Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You’re going to get caught.” Gaston whispered fiercely.

Belle heaved an exasperated sigh and turned to face him. “Not if you help me. Hold the candle up a little, I can’t see the lock.” She scrambled up onto the tall chair, her legs swinging high above the floor. Even with nearly eleven summers, she was exceedingly petite. Gaston nearly towered over her and he had not yet had his first real growth spurt.

But what Lady Belle of Avonlea lacked in height, she made up for in swiftness and stealth. She had bested half the village boys at stick fighting before her Dowayne put an end to that particular diversion.

Gaston hefted the candle and the light wavered until it fell on the ornately engraved brass. Belle fitted the heavy key and turned until it clicked. The desk fell open revealing a mess of papers, three bottles of ink, some quills, and her father’s seal. She cleared some space to write. Over her shoulder, she whispered to Gaston, “Now go stand watch, please?”

Gaston pursed his lips but did as he was bid. He had learned very quickly that it was best if Lady Belle got her way. She was not an overly demanding friend but stubborn as an ox and mule combined when there was something she wanted. Not that Lord Gaston, ward of Avonlea and future heir, had had much experience with oxen or mules. But one did hear tales. Up until recently, he and Belle had made a game of it to see how much information they could gather by hiding under furniture or in the rafters of the stables. They would spend a few hours “spying” and then report back to the wishing well to share their discoveries.

Dowayne Bleu had discovered that pastime and that too had been banned – labeled as inappropriate for children of their standing. Belle had put up a fuss, refusing to leave her precious library for days. Lord Maurice of Avonlea, the Lady Belle’s honorable (although mostly absent) father had finally intervened.  It was decreed that Belle was to be sent away to court, to learn how to become a proper lady. She would be allowed to return following her 18^th birthday. At that time, she and Gaston were to be wed, as had been planned since the day of her birth. Gaston would then inherit Avonlea and all of its holdings.

During Belle’s absence, Lord Maurice’s steward, Leroy, would instruct Gaston in the proper running of an estate. Leroy would be leaving on the morrow to take Lady Belle to court, so the instruction would begin upon his return. Gaston was rather looking forward to learning to be a real Lord, but he was dreading Belle’s departure something awful. They had been the best of friends for as long as either of them could remember. They played together, took their lessons and their meals together. Belle had helped him learn to read and he had showed her a faster way to learn sums. He would miss her.

At the same time, he was not looking forward to being her husband when she did return. Girls were nigh onto tolerable, but Lady Belle was just barely a girl and very nearly his kin, at that. From hi understanding, wives were girls who did things like cook food and darn socks. They were supposed to honor and obey. Belle skivved off every sewing lesson she could and her hare stew was bland and gamy. A few days ago, he and Belle had ended up in a tussle after he asked her to sew his vest for him. He had ripped it during one of their make believe quests and thought she owed him that, at least. A blackened eye that was still healing taught him otherwise.

No, he thought, as he stood watch at the door of her father’s study, he couldn’t see Belle making for a very good wife.

At the desk, Lady Belle was carefully mimicking her father’s handwriting. She had managed to purloin the letter that was to be her introduction to court. Dowayne Bleu had dictated several areas in which she needed improvement to be a proper lady. Belle skipped over all of these and wrote a new letter; one in which Lord Maurice of Avonlea entrusted his son “Beau” to the Court. Beau had great potential as a swordsman, could ride and care for his own tack, could hunt, fish, and make camp. Beau was to be trained as a knight.

Belle had done a great deal of reading on what to expect once she became “Beau” the young Lordling instead of Lady Belle.  Beau would be entrusted to the care of the Master of Pages until he had been deemed ready to squire a great Knight of the Realm. From this Knight – one who had been on many daring rescue missions and earned the gratitude of royalty far and wide – Beau would learn to excel in every way. Beau, himself, would be knighted and travel the Realm defending those who were in need and having marvelous adventures.

Belle sighed in contentment at the perfect replica of her father’s letter, complete with the necessary changes. She had had only a few letters to study, but she had certainly read them enough over the years. Leroy and a few of the older maids remembered a time when Lord Maurice was home often, spending all of his time with his lady wife, Eleanor. Unfortunately, Belle’s birth had put a stop to that. Eleanor had not survived the birthing bed. Lord Maurice had begun his travels a week later.

Belle received three letters a year, one at the winter solstice, one at the summer, and one for her birthday. They never told her very much, or expressed even a word of the affection she was dying to hear. But once in a while, he made mention of seeing something her mother would have liked. The ink was sometimes smudged in those passages. Though he had never put it into so many words, Belle had always suspected that her father was running from her mother’s ghost.  

This did not frighten her. Fear had no place in the world she inhabited.  She had determined long ago that whatever remained of her mother meant her no harm. When she was alone, she would talk to Eleanor’s ghost. From the time she learned to read, she read Lord Maurice’s letters aloud. There was never any confirmation of it, but she believed that Eleanor heard.

“Well, Mama? What do you think?” She murmured. “I’m to be a great and glorious knight, some day. Sir Beau of Avonlea. Or Sir Belle, once I reveal myself.” She giggled softly. “Papa will be proud of me, at last. And I know you will be proud of me too, Mama. You’ve always been proud of your brave little girl. Now I’ll just be your brave little boy, for a little while. And Dowayne Bleu can’t force me in those awful dresses or make me stitch those hideous designs.” She grinned and dusted the letter to dry the ink. After arranging the materials back into the desk just as they had been before, she locked it up and climbed down from the chair.

Gaston, sturdy stalwart companion that he was, was leaning against the door frame with his back to her. Her eyes pricked with tears as she thought of being without him for the next several years. Of everyone on her father’s estate, Gaston and Leroy were the only ones she could truly call friend. She grieved that she could not reveal her full plan to Gaston, but it was best that he be kept innocent. If her gambit were to go awry, he could not be held to reproach. Leroy was the only one in whom she had been able to fully confide and she had been hesitant to even do that. His position in her father’s house was an old one, inherited from his father and his father’s father before that. Leroy’s lineage was so deeply entwined with her own, she thought on him much like an uncle. He was a sullen faced, solidly built man who always carried a whiff of barely and hops, but Belle knew well that appearances were deceiving. For all his surliness, Leroy always found a smile and a kind word for her. She knew she could trust him to watch her back.

Pulling on the deeper reserves of her courage, she had told him her plan earlier that afternoon. After a coughing fit that sounded suspiciously like raucous laughter, Leroy had taken a swig of his hip flask to calm down. He had asked her several times if she was serious and questioned her at great length about how she would handle the various difficulties such a disguise would entail. Looking mightily uncomfortable he had even addressed the fact that she would soon blossom to womanhood – was she prepared to handle hiding such a thing? Skinny slip of a girl that she was, Belle did not see this as being much of a difficulty, but she had allayed Leroy’s fears. She was aware that she would need to bind herself down and that she could never go swimming, even in the worst summer heat. These were sacrifices she was prepared to make.

Leroy had fallen silent, heavy contemplation etched into the lines of his dear craggy face. Finally, he had nodded. “Well, I guess you’ve made up your mind then, eh sister? … Or should I say ‘brother’ now?”

Belle had hugged him, her heart leaping with glee. Then she had gone to find Gaston for one last adventure.

Gaston’s eyes were half closed and his breathing heavy as Belle left the study. She could tell he was nearly asleep on his feet but he snapped to attention when he heard her approach.

“Well? Have you got what you needed?”

“Yeah. Only one thing left to do.” Belle’s hand rose instinctively to her chestnut curls. She twined one around her finger and tugged lightly.

If it were up to her, she would wear nothing but breeches and tunics. Boy’s clothing allowed for more flexibility and movement than frilly dresses with layers of crinoline. Even Belle struggled to climb a tree in petticoats. But her hair was one luxury she allowed herself. It was thick and soft, falling in waves that looked just like those in her mother’s portrait.

She took a deep breath. Do the brave thing and bravery will follow.

Tomorrow, when they had ridden far enough from her father’s village, she would ask Leroy to cut her hair.

Chapter Text

The first year at the palace had been the hardest, by far. Belle was accustomed to the company of boys and men, the crude language, the spitting, the smell. What she was not accustomed to was the rigor of rising before the sun, studying until even her busy mind was begging for silence and training her body until it dropped from sheer exhaustion. She developed bruises in places she had not known could bruise. For months, she awoke sore, her pale skin spotty with green and purple, like a rotting fruit. Over time, however, she began to toughen. Her muscles grew accustomed to the endless drills, the softness slowly being beaten away, every part of her being sharpened like a sword on a whetstone.

From the very first day, there was no end of comments on her puny stature, scrawny limbs, and pretty face. The first time she took down an opponent twice her size in their sparring matches, her critics suddenly began biting their tongues. With time, her pluck and determination won grudging admiration from most of her teachers. Her sense of humor and willingness to help with studies won camraderie among her peers. Lines had been drawn in the ranks of all the pages long before Belle had arrived in their midst. Most of them had grown up in or near the palace. Only Belle and a shy, ruddy-haired boy named Archibald D’el Grillo were complete strangers to palace life.

Prince David, heir to the throne, clearly ruled the roost, but it was with a fair and gentle hand that he did so. Belle had thought to be deterred by the arrogance of a royal, reluctant to dirty his delicate hands. She was pleasantly surprised to find him entirely worthy of the deference afforded him. The other boys jokingly referred to him as “Prince Charming” due to his storybook good looks and chivalrous nature. He seemed to take the expectations placed upon him in stride and often shared a hearty laugh at his own expense. Charming, indeed. His closest friends were Will, the untitled son of a well-respected knight and Victor, son of a Germanic Duke.

Will had lodged at the palace since his father died saving the King’s life in battle. His mother had dies soon after, leaving Will's care to the palace Dowaynes. It seemed only natural that he would want to follow in his late father’s footsteps, but Belle detected a reticence about him. Will once jested that he would just as soon be a thief as be a knight, but a knighthood would keep him a step ahead of the Provost. He was always quick with a joke, but there was sadness behind his eyes. Belle knew that hurt he tried to hide; it lived in her as well.

Victor of the Von Frankens was easy going and surprisingly studious for all he affected indifference to his schoolwork. At nearly twelve, he was by far the most at ease (and experienced) among them when it came to wooing a maiden. The boys often gathered around, when the day had left them any energy to socialize, and listened in awe to the tales of Victor’s great conquests. Whether the stories were true or not was of little consequence. Although, Belle had to stop herself from rolling her eyes once or twice when she recognized a thread of plot or bit of dialogue from a novel she had read in her Mother’s library. Her new friends were enraptured by this intimate world of girls’ eyes and lips and budding bosoms. Belle wrapped her arms around herself, self-consciously, and pretended to be just as in awe.

Archibald, whom the boys called Archie, was soon added to the fold for his ability to give sage advice far beyond his years. Belle remained on the fringes for some time. They were not unkind to her, but for fear of her secret being revealed, Belle kept to herself. That is, until the day Lady Snow’s cat got stuck in the elm tree.

***

It was a clear crisp morning and the Pages had been given a rare and precious day to themselves. Belle had gotten up before the first bell rang to squeeze in a little training. Her legs were strong and steady, but her arms still struggled to heft the heavier of the dull edged practice swords. In order to keep up with her peers, she had begun sneaking in extra practice. After a few minutes in the yard, she became aware of a high pitched sound just over the garden wall. It sounded very much like a cry for help.

Dropping the practice sword, Belle ran in the direction of the voice. Just outside the Queen’s garden, four girls of noble birth, approximately Belle’s age, were all standing by the tallest Elm tree on the palace grounds. She knew all of their names from seeing them at court and over-hearing the boys talk about them, especially David’s starry eyed descriptions of Princess Snow. For all his urging of Victor’s tall tales, they all knew there was only one maiden for whom their crown prince “Charming” had eyes.

The Princess Snow White had been born to the King and Queen of a lesser kingdom. Her mother had met a tragic end a few years ago, prompting her father to come to the Great palace, in search of a new mother for his daughter. He had met Duchess Cora, a widow with one daughter, herself. Cora had promised to get the man a male heir and he had married her. Unfortunately, Snow White’s father had soon after succumbed to a mysterious illness. This left Queen Cora in search of a suitable heir to marry either her daughter Regina, or her young step-daughter Snow. They had remained in residence at the Great palace ever since.

It seemed Queen Cora’s ambitions might be rewarded, as Prince David talked of no other maiden but the Princess Snow. His parents, however, did not see the match as entirely suitable. They allowed that he was young and bound to be fickle. They had agreed to let time and maturity settle that particular problem for them.

Belle watched, curious, as Ruby (the tallest of the four) hoisted Snow to her shoulders. The other two girls helped keep them steady. Snow scrabbled furiously at the broad trunk of the tree, making very unladylike noises. Belle choked back a laugh as she realized those must have been the cries she had heard in the yard.

With a distinctly uncourtly curse, Snow toppled from Ruby’s shoulders and the four girls fell into a heap. They were untangling themselves as Belle approached.

“M’lady… m’ladies. What seems to be the problem?”

Just then, there was a mewing sound and all five of them glanced up. A little dappled kitten was perched in the one of the trees highest branches, staring down at them with wide eyes.

Snow brushed herself off from her fall and pointed. “I don’t even know how the dratted thing got loose! My stepsister was supposed to be watching her for the night but she seems to have left her door open, again.” The girl exhaled noisily. “Stepmother will be a terror – or even more of a terror – if I don’t get her back.” Her eyes went wide and pleading. “Do you think you could send word to Prince David to come help us?”

Belle bit back an irritated retort. Ask David! She was perfectly capable of saving a damn cat as any of the boys! She sniffed. “I don’t think we need ask the crown prince to break his royal neck over a kitten, M’lady. I’ll fetch her.”

Standing nearly a head taller, Ruby blinked rapidly at her. “You? Who are you, anyway?”

Ariel smacked Ruby lightly on the arm and muttered. “Don’t be rude!”

Belle’s lips twitched upward as she gave her most courtly bow. “I am Lord Beau of Avonlea, a Page in his Majesty’s service.”

“You’re a Page? You’re practically a baby!” Ruby exclaimed incredulously. Ariel’s auburn brows shot nearly to her hairline.

The oldest of the four girls, Aurora, who looked to be 13 or so, inclined her head. “Ruby, don’t be so quick to judge. Not all of us burst out of our smallclothes twice yearly.”

Ruby flushed a deep crimson and shot Aurora a dirty look. The older girl smiled serenely. Belle nodded to her appreciatively.

Snow, recovering her propriety, extended a delicate hand. Belle took it lightly, surprised to find the fingers callused. As the Code dictated, she brushed her lips to the back and withdrew. She fell into an attention stance, chest forward, arms poised at her sides where a sword belt would eventually sit. As it was, she bore a handsome leather scabbard with two short knives. She had acquired it at a traveling market on her ride to the palace. Leroy had showed her how to pick out the knives; she trusted his eye for a good blade.

Snow curtsied with practiced ease. “Lord Beau, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Princess Snow. This is Lady Ruby, Contessa Aurora, and Princess Ariel. She’s seventh in line to the throne of Sur La Mer.” Snow added the last part with a teasing glance at Ariel. The redheaded girl blushed and shuffled what Belle just now noticed were bare, grass stained feet under the hem of her gown.

“Well, now that proper introductions have been made, may I be of assistance in this daring rescue, M’ladies?”

Snow’s mouth twisted. “If you think you can… I’ve been climbing for years but I cannot find purchase on that blasted tree.” She glared at the thick trunk.

Belle smiled, despite herself. “If I might be so bold… you don’t sound much like I expected a princess to sound, your Majesty.”

Snow shrugged. “You don’t look much like I expect a Page to look, Lord Beau. But if you can retrieve Sir Fluffington for me, I shall be honored to call you ‘hero’.”

Belle looked up, meeting the frightened eyes of the kitten and gave a determined nod. “So, I shall. Just a moment, M’ladies.” She ran back to the yard and grabbed the longest length of rope she could carry. With that slung over her shoulder, she ran back to the tree. Weighting one end with a knot, she threw the rope over the highest branch she could reach and managed to loop it twice. After assessing the trunk for weakened spots, she dug her knives into two of them. Keeping the rope tied around her waist as a safety, she began to climb.

It was tough work and slow going, as she had to dig out a few foot and hand holds before she was high enough to climb among the branches. Eventually, she reached the trembling kitten. She sat in the dip between branches, catching her breath and cradling the furry thing to her chest. It calmed itself gradually and relaxed against her, purring.

With a glance below her, she could see the noble ladies at play in some sort of game that involved turning in circles and giggling as they fell to the ground. Their Dowayne would be most put out to see the state of their formerly elegant gowns. They had watched her tensely when she started out, but as she seemed unlikely to fall to her death, they had begun their game to pass the time. From the great height of the elm, she could see clear across the garden. The sun was rising, washing everything in pinks and golds. There were two riders on horses in the field just beyond the garden , a dark haired woman in a light colored gown and a man in tan breeches. They seemed to be racing.

A flash of something caught her eye caught her eye at the far end. It looked like scarlet smoke and at first Belle jolted in alarm. Sir Fluffington’s claws shot out and by the time she had extracted them from her shirt, the mysterious smoke was gone.

“Lord Beau!”

She looked down at Snow’s round face. “Yes, M’lady?”

“Are you stuck up there too, now?”

Belle laughed. “No M’lady. Simply catching my breath.”

Snow smiled. Belle tucked the kitten securely into her shirt, shushing its protests. With a little work, she managed to use the rope as a pulley to make her way back down. Snow accepted the ball of fur and claws gratefully and hugged it to her, scolding it playfully for having run off. She turned to Belle.

“I cannot fully express my thanks, Beau… Truly.”

“It’s nothing, my Lady. I shall have much greater adventures than this, when I am knighted. I don’t think they’ve ever written a ballad about rescuing a kitten.” Belle bowed again, making to leave.

“Beau?”

Belle stopped and looked back.

“Would you like to join us for breakfast? Prince David and some of the Pages are like to come. They breakfast with us often on their leisure days. I would like it if you were among their number.”

Belle hesitated. “Is that a Royal command?”

Snow shook her head. “Only a friendly request.”

Belle smiled. “I would be honored, M’Lady.”

“Snow.” The girl insisted.

“I would be honored, Snow.”

Chapter Text

“Ouch! Stop that!” Gretel leaned down to rub the spot on her ankle that a pebble had just assaulted.

“But I’m bored.” Hansel pouted, crossing his chubby arms over his chest.

“No reason to kick rocks at people.” Gretel said primly, returning her attention to the patchwork in her hands.

“Sorry.” Hansel muttered sullenly. He yawned broadly and stretched himself out on his belly in the grass. His eyes followed the circuitous path that a small round bug was taking until it disappeared between two rocks at the base of the large stone well. Hansel yawned again, loudly, and rolled onto his back.

“When Papa and Step-mother come and fetch us, we can go to bed. Don’t roll ‘round in that grass. Took ages to get the stains out last time.”

Hansel opened his mouth to retort but it was drowned out by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. The ground shook slightly under them and Hansel scrambled to his feet. Gretel’s sewing dropped to her lap as she, too, gazed with interest into the dense wood.

The sun had long since set and the figure riding toward them wore a dark, heavy cloak. At first, it might have been mistaken for a shadow, a trick of the starlight. As it left behind the thicker trees, its outline emerged. The figure’s horse slowed to a trot and then a walk. Had Hansel or Gretel been at all familiar with horsemanship, they might have noticed that it leaned oddly in the saddle.

As it was, this was one of the more ominous things they had encountered in their young lives. Gretel stood and pulled her little brother to her, protectively. Her patchwork lay forgotten at their feet as the children huddled together, trembling slightly. The mounted figure drew back its hood as it came upon them, but it was still too dark to make out a face.

“Please… don’t be afraid.” He (for the voice was low and gruff) raised both gloved hands to show them he was not reaching for a weapon. “I mean no harm. I only meant to stop by the well and fetch some water.” He let out a rasping cough. “I have… had a long journey and my waterskins have run dry.”

Gretel peered at him, still holding her brother close, but allowing herself to relax. “Who are you?”

The man shook his head, shoulder length hair ruffling in the slight breeze. “No one of consequence. Just a soldier. I promise, I will not hurt you. I’m going to dismount now, alright?”

“A soldier? A real live soldier! Can I see your sword?” Gretel could feel the tension in Hansel’s shoulders shift to excitement. He pulled away from her and shambled closer to the man.

“Hansel!” Gretel reprimanded. To the man she said “I’m very sorry. He’s only 5 and since the last Royal Procession, he has wanted nothing more than to be a soldier when he grows up.”

The man laughed softly. “A boy after my own heart, eh?” He shifted in the saddle and swung a leg over. He made a groaning noise as both feet touched the ground and pitched forward, only just catching himself with a hand on his saddle.

Gretel started, both hands outstretched to help before she thought the better of it and held back. “Are you alright, Messir?”

“Aye.” The man replied through gritted teeth. He released a shuddering breath as he straightened out. “Flesh wound.” He limped the handful of paces to the well and sat upon the lip. He turned to Hansel “Now, you see a soldier’s life isn’t all glamour and glory, young man.”

Hansel’s mouth twisted. “But you do get a sword, right?”

“Oh Aye.”

“Can I see it?” The boy stepped forward again.

“No.”

“No!”

Both the man and Gretel replied at once and Gretel giggled, smiling sheepishly. “Would you like a hand in fetching the water, Messir?”

“I can manage. But I thank you, little one.” He began to lower the bucket. “Shouldn’t you two have been in bed, long hence? I made good time here, but by the stars in must be nigh on midnight.”

Gretel frowned. “Papa will fetch us when he and Step-mother are ready for us to return home.”

The soldier stopped hauling the water to look at her. “How long have you been here?”

Gretel shrugged. “Since midday.”

Hansel added “Yesterday.”

The man said something under his breath that she did not quite catch. He resumed hauling the water, working quickly. When he made a clicking noise, the horse sidled closer. Still seated, he pulled a bowl from his pack and filled it, placing that on the ground before the horse. As the horse drank its fill, the soldier filled two waterskins. The children watched him with open curiosity. As he began to rise, he made another guttural sound and this time both children rushed to help him.

The man thanked them both, tousling Hansel’s hair and clapping Gretel on one skinny shoulder. Up close, Gretel could see he had large, dark eyes. They seemed kind in the gentle twilight. He smelled – not unpleasantly – of pine, sweat, dirt, and something else she could not quite name.

Once more atop his horse, he seemed to contemplate them for a moment. “Children... I shall be passing through the village on my way to… the barracks. Would you like me to take you home?”

Gretel hesitated. “Papa said –“

“Oh yes please!” Hansel interrupted, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Gretel gave a resigned sigh and grabbed their small bag of food, stuffing her needlework into it.

“Right. Up you go.” The soldier extended a hand to Hansel and Gretel helped hoist him into the saddle. Then, with some effort, and using the man’s good leg as leverage, Gretel managed to climb up as well. It was not a comfortable fit, but the man held them both securely with one arm, guiding the reins with the other. They gave him directions to their tiny shack and Hansel peppered him with questions, mostly about swords, as they rode.

Once they had arrived, the man dismounted once more, with difficulty. He helped the children down and limped steadily to the door. He knocked heavily. There was no answer. He knocked once more, more urgently.

The hinges creaked as their father was revealed, ragged and disheveled from sleep. His eyes flew wide as he took in the sight before him. “What the bloody – “

The soldier pushed his cloak aside, revealing the King’s crest embroidered on his chest and Papa fell silent. The soldier looked down at Hansel and Gretel. “Go on now, go to bed. Sleep tight. I thank you for your immense kindness, children.” He looked back up at Papa. “Your Papa and I must have a word. Outside.” The last word was bitten off in a snarl.

The hairs on the back of Gretel’s neck stood on end but she and Hansel did as they were bid. The door swung closed behind them and they hurried to their little shared bed, drawing up the thin coverlet. Step-mother snored on, bottles strewn at her feet. But when Papa returned, he was visibly shaken and pale as a ghost.

He crouched beside them and ran a trembling hand over each of their heads. “I’m sorry, children. I am. I don’t know what I was thinking. I won’t let this happen again; I swear it. Tomorrow, I will make some changes around here. That is a promise. She won’t… I won’t let her hurt you, anymore.” He kissed each of them gently and returned to his bed.

Hansel, already half asleep, nodded dozily, but Gretel was wide awake. She watched the shadows play across her ceiling and suddenly remembered what the soldier smelled of. She had smelled it before when she helped Step-mother carry scraps home from the meat market. Blood. The soldier had smelled of blood. She shivered and pulled her coverlet tighter.

***

In the summer of Belle’s 13th year (her third as a Page) the palace was suddenly abuzz with news. Sir Rumplestiltskin had returned. What was more, rumor had it that he had returned sporting an injury. Since he had thus far only been received by the King and the king’s personal medics, speculation as to the nature and cause of the injury ran rampant. Some said he had lost an arm, while others swore it was a leg. A few, of a more fanciful nature, claimed that he had been stabbed clean through the heart and yet lived.

Sir Rumplestiltskin was the stuff of legend. In his early days as a knight, he was said to have singlehandedly faced down a thousand men. In ballads, he was 10 feet tall and snapped the necks of ogres with one hand. His jerkin was said to be fashioned from the hide of a dragon he had slain while sleepwalking. Of course, no ogres or dragons had been seen in all the Marchlands in over a century. But the tale persisted that Rumplestiltskin had sought them out, rampaging to the ends of the earth, blaming either one or both of their kind (depending on whom you asked) for the death of his son. He had been gone from court for nigh on 8 years. Surely, he must have spent that time killing something, the Pages speculated. Belle was not exempt from the frisson of excitement among her peers. She and Will traded the most fantastical of the stories told of Sir Rumplestiltskin at great length. Even the Prince seemed giddy at the prospect of meeting the living legend.

As they advanced in their studies and weapons work, Belle and the other boys had been rewarded with a third day off each month. These days she often spent in the company of the Prince and his friends. When possible, Snow and the ladies would meet them in the Queen’s salon for breakfast and the lot of them would spend the day at games. The girls were growing up to a nearly marriageable age, but their Dowayne was lenient and allowed for such amusements as could be taken under her watchful eye. Ariel, with the voice of an angel, sang to them and Aurora read aloud in a pleasant lilting tone.

To the delight and laughter of the girls, the boys playacted great heroic battles, taking turns as dragons, monsters, or ogres, and the noble knight who swept in to save the day. Belle had wanted to play a wizard but the Dowayne hurriedly warned against it, glancing around to make certain no nearby guards had heard her. Magic had been banned in the Marshlands and surrounding allied kingdoms for almost two centuries, now. Even the name of “wizard” was relegated to a slur. In her far corner of Avonlea, Belle knew of the stories but the stricken looks on the faces of her friends told her more than words on a page ever had. This only sparked her curiosity, but she held her tongue and returned to play. As she was leaving, Aurora pressed a piece of parchment into her hand. It was the name and location of a very specific book in the Royal library. The note informed her that the book was kept under lock and key but with a note from a professor, she might be allowed to peruse its contents. The book was not allowed to leave the library, as it was the only known copy in existence of the true tale of someone called The Dark One.

Belle petitioned each Master for a note to access the protected tome, but to no avail. Even her kindly English instructor, his eyes grave, told her to ask again when she was older. This was not a story for children, he said. Belle had bit back a huff of indignation, but acquiesced. In her chamber, she tucked the bit of parchment away into a small box of treasures beneath her narrow bed. Time passed, but she never forgot that it was there.

On occasion, Belle now met with Snow and Ruby by the elm tree that had served as their introduction. Some months after Snow had first named her a friend, Belle had discovered the two girls sparring clumsily with sticks. Both girls had turned quite red in the face when she made herself known. They had expected that Belle would laugh at them for playing at a boy’s pastime and were thrilled when she agreed to offer tuition, instead. Belle told them plainly that she saw no reason that girls should not be as battle ready as their male counterparts. It was all in good fun, but the ladies were earnest in their attempts to learn and improved quickly. They savored their freedom to gallivant about in the morning sun. All too soon, they would be considered women and the time for play would be at an end.

Belle was not immune to the effects of time, either. She had begun binding her small breasts a year hence. Among her collection of hurts, the pain they caused was noticeably acute. Her menses had not yet begun, but she was well informed from her mother’s biology texts that she was of an age and kept spare rags stashed beneath her pillow. She was growing slowly and the other boys joshed her good-naturedly that she would need child-sized armor when she won her shield. To her dismay, she was also still not quite as strong as some of the bigger lads. Charming and Archie could both carry twice the weight that she could. But she was quicker by far than any, with the possible exception of a sly, arrogant boy named Killian.

Killian and Belle had taken a near instant dislike to one another. She caught him taunting a hobbled servant lad in the yard and reported it to the Master of Pages. The Master had informed her that no one liked a tell-tale and sent her on her way. So, she had taken matters into her own hands. The next time she caught Killian at bullying, she swept his feet out from under him. He had landed poorly and sprained a wrist. This set him back a few weeks in his sword work. It was not much, but Belle informed him flatly that she would happily do much more if she ever saw him tormenting a defenseless victim again.

Since then, they had had an ongoing rivalry. The fencing teacher seemed to think they would fight it out of their systems eventually and frequently set them to practice against one another. Killian was deft and agile but Belle had him licked when it came to balance and precision. When they sparred, he did his best to inflict more injury than was needed and slow her down. She did her best to send him sprawling. Either way, there was never an end of bruises to be nursed.

And so it was, she was matched with Killian once more on the day that Sir Rumplestiltskin's eye happened to be drawn to the practice yard. 

Chapter Text

Killian feinted left before bringing his blade up the centre. Belle had anticipated the trick and parried him, easily. He spat a curse and darted backward. Never taking her eyes from his shoulders, Belle shifted her stance. They had been at this longer than usual and were both sweating heavily. Belle’s arms were aching, her tunic felt like a soggy mess, clinging uncomfortably and making her self-conscious of the bandages underneath. She winged a prayed skyward that they would hold tight until she could return to her chamber.

They circled one another, panting. She fought the urge to wipe the sweat from her brow and concentrated on finding a weakness in Killian’s guard. She hated to admit it, but the boy was a natural with a sword. He had had more training than she, as well. She saw an opening and darted forward.

In barely the nick of time, Killian blocked her and they danced apart. His usual taunting smirk had fallen away, leaving behind a look of dark concentration. He lunged at her, his shoulder broadcasting the move. She side stepped, wondering why he would try so sloppy a gambit. She realized her mistake in underestimating him as the sunlight glinting off of a shield hit her squarely in the eye and she saw spots. She changed position as fast as she could but it was already too late. Killian took full advantage of her vulnerable state and raised his sword, poised for his finishing move.

Belle lowered her blade. “I yield.”

She stepped back, both her head and her sword pointed down. Tears of anger threatened at the backs of her eyes but she blinked them away. Killian would not see her cry. She extended a hand for him to shake. He made a scoffing noise and batted it away with the flat of his blade. Belle’s mouth pressed to a thin line and she raised her head, ready to give him what for. It was against the codes of Chivalry to ignore an offered handshake after a fairly won fight. Killian had fought dirty but he’d won fair and square. The shame of both the loss and the rebuff burned in her belly.

“Bad form!” Their fencing master shouted just as Belle was opening her own mouth.

Killian rolled his eyes and took Belle’s offered hand. He yanked her close and she almost stumbled but caught herself.

“Careful, Beau. Wouldn’t want you to fall and hurt your pretty face.” Killian hissed in a voice low enough for only Belle to hear. His grip was almost painfully tight.

Belle grit her teeth and gripped back. “Why do you always need to kick a man when he’s down?”

Killian looked thoughtful for a moment, stroking his chin with the hand that was not trying to crush hers. He was trying to grow a beard, if the downy, unkempt wisps of hair there were any indication. At last, he concluded. “Well… what else is there to do but kick, when he’s already at my feet?”

“You could help him up.” Belle countered.

Something flared white hot in his gaze and he ground out “I bend for no man.” His grip grew so tight she could feel her bones creak and Belle bit back a yelp of pain.

Belle felt her eyes widen and Killian’s did the same. He seemed as surprised as she was at the vehemence of his reaction. He released her nearly numb hand and backed away quickly, no longer meeting her eyes. He stalked off of the practice field without a backward glance. As it was nearly midday meal, their fencing master did not stop him.

David, who had been eyeing them warily through the altercation, inclined his head. “Alright, Beau?”

“Aye, Sire.” Belle wiggled and flexed her fingers, surreptitiously trying to work the feeling back into them. “All is well.”

David looked unconvinced but he nodded and head back to the castle. Will, who was standing somewhat closer to Belle, gave her a curious look. “It was a trick, you know. He’d never have beat you, playing fair.”

Belle shook her head. “I’d like to believe that, Will. I would. But if I’d been paying better attention…”

“You’re too hard on yourself, Beau. No one expects you to get it right every time.”

Belle pursed her lips. “Easy for you to say. You won your last 3 matches.”

Will gave a crooked grin. “Four, if you count the one Victor and I fought in the apple orchard last night.”

Belle’s brows shot up. “How did I miss that? Is that why he wasn’t in the yard today?”

Will shook his head. “Nah. Only thing I hurt was his pride. He got it into his head that I was after some maiden or another he’d set his sights on. Challenged me to a right proper duel and I trounced him. He’d been at the cider all day, so it was hardly a fight. If he’s home nursing anything, it’s a pounding head and maybe a broken heart.”

“Were you after the maiden?”

“Not anymore.” Will winked enigmatically and took off toward the castle. “Come on, Lordling Beau, we’ve got little enough time to eat as it is!”

Belle chuckled and shook her head. Will was only 14 but already a danger to the heart of every girl at court. She placed her practice sword back on the rack and followed him to the Great Hall.

***

From the shade of the armory, Sir Rumplestiltskin watched the series of events play out. He was mostly concealed from this vantage point but his view of the practice field was unrestricted. His leg throbbed from standing for so long and he leaned more heavily onto his walking stick. Behind him, the smithy was stacking jerkins with silent efficiency. Rumplestiltskin had always liked this smithy. He was unusually tall but gentle in his manner and parsimonious with his language. He went only by the name Dove and never spoke of a family or hometown. What Rumplestiltskin liked most about Dove was how well he could be trusted with a secret.

He had wandered down to the smithy to make a very specific request and be on his way, but his attention had been caught by the shouting from the practice yard.

Two slender, dark-haired lads circled one another with their weighted wooden swords. Nothing unusual in that, but the smaller of the two had caught his eye. There was something about the way the wee lad moved. It had an almost feline grace to it, a most unusual quality for so young a Page. He held a sword as though it were an extension of his arm. Which was to the boy’s distinct benefit, seeing as he was a spindly thing and easily a head shorter than the smallest of his peers. Eventually the wee lad yielded, but it was a close match. The taller boy had used a trick of the light to even the score when it was clear he was close to losing. A peasant’s trick, it was called in Rumplestiltskin’s day. He ought to know; he had used enough of them.

Quite small of stature, himself, and lacking the gift of brute strength, he had needed to find ways to compensate. It was a daunting task he had set himself. Not only was he, the son of a known coward, determined to be a great knight of the realm. But indeed, he must prove himself to be none other than its most valiant champion. He spent nearly every waking moment drilling through the standard patterns. He had scoured the palace library for every possible technique and taught himself those that were not in the current fashion. He spent his youth running from the ghost a father he had barely known.

Malcolm of Terre D’arque had been born the bastard son of a Baron. His father had acknowledged him, saving him the fate of many a low born whelp. But this did not extend to an inheritance or lands. Malcolm had instead come to court, intent on marrying his way into a title. Through manipulation and blackmail, he managed to make it into a soldier battalion that fought alongside the King’s High Guard. The Earl’s daughter who married him soon discovered him for the cad he was. She begged for an annulment, but since they had, indeed, consummated the marriage, it was not granted. After she birthed Rumplestiltskin, the young woman ran from her loveless marriage, never to be heard from again. In her absence, her family renounced her. Malcolm, having lost both wife and title, took to the bottle. One day, there was a skirmish on the outskirts of town. Malcolm’s battalion was called upon to fight. In the heat of battle, Malcolm deserted them all, leaving one general mortally wounded and another to lose an arm.

Rumplestiltskin was left in the care of his aunts; the widowed sister of his father’s mother and another woman who was her life companion. They wove for the palace and taught him to use a spinning wheel and a loom. When not assisting his aunts, Rumplestiltskin explored the palace at great length. He knew where all the shadowy hidden places were and he was small enough to fit in them, in those days. But it was not enough to keep his hungry mind occupied. His aunts had taught him to read and he soon found his way into the palace library. He devoured the ancient histories and even read the entire code of chivalry cover to cover.

When he told the other servants that he was going to be a knight, they laughed at him. Many servant boys had made the attempt. There were very few who could heed such severe discipline. Some of the less open minded nobleborn pages even went out of their way to weed out peasants. The King of the Marchlands was not a generous king but he made allowances for those who wished to be bound by chivalry and honor. Anyone who could train properly and pass the tests could be taken on as a Page. If chosen to Squire, a knightship was all but guaranteed. Unfortunately for those peasants who made it past the hardship of their days as a Page, not many noble-blooded knights wanted a poor, untitled Squire. Allegiances were made in squireship, lines of blood and ties of gold.

Rumplestiltskin had ignored them all. He had grit his teeth and blocked his ears to their harsh words. He practiced every waking hour, often leaving behind his spinning with an apology to his aunts. He became a Page. He studied and trained and persevered. He began to win practice match after practice match. It won him no friends among the other Pages, but some of the knights began to take notice. When he was nearly 15, Sir Zoso had agreed to take him on as a squire. He thought, then, that his luck had changed.

