, yes?"
"I think so. Yes," she frowns to remember. "My grandfather wrote that law, so he could reward some of his war cronies."
Rumple ticks off the names on the fingers of his right hand. "Darain. Celvin. Carac." He spreads the fingers of his left hand, then pulls each one down as he names names. "Dalibor. Ermo. Amic."
"My father's generals. And three of my father's worst detractors," Belle summarizes.
Rumple smiles triumphantly. "Lord Darain. Lord Celvin. Lord Carac—" He smacks his right hand over the left.
Belle grabs his hands. "I get it! Three strong supporters promoted to the Council of Nobles—"
"Three brilliant strategists—"
"Three war heroes fresh off the battlefield. No one would challenge their promotion."
"Or challenge them when they stand up for your father—or you."
"Yes. . . " she sits back, daydreaming. "The scales would be balanced. And with you as the Prince Consort, speaking as an authority on the law. . . ."
A cloud of doubt drifts over his image of a reconstituted Council, but there's a power rising from his gut, filling his chest, consuming his vision, and he finds himself nodding. Their Royal Highnesses and the generals will vouch for him against his detractors, and it will be enough that the younger nobles, those who haven't heard the old rumors, believe Rumplestiltskin is all his supporters claim him to be.
"We can do this," Belle is trembling with excitement. "Rumple, we can do this."
"I can." The words come out of his mouth unbidden. "I can do this." Then he forces himself to focus, prod his mind for doubts, search his heart for fear. The answer comes back and he voices it: "It's almost sunrise. We need to go to Fort's."
She's puzzled now. "Fort's?"
"He'll loan us a wagon." He rises and holds out a hand to her. She takes it, but she's still a step behind until he explains, "We need to get to Avonlea, and I will not have my bride walking so far."
She dimples. "Are you going to propose, then, or should I?"
"Oh!" He hunts around for his cane and discovers it's hooked on the back of the rocking chair. With an annoyed growl, he pulls Belle toward the chair, seats her in it, then leans on the arm of the chair to lower himself to one knee. "Belle of Avonlea. . . I'm no nobleman, but I am an officer of His Majesty's Home Guard, an ogre expert, a talented spinner and a good father, and I vow to you I'll be a good husband, if you'll have me. Will you, sweetheart? Will you have me?"
"I most certainly will." She dives at him, bowling him over. As they tumble onto the floor, she kisses him and he kisses her back just as enthusiastically. "Let's have two weddings, A private one here, for your friends and my parents and Bae and Morraine to attend—"
"And one at Ravershire, For the court and the army and the giants to attend."
"Janshai and Ely—"
"And for the gray men to see their new Prince, in all his finery."
"Uhm, can I wear my Guard uniform? Ruffles just aren't my style."
"You will wear your uniform, with your new title and your medal, and most importantly, with all the authority you've earned by virtue of your intelligence, your inventiveness, your devotion to the people," she watches him closely, "and your courage, Rumplestiltskin." When he doesn't flinch, she rewards him with a kiss. "Your courage."
He wants to correct her: he'll never be able to stand up to the gray men the way he stood up to the pirates in his dream. He'll never be Belle's equal in heroism. But perhaps he can make up in cleverness what he lacks in daring, and perhaps if he tells himself often enough he's brave, he can change his mind.
"I must be courageous," he allows, "or you wouldn't have chosen me."
"'Course you can borrow my wagon!" Fort slaps him on the back so hard he nearly topples over, until the big man grabs his arm to steady him. "So you gonna go ask her papa's permission?"
"And her mama's," Rumple adds.
"That permission was already granted, ages ago," Belle murmurs. "But we do think they should be the first—well, the second to know. If you don't mind keeping our secret? My papa will want to make a formal announcement."
"Sure," Fort agrees. "I would too, if I had a daughter. Which wedding you gonna do first?"
"Well, state weddings take a great deal of planning, and I've already waited long enough," Belle pretends to huff. "So as soon as Bae can get back from Maelyss, we'll marry here. The Avonlea wedding, I suppose, will come in the fall."
"Two weddings," Beryl muses. "I never heard of such."
"You'll be good and bound then, eh?" Fort chuckles. "You got time for me to buy you a round at the Boar before you leave?"
Rumple shakes his head. "If we leave now, we can make the inn at Gullygate by sundown."
"And Avonlea by noon tomorrow," Belle finishes.
