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Rulers of small kingdoms cannot afford for their daughters to grow up naive. At twenty, Belle hasn't seen much of the world, but she knows how it works.
It goes like this; once upon a time, there is a girl, and her mother is dead. And her father loves her, so he wants to keep her safe. But this is not a story with a tower. The girl, who is called Belle, lives in quite an ordinary room, in an ordinary keep. And she has a library's worth of books at hand, and a handful of maids. It's not so difficult, then, to leave her not-tower, and visit, perhaps, some of the people she has come to know, and learn the town she lives near. And of course, every town has its tragedies, its skeletons and ghost stories. Girls without mothers, perhaps even nobles' daughters without mothers, are the first to know them.
So she reads other people's stories and lives her own, and one day, a monster comes to her door and gives her a choice. His voice dripping with implication (his eyes sharp, calculating). So she factors that in, too. And then she weighs it, against the war that has shadowed her life. Gone, their men returning. One person against a war. And, really, hasn't she put a price on herself already? A husband and a master do not feel so different, at that moment. (And he's asking. It's not a choice, really, but– he looks at her, and he asks.)
When she says yes, she likes to think she makes an informed decision.
The days pass by; slowly, at first, and then faster. Belle had not realized how used she had been, to comfort. The hard slab she sleeps on hurts her back. She wakes up cold and aching, most days, but she has breakfast, as much as she cares to eat of whatever she can make. The sorcerer doesn't care, either way, looks at her strangely when she asks what she can have. Her hands are scattered with small burns these days, callused from work. The pillow is soft, is a small comfort.
(Her soft bed could not have bought more than a few days worth of food, for a handful of people. She couldn't have fought, couldn't have won. Has done the best she could, when she had the chance. And yet.)
She starts measuring her days in firsts, in small accomplishments. The first time the tea she brews tastes the way it's supposed to. The first time she cleans out an old room, pulls down the curtain, and thinks– someone could live here. She has made a place someone could stay. The first time she makes an edible stew, good bread. The small sweet cakes she had loved as a child. (The first time she sees him smile, and that is soft, too. Fond.)
(She had not been expecting kindness, nor cruelty. There hadn't been much point in trying to imagine the future, once she'd said the words, made the deal. But she cannot help but think– a maid would have been punished at home, for breaking the china. A woman from the town berated by a husband. Her situation is, perhaps, not the same. But she knows to judge men by how they treat the powerless. It's– kinder than she expected the sorcerer to be.)
And then there is no other way to count the days but the thief.
In the nightmare that follows, Belle remembers two things, through the haze of fear and guilt, the screams.
The first is the smell of blood. She knows now how a person can look in pain, bloody. For a while afterwards meat will make her nauseas and she will not cook it. She thinks she will never eat it rare again.
The second, of course, is the offer the Sheriff makes. And she knows the sorcerer by now. She doesn't think he would have accepted it. She wants, truly, to think the best of him. But the thing is– it would have been so convenient. He could have left her with him, picked her up on the way back. Sent for her when the sheriff was– done. Just because he doesn't– care for pleasures like these perhaps– he keeps things as bargaining chips all the time. His castle is full of them.
(She will have nightmares later. Formless, sometimes, but sometimes of the sheriff– touching. The way he had looked. How his tongue had looked, red, torn out of his mouth. And sometimes– of being buried alive, helpless. Of him. Wearing the apron, splattered with blood. What was a little more– a few more screams or cries– he could tell her not to cry, even, smile, and– she would. She would–
Well. After she's done throwing up. Those are not dreams she likes to think about. They stop, eventually, which is all she can ask for.)
What starts the conversation is a storm.
They have a habit by now, the spinner and the girl, of spending their evenings together. Belle could leave after she serves the tea and go back to the library to read. Or to the small room she has, now, with its small but not-uncomfortable bed, her dresses hung up neatly by the door. But it's the only time she can spend with him, if she chooses to. He will drink his tea, calm, and spin, and sometimes he will tell stories, glancing at her sidelong as if to see if she's still listening. He's a shy person, her sorcerer, when he bares anything of himself, and so Belle is always careful to meet his eyes when he looks, and smile softly, secret. She should like to have more of these evenings, as he– loosens, uncoils, something in him warming as time hangs half-suspended, molasses-slow and sweet.
The question, then– asked slow and hesitant, as the raging of the storm creates a sort of hush in the Hall, as if they're the only people alive in the world– is, "Are you happy here?" And Belle– freezes.