“You’ve got spirit, boy. And a stubborn streak as wide and tough as the Agrabah Desert.” The aging Knight told him, pressing the scroll that named him a Squire into Rumplestiltskin’s eager hand. “But that will only get you so far. Let’s see what else you can use to your advantage…”

Rumplestiltskin shook off the reminiscence, frowning and turning away from the practice field. There were reasons Rumplestiltskin had learned to never trust a soul at court. Sir Zoso had been just another lesson learned. It meant nothing to him, now.

“Dove, I shall a return a week hence. I thank you for your time.”

Dove nodded politely, barely looking up from the fire he was now stoking.

As he made his way toward the palace, Rumplestiltskin’s foot caught on a loose cobblestone and pain lanced through his leg.

The king had sent his best medics and healers the first night Rumplestiltskin arrived. He could have told them then that there was nothing to be done. He would not die from it, but the wound would never heal properly. The Enchantress had made certain of that. It had been a long ride back to the Palace, a purloined cloak covering his ragged, blood-encrusted clothes. That stop in the village had not done him any favors. What had he been thinking, climbing down from his horse twice in one evening? As though just staying astride was not sheer enough torture.

By the time he got to the Palace stables, the entire leg had been a throbbing mass of agony. The breeches had been cut away; the wound, and then the rest of his grubby self, washed and dried. He was propped up, naked as a babe and nearly as weak, on a down mattress and silk pillows. King George had sent him food and drink. The Queen had wanted a feast to welcome home the erstwhile Champion, but Sir Rumplestitskin had adamantly refused. He wanted nothing more than to be left in peace. The valiant, determined hero who once rode from those Palace gates to lead some of the greatest battles in recent history was no more. What remained was a crumbling, broken man. Nothing more than a pathetic shell of his former self. His final quest, initially undertaken in a storm of self-righteous rage, had sapped his strength and his hope, leaving nothing in its place.

King George, ignorant of the full purpose of his 8 year expedition, had thought to bring Sir Rumplestiltskin back into the fold. They were not friends. A man does not befriend his liege, he serves him. Yet, time and propinquity had forged a grudging mutual respect between the two. King George was a hard man, one of little sympathy and fewer pleasures. But he was formidable in battle and insisted on leading his men by example. In times of peace, such as it currently was, he ruled with a heavy but just hand. Rumplestiltskin, only a few years his junior, had not always liked his king, but he would have followed him without question into any squall, proudly flying the banner of the Marchlands.

Now, a few weeks after Rumplestiltskin’s return, King George was demanding he once again show himself to the public, appear unashamed of the crippling injury.

“You will return to the ranks in whatever capacity you can. And you will be taking your meals in the Great Hall with the rest of the High Guard.” King George had ordered in the tone used to order executions. “You are a Knight of the Realm. Act like it!” He added, as he swept out of the chambers that Rumplestiltskin had been afforded upon his return.

Knight who could not fence or fight. A Knight who could barely ride. The Great Sir Rumplestiltskin was now no better than a toothless hunting dog or a lame war horse. And he knew all too well what one did with a lame horse.

He stumbled once more and bit back a cry. Slowing to a demeaning hobble, Rumplestiltskin quietly cursed the man he had, 23 years ago, pledged to serve until death.

Chapter Text

There had been much chatter among the Pages and Squires when it was revealed that Sir Rumplestiltskin was sitting with the King today for midday meal. The famed Knight sat, rather symbolically, at their Sovereign’s right hand.

"Doesn’t look like much a hero to me.” August De Legno, a second year Page, grumbled around a mouthful of mutton.

Belle’s eyes strayed to the man in question. He was distinctly less than the rumored 10 feet and slender of build. His face had a pleasant, if weathered, quality but he could never be described as handsome. His eyes were large and dark, almost unearthly in their sharp attentiveness. There was a great air of intelligence in them that Belle liked immediately and a wariness that was catching. Her eye was caught more than once by the feathery brown hair that fell around his face. It looked surprisingly clean and very soft to the touch.

Secretly, Belle decided, she rather agreed with August’s assessment. Sir Rumplestiltskin certainly looked nothing like the descriptions or pictures in her beloved books. But it was disrespectful to say it aloud and even more so with a full mouth, like an uncouth peasant.

Belle shot August a sharp look. “Chew, swallow, and then speak, August.”

The slightly younger boy rolled his eyes. “Yes, Mother.” He mimicked her reprimand in a high pitched voice and some of the other younger Pages tittered. Encouraged by the audience, August added. “Always so bloody proper-like…. By the Gods, Beau, I’d swear you’ve got teats under that vest.”

Another boy in August’s year whose name Belle did not yet know snorted. “It would explain why he’s never at the bathhouse with us.”

Belle’s stomach clenched, as it always did when the collective teasing hit too close to the truth. She schooled her face to nonchalance.

“Come on, Beau, let’s have a good look at you!” taunted Tom, a Page in her own year whom she had bested at fencing practice just the day before. He stood a head and a half above her and nearly two of her wide, but he was no match for her swiftness. Plus, he was very, very stupid. “Teats or no you’re right pretty enough to be a Maid and I’ve a sword that needs polishing.” He guffawed, grasping at his codpiece with one massive hand.

“Tom, if I wanted to squint at something tiny I’d unroll one of Master Edding’s History scrolls.” Belle retorted, her mind frantically searching for a way to change the topic. Edding’s Scrolls were notorious among the Pages for their cramped, nearly illegible writing. The boys around her laughed uproariously until a passing Master rapped on their table with his walking stick and ordered them to settle down.

Tom mumbled a rude comment under his breath and Will kicked him under the table. The boys’ attentions mostly returned to their plates after that. Belle took a deep breath to calm herself. As they grew older and she stayed so petite, there seemed to be an increasing need to defend her “manhood.” The more skill she displayed on the practice field, the more some of the boys wanted to test her in other areas.

This was not the first time her lack of attendance to the bathhouse had been mentioned. She had been very lucky to get privileges to bathe in her chamber. Leroy had managed to pull some strings with the household staff upon their arrival.

The unbidden thought of Leroy made her heart twinge. He sent her letters whenever possible. His handwriting was messy and his spelling atrocious but those lengths of parchment were among the most prized possessions in her little room. Gaston also occasionally corresponded, although his letters were less frequent and far less detailed. She wrote him tales of court life drawn from a mixture of observation and fantasy. Her letters back to Leroy were a little more accurate but heavily encoded, for safety. It would not do to have one of the other servants – or, Gods forbid, her father – find a true account of her time at court. At least not until she had won her shield.

Her stomach had turned sour and she pushed her food away half-eaten.

“Gonna finish that?” someone asked.

She shook her head and a hand whisked the plate away. There was never enough food for a Castle full of growing boys. They would devour every spare bit they could get their hands on and still ask for more. They were all growing so fast. But who would they grow up to be?  She glanced around the table at her friends and felt a special kind of heaviness in her heart. Victor and Will seemed to have made amends and had their heads together, stealing glances at the ladies in waiting. David was listening, with a solemn, thoughtful expression, to something Archie was telling him. Further on, Princess Snow was pretending not to be staring at David. Ruby was engaged in animated discussion with Ariel and Aurora seemed lost in a daydream.

The thought occurred to her very suddenly that she loved them. All of them. Fiercely and unflinchingly loved them. Losing any one of them would shake her to the core and she would happily risk life and limb to ensure their happiness. But, would they stand by her when her secret was revealed? Would any of these dear friends who had made her a part of their lives afford Sir Belle the same affection they had Page Beau? Her lower lip wobbled and she pressed her lips tightly together. Making rapid excuses, she fled from the hall as quickly as she could without looking conspicuous.

Once free of the Hall, she felt tears start to fall. Belle was not one given to such extreme displays of emotion. Living as a boy, she had learned very quickly to hide away any delicate sensitivities. What in all the names of the lesser gods, was this? A stab of pain in her lower belly distracted her from this particular thought and she ran to the privy.

Once there, she was horrified to learn that she was bleeding. It was well past time for a girl of her age to have reached the womanly cycle. Yet, despite the other changes in her body, she had forgotten all about it. And now it had taken her dreadfully by surprise. She swore with every foul word she had ever learned and invented a few as well. The misty sentimentality of a moment before shifted to pure rage. At her body, at Mother Nature, at every other Page who was currently not an unwilling slave to the lunar cycle, and most of all at the King for not allowing women to become Knights and leading her to the necessity of her disguise in the first place.

She re-laced her breeches, re-positioning the stuffed hose she always wore to simulate a boy’s anatomy. Hopefully it would soak up enough of the blood to get her back to her chambers. Before she could go far, another bolt of pain caught her off guard and she doubled over, cursing.

“Beau?” Came a gentle voice.

Belle froze. “Aurora?”

The older girl approached. “I saw you leave the hall. You looked… Are you alright?”

At that moment, Belle could have withstood just about any test of her “manhood.” She would have faced down an ogre, bare-handed, to get back to her chambers unseen. But Aurora’s gentle kindness was too, too much. She broke. The tears returned in full force and words became impossible.

With a small sound of surprise, Aurora wrapped both arms around her and guided her to a quiet alcove. They would be mostly out of sight, here. Belle could hear the bell ring for the end of her meal. The Pages would be running to Archery class, now. She needed to go, but somehow she was rooted in place, spilling hot tears down Contessa Aurora’s silk clad shoulder.

When at last she was spent, the bells had long since ceased to chime and Belle knew she would face a significant penalty from the Archery Master. Wrung out and listless, she could not yet bring herself to care. Her lower belly still squirmed with a writhing, piercing pain that felt like an animal trying to claw its way out. She had enough awareness not to swear in front of the Contessa, but it was mightily tempting as she clutched at the offending body part.

“Do you want to tell me what’s wrong, Beau? Would you like me to get a Medic?”

“No!” Belle replied forcefully, her eyes wide.

Aurora looked taken aback. “Beau… I want to help you but I don’t… Please tell me what you need?”

Belle’s face crumpled but she had cried herself dry. “I need to go somewhere very private. And I need some spare rags. I… I can’t tell you, Aurora… I’m sorry.”

The girl nodded solemnly. “Alright. Follow me.” They took a handful of turns down corridors that Belle did not recognize. It was a vast castle, after all. Stopping at last and glancing side to side to make sure they were alone, Aurora turned something behind a tapestry and pushed. A door appeared in the wall and they stepped into the room behind it. It was small and dimly lit, but there were slats in the stone indicating it had been used by archers at some point. Belle wondered idly why it had been sealed off and hidden away.

“Alright, Beau. You’re safe here. I’ll go fetch what you need. Just stay here.” Aurora indicated a shallow mattress on the floor. “You can lay down if you think it will help.”

Once Aurora left, Belle took to the mattress and curled up on her side. It was dusty and lumpy, smelling somewhat of rat droppings. But she felt immensely better after tucking her knees in toward her chest. She began to doze.

***

Sometime later, Aurora returned with some spare rags, a skin of water, and a small flask of mead. She was old enough now that the Dowaynes did not keep nearly as sharp an eye on her as they once might have. Even as a child, Aurora was known as the responsible one, of her peers. She was delicate and kind and never raised her voice or stomped her foot. As she grew older, she had learned the value of a good reputation. It was remarkable the things that went unnoticed when no one was looking for them.

She popped back into the hidden chamber, wrinkling her nose at the smell. It was not her favorite of their meeting places but it had been the closest at the time and Beau looked to be suffering mightily. Since the day she had taken a chance and handed Beau that note describing the tome of the Dark One, she had felt a certain protective fondness for the little lad. He had been so remarkably grateful and never told a soul where he had learned the information. Bringing him to the East chamber seemed safe enough. He didn’t need to know there were others.

The boy was sleeping when she returned. Poor worn out thing. Perhaps she would let him sleep and come back later. She stretched one of the rags out, intending to drape it over him as a blanket. When she stepped closer, she saw there was a small puddle of blood on the mattress. Aurora gasped.

Belle’s eyes flew open at the sound. Aurora had returned and was staring at her, one delicate hand covering her mouth. Belle scrambled to sit up but she realized the damage had been done.

“Oh Gods…” Belle breathed, her heart racing. “Please Aurora, Please, M’lady Contessa… Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Are you…?” Aurora blinked wide eyes at her.

Belle nodded. “My name is Belle. Of Avonlea.” She hung her head. “I just… wanted to be a knight.”

The laughter bubbled up inside Aurora and poured forth from her lips before she could stop it. Beau’s expression changed from horror to mild concern to a tremulous smile before Aurora could contain herself.

“Oh, you dear darling thing.” Aurora managed at last, perching gingerly on the edge of the mattress. She was happy to help, but it would never do to get blood on her gown. “I was going to ask if you were very ill, but this makes much more sense.”

“Oh.” Belle looked down, sheepishly, ashamed of her impulsive confession. Still, it had felt nice to say her real name aloud once more. It had been nearly 4 years since anyone had spoken it to her, she realized. “So… you never knew? You didn’t suspect?”

Aurora’s eyes shifted upward and to the side. “Mmm… I won’t say I didn’t suspect… but I wouldn’t have pried.” She offered Belle the waterskin.

Belle took it and drank greedily. The little chamber was very dusty and her throat felt dry.

“You know they do have female warriors on the Jade Isle.” Aurora offered, after a moment.

Belle nodded, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Yes. But I’ve never even been on a boat. How would I have gotten there?”

Aurora nodded sympathetically. “I know what you mean. Still… I shall introduce you to the Jade Isle Delegate’s daughter when they return for the season.”

Belle clutched at Aurora’s arm. “You cannot tell another living soul! Please!”

“I won’t tell her.” Aurora reassured her. “Although I do consider her impeccably trustworthy, yours is not my secret to tell. I just thought you might like to meet her. Their fighting style is very different from ours and well suited to a… person of your stature.”

For the first time in hours, Belle felt like smiling. Then another wallop of pain coursed through her and she grunted, her hands flying to her low belly.

“Poor, poor dear…” Aurora crooned. “Most women do have pain with their monthlies but this one seems to have hit you particularly badly…”

“It’s my first one.” Belle grit out.

“Oh! Oh my! Oh, darling little Belle… How old are you now? 13?”

Belle nodded. “Almost 14.”

“And very nearly ready to be a squire, am I right?”

Belle nodded again.

“Well it won’t do for you to suffer any more than you have to, already… I shall teach you how to brew wild yam tea. You can do so by the fire in your room, so no one will see you. And I can always get extra from the kitchens. They keep it well stocked with so many young women in the Palace.” Aurora rose. “I’ll go get you some, now.” She pursed her lips. “And a change of trousers. Then you can return to your rooms in safety.”

Belle’s eyes shone with gratitude. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

“Because I know you have a good heart and that you wouldn’t hesitate to do the same.”

“But… you could get in a great deal of trouble if you were discovered to be helping me… I don’t wish to put you at risk…” Belle sighed.

Aurora chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Well… we all of us have our secrets, Bea – Belle.” For just a moment, her eyes got that very far away look that Belle had seen on her at table. She shook it off and caught Belle’s gaze, her face earnest. “You can trust me. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

“You’re very brave, Contessa.”

Aurora grinned, looking back over one shoulder. “Brave… Fancy that. And I can’t even wield a sword.” With a wink, she slipped through the hidden door.

Chapter Text

With a muttered swear, the dark haired woman shoved the spellbook away. Useless. It was all completely useless. She had gone through quite a reserve of stolen magic to acquire the damn thing and where had it gotten her? She cursed again. She needed to kill something. Or at least maim.

She mentally ticked through a list of her most incompetent servants. Someone easily forgotten, with no family to mourn them. She had narrowed it down to a boy who worked in the kitchen and never remembered when she asked for salt or a scullery maid who tracked ashes on the carpet every time she cleaned. There was a knock at the door.

 “Who is it?” She snapped.

“Sir Keith, M’Lady.”

She sighed. Well, it could have been worse. Lately the Queen had been sending emissaries to invite her to various courtly events, usually attended by one of her stature. It was all for show, of course. There was no love lost between herself and the Queen. In fact, she loathed the woman. Mostly, she resented the fact that Queen Annalise had usurped her rightful place.

At 15, she had been deemed the prettiest girl at court, envy of all other maidens and fantasy of many a daring noble. She had set her sights on King George, but a political allegiance soon stole her opportunity. So, she began to search for other ways to gain the power she sought. King George sat on the highest, most powerful throne in the Marchlands. And yet he had taken that pathetic woman to wife. What a waste.

A Knight of the realm took interest in her, saw something no one had ever seen. A flicker of magic that beat beneath her breast. He told her he was a collector of forbidden artifacts. The Magic within her was, by far, the most forbidden thing in all the kingdom. His pretty words had turned her head but it was the introduction to her first spell book that landed her in his bed.

Together, they sought out others like her. It was no easy task. The Knight, himself, had no natural magic and relied heavily on tokens and tricks. What little spark she did have was barely enough to light a candle before she was drained and needed rest. Practice with the spells wore her out and she quickly grew tired of his groping hands. Her knight soon acquired a squire, insisting that she meet him. The squire was a foolhardy boy but quick and clever, with eyes that felt as though they saw to her very core. She was shaken by his indifference to her lovely face and figure. Her looks had never failed to bring a man to his knees, before.

Her Knight was not a jealous man, but neither was he patient.

“Don’t you see why I took him on? Why I brought him to you?” He had thundered at her.

“No… He is very good. Probably one of the best with a sword that I have ever seen. But Rumplestiltskin does not have the bearing of a knight. He is poor and spindly. With the manners of a peasant.” She spat. After all, no man of breeding would dare reject her.

Her knight came very close, his large hands wrapping around her waist. She felt an echo of that old familiar thrill as he leaned close. “He has magic.” Her knight breathed in her ear.

“How much magic?” She asked, eyes widening as she began to picture the puny squire in new light.

“More than you.” Sir Zoso snorted, amused at her instant reaction. Scowled at him. He continued. “More than I have ever seen.”

“Is it enough?” She asked, excitement thrumming in her veins.

“That… only time and your…remarkable talents can tell us, my Lady…. My little queen.”

She had smiled at his pet name for her and allowed him to tumble her once more, that night. It was a small gift that she was willing to give him in return for having brought her such a prize.

But that prize had slipped through her fingers and her life had taken a very different path than she had ever anticipated.

Another knock at the door, more insistent this time, shook her from her memories.

Smoothing a hand over her hair, artfully arranged around a ruby comb, she answered. “Yes, yes. Alright, come in.”

Sir Keith was a handsome man but selfish and cruel. Everything that Sir Keith was inside, he wore on his sleeve, plainly and with an almost ironic pride. She liked that about him. He attended her because she was the widow of his liege and because she paid him well for it. He had gone to her bed eagerly and was not a gentle lover. There were no tender embraces, no longing glances between them.

One day, he might discover too much of her inner world and she might have to dispose of him. Until then, he served her well enough.

He gave a perfunctory bow and crossed to the table where she sat. “Your majesty, you asked me to report any news of Sir Rumplestiltskin.”

“I did. What of him?”

“He was at table today for the midday meal. He sat with the King and the King’s High Guard.” He looked straight ahead as he spoke, his posture that of any other Knight in the presence of his superior. Ah yes, another thing she liked about him. His attention to protocol.

“How did he look?” She asked, her voice purposely neutral.

A curious look crossed his face but he blinked it away. “He… walked with some difficulty, holding onto a walking stick. He looked… as though he had been recently ill.”

Good. Then the dragon woman had done her job. She would need to send word of thanks. Perhaps she could be kind and assure the woman that her daughter was still safe. Mother to mother, it was the least she could do.

“Is that all, Sir Keith?”

“Yes, Majesty.” Another stilted bow.

“Alright. You will be rewarded for your service, as always.” She dismissed him and then thought the better of it. “Oh and Sir Keith?”

He stopped, halfway to the door. “My Lady?”

“Come back tonight after sunset.” She felt oddly giddy, almost girlishly so. She supposed the wounding of Sir Rumplestiltskin gave her reason enough to celebrate. It gave her such glee when things went to plan. She batted her lashes, coquettishly. “Bring two wineskins with you.”

Keith grinned. “As you command, Queen Cora.”

***

As expected, Belle’s archery Master had assigned her several hours of penalty work. Long after the other Pages had left the field, Belle was still whittling and fletching arrows. The belle chimed to signal the end of evening meal before she had filled even half a quiver. She was assigned two to fill by their next lesson and she could not afford to skip any other classes to do so. The servants had lit candles for her and gone quickly back inside. The weather had turned colder, of late, the wind just beginning to nip. At least the work kept her hands busy enough to ward off the chill.

She was inspecting the heft of her latest work when a small sound attracted her attention. There was a figure in a cloak coming across the field with a candle and basket. The wind shifted, blowing off the hood and Belle saw thick auburn hair.

 “M’lady Ariel!” She hailed once the princess was close enough to hear. “What brings you out here at such an hour?”

Ariel’s face lit up at the greeting and she held the basket aloft. “I thought our favorite kitten-rescuing hero might need sustenance.”

Sir Fluffington was no longer a kitten, of course. He had grown to be quite large and fat, pampered by all of Snow’s friends. Belle smiled. “I am humbled by your generosity, your highness.”

Ariel slid onto the bench beside her and placed both her basket and her candle onto the table. “May I join you?”

Belle laughed. “It seems you already have.” She teased.

Never one to stand on propriety, Ariel merely shrugged and began unpacking the basket. There was half a loaf of buttered bread, two or three varieties of salted meats, a large block of cheese, four boiled eggs, a tomato, and more grapes than either of them could possibly have consumed in a sitting.

Belle’s eyes widened. “You have brought me a veritable feast, my lady.”

Ariel bit her bottom lip. “Well, they wouldn’t give me any of the cooked food but when I told them it was for you they loaded the basket for me. They said you need to put some meat on your bones. They said that growing boys always eat as though they feared a famine but that you almost never clean your plate.” She looked concerned. “But please don’t be upset with them. I told them that you eat exactly as much as you want to and that they shouldn’t be so quick to judge.” Her gaze dropped to her lap and she arranged her skirts under the cloak. “Besides, anyone who has seen you on the practice field knows what an advantage you have by being so slight.”

Belle was accustomed to Princess Ariel rambling on at great length about whatever was on her mind. It had taken her some time to warm up to Belle and the other boys but with those she liked well enough, she was quite the chatterbox. Belle smiled fondly at the russet haired girl. “Well, thank you for both the food and for defending my honor, then.” Pushing her woodwork to the side, she dug in.

Ariel nodded, her shoulders relaxing as she looked around curiously. “David said that you got assigned to make arrows because you missed class yesterday. After you’ve eaten, would you show me how to make arrows? I’ve only seen them shot, not made. And only at straw targets, not real people. Not that I want to see anyone shot by an arrow. That would be awful.” She looked thoughtful. “Although, I suppose you will see such things when you are a knight. You must be very brave to be able to face that. Does it ever frighten you?”

There was a strange energy about her friend, tonight. Ariel did always like to talk but she seemed less focused, more tangential than usual. Belle chewed the hard bread thoroughly before answering. “I don’t really think about that, as much. It would be awful to see someone be shot by an arrow, but that is something I suppose every soldier and every knight must face eventually.” She frowned. “We can’t stop all the world from being violent, Ariel. All we can hope to do is defend those we love.  I like to think about all of the people I can help.”

“The damsels you can save?” Ariel prompted, her eyes wide and bright in the lambent candlelight.

“Um, yes. That too. Although, if it were up to me, Damsels would all learn how to save themselves. The princesses in Fairy stories never seem very able to defend themselves. It never made any sense to me. If you have nothing to do all day in your dragon guarded tower, wouldn’t you plan an escape?” Belle popped a grape in her mouth, savoring its burst of sweetness.

“Is that why you’re teaching Snow and Ruby to swordfight?”

Belle nearly choked on the grape. Ariel patted her on the back as she coughed and offered a waterskin. Belle took a long pull. “Do you girls tell each other everything?” She managed at last.

Ariel nodded, her face earnest. “They invited me to join but I just didn’t think I’d be any good at it. Our dancing Master says I’ve two left feet and they were put on backwards.” She sighed. “Really, people were not built to wear the ridiculous shoes they make us dance in. I do much better without them.”

“You could practice swordfighting with us barefoot, if you like…” Belle shrugged, polishing off the first piece of salted meat.

“Oh, I don’t know. If I tried I’d probably just fall down a hill and made a fool of myself. And I’d simply hate it if you thought me foolish. You don’t do you? I know I can be very silly. Aurora told me yesterday that I am one of the silliest girls she has ever met, but I think she’s just too serious. She never looks like she’s having any fun.” Ariel twisted a lock of hair between two fingers, stealing sidelong glances at Belle as she spoke.

At the mention of Aurora, Belle’s ears perked. “I think Contessa Aurora’s kind of fun is just different than yours, is all.” She suggested, diplomatically. “She is older than the lot of us by at least a year or two. I’ve heard that, once they reach a certain age, girls tend to leave behind some of their more childish fancies. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Ariel said nothing and Belle glanced over to ensure she had not said something untoward. The red-haired girl looked crestfallen. She opened her mouth and closed it again twice before finally speaking. “So… you think me childish, Beau?”

Belle turned in her seat to face the Princess. “What? No… I was just… I think that you’re… We’re the same age. It would be very silly –“

“So you do think me silly.” Ariel accused, two points of color appearing high on her pale cheeks.

“Well, only if you act silly.” Belle retorted, riled by the unexpected shift in Ariel’s mood and the unfounded allegation.

Ariel huffed, rising from her seat and taking up her candle. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your punishment work with my childish fancies.” She swiped up the basket in her other hand and fumbled to wrap her cloak tighter against the chill night air. Belle resisted the urge to offer her a hand. “Perhaps next time Contessa Aurora can bring you dinner when you’ve gone and missed it. Good night, Lord Beau.” She turned on one heel and stormed back to the palace.

Belle sat stunned in the aftermath of her dramatic exit. “What did I do?” She queried aloud.

Only the crickets answered.

Chapter Text

As Summer faded, Fall burst forth with a glory of burnished leaves streaking the sky as they fell. Sir Rumplestiltskin kept mostly to himself through the change of season. As the kingdom lived in times of peace (and had for most of King George’s iron fisted reign) Knighthood was not a particularly challenging role. There had been a hunt to celebrate the harvest, which Rumplestiltskin had politely declined. Hunting was a younger man’s sport. One who could still sit his horse without excruciating pain.

Walking, at least, was getting easier. The walking stick he had commissioned from Dove suited his needs perfectly and allowed him some peace of mind. He began taking turns around the palace gardens and orchards. If he went early in the morning, they were almost always deserted. He might exchange a word or two with the groundskeepers or a yawning stable lad. Otherwise, he was left to his solitude.

One morning, he left a little later than usual, just as the sun was beginning to glint over the shorter of the three tall hills. He rounded the path by the old elm tree when he heard what sounded like a scuffle. Hand poised by his sword, he hobbled closer. He blinked his eyes in disbelief at the sight that greeted him.

Princess Snow White and another young lady, clad in ill-fitting breeches and tunics, were fencing with practice swords. Rather well, actually. There was a stiffness to their movements but they seemed to be aware of the correct stances and carried through the patterns with practiced ease. The taller girl stumbled slightly and dropped her guard. Rather than press the advantage, Princess Snow White lowered her sword and offered her friend a hand.

“Snow… we’ve talked about this.” Came a third voice, closer to the elm. “Even if you want to help, you can’t let your guard down like that. It could be a trick.”

“But it wasn’t a trick. She tripped. I saw her.” Snow replied, gesturing with her sword. The other girl nodded in agreement.

The unseen voice made a sound of frustration. “Ok, do you want to go through it one more time, or shall we call it a day?”

Shifting his stance, Rumplestiltskin could see past the elm to take in the person who seemed to be in charge of this little display. At first, he thought it was another of the ladies, also wearing breeches and a tunic. Then he remembered where he had seen that lithe form before. The boy at the practice field. The one who had reminded him of himself.

This close, there was far less resemblance, outside of the fact they both obviously fell below average height.

Suddenly, the princess clutched her tall friend’s arm, staring wide-eyed in his direction.  The boy turned to look. Very sloppy, he thought to himself. In his youth, he had been far better at blending in to his surroundings. Ah well. There was no use in hiding from children.

“Your friend here is right, Princess.” He offered as he approached. “You never let your guard down. Even if it is to help a friend.”

The Page gave a bow. “I thank you, Sir.” At his full height, he barely reached Rumplestiltskin’s shoulder.

Rumplestiltskin inclined his head. “What’s your name, Page?”

The boy studied him with wide blue eyes, fringed in long dark lashes. “It’s Beau, Sir.”

Rumplestiltskin found himself taken aback for just a moment. He had been a fool indeed to think they looked anything alike at all. Those sapphire eyes and the fullness of his cheek made Beau rather impossibly pretty for a boy. He would grow to a very handsome man. It was no wonder he already found himself in the company of two most eligible young ladies.

“Have you been teaching these ladies to fence?” Rumplestiltskin asked pointedly. The scene seemed innocent enough, but he remembered all too well how these things went at such a tender age. He had been 14 when he first met Cora. She was slightly older, slightly more experienced than he but oh, he had been eager to learn…

No! That did not bear thinking about, now.

Beau swallowed nervously and then nodded. “Aye, sir. I have.”

“Whose idea was that?” He kept his tone neutral and just a little stern.

The three children exchanged glances and Rumplestiltskin watched as the boy gave a small shake of his head before turning back to face Rumplestiltskin. He thrust his shoulders back and assumed a soldier’s resting stance.

“It was mine, Sir.” With deep concern in his eyes and he added, imploringly. “Please, Sir, the Princess and Lady Ruby are blameless. It was merely a game we were playing.”

Rumplestiltskin raised an eyebrow, inwardly amused at Beau’s earnest defense of his lady-friends’ honor. “Aren’t you a little old to be playing with girls?”

Anger flashed across the boy’s face before he managed to compose himself. “They are my friends, Sir.” There was an unexpected edge to his voice. So, there was steel behind his girlish face and pretty manners.

“Oh really?” He swept his gaze over Snow White and the so-named Lady Ruby. “Your friends and not your sweethearts?”

Snow White wrinkled her nose at this and Lady Ruby openly blanched. The Princess stepped forward at last. “Sir, Lord Beau has been a perfect gentleman. We asked him to teach us and he has been very accommodating.” She glanced forlornly at Beau. “If you wish to expose our behavior to the Dowayne, I understand. But Lord Beau has done nothing wrong.”

“Snow!” Beau whispered fiercely. “Sir Rumplestiltskin, Princess Snow has a soft heart, but it was I who led them astray. If anyone is to be reprimanded. I am deserving.”

Rumplestiltskin rolled his eyes. Two children playing at chivalry. Was there nothing more tedious than such steadfast sincerity?

Snow White gave Beau a petulant look and opened her mouth, ostensibly to argue that she was, in fact, more to blame.

 Rumplestiltskin barked “Enough!” He swore under his breath, shaking his head. “Enough, children. I’ve no interest in in who led whom to commit the egregious sin of learning something new.” He pointed at the still silent Lady Ruby. “You. Your form is off. That’s why you stumbled. You have to stay on your toes, one leg toward the front and the other bracing you from behind. Show me your stance.”

Lady Ruby looked hesitatingly toward Beau. The page blinked incredulously at Rumplestiltskin before nodding to the tall girl. Ruby did as she was bid.

“Ah, see. There’s your problem. You’ve been aligning your feet with Beau, here. But you’ve got easily a head and shoulders on him. Longer legs. You need a wider stance to keep your balance.” He looked at Beau. “Hadn’t you noticed how over balanced the poor girl has been?”

Beau colored slightly and shook his head.

He even blushes prettily. Rumplestiltskin mused. A regular heartbreaker, this one would be. If he didn’t get his own fool heart broken, first. With such trusting eyes and unaffected nature, the latter was far more likely.

The morning bells chimed and Rumplestiltskin sniffed. “Ladies, you should return to your chambers before your Dowayne sees you’ve gone missing. Lad, walk with me.”

The children nodded their goodbyes and the girls took off at a run. Beau walked quickly to where Rumplestiltskin stood. He started back down the path to the practice field, the boy taking measured steps to keep pace with him.

“Lord Beau… while I admire the originality of your little endeavor, I have to wonder what the three of you hope to accomplish.”

The little lad blinked at him as though that particular thought had never crossed his mind. “What else is there to accomplish? Their fate is proscribed by their stations and they have shown no will to alter that.”

The boy was surprisingly well spoken for one so young. All of the Pages were offered a prize education at the Palace, it was a pleasure to discover one who had not taken such an opportunity for granted.

“Some might see these lessons of yours as subversive to the natural order, Lord Beau.”

Beau’s brow creased. “That is… not the intention. The Princess and Ru- Lady Ruby do not intend to enter the trials for squireship. They will grow up in silk gowns, sew trousseaus, be wed for political gain if not love, and bear children. They are dedicated to their courtly lives – far more so than to a bit of swordplay. Why deny them the right to learn something else while they are still at liberty to do so?”

“Because they are maidens,” Rumplestiltskin pointed out mildly. “We swear an oath to serve and protect their virtue; it is our duty and our honor to do so.”

“Is it so immoral for a maid to protect her own virtue? Why are only men worthy of honor and glory?” The lad was growing impassioned. “In the Jade Isles, the women train and fight alongside men. Have they less honor than we? Is a Maid’s virtue so burdensome that it impairs her from – ” Beau seemed to stop himself, his apple cheeks once more flushing pink. He stared down at his feet. “Please forgive me, Sir Rumplestiltskin. I fear my mouth has run away with me.”

“Indeed it has,” Rumplestiltskin agreed, hiding his growing respect in gruff tones. “Do you often speak so to your elders?”

“My elders rarely give me such an opportunity to speak, Sir” Beau admitted.

They lapsed into silence, accompanied only by the shuffling of their feet and the heavy thuds of Rumplestiltskin’s walking stick.

This Beau was a unique lad, eloquent and easily moved. Something about him provoked a protective spark within Rumplestiltskin that he had not felt in years. He only vaguely remembered what it was to truly, ardently care about a cause or an ideal, let alone a person. So many of the things he loved had been taken from him. Caring had become a liability, long ago.

Still putting the pieces of his heart back in place once Cora rent it asunder, he had met a lady-in-waiting named Milah. He was 17 and Milah just scarcely of the same age. They tumbled all too quickly into his bed. When he discovered that she was with child, he made an honest woman of her without a second thought. When she gave him a son, Baelfire, he thought to find the happy home that was achingly absent from his childhood. He knew from the moment he held his boy that all that mattered was making his family proud. He swore to bring them every advantage he had never known. Milah could be the wife of a hero. Baelfire could never look at his father and say the word “coward.”

He fought and planned many a battle in times of war. In times of peace, he rescued damsels and returned them home safely (and untouched), collecting gold and glory along the way. By his 25th year, he had made such a name for himself; the bards sang a ballad in his honor at the King’s Feast. Bae was tutored in every field, particularly fencing and riding, by the best teachers Rumplestiltskin’s steadily amassing fortune could buy. Milah wore silks and ornate lace and took her tea with the Queen’s Ladies.

By all appearances it was exactly the life he had always wanted. But beneath the surface, it was nothing but a farce. Milah had left his bed years ago; they barely spoke a civil word to one another. She lived as a resentful ghost in his house. The chubby toddler who once wrapped both arms around Rumplestiltskin’s legs upon each triumphant return grew to be a silent, sullen-faced boy. Bae’s greetings grew shorter and less enthusiastic with each return.

At least Milah’s bitterness he could account for, and he marveled still at how she could twist her own perfidy to put him at fault. He wished upon every star in the heavens he had never told her of the magic in his line. After Cora, he had wanted so badly to believe there was a woman he could trust. But it was an idle hope and so easily dashed. In the early days of their marriage, when she still cared for him, she had begged him to use his magic in battle. He refused repeatedly. His King and the laws of his country forbade the use of magic. It was bad enough that he had born so cursed, to put the power to use would mean nothing less than his head. Milah never understood. She feared he would leave her widowed and helpless. Rumplestiltskin knew better.

He could have forgiven her that ongoing row, for it was done out of at least some concern for his well-being. It was shortly after Bae’s birth that Milah crossed the line from which there was no return. She expressly betrayed his wishes (and the laws he had sworn to obey and defend) by taking their son to a hedgewitch camped just outside of town. The test for magic had been only half finished when the witch’s camp was raided by royal soldiers. Milah and Bae were taken into custody but recognized by the captain of the guard. Rumplestiltskin had mangaged to keep the mishap from reaching the ears of King George, but only by applying the force of both his reputation and his purse.

Gods help him, he did always have a penchant for strong willed women, but he was so much more the fool for having married one. More than just a quarrel after the hedgewitch visit, the issue of magic drove a wedge into his marriage, creating an impassable chasm.

The call for his aid continued to come from near and far and he ran from his rancorous wife into the waiting arms of any bloody battlefield that would have him. Every quest he was offered, he accepted – no matter the risk. More gold, more glory. He hoarded both and hankered still. By the time he realized he was losing the only thing more precious, it was too late to turn back from the path he had set.

Returning his thoughts to the present day, Rumplestiltskin found himself just outside the gate to the practice field. Page Beau was waiting patiently to be dismissed, his azure eyes darting between Rumplestiltskin and the other Pages who were taking up their weighted wooden swords. For one misty, golden moment he thought he could see Bae lining up with the other boys. He closed his eyes to clear away the painful vision.

“Sir? Are you… ?” There was nothing but tender concern in the young man’s voice and it only made the hurt that much worse.

“Fine.” He rasped, swallowing the unexpected wave of sentiment. “Just fine, boy. Only living too much in the past. You’d best get to class. I’ll not speak of what I saw today. Only…”

“Sir?”