"The drinks'll keep until you get back then. Come on, let's get the wagon hitched up so you two can get hitched." Fort thinks his pun funny enough to repeat it as he leads them toward the barn. Their progress across the yard, however, is interrupted by two large brown dogs dashing past, barking and yapping and making a beeline for the fence that now differentiates Fort's property from Rowntree's, thanks to Rumple's contract. "Boys!" Fort claps his hands and the dogs look his way, but they keep running toward the fence. "Pup's sons," he explains. "Best of her last litter. They chased off a wolf last week."
"What are they after now?" Belle shades her eyes. "Is that a wolf?"
Fort shakes his shaggy head as the three of them follow the brown dogs. "Nah, see on the other side of the fence? It's a stray that's been hangin' around here, couple of weeks now. I asked: he don't belong to Rowntree." As they approach, the brown dogs drop their voices to growls, surrendering the job of chasing off the stray to their master. At the fence now, Rumple can make out a small black dog, its gray muzzle lowered to the ground, its floppy ears heavy with burrs. "He'll run off for a day or two, then come back beggin' for food. Wants to be allowed in the pack, I s'ppose, but my boys won't have nothin' to do with him."
Rumple bends enough that he can see through the slats in the fence, and Belle crouches to poke her fingers through, urging the dog to come closer. The black dog has a scar across its nose and patches of fur missing from previous fights. Its ribs protrude from its matted fur. Rumple starts to suggest that they continue on to the barn—they have a long road ahead—but he's stopped cold when he spies the mutt's right back leg. It's shorter than the other legs, and twisted. In the instant of that discovery, he knows the right thing to do.
"He's starved," Belle observes.
Rumple leans his cane against the fence. "Can he be brought around?"
"Huh?" Fort scratches his chin.
"With food and a flea bath, can he live?"
"Well, yeah, I s'pose, He'd be worthless as a sheep dog, with that deformed leg. No good for protection either; too timid. A worm would scare him."
Rumple sets his weak foot on the first rung of the fence. He teeters there, gripping the wood, trying to get balanced so he can bring his good foot up, but Belle intervenes. "Let me." In a flash she's raised her skirts just enough to get them out of the way, then she's up and over the fence and crouching at the mutt's side, offering her open palm. To everyone's surprise, the dog doesn't hesitate; he presses his nose into her hand and asks to have his ears scratched. A small cry accompanies Belle's realization: "He's tame. Someone owned him at one time."
"And love starved," Rumple surmises.
Belle fulfills the dog's request for petting, then she stands and slips her arms under its body. "Light as a feather," she complains as she lifts the dog above her head. Fort reaches across the fence and takes the creature from her, setting it down gently in the grass. He wipes his hands on his trousers as soon as he's released the dog. "Need to wash your hands, Belle. This old boy's got fleas."
"We'll get him a bath right quick, then." She throws her leg over the fence and gracefully drops down to the other side. With a glance at Rumple, she comments, "We can spare the time, can't we?"
"Come, boy." Rumple picks up his cane, snaps his fingers and starts for the barn, with the mutt trotting along beside him.
"You're takin' that—" Beryl blinks. "All right. Tub's behind the barn. I'll get the flea dip and the scrub brush."
Fort shakes his head in disbelief, but minds his wife's implied command and directs his guests—including the mutt—toward the wash tub that they use for their own dogs. As he fetches a pair of pails to carry water to the tub, he's still shaking his head and muttering, "If I'd a knowed you like dogs, I woulda saved you one of Pup's litter."
"But it's this dog we want, Fort," Belle smiles. She glances at Rumple, and from his determined expression she knows she doesn't have to ask if he's sure. She takes his hand. "A family needs a pet."
He finishes her thought. "And we're a family now." The dog grins up at him and doesn't struggle when Rumple lifts him, one-handed, into the tub of water.
"We are," Belle exclaims. "We really are." She scoops water onto the dog's back. He lowers his head, humble and embarrassed, but she coos to him and raises his chin. "Come now, stand proud, Sir Dog, you're a royal now."
Rumple reaches for the flea dip that Beryl's brought over. "And let no gray man say otherwise, or they'll have Prince Rumplestiltskin to answer to." He clicks his tongue as he lowers himself to one side of the tub, with Belle and her scrub brush on the other. It feels vaguely familiar. . . .
"Prince Rumplestiltskin," he mutters. "What a strange, strange world."