Because it's been years since anyone asked– since she asked it herself. She wakes up early, most days, and there is always work to do. She falls asleep quickly at night, exhausted from honest labor, and her sleep is dreamless. She likes to read in the bay window in the library, at the kitchen table, in the Hall with his quiet company as he spins, in the garden when it's warm. It's summer now, in the mountains, flowers budding in some of the trees, small leaf-buds pushing through in the kitchen garden where the sorcerer says tomatoes will grow. When she goes outside after breakfast, the air is still cold enough to bite, but the sunlight is warm. Sometimes she will fall asleep in a patch of it, like a cat, and wake up warm, drowsy. Surely the fullness of days, the restfulness of sleep– the knowledge that what she's doing here has more worth than she could have dreamed, that she's keeping everyone she loves safe– is not so different from happiness.
She must wait too long to answer, or maybe he notices something wrong, because he's going on, an explanation which is his way of an apology– "I know– I've asked a lot from you. But it's been a while since you were crying– not that I was listening– !"
"Rumpelstiltskin," she interrupts. Maybe this isn't something she should be saying to him, or to anyone. Surely he knows, already. "Rumple, you stopped a war for me. In return for me. You don't ask much. You don't ask anything."
He's staring openly at her, which isn't something she thought he knew how to do. He always looks away so quickly, when their eyes meet. When he looks at her, he looks sidelong, as if she were something bright, lit up.
"Only your life," he says, bitterly, isn't that interesting. What right does he have, to resent the deal he had proposed. Perhaps out of spite, a child's wish for a toy so no one else can have it. At home, the first thing people would call her was beautiful. Perhaps he wanted her and changed his mind.
The spark of anger is gone as soon as it appears, but it startles Belle. She has been so careful not to hold any resentment towards him. In the early days, it had not been easy. But for every blister, every uncomfortable night, small hurt, Belle had known– it was one person, for a war. The price had been a laughably small, petty thing. Most days, she is grateful to him. And now, when he's giving her no reason to be angry, she feels sharp, jagged. As though he has broken something, asking the question that perhaps, had not been his to ask.
"My life? I'm alive, aren't I? Quite well too. Plenty of people in my country live worse than I do." She wants to give him honesty. If only she knew what the truth was. "I'm– not unhappy." He's at the table, still, with his chipped cup, one finger hooked round the handle. Watching her, aware he has misstepped somewhere, not sure how. And Belle is– tired. Tired of explaining to him, and to herself, that she can dislike his childish cruelty at the same time as she loves his quiet care. And that happiness is– not the right question to ask, she realizes, suddenly, because–
She walks up to him, across the table to his side, and it's easy. Her skirt brushes his knees– he tilts his whole body away, startled, giving her space. And she smiles at him and that's– easy, too. And she says, "I don't know if I'm happy. But I feel safe. I feel like I'm safe. With you."
She reaches out, takes one of his hands– his fingers curling, cool and scaled, hesitantly around hers– and finds that it's true.
(It does occur to him that maybe the reason he had wanted to keep her– a small star cupped between his hands, like a child who sees a dragonfly and wants it for himself– is because she is everything he needed to be and never had been. Selfless enough to make the right choices, brave enough to follow them through. She wouldn't have broken her word. She would not have let go. Doesn't break her word, doesn't let go, a little twist at the corner of her mouth, bittersweet.)
She's still holding her teacup, forgotten, in one hand. The tea in it splashes a little when she moves, so he takes it automatically, sets it aside.
She says, "Thank you."
For all his animation, the sorcerer's face is most expressive when it's almost still. His emotions shift, shadows in a still lake, guilt and the beginnings of understanding. It's strangely, incredibly endearing and makes her smile, finally. Small, sincere. A little damp. He is as lost as she is, in navigation of emotion.
"I am," she says. Her fingers are twined with his, still, so she leans forward, curls their hands together. "I know, I know you don't want to hear me be grateful, but I– I'm happy. I didn't think I could be. I don't know. But I'm glad I'm here. With your library to clean."
It's all the reassurance she can give, at the moment, but it seems to be enough. The awful stillness is leaving him at least, some of the bouncy imp coming back through. He grins back at her, and his smile has teeth. Leans back, apart, picks up his teacup again, offers her hers. Even as she's balancing it, balancing herself, he's at his wheel again as the storm rages, angry, outside.
It goes like this, then, the spinner at his wheel and the girl smoothing out the first page of a new chapter; this story, which is not a fairy story in all the ways that matter, is still a kind story. The monster in this story is not a fairytale monster, harmless– he is just a man, and so it matters, then, that given the choice– he is not unkind.