He sighed heavily. “Only take care, lad. Not all of those we see as worthy can be trusted.”

“How do I know I can trust you, then, Sir?” Beau asked, his eyes dancing in the morning light.

“Don’t be pert.” He admonished lightly, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Go practice. You have excellent technique but your guard needs work. Watch out for tricks.”

Beau blinked at him curiously but gave a short bow. “Thank you, Sir.”

And he was gone.

Rumplestiltskin did not stay to watch the practice. He had had more than enough human interaction for one day. 

Chapter Text

Will Scarlett watched his friend approach the practice field at the side of Sir Rumplestiltskin. Despite the ringing bell, Beau was keeping in step with the hobbled older man as they took the wending path to the field. He smiled to himself. Even if the man had not been a Knight or a former legend, Beau would have taken the time to walk apace with him, never embarrassing his pride by nipping ahead. There was such a depth of kindness in that lad. It would likely be the death of him.

Soft hearted knights weren’t the ones who got ballads written about them. Beau could ask his new friend Sir Rumplestiltskin about that. It wasn’t for Will to say. What did he know of heroic ballads, anyway? He’d grown up sneaking into taverns and learning much bawdier fare. His mother had been a peasant and he still had family in the City. It was mighty odd at times, straddling two worlds as he did.

It was a puzzle to him, seeing the man whose fearsome reputation had, for so long, preceded him, appear so very… human. Sir Rumplestiltskin took midday and evening meals at the King’s table, but aside from those glimpses, the residents of the palace rarely saw him in person. It was rumored that he had become a recluse, ashamed that he could no longer complete quests or joust for the honor of his King. It was also rumored that the King had forbade Sir Rumplestiltskin from leaving his chambers save for meals. Will knew better than to give more weight to idle gossip than it was worth. While King George was known for being headstrong and proud, he did not have a reputation for intentional cruelty. Besides, if the histories were true, Sir Rumplestiltskin had always been a bit of a lone wolf.

Will could respect that in a man. Though, given his druthers, it wasn’t the path he’d choose. Someone’s got to watch your back in this world, he reasoned. Rather the brothers you choose than let the fickle hand of fate decide.

He gave a good swing with the sword he’d chosen for the day. This one would do alright. The boys who got up earlier always nabbed the better ones, with polished handles and all. The wood was generally smooth enough, worn through years of use, but every now and then you got a splinter. Beau had been kind enough to remove the last one for him. So, he supposed that sort of soft hearted nonsense had its uses. Beau was the sort with his heart in the right place. Will only hoped that wouldn’t make it easier for an enemy to run it through, someday.

“Good thing you got here before Master Syrio.” He called as Beau made his way across the field. “Or didn’t one bout of penalty work teach you your lesson?”

“You’re one to talk!” Beau retorted. “How many arrows have you fletched by now, Messir Mouthpiece?”

“Oi! That’s to be Sir Mouthpiece, you swotty Lordling.” Will loved teasing his noble friends. When you were face to face with a weapon in your hand, titles and land meant exactly fuck all. He’d never have gone to the Page trials at all if it didn’t help to even the score just a little bit.

“Yeah, providing anyone wants a squire who smells of dung and never shuts up.” Victor chimed in.

“I bathed just last week.” Will sniffed himself. “Smell like roses, I do.”

Beau chortled. “Yeah, like well fertilized roses.”  

“Oh, come now. Will only smells of shit because he’s so full of it,” Victor added.

He wheeled to face his friend (and sometimes rival).“Rich words coming from the ‘master seducer,’ here, spinner of tall tales and all. Ever actually got your knob touched by any hand but your own, Vic?”

Vic made a haughty noise, looking disdainfully down his nose at Will. “A gentleman never tells.”

They were chums and all, but sometimes Victor could really use bit of knocking about.

“Good thing we don’t know none of those, then.” Will stepped closer, grip tightening on his sword.

“Any.” Beau’s high voice broke through the gathering tension.

“What?” Will relaxed, shifting to glance back at Beau.

“We don’t know any of those.” Beau repeated.

“Beau, you’re doing that thing no one likes, again.” He kindly reminded the wee lad.

Beau gave a sheepish smile. “Right. Sorry. I’m trying to stop. Really I am…”

All further conversation was cut off as Master Syrio announced his arrival and began pairing them up. Will fought hard, that day. He was riled up from Victor’s prodding. He knew he shouldn’t let it get to him. Victor was his friend, of course, and good for a laugh or a story. They were competitive, in the way that most boys their age could be, but right mates when the mead was flowing and the girls were pretty.

Today, Will was faced with the brainless behemoth, Tom. He won, but just barely.

When he looked up, wiping the sweat from his brow, a small crowd of Knights and nobles were watching. He gave them a sweeping bow and returned his wooden sword to the row.

“What’s with the spectators? No good theatre troupes in town, eh?”

Prince David chuckled. “They always start to gather before the Trials for squireship begin, remember? Some of them want to get their bids in early. Happens every year.”

“If I were a betting man…” Archie began thoughtfully.

Will gave a snort. “You’re not.”

Archie could swing a sword harder than you’d think to look at him but he’d never stoop to a lowly peasant sport like gambling. Not because he felt it was beneath him, but because he was far too fastidious.

“But if I were,” the ginger-haired boy continued, “I would certainly want to know who the biggest contenders were for an event like the Trials.”

“So, you think they’re placing bets on us?” Will rejoined. It made sense. Nobles were easily bored, what with their bloody easy living and endless amounts of coin. Not that he was bitter.

“Who’s placing bets on us?” Beau trotted over, breathless from his morning exertions. Now there was a noble who knew the value of hard work. Another thing Will liked about his blue-eyed friend.

David looked perplexed. “My father does not approve of gambling. I don’t think he’d allow –“

The laughter that erupted from the gathered boys drowned out the end of David’s sentence. David crossed his arms, looking stern, which only made them laugh harder.

Will wiped away tears of mirth. The Prince was a good man, far more likable than he ought to be. But he was still heir to the throne and sometimes forgot what it was like to be anything else.

“Mate, your dad only makes the laws. He can’t be everywhere to enforce them. If the Knights and soldiers want to gamble… well, I’m not above getting a piece of that action, myself.”

“Betting on yourself? Risky proposition, Will-of-little-skill,” teased Victor.

“Ha! I’ll be a richer man than if I bet on you, Vic-with-a-little- “

“Okay, okay boys. How about, at least until we earn our shields, we actually follow the laws we are training to uphold? If any of the Masters hear talk like that, they might take you for serious and withdraw you from the Trials completely,” Beau interrupted, Archie nodding earnestly at his side and David looking relieved that someone besides himself had intervened.

Will glanced cautiously at where Master Syrio stood, out of earshot, and shrugged. “Yeah, alright.”

The boy had a point. Will was all for trouble-making but not if it meant he wouldn’t get the chance to compete with the other lads.

“Besides,” David added, with a grin, “there are plenty of other entertainments to enjoy once the Trials have started. There will be at least four or five of us with bids from a dozen knights. It’s like a courtship. Unless father appoints one for you, you can ask for all sorts of favors until you pick the Knight you like best.”

“Well, if one of us is so lucky, we should make a pact to share the wealth.” Victor said, looking pointedly at David. Everyone knew “Prince Charming” would be the clear favorite.

Oblivious, David nodded eagerly along with the rest of them.

***

Banners were flying high and spirits higher as the Trials began. Nobles and lesser kings rode in from all around the countryside. There was a feast in the Great Hall followed by games and musical entertainment in the King’s Hall. Tomorrow there would be a joust and the following day, the Trials would officially begin. King George had requested Sir Rumplestiltskin’s attendance – which is to say made a royal command that he suffer through at least the first couple days of the celebration.

It was unseemly, the King said, to have the greatest name in living history in his Palace but not at his table. It would look like a slight. Had Rumplestiltskin any fortune left, he’d have left that palace that day. But he had sold his estate years ago and funding his 8 year quest had drained his accounts. So it was he found himself limping into the Great Hall alongside the King’s High Guard.

The pity in the eyes of the women set his teeth on edge, but it was nothing compared to the thinly veiled smugness of their escorts. There was many a knight he had unhorsed in this crowd. They were all too gleeful that he would be watching the tourney from the rafters rather than atop his mount. Self-loathing burned so deep in his belly, he could not taste a thing, at table.

The joust was more of the same. Most of the King’s and Queen’s High Guard were participating in the entertainment, so he was seated apart from the Royal party. He could not have said if it was better or worse to be seated among the remaining nobility. That is, until Sir Keith slid into the seat beside his. He was only vaguely aware of the man, known among his peers as a rogue and a whoremonger. Whether this reputation was earned, Rumplestiltskin did not know or care. What made him so uniquely unpleasant, besides the waves of ale wafting from him, was the fact that he took the seat without asking. Following this offense, he immediately tried to engage Rumplestiltskin in conversation.

“We’ve yet to hear from you, Sir Rumplestiltskin, on the Trials. Have you picked a favorite among the Pages? A Dark Horse, perhaps? Hmm?”

Rumplestiltskin’s nostrils flared, wishing he could openly recoil from the heavy smell of drink. “I’ve no bid to place, Sir. You are wasting your time.”

Keith nodded. “Oh yeah, I know you’re not placing a bid. You’ve never taken a squire and I doubt you’d want one now, eh?”

“And why would you say that, Sir?” Rumplestiltskin’s tone turned icy and he fixed the man with a glare.

Keith leaned away, eyes growing wide. “No reason, Sir. I just thought… my mistake.”

The man fell blessedly quiet for a moment. Rumplestiltskin had all but forgotten his presence until he gave a low whistle.

“Fine lot of Pages, we’ve got this year, eh?” Keith said, seemingly to no one in particular.

A quick glance in his peripheral revealed that another man had taken the seat beside Sir Keith. The man nodded quickly.

“Aye, Sir. A Fine lot. Prince David is sure to be the front runner for bidding, of course. But Victor Von Franken, Archibald of El Grillo, and Killian of Merchant’s Port could be excellent challengers.”

“What think you of Beau of Avonlea?” Keith asked.

Rumplestiltskin’s ears pricked at the mention of the young Lord he had found so exceptional.

The other man made a non-committal noise. “Good fighter but too puny. He’ll not last long under a Squire’s work. At least not the kind I assign.” He gave a belly laugh and Rumplestiltskin’s skin crawled.

He had known brutes like that in his time. Knights in title only who delighted in having a boy around to torment as they had often been tormented, themselves. It was a vicious cycle and one of the few dangers his roundabout road to Knighthood had managed to avoid. He made a mental note to warn the Master of Pages and the Master of Squires about assigning anyone to that lout.

“He’s a tiny thing, indeed, Sir Clayton. But there is something appealing about him,” Keith replied.

“Oh aye. He’s a face and figure like a girl. If you’ve no real use for a squire, it wouldn’t be a misfortune having that about to look at.” Sir Clayton agreed, offhandedly.

Rumplestiltskin’s grip on his walking stick tightened.

“I’d say it was worth more than a look,” Keith continued, conversationally. “Were I to bid for little Lord Beau…” he gave a dark chuckle, “I’m certain I could find suitable duties for his dainty hands.”

Clayton glanced over at Keith appraisingly. “Just his hands, Sir?”

Keith shrugged. “For a start. He’s small enough, I doubt he’d put up much of a fight if I wished for more.”

The two men laughed loudly and Rumplestiltskin felt his stomach turn. His throat clenched up and the hand on his staff was nearly white. The joust began in earnest and the cheering crowd drowned out any further conversation between the two odious men. Rumplestiltskin’s mind began to race. Lord Beau was a quick and accomplished fighter, but how many other Knights might have the same sordid ideas as Sir Keith when faced with those stunningly blue eyes and delicate features?

No, he would not allow the boy to come to such harm.

Chapter Text

As soon as the jousting had ended, King George announced a break in the festivities before supper. Nobles spilled out of the tiered seating to refresh themselves in their chambers. Rumplestiltskin strode as quickly as his damaged leg would allow to the King’s Chambers.

“Sir Rumplestiltskin.” The King greeted him, already seated at a heavy oaken desk, a stack of parchments spread before him.

 “Your Highness, I have wish of a private audience with you.” He nodded to the guards in the room.

The King dismissed the guards with a wave. “You may speak freely, Sir.”

For a moment, Rumplestiltskin considered relating the whole of the conversation he had overheard in the rafters. But Sirs Keith and Clayton had done nothing specifically against the law or even the Code. Talk was only talk and they could easily defend it as such. He took a deep breath.

“My liege, I want to take a squire.”

“Oh?” King George’s heavy brows rose only slightly. On his immobile face, it was a display of vast surprise but it was only through years of acquaintance that Rumplestiltskin could tell. “Anyone in particular?”

“Yes, my liege. Lord Beau of Avonlea.” He swallowed, nearly as surprised as the King when the words left his mouth.

“Do you think that’s wise for a man in your condition?”

Rumplestiltskin’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Well, my wife is dead, my son is gone, and I don’t think it will interfere with my many social engagements.”

King George, never one to take a joke, merely looked doubtful.

“Besides,” Rumplestiltskin continued, “you told me to start acting like a Knight of the realm. Knights have squires.”

“You never did before,” the King observed.

Rumplestiltskin shook his head. “The missions I sought were far too dangerous. I couldn’t be responsible for the life of another. As you so kindly pointed out, my current… condition is like to keep me in one place for some time.”

King George frowned. “According to the Masters, Lord Beau shows great promise but he is too soft. He needs someone to challenge him, toughen him, spar with him. I can’t simply send him to play nursemaid to a cripple.”

Rumplestiltskin’s lip curled involuntarily. “Tactful as always, my liege.”

“Careful, Sir.” King George’s eyes narrowed.

“My apologies, Majesty.” Rumplestiltskin bowed, concealing the difficulty it took to do so. “Sire, am I or am I not still considered a hero in this realm?”

“So say all the Bards,” the King allowed, dryly, returning his attention to the parchment on his desk.

“When I was Beau’s age, the first knight for whom I squired tried to kill me. The second was the then unblooded heir to the throne.” He raised both brows pointedly. King George’s eyes slanted back toward him. Well good. A least that  caught his attention. “I’d say that turned out rather well, all said. If the lad has as much potential as you say, should it not be honed by a living legend?” The title was ash in his mouth, but it did the trick.

King George heaved a long sigh. “Alright. Fine. If the Avonlea boy passes all the Trials, you may claim him as a squire.”

“And no other bids shall be accepted in his name, my liege?” Rumplestiltskin pressed. It was a risk, but a necessary one. Sirs Keith and his ilk could not be allowed near Lord Beau.

King George looked briefly suspicious but nodded. “No other bids. I shall have word sent to the Master of Squires.”

Rumplestiltskin bowed again, allowing his gratitude to show plainly on his face. “I thank you, Your Highness.”

“Why such an interest in this boy, Sir Rumplestiltskin?”

“I see much of myself in him, my liege. As I have lost my only son, Lord Beau may be my last chance at a legacy beyond the words of poets and bards,” Rumplestiltskin replied smoothly. It was true enough that King George obviously saw no reason to question him further.

Rumplestiltskin was summarily dismissed and the two guards allowed to return to the chamber.

He felt nearly giddy with relief and delight at having won out. Even a victory as small as this one felt heartening, after so many years of defeat. Beau would be safe with him. It was only as he left the King’s chambers that Rumplestiltskin even stopped to ask himself what he was possibly going to do with a squire…

***

The Trials for squireship passed in a blur. Belle rose early every day and waited her turn to fight, stretching and bantering with the other lads in the queue. They put on light-hearted airs but Belle knew each of them was as nervous as the last. Even Prince David seemed unconvinced that his place was assured. Private rivalries and petty disputes fell aside as they cheered on their fellow Pages. They consoled those who lost and whipped up a frenzy of felicitations for the victors. Even Killian clapped her on the back, his eyes without mocking, for once, when she took down Tom in the first round and Archie in the second.

She continued to practice each day, though her lessons with Snow and Ruby had perforce been suspended until after the event. By the end, she had ranked just below David and Victor, tied with Killian and Will, and completely overtaken over half the Pages in her year. The Master of Squires sent out his youngest charges to collect any final bids. In a flurry of activity, parchments were bandied back and forth. At last, the Master took to his Chambers with the King, the captain of the King’s High Guard, and a few other choice nobles to draft up the final assignments.

Now they had but to wait.

Belle found it very difficult to sit still. Reading was out of the question. She paced her chambers, trying to name the most eligible of Knights and wondering if any of those had bid for her. There was a knock on her door.

She cracked it open, a chain still holding it fast, to reveal the welcome face of Contessa Aurora.

“May I come in?”

“Of course!” Belle unlatched the chain and Aurora slipped into the room.

“Thought you might appreciate some company to take your mind off the waiting,” Aurora announced, making herself comfortable on Belle’s small bed.

It was not the first time the girls had met in Belle’s chamber. Aurora was deceptively adept at sneaking about without making a sound. Plus, she seemed to know every secret stairwell in the entire castle. When asked about her light-footed prowess, Aurora would only reply enigmatically “I had a good teacher.”

Belle had long since ceased wondering about the secrets Aurora might harbor behind her large doe eyes. The older girl had proven herself more than trustworthy and they enjoyed one another’s company. What was most appealing about her visits, however, was the ability to drop the façade of Beau and just be Belle for a little while. At times, it was as though her ties to her true self were weakening, Belle of Avonlea fading away. Aurora gave her the ability to repair those tethers, to center herself back to her original purpose, and remember what it was like to occupy her own skin.

They spoke of nothing in particular, Belle fidgeting and fretting despite Aurora’s soothing tones. At length, Aurora gave an indulgent laugh.

“Come here, Belle. Bring your hairbrush and sit at my feet.”

Belle obeyed without thinking, handing over the simple horsehair brush she kept secreted away in her small dresser. It was tarnished silver and had belonged to her mother. One of the few trappings that Belle of Avonlea had brought to her new life. Aurora looked askance at the lack of polish but accepted the brush with a soft smile.

Belle settled cross-legged at Aurora’s feet and felt the older girl’s fingers combing through her shorn curls. When she first went to the palace, Belle had asked Leroy to cut them very short, indeed. Luckily, it was once more the style for men to wear their hair at their shoulders or longer. Noblemen often tied their locks back in a velvet bow. Belle could not afford such luxuries, especially looking as feminine as she still did, despite her bound chest and well-muscled figure. More hair meant more to wash but she allowed the small concession to her vanity by letting it grow nearly to her shoulders.

Aurora picked at the rougher tangles with her fingers, fussing in that motherly tone that she often took with the younger girls. Belle flinched by tried not to pull away. The pain was minimal compared to a direct hit with a weighted wooden sword or even the constant ache where her small breasts were strapped tightly down. When Aurora began brushing in earnest, Belle found herself relaxing into the rhythmic motion. Before too long, she began to drowse slightly at Aurora’s knee.

“When was the last time you had a proper night’s sleep, Belle?” Aurora’s soft voice broke her doze.

Belle shrugged. “Been a long week. I’ll sleep once I’m a squire.”

“I doubt that. I’ve lived here long enough; I know how hard the squires work.”

Belle half turned to look up at Aurora. “It will be worth the work to earn my shield. Elsewise, why am I here?”

Aurora nodded, her face somber. “I’ve no doubt you’ll be chosen by any number of worthy Knights. Only…” Her lips pressed together and she gave a slight shake of her head. “Belle… have you thought about what you will do if the Knight who takes you to squire wishes you to accompany him on a quest? Or to move to his chambers? How will you… what can you do to keep your secret safe?”

Belle’s mouth twisted. “I’ve been hunting and camping with the Pages. I told them I kicked in my sleep so they would keep their distance and I only washed up when the rest were sleeping. It wasn’t… the most elegant solution but it worked well enough.”

“What if well enough isn’t good enough?”

The knot in Belle’s belly that had loosened under Aurora’s gentle touch began to tighten again. “Why are you saying this? I’ve come this far, Rory… I can’t give up now!”

Aurora shook her head vehemently. “No! No, I don’t think you should give up at all! I just… I wanted to offer you a possible alternative, is all.”

Belle’s brow creased. “What alternative?”

Aurora took a deep breath, closing her eyes briefly and opening them again. “You’ve trusted me with the greatest secret of your life, Belle. So, I will trust you with mine. Do you remember when I mentioned the daughter of the delegate from the Jade Isles?”

“Of course! They sail in any day now, don’t they? I’ve been very excited to meet her!” Belle perked up, her curiosity and excitement overtaking her fears.

Aurora nodded. “They will be here next week if the wind holds. The thing is… Mulan – that’s her name, Mulan – she isn’t just my friend.” She took another deep breath. “I love her.”

Belle tilted her head to the side. She loved all of her friends, why should Aurora’s love for this Mulan be any different?

Aurora seemed to be waiting for more of a reaction. When Belle said nothing, she continued, “I love her not simply as I love you or Princess Snow, but as a maid loves a knight. I want to spend my life with her. And she wants the same. But her father wishes for a political match and mine wishes the same for me, once I have reached my majority. In two years hence, we would be separated forever. So… we have decided to run away together.”

Belle’s eyes felt stretched as wide as they could go. A maid could love another maid as one would a man? Well… why not? It was whispered of certain Knights or soldiers who formed bonds closer than brothers, who acted as man and woman did in the secret dark of night. Those who were caught in such acts were not treated kindly but on a long journey it was common for many captains to look the other way. It had simply never occurred to Belle that women might also act in such a way. She blinked up at her friend. Aurora had shown her such kindness, been both sister and mother in a way that Belle had never known in Avonlea. If Aurora loved another maid, then Belle could only believe it was a love of the purest and gentlest nature, as any great love could be.

Belle smiled. “I shall be additionally honored to make the acquaintance of the woman you love so.” A thought made the corners of her mouth descend.  “It will pain me greatly to lose you, though… I have never had such friendship, before…”

“Oh, Belle…” Aurora slid from the bed and wrapped her arms around the younger girl. When she pulled back, there were tears in her eyes. “Then perhaps you can come with us?”

Belle pulled away. “What?”

Aurora grasped her shoulder. “I must speak with Mulan, of course, but I know her heart and I’ve no doubt she will say yes. She has been trained as a warrior in her native land. She can teach you and you’ll no longer need to hide who you are. We can have great adventures together!”

Belle shook her head incredulously. “No… no Aurora, I cannot…. I…” It took her several minutes to realize that the ringing in her ears was, in fact, the bell for supper. She pulled herself to her feet, mind in a daze. Automatically, she extended a hand to Aurora.

Aurora took it and stood with her. “You don’t have to decide right now. I am certain you will be squired by day’s end. I just… I wanted you to know that this life… it’s not your only option. Of all people, I know the pain of living a lie…Please just think it over?”

Swallowing hard, Belle studied the pale, delicate girl before her. Coming to the palace, she had thought herself very brave. She would one day be a Knight of the Marchlands, riding into battles and rescuing pale, delicate damsels such as Aurora. It had never once occurred to her that such a damsel might see Belle as being the one in need of rescuing. Overwhelmed by emotion, she threw her arms around the older girl.

“I will think it over.” She whispered into Aurora’s lacey collar. It turned her stomach to lie, but it was what Aurora needed to hear. And, at this very moment, wasn’t that more important?

After a few moments, they broke the embrace and smiled at one another. Aurora’s eyes had dried. Belle’s heart felt as though it had been clenched in a fist and only just released, still bearing the marks of its confines.

“Let’s get to supper before anyone misses us, shall we?” Belle gave a small courtly bow.

Aurora laughed. “Indeed.”

Chapter Text

As the other boys milled around her, jabbering excitedly, Belle was still, stunned into silence. In her hand she held the only bid that had been placed upon her. The Master of Squires had put it there only minutes ago, his face a mixture of pity and awe.

Sir Rumplestiltskin has requested you as his noble squire. To serve as a strong right arm. To train in duty and valor. If you would be so sworn, submit your acceptance, in writing, to the Master of Squires in no more than a week hence.

Sir Rumplestiltskin. The greatest hero the Marchlands had ever called its own. The broken cripple who had just recently told her to trust no one. And he had requested her as his squire. 

The man was a mystery of untold proportions and that intrigued her. His great deeds were known far and wide. It was an immeasurable honor for him to request her. And yet… he could barely sit his horse, now. The last great quest he had taken was 8 years long and appeared to have ended in failure. The man had disappeared from court for nearly a decade only to reappear as a ghost of his former self.

What great feats could she possibly hope to accomplish with a Knight who could barely leave his chambers?

Belle closed her eyes tightly, angry with herself for such selfish and ungenerous thoughts.

Sir Rumplestiltskin was, by all accounts, a good man. Perhaps not always the kindest but he had dealt more than fairly with her. She should count herself very lucky to have garnered such attention. But why had she been slighted by every other Knight? Her performance at the Trials had earned the less scrupulous of the nobility quite a pretty penny. She knew this from the trails of gossip that had reached her ears over the week. She had surprised quite a few people with her wiry strength and agility. Yet Sir Rumplestiltskin seemed to have placed the only bid. 

As the Master of Squires dismissed them for the evening, Belle became dimly aware of Will, standing at her side.

His hands were empty.

She looked up at him, cautiously. She expected to see rage, indignant and seething, with perhaps even a tear or two. Instead, Will’s face was a blank mask, his wide eyes glazed.

“Will?”

He did not move. Did not acknowledge her.

“Will, talk to me?”

Slowly, he directed his gaze toward her, blinking as though he had just woken from a deep slumber. He swallowed and his hands flexed by his sides. “Well… I suppose that’s it then, isn’t it?”

Belle shook her head, feeling herself start to choke up. “They can’t… You deserve to stay every bit as much as the rest of us! You worked so hard, Will! I’ll go to the Master of Squires and tell him to look again. He must have misplaced your bid –“

“No.” Will’s voice raised slightly, drawing attention from some of the boys around them. “No, Beau. I’ve no title, no land, no money, nothing to offer but my sword arm. And we’ve no shortage of those, ‘round here. I should have known better than to think the world would play fair for once. Nothing in life is earned that someone else hasn’t paid for dearly. My father married a peasant woman when he could have gotten himself a nice fat noblewoman to wife. But no, he had to marry for love!” Will gave a wry laugh. “And then he got himself killed… well I ought to have known better than to follow his foolish footsteps from the start….”

David, several scrolls tucked under one arm, approached and clapped Will on one shoulder. “You deserve to stay, Will. I’ll talk to my father. If nothing else, you can train as a soldier…”

Will shook off David’s hand and stepped away, glaring. “Oh aye and I can play footman to you and your fancy lot? Let you all look down on the poor charity case who couldn’t buy his way to a fucking Knighthood? Fuck off, Prince Charming. I know who I am and what all I deserve in life. I’ll not be pitied.” He tore off the tunic he wore, embroidered on the front with the King’s insignia. “I’m done playing the game by your rules, Highness. Keep your bloody Code and I’ll make my fucking own.” He threw the tunic to the ground and turned to face Belle, who was now flanked by Victor and Archie. “You lads have done well for yourselves.  You have always treated me as a brother and for that, I wish you nothing but the best. As for the rest of you… aw, frankly, I can’t even be arsed to wish you the pox.” He gave a long, sweeping bow. “Farewell friends both false and true!”

With that, he was off. Victor made to follow him but Archie pulled him back, shaking his head.

“He needs to deal with this in his own way.” Archie’s tone was somber as he watched Will’s pale, shirtless back recede into the distance.

“He’s being an idiot!” protested Victor, dislodging himself from Archie’s grip. “He could have stayed here.”

“And be what?” Belle’s voice was low, roughened by withheld tears. “This was all any of us have ever planned to do with our lives. Could you bear it to see the rest of us Knighted, knowing you would never kneel for such an honor, yourself?” She looked around. “Could any of us?”

Victor and David looked down, abashedly. A few other Pages clutched their scrolls tightly to their chests.

Archie exhaled heavily. “Beau is right. Will may not be lost to us for good… but staying here, right now, would only be salt in the wound.”

The celebration the boys had planned to hold that night felt distasteful after losing Will and so they wished one another a fond goodnight and retreated to their separate chambers.

When Belle reached hers, she threw herself upon the narrow mattress and wept into her pillow until her tears ran dry. Will was her dear friend and he had been wronged. He had followed every rule (if not always in the strictest sense) and passed every test but he had still been denied a squireship. It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair. Belle believed in the law of the land. She believed in the codes of honor for which any one among them would lay down their lives. Will was a good man, with a brave and honest heart. And Belle’s world felt flipped upside down, knowing there had been at least one scroll in the hand of Killian of Merchant’s Port but none in Will Scarlett’s.

She shuddered limply, exhausted by the onslaught of emotion, the turbulence of her day. A week of dueling with narrow-minded focus, Aurora’s outlandish proposal, Sir Rumplestiltskin’s offer, and now Will… It was all too much.

Her mind whirled as she tried to process everything at once. The offer of squireship sat heavy as a stone in the pit of her stomach. She could say no, tell Sir Rumplestiltskin that she refused to further partake in a system that had been so corrupted by greed as to leave out those far more deserving… But he had made no request for money from her father in order to take her on. He had merely extended the offer as though it were of no consequence to him whether she accepted or not. As far as she could tell, he had not sent a bid to anyone else. His seal was quite distinct.

Then perhaps he saw something in her… perhaps he believed that she could be as great as he once was. Her heart gave a hopeful thump.

Was it worthwhile to stay, even knowing she had lost just a little bit of the unwavering faith she had once held in the nobility of Knighthood? Should she cut and run? Returning to her father’s house was not an option, but Aurora had offered her an escape – an adventure… But it was not the fate she had chosen for herself. Running from the path she set would leave her dishonored, a deserter in the face of only her first real hardship. She had worked so very, very hard to get a bid for squireship. She had earned it, by the Gods!

Belle worried her bottom lip with her teeth, her eyes staring, unfocused, into the dark of her room. She was suddenly reminded of something Leroy used to say to her when she was a child. She was stubborn from the day she could speak and Leroy was the only one who could deal with her when she didn’t get her way.

“All battles can be fought, sister,” He would say gruffly, smoothing a work-roughened hand over her curls. “But the truest of heart know which ones are worth winning.”

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had come to seek her Knighthood, to prove to her father, her King, and the world that strength and honor could take many forms – even that of a woman. She must stay and see it through for herself and for every young girl who saw more virtue in slaying the dragon than in being guarded by it.

Tomorrow, she would accept Sir Rumplestiltskin’s bid.

***

Sir Keith had been somewhat disappointed when he was told there would be no bidding on pretty little Lord Beau. But it was well enough. Queen Cora kept him a satisfied man, when it was her will to do so. And the rest of the time, there were plenty of servants willing to be plied with coin or drink. He was sparing with the former but generous with the latter.

After watching the Trials closely, he had settled on Killian of Merchant’s Port. Prince David was of no interest to him (too much responsibility) and Victor Von Franken was far too popular a choice.

Killian was well connected, with a widowed mother who ran a thriving shipping business. His father had been the second son of an Earl and the boy also stood to inherit some small lands when his uncle died. According to the Masters, Killian was quick, clever, and obedient to his superiors. He had a tendency to inflict more damage than was strictly necessary when dueling, but Keith saw no fault in being thorough.

In all, Killian was an excellent choice. To his delight, the boy seemed to find the match just as agreeable. Of course, Sir Keith’s was likely the only bid he had received. So, it would have been a simple choice to make. Sir Keith had put out word that Killian was a disagreeable sneak thief. He could have placed a bid and waited to see if it was accepted, but he far preferred a foregone conclusion.

He felt Queen Cora would approve of his ingenuity.

“Why the hell would you want a squire?” She had snapped, sitting up abruptly and pulling the ermine coverlet over her breasts.

“I thought he might be useful. I’ve reached an age where most Knights take a squire. It seemed only prudent that I follow the course.” Keith defended himself. “He proved himself quite well in the Trials.”

Queen Cora had avoided the joust and the Trials, as she did most entertainments where the High Queen would be in attendance.

Cora made a noise of disgust and rose from the bed, draping the coverlet elegantly around herself. She was a woman in her later years, it could not be denied, but still one of unparalleled grace and beauty. When she had visited the High Court over a decade ago and met her second ill-fated husband, Leopold, Keith had been in awe of her. He had been a squire then, not yet knighted, and she had taken little interest in him. He had decided then that he would return home, to Leopold’s kingdom, upon earning his shield. It seemed a worthy cause to serve such a Goddess. He had been accepted to Leopold’s court immediately. It was rare that a Knight of the Marchlands returned to the kingdom of his birth to serve. Keith had counted it a worthwhile move when Queen Cora had asked him to her bed, at long last.

Out of bed, however, she was not always the most pleasing company. Upon Leopold’s unfortunate passing, he had returned to the High Palace with her, a sworn sword. Since then, he had seen the Queen through several fits of pique. She always seemed to be up to one intrigue or another. He had little interest in the games that royals played. The only thing that mattered was how well secured his position remained. While Cora seemed to be biding her time, gathering some sort of information to which he was rarely privy, he was well paid to have few responsibilities.

Spying on Sir Rumplestiltskin was hardly a task worthy of more than a minute or two of his time. The old cripple barely left his rooms. When he did, he spoke to almost no one. The most exciting thing the man had done in months was attend the joust and glare at everyone there.

Keith leaned back on the silken pillows. “Come back to bed, my lady… The parchment has been signed and ink had dried. I promise Killian will not interfere with any… service I provide for you.” He arched an eyebrow suggestively.

Cora rolled her eyes. “You are dismissed, Sir Keith.”

He scoffed, rolling out of the soft bed. “Fine. I suppose you won’t be coming to the instatement ceremony, then.”

“Why on the Gods’ green earth would I do that?”

He shrugged, pulling on his small clothes and trousers. “Your precious Sir Rumplestiltskin ought to be in attendance, for once. Word has it, he placed a bid.”

That caught her attention. She took a step toward him. “On whom?”

Keith shrugged. “Won’t know until the ceremony. Nothing is announced before then.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Well, then. I suppose I can withstand one public appearance after all this time…”

Chapter Text

The Instatement ceremony was a much quieter affair than the Trials. The Trials were a time of great sport and merriment for those not competing. Conversely, the Instatement was intended to be a regal and modest denouement. Only the Pages, Knights, and a handful of nobility were in attendance. The Pages were called to announce the bid they would accept. The Knight would step forward and each would recite a brief oath of loyalty. Each newly sworn squire and his Knight would sign an agreement containing the pre-chosen terms of the submitted bid. The pair would bow and return to their places.

King George ruled that clapping and cheering were to be saved for the end of the ceremony. He could not abide by the cacophony it inevitably created in the enclosed space. Belle was so nervous and excited that she nearly forgot three times and had to link her hands behind her to keep them still. Prince David and Archie had both chosen wise, humble Knights who had much to teach them. She felt her chest swell with pride as they bowed and left the dais. When Sir Keith stepped forward to claim Killian’s bid, a slight murmur went through the crowd but died quickly with a sharp glance from the King.

In her heart of hearts, Belle could not begrudge him a Squireship, though she still thought him far less than chivalrous. They had all trained together for four years. Every single Page who had stayed on deserved a place on the dais. She clasped her hands a little tighter as she tried not to think of Will. Sir Keith was a swarthy man with a smile that did not reach his eyes. For just a moment, Belle thought she might even pity Killian his place with such a man. The moment passed quickly as they bowed and her own name was called.

Heart beating near to split her breast, Belle took her place. She announced the acceptance of her bid from Sir Rumplestiltskin. Another murmur, louder than the first, rose among those gathered. King George cleared his throat loudly, glaring into the crowd. The noise withered again and Belle could clearly hear the thump of Sir Rumplestiltskin’s walking stick as he approached. He looked at her solemnly but there was a flicker of something else… surprise? Amusement? She was uncertain but forced herself to return his gaze steadily.

They recited their oaths and signed the parchment. Sir Rumplestiltskin pressed the scroll into her hand and she took it numbly. It was real. She was officially a Squire. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. She wanted to run through the halls of the Palace screaming her real name at the top of her voice. Squire Belle of Avonlea! Squire Belle!

The smile she gave her new Sire as they bowed was tremulous but genuine. Rumplestiltskin faltered briefly but returned it with a warmth she had not seen in him before. It gave her comfort in her choice.

Yes, Sir Rumplestiltskin may not be the fierce warrior he once was, but he was still a good man. She could learn a great deal from him.

As she returned to her place among the boys, she scanned their faces. David, Archie, and Victor looked as proud as she had felt for each of them. Many of the other boys looked awed, though a few were looking away, bored. Tom scowled openly at her. Among the nobles, there were a handful of faces she recognized. Princess Snow was grinning like a loon, Lady Ruby beside her doing the same. Aurora gave her a conspiratorial nod, apparently not overly distraught by Belle’s rejection of her offer. Even Ariel offered her a soft smile. Belle was still unsure exactly what had gone wrong that night at the Archer’s shop but their friendship seemed to have mostly recovered from it.

One face Belle did not recognize was an older woman standing behind Princess Snow. She was beautiful and elegantly coifed. Her gaze was fixed on Sir Rumplestiltskin with a dark intensity that sent an unpleasant shiver down Belle’s spine. Glancing around, Belle noticed Sir Rumplestiltskin was looking back at her, his lips drawn back in a silent snarl. It could not have lasted more than a heartbeat but it felt a lifetime before either of them looked away. The elegant woman spared a fleeting, disdainful glance at Belle before withdrawing from the crowd.

Belle blinked curiously at the mysterious woman’s retreating back, but knew better than to ask. Not now, so soon in their acquaintance. After the ceremony had ended, Sir Rumplestiltskin made his way to her side.

“Ready to go, Lad?”

She nodded. “Aye, Sir. Are we to begin today?”

Sir Rumplestiltskin chuckled. “Eager are we? No, I had planned to show you to your room and get you settled in, today. I don’t know about you, but I’m fair tired after getting up at the bloody crack of dawn for that ceremony. Lessons can wait for tomorrow.”

“My room?” Belle echoed, dread curling in her belly. It was as Aurora had predicted. She would be dislodged from her private little chamber and sent… oh Gods knew where…

Sir Rumplestiltskin’s brows rose at her obvious trepidation. “Gods above, it isn’t a bloody dungeon! There is a smaller room off my antechamber. I’ve had the maids fix it up for your use. No point having a squire if I can’t find him, is there?”

“But… Sir… You are far too generous. I couldn’t ask to invade your privacy like that. I… I can remain in my lodgings in the Page’s Quarters and report to you at the hour of your choosing.” Belle stammered out, grasping for any excuse not to give up the only space she had called her own for the past four years.

Sir Rumplestiltskin narrowed his eyes. “Exactly whose privacy do you hope to protect, boy?”

Belle felt her cheeks flush hot. “I… I’m afraid my stubbornness has angered you, my Lord. My… father used to say I was born half ox, half mule and wholly obstinate. I deeply apologize. I am honored and humbled by your generosity.” She gave a small bow.

The Knight said nothing, studying her with that inscrutable gaze of his.

Belle swallowed. This was not going well. Two minutes into her squireship and her Sire already did not trust her. “I was thinking only of my lady, Sir,” She blurted out, desperately. “She would no longer be at liberty to visit me in private.”

Sir Rumplestiltskin looked entirely taken aback. “And rightly so, Lord Beau! I’ll not have my Squire whelping a bastard while under my care!”

“No, Sir! Her virtue is quite untainted, I assure you!” Belle protested. “It is only that… her father would not approve of the match and thus we are forced to meet in secret!” Years of fairy stories spun round Belle’s head, painting a picture of woefully beautiful forbidden love. She schooled her face to the one that Aurora wore when she had spoken of Mulan. “Please, Sire. I… I shall never love another as I do her… The very touch of her hand could feed my soul for a century. I only wish to be near her…”

Sir Rumplestiltskin still eyed her suspiciously, but she could tell her proclamation held some sway. He sighed loudly, looking away into the distance. “Highborn, is she? Moreso than yourself, I take it?”

“Aye, Sir. And the loveliest flower to ever bloom in the High Court.” Belle breathed, willing herself to believe her own words. For a fleeting moment, Belle faded away and there was only Lord Beau – young, naïve, and very much in love.

Sir Rumplestiltskin gave a snort and a somber shake of his head. He reached into his waistcoat and produced a ring of keys. He counted out three of them and held them up. “This first one is the antechamber. It is rarely locked, by the King’s order, but it suits you to have it.” He placed it in her hand. “The other two are the only keys to your chamber. I had thought to leave the other with the maid.” Sir Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat, looking away and then back at Belle with an oddly wistful air. He placed both keys in her hand. “Keep your room tidy and see that the maid gets your laundry. You may… do as you wish with the spare key. Give it only to one you trust completely.”

Relief flooded Belle so hard her knees were weak. She tucked the keys safely away in the pouch on her belt. Her gratitude must have shown plainly for Sir Rumplestiltskin gave a rough bark of a laugh.

“Steady on, boy. There are two conditions.”

Belle nodded, still trembling.

He held up one finger. “Firstly, I won’t stand as your second if her father challenges you. So, discretion must continue to be paramount.”

“Aye, Sir.” Belle nodded.

He unfurled the second finger, his eyes turning hard. “If you dishonor that girl in any way, I will have you banished from the court. Squire or no.”

Belle gulped back a lungful of air. The very idea was eminently laughable but the Knight’s expression did not leave her feeling very amused. She nodded readily. “I would never do such a thing, My Lord. I have the utmost respect for her virtue.”

The older man’s face softened. “That I can believe, Lord Beau.” His mouth quirked. “For all I know you’ve been teaching her to defend it!”

Belle flushed again, slightly, looking down at her feet.

Reading her silence as culpability, Sir Rumplestiltskin sniffed, “I suspected as much. Well, I’ve no interest in such youthful affairs.” He clapped a hand on Belle’s shoulder. “Enjoy it while you can, boy.” That air of wistfulness had returned but the man shook it off quickly. “Bring your belongings to my chambers. You’re to be moved in by day’s end.”

“Aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

***

Rumplestiltskin watched the diminutive boy walk away, seemingly unburdened. What was it that made men so eager to throw their hearts onto a pyre all for the sake of a pretty face, a gentle touch?

Oh, he well remembered such fancies.

As a Page, he had paid no mind to the ladies of court. The feeling was, as far as he could tell, mutual. He was uninteresting to even the lowliest social climber and had no other charms to offer. Blue eyed, barrel chested lads would boast of the maidservants and peasant girls who graced their beds night after night. Rumplestiltskin could not even venture a glance at a bosom without blushing. So, he simply did not look at all.

Sir Zoso had been adamant that he meet Lady Cora, though vague on the reasons why. It was rumored that she had once set her sights on Prince George. A woman with such aspirations would have no reason to find anything but faults with the spindly spinner turned Squire. He had not met her eyes once in their first meeting. He thought it only polite to avert his gaze and evade all but the shallowest of conversation. But Sir Zoso insisted that he had done her great injury by appearing so disinterested.

So, he had agreed to meet with her once more. It was this second time that had done him in. She was far less reserved in her approach, coaxing him gently into conversation. She entreated him sweetly until he finally felt brave enough to look her full in the face. And a lovely face it was. One that took his breath away. Every bit the storybook princess, Cora shone like a jewel. As they spoke at greater length, he found she had just as many facets.

They met many times after that. She would ask earnestly about his day, his family. She did not scorn him when he admitted the truth about his father. She had trailed her soft fingertips along the back of his hand, entwining her fingers with his. He had gloried in her smiles, her touches, her dark eyes and lustrous curls. Her parents were dead, so there was no one to object to the match. He had just begun working up the nerve to court her for marriage when she asked him about magic.

In retrospect, it had all been so obvious. At the time, he was merely confused by her curiosity. Magic was the one thing about him that he had managed to keep hidden. His Aunts had known. As a young boy, he would oftimes set the wheel to spinning while sitting across the room. They discovered him at it and warned him of the dangers of using his magic. The King imprisoned magic users. There was a special cell in the palace dungeons, it was said, carved with runes that would prevent even the most talented wizard from escaping. If the offence was great enough, they would be publicly executed. No such executions had occurred in Rumplestiltskin’s lifetime, but the threat remained. Magic loomed over his head like a death sentence until he learned to damper it.

By the time Cora traipsed into his life and his heart, he had all but forgotten about that odd surge of unnatural power he had trapped within himself. He had been terrified, begging her not to tell anyone what she knew.

Cora had laughed and kissed him.

“Of course I won’t tell, my Magic boy! If I were, I should have to reveal myself as well!”

He had gripped her hands between his, trembling. “You? You suffer this curse?”

She wrinkled her lovely nose at him. “It’s not a curse, Rum. It’s a gift. One that our kingdom has too long sought to stifle and snuff out.” She leaned in again, brushing her lips to his. “They fear us, my love. And with good reason. Were you and I to unite the power within us… We could conquer the entirety of the Marchlands.”

He had pulled away sharply. “What you speak is high treason!”

Cora batted her long lashes, eyes wide and deceptively innocent. “Oh Rum… sweet, chivalrous boy. What is treasonous is how our kind are treated. It is a betrayal of the highest degree, a denial of the natural order of things.”

Rumplestiltskin’s mind had set to racing. “What… what do you mean?”

“Can’t you see? Why else would we be so blessed if it were not meant to be used?” She slid into his lap, wrapping both arms around his shoulders. “Power was not meant to be denied. It is only mortal man that made it so.”

Torn between the urge to crush her to him and flee into the night, Rumplestiltskin could only shake his head, helplessly. “I am a mortal man, Cora.”

“No. You and I are so much more. This spark inside us… Don’t you see? Only the Gods could have put it there. They surely created us to do their work on Earth.” Her eyes were so very bright in the firelight. “Join with me, Rum. Join with me and we can take our rightful places….” She nibbled his ear.

He froze, insistent desire for her throbbing against her bottom, but his mind a tangle. “I don’t understand. What… are you asking of me, Cora?”

She had sighed then, pulling away with a pout. “Must you be purposely dense?”

In the present day, Sir Rumplestiltskin scrubbed his free hand over his face, willing away the unwanted memories.

Love.

What a waste it could make of a man. Worse than any enemy, any plague. It destroyed from within.

He ought to have warned young Beau about the dangers of love. But at 14, would he have listened?

No, it was better the boy learn such things for himself. Sir Rumplestiltskin’s teachings would not extend to matters of the heart. A poor teacher he would make in that, at any rate.

Chapter Text

Any lingering doubts that Sir Rumplestiltskin would not be an adequate taskmaster were quickly wiped away by the rigorous course he set her. In addition to the classes she took with the other squires, her Sire had set up a schedule of arduous exercises both academic and physical. True to his word, his shadow never darkened her chamber door. But he expected her to keep to the hours that he set her. Any other time was her own to use as she pleased.

Most Squires were assigned to tend their Sire’s horses, tack, and armor. Rumplestiltskin had none of these things at present. Instead, he took her to the stables and worked a deal with the stable lads. She was to learn how to tend different mounts that came in and out of the palace. Rather than spend a few hours in one stall, she found herself becoming acquainted with all manner of horseflesh and tack. She even learned to care for the foreign dignitaries’ mounts, with their oddly shaped, ornately carved saddles. Sir Rumplestiltskin also introduced her to the Palace smithy and Head Armor, a brawny, taciturn man named Dove. Dove showed her how to repair straps, jerkins, links of chainmail. He even taught her the rudimentaries of forging a short sword.

Belle was endlessly fascinated by the wealth of knowledge that had become readily available to her. From his private collection, Sir Rumplestiltskin leant her texts about fighting styles from centuries past and around the world. He meticulously broke down each style, prodding her limbs into unfamiliar stances and drilling her to the point of exhaustion.

In the evenings, when he had not assigned her too much reading and she was awake enough to focus, they played strategy games. She never won, as Sir Rumplestiltskin was always several steps ahead of her. It was frustrating, but those evenings in the antechamber, a game board between them, soon became the best part of her day. Sir Rumplestiltskin was kinder to her in those evenings. He asked her questions, not just polite inquiries or commentary on the weather. He asked her about her beliefs, her opinions. They discussed books they had read, politics, even the finer points of the Code of Chivalry. When she disagreed with him, he listened politely to her reasons for doing so. On several occasions, he had been able to persuade her to change her mind using sheer logic and reason. Sometimes he baited her a-purpose, riled her up to see what she would do. There was a mischievous glint in his eye when he did so that made her heart seem to turn on its axis.

Each morning, they took a walk in the orchards. Sir Rumplestiltskin would test her reflexes by swiping at her feet with his walking stick or lobbing an apple in her direction. He was surprisingly quick for a man without full use of one leg. She steadily grew better awareness of her surroundings, learning to sense the subtle shifts that could indicate an attack. Within the first four months, he only felled her a few times per week. He was sparing with his praise but she could tell she was doing well by counting the decreasing collection of bruises.

At regular intervals, Princess Snow and Lady Ruby met them by the oak tree for fighting lessons. It had been much to her surprise and delight that Sir Rumplestiltskin, himself, invited the ladies to continue their training. The only condition (besides the obvious discretion) was that he observe and correct all three pupils as needed. When the Jade Isles delegate came to port, his daughter, Mulan, joined them. She showed Belle some of the fighting styles used by female assassins in her country. Together they practiced stealth, balance, and precision. Mulan’s movements were so fluid and perfect, it made Belle’s head spin to watch her practice.

Aurora was immensely pleased that they got on so well and the three of them would steal away to some of the secret rooms throughout the palace. Belle could unbind her chest (having revealed her secret to Mulan) and be herself for a few breaths, more. Mulan reiterated Aurora’s offer to Belle: next year, before Aurora’s 18^th birthday, they would be leaving. Belle was welcome to join them and make the road her home. But there would be no hard feelings, if she did not. Belle hugged the slight, black-haired girl and thanked her with true affection.

But there was no chance of her leaving the Marchlands within a year. After a year in Sir Rumplestiltskin’s service, Belle could not have been happier. Her chest swelled with pride at the very sight of his brown eyes, his crooked grin, the shaggy mop of brown hair atop his head. He was her Sire and no one else’s. It seemed impossible that only a short time ago she had wondered if he was a worthy choice. She felt deeply ashamed for ever having questioned his competence. Behind his gruff exterior, there truly did lay the heart of a hero.

After one particularly exhilarating morning practice with Mulan, Belle made her way to the Squire’s practice yard to meet Sir Rumplestiltskin. She mopped sweat from her brow in the late summer heat and reached for one of the weighted wooden swords on the rack.

“Put the practice sword away, lad. It’s real steel you’ll be wanting in your hands, by now.” Sir Rumplestiltskin said at her back. She had heard him approach, familiar now with his unsteady gait.

She turned with a sad smile. “I haven’t the money to…” Her words trailed off as she took in her Sire.

Sir Rumplestiltskin was holding out a sword in its scabbard. “For you to use, until you can get your own.”

Even from afar she could tell the craftsmanship was exquisite. Belle crossed to him and  took it, reverently. It gleamed as she drew it out, the handle fitting perfectly in her hand. The blade was tempered and weighted just so. It was lighter than most of the practice blades but razor sharp. Belle stared at it in awe. “It’s exquisite,” she breathed.

“Aye. Made to my exact specifications by a master smithy and he took his secrets to the grave. Not another like it in the world.” He paused before adding. “Never even been used.”

Belle shook her head. “How could anyone own such a beauty and never even draw it?”

Sir Rumplestiltskin did not answer immediately and she became aware he was watching her with that careful, quiet air he sometimes got. He could be difficult to read, her Sire. There was a deep sadness in him, but he never seemed to speak of it. In this moment, perhaps he was moved by her delight at the sword’s beauty. Perhaps he felt he had stayed silent long enough.

Whatever the reason, Sir Rumplestiltskin took a deep breath and spoke a name he had never before mentioned in her presence. “Baelfire, my son, was never much for swordplay. Much as I wished to encourage him.” His gaze dropped to the ground. “He never wanted to be a knight. He saw my commissioning of this sword as just another way in which I… ignored his wishes. I was furious at the time. That he would deny such an extravagant and well-intended present.”  Sir Rumplestiltskin met Belle’s gaze again. “But he was right. I pressed him too hard in hopes that he would follow my own path. So hard that he only wanted to run the other direction.”

There was a catch in his voice and Sir Rumplestiltkin fell silent. Belle’s natural curiosity was brimming over but she held her tongue. Never before had her Sire spoken so candidly with her. She was afraid to make another move lest he startle like a deer in a meadow.

When he spoke once more, his voice was low and heavy, dragged down by the weight of his sorrow. “I became a hero for my son. But all he’d ever wanted was a father.”

 Hesitantly, Belle reached for his shoulder. She squeezed it briefly and then released but left her hand resting there. The simple physical contact remained as a bridge between them for several minutes while both were lost in thought.

***

Aurora twisted her gown between two hands. Her maid would be very distressed at the crushed state of the fabric later, but right now she could not seem to care. Her father had summoned her, alone, to discuss a matter of great importance. She could only assume it was a marriage proposal from a worthy Lord, Count, or Baron.

She had hoped to escape such a fate until her age of majority, but early proposals were not uncommon. In the cities and the countryside, girls her age were often already married and bearing children. It was not the life she wanted. Motherhood did not seem so bad, but it came with the price of a husband. Some brute who would not be gentle with her the way that Mulan was. Who would not taste of ginger and spice the way that Mulan did. Whom she could never love utterly and completely, with total abandon, the way she did her perfect Warrior woman.

Her father swept into the room with a dour expression. He was holding a scroll in one hand. He glared at Aurora and she felt her blood run cold. A proposal would have been a source of celebration for him. The look in his eyes was anything but that.

“Do you know what I hold here, my little daughter?” he began, anger biting into each word.

Aurora shook her head, not trusting her voice.

“Indeed? Is there nothing my sweet girl would confess to me? Nothing of importance that perhaps she has not revealed to her devoted and loving father?” His tone was laced with malevolence, his eyes cold.

She felt fear wrap around her body with an overly tight grip, immobilizing her. He knew.

How could he know? They had been so very, very careful! She burned every letter and Mulan did the same, though it had pained them both to do so. They met in secret, only stealing away when safety could be assured.

“A messenger from the Jade Isles’ embassy arrived today. I was summoned to an audience with the Emissary, himself. A most eloquent and observant man. His most trusted servant had discovered a collection of letters hidden by the Ambassador’s daughter. Can you guess the contents of these letters? Would you care to speculate, my only child?”

Aurora’s stomach flipped on its axis and she began to feel faint.

Mulan had kept the letters. Oh, her dear sweet sentimental fool of a lover! She had damned them both with such a simple mistake!

Aurora squeezed her eyes shut, girding herself against her father’s quiet wrath. “No, Father.”

“No? No, I suppose you need not guess, eh? For it was your hand that wrote such lewd and perverse things.” He brandished the letter at her like a short sword. “My own child a deviant! Writing such nasty things to a woman. If that were not cause enough for concern, you planned to desert your own family for this… this unnatural female creature! To turn your back on those that gave you life! You disgusting ingrate!”

Aurora shot to her feet, fists clenching. Rage shook off the chill of shock. “She is not an unnatural creature! Say what you will of me, Father, but you will not insult the woman I love!”

Her father closed the space between them and raised a hand high. Aurora braced herself to feel the impact across her face.

It did not come.

“It is a tanning you deserve, girl. And worse. But I’ve no heart to strike my own flesh and blood.” He stepped back and dropped his hand to his side. The other still clutched the crumpled letters. He shook his head. “I should like to think this the folly of youth, but you are nearly a woman grown. You’d have made a fool of me with this. Have you no mind for your own kind, girl?” 

Aurora pressed her lips to a thin line and said nothing. It was never about him. Her father, her title, her family had only been impediments to overcome. Mulan was her everything.

He turned his face to the ceiling. “Gods above! What did I do to deserve such a daughter?”

The Gods did not answer, either.

The two of them stood in stony silence for several minutes. Aurora could still feel the blood pumping fast in her veins. Her hands shook and she crossed her arms protectively in front of herself. Her knees were weak but she would not stand down, now.

At length she found her voice. “Then let me go, but with your blessing. Show that you are, indeed a loving father and –“

“Loving father?” He thundered, anger stirred anew. “To a degenerate daughter who would bed another of her sex? Never. Do you think Mulan’s father would give his blessing? When it was his concern that revealed you for what you are?” He gave a bark of laughter that was anything but humorous, his shoulders slumping. “My own flesh and blood. Raised by my hand and at my knee.” He turned to her, tears filling his eyes. “Was it because of your mother’s passing? I would have remarried had I known!”

Aurora watched him in puzzlement. “Mother’s passing has nothing to do with… Father, I cannot control whom I love. Did you choose to love my mother?”

“Of course I did!” Her father looked away. “Your mother was… an easy woman to love.”

Despite her anger and hurt, some part of Aurora longed to reach out to her father. For she did have fond memories of a childhood as his treasure. Her mother and father had been happy, once. There was a hazy place in her mind that recalled the three of them together, smiling and embracing. When her mother died without producing another heir, her father had grown distant. She would go days, sometimes weeks without seeing him. He had never shown an interest in another wife, despite having ample opportunity at court.

Aurora approached him cautiously. “Can you not see how I could want only to be with the person I love? If she were a man, would you rebuke me so harshly? Would you deny me the love that you once had?”

He turned to her, nostrils flaring, eyes red-rimmed from held-back tears. “How dare you try to use your mother’s memory against me. You are hereby remanded to your chambers. You will not leave them under any circumstances. I will have a guard posted at all hours. And you will write one last letter to this… woman telling her that you will never see her again. Telling her that you revile all of the actions you have taken and that she would do best to seek the forgiveness of her Father and her Gods.”

Aurora shook her head over and over. “No,” she whispered, “no, no, no, no, no!”

“Yes. Or there will be consequences.”

Aurora squared her shoulders and grit her teeth. “Then do your worst, Father. For I will not forswear her. I love her.”

Fury and grief warred in her father’s appraisal of her until he looked away once more. “Then I shall be forced to act on your behalf. I shall challenge Mulan to a duel. For her right to your hand.”

Aurora backed away, stunned at this new tack. “She will not accept.”

“If I challenge her before all the court, she will be honor-bound. Did you think I knew so little of the Jade Isle customs?” He observed archly.

The pit of Aurora’s stomach hit the floor. Her knees turned to liquid and she sat heavily on the nearest chair. “Father, you cannot do this. Mulan has trained as a warrior since she was a child. I know that you have training at the sword but you are no longer a young man. It would be…” She gasped for breath as the weight of this continued to sink in on her. A palace duel was to the death, when honor was on the line. First blood was only for squires and friendly sparring. The full realization hit her and she looked up in horror. “She could kill you.”

Her father’s face was resolute. “And on your conscience be it, my daughter,” he said softly. He threw the crumpled letters on the ground at her feet and swept from the room. 

Chapter Text

Belle was growing in leaps and bounds. As a Squire, if not in physicality. Her endurance could rival the toughest of experienced knights. Her new (borrowed) sword felt like an extension of her arm when she practiced with it. Even Sir Rumplestiltskin made mention of the difference. He had only broached the topic of his son once or twice since the day he presented her with the sword. For her part, Belle tried very hard not to pry. Sir Rumplestiltskin owed her nothing by way of explanation. He was her teacher, her mentor.

But in many ways, she was beginning to realize he was also her friend. As time passed, she realized that she far preferred his company to that of any other. Which was fortunate, as her friends seemed to be in short supply, these days. That summer, Belle had celebrated her 16^th year in a quiet fashion. Only Sir Rumplestiltskin had managed to make note of the day with an exquisitely engraved dagger.

Since Aurora had mysteriously fallen out with Mulan, Belle had not seen either girl. Aurora had been sent to her father’s estate and Mulan had disappeared without a word. Belle had tried to send letters to both but one returned unopened and the other received no reply. The Contessa’s absence hurt deeply, as Belle had only just discovered what it was to have such a bosom friend. She still missed Will Scarlett and wondered often what adventures he might have found outside the palace walls.

Aside from the cherished moments with her Sire, it was a solitary time for Belle. The other squires were often occupied with their own training and saw little of one another away from the practice field. Victor continued to pursue chambermaids – with far more success now, if the rumors held true. Archie was increasingly shy around the ladies but was said to be carrying a torch for one, in particular. Snow and David spent nearly every spare moment they could steal away in one another’s company. Ariel was courting with a Prince from the West named Eric. And Ruby seemed to have a secret admirer who sent her beautiful poetry and hand-picked flowers.

Belle could not participate in such court intrigues, but she was relieved to find she had very little interest in them. She had long since dropped the pretense of her falsified affair, rememberingto look appropriately broken hearted for a few weeks afterward. There were no men (or women for that matter) at court who could make her heart go all aflutter the way that her books and her lady friends described. She supposed they were all quite fine boys and men, in their way. Yet there was not a single pretty face among them that could persuade her eyes to linger.

If she was being honest with herself, she far preferred Sir Rumplestiltskin’s countenance to any of the boys at court. He was older than they, the lines around his eyes and mouth more pronounced. But his face told a story. It was more than just the familiar warmth of his amber eyes or the clever twist of his mouth when he was teasing her. Sir Rumplestiltskin’s face was possibly the most expressive she had ever seen, once you got to know him. His ability to speak without saying a word make him handsomer than any prince or storybook hero.

Belle found herself pondering that, the night that an unexpected winter storm had driven them indoors far earlier in the day than usual. They sat on opposite sides of a small table before a roaring fire, moving pieces across a checkered board. In the ruddy glow, relaxed by the bottle of port they were sharing, his craggy features were softened. His hair fell across his brow as he leaned forward and Belle was taken with the sudden urge to brush it off of his face.

She stifled the thought and drank deeply from her glass, instead. Sir Rumplestiltskin only let her drink on special occasions, Winter Solstice and her birthday (which was slightly before the Summer Solstice, so they often combined the two). Tonight was an exception. It was bitterly cold outside and he had kept her out just a little too long. Her fingers had been turning blue but she would not have said a word. Luckily, he noticed the oversight and bade her join him by the fire, instead. There, he had pressed a glass into her hands.

“Go on,” he grinned at the shock on her face. “You’ve earned a night to relax.”

She had read for some time, but found herself distracted. Too much energy pent up that could not be expelled in her usual activities. Noticing her fidgeting, Sir Rumplestiltskin had invited her to a game.

Now, two games later, he sat with his head bent over the board, deep in thought. This left Belle’s mind free to wander and it kept coming back to that lock of hair she wanted desperately to smooth away. Her fingertips itched to run through his hair, soft and inviting as it looked, strands of gold and silver shimmering in the firelight.

She drained her glass and returned it to the table. Absentmindedly, Sir Rumplestiltskin refilled it. He made a move at last, putting her queen in check. She sat back in her seat with a rueful smile.

“You win. You always win.”

His eyes flicked up to her, something sorrowful in their shadowy depths. “Not at everything.”

Not liking the melancholy that seemed to have rapidly descended on him one bit, Belle scooted her chair around the table, closer to his. “No one wins at everything,” she said gently.

The corner of his mouth turned up. “Well, you’ve learned that lesson much earlier in life than I did. Did I teach you that?” He lifted his glass to his lips.

Belle shook her head. “No, it’s one of the only things I think I’ve managed to learn on my own.”

“Ach, don’t short yourself, Beau. You were an avid student long before you ever had a proper teacher.” He leaned in, his voice low and conspiratorial. “Or have you forgotten your little spying missions as a wee lad?”

Belle laughed. She had nearly forgotten telling him about the secret “quests” she had undertaken with Gaston in her father’s stable. “I’ve always been too curious for my own good…” she admitted. “Even with all the schoolwork, I’ve read nearly every book in the Palace library, except –“ she stopped herself, clapping a hand over her mouth.

He blinked at her. “Except?”

She bit her bottom lip. “Erm… there was one that I wasn’t allowed to read as a Page. They kept telling me I was too young. They wouldn’t give me a note of permission to access it.”

Rumplestiltskin swallowed, his nostrils flaring. “The book of the Dark One,” he ventured.

Belle nodded, her eyes widening. “How did you know?”

“How could I not?”

Belle exhaled loudly. “I thought it was… I don’t know… some sort of buried secret. I thought no one was supposed to know the book even existed.”

Rumplestiltskin shrugged, pouring more of the rich purple liquid into his goblet. “It is. They’re not. Never stopped anyone before. The King hasn’t let anyone near that book in years. And wisely so.” He held her gaze evenly, his eyes turning grave. “It’s very dangerous, Beau. Magic is a curse and it’s been banned from this kingdom for good reason. The last time it was allowed to work its twisted will, thousands died. All sorts of creatures are drawn to lands that have Magic. Ogres, Dragons, all the worst kinds of daemons. Monsters. Haven’t you noticed how none of those things have bothered our kingdom in centuries? Without Magic, they die out, move on, and leave us in peace.”

It was not entirely true. Rumors and peasant tales of magic persisted through time, but no one spoke of such things within the Great Palace. 

“But what if those creatures did come back? How would we fight them with no Magic? What about sprites and elves and fae folk? Surely not all Magic is evil?” Belle edged closer, giddy curiosity spurring on her wine-loosened tongue.

He looked away, into the blazing fire. “Beau… I’ve seen…. I know what magic can do to people, when they let it rule them. It is a cruel and demanding Mistress, taking all that was once good and true, turning it to ugliness and malice.”

“You’ve met them…. Wizards?” she ventured quaveringly. She knew she oughtn’t even ask but the temptation was too strong.

“Aye. And Enchantresses. And petty hedgewitches who rely mostly on parlour tricks but would gut you as soon as pick your pocket. Shape shifters. Daemons with blackened hearts and human faces. It’s not an experience I’d wish on anyone. Especially not….” He shook his head, running one hand absentmindedly down the thigh of his injured leg. “Beau, please… trust me on this?”

He turned back to her and she realized just how close she sat. She could count each individual eyelash framing his brown eyes. And how had she not noticed before that they had flecks of gold in them?

She swallowed, her blood pumping oddly fast in her veins. “I do. Trust you, I mean.”

His eyes searched hers, the hazy sadness fading from them, replaced by something deeper that she couldn’t quite understand. When he said nothing more, Belle reached out and placed her hand over his, where it rest on his leg.

“I trust you, Sir,” she asserted, firmly.

His jaw twitched and something flared hot in his eyes. And suddenly, he was pushing his chair away from hers and hauling himself to his feet. The table was jostled in his haste and he grabbed the goblet just before it tipped over. He scowled at it. “I think…. That is enough of my sordid company to bear for one night. You are dismissed, Squire.”

“But Sir…?”

“To bed with ye, boy!” Rumplestiltskin nearly shouted, snatching up his walking stick and stalking heavily toward his chambers.

Mightily puzzled and more than a little hurt, Belle cleared away the game pieces and retired to her chambers.

***

Oh dear Gods above, what was happening to him?

Sir Rumplestiltskin had never partaken of the act of pedastry. Whatever two fellow Knights or soldiers chose to do in the dark of night was their own affair. But those who would couple with young boys, usually taking advantage of the power they held, were of the utmost disgust to him. They were no better than those who sought young maidens. The last time Rumplestiltskin’s interest had been stirred by a child was when he was one, himself.

Admittedly, at 16, Beau was barely a child. In some parts of the kingdom, boys and girls were wed as young as 15 or 16. But it was a paltry rationalization for the reaction he had just had to his young Squire.

It was all the more confusing that Beau was becoming lovelier to look at by the day.

His build remained slender, with delicate, supple limbs. Rumplestiltskin knew firsthand that the boy was quite strong, but his body adamantly refused to add bulk. Or height, for that matter. All the other Pages were at least half a head taller than Rumplestiltskin, himself. Beau remained stubbornly petite, his head falling about level with Rumplestiltskin’s nose. Beau’s jaw, rather than harden with age, had stayed soft, narrowing only a little. There was no downy hair upon his cheek, lip, or chin.

And those eyes. Gods, those thrice damned sapphire eyes of his! Bluer than the sky on its clearest day and deeper than an ocean. Wise beyond his years.

When had he begun to wax so fucking rhapsodic over a boy? Pathetic, broken old man that he was.

Beau would be sick at the very thought and he would have every right to be.

Rumplestiltskin looked at the glass of Port he still clutched and growled, hurling it across the room. It dashed to pieces, wine staining the wall and the edge of one rug. No matter. He was done with drink. The bottle had been his father’s personal demon, so perhaps it had heretofore unknown effects.

He rarely indulged, but the evening had been so cozy and mild. What harm could one bottle do? he had thought. He ought to have known better.

He took a deep breath and then another, willing away the mental image of Beau’s lovely, trusting face in the soft glow of the fire.

Perhaps he was simply lonely. He did spend nearly every waking moment in the boy’s company or in his chambers. Perhaps what he needed was a woman.

He cursed, running a hand through his hair. And who would have him? Old and crippled and poor. His name and former glory bought him passing respect from the Court, but he was more than rusty when it came to making suit. And frankly, there hadn’t been a woman to catch his eye in more than a decade. Nor a man, for that matter.

He could attend a local brothel. Knights often did and there was no shame in it. He had been invited once or twice by previous brothers-in-arms but always declined. The thought of paying a woman to feign attraction sat sourly in his stomach. He did not begrudge any man his pleasure, or any woman her coin. But he doubted he would find much to rouse him in a place where such falsehood reigned supreme.

So, yes, perhaps he was lonely. And right now, he was quite drunk. Drunk enough that he may not even remember all of this in the morning.  There was comfort in that thought.

This would pass, as any odd fancy did, after a time.

It would still be best he keep his distance until they were no longer snowed in, occupying the same small space.

Chapter Text

They were sitting by the fire again. Sir Rumplestiltskin was talking about swordplay and magic, gesticulating with his hands as he became impassioned on the subject. Belle watched in wordless awe as his face was transformed by passion and firelight. She could see him exactly as he must have looked in his youth, fearlessly riding into battle atop a noble steed. She could almost smell the fresh dirt being picked up by its rushing hooves. She could see the glint of sunlight on his armor and his naked sword. His teeth would be bared, face hard and battle-ready. But his eyes would be alight with purpose. The satisfaction that can only come from doing what one was meant to do.

Belle longed to fight by his side, could feel the weight of chainmail against her skin. The heft of her beautiful weapon within her steady hand. The buck of the horse between her legs.

As she watched Sir Rumplestiltskin, Belle’s arms prickled with gooseflesh, despite the roaring fire. Her belly felt tight, quivering with excitement. Her Sire’s gaze turned to her and that secret place between her legs gave a throb. She bit her bottom lip, her breathing suddenly erratic. Blood rushed in her ears as Sir Rumplestiltskin leaned in closer.

His hand was on her knee, a reverse of their position that last time they sat before a fire.  Slowly and with purpose,  it slid up the length of her thigh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. That spark ignited her from within, travelling up her spine and lower to her loins. She watched, transfixed, as his large, warm hand reached the juncture of her thighs. He traced the crease there with his thumb.

Belle became aware of an embarrassing wetness there, as though her monthly had arrived early. She thought to shift away, but Sir Rumplestiltskin’s touch felt so good, she could not bring herself to move. She dimly realized that she must have forgotten the stuffed hose she used to simulate male anatomy. Somehow, her breeches were drawn tightly across her sex. Sir Rumplestiltskin stroked her lightly through the fabric and Belle’s breath escaped in a gasp. She met his eyes and found a hunger there she had never seen before. She wondered if he saw the same thing in hers.

His hand found the tie of her breeches and gave it a sharp tug.

The crowing of a rooster in the yard below jolted Belle into an uneasy and unwelcome consciousness. She pulled a pillow over her heated face and groaned heavily into it. The sky was gray and ugly but there was just the faintest hint of light already creeping into her chambers. The morning bell would toll in a few minutes and she would be forced to begin her day.

All thoughts of her dreamscape must be tucked away if she was to keep any composure at all around her Sire. Since that night before the fire, such dreams had become increasingly frequent. The first one had frightened her out of her wits. So accustomed to thinking of Sir Rumplestiltskin as her friend and mentor, Belle had thought herself gone quite mad when she realized what she truly wanted from him.

Belle was not entirely ignorant of the mechanics of sex. One could not be around Victor and remain uninformed in the joys of male pleasure. But it had always seemed to her that women were less inclined to such base desires. In every storybook, poem, or even bawdy song, men were the lusty advocates of carnal pursuits. Women sought love, home, and hearth. To desire a man who was not one’s husband was the mark of a Scarlet woman.

When none of the handsome faces at court had inspired even the remotest interest, Belle had considered herself safe from such tiresome pursuits. She feigned an interest in a well-turned ankle or bountiful bosom, but it was only for the sake of appearance.

And then there had been that night. That marvelous, horrible night that she shared a drink with her Sire. That she had left behind propriety and allowed herself to lay a hand on him. That night that she had realized with a force that felt like a tidal wave, how badly she wanted to kiss Sir Rumplestiltskin. To feel his hands on her body. To know him as a man and not only as her dearest friend and Sire.

He had pushed her away with such vehemence, she could only guess that he had seen it in her eyes. Her shameful, wanton desire for him. He had been so distant since then, always keeping her at arm’s length both literally and figuratively. It was still too cold and covered in snow for them to resume their early morning walks. They trained indoors most days. At times, Belle did not see him until midday meal. He would leave a heavy tome and a parchment scrawled with a written assignment for her to complete in the antechamber. Where he went during those long, dull mornings she could only imagine.

When he did return, he looked no happier for it. He became nearly as gruff with her as rumors had painted him to be long before she made his acquaintance. He barely met her gaze when he spoke.

That hurt most of all; that he could no longer bear to look her in the eye. He must be so revolted with her. He believed that she was a boy who desired his Sire. And throughout the kingdom, though it was known to happen, such a thing was reviled. She thought of revealing herself as a girl, though it would be little better if he had known the truth. Her gender only turned her from one unnatural being into another.

So, she suffered in silence. By night, her mind tortured her with visions of what she could not have. Of a Sir Rumplestiltskin who truly saw her and wanted her still. By day, she worked herself harder than ever to meet his rigorous training schedule.

They carried on in this manner through the winter.

As the snow began to melt, so it seemed, did the walls that Sir Rumplestillstkin had constructed around himself. It began simply enough when he asked her to accompany him on a walk around the palace.

Their feet tamped down the remaining snow, squishing it into the muddy ground. The sun was bright and the air crisp. Belle could see her breath before her but she did not shiver through her warmest layers.

They came upon the tree where she had once met with Snow and Ruby, when they were foolish children. It was barely two years hence and yet it felt a lifetime. Sir Rumplestiltskin halted there and turned to face her.

He hesitated before speaking but seemed to push himself onward. “We have had an… ungentle winter, Beau.”

Belle nodded uncertainly. “Aye, Sir. Mother Nature has been very cruel.”

“Mother Nature is… a mercurial being, at her best. But I have no doubt that she… means well for all of us, at her heart.” Sir Rumplestiltskin’s eyes skittered across the ground at their feet.

Belle’s heart gave a thud. Was he saying that he forgave her trespass? That he would no longer treat her with such disdain over such a small moment of weakness? Could fortune favor her so? She licked her lips and continued carefully. “I believe so as well, M’lord. I… believe that man thrives when in harmony with nature. That even the coldest winter does thaw and that we, poor creatures that we are, will always be grateful for that.”

He met her eyes at long last. His looked slightly puzzled but there was just the slightest hint of amusement, as well. “Thrive in harmony, eh?”

Belle nodded. “Harmony is, I think, an ideal. As Knights and soldiers, we do not fight for war. We fight so that we may achieve peace, M’lord.”

Sir Rumplestiltskin snorted derisively. “Speak for yourself, lad.” He looked at her for a moment as though trying to read very small text, then shook his head. “It is a miracle that you can keep hold of such idealism in the face of having a monster like me as your Sire. I commend you for it.”

“You’re not a monster, Sir. You may not always choose to show it, but I know your heart is true.”

Sir Rumplestiltskin exhaled softly. “I sometimes wish I could see the world through your eyes, Beau. You always see the best in everyone. Is that not exhausting?”

“I manage.” Belle gave a cheeky grin. “I did warn you, Sire.” She pointed to her head with her forefinger. “Stubborn as a mule.”

Sir Rumplestiltskin smiled for the first time in weeks and cuffed her lightly. “Well, if the Page training didn’t break you of that, I suppose there’s no hope for it.” He hesitated slightly, then, eyes turning serious but seemed to think the better of saying anything else. He turned back to the path. “Come on. Let’s get to the practice yards before they start filling up.”

They worked hard that day but Belle barely noticed, so light-hearted was she at the resumption of their friendship. She fell into a dreamless sleep that night and for several nights after. The dreams seemed to have faded away now that the man, himself, was in her life once more. The roaring fire, Sir Rumplestiltskin’s wandering hands, all felt like figments of her imagination now. And it was good, she reasoned, not to dwell on such impossible things. Not to long for that which would never be – could never be – hers.

All the same, there were nights she almost missed them.

***

Time passed in a flurry of activity and routine. Belle’s 17^th birthday came and went. She grew another  few inches, to her delight. Unfortunately, so did her chest. She would need a new binder, soon, but it might just be the last she would ever need to wear.  In just under a year, she could stand the final tests to be knighted. The culmination of her blood, sweat, and tears was so very near and it spurred her to work harder than ever.  Even on her day of rest, she often found time to practice with Baelfire’s beautiful sword. She had to remind herself frequently that the weapon was not, in fact, hers to keep.

Late in the summer, she returned from one such practice. She stripped and cleaned herself as best she could with the water on her nightstand. The heat stayed on her skin, heavy and oppressive. She glared at her binder and decided to leave it off for a time. It was the one day her Sire would make no demands of her, after all. Belle sighed as she thought of her dear Sire.

Sir Rumplestiltskin was nothing if not fair. He had granted her these private chambers and this one day each week to have her time to herself. This had not changed in the time she had been his squire, but his behavior toward her most certainly had. He frequently and openly praised her progress, now. Yet, since that strange night last winter, he still kept his distance. They had moved past that moment, but it became the foundation upon which a wall had sprung up between them. They spent far less time engaged in games of strategy and more time in grueling exercises that left her too exhausted for even idle conversation.

The strange dreams she had once had of him (and the even stranger feelings they engendered) still echoed in her mind, but no longer made her blush so. She still thought him the finest man she had ever known. But the loss of that connection they had formed left her uncertain of his regard, a hollow ache that would not ease. It tinged her fancy for him with sorrow. Sir Rumplestiltskin still treated her kindly, respectfully, and with an affectionate generosity. Yet, he seemed to have removed himself somehow. It was as though he harbored a secret as deep as her own, a hidden self. And the more he retreated, the more she craved his company.

She had spoken of it once or twice, in vague terms (with pronouns switched), to her friends at the palace. Ariel diagnosed her immediately and the words rang too true to be ignored. Where once she had thought herself merely wanton, Belle now knew herself to be entirely lovesick.

Feigning concern for her invented beloved, Belle inquired among the ladies about the nature of desire. Ariel and Ruby staunchly defended the virtue of maidens who longed for the company of a man, even in a carnal manner, providing they were in love. As long as such desire was not acted upon outside of the marriage bed, Ariel reasoned, it made no woman any more scarlet than the next.  Snow White was more hesitant to voice such a strident opinion, but she nodded readily in agreement. Belle had thanked them for the explanation, deeply relieved from within to find that other women felt as she did.

Belle contemplated this as she pulled her tunic on over her head. When suddenly, there was a loud clatter and she heard the voice of her Sire, sputtering and cursing. Without a second thought, she ran in the direction of the commotion.

Sir Rumplestiltskin had left his chamber unlocked and Belle barreled into it, fists at the ready… only to discover her Sire in a most undignified position. His bathing tub seemed to have overturned and he was sprawled, legs akimbo, on the stone floor of the chamber.

Belle rushed to help him up. He tried to protest, but he was making no progress on his own. She knelt down, the water soaking the hem of her tunic, and helped him to roll over. From there, she rose and pulled his upper body with her. He leaned heavily against her. Despite the panic of the moment, Belle’s body thrilled with the contact. She willed the sensation to pass.

Once he was standing, she stepped away to retrieve his staff from the floor.

“Are you hurt, Sir?” She straightened out and extended it to him.

He shook his head, looking away from her. “Only my pride, boy.”

“Sir?” She came closer to press the staff into his hand.

He turned his gaze to her and froze.

It was then that she remembered she had left off her binder. She wore nothing but an undyed tunic that had gotten drenched in her efforts and now clung to her form.

Chapter Text

Rumplestiltskin’s mouth fell open. His squire stood before him in a white tunic that was soaked to the skin, the rosy peaks of two small but distinct breasts clearly visible through the thin fabric. All the breath seemed to have left his body. He was grateful for the staff in his hand because it kept him from making a further spectacle of himself by collapsing once more.

Beau seemed to realize just a moment too late how much of his - her? - body was on display. The boy - girl (gods above!) - made a high pitched noise and covered her chest with both arms.

“Please don’t tell the King, Sir.” Beau’s face had turned a remarkable shade of crimson and his - her - lower lip was trembling.

Rumplestiltskin blinked at her. “I hadn’t any intention of it. Obviously, we have… much to discuss.” He looked around, suddenly far more self-conscious about his own nudity than he had been a moment ago. “But first, I seem to be in need of breeches.” He nodded toward his squire. “So are you, it would seem. Shall we remedy that and meet in the antechamber?”

Beau nodded and scurried from the room.

Rumplestiltskin averted his gaze as the girl left. That tunic covered little from the front and even less from the back. His manhood gave an interested twitch and he glared down at it. “Knew all this time, did you?”

For almost two years, he had been steadily fighting his overwhelming attraction to his young Squire. He had thought the feeling would pass. He had held himself back, kept himself in check. He had taken to finding any way to avoid conversation, depriving himself of the games he quite enjoyed with a worthy opponent. All to no avail.

He had come to make peace with the possibility that he may harbor a previously undiscovered attraction to other men. He had even gone so far as to seek out a brothel that catered to many tastes. But outside its gates he had lost his nerve and turned back. No other person, woman or man, seemed to excite him the way his Squire did.

At least now, some part of that made sense.

The rest of it… Beau’s tender age, the insurmountable power imbalance that existed between them, the complete betrayal of his squire’s trust… they all remained. And it was good, in a way. It was only fair that he be reminded he was no hero, not any more. Perhaps he never had been. He was just a foolish man with petty wants and desires. No better than the base fiends from whose advances he had thought he was saving Beau by making the lad – lass – his squire.

“Gods love a fool,” he muttered, running one hand over his face and limping over to his wardrobe.

Once suitably attired, he made his way to the antechamber. Beau was sitting, straight-backed, at the table. She leapt to her feet the moment he appeared in the doorway. She had pulled on breeches (thank the gods) and seemed to have bound her chest beneath a different tunic. But now that he was looking, it was impossible not to see the slight swell of her hips, her narrow shoulders, the delicacy of her features. How had never never seen it before?

Well, he had, of course, but he had never even entertained the idea that… Rumplestiltskin bit back a scowl, not wanting to further frighten the trembling girl.

“Calm yourself, child. Sit. Please. I have a feeling there’s a long story ahead of us.”

He produced the key he wore around his neck and approached the outer door. By King’s decree, all antechambers where a Knight and Squire shared living space, were to be left open to inspection. The official line was to do with cleanliness and presentability. The reality was to prevent unsavory relations within the ranks. Of exactly the kind that had been plaguing Rumplestiltskin’s thoughts and dreams since midwinter.

Today, however, it seemed more important to safeguard his Squire’s privacy than to keep with a mostly unnecessary custom. He turned the key in the lock and left it there.

Sitting across from the girl he still only knew as Beau, Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat. Sapphire blue eyes met his, terrified and yet resilient. His Squire was a tenacious sort. Boy, girl, or whatever else, the child had spirit. Never broken, always eager for the next challenge. That was his Squire.

“Well. I suppose we ought to start with the obvious. Who in the nether realms are you, really?”

Beau blinked slowly, as if finally realizing that her Sire was truly not going to call the guard and have her immediately jailed. “Belle. Lady Belle of Avonlea. First and only daughter of Lord Maurice. Heiress to Avonlea, conditional on my betrothal to my father’s ward, Gaston.” She made a face of disgust as she described the line of inheritance.

Avonlea was of the old customs, it seemed. King George was a firm believer in those, as well. Tradition over all. It served well enough but progress had been very slow in the Marchlands, through the last several monarchies.

Sir Rumplestiltskin remembered the fierce nature with which his Squire had spoken about the right of women to defend their own virtue. How had he not known, then? How had he looked at this preternaturally lovely face each day and not begun to realize the truth? He voiced the thought, almost unconsciously. “How did I never see it?”

Belle licked her lips. “Because people only ever see what they want or expect to see. You looked at me and expected to see a boy. They all did. So, a boy I have been. I’ve done all I can to aid the illusion. I keep my hair shorn and bind my chest. I have learnt how to walk and pitch my voice low.  I stuff my trousers, though not so much as some who are not feigning their sex.” She managed an impish grin. It was common practice among young and insecure men to pad their breeches for appearances.

Rumplestiltskin felt the corners of his mouth turn upward. He reminded himself to stay at least somewhat stern and frowned. “You’ve lied to everyone, Belle. To the court.  To our King. And you’ve lied to me, la- lass.”

Belle hung her head, the grin fading as two spots of color burned high on her cheeks. “I know, Sir. And I don’t expect you to forgive me… but I do hope you can at least… understand?”

He wanted to. He wanted desperately to forgive her all transgressions immediately, but he had to know why she had chosen this life. “I don’t know that I do understand, Bea- Belle. Enlighten me?”

Belle shook her head, her hands twisting in her lap. “What did I have, as Lady Belle? Who could I ever become? I was to be sold to a man upon my age of majority, to run his household and bear his children. I would own nothing, accomplish nothing, become... nothing. My mother gave her life that I might have mine and how would I honor her memory? What greatness could I achieve, chained to a sewing needle and hearth? Moreover, who else could I help? The occasional beggar at my door, I may press coin into his palm in exchange for a story or a smile. But what good is that, compared to the battles that may be fought if one is born male?” Belle paused for a breath, her once more bound chest straining against its confines.

Rumplestiltskin’s brow furrowed. “There are other ways in which a woman may distinguish herself… The Jade Isles…”

“Is leagues and leagues away,” Belle interrupted, obviously forgetting herself in the confusion of the moment, “I would have to have run from my father’s house for good if that was my destination. How would I – or little fortune and travelling alone, ever reach it? And what I wanted was to follow the code of Chivalry. I believe in its principles from the bottom of my heart. Even if I think they could use a little modification from their archaic roots.”

He debated for a moment if he ought to reinstate some formality of address between them. Technically, Belle was on trial for her prevarication. Yet, there was no part of him that wished to punish her for it, even as she ran rampant over the conversation. And what exactly that spoke of within him, he did not wish to examine too closely at present. “And how did you, daughter of a less house, even know that much about the Codes of Chivalry?”

Here she very nearly blushed, her tone changing as she waxed rhapsodic. “Since the time I could consume the written word, I practically lived in my father’s library. Indeed, it was the only time I felt alive – within the words of another’s great adventure. Slaying dragons and ogres. Saving those who would otherwise be doomed. That was not just greatness, but true heroism, selfless and brave. I wanted to be that brave. I wanted to have those adventures… At my father’s estate they called me unnatural. A girl who read books and won at stick fighting with the boys. A girl who preferred to borrow roughspun breeches and venture into the forest on her own, rather than sit at home and be cossetted in layers of silk and lace. But I am not unnatural. And if the women of our kingdom could only see that it is possible… if the men could know that a woman has risen so in their ranks – through sheer talent and force of will… Oh, my Sire, even the King could not deny that I have earned my place. And perhaps the next girl who was thought so unnatural might not need to hide her sex in order to accomplish so much. ”

As Belle spoke, her voice shifted from dreamy to vehement. Her body straightened out, chin thrusting forward stubbornly. Her hands clenched slowly into fists at her side. Her gaze was far away, but flashing with defiance.

For just a moment, the child fell away completely and Rumplestiltskin saw the women in that old soul, radiant with purpose. And as determined as she was deadly. She took his breath away.

The vision passed and she was his squire once more. “If you were to jail me for it today, Sire, I have no regrets.” She looked at him, squarely. “How could I? For taking this path has been the greatest adventure of my life. It brought me to the palace, to my dearest of friends. Most especially to you.” Her eyes lingered on his in that manner that made his skin feel hot and he broke the gaze, staring down at the table.

Belle continued, softly. “And a Liar, I am. I understand that I cannot be called otherwise. But surely you can see that I have harmed no one. I wish only to serve my kingdom as the most loyal of subjects. I wish to protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

He heard her shift, getting up from her seat and she reappeared at his side. Belle sunk to her knees, taking one of his hands in both of hers. He started slightly at the contact but did not pull away. She looked up at him, her eyes liquid in the stark daylight.

“Would you have done any less, in my place?” she asked, intently.

 How could she look so vulnerable and yet so strong? It was disconcerting the way his heart gave painful twinge, the way his arms longed to wrap themselves around her. She was still his squire, not a mewling babe. Belle was still his right arm of steel and quicksilver. The revelation of her sex made her no less in his esteem. Yet, it had changed something between them. Something unspoken and half-buried.

Belle seemed to have sensed it, as well, though perhaps he was reading too much of his own desires in her. She tucked her chin, glancing at him from under her long lashes. He took a moment to wonder where she had learned that particularly coquettish move. One of the Princesses, no doubt. They were all of an age.

“Sire?” Her voice was still low, but throaty and distinctly more feminine.

It sent a spark to his groin and he cursed himself for being a weak and lustful creature, still. After so long denying himself, it felt as though the walls were crashing down around them and he was suspended in space with Belle’s hands the only anchor.

“I will not reveal your secret.” He forced himself to calm the galloping of his heart and speak with gravitas. “You are safe with me. You will always be safe with me, Squire Belle of Avonlea.”  

And he meant every word.

Belle reacted instantly, dropping his hand and rising to her feet with a sound of delight. Before he could even think, she had thrown both arms around him. He froze in her embrace until at last he had himself under some semblance of control. Tentatively, he snaked one arm around her waist. Every muscle in his body strained with the tense desire to pull her closer and he sagged with relief when she danced away, chattering happily about all of the things she’d had to conceal over the years.

Rumplestiltskin listened with half an ear, drained to the point of exhaustion.  If the Gods were kind, he would not live long enough to regret this. 

***

Contessa Aurora wrapped her arms around herself. The was a chill in the air and it made the carriage drafty. A stern Dowayne sat opposite her, drowsing slightly. Aurora went nowhere unattended, these days.

Her father was sending her back to the Great Palace to meet her betrothed, Lord Phillip of Nordland. He was fifth in line to the throne of King Midas. Midas was in favor with King George, making the match even more fortuitous. Despite this, her father had been somber in his announcement of it.

The rift between them had only grown wider since he had so cruelly forced her to choose between his life and her love. For some time, she had defiantly thought to find an escape. Failing that, she sought any way to make contact with Mulan, to warn her. Every effort was thwarted. In the end, she had no choice. Her father stood over her as she wrote a farewell letter. Her tears smudged the ink so many times, she had to start over twice.

It was a wretched, untrue letter. And it was the only one she had been allowed to send for over a year. It told Mulan that their plans had been nothing young girls’ fancy. That Aurora had seen the error of her ways and intended to make good on those promises made by her birthright. Aurora had drawn the line at telling Mulan to do the same. To her surprise, her father had relented on that.

The result was an ink spattered, tear-stained mess. But it would get the message across. The affair was ended.

Aurora’s father had sent her home to their estate that very night. She hadn’t even had time to bid farewell to her friends.

Now she was returning to the scene of her greatest heartbreak. Trapped by a life she didn’t choose.

Readjusting her travel blanket once more, Aurora stared blankly out the window, willing the tears to stay at bay. They had done her no good. So focused was she on this task that she nearly missed the flash of light as it flickered past.

Aurora gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. A glance at the Dowayne told her that the older woman had not seen it. She squinted into the wood, darkening by the minute as the sun set low. They had taken the old road through the so-called Enchanted Forest. It was shorter and had no stops for tolls. There were particular rumors of thieves in the Enchanted Forest, but Aurora’s father dismissed them as idle talk. Everyone knew the real dangers lay along the King’s Road.

There it was again! Just a flicker of pearly blue light amongst the branches. Not the intense oranges and pinks of fire nor the pale streak of lightening. But something softer, trailing just slightly until it disappeared once more into the gloam.

Now wide awake, Aurora watched intently for another glimpse. It did not come. Yet for the rest of the night, her heart beat wildly within her chest and she could not have said why.

Chapter Text

Golda shifted her pack. Her left shoulder was starting to ache again. She hated to admit it, but she was starting to get just a little too old for these day long excursions. The boy was bustling right along, several feet ahead of her, without a care in the world. He was all elbows and angles, as most were at his age. It was hard to believe he had been with her over two years, now.

Golda Locke had been raised by her father, the finest trapper in the Marchlands – to hear him tell it. He had a keen eye and a steady hand with a skinning knife. He raised his daughter much the same way. They lived a no-nonsense life with good honest work. The pelts they sold put food on the table and a roof over their heads. Golda might have been content to keep on as such of the market hadn’t begun to change when King George came to power. New tariff laws made trade that much harder. Travel through the Enchanted Forest became more perilous as he pulled his guards from it to protect the main roads into the city.

The Enchanted Forest had been left to its own devices for over a century already. It was said to have been a favorite dwelling place of the fabled Dark One, in his heyday. The Old King’s Road had originally been built to run through it long before the name The Dark One had ever graced the lips of a Marchlander. Under King George, the New King’s Road was rebuilt to circumvent most of it. But that made the route much longer, dissuading some of the less determined travelers. King George’s commands just made the Forest grow all the wilder. 

By the time Golda’s father passed, they were barely scraping by. But tracking, hunting, trapping, these were the only things she knew. So, like so many others who needed to find their way by getting lost, she took to the Forest.

She was almost caught, one winter, by a Royal party of guards who had strayed from the roads to drink and carouse. She took shelter in a nearby cabin. Hours passed and she grew weary. The owners of the cabin, the Baire family, had found her fast asleep. Rather than throw her out into the snow, they offered her porridge and a spare blanket. It was the greatest kindness she had ever known, outside of her own kin. 

Golda took to stopping by to visit the Baire family a few times a season with a spare skin or choice cut of meat she held off from selling to the butcher. Their son, John, nicknamed “Baby” adored her. She taught him how to hunt and fish, showed him how to track. They had brought down a buck the day his parents died.

The rumor was that a hedgewitch had set the fire. Golda had no way of knowing if that was true. There were no tracks to follow, no scent but the smoldering char. Baby, having no other place to go, became her apprentice. She had never thought to wed or bear children, but it was well enough. He was 13 then, and scrawny, but he tried very hard. He worked as though there were nothing else. And, for the time, she supposed it was true.

Now, he had begun to grow into his lanky frame. He towered over her and could easily carry a deer slung across his shoulders. Not that they had had such luck, in recent days.

“Slow down, Baby,” she called.

He turned, his nose wrinkled. “I hate when you call me that.”

“Well, when you reach your majority you can call yourself anything you like.” She shrugged, rolling her neck to try and get the crick out.

“Your shoulder again?” His concern seemed to supersede his irritation and he halted until she had caught up with him.

Golda opened her mouth to respond when she caught a rustling sound nearby. She held up one hand to signal for silence. Baby obeyed instantly, staying light on his toes in case they needed to run. There was another rustle and the sound of a twig snapping underfoot. Whoever it was, they weren’t trying to hide their approach.

“Locke!” a familiar voice greeted her warmly.

Golda spun to face him, a knife in one hand. “Hood,” she acknowledged, watching the thief warily.

Robin raised both hands to signify he held no weapon. “I wouldn’t take anything from a fellow hunter, on my honor.”

“Fellow hunter, eh? Funny choice of game you have….”

Robin quirked a brow. “You kill the King’s game for your own profit. We’re both thieves, in the eyes of the law. I’m just more… direct about it.” He smiled charmingly.

 Golda could feel Baby tense beside her. His breathing had quickened. She placed her free hand gently on his arm as she lowered her knife. This wasn’t a fight they wanted. Hood’s code of ethics might not be her own, but he had never been known to harm an innocent. “Thief’s honor it is, then. And you can tell your man in the tree he can come down. We mean no harm, either.”

The man in the tree laughed and began to shimmy down the trunk. Robin invited them to walk a while, producing bread, cheese, and a horn of ale. Golda declined the drink but agreed to break bread, as it was nigh past midday and she knew Baby would be starving. Her own appetite was waning with age. She partook, but lightly. The four of them kept a steady pace, weaving around the roots and low branches with practiced ease. 

“What brings you this far from the King’s Road on such a fair day?” Golda sipped from her waterskin and offered it to Baby.

Robin shrugged. “Travel has been… light, lately. That isn’t to say some of the men aren’t there, now. I thought I might head back to camp early and spend some time with my son.”

“Not surprising, what with the things people are saying about the roads lately. No one wants to leave their house, let alone a well-guarded estate…“ Baby shrugged, wolfing down a large chunk of bread.

“So, you’ve heard the rumors, too? About the spirits or creatures or whatever this nonsense is?” Robin looked sharply at Baby.

The man who had been in the tree was staring down at his hands. Golda could sense that he was trying not to appear too interested. She directed her next comment at him, rather than Robin. “I don’t think it’s all nonsense. I’ve been in these woods a long time, Hood. Longer than even you or your men. And I’ve seen some things that even I couldn’t explain.”

“I’ve never seen nothing,” Baby piped up, his mouth stuffed like a chipmunk.

“Anything. You’ve never seen anything,” Golda corrected him. “And that’s why you’re not the tracker, kid.” She turned back to the man from the tree. “What did you see?”

The man looked up and she realized, with a start (that she easily concealed), he couldn’t be much older than Baby.

“Don’t matter,” he muttered, at last. “Wasn’t real. I was probably drunk.”

Golda pursed her lips and looked at Robin. “What did you say to that boy?”

Robin looked taken aback. “Me? I didn’t… alright some of the lads may have teased him. Just a bit.”

Golda shook her head disapprovingly at Robin before turning back to the other lad with a compassionate tone. “If you’ve need of a sympathetic ear….”

In her peripheral, she saw Baby roll his eyes. She’d have to have a word with him about that. Now was not the time for the attitude he had started to take with her. This lad had seen something unusual in the wood. And that something might end up being of value to them. If she could just get him to talk.

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “It…” he shook his head and sighed loudly. “It looked like a unicorn, alright?”

“Ah.” Golda stepped back, unimpressed. It was not unusual for the local boys to rig up a horse with a false horn to trick the local girls into revealing whom among them was a maiden. The rumor had it that only a virgin could see a unicorn.

The boy made a sound of disgust and turned away. “Yeah. And Robin’s so-called Merry Men haven’t stopped having a laugh at me since. Wankers.”

Baby guffawed lightly. “I seen at least three or four of them white horses fixed with a fake horn, but never woulda called it a unicorn.”

“Wasn’t a white horse trussed up to fool the local birds and I wasn’t out collecting bloody hen’s teeth, alright? It was black, with a long curving horn in the center of its head. Call it what you want but I know what I bloody well saw.” The lad was getting riled, turning toward Baby with one hand twitching toward the knife at his belt. From the angle of his approach, Golda wondered briefly if he was more accustomed to carrying a sword. He certainly didn’t talk like a noble.

“Will!” Robin called out, a warning in his voice. “I promised them no harm.”

The so-named Will stepped back, his hands raised in mock surrender. Golda, weary of the posturing, cut in front of Baby before he could pursue.

“Enough, boys.” She looked at Hood. “All of you. Hood, you tell your men to leave Will be. I believe he may have seen something, unicorn or no. Something’s got the game spooked, lately and I for one would like to know what.” She turned back to Will, softening her tone. “Where did you see the creature, Will?”

Will shifted uneasily on his feet. “I spose I could show you. For a price, like.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes. She supposed he needed a chance to preserve at least some of his dignity. “Lad, I’m offering you a chance to help me track it and prove yourself to the men. What more could you want?”

“What if I just decided to track it on my own?” Will puffed out his chest. Behind him, Baby made a rude hand gesture and Golda bit back a chuckle. Robin gave a sharp look to Baby and clapped a hand on Will’s shoulder.

“You’ll not likely find it without Golda. She’s the best tracker I’ve ever known – myself included,” Robin asserted.

Touched by the unexpected praise, Golda inclined her head. “What do you say, Lad? Shall we find out what’s been causing all the discord in our fair Wood?” She extended a hand.

Will eyed her uncertainly for a moment but shook her hand nonetheless.

***

“She can’t get hurt. That was never part of our deal.” Maleficent turned to the cloaked man at her side. “If either she or my Lily get hurt, I’m out. I won’t help you and nothing you can do will make me.”

The man looked contemplative. “I never intended to make you do anything. I’m not Queen Cora. We will rescue Lily. But first we need to find the dagger. Without its power, we’ll never make it past those runes in the dungeon. You know that as well as I do.”

“And my unicorn?” Maleficent prodded, trying to appear more imperious than anxious and failing miserably.

“I cannot guarantee her safety, but we need her eyes and ears in the Forest. I looked for years, in vain. The animals, the trees… they won’t talk to a mortal the way they will talk to her.” The man splayed his hands in front of him. “Maleficent, if there was any other way…”

The older woman shook her head. “No, I know. And she is strong. And clever. It’s silly of me to worry over a little human tracker.” She pressed her lips together, tears she hadn’t been able to cry in years burning at the backs of her eyes. “It’s just… she’s all I’ve got left. Ever since He trapped me here, Amalthea has been my only window to the outside world. For a long time, she was the only way I could still see Lily. I couldn’t bear to lose them both… Gods… I’d have nothing…”

The man rested a hand on the Enchantress’ shoulder. In a gentle voice, he said “I understand.”

Maleficent eyed him curiously. “Do you? Could one so young have really lost so much?”

The man withdrew his hand, crossing both arms over his chest with an easy smile. “Did you really think it would be so easy to bait me into disclosing my past? My Lady, I believe I am insulted.”

The older woman shrugged. “It was worth trying, I suppose. It is… bothersome that you are so acquainted with my troubles and yet I know nothing of you.”

“Ah, but it was I who sought you out. I leaned much along the way. Not all of it true, of course. Here you are in human form, after all. There were rumors that the Dark One’s curse left you incapable of transforming at all.”

Maleficent smiled back enigmatically. The less this young man could separate fact from fiction, the more advantage she could still wield. He knew that she was trapped within her estate, only able to take dragon form on her own lands. To her delight, he was unaware the extent of the spell the Dark One had placed so long ago.

For if Maleficent were to so much as breath the air outside her palace grounds, her magic would be lost. Drained in an instant. Her daughter, fathered by a wandering sorcerer many moons hence, was not so burdened. After being forced to stay in one place for so long, Lily had snuck away and struck out on her own. But she was naïve to the ways of a world in which magic was anathema.

She had been practicing trade as a hedgewitch, attempting to blend in with the locals. But her magic was too true for the farce and she had been captured. For almost a decade, Lily had been held captive in the dungeons of the Marchlands. Each cell was inscribed with runes that inhibited her magic.

At the beginning, Queen Cora had sent her emissary. The man informed Maleficent that a knight was on his way to her palace and she was to interrogate him as to the whereabouts of the Dark One’s dagger. She could kill the knight or let him live as she saw fit, but only after the information had been obtained.

To everyone’s disappointment, the knight knew nothing. He had been on a quest for years but it was not for the dagger. Even in great pain, he would say nothing more. Maleficent had wounded him but he managed to escape, running past the boundaries of her spell and she had been powerless to stop him. She begged the Queen not to punish her daughter for her failures, but she received no word in return.

Frantic, Maleficent put out word to any who would listen that she would greatly reward any news of her daughter, good or ill. Nothing came. She had nearly given up when the hooded man arrived at her doorstep. She had very nearly eaten him until he convinced her that he was in earnest.

The man had a plan to find the Dark One’s dagger. There was hatred in his heart, etched deep, but hurt and loneliness too. Like calls to like. Maleficent had agreed to hear him out. She agreed to lend him use of Amalthea, her beloved unicorn, on the condition that he rescue her daughter. A contract had been drawn up, signed and sealed with a blood pact.

Maleficent trusted no one, especially mysterious men who wielded great power as though it were nothing. In truth, she cared little for his motives, but it was always better to know such things.

Everyone had something or someone worth betraying their word.

Chapter Text

“There is no magic in this Kingdom!” Sir Bedevere pounded the table with his fist.

Captain Phoebus cleared his throat. “Respectfully, my liege and my lords, tell that to my men who are still disposing of a three tonne ogre carcass.”

Several of the men on the King’s council turned nearly purple at Phoebus’ audacity. But Sir Lancelot clapped his shoulder with a hearty laugh.

“Captain, I would watch your tone if you value your head,” Lancelot admonished. He inclined his head to the King. “My liege and fellow lords, this soldier, impertinent though he may be, speaks the truth. Were the ogre appearance an isolated incident, it might be dismissed as a freak circumstance. But every day new intelligence makes its way to us. The presence of magic within our kingdom is undeniable and the problem is growing.”

He went on to relate what he had learned from various sources – most of whom were generally reliable, if not presentable enough for court.

Rumors of magic returning to The Marchlands had been cropping up every few years for as long as King George had been on the throne. But they were almost always just that. Rumors. Tall tales told by peasants with over too much drink. The minor hedwitches and charlatan sorcerers who came to town were always rounded up by his foot soldiers and tried for treason. They were tested for magic and thrown into either a work camp or a rune-protected cell accordingly.

Yet, in the last year, several stories had begun repeating, glimpses of fairy magic in the woods, footsteps too large to be made by a man, unicorns, griffins, even one account of a dragon circling overhead. These things had always been said of the Enchanted Forest, most law abiding folk did not dare enter there, as it was. Yet, now, droves of hunters, trappers, and fisherman were reporting magical creature sightings in the King’s Forest and along the King’s Road. As these stories grew in popularity and retelling, other strange things began to happen.

Objects moving, seemingly of their own accord. Things going missing only to turn up in the oddest places. A local magician made his assistant disappear in a trick and couldn’t find her for three days until she managed a ride back from the next town over, bewildered as to how she had gotten there. Even within the city, formerly dormant objects were taking on seemingly magical properties. One well established noblewoman, who lived in an estate near the palace, had fled the palace in a tizzy, claiming her mirror had begun to speak to her.  

“As you can clearly see, my lords, your majesty, these was not isolated incidents. There is a clear pattern emerging. The intensity and rate of these happenings is increasing and something must be done.” Lancelot concluded, splaying his hands before him.

The Lords began to mutter amongst themselves, two or three at a time putting their heads together in a great shaking of beards and jowls. The King was silent, surveying his council members with a pensive frown. Lancelot waited patiently for the noise to ebb. Beside him, Phoebus shifted from one foot to the other, uneasily.

As a Captain, Phoebus was relatively new, but he was a soldier to the last. A good man and brave to the last, unflinchingly loyal to the crown. Which was probably the only reason his sharp tongue had not robbed him of the assignment or landed him in a cell. When King George cleared his throat, the room fell silent and Lancelot and Phoebus both stood at attention.

“Sir Lancelot, Captain Phoebus. We thank you for bringing this to our attention. It is up to the council to decide how to proceed, but you will have your orders, shortly.”

Lancelot bowed deeply. “If I may, Your Majesty, I believe I have a proposal that may help.”

Phoebus looked at the Knight curiously. This was not something that they had discussed previous to coming before the council.

The King fixed his steely gaze on Lancelot, ramrod straight in his finest jerkin. The King’s seal was embroidered over Lancelot’s heart. Like Phoebus, he was a loyal man and true. King George kept only those he could trust in positions of power. “Go on, Sir.”

“I know of one who is an expert in the matters or magic. One who has been a loyal subject of this court for many decades and owes everything to the crown. One who might be willing to lead us in this grand and complicated undertaking of rooting out every magical creature and object in the land.” Lancelot offered.

Phoebus’ brow furrowed. He knew of no such person. To whom had his friend been speaking?

The King looked skeptical. “Why would any man in my kingdom have study of such things if he did not plan on treason by practicing magic?”

Lancelot shook his head. “Because this one is no man, Your Highness. It is a woman. And woman are, by nature, such curious creatures.” There was an amused murmur of agreement among the council that the King silenced with a sweep of his hand. “I assure you,” Lancelot continued, “she meant no harm in her study. She wished only to be of service to the crown by learning all that she could. This way she could identify those who might, indeed, wish to commit such ill deeds. I have tested her knowledge myself, my liege and found her incomparable.”

“And who is this woman, who took upon herself so thankless and task?” King George asked, dryly.

“Queen Cora, my liege.”

The King’s eyebrows raised before dropping back to their usual heavy line. “Ah yes. It would be her, wouldn’t it?” he muttered, nearly to himself. “A curious woman, indeed. But she has shown loyalty to this crown. Even returning King Henry’s lands to us upon his passing, rather than taking another husband that she could keep them to herself. “ King George looked thoughtful. “You believe she will be helpful in this endeavor?”

“Essential, Your Majesty.” Lancelot replied with conviction.

“So be it. If she can be of assistance, assign her a place. If she proves a burden, cut her loose.” The King dismissed them both with a wave of his hand.

Lancelot and Phoebus bowed once more and left the room. Once past the heavy wooden doors, Phoebus punched Lancelot in the arm.

“You could have told me!”

“Told you what?” Lancelot frown and rubbed his arm.

Phoebus rolled his eyes. “That Queen Cora was to become part of my squad, now. A woman among the ranks? Especially a royal? Oh ho ho, the boys will not like this.”

Lancelot chuckled. “My dear Captain, Queen Cora is not to be a part of your squad in the pursuit of magical offenders.”

“Oh,” Phoebus sighed in relief. “That’s – ”

Lancelot interrupted. “She is to lead it. Prepare your men accordingly. I will brook no argument. Dissent will be charged as treason.”

Phoebus gawped at his friend of ten years. “What?”

Lancelot’s face turned hard, no longer a friend but the seasoned warrior beneath. “I gave you an order, Captain. Go. Make the announcement to your men. We begin gathering intel at once. Queen Cora will send word of a time to meet and discuss strategy.” When Phoebus had still not moved, Lancelot barked. “Go! Now!”

Phoebus took off in the direction of the barracks, fuming and bewildered.

Checking that he wasn’t being followed, Lancelot made his way to a familiar tower. His feet knew the path though in his conscious mind he’d never have recognized it.

Once there, he was admitted to Cora’s chambers by a slim young man with a dark, furtive gaze.

“Bring him here, Killian,” Queen Cora commanded without looking up from her spell. There was something glowing red within her hands. Sir Lancelot’s conscious mind thought that he recognized all of this and for just a moment he began to panic. Cora’s grip on the glowing thing tightened and Lancelot relaxed into a soldier’s at ease posture.

Cora looked up at him and grinned. “Sir Lancelot did well, today, Killian. We are much closer to where we need to be, now.”

“Yes, your majesty.” Killian grinned back, slick as an eel and twice as deadly.

As much as she had objected to Sir Keith taking on a squire, she found the boy to be a far better companion for her intrigues than his Sire. He was quick witted and capable of far more stealth than Keith. And he was not sick with drink half the time.

“Shall I retire him for the night, My Queen?” Killian asked politely.

Always eager to serve her, that boy. She smiled indulgently at him. “I think I shall see to him from here. You may see to your other duties, Squire.”

When Killian left, Cora completed the spell that would alter the Knight’s memory permanently. She had just enough power left in her reserves to do so. She wouldn’t even be able to light a candle, tomorrow. But it was worth it. For she would now be at the head of the search for magical objects. Something was happening and everyone could feel it. Like tremors before a massive earthquake. Magic was leaking through every crack and she would be in just the right place to lap it up.

***

To say that things were uncomfortable between Belle and Sir Rumplestiltskin after the revelation of her true sex would have been a vast understatement. True to his word, he told no one. In fact, he made little reference to the fact it had happened at all. Most days, he still called her Beau, although once or twice he did so with a slight hesitation.

But if Belle felt that he had been putting distance between them after last midwinter, it was nothing compared to now. He took every opportunity to avoid direct contact, leaving her instructional parchments more frequently and standing a distinct length away should they happen to occupy the same room. Conversation seemed to have come to a halt altogether. If he spoke to her at all, it was either a command or a passing comment, each time his gaze never quite meeting her eyes.

It left an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Had she lost his trust after all? He had been so very understanding about her situation, neither punishing nor condemning her. And yet his utter aloofness alone felt like castigation of the gravest nature. 

He cared about her, of this she was certain. Perhaps not in the way she felt for him, but she had long since dismissed that girlish fancy as hopeless. It was his Sirely affection she longed for, she told herself. The pride in his eyes when he spoke of her latest achievement. The way he had begun to reveal some parts of his inner heart just to her, such as the story of his son. He was still quite sparing with details but she had been able to piece together most of that history from the remarks he made over the years.

Baelfire had resented his father for pursuing heroism and adventure over home and hearth. Sir Rumplestiltskin’s wife seemed to have cultivated this in their son, though Belle was unclear on where the rift in their marriage had originated. At the age of 15, just slightly younger than Belle was now, Baelfire had lost his mother to a wasting illness that swept through the kingdom. Sir Rumplestiltskin had been away on a quest at the time. He had returned to an angry letter from his son and an empty house.

Baelfire had taken off on a quest of his own but Sir Rumplestiltskin would not divulge much more on the purpose. Belle could intuit that it had to do with magic, but she would never ask directly. It would be high treason for Baelfire to seek out magic or magic users in The Marchlands. Sir Rumplestiltskin had gone after him. Baelfire, likely with magical aid, managed to evade him at every turn. Eight years of searching and finding nothing. Eight years of draining his accounts to fund his fruitless journey.

Sir Rumplestiltkin was destitute, now. That was the only reason he had ever returned to the palace. King George was the closest thing to a friend he had ever had, though the two men were not overly fond of one another. He knew he could count on his liege and former Knight Sire to give him solace in his wounded state. It felt like charity but Sir Rumplestiltskin’s pride had broken along with his leg.

He would not discuss the battle that left him so injured, though he had once let slip that his opponent had been an Enchantress. The bone had never set properly during his long ride back to the Great Palace. He would have pain and a limp for the rest of his life. None of that mattered to him, he had told her. He’d have continued his pursuit of his son to his dying breath. But there was no money left for his travels, had not been for some time. And there were no more leads left to follow. Like the last wisp of smoke let off by a dying fire, Baelfire’s trail had simply disappeared.

Since then, Sir Rumplestiltskin had loved no one. And no one had loved him. Except for his squire, though she knew better than to ever say the words aloud.

Belle pressed her eyes closed and took a deep breath. She was alone in her room without her binder, once more. She let the air fill her lungs near to bursting and relished the easy, unconstricted expansion. She wore a dark vest over her tunic, so that her breasts might still be concealed should she need to leave in haste.

She arranged her limbs languidly into a stretch that Mulan had taught her and her mind wandered to Contessa Aurora.

The one bright spot in recent weeks had been the Contessa’s return to the Great Palace. Belle had been allowed to see her only once and their visit had been carefully supervised by a sour-faced Dowayne. Unable to talk freely, they had made idle conversation about the weather and recent goings on of palace life. But Aurora, clever  girl that she was, had slipped a note into the cuff off Belle’s sleeve as they made their goodbyes. The Dowayne had tutted disapprovingly at them for touching hands and Aurora had made a face. Belle had left with a smile on her lips.

That smile faded as she read the contents of Aurora’s brief missive. Her dear friend was to marry by the end of the Harvest season. Aurora’s father, she revealed had cruelly severed her from her love, insisting that she tell Mulan horrible lies. Aurora pleaded with Belle to find any way of reaching Mulan, to tell her it was all false. That her hand had been forced and she regretted it, even now.

Belle’s eyes had filled with tears as she realized that she could not help her friend. Mulan had vanished soon after Aurora did, leaving no hint of her destination. There was no way to reach her without knowing where she had gone.

In two weeks, Aurora would be wed. Mulan did not even know.

Belle breathed into the stretch, letting her head fall forward as the heavy wave of sadness washed through her once more. She had not been allowed to see Aurora since that meeting and it was likely the bride to be would receive no more visitors until after her wedding.

“Rumplestiltskin?” came an imperious voice from the antechamber.

Belle’s head shot up. She had heard that voice once before but she could not quite place it. It repeated her Sire’s name in an impatient tone and she pulled herself to her feet. With feline stealth, she crept to the doorway, peering around it just enough to see their uninvited visitor.

Oh Gods… it was Queen Cora.

Chapter Text

Belle pressed herself behind the door frame, hoping that the intruder in the antechamber had not caught sight of her. A year ago, Belle might only have recognized Queen Cora  as having glared at her and her Sire upon their Instatement Day. But now, the Queen was becoming infamous.

Townsfolk had taken her to calling her the Magic Inquisitor. She led a squadron of soldiers who were tearing apart every local village, fanning out into the countryside, in search of magical objects, people, or practices.

She had quickly gained a reputation for being ruthlessly thorough. Those with any known (or in some cases purely suspected) association with magic were rounded up and penned in the Palace jailyard. More serious offenders (surreptitious practitioners, owners of magically imbued artifacts, and the like) were locked away in the dungeons below ground. It was well known that the Palace dungeons were the most impenetrable in the land. They had been carved with elaborate runes to counter magic. No one alive could remember a time before the dungeons existed.

It was rumored that Queen Cora took a particular delight in torturing those imprisoned below ground, though no one would provide any confirmation of this. King George seemed to turn a blind eye to her actions so long as she served to maintain peace among the villagers. And fear was a mighty motivator for the peasants and farmers of the Marchlands to stay in line. People who were sent below ground rarely returned.

Belle was gathering her courage to ask the Queen to leave when she heard the familiar thud of Sir Rumplestiltskin’s walking stick. He was deliberately slow as he rounded the corner and entered the antechamber. He made no attempt to appear hale and hearty, leaning heavily against his staff as he approached the Queen. A smile tugged at Belle’s lips. One trick he had taught her – it always paid to let your enemy underestimate you.

And from the looks they were exchanging, there was no doubt in Belle’s mind that Cora was an enemy.

“What do you want?” Rumplestiltskin spat, when he had reached a suitable distance from Cora.

The older woman glared. “Your Highness,” she corrected.

“I’ve not been crowned.” Rumplestiltskin quipped dryly.

Belle covered her mouth with one hand as Cora’s face colored.

“I outrank you, Sir Rumplestiltskin. You would do well to remember that.” Cora sniffed, drawing herself up to her full height, which was just slightly taller than Rumplestiltskin, himself.

“I doubt for a second that you’d let anyone forget.” Rumplestiltskin muttered, looking away and back with a sigh. “Why are you here, Cora?”

Cora pressed her lips in a thin line but seemed to realize that she was not to be granted the honorific she craved.  Suddenly, her face softened into a smile. It did not quite touch her cold eyes, but Belle could see clearly why the woman had been considered such a beauty in her day.

Gentling her voice, Cora took a step forward. "Surely it has not escaped your notice that I am leading a crusade.”

Rumplestiltskin eyed her suspiciously. “I have heard tell. A crusade against magic, they say. The irony is…” he waved his free hand in front of him, “stunning.”

Cora’s smile widened and she moved even closer, seeming to glide across the floor. Everything about her spoke of grace and good breeding. She was every inch the noblewoman. And yet there was an edge to her, like a poisoned knife in search of the right back in which to embed itself. She gave a laugh that rang harsh and false against the warm stones of the chamber. “You may be the only one to appreciate such niceties.”

Belle swallowed and shifted back further against the wall, afraid that she would be seen as Cora closed the space between herself and Belle’s beloved Sire. Her hands itched for her sword.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” Rumplestiltskin stiffened but held his ground as Cora came nearly toe to toe with him.

“Hmm, that wasn’t always the case, though, was it?” Cora purred, tilting her head to one side, coquettishly.

Rumplestiltskin grimaced. “Ah the folly of youth.” He raised his head and looked down his nose at her. “You can’t be here about all of that, again. You’re well aware that I can’t tell the King without implicating myself.”

“I am,” she agreed. “I’m aware that we may be… at an impasse in that regard. You can’t tell him what you know of me and I won’t tell him what I know of you. At least, not just yet.”

For a moment, Belle could see a look of fear flit across her Sire’s countenance but it was dashed away and replaced by one of disgust.

“After all these years, you would resort to blackmail, Cora?” He gave a bark of humorless laughter. “What a waste of that clever mind of yours.”

Cora made a sound of distaste but Belle could no longer see her face from the angle of her hiding place.

“You mistake me, Sir. I wish only to make an alliance. We were quite good together once…” Cora shifted even closer, insinuating her arms around Sir Rumplestiltskin’s slight waist.

Belle felt the bile rising in the back of her throat. Her hands shook as she fought back an inexplicably blinding rage. How dare that woman touch her Sire in such a way?

“You could still join with me,” Cora continued, her face level with Rumplestiltskin’s. “Where once we were good… now we could be Great. The most powerful people in all the Marchlands. Perhaps further.  You were a hero, Sir Rumplestiltskin, known and lauded far and wide. Don’t you miss it, my love? Don’t you miss the masses falling at your feet in adulation? You could have all that and more…. ” She pressed her lips to his and leaned back. “Well? What do you think?”

Rumplestiltskin’s face was a mask, unreadable. Belle held her breath as she watched the scene before her. Whatever it was Cora wanted from him, Belle knew in a heartbeat that it was not his true and noble heart. It was something dark and twisted. Something unspeakably sinister. But for just that moment, Belle’s blood ran cold as Sir Rumplestiltskin raised his hand to Cora’s face.

“What do I think, Queen Cora?” he asked, his voice almost neutral but with the hint of a razor’s edge.

Cora made a pleased sound as he cupped her cheek.

Then, lightening quick, he slid his hand into the hair coiled atop Cora’s head and grasped it, his eyes becoming slits as his face contorted with rage. He yanked the woman from him, radiating a strength and a cruelty that Belle had never seen in him before.

“I think I should have killed you when I had the chance, my love,” he hissed. “Now leave my chambers and never return. Or I swear by the Gods, I will make you pay for every second of misery you have wrought, not just upon me but upon the people of this kingdom.”

He released her and Cora shuffled backward with an undignified squawk as she struggled to stay upright. “How dare you… you… peasant! I will have you in my dungeons, you mark my words. I will tell the King about you and then you will be nothing. Not even a disgraced hero! I will personally see your name erased from the history books!”

Rumplestiltskin gave a nasty smile. “You’ll have to prove it, first. King George won’t see me jailed on an opinion. And how will you show him what you know without revealing your own secrets? Hm?”

Before Cora could answer, Rumplestiltskin took a step forward and for just a moment, Belle could have sworn she saw the light around him shimmer. Cora staggered another step back, remaining silent. Belle could just see her face. It was pale and stricken, eyes glinting with intense hatred.

“Be gone, vile woman,”  Rumplestiltskin growled.

To Belle’s surprise, Cora fled.

***

As soon as Cora had left the chamber, Rumplestiltskin slammed the door behind her. He leaned back against it with an audible exhalation, his head thudding slightly as he tipped it back.

Belle took a deep breath to calm her nerves, debating on whether or not to reveal that she had been watching them. The decision was made for her when her Sire turned his head and caught a glimpse of her, still hiding behind the doorframe.

Belle caught the barest hint of surprise in his eyes before his lips thinned to a grim expression and he looked away.

“How much did you overhear?” He sounded weary.

Belle shifted sheepishly away from the wall and approached her Sire. There was no point in denying that she had been eavesdropping. “All of it. Though I can’t say I understood much,” she admitted. “I… I didn’t know there was so much history between the two of you.” She tried very hard to keep the bitterness from her voice, though her vision tinged red when she thought of Cora pressing her lips to Rumplestiltskin’s.

He looked at her sharply, not missing her meaning for a second. “There has never been a reason for you to know. It is the past. My past, in fact. None of which is necessary to your studies with me.”

Belle swallowed hard, her hands involuntarily balling into fists at her sides. “Beg your pardon, Sire.” She gave a mocking bow. “Please do forgive my foolish impertinence in thinking that we were on friendlier terms than simply Squire and Knight Sire. My mistake.” She turned stiffly and head back toward her room.

“Belle.”

The use of her given name stopped her in her tracks. She looked over her shoulder.

Rumplestiltskin still leaned against the door, eyes shut, his expression pained. “There is a history there. But it is safer for you not to know it. What happened between Cora and myself does not concern you.” He opened his eyes, a note of pleading in their depths.  “Cora is not a threat to you as long as you are ignorant of… certain things.”

Belle sighed noisily as her anger faded. Her arms folded over her chest as she crossed to where he stood. “It does concern me, Sir. If she is an enemy of yours, she has earned my enmity, as well. If she is a threat to you, then she is to me, as well. And if you will need to fight against her, or anyone else, I will be by your side.”

Sir Rumplestiltskin’s eyes narrowed slightly, searching Belle’s earnest face. He shook his head. “Belle, you have more than earned your knighthood, as far as I am concerned. When the time comes, I will submit my attestation to the King. You have my word on that. In less than a year, I’ll no longer be your Sire. My battles are not yours to fight.”

“Bullocks,” Belle proclaimed.

Rumplestiltskin looked taken aback at that but said nothing, not even a reprimand for swearing.

Belle rounded on him, taking his free hand in both of hers. “Do you think I would stand by you merely because you are my Sire? Do you truly think my loyalties run so shallow as that?”

His mouth opened slightly and Belle saw his throat work. “I’ve done nothing more to earn them,” he admitted in a low voice. His gaze flicked away and then back to her.

“For your heroism and role as a Knight Sire, you have done nothing but earn my respect and care, Sir. Moreover, whether you intended it or not, you also have my friendship. There was no need to earn that because I may grant it as I wish. And I can think of no one more deserving.” Belle searched his face, stepping ever so slightly closer without being fully aware of what she was doing.

His face was awash in warring emotions, not all of them readable to her. He slowly closed his eyes and then reopened them. “I… am not the man that you think I am.”

“Oh, Rumplestiltskin… I know exactly who you are.” Belle murmured in disbelief. She suddenly felt an intense need to reach out. Following that instinct, she released one of her hands from his and brought one palm to his cheek. A few days beard growth was rough beneath her touch and she ran her fingers lightly over it. “You are my Sire, my mentor, and the closest friend I have ever had. You are a good man.”

Rumplestiltskin swallowed hard, his eyes suddenly appearing darker than before. The air between them seemed to grow thick and heavy, Belle found herself short of breath.

She wanted to kiss him, she realized. Not just to wipe away the taste of Queen Cora, or to claim him as her own. She wanted to fit her mouth to his and show him how much more he meant to her. She wanted to feel his body pressed against hers, his arms around her. She had never kissed anyone before but she had read a great deal about what one might do with tongues and hands and… Oh Gods…

Belle dropped her hands to her sides and took a wide step back, trying not to shake as a wave of desperate need washed over her, settling hotly at the apex of her legs. She directed her gaze at the floor, well aware of her flushed face. “I hope that you can learn to trust me as I trust you, Sir.”

With that, she turned to leave once more.

Just as she crossed the threshold back into her own chamber, she heard her Sire’s voice.

“It was a long time ago. I was foolish and fell in love with a beautiful but deadly woman. She had a plan to gain power and intended to… use me to that end.  The plan failed and she escaped. For the part I played, however unwillingingly, I have maintained my silence all these years. That is the history between us.”

Belle turned back and tilted her head to the side. “What does she intend to tell the king?”

Rumplestiltskin shook his head vigorously. “Please, Belle. I beg you not to ask about that. I promise you that no good can come from pursuing the past.” He stepped closer, hesitantly. “As you care for my safety, allow me to protect yours as best I can? Allow me this secret? It would only do you harm to know more. Otherwise, I swear on the grave of the mother I never knew, I would spare no detail.”

At his plaintive tone, Belle relented. She nodded. “Aye, Sir. I will not ask you again.”

Rumplestiltskin sighed in gratitude, the rigid set of his shoulders relaxing just slightly. “Thank you.”

They lingered there, caught between silence and speech. At length, the corners of Rumplestiltskin’s mouth turned up, his gaze gentle and warm.

“Enjoy your day of rest, Squire Belle.”

Belle nodded again, realize she was being formally, though kindly, dismissed. “I shall, Sire. Thank you.” She walked back to her rooms feeling dazed and just a little weak in the knees.

His concern for her safety touched her deeply, but the more she thought about it, the more it rankled her that he would keep her in the dark. She was no longer a child and it felt as though he refused to see her as anything else.

She was yet unblooded as a fighter, this much was true. Yet, she won far more duels than she lost, all of her former Masters remarked upon her exceptional skill with a sword. Her hand to hand combat only suffered due to her small size, but she was also the hardest of her year to pin. Most matches were declared a tie, as she managed to tire out larger opponents until the clock ran out.  Her staff work and arrow fletching were both the best in her year, though she was only a halfway decent shot from too far away. Before Sir Rumplestiltskin stopped playing strategy games with her, she had come very close to winning quite a few times.

Belle was ready for a challenge, for an enemy to fight or a princess to rescue, for a battle to plan or an evil plot to foil. For something – anything – more than simply biding her time until the Knightship ceremony.

And Queen Cora was clearly up to no good. Whatever she was plotting, it would need to be stopped. Belle needed to know more in order to help. She had promised her Sire she would ask no more questions of him.

But there were other ways of obtaining information, as she had learned when she was a child.

Chapter Text

 “He won’t talk, Majesty,” a toady little man with bulging eyes and a long scar on one cheek lowered his head before Queen Cora.

Cora sniffed loudly as she pushed past him without a glance. “Oh, he will for me.”

The regal woman in her silks and jewels should have looked ridiculously out of place in the dank dungeon. But her cruel smile and hard eyes made the scene fit in a way that would have sent chills down the backs of most folk.

Killian Jones was not most folk.

Raised in Merchant’s Port, he’d seen his fair share of tough characters. He’d been scrapping in the school yard since he could walk. A slim boy with a fair face and a smart mouth had no end of challengers. They were nothing to him. The real terror lay in wait once he got home.

To call Killian’s father a drunk would have been an insult to the simple-minded lushes at the tavern. When Vincent Jones got to taking in spirits, he was no falling down fool. He was a demon incarnate. His long-suffering wife and two sons bore the brunt of his disappointments. Belts, fists, once a horse whip all rained down blows, more or less accurately, depending on how far into his cups he’d gotten that night.

Killian’s older brother, Liam, withstood the worst of it. There was many a night when he would place himself bodily in the path of their raging father, in hopes of sparing their mother and Killian. It was not always successful. Killian loved his brother but silently begrudged Liam’s insistence on playing the hero. It never seemed to save anyone else’s skin; all it did was bloody Liam a bit more than the others.

But Liam had a strong heart, and true. He believed in protecting the innocent and dreamed of a knighthood. He was well liked around the village, where Killian was merely tolerated. Killian lived in the twin shadows of menacing father and valiant brother. Resentment blossomed,  like a poison in his heart.

They were not a noble family but their father’s shipping business was well enough so long as it stayed a step ahead of the law. And their mother, a frail, gentle creature, had an unwed uncle whose lands would likely go to her children upon his death. It was enough for Liam to make plans to leave for the palace when he reached the age of 12. He was a little older than they usually took as a page, but he’d not wanted to leave until Killian was strong enough to defend himself to some extent.  Another unwanted act of Liam’s seeming benevolence. For he was still leaving, after all. And Killian was not taking charitably to the desertion. Liam’s heroism, it seemed, only extended so far toward his own family. He would go off to honor and glory while little Killian was left to stand alone between Victor and their mother.

Sometimes Killian wished he had been born the elder, to have the freedom to choose his own path. He’d have left the nightmare of their household behind the moment he could sit a horse.

One day, when Killian was 10 years old, Liam and their mother were at the market for a decent sword belt. It was the last thing on the list before Liam would leave for the Great Palace. Vincent Jones made his way home before the other two, catching his younger son at a game with some village children.

Vincent sent the other children away to punish his son for playing when there was work to be done around the house. Kllian could smell the heavy tang of whiskey on him. Vincent advanced, his meaty fists clenched and his breath reeking. Killian groped for the first weapon his hands could find. It was their mother’s iron.

When Vincent swung, Killian ducked. He had always been nimble. With all his might, he swung the iron sideways, connecting with his father’s skull. There was a sickening crunch of shattering bone. The much larger man crumpled to the ground with a sound of agony. Then, he did not move.

Shaking, Killian had crept over to his prone father. Vincent’s face was distorted, his eyes open and glassy, a pool of blood spreading out from his head.

Killian dropped the iron, in shock. How long he stood over the body of his dead father, he knew not. All he could remember after was Liam and their mother arriving home, proudly toting a new sword belt. Tanned leather with an intricate design.

Liam reacted immediately. He would tell the town guard that he was responsible for the murder, not Killian. It was too much of a burden to place on a child. And who would believe that a boy could strike a blow so true on his first try?

Liam turned himself in, claiming that he was defending himself and his mother. He claimed his brother had not been in the house, but out of doors, at play. As any child would be. Killian was ushered through a series of questions, numbly answering the way his mother had coached him. Liam was jailed.

He would never be a knight.

So, Killian determined that he would. Now that he need not stay and care for their mother, he would go to the Great Palace. He would bring the one to bring honor back to the name of Jones. More importantly, he would be free of the shackles of their family. Free of his place as the second son. Able, at last, to be seen for his own abilities.

But the ghost of his father followed him still. He woke at night in a cold sweat, reliving the past. Over time, he told himself that it was good to hate. It made him stronger. And strength was everything in this world. His mother had lacked it and look how she ended up, broken and useless. Pathetic.

His brother… well, his nobility had always been a weakness, after all. Liam had given up a life-long dream for what? There he sat in Merchant’s Port, rotting away in a cell. And Killian was the one at the palace, in the service of a Queen’s personal knight champion (and therefore in the service of Queen Cora, herself).

Cora’s proclivities for torturing prisoners should have turned his stomach, should have made him want to vanquish her like the villain she was. But she was powerful and the prisoners were weak. If they hadn’t been weak, they wouldn’t have gotten caught. Chivalry and nobility, Killian was learning, were only a mask one wore. A show of good form as sleight of hand to disguise one’s true intentions. What really mattered was knowing how to use the power you had to gain more.

If the occasional display of abject cruelty did make him want to flinch or turn away, he forced himself to be still. In the games Queen Cora was playing, there was no room for mercy.

Killian jumped back as blood splattered across the stones at his feet.

Cora threw down the knife with which she had slit the man’s throat. She turned to Killian, her hands stained red, gown ruined. “Well, I got what I needed, anyway.” She directed her gaze at the jailer. “Clean it up and burn the remains.”

“Majesty, we’ve a mass grave for – ”

She leaned down, her tone biting. “I didn’t ask about a grave. Burn the body. Do as I say or you’ll find yourself in the next mass grave.”

Killian smirked. “M’lady?” He offered her his arm. Cora appreciated gallantry.

Her mouth curved into a smile that, as always, did not touch her eyes. “Thank you, Killian but I’ve a mind to pay one more visit today. I’ve no need of company for this one. She’s harmless.”

Killian swept into an elegant bow and turned to leave. Once he was finally out of the dungeons, he took a long shaky breath. The air felt so cool and clean above ground. He mopped at sweat that had gathered on his brow and surveyed the side courtyard.

A few Pages were practicing their dueling. They were clumsy and uncoordinated. Hard to believe he had once been one such lad. He’d been a natural to the sword, but it had still taken long hours of practice, hidden behind the barn.  When that foolish servant with the bum leg had caught him at it and offered advice on his grip, Killian had felt humiliated. To be seen in such a state of disarray by so lowly a wretch. And for that creature to think himself worthy of giving direction to one so above him? It was undignified and disgusting. He’d had a mind to damage the boy’s other leg to teach him a lesson before Page Beau had intervened.

Killian seethed even now at the petite, blue-eyed lad’s interference. It was none of Beau’s concern how he chose to discipline the little folk. And yet the younger Page had made it his concern, taking the story to their Master. When nothing had come of that little gambit, the boy had tripped him a-purpose. Another humiliation. And it set back his hard work by weeks, as he was forced to wait for the sprained wrist to heal before taking up another practice sword.

As though summoned by magic, the object of his dark contemplation just so happened to step around the corner of the Palace. Killian’s lip curled, involuntarily, but he attempted to pay the boy no mind. Unless partnered in a duel, they had avoided one another like plague all through their squireships. At practice, even Killian had to admit the Beau had a decent arm. This only displeased him further.

 As the time of their Knightships approached, official classes had been disbanded for Squires of their year. It was easier for each to take to private tuition with his Sire until the ceremony. The better for each Knight to evaluate his Squire’s readiness to be knighted.

Killian picked up a weighted practice sword, testing its balance. He was no less diligent about daily practice than he had ever been. Though there was less time for it now, with Queen Cora to appease. But she was essential to his future plans and so he was eager to obey. He pictured himself as her sword arm as she slowly bent the kingdom to her will. There was a path of blazing glory before him, at her side.

One day, he knew, he would outgrow her teachings. The student would become the conqueror. And then Queen Cora would be subject to her own dungeons. He’d let her prisoners look after her in the same way she cared for them.

With a self-satisfied smirk, Killian selected the blade he liked best.

To his surprise, Beau was now beside him. Beau gave a stiff bow. “Killian.”

“Come to duel a Page?” Killian asked, snidely, not bothering with formalities.

Beau’s mouth twisted. “No, I’m not one to pick an easy fight. I prefer a challenge.” He eyed the rack of practice swords then seemed to pick one at random, turning back to face Killian. “Up for a little exercise?”

Killian looked down at the other boy from his full height (at least a head above where Beau stood). “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a compliment. Think you’re good enough to give me a decent contest?”

Beau’s eyebrow rose slightly, his mouth quirking. “Always have been before.”

Killian scowled and led the way to an empty practice space. Across from one another, the two boys stretched and then bowed.

 “Don’t forget you guard that pretty face, Beau. Would hate to see you at my Knighthood ceremony with a black eye or a busted lip,” he taunted, taking an easy swing.

Beau took a defensive stance, blocking him swiftly. “I’d say the same, only I’d be lying.”

Killian playfully jabbed his sword toward Beau’s left shoulder and the boy danced away. “Lying? About seeing my face disfigured? Aren’t we bloodthirsty today…”

“About it being pretty in the first place,” Beau replied, nonplussed, as he aimed a body blow that Killian parried.

Killian bit back a grin. This felt good. “Perhaps your mother might disagree. Will she be coming to the ceremony? I’d be happy to show her around the palace.”

Beau frowned slightly but wiped it away with a look of concentration as they moved through a few more familiar steps. “I’m afraid my mother isn’t a very lively sort these days,” he said at last. “Unlike that Queen of yours.”

Killian stepped back just in time to avoid a well-aimed thrust. “Queen Cora?”

“Aye, that’s the one. I hear you’ve been keeping her quite a bit of company, these days. Does it extend into the night time, as well?” Beau blinked innocently at him as they circled one another.

Killian felt the bile rise at the very implication. Whatever Queen Cora was to him, it was not that. The mixture of fascination and envy that sat heavily within his belly would not allow him to even acknowledge her as a woman, let alone one anyone might find attractive. She was a means to an end. A necessary evil. He pursed his lips and drove suddenly at his opponent.

Beau managed to whirl out of the way but Killian pursued. They fought until both were sweating, swords locked.

“Did I touch a nerve, Killian?” Beau asked between panting breaths.

Killian pulled back, gasping and retook his favorite defensive stance at a safe distance.  “You would do well not to impugn the Queen’s reputation. You should only be so lucky to find so great a benefactress. What will Sir Cripple do for you once you’ve a title? Are you to be Knight Nursemaid?”

Beau’s mouth tightened but he merely shook his head. “Sir Rumplestiltskin has been the perfect Sire.”

“Perfect?” Killian barked a derisive laugh. “For you, I suppose a washed up, worthless ex-hero would be –“

Beau charged him suddenly, his face dark and brow furrowed. Killian met the blow with a defensive move but the force behind it jarred his shoulder. He disengaged as quickly as he could. Rolling the injured joint as discretely as possible, he raised an eyebrow at Beau. “Did I touch a nerve, Beau?”

Beau made a noise of disgust. “Well at least, I’ve a mind for the future. R- Sir Rumplestiltskin will provide well for me. But you… You’re at the mercy of the Magical Inquistor, now. Not just Sir Keith… Tell me, when Cora’s razed the land with her cruelty, then where will you be? What plans does she have for you? It won’t be a hero’s welcome you get back in Merchant’s Port, of that you can be certain.”

Killian hadn’t expected that question. He began circling once more to buy himself time to answer. “I’ve no need to discuss my future with you, lordling.”

Beau shrugged. “Oh, aye.  I’m certain. Just seems to me that your Queen has bigger plans than just ridding the Marchlands of Magic… Would be a shame if you weren’t included in them, after all this time…”

Killian narrowed his eyes. This was not like the Beau he knew. The Squire had a sharp tongue, but he rarely indulged in idle gossip. Not to mention that he had never engaged Killian when there was not a Master present. Something was off. “Why so interested in Queen Cora?” he demanded at last, on a hunch.

Ah, yes. There is was. The flare in Beau’s eyes that indicated a lie was about to form on those pink lips.

“I’ve no particular interest. Just find your situation… curious, is all.”

Beau’s eyes shifted away and back and Killian took the moment of distraction to barrel in again, sword pointed right at Beau’s chest. The younger boy cried out as the heavy wooden point hit his leather jerkin. He stumbled back, coughing, his sword pointed down in surrender.

 “Worry about your own situation, Squire,” Killian sneered.

He walked away, head held high. He had won. Over the flare of pride, he contemplated their conversation. This was no idle chatter. He could feel it. Beau was fishing for something. How much the boy knew already was uncertain, but something told him a report to his Queen was to be made.

That night found him across the table in her private chambers. The table between them was strewn with books and objects, little glass bottles with elaborate stoppers, a broken hand mirror, several coins with emblems he did not recognize. She had looked up at the mention of Sir Rumplestiltskin.

“You think this squire of his could be a danger to us?”

Killian shrugged, flopping into the chair opposite hers. “Beau is clever, I’ll give him that, but not nearly so careful or subtle as he ought to be. I just thought you might like to know he’d been snooping around about you.”

The Queen lowered her book. “I did not give you leave to sit, Squire.”

Killian leapt back to his feet, driving down the pull of anger and shame from deep in his belly. “My apologies, Majesty.”

Cora nodded, looking thoughtful. “Rumplestiltskin is fond of the brat?”

Killian fought the urge to shrug, again. “Beau is certainly fond of his Sire. Should have seen his face when I called the old sot worthless.” He chuckled.

The corner of Cora’s mouth quirked. “Well, Squire Killian, I think you have just discovered a golden opportunity for us both. You wish to be taken on as my Knight champion after the ceremony, don’t you? Don’t think I’m unaware of your  ambitions, child.” Her mouth curved into the smile that reminded Killian of a snake about to strike. “Time to prove your mettle.”

“Majesty?”

“Get rid of the Squire. You may chose the method, only do it quickly and discretely,” she looked at him calmly, as though ordering him to saddle her horse.

Killian swallowed hard, his heart suddenly pounding to split his chest. “Do you mean…?”

She nodded, that serpentine smile spreading wider. “Kill him.”

Chapter Text

To celebrate King George’s 50^th year, a great hunt was to be held in his honor. A parchment had arrived from King George, himself, stating that all his Knights at court were to participate. Sir Rumplestiltskin was to be no exception, despite his protests about his fitness to ride.

 And he was in a mood about it.

They had risen earlier than usual to prepare for the day. The hunt would begin shortly after breakfast and extend well into the day. After a brief rest, there would be feast for the evening meal. That, too was considered mandatory attendance for Sir Rumplestiltskin. There would be little time to change before dinner, but this hunt was more of a social outing than a true pursuit. Were it the Queen and not the King, they might well have called it a picnic. Still, it would require Rumplestiltskin to stay in the saddle for several hours. He managed well enough in recent days to go ahorse for a short distance. But he was usually stiff and sore for some time after. Not to mention the blow his pride took, being so challenged at a task that once came as second nature.

When Belle assured him she would stay by his side, it only seemed to make things worse.

“I’m not an invalid,” he scowled, adjusting his tunic with a tug that nearly ripped it at the seams.

“I’m aware of that, Sir,” Belle replied testily as she batted his hand away and straightened the fabric to its rightful place. She had been walking on eggshells for a week, trying to keep both their tempers in check. Though the brunt of her ire lay squarely with the King – that he would ask his loyal subject and former Squire to debase and injure himself merely for show… It got her blood near to boiling. Yet, she could not openly disagree with her liege. His was the law of the land, after all. Belle had spent the last several days seething silently over her inability to defy the cruel and unjust order.

 She smoothed a hand upward, over Rumplestiltskin’s tunic. She could feel his stomach muscles bunch and jump, even through the thick-woven brocade. Though he would not speak of it, she knew he must be nervous. She ran her hand over the fabric, once more, hoping to instill some sense of comfort. If anything, it only seemed to make him tenser.

He cleared his throat.

Reluctantly, she withdrew, stepping back to appraise him in his finery. It was the first time he had worn it since the day of her squireship ceremony. And then, she had been far too distracted to notice how the rich maroon complemented his golden brown eyes.

Now, she was able to simply take him in. Gold threads along the edging and embroidered into the insignia glinted in the spare morning light. His fine hair, clean and brushed smooth, fell softly around his face. The walking stick seemed to add dignity rather than mark his impairment, as he stood straight and tall. He looked every bit the storybook hero.

Her breath caught in her throat, irritation momentarily forgotten. “Oh, Rumple…stiltskin”

Her Sire pressed his lips to a thin line, shifting his weight nervously. “What?”

She bit back the rest of the foolish words that had come to her lips. It was bad enough that she had nearly slipped in calling him the pet name she used in her head. Sir Rumplestiltskin was her Knight Sire and a figure of her devotion and respect. But privately, she allowed herself to call him merely ‘Rumple,’ the man she loved and desired.

"Nothing, Sire." 

As soon as she could sneak away for a moment, Belle spoke to the hostler to ensure that Rumple’s mount would be tame and obliging. The shy boy assured her he would do his best. Leaving the stables, Belle happened across Squire Killian, also dressed for the hunt. They both stopped in their tracks, eying one another warily. At last, he ducked his head and went on his way without saying a word.  

It surprised her that he did not take the opportunity to gloat, but Belle had other things on her mind. Though the steady dull ache of the bruise on her chest reminded her of her failure to obtain the information she had wanted. She would try again, a different tactic, this time. Perhaps the drink at the feast would loosen Sir Keith’s lips. He was infamously fond of spirits. Though something told her Killian would have been a far more accurate source of information.

She shrugged off the thought, breaking into a run as she returned to the courtyard where the hunting party was gathering. The hostlers brought around the mounts. The King was first, of course. Followed by those closest to the throne. Then the Knights and their squires. After that were only a handful of stewards. The horn was blown and both dogs and hawks were loosed. Several of those who were young and eager to make their mark took off at a gallop.

Belle lingered behind with her Sire, pleased to see that his horse was of a pleasant disposition. Her own was a bit tetchy and skittish but she was a fair decent rider and did her best to calm it. Once they had reached the outskirts of the King’s Forest, His Majesty George IV called his knights to him.

Making a face that only Belle would see, Rumple trotted over to join his liege. Belle bit back a smile, but it faded quickly as she was herded off with the other Squires.

There was betting afoot and all present were speculating wildly whether the dogs or the hawks would catch more prey. The dogs had the advantage of being closer to the ground, but they were hindered by the jutting cliff to the side of the forest. The majority were favoring the hawks.

Belle idled nearby, only half listening, almost reflexively seeking out her Sire in the crowd of knights and nobles. No one was paying much attention to her and for that she was grateful.

And then everything happened entirely too fast.

There was a snake slithering across the ground at her horse’s feet. Her mount reared with a high pitched whinny and she felt something break on her saddle. She screamed, clutching the mare’s thick mane to keep her seat as the saddle slid sideways beneath her. This only seemed to heighten the horse’s fear and it took off at a gallop. Belle threw herself forward, wrapping both arms as well as she could around the horse’s thick neck, yelling every command she knew to make it stop.

The creature ignored her, dashing with frenzied determination through the trees, turning this way and that to avoid the big roots and low hanging branches.  Belle held as fast as she could and prayed to all the Gods she knew that the mad creature would stop before it hit the cliff. She kept her head ducked as the wind whipped against her. She could feel the animal beginning to sweat, making her grip slippery and even more difficult. The horse continued to make panicked noises, its hooves pounding an unknowable path. Branches dragged at her leggings and sleeves.

She watched the ground start to rise as they barreled down into the small valley clearing that separated the King’s Wood and the Enchanted Wood. That was good. The cliff was off to their right. If they kept this direction without veering, it was only more forest ahead. Better that than the sharp drop.

“Beau!” a familiar voice echoed behind her and hope flared within her chest.

“Rumple!” she shouted, choking against the rush of air as she raised her head just enough to get the word out. “Rumplestiltskin!”

“Beau!” he called again, this time closer.

She heard a second set of pounding hooves behind her, snapping branches and the labored breathing of Sir Rumple’s steed. He managed to pull alongside her, darting away to avoid a tree and then back.

“Take my hand!” He held it out to her, his eyes wild, face flushed from exertion and pain. “I’ll pull you over!”

As the line of trees began to thin, Belle released one handful of mane, gauging the distance between them.  If he pulled her, she could break her arm, or worse. “I’ll need to jump it,” she shouted back, ducking as they passed another low branch.

“Belle…” His eyes were wide and pleading, terrified.

She shook her head. “I can make it.”

But if she missed…

Belle grit her teeth. She could make it.

Fear coursing through her, she threw herself onto Sir Rumple’s horse. He caught her under both arms, just managing to pull her up before her feet could hit the ground. Freed of its troublesome burden, her own horse took off ahead, disappearing into the Enchanted Forest.

Belle was slung over the saddle for a moment, gasping for breath as Rumplestiltskin slowed his mount. She turned over, righting herself just enough to sit up, when she was pulled into a crushing embrace. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and returned it just as firmly. Rumple’s mount meandered to a stop and began nosing through a patch of grass as the two people atop it clutched at one another for dear life.

Rumple ran his hands up and down the length of her back, his breath hot against her hair. She kept both arms wound around his slim waist, never wanting to let him go.

After a moment, Belle realized that he was saying something. She pulled back just enough to see his face. “Sorry?”

There were tears in his eyes as he cupped her cheeks with trembling hands. “No. No, never be sorry. I am. I am so sorry, Belle. I could’ve lost you. My darling Belle…. Could’ve… Oh, gods… my Belle…”

A lump rose in her own throat, the blood still rushing in her veins. She shook her head vehemently. “Rumple… I…” she swallowed, thickly. To Hell with propriety, she thought giddly, as she leaned forward and finally pressed her lips to his.

He reacted immediately, pulling her even closer and sealing his mouth over hers. They were both still out of breath, hearts thrumming and limbs shaking. His leg must have been in screaming pain and her body was covered in stinging scratches and fresh bruises.

They held one another so tightly barely a breath could pass between them, her ribs creaking in protest.

And it was perfect.

It was so much more than Belle’s dream visions could ever have summoned, and all the sweeter for being real. His arms were whipcord strong around her and his lips gently demanding. They plucked at hers, the barest brush of his tongue darting out to taste her. They pulled back only as her lungs felt ready to burst. He laughed, almost madly, his hands coming up once more to frame her face. 

“Belle… my darling little Belle.”  He leaned down, touching his forehead to hers. There was such a sadness in it, her heart ached.

“I am, you know,” she whispered, almost to herself, “yours.”

His breath caught and he pressed his lips softly to hers once more. “Let’s get you to the medic.”

Belle shook her head. “They might ask me to undress. I’ve seen to myself for years, now. I’ve no broken bones to set or wounds to stitch.”

She felt him exhale shakily. “Thank the Gods for good fortune. I don’t know what I might have done, if…” He shuddered and held her close.

Belle pursed her lips as she tucked her head against his shoulder. Yes, she had been very lucky. But she had a sneaking suspicion that someone had not counted on her being so fortunate. Or on Rumplestiltskin being able to ride so hard in his condition.

Presently, it occurred to her that Rumplestiltskin did not seem at all bothered by his leg. Always curious, she opened her mouth to ask after it when she became aware of approaching hoofbeats. With what little strength still remained, she turned in the saddle, swinging herself astride the horse rather than facing her Sire. It would not do to be seen in such an intimate embrace. She slumped weakly back against him, fortitude completely sapped, at last. As members of the hunting party gathered around to inquire after her, Belle felt herself slipping away. She clung to awareness long enough to gruffly refuse a medic and request that Sir Rumplestiltskin escort her back to the palace.

As they rode away, Belle drifted off at last, cocooned safely in the embrace of the man she loved.

***

Killian was swearing to himself as he rode through the trees, searching out his target. He had thought the damaged saddle would be enough to throw Beau, once he’d spooked the horse. Yet the squire tenaciously stayed ahorse.

 And this after he’d fed the thing a mild hallucinogen! It was a skittish creature, new to the palace and not very well trained. Too much inbreeding already made it slow of mind and less than sure of foot. But he hated to leave anything to chance. A simple scare might not have been enough, after all. He had been sure to release more than one snake, setting off a few other reactions to cause further confusion. Beau’s horse and saddle might never even be found. If they were, the drug would have worn off by then. The saddle he had shorn to look like wear and tear. Likely the hostler would be blamed, or perhaps Beau, himself, for not having tended the leather properly.

Given the little time he’d had, it seemed to him a very good plan. It could be executed publicly enough that no suspicion could fall on any one person.  

It was a good plan.

If only that gods-forsaken Sire of Beau’s had not taken off like a shot. In the chaotic scramble, Sir Rumplestiltskin had not even hesitated. He had been nearly a blur in the distance by the time Killian followed. Seeing as Beau had clearly not fallen off, Killian was determined to find an opportunity to finish the job. Surely the crippled old man would not get there, first.

Killian thundered through the undergrowth. He reached the edge of a small clearing when he spotted Rumplestiltskin’s horse in the distance. It was grazing as two figures sat entwined on its back. Killian pulled up short, his eyes flying wide as he took in the wholly unexpected turn of events. He slowed to a halt, watching the scene before him unfurl with a mixture of disgust and fascination.

Cora might not be very pleased that he had failed in his initial task. But she would be overjoyed to learn he had obtained a far better prize for her. The key to destroying both Sir Cripple and his stalwart Squire lay ahead, plain as day.

Killian smiled.

Chapter Text

“This is preposterous!” Sir Rumplestiltskin sat up in bed to the best of his ability, his heart pounding in his chest. His leg gave a sharp stab of protest but he ignored it, trying his best to keep at least a modicum of dignity about him. He had been bedridden since the day before, after riding so hard to rescue Belle. It was nearly impossible for him to stand right now, which only added to the misery being piled upon him as the King’s accusation unfolded.

King George crossed his arms, glaring across the room at his former squire. “Is it, Sir? And yet, it is not unheard of. Only last year Sir Clayton lost his title over just such a case. And there was no eyewitness, that time. It has been decades since you took a wife. Years since you were even seen in the company of a woman. What proof have we, otherwise?”

Rumplestiltskin’s mouth fell open but he found he had no ready answer to that. That part, at least, was true. He’d had little interest in any woman since having his heart broken by the only two he had ever allowed himself to love. Belle had only managed to burrow her way in under the guise of a boy. It had begun to subtly, so guilelessly, that it was only once her sex was revealed that he realized the full weight of the torch he carried for her.

And now, this.

Someone had followed them out into the clearing without making their presence known. Someone had seen him kiss Belle in the moment of weakness that followed her near-death by runaway horse. No one had been named publically. The case had not even been announced, yet. But it would be if it had to go to trial. Given Sir Rumplestiltskin’s prominent place in the history of the Marchlands, a trial was nearly inevitable. And Beau of Avonlea would be ruined, if this unnamed witness were to testify.

Rumplestiltskin’s own reputation hung in tatters, an albatross around his neck more than a medal. But Belle… his sweet, darling Squire… her secret could hardly be kept if the clerics had their way. Rumplestiltskin shuddered just to think it. His poor beloved Belle, the fire flayed from her eyes, all her mighty dreams lost and broken with a touch from his lips.

He truly did destroy everything he loved. The Great and Brave Sir Rumplestiltskin had been nothing but a fraud. The man within was a little more than a pathetic nothing. Whatever Belle’s sweet young heart thought lay between them, he could not allow it to grow. His love was a poison.

Biting back the trembling in his voice, he turned to his own former Sire. “Please, Majesty. Beau is an innocent. Whatever this witness saw, he must have misconstrued. My Squire has never…. Nothing untoward has ever passed between us. It was only my joy at finding him alive that I may have… expressed too fervently. Only that. It was nothing more, I swear it, My Liege.”

Missing nothing, the King arched an eyebrow. “So you admit to having kissed the boy?”

Rumple swallowed hard and nodded, his face growing hot. He could still feel Belle’s soft lips on his, pressing so desperately against him, tearing away all his hard won self-control in an instant. “Aye. It was a… a friendly gesture.” He could not lie to his liege, he was honor bound. But neither could he disclose the full truth.

With a sound of disgust, the King slapped his hand down on the nearest table. “Good Gods, what were you thinking, man? If you must have fed such…” his nose wrinkled, “predilections, a discreet house of ill repute could surely have accommodated you!”

Rumplestiltskin shook his head, having nothing more to say that would change the King’s mind. Tears stung the backs of his eyes as rising bile did his throat. The King would never understand. King George did not have affectionate ties to anyone, not even his own wife. He treated interaction with those to whom he was closest as mostly transactional. He might be more indulgent to the Queen than to any other but it was always with a gruff sense of duty. From all appearances, King George had never loved another in the 50 years he had walked this earth.  It had given him a reputation of unerring fairness, but little mercy.

How could Rumplestiltskin possibly make him see how one might lose one’s head in a heated moment? Give in to the overwhelming pull of one’s most secret heart?

Rumplestiltskin wasn’t entirely certain he understood it, himself. It didn’t help that he and Belle had been separated the minute his Squire awoke. She had been taken into custody. He would have been remanded as well were he not already confined to a bed. When he woke, all he knew was that he and Belle were to be kept separate and questioned. The medics had offered him a tonic for the pain, but he refused, gritting his teeth against the agony. He needed to stay clear headed for this.

When King George, himself, arrived, Rumplestiltskin’s heart sank below the mattress.

He was being accused of buggery and the sexual coercion of his squire. Belle, for her part, had vehemently protested his innocence. This only left her open to accusations of having willingly participated in her own “corruption.”

Ever since magic had begun haunting their kingdom, King George seemed to keep his favorite clerics closer than ever. He had always been a religious man, but now there always seemed to be a priest of one God or another dripping poison in his willing ear.

Sir Clayton, who had actually been guilty of his crimes, was flayed in the public square before being driven out of town. It had seemed just enough, at the time. Until they turned to the man’s squire, who had been nothing but a victim to such heinous violation already. The clerics demanded the boy be cleansed. Sir Rumplestiltskin and Belle had heard the boy’s cries from halfway around the castle. In the end, the boy refused to return to court and was released to his family.

One little mistake. One stolen moment of joy and all of this, Rumplestiltskin had wrought.

At length, King George announced that the trial could wait until Sir Rumplestiltskin was once more able to stand on his own two feet. A small and bitter kindness due only to their long acquaintance. The King swept from the room, leaving it to be locked from the outside.

Once he was certain his former Sire would not return, Rumplestiltskin collapsed against his pillows and allowed his despair to overtake him in heavy, gasping sobs.

***

Belle was not in a cell. Not exactly. It was a small, round room that locked from the outside, but it was above ground and she was allowed a small bed and blanket. She had glimpsed the dungeons only once but it was enough to know that this room was a luxury by comparison. She supposed it was to do with her rank as a minor noble.

There was a steady flow of noise from the courtyard below. People and horses, the occasional yowling cat, the clacking of practice swords in the yard. She must be on the edge of the East wing to hear that so clearly. She made note of that, as though it were even remotely helpful to her, right now. The window was too narrow to fit through. Damn her now more womanly hips.

She paced the room until her feet ached, anger and fear alike roiling in her veins.

There was only the small window by which she could judge the position of the sun. It seemed to barely move as each hour dragged on. She’d have accomplished 6 new tasks or read half of a new book by the time the sun was even halfway to its high point in the sky. This idleness would be the death of her, unless the clerics got there first. She shuddered and shook off that thought. The initial interrogation had not been conducted by them, but she had felt their eyes on her. They did not believe her, of course, when she proclaimed both herself and her Sire as innocent. There was to be an examination by a Medic, to ascertain that Beau had not engaged in any so-called unsavory activities, willingly or unwillingly. The Medics would see to her after Sir Rumplestiltskin had also been questioned. For now, she was to wait. To reflect on her sins and choose the confession that they most wanted to hear.

Whatever else they might be looking to find, she was certain the Medics would have plenty to report if they did get their hands on her. So close to Knighthood and this was how she was to be revealed? She could have screamed at the injustice of it all.

Instead, she took to pacing once more until the sun had moved again and her racing heart had calmed itself slightly. Her feet still hurt. She could feel every bruise she had obtained in her fateful ride. She perched gingerly on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the blanket there. It had been patched many times but looked clean enough.

She wondered if Sir Clayton’s squire, a shy sweet boy whose name she struggled to remember, had sat upon this same bed. Wondering his own fate. Her lower lip trembled and she cursed the tears that would not be stopped. She curled up and wiped them away with the edge of the blanket, falling briefly into a restless sleep.

Water and food arrived with a burly guard. He looked at her blankly when she thanked him. He must be new to the palace, as she did not recognize him. Nor did he seem to place her. She noted that he had come alone and did not seem overly concerned with turning his back on her.

After she had eaten what little her churning stomach would allow, she lay back upon the bed for a time. She told herself stories until she could be still no longer. The sun moved once more to find her stretching her sore muscles. She ran through what basic exercises the space would allow.

Darkness fell and she was feeling more herself, at least. Her mind clear and her body limber, she awaited the return of her sole guard.

He did not disappoint.

The moment he turned to leave, she had struck him at the base of his skull with her chamberpot. The contents spilled down his back as he crumpled to the ground. She dragged his limp body into the small room. Stopping only to check that the hulking man still had a pulse (he did) and to lock the door behind her, Belle took off into the dimly lit palace hallway.

Aurora and Mulan had taught her well. She stuck to the shadows, using secret passageways and stairs. Light on her toes and soundless as a ghost, she made it to Sir Rumplestiltskin’s chambers. There was another guard dozing lightly outside their formerly shared antechamber.

She swallowed and pulled the key from her pocket. This was just like the games she and Gaston had once played, she reminded herself. Sneaking past her sleeping Dowayne and hiding in the rafters of the stable. Only then, she had been a reckless child, giggling into the darkness. Holding her breath, Belle slipped past the guard, fitting the key into the lock and turning until it clicked.

Rumplestiltskin was in his own room, abed but not asleep. He gasped slightly as she opened the door. She touched a finger to her lips and closed it behind her. Her hands shook as she approached him.

“I cannot stay. The Medics plan to examine me tomorrow and I had best be well on my way before they discover I’ve gone. But… I couldn’t leave without seeing you.”

“Oh Belle,” Rumplestiltskin breathed, pulling himself up to sitting and wincing as he did so. The pain must be great indeed for him to allow it to show so plainly. “Are you… have they harmed you?”

“Not yet. But they intend to. I can see it in their eyes.” Hesitantly, she edged onto the mattress beside him.

He lifted a hand toward her but let it drop before it reached her. His eyes were wide and sad in the moonlight. “Oh Gods, what have I… I… I couldn’t protect you. They took you while I was sleeping and I… I can’t even get out of this bed.” He looked away with a wry, bitter smile. “Some hero I’ve turned out to be.”

Belle reached for his hand, tucking it in hers. “Rumple… You saved my life. How is that not heroic?”

 His throat worked in silhouette. “I condemned you with a kiss.”

“I kissed you.”

“And I shouldn’t have let you.”

Belle felt her temper flare. “That was never up to you,” she informed him flatly.

For a moment, he looked taken aback, his fingers tightening reflexively around hers. For all the world, he looked like a man at the gallows, just before the drop.

“I’m leaving behind a letter to the King with a trusted friend. The clerics will never bring you to trial,” Belle whispered, shifting closer. Though only their hands touched, she could swear she felt the heat of his skin through the blanket.

He looked up at last, his mouth forming a thin line.  His dark, infinitely expressive eyes roved her face, searching for the answer to a question his lips would not form. In the silence, Belle wondered if he was going to kiss her goodbye. Or if it would only hurt all the more.

“You don’t have to leave,” he said at last, his words deliberate, emotionless.

Belle’s brow furrowed. “I’ve no choice, Rumple… Had I my knighthood, had I some great deeds to lay at the King’s feet, I might be better able to make my case. But I am a Squire whose only accomplishments have been in the practice yard. He will not look past the offense of my deception. Not now.”

Rumplestiltskin licked his lips, a strange light coming to his eyes. “No. Perhaps not. He… may not grant your knighthood. But you… you could stay. With me.” With a trembling hand, he reached as though to touch her cheek, then seemed to think the better of it. “As… as my wife….”

Belle’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes going wide. “Wife?” she squeaked.

Rumplestiltskin swallowed. “I know it’s… but… I could protect you. Keep you safe.” He looked at her, beseechingly.

Her head reeling, Belle gave a humorless laugh. “Do you trust your own teachings so little that you think me defenseless?” She pulled her hand from his, the contact no longer a comfort.

Rumplestiltskin’s mouth fell open. “No! I just… You would be seen as mine, by law. King George wouldn’t… the clerics could not lay a hand on you. I would ask nothing of you as a wife, I swear it. And you would be safe as a lady of the court.” His hands fisted in his blankets. “For... for the ruin I've brought you, I owe you no less," he finished, weakly. 

His by law. But not by choice.

Belle slid to her feet, stunned. In all her books, she had never heard of such a proposal. She suddenly remembered that he had not acknowledged her confession of love after their shared kiss. Perhaps he truly did not feel as she did, if he would ask for her hand in such a manner. “You owe me no such obligation, Sire.” She spat, at last, her jaw clenching.

 “No, not that!” he protested, shifting in the blankets to reach for her, the strain of just that small movement clear in his face. “It’s not an obligation. I… I do care for you, Belle…”

“You care for me?” she sputtered, her heart wrenching painfully within her chest. Care was not love, merely one ingredient. He did not love her as a man, after all. Merely as a Knight who wished to protect his Squire. “And this is how you would show it? Weeks from a knighthood and you would chain me to home and hearth, after all? Keep me as a bauble in a gilded cage?”

“I would never!”

Her temper rose once more, the words rushing out before she could think to stop them. “Do you think the King would ever allow your lady wife to wield her hard-earned shield in battle? To fight at his side? Or yours, for that matter? To seek her fortune roaming the countryside, bringing glory to the crown?” Belle’s hands clenched into fists as a maelstrom of emotion shook her to her core. “All of this time… all of these years… wasted. All my training would be meaningless to a lady of the court. No, Sire. A thousand times, no. I have made my path, against all odds, and I will not be imprisoned by the confines of my sex!”

Rumplestiltskin’s face was in shadow but she heard the raw pain in his hoarse voice. “Belle, please!  This is where you belong. You must stay!”

Belle stumbled back toward the door, her eyes blurring with angry tears. “No... I cannot." How could he not see it? Could he know her so little, after all this time? She took a ragged breath. "No one decides my fate but me."

Without a backward glance, she fled the room. 

Chapter Text

Walking through the dark hidden passages of the palace while blinded by tears was not ideal, but Belle pushed on. She had to leave the letters with someone she trusted. She had composed them quickly in her chamber once she had gathered what little she could carry on the run. They would not be looking for her, just yet. The guard who brought her dinner had been the only one assigned to her as far as she could tell. But it was only a matter of time. She figured she had until just before sunrise. It was early yet with the palace only just turned in for the evening.

She had thought to go to Snow but with her dear friend’s barely hidden affair with the crown prince was already likely to put her in a precarious position at court. Belle could not bring more scandal upon her. Ariel had long since forgiven her for the misunderstanding between them, but their friendship had suffered some degree of separation from it, nonetheless.  Aurora was sequestered away with her new husband. Prince Phillip did not seem unpleasant but Belle hadn’t the slightest idea whether he would be trustworthy.

And so, Belle found herself trusting her entire future to Lady Ruby.

Ruby’s chambers were small and generally unguarded. The lock on the door was easy enough to manipulate. Despite her racing heart, Belle kept a steady hand. She could thank her training as a Squire for that. As well as Mulan’s tutelage.

Ruby’s bed lay before a fireplace, enshrouded by a gauzy curtain. Belle pushed aside the slippery fabric and swallowed a small gasp of surprise. For, in the bed, lay not just Lady Ruby but Squire Victor, Belle’s sometime friend from her days as a Page.

His eyes flew open and he sat up. He wore no tunic but the blankets fell away to reveal cotton breeches. His movement stirred Ruby, who also rose with a start. She wore a linen nightgown but clutched the sheet to her with one hand. The other rapidly produced a dagger and pointed it at Belle. A quick glance told Belle the sheath was hidden beneath her pillow. She felt a prickle of pride at having taught Lady Ruby her first form of defense.

All three remained frozen for a moment. Then recognition seemed to dawn and both in the bed spoke at once.

“Beau?” Ruby whispered.

“What in Hell….?” Victor sputtered. “How did you even…?”

Belle displayed her open palms to show she was unarmed. “Please, I mean no harm at all. I’m… I’m leaving the palace and I needed to ask of Lady Ruby something very important.”

Victor’s brow furrowed. “Weren’t you arrested? Something to do with the hunt? Are you alright? I saw the horse take off…”

Belle gave a wry smile. “Word travels nearly as fast as manic horses, it seems.” She sighed. I am as well as can be expected, but I am no longer welcome among His Majesty’s Squires.”

Ruby looked between the two of them, the arm holding the knife lowering to her lap. “Did they find you out?” she asked, her look of shock softening to concern.

Belle blinked at Ruby. “You knew?”

Ruby shrugged, a half-smile gracing her wide, full mouth. “Suspected. Snow did too.”

Belle bit her bottom lip, oddly nervous, though it hardly mattered now. “Oh Gods…”

“Don’t worry,” Ruby reassured her, “she’s never said a word to David or anyone else.”

Victor cleared his throat. “Am I even allowed to ask? Or should I just assume there is a very good reason Squire Beau has broken into my Lady’s secluded chamber in the dark of night?”

Belle’s chin hit her chest. “I’m not a squire anymore. I’m not even Beau, anymore. Not really.” She glanced at the window. The moon was high. “And I have got to be on my way.”

From beneath her vest, she produced the two missives she had hastily composed. Both were closed with the seal of her house. One was to the King, himself, taking full blame for any seeming indiscretions between herself and Sir Rumplestiltskin. The other was of a similar nature but addressed to the head of the House of Clerics. She held them out to her friend. “Ruby, please, I need someone I can trust to deliver these letters as directly as possible. The very life of one I love more dearly than I can say is held in the balance.”

Ruby accepted both with a curt nod. “It will be done to the best of my abilities.”

Belle couldn’t help but glance at Squire Victor, who looked as though he was trying to do difficult sums without counting on his fingers. “Victor, are we still friends?”

He looked taken aback, “Of course, Beau. Or whoever you are.”

Ruby gave him an affectionate glance over her shoulder and Belle felt her heart twinge rather painfully. She would never have that, now. If it had ever even been a possibility, surely her furious dismissal of Rumplestiltskin’s proposal had quashed any romantic notions he might have held toward her. She could not regret her refusal, only the hasty, thoughtless manner in which it was delivered. Perhaps she could be a bit of a beast when her temper was riled.

She took a deep breath and addressed Victor once more. “Then, please, if you would do a long time friend one last favor?”

He nodded hesitantly. “Within reason.”

Tears were burning her eyes once more but she had cried herself dry already. Her lips trembled and she fought to shape the words. “Tell Sir Rumplestiltskin… Please tell him that I am sorry. That I’d have stayed if the choice was truly mine to make. Can you tell him that discreetly?”

Victor nodded again, sudden understanding in his eyes. “Yes.” Almost instinctively, his arm around Ruby seemed to tighten.

Ruby and Victor wished her luck on her journey and Belle thanked them repeatedly for the risk they were undertaking, small though it was compared to what lay ahead for her.

Under cover of night, Belle slipped out of the palace and took to the road.

She walked all night, taking the most heavily trafficked streets through the village. Most of the townsfolk were abed and those who were awake at this hour were just as keen not to be questioned as she was. She could get to the King’s Forest before sunrise, this way. And these roads were so frequently used that she would be much harder to track, even if they took the hounds.

By the time the city was at her back and the forest sprawled before her, her feet were aching. Her packs were not terribly heavy, though they carried almost everything she owned. She was simply more accustomed to riding, these days. Belle huffed in frustration at her own weakness. No matter, a few more days of this and she would toughen up in no time.  She had it on good authority that the Enchanted Forest, just beyond the King’s Forest, was full of misfits and outcasts. There were rumored to be whole nomadic tribes that made temporary homes in the shelter of the Forest during the rainy season. She hoped that perhaps she could find a place among them, or else move further out to the Border lands. But there were also bandits and very dangerous folk who were said to prey on innocent passersby in the Forest. For them she had prepared as best she could.

 A bow and quiver of arrows hung over one shoulder, her dagger was in the sheath at her belt and a small knife tucked into one boot. She had eyed the sword Rumple had given her for practice, but left it on her bed for him to find. It was not truly hers; it had merely been on loan. She wished she had been able to access the armory before setting out but there had not been time to devise a plan to get past the guards. These small weapons would have to do. At least she was quite skilled with each.

The first tinge of orange was beginning to paint the sky and Belle had not yet breached the line of trees. Concentrating all her dwindling energy into her legs, she pushed herself faster. As the sun was cresting the hill on which the Palace sat, the tall oaks, cedar, and fir trees were at last on either side of her. She moved further in, the canopy of leaves dimming the rising sunlight.

At length, she knew it was day. Her stomach growled and she slowed to pull out some of the rations she had managed to tuck away. It would last no more than a day or two, but she was a skilled enough hunter. And she could recognize most edible flora from her early days as a Page. One of their classes had covered survival in the wild quite extensively. She remembered some of the boys sleeping through it because the Master who taught it was quite dull. But she hung on every word. Some part of her always knew she would be travelling. She had not intended for it to be without her shield.

An unexpected sob rose in her throat and she choked it back. Not the time for that.

Rest. She needed a safe, secluded place to rest.

There were a few trees with branches that would clearly take her weight but only one or two of them had enough foliage to shield her from most casual glances. She decided on one and climbed up. Securing herself with a rope so that she would not fall off, she pulled her dull brown cape over her, for added camouflage. It was stuffy beneath the fabric, but she could not be too careful.

Settling as best she could in the crook of the branch, Belle let herself rest.

***

Belle woke to the sound of unfamiliar voices.  To her dismay, her cape had fallen to the ground below. She pressed herself back against the trunk, barely daring to breathe, and listened keenly.

“Golda. Would that I could say it was a pleasure to see you, again.” A man with a heavy baritone spoke.

A woman’s voice answered dryly. “And a good day to you, as well, Horace. Still chasing fairies or did the captain come up with some other way to keep you out of his hair for a while?”

The man addressed as Horace grunted. “You been poaching again? I hope the answer’s yes. I’m just itching to make an arrest today.”

Leaning as far over as she dared, Belle recognized the uniforms of the King’s Guard. It seemed they had stopped to question a dark skinned woman who was dressed in breeches and a tunic that were both dyed mottled browns and greens to match the forest.  The woman was the one the guards called Golda. Belle could not identify which soldier was Horace but the name was unfamiliar to her.  She spotted her brown cape near where Golda stood. The guards backs were to Belle but the other woman need only glance up once and Belle would be discovered.

The woman called Golda said something flippant and the guard growled a reply.

Belle untied herself quickly and quietly, coiling the rope into her bag, trying to formulate a plan, should she need one. Then she noticed it. Caught in the branches just above her was a fat gamebird. Its heart had been pierced by an arrow, its eyes fixed and glassy. Someone must have shot it down only moments before. Belle had a very good idea who.

Golda sighed impatiently. “I have committed no crime here. Either bring me in on false charges again and face the magistrate’s wrath or let me pass.”

“Fine,” spat the other guard, as Horace turned to look at him.

A hooded man idling at Horace’s other side brought his horse forward. “Before you go, woman,” he said the word with obvious distaste. “I would have a word.” His cloak was plain but of a rich crimson fabric and he sat rigidly straight on his horse.

A cleric.

Belle’s blood ran cold and she winged a silent prayer skyward for the Gods to keep her safe. She knew very well by now that it was not the work of the Gods that the clerics did, whatever their saintly claims. It was the work of greedy men, contracts with the state forged in blood.

Even this fearless woman who spoke so tersely to the King’s guard seemed shaken by the cleric’s attentions. She recovered quickly, giving him a brisk nod. “Alright then, ask.”

“Have you seen a boy travelling these woods? No more than 17 summers, fragile of frame but, ah, stronger than he looks? Brown hair and blue eyes, easily a head shorter than yourself.”

Golda studied the cleric with narrow eyes, a stubborn set to her jaw. “Hmm. A boy, you say?” She turned her face, scratching at her springy head of hair. Her eyes flicked, almost imperceptibly, to where Belle was hiding and then away. “Can’t say that I have. Have I leave to go, now?”

The guards and cleric dismissed her and Belle found she could breathe once more. There was no doubt the woman had seen her, but the rest had not even glanced up. They conferred quietly below and took off further into the forest.

When they were no longer even a speck in the distance, Belle tied a rope to the gamebird’s feet and lowered it to where she could grab it from the ground. No point letting good food go to waste. Everything was stiff and aching as she climbed down, but she was careful to leave no mark on the tree. Standing at last, she stretched, with effort, and scanned the ground for her fallen cloak. It was not where it had been. Neither was the bird.

“Looking for this, youngling?” Golda held the cloak aloft in one hand, the other on the hilt of her dagger. Belle could see the bird on the ground just behind her, still bound by the feet with Belle’s rope.

Belle’s hand flew to where her sword would have been, adjusting at the last minute to land at her own dagger.

Golda’s sharp gaze caught the fumble. “Noble, are you?”

Belle eyed the woman warily. She had lied to the King’s guard, but that did not make her a friend. “May I please have my cloak back, ma’am?”

Golda grinned. “Well, at least you’re polite.” Her hand came away from her dagger hilt and she held it palm out. “I’ll return it happily. If you’ll tell me why you’re out here sleeping in trees.”

Belle shook her head. “No deal.”

“Boy your age, all on his own… clearly on the run. You could use a friend.”

“Why would you want to befriend me?” Belle’s eyes narrowed.

“Didn’t say it was me.” Golda shrugged, her face neutral. “Though any enemy of the King’s Guard is certainly worth knowing.”

Belle still hesitated. “Who, then?”

A tall, slender man stepped out from behind a tree. “Me. She means me, Beau of Avonlea.”

 “Will!” All thoughts of fighting forgotten, Belle ran toward her erstwhile friend, arms outstretched. They hugged tightly, slapping one another noisily on the back. With a whoop of mirth, he picked her up and spun her around. Belle squawked an indignant protest and he set her down laughing.

“Gods above! Little lordling Beau, is it? What brings you all the way out here?” He pulled away, looking her up and down with clear alarm. Behind him, Belle could see Golda laughing and gathering up her bird.

In her excitement, Belle nearly forgot to pitch her voice low and corrected at the last moment, the start of her sentence coming out in nearly a squeak. “I had to leave the palace. I’m… well, I suppose I’m in hiding, now…” She frowned.

Will’s grin just got wider. “Well, then you are in the best of company.” He led her over to Golda. “This here’s Golda Locke, loathed of the King's Guard and a friend and personal hero to yours truly.”

Belle smiled sheepishly and shook the other woman’s hand. “I really ought to thank you for – ”

“S’nothing,” the woman waved her hand dismissively and handed over Belle’s cloak. “I mentioned you to Will, here and he thought he might know you. Besides, I wasn’t about to leave behind a bird this size.” She indicated the rope slung over her shoulder. “Should be enough stew for everyone.”

“Aye, if we get to it before Little Jon does,” Will agreed, amiably.

Golda nodded, her face softening. “Baby’s always had quite the appetite.”

“He did ask you to stop calling him that, you know,” Will said.

Golda snorted. “Let’s see him try and make me. Well, let’s get a move on, lads. Time waits for no one.”

Belle turned to Will, “Where are we going?”

Will put one lanky arm around her shoulders, “I like to call it… home.”

Chapter Text

Belle kept pace with her companions, despite their much longer legs. Along the way, Will told the tale of how he’d come to join Robin Hood’s men. Will had been wandering the wood, too hurt to return to the palace, too angry to do much good at anything else. The renowned bandit, it seemed, had a soft touch when it came to those without a place to call their own. 

Back at camp, she was introduced to Robin, his son Roland, and several other faces that were unknown but friendly. The man that Golda called "Baby" and everyone else called Little Jon was a bearded behemoth with a bit of a slow wit but a smile for all.

A man in a torn cleric’s cloak gave her pause until he and a few others reassured her that he was one of them. His name was Tuck and he was a drunk but a good-hearted man. He’d left the clergy years ago, when he saw how corrupt his church was becoming. She made a mental note to get to know him better when he was sober.

There were a few others who had left or deserted posts at the palace, all for reasons of injustice. Some were of noble birth and she recognized their titles. Some were abandoned orphans, some were thieves, and some never spoke of their pasts. Most had been on the lam at some point in their lives.

Robin Hood informed her that all were welcome so long as they meant no harm. They lived by a code similar to that of chivalry. They only stole from the rich. They gave all that they could spare to the poor of the surrounding villages. They kept only what they needed to survive. One could leave at any time, but few did. The woods were a lonely place and few wished to venture through them alone. 

Belle’s heart was gladdened to see so many from all walks of life bonded together in brotherhood. She’d never seen such a merry gathering. It reminded her some of her early days as a page, serving together out of loyalty to one another more than just the crown.

As the group fell back to their tasks for the day, Will pulled her aside. “So, there is certainly a story here. Are you willing to tell me it?

Belle’s teeth sank into her lower lip. “I’m… not welcome at the palace any longer.”

Will’s mouth twisted, his eyes all tender concern. “Find out you’re a girl, did they?”

Belle turned her face the sky with a sound of exasperation. “Gods above, was I fooling anyone?” Sighing, she looked back at Will. “So, how did you know?”

Will looked bemused. “Lucky guess, really. I mean, look at ya’ – still such a titchy thing after all this time…”

Momentarily distracted from her current plight, Belle frowned. “Do you think the other boys knew?”

“Nah. They’re all so blinded by their bloody rules and traditions. No one would have expected you. I’m a free thinker, I am. Not bound by their narrow-minded view of the world.” He tapped his temple with one finger and grinned.

Overcome by his easy acceptance, Belle threw her arms around him once more. He returned the second hug with just as much gusto. She was fighting back tears as the madness of the last couple days washed over her. Even as they pulled apart, she struggled to get herself back under control.

“So, what’s happened, then Be- should I still call you Beau?”

Belle scrubbed at her eyes with both hands. “It’s Belle. But I’ll answer to either.”

 “Alright. Belle. Always knew you were something special. And not just ‘cause you beat me out at the Trials. Better to have been bested by you than Tom the Ogre. Or worse, that smarmy bastard, Killian. Has he been run through yet, by the by?” Will looked expectantly down at her.

 “No. In fact, I think…” she looked around them but the other men in the camp all seemed to be occupied. No one was paying their teary reunion any mind. She kept her voice low anyway, just in case. “I think he’s fallen in with someone far worse than he ever was. Killian was only a bully. But there are those at the High Court who can use that kind of natural malice for their own purposes.”  Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “I think he was given orders to kill me.”

Will’s eyes flew wide. “By who?”

She shook her head. “Not here. Can we talk later? In private?”

Will wrapped an arm loosely around Belle’s shoulders. “Of course, duckling. I think we’ve even got an extra tent if you’d like to stay a while. Or you can bunk in with Mulan, if you prefer company. Fair warning, she’s not always the friendliest person first thing in the morning.”

“I am much friendlier to those who are not so loud.”

At the sound of Mulan’s voice, Belle turned her head. She pulled away from Will’s side to bow deeply to the delegate’s daughter. Mulan returned the bow in her own graceful style. The two girls then broke out into laughter and fell into an eager hug.

“So… I take it you’ve met before.” Will looked between them as they continued to beam at one another.

Belle nodded. “Mulan and I became friends after… after you left.” She winced slightly, afraid she may have plucked at a nerve. Will remained nonplussed but obviously curious. Belle searched for a quick, neutral explanation. “We had a mutual friend who thought we would get on. Mulan was one of the only ones to know my secret.” To Mulan, she said. “I thought you had gone back to the Jade Isles! How did you come to be here?”

Mulan shook her head, emotions plainly warring in her almond shaped eyes. “I could not leave. I know it is a sad, pathetic reason, but I just could not make myself be so far away from her…”

Belle grasped both of Mulan’s hands and squeezed them lightly. “Not pathetic. Human. I couldn’t have gone, either. Not so far away as that.”

Will cleared his throat and both girls turned to look at him. “Are we speaking in code now, or am I allowed to ask?”

Mulan sighed heavily. “Come to my tent and we can talk. We may as well bring this one,” she inclined her head toward Will, “or he will never stop asking questions.”

Will blustered out a protest and Mulan rolled her eyes but it was clear the two were quite fond of one another. They sat crosslegged in Mulan’s tent and passed around a small jug of tea as Belle filled them in on her last couple of years at the palace. When she mentioned how Rumplestiltskin had learned of her true gender, Will snorted loudly and Mulan hid a smile behind one hand. Belle felt herself blush to the roots of her hair but ignored them both.

“So, Sir Rumplestiltskin, he didn’t try to get too, uh, friendly with you, did he? Once he found out?” Will raised an eyebrow suggestively.

Belle flushed again, remembering the firm, yearning press of Rumple’s lips to hers. She could still smell the spice and tang of sweat that lingered in his chambers, still feel his arms wrapping tightly around her.

“No,” she lied, flatly. “He was never… it was never like that. He’s an honorable man.” That, at least, was quite true. Too honorable by far was the great Sir Rumplestiltskin. She brushed away the tinge of anger and regret she still felt over his hasty, misguided proposal.

Will seemed satisfied with her answer, but she could feel the suspicion in Mulan’s gaze. Belle continued on. She related the hunt and Rumple’s brave rescue, omitting the kiss, and skipping straight to the unfounded accusation. Will and Mulan both made sounds of shock and fury at the way the mockery of justice had played out.

“The thing is, it wasn’t just Killian. Killian and I have never gotten along, but he couldn’t have pulled all that off on his own. The King would not listen to an accusation from a mere squire. And Sir Keith, his Sire, has no reason to wish me ill. But I think I know who does. Only, I’m not entirely clear on the why,” Belle concluded.

Will blinked at her. “Well? Are you gonna bloody tell us who it is so we can help you kill him?”

“Or bring him to proper justice,” Mulan amended, her fists clenching in her lap.

Belle hesitated. She had been thinking it for days, but to actually say it aloud was a frightening prospect. She leaned in toward her friends and whispered, “Queen Cora.”

“Snow White’s step-mum?” Will looked taken aback. “Why would she want you dead?”

Belle shook her head. “I don’t know exactly but I think it has to do with Rum—Sir Rumplestiltskin. They have… some sort of history.” She ignored that churning in the pit of her stomach that always made an appearance when she thought of what she had seen between Rumple and Cora. “I wanted to find out what it was and I think I got a little too close to something she didn’t want me to see.”

“Could you not ask Sir Rumplestiltskin?”  Mulan asked.

“He wouldn’t tell me. At least not everything. And I… was curious,” Belle confessed. Once more she could feel Mulan’s silent appraisal.

“So are cats but they’ve got nine lives, at least. Gods above, Belle…. Wanted dead by the Magic Inquisitor herself….” Will gave a low whistle.

Mulan turned abruptly to Will. “I think it is time that I made Belle at home before I leave for watch, Will.”

He turned back, oblivious to the edge in Mulan’s voice. “Not much else to do here…  I can keep her company til light’s out.”

Belle rested a hand on Will’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you too, Will but we can catch up in the morning. I… I do have something I’d like to discuss with Mulan in private.”

Will swore. “I’ve known you as a girl for less than a day and you’re already a mystery. Some luck I’ve got with friends, eh?” The words were belied by a goofy grin he flashed before leaning over to kiss Belle’s cheek. “Suppose that’s me off til morning. ‘Night you two.” And he ducked out of the tent.

Belle shuffled closer to Mulan, grabbing her hands. “I do need to speak with you, but I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”

“And I you. Sir Rumplestiltskin. What is he to you?”

Belle’s mouth fell open. “My… he is – was – my Sire. My mentor and friend.”

Mulan nodded, studying her. “And you love him.” It was not a question.

Unexpected tears pricked Belle’s eyes and she blinked them away. “You are too observant by half, my friend.” She looked up again. “I have missed you…. But not so much as Contessa Aurora has.”

Mulan withdrew her hands, her face shuttering. “I do not wish to speak of her.” She began to back away.

Belle grasped at empty air as the story came spilling forth. “She still loves you! Her father made her write those terrible things. He forced her. She never meant a word of it, I swear. I was only allowed to see her once but she used that small opportunity to give me a note revealing the truth – ”

“Enough!” Mulan held out one hand, palm flat, as though to halt the flow of Belle’s words.

“She loves you, Mulan!” Belle insisted.

“And what of it? Love bridges no impassable chasms. Love changes nothing. You love your Sire quite plainly and yet you are not by his side.  I could not leave the kingdom because love chains me here and it is a harsh mistress.”  Mulan’s eyes were dark, her face hardened. “I have trained as a warrior from the time I could walk. There were days when my body was so mottled black and blue, I knew not the color of my own flesh.” She looked away. “But no wound had ever cut so deep or hurt so long as the words that Aurora put to that page.”

Belle began to object but Mulan silenced her with a look.

“I know that they were lies. I knew even as I read them. I love Aurora. I love her still and my heart shall have no other. But how could I look upon her as I once did knowing that she is capable of such cruelty?” Mulan’s hands fell limply to her sides, unshed tears shining in the low lamplight. “No, it was not with love that her hand took up that quill. Not for me. Love could never write those words.”

“Love for a father could,” Belle added, quietly.

Mulan blinked rapidly, her ire fading. “What?”

“Her father meant to challenge you to a duel.”

Mulan scoffed. “Her father was no threat to me!”

“He knew that. He intended to shame you both by forcing you to take his life. You’d have been bound by honor.” Belle shifted closer. “He was horrible man to do as he did, but he is still her father and she could no more let you take his life than your own. Aurora did the only thing she could to save you both. She obeyed. Tell me, honestly, could you have done any different?”

Mulan’s mouth fell open, her bottom lip trembling. Silent tears sipped down her cheeks. Without wiping them away, she rose and exited the tent.

Belle followed her. “Mulan, I didn’t mean to…”

Mulan stopped walking but did not turn, her shoulders were a stiff line. “Tell Robin that I have gone to my post on the watchtower. My tent is yours. Good night, Belle.”

Chapter Text

Rumplestiltskin was walking again. More by necessity than choice. Too many days abed had left him stiff and in nearly as much pain as when the injury was fresh.  He leaned heavily on his staff, trying not to wince as he slowly took the circuitous route around the palace grounds. There was no one visibly about but he would keep his dignity, what was left of it, as best he could even in private. The King had allowed him to leave his rooms weeks ago but it took him until the past few days to do so. What was there for him outside those doors? Nothing but suspicious looks and derision from those who had once called him a living legend.

The finer details of the case had never been released, and he had been officially cleared of all charges. Some word must have escaped. By the mutterings that reached his ears, Rumplestiltskin knew that it was not kind toward either him or his erstwhile squire. On paper, Beau of Avonlea had been condemned in absentia, banned from ever taking the Knighthood. In the court of public opinion, Sir Rumplestilstkin was seen as greatly, if not solely, to blame for his squire’s absence and subsequent sentence.

Rumplestiltskin had not seen the letters Belle sent to the King and clerics but portions of their contents had been revealed to him. In essence, she had fallen on her sword. For him, worthless wretch that he was. Belle had given up the one thing that meant the most to her in all the world to ensure he would not be punished for their indiscretion. In a few pen strokes, she had proven herself a greater hero than he could ever hope to be.

And now she was gone.

His chambers were too cold and gray without her presence and her laughter to fill them. Yet, he hid within because the world outside of those bleak stone walls seemed infinitely crueler.

The King would have been content to have him stay thus concealed, now, like so many other dirty secrets within the palace. The benefit of this was that he was no longer required to take meals in the Great Hall. A servant delivered a tray of food to his chambers three times each day, but they went mostly uneaten. Rumplestiltskin found he had little desire to do anything but sleep. Food had lost its flavor, the sun its heat, and even the finest wine its pungent headiness.

Once he’d been able to leave the bed out of more than necessity, he lingered in the antechamber, fiddling with game pieces. He set up the game board in an attempt to enliven his mind. More than sword or bow, his mind had always been his sharpest weapon. But every strategy he employed only made him wonder how Belle might defend against it. In the end, he had scattered the pieces with a sweep of his hand and dashed the board against the wall. It had splintered and broken in half, which felt oddly fitting. He’d left it on the ground for several days, a reminder of some kind. Though he wasn’t sure exactly what.

Eventually, a servant must have cleaned it up while he slept.

It was only when the medic informed him that he might permanently lose proper use of his legs if he did not exercise them that he began to walk. It shouldn’t have mattered but the thought of being once more dependent on others for his daily needs was abhorrent enough to rouse him. The first time or two, he had only gone halfway around before limping home. This was the first time he’d managed to get as far as that painfully familiar tree. The one where he‘d first met Belle. That peculiar little Page, teaching the ladies to fence.

How strange it was to think on it, now. How he had been drawn to the boy’s impertinence and foolhardy notions of chivalry. Of course, time had proven Rumplestiltskin to be the true fool. He’d wanted to protect Beau, the boy with such innocence and ideals. It was the boy he’d grown to trust and care for, but the woman that he’d come to love.

Rumplestiltskin shook his head as though the motion could clear his thoughts of her face, the gentle way she said his name, the hurt in her cerulean eyes at his clumsy proposal. He’d only wanted to keep her close and keep her safe. The words had come out all wrong. He knew he had no right to her love and he would make no claim on it, even after their kiss in the wood. She was so very young. Still so full of fire and life, romanticism and promise. He was barely more than a guttering spark. Whatever she might have thought she felt in that moment their lips were joined… he could not possibly expect it to last.

What little experience he had with love and marriage had always ended in acrimony and loathing. He had come to expect little else but watching the love in a woman’s eyes die. Yet, he knew that he would have stayed by her side so long as she would have allowed him. Until she cast him away, as all others did. He’d have endured the pain of her future rejection to ensure her present safety.

Belle had not seen it that way, at all. His offer had left her injured, because she thought it a trap. She thought him as boorish as any noble oaf who might seek her hand only to shackle it. Perhaps she was right. There was little merit in her remaining at the palace, but to stay by his side. Which would only serve his own selfish desires. Belle was meant to be free. To decide her own fate, as she’d put it.

If you love something, let it go. He’d never been very good at that.

Rumplestiltskin exhaled deeply. His only cold comfort was in the thought that Belle would move on and live the life she’d been born to. She had made her choice and he could quietly abide by that, even as he allowed himself to fade away.

The sky above him was heather-purple, the first hint of light streaking it with pinks and oranges. Nary a cloud in sight. It promised to be a beautiful day and all he wanted to do was go back to his lonely bed. Rumplestiltskin hurried his pace and swore loudly when he stumbled, pain shooting up his bad leg.

“Sir?”

The unfamiliar voice caught his attention and he looked up, scowling. The young man approaching him was one he recognized from court. A squire in Belle’s year from some highborn family or another.

The young man stopped a few feet away and gave a perfunctory bow. “Sir, I would speak with you, if I may.”

Rumplestiltskin eyed him warily. “Why?”

The man glanced cautiously around them and lowered his voice. “I…” he took a deep breath, “I bear a private message. From Squ- from Beau.”

Rumplestiltskin’s heart thumped painfully in his narrow chest. “Who are you?”

“Squire Victor Von Franken, Sir. Beau is – was – is my friend. I promised him the night he left that I would get word to you, but I’ve not been able to get to you until now without being seen.” Another look behind him. “I must speak quickly. My Sire will be rising soon.” He moved closer. “Sir, Beau asked me to tell you this: He would have stayed, had the choice been truly his to make. He said that he is sorry.”

Rumplestiltskin’s breath caught in his throat, his eyes suddenly burning and damp. “Is… is that all, Squire?”

Victor nodded. “It was all he had time to say. But I believe he meant every word. I… it is not my place to say, Sir, but I believe he was more distraught over leaving you than having to leave the palace.”

“But leave he did,” Rumplestiltskin rasped, clutching his staff so tightly his bones creaked.

Victor’s brow creased and he spoke in a small whisper, so quiet that Rumplestiltskin leaned closer to hear.

“Begging your pardon, but… I know that look. Beau loves you, of that I am certain. From one man in love to another… you have my sympathies,” the younger man extended his hand.

“You are right, Squire.” Rumplestiltskin did not take the proffered hand, the image of the man before him blurred. His lips were trembling, his stomach in knots. “It is not your place to say.”

Victor’s eyes narrowed as his arm dropped to his side. “Then, a good day to you, Sir.” He turned on one heel and took off across the courtyard.

Behind him, Rumplestiltskin closed his eyes tightly and felt his world break apart just a little bit more.

***

In the weeks that followed, Belle fell into a routine with Hood’s other Merry Men. Some referred to her as Belle, others had picked up Will’s habit of still calling her Beau. Boy or girl, they didn’t care a whit once she’d proven herself useful. The men and women of Hood’s motley band were not so unruly as they first appeared. They slept, ate, hunted, and caroused together in shifts. The handful of children, including Hood’s own son, helped out as best they could. Overnight guard duty was rotated weekly. Every few days, Robin would gather a few of his most trusted and they would take off for the King’s road. With all the troubles about in the kingdom, they often returned empty handed, but with their spirits undiminished. Robin was a charismatic leader and Belle could easily see why his crew was so eager to follow him.

The former cleric, a man known as Tuck, was the only exception to most duties. He often stayed behind to mind the camp and to cook. He was a fair hand at a hearty stew, even with the sparse game these days. He was a bit too fond of spirits for Belle’s tastes but his heart was clearly in the right place. No one would ever go hungry under his care. He took great pains to ensure it.

Golda, Belle discovered, was not a regular feature of Hood’s camp. She stopped by frequently, usually to chat with Little John and check on some of the other boys. She was protective of the younger lads, a mama bear with her cubs. There were days at a time, however, where the older woman was nowhere to be seen. She would often return with pelts and joints of meat, but no one ever asked where she’d gotten them.

One day, over a late midday meal, Little John proudly informed Belle that he had once been Golda’s apprentice.

“Best tracker in the land, she is,” the large man said with a wide grin.

“Are you still her apprentice?”

Little John’s face fell. “Uh, no. She still loves me like a mam, but I wasn’t any good at it. Lost her the biggest prize of her career, truth be told. She’s got a temper on her something fierce, but we’ve patched it all up, now. Still, if we ever needed proof I weren’t no tracker… the unicorn was just that." John gave her a sad smile. "But, I’m better off with Robin. He likes having a big feller around to scare them witless nobles.” His expression cheered as he added that but Belle’s attention had been captured by the earlier admission.

Her eyes went wide. “Unicorn? Did you really see a unicorn?”

John nodded. “Oh aye. Large as life and black as night. A real beauty.” He shook his head, forlornly. “We’d been on its trail for days. So close but never the right distance or angle for a proper capture. Couldn’t just kill it, right? Not something that bleedin’ majestic. But it was a smart bugger, slipped through our fingers like water. So, we finally got it nearly cornered. Perfect spot to trap it, all we had to do was get the drop. But I’ve feet like a bloody ogre and back then I was all elbows, anyway. It got away and we never saw the like in the forest, again. Searched for weeks but the trail had gone cold.”

Belle’s mouth had dropped open and she reminded herself to close it or risk catching flies. “Gods above, what a thing to have seen! I can only imagine…”

Little John tilted his head to the side. “Your uh, friend, Will, saw it too. He’s a might better storyteller than me, I’ll bet. Quick to open his mouth around anything in a skirt, anyway. Surprised he never told you yon tale.”

That came as a second shock but Belle merely shrugged, affecting a sheepish smile. “Must have slipped his mind.” She glanced at the canopy of trees to gauge the position of the sun. “If you’ll pardon me, Little John, I have some things that need tending.”  She took the half eaten bowl of stew from her lap and placed it on the log between them. “Would you like the rest of this?”

John frowned slightly, glancing at the bowl and rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, look, Belle… Just ‘cause I seen a unicorn don’t mean I’m not… that is, with the girls… I’m quite popular with them, too. Don’t go chasing after ‘em like Will does but I’ve had, uh. I know how to… make a girl quite happy.” He looked down at his feet, his cheeks coloring. “That is, if… if she’ll let me?” He looked back at her face, his eyes bright and hopeful.

Belle stood quickly as she recognized the look for what it was. “Oh! John, it’s not… not that I’m not flattered, and you’re very kind… but… I’m not… Um…”

“Her heart belongs to another, Little John. Leave the girl be,” Mulan interrupted smoothly, scooping up the wooden bowl that Belle had put down. She drained it in a gulp and walked away chewing.

Belle made another brief apology to the downcast John and took off after the other woman.

“You needn’t be so cold, Mulan…”

Mulan half turned toward her, “Do you know how many times I have heard that unicorn story? He and Will have a bet on how many of the village girls they can tumble by winter equinox.”

“Oh.” Belle blushed. “I suppose I ought to have known. I feel a bit foolish, now.”

Mulan inclined her head. “Belle, you’ve a very pretty face and figure. The world will be much different now that you’re a girl, again. Lucky you’re not looking to be swept off your feet any more than I. Though if you wish to lie with any in this camp, there’s hardly a man would say no. It is your choice, my friend.”

Belle’s eyebrows raised. “This time in the woods has changed you, if you can speak so easily about the act of love. There was a time, you would only speak of it to… ” She trailed off, not wishing to invoke the name that had made things uneasy between them upon Belle’s arrival.

Mulan gave her a tight smile. “I am not so fragile as that, Lady. Like you, I’ve no joy in seeking out a lover for merely the sake of touch. But I cannot hold ill will against those who do. It is a lonely world and I have come to recognize that people may take their warmth where they can find it.

Belle clasped her friend’s hand. “I understand. Like you, there is only one person I have ever truly wanted in my bed. And we may as well be worlds apart for all that seems a possibility, now.”

Mulan nodded. “Yes, I do believe it is your heart and not your virtue that will keep you safe from any intended lechery. Failing that, your sword arm. And mine.” She offered up a grin, squeezing Belle’s hand.

Chapter Text

Regina had always loved the stables.

She’d spent much of her childhood around horses, fascinated and comforted by their gentle majesty. When her mother flew into one of those terrifying rages, Regina would retreat to the stables. She had been riding from practically the time she could walk. She loved the feeling of the wind on her face, the world blurring past, as she expertly controlled the shanks of the animal with just a twitch of her knees. Her father’s estate was not the largest in their corner of the kingdom, but Regina never got bored, cantering through the plains or racing up and down the rolling hills.

Her father, Duke Henry, was a feeble and phlegmatic man but he shared his daughter’s love of riding. Together, they would escape Mother’s temper over the latest social slight she had perceived or experiment that had failed. Mother had a little room in the East tower to which only she held the key. It belched strange, foul smelling smokes and flared with odd colors. Mother was frequently displeased when she emerged from it.  

 Regina’s earliest happy memories were of traversing the grassy lands on the outskirts of the swamps, laughing with her father over the silly faces Mother made when she yelled. Mother wasn’t quite so scary when you had someone to laugh with.

The laughter died when Regina was 12.

One moment, Duke Henry was by her side. The next he was pale and cold as marble, laid out in a varnished wooden box.  The next thing she knew, she and Mother had shipped off to the Great Palace. The only solace young Regina could find in this enormous and foreign place was among the Palace horses. She’d not been allowed to bring her own, a handsome gelding, named SeaStorm for his blue-green eyes.

It was there, crying over a fresh bale of hay, that Regina first met a young hostler named Daniel. He was barely 13. He had dirty hands and swathe of brown hair that always fell in his eyes. He spoke to her gently and offered her a hand up. She haughtily refused him, not daring to let his lowborn filth near her, despite the fact the hem of her dress was already quite ruined. He had taken her rejection in stride and gone about tending the nearest horse. It was a dappled brown and white, she remembered that for years after, even when the words of their actual conversation had long been lost to time.

He was so kind, so thorough and attentive to the animal that Regina found herself staring at them both. If he noticed, he said not. He asked if she would like an introduction. Forgetting their obvious differences in status, focused solely on the dapple, she agreed. Over the next few weeks, Daniel introduced Regina to each horse in the Palace stable. He showed her how some of the more unusual saddles worked and how to mount even the tallest steed without a stool or even a servant to assist.

For the first time since her father passed, Regina began to smile.

Soon, Cora had taken a second husband. King Leopold was a mild mannered widower with 8 year old daughter named Snow White. Regina had little interest in her new sister, but the girl took to her immediately, following her around at every opportunity. There was something charming in being so adored and Regina warmed slowly to the child. Snow White was of a sunny, pleasant disposition. Everyone who met her seemed to adore her, except her step mother. Cora tolerated the girl, pretending to fawn over her in the presence of King Leopold, but Regina knew Mother better than that. There was a cold hatred in her eyes when she looked at Snow White. Regina, already frightened of her mother’s considerable wrath, said nothing.

She maintained her silence as her new step-father met an untimely end. She had wanted to comfort Snow White, to share the pain of having lost a beloved father. But even then, Regina was her mother’s daughter and did not know how to offer comfort. Some part of her felt responsible for Leopold’s death, having suspected that was her mother’s plan all along. Regina feared it was only a matter of time until Cora would devise a way to be rid of Snow White, as well. The only thing that saved the child was her friendship with the heir to the Marchland throne, Prince David. 

Regina knew her mother carried a terrible darkness within her, a thirst for power and prestige than could never seem to be slaked for long. Cora would stop at nothing, making use of anyone she could, to achieve the status she felt she deserved. Yet Regina longed for Mother’s approval, if not her affection. Now that Cora was a Queen and Regina a princess there was talk of nothing but marriage.

Sneaking away whenever she could, Regina sought the comfort of the stables and her now-dear friend Daniel. They would race their horses from one end of the dirt track to another, laughing all the while. In quieter moments, he would sit with her while she vented her frustrations, confided her fears about her mother’s ambitions and her anger at being flaunted like a show pony to potential noble husbands. Daniel listened with a grave sense of understanding that belied his years.

One gray, hazy morning when Regina was 15, they rode out past the apple orchards, to the very edge of the palace property. Daniel stopped abruptly and dismounted, putting down a blanket and a producing a small basket of sweets he had purloined from the kitchen. Regina had joined him. The wool scratchy against her legs and the sweets gone slightly stale but she thought it the finest break-fast she had ever known. It was then that Daniel first kissed her. His lips were trembling and sticky from the sugar glaze. Regina would savor the memory of that kiss unto her grave.

He confessed that he loved her with all of his heart and wished to marry her. Regina agreed instantly, knowing in that moment that she would never love another as she did him. Unfortunately, neither of them had reached the age of their majority. Regina was still at the mercy of her cruel mother and her courtly title. Feeling defiant and reckless with the new found passion, they decided to run away. They would take the two fastest horses and leave the Marchlands under cover of night. It was said among the peasantry that one could hide quite well in the Enchanted Forest. Rumors of its unnatural inhabitants kept all but the bravest or most foolhardy at bay.

Regina returned to her rooms floating on air. By the next morn, she would be free of her tyrannical mother, free of the title and courtly ties that choked her. The only thing she regretted leaving behind was the little sister she’d found in Snow White. Snow White grew closer to the crown prince every day and Regina could see the gleam in Cora’s eye when she watched them play together. She wished she could save the girl from her mother’s clutches, but the risk was too great. She comforted herself with the thought that Snow might yet snare the crown prince as a husband and guarantee herself some safety.

Regina bid the confused young girl a fond goodbye, her eyes tearing up as she hugged her close.

That night, in the stables, Regina waited with a bag of all she could afford to bring. Daniel did not show. Regina did not remember falling asleep but she was awakened by the shouting of young men. The other hostlers were agitated, a boy younger than Regina was crying as he told her they’d found a body. Regina’s heart sunk into her toes.

Behind the stables, he lay glassy eyed, head at an unnatural angle. Her Daniel.

Regina went cold, her blood had turned to ice. It was done to look as though he had jumped off the roof, but Regina knew. Mother had found them out. Cora hadn’t even had the decency to hide her handiwork; Regina could still taste the faint tang of magic in the air. She, alone, knew of her mother’s clandestine proclivities. Stolen magic, such as her mother wielded left a distinct mark. It was a dark scarlet in color and smelled of burnt iron. The color had long since faded, but oh, that scent hung heavy all around. Regina could always sense it. How had she not noticed the night before?

In a rage, she stormed off to confront her mother. Her fury, for once, overcoming her fear. But Sir Keith was waiting for her. He shackled her in cuffs with mysterious designs on them and knocked her out. She awoke in a lavish room with no windows. The door was locked from the outside, with designs etched clumsily into the wooden frame. Regina began to trace one shape but it burned her. She jumped back, terrified. She lost track of how long she spent in that room, her stomach rumbling and her eyes heavy as she fought to stay vigilant.

Eventually, the door opened.

“My, my. You have been quite the disobedient daughter, haven’t you? Look at you,” Cora’s nose wrinkled elegantly, “your dress is filthy.”

Regina shook, fisting her hands in her skirts. “You killed him.”

Cora looked nonplussed. “Who?”

“Daniel,” Regina grit the name out between clenched teeth, a stab of pain shooting through her heart.

“That ignorant little nothing who had the audacity to put his grubby hands on my daughter?” Cora shook her head. “No, I merely made a suggestion that he remove himself as an obstruction from your path. You were meant for so much more than that, my sweet.” She advanced with a smile that held no cheer.

Regina watched in horror as her mother closed the space between them. She dodged away when Cora reached for her. “Don’t touch me! Murderer!” she screeched, feeling like a caged animal. The door was still to Cora’s back.

“Lower your voice. It’s unbecoming.” Cora’s mouth became a thin line.

Regina could hold back the tears no longer, they rushed out of her in a hot torrent. She felt herself collapse onto the floor, strength flooding out of her. All was lost and Mother was truly a monster.

Cora crouched beside her, voice softening. “I only do what I do out of love, my darling,” she crooned, moving closer.

 “You lie, Mother,” she choked out the words but they held no conviction. She hurt all over, inside and out. All she wanted in the world was a pair of loving arms wrapped around her.

Unfortunately, those arms belonged to the very person she ought to hate most in the world. And yet, Mother showed kindness so infrequently, when it was all Regina had ever wanted. Though she longed to escape, Regina found she could not move, feeling weak as a kitten while her grief washed over her.

“Now, now,” Cora continued, tone still gentle and almost soothing. “Let Mother care for you.”

Regina shook her head furiously but soon found herself in her mother’s embrace. It was deceptively warm. Despite herself, Regina felt her tears quieting. The racing of her blood and brain began to calm as she listened to her mother’s even breathing and steady heartbeat.

“Why?” Regina managed, at last, in a gasp.

“You were meant for greatness, my love. Your name is Regina. Your name is Queen. You will rule by my side, one day. We will conquer all who stand in our way. I promise you, my darling. Great, great things.” Cora murmured, stroking her daughter’s hair.

Regina took deep breaths, thinking fast. Cora would never let her go, never let her be free. But there was something to be gained here. Cora knew much about the dark world of magic, forbidden though it was in their kingdom. Regina had picked up bits and pieces, here and there. She knew there was something in her that glowed and twisted and fought to be used. Sometime ago, she realized that it was that spark of magic. “Then you must teach me,” she said, willing herself to sound resolute.

Cora pulled back to meet Regina’s eyes. “Teach you?”

“I know what you do in the tower with those books and symbols. I’ve known for years.” Regina admitted, a little recklessly. “If we are to rule together, I must know all that you know. Teach me how to use my magic…”

Cora’s eyes narrowed, searching Regina’s face for any sign of betrayal.

Regina widened her own eyes, the picture of guileless innocence. “Please, Mother?”

Mother’s face softened with the ghost of a true smile. “Alright, my darling. We’ll begin tomorrow. Let’s get you cleaned up and turned in for a good night’s rest, hm?”

Regina readily agreed, steeling her spine. She thought to run away, to be with the boy she loved. But fate had other ideas. Mother must be stopped, of that she was certain. If the only way to defeat the monster was to become one, herself, so be it.

Regina ran the brush down the back of her favorite mare, recalling the promise she’d made to Mother so many years ago. Her training had begun, then, in secret. She was sent away to study with a powerful Wizard in the Eastern Desert, named Jafar.

After 6 years of study, Regina was nearly as accomplished as Mother at casting most spells. Cora’s letters to her glowed with pride. In Regina’s absence, Mother had grown more powerful, sitting nearly at the King’s right hand along with the Clerics. A few weeks ago, Mother had summoned her home. She would not say why, just that there was a change in the air. Cora wanted her daughter, and now protégé, close.

So, here she was. Returned to the one place she had treasured in her foolish youth. Enjoying the solace that had been destroyed by the woman she was now here to serve.

The mare whinnied and Regina soothed it with a soft noise, feeding it a sugar cube. Well, perhaps some battles one could only win by losing. The goal was still freedom, but she would need to be so very clever, so very careful. Great plans could not be rushed.

***

It was very dark in the wood, now. The hooded man preferred to travel in the dark. He could have used magic to get himself there much faster, but Magic calls to Magic. He would be revealed to those he did not wish to rouse. Not yet, anyway.

His time with Maleficent had left him stronger than ever. She had been an enchantress for centuries. Of all the creatures in the land, she was one of the few who truly remembered The Dark One. There had been much to learn from her and from the use of her black unicorn, Amalthea.

The man’s head felt full to bursting with lore and new spells. Maleficent practiced in the Old Ways, without a spellbook. She had painstakingly taught him each word, syllable by syllable. He had practiced in her courtyard and at the outskirts of her lands, where she could keep an eye on him. He knew now why the great lady could not leave her lands. She had explained it to him once, after taking too many spirits and inhaling a strange smoke that made her gaze glassy and far away.

The Dark One’s curse kept her there. Were she to leave her lands, she would be bereft of magic. An empty nothing where once great oceans of power reigned. For all the substances she imbibed, magic was her dearest drug. She would not risk its loss, even to seek out her daughter from the hands of Cora.

The man had been angered, at first, to see a mother seem so callous to her own kin.

“But how would I rescue her, my young nameless friend?” the enchantress had asked him, her eyes wide and unfocused. “How should I fight Cora and all her soldiers and Gods know what other power she has if I could not even light a candle, anymore? Without my power, I am a decrepit old woman. Bent, broken.” She hiccoughed a sob and pulled from the fragrant pipe. “Useless.”

“Aye,” he had agreed, if only to stop her from descending into tears. He turned his head away from the acrid smoke. “I understand, my Lady.”

And some part of him did.

For Magic was the only thing he had, as well. Connections in the world of Man paled in comparison with what he was learning to do, what he now understood to be the greatest universal truth. Every creature who ever existed with Magic in their veins ought to understand. He would make them understand. He would lead them to freedom from the oppression of the non-magic world.

It was, perhaps, not a destiny he had been born to, but the one he had chosen. The dagger of the Dark One was a heavy burden to bear, but he would rise to the task. Only, this time, he would use it as it was meant to be used.

For the good of his people.

Chapter Text

Belle awoke to a clamor. She and Mulan exchanged a glance across the semi-darkness of the tent. They both hopped to their feet, pulling on leggings and jerkins at lighting speed. As soon as her belt was cinched, weapons in place, Belle was out the door. Mulan followed no more than a pace behind, muttering swears in her native tongue. The older girl had never been a morning person.

The camp was in a state of confusion, the men meandering about half-awake. A woman from the village was crying, Friar Tuck patting her back and speaking softly in her ear. More of the Merry Men were appearing, rubbing their eyes and wielding knives, short-swords, even a mace.

But the camp did not look to be under attack.

Belle stopped a man she knew only as Tom, the butcher’s son, laying a hand on his arm. “What is this madness?”

No sooner had the words left her mouth then there was a sharp cracking noise. A branch fell to the ground from a tall tree, shot down by a couple of arrows.

“Cease this!” Robin Hood called aloud, his bow still in his hand. He stood atop a tree stump to address them.

Everyone froze in their tracks. Belle released the young man’s arm and looked to their leader.

His face was wan and drawn, as though he had barely slept. His voice held strong, though there was a roughness to it she’d never heard before. “Friends, I bid you, panic does us no good. We must be quick, yes, but moreover we must be sane. Practical. Only a clear head will see us through this time.”

The weeping woman approached him, her hands outstretched. “But, my boy!”

Robin’s mouth went thin and narrow. “Yes, Fiona. And mine as well.” He stepped down, shrugging his bow over his shoulder and held the woman by the upper arm. “We will find them, I swear. I will not rest until we do.” He turned back to face the onlooking crowd. “But first there must be order. No good plan can come of this chaos. So, please. Peace. I beg you.”

He and Fiona looked at one another for a moment and she nodded, stepping back as Robin’s hand dropped to his side.

“What is it, Robin?” one of the older men asked, at last. “What’s happened to cause all this ruckus?”

Robin sighed heavily and gestured for all to come closer. “Five children have been taken this night. Disappeared from their beds. Including my Roland. I have been up half the night already searching. I thought my boy had wandered off, sleep walking or in search of me. But Fiona brought word from the village that 4 others were gone, as well. One was not even old enough to walk and all had been abed come nightfall. They seem to have vanished.

As Belle approached, she could see tears glinting in the man’s eyes.  His young wife was lost the previous year, she’d been told, to a sudden illness. Belle could only imagine the fear and pain he must be feeling at the prospect of losing his son, as well.

“How can we help?” she heard the words aloud before she realized they had left her mouth.

Robin nodded gratefully at her. “I’ve a plan to organize a thorough search party. We find the children by whatever means necessary and bring them here, where the camp can keep watch over them. We find those who did this and bring them to justice.”

There were some cheers from those assembled. An older man at the back shouted “String up the buggers and show ‘em what for!”

More cheers arose from that, the crowd beginning to mutter amongst themselves once more.

“No,” Robin’s voice rung out, the din lowering to hear him speak. “Not without due process. They must be tried for their crimes but we are not executioners, here. And if,” he swallowed hard and cleared his throat, “even if the worst has come to pass… justice must still be done. We will not have disorder or petty vengeance. We may be among outlaws and thieves but we have our honor. Am I understood?”

A few gathered grumbled and swore, shuffling their feet in the dirt, but they grudgingly consented. Robin nodded sharply, excusing himself with a few of those closest to him, including Mulan, to begin planning the search.

Tuck came to stand beside Belle, the crying mother he’d been tending now returned to the arms of another from the village. “Don’t like the sound of that,” Tuck murmured.

Belle turned to face him. “Of what?”

“Did you not hear how these folk would be baying for blood if not for Robin’s firm hand?” The older man shook his shaggy head. “They aren’t convinced he’s got the right of it. One hair on the head of any of those children is harmed and we’ll have a mutiny on our hands.”

Belle shook her head, “they are upset but they know to listen to him. He’s clearly never lead them astray before. And he’s got more to lose than most.” She looked helplessly into the woods beyond. “Gods…. Poor Roland. He seems such a sweet child.”

Tuck nodded. “Aye, a kinder lad you’ll never meet.”

Belle wasn’t sure what else to say but she was saved from the trouble of deciding by a burst of sudden light in the clearing. Everything seemed to go white and blank and she raised a hand to shield her eyes, the other drawing her knife from her belt. A shape began to form at the center of the light. Still mostly blinded, Belle assumed a fighting stance, shoving the former cleric behind her.

“Oh, put that away, child,” came a clipped female voice. It sounded slightly older than Belle and quite well-bred, with just the hint of an accent she could not place. “I’ve come on urgent business and I’ve no time for your toys.”

Belle’s knife whipped from her hand, the rough handle abrading her fingers. She blinked rapidly to clear her spotty vision.

A woman of indiscernible age stood gracefully before her, wearing a shimmering blue dress that was not a cut she’d seen before. The woman studied her with impossibly blue eyes and a thin mouth. Her willowy arms rose to settle her hands at her hips. “Tell Hood I have come with news of his son. And the others, as well.”

“Who are you?” Belle asked, forcing the tremor out of her voice and easing her muscles back into a familiar bracing position. She may have been disarmed by what appeared to be magic, but she would not turn tail and run. She would do the brave thing, no matter that her joints seemed to have turned to water.

The woman’s chin raised haughtily. “There was a time I’d never have been asked such a question.” She scoffed and looked around at the slack-jawed faces of those who had not gone with Robin. “None of you? Not a one? This is mightily disappointing.” She turned back to Belle. “I am the Blue Fairy. I rule over all fairies in this land, as I have for centuries.” Her lip curled. “Before your kind thought to call themselves masters of this place, before you all stopped believing. These were my woods.”

Tuck shuffled forward, side-stepping Belle. “The centuries have treated you well, Rheul Ghorm.”

The Blue Fairy looked taken aback but then quite pleased, giving her head a little toss and resettling her shoulders. “So there is at least one believer among you, yet. What is your name?”

“Tuck, my lady,” he gave a courtly bow. Belle watched, wide-eyed.

 “Tuck. The old ways suit you. Let you be teacher to this rough company and remind them of another time. A better time for all.” She inclined her head toward him with a half-smile. “But first, the business that brings me hence. Bring your man, Robin Hood, to an audience with me. I believe I know what has taken these children and how we may go about finding them.”

Tuck bowed again and scuttled off to find Robin.

***

“So you see, the Dark One will rise once more. All the signs are there – there is a stirring in the very lifeforce of my kind, we feel the fear in our bones. Yet, since we were cast out, light magic has grown so weak in these lands. We are not the force we once were and may not be able to defeat him, again. That is why I need the Book of the Dark One. There are spells that were writ by those even more ancient and powerful than myself,” the Blue Fairy concluded.

“If I might ask… how did such powerful magic fall into human hands, m’lady?” Tuck asked.

Belle eyed him curiously. His face was bland as milk, his posture supplicating. But there was something buried in that question, something biting and bitter. She wondered, not for the first time that day, what secrets Tuck might be hiding behind those heavy-lidded, bloodshot eyes.

 The Fairy heaved an exasperated sigh. “They were once in my possession, but your,” here the Blue Fairy sneered, “King stole them from us. Locked them away behind runes that will allow no being of pure magic – such as ourselves – near them. Mortal man, alone, can retrieve the Book.”

Robin, who had remained silent while Rheul Ghorm spoke, looked up at that. “If it is a matter of mere larceny, that Book is nearly in our possession, Blue Fairy.” His face was hard, though his body swayed slightly. “You are certain it is this Magician who has taken our children?”

The stately woman nodded decisively. “It could only be he that seeks the Darkest of Magic would dare harm a babe to obtain it. We are in luck, as no ritual can be performed until the new moon, three days hence. There is time to save them all, but you must act quickly. Bring me the Book and I shall free your children. I cannot fight him without the Magic in its pages.”

Robin took a shaky breath, his hands clenched at his sides. Robbed of sleep and nearly at his wit’s end with worry, the man looked as though a breeze might blow him over. “Very well, then. I will need my stealthiest and cleverest men with me if we are to infiltrate the Great Palace.” He looked around him as one by one, faces turned toward the ground.

These were kindly souls but so many of them had only nearly escaped the gallows before fleeing to the Enchanted Wood. To gallivant about the woods, stealing from the rich, was one thing. There were many places to hide and the Merry Men had never been outnumbered. The Great Palace was enemy territory, enormous, looming, and full of Guards who would love to have the head of any Merry Man on a pike. To breach the Palace and fail would be tantamount to a death sentence. All gathered knew it well.

Belle bit her bottom lip as she stepped forward. “Sir, I should go. I know that Palace better than any man here and I’m a dab hand at sneaking about. I had practice for years.” She offered a crooked half-smile.

Robin acknowledged her. “Your courage honors me, Belle. We must lay our plans today and leave before sunset.”

Belle shook her head, her mouth firm. “I will go, Robin. But you…” she could not make a leader seem weak in front of his men, but Robin was in no shape for such an undertaking. “You would be a stronger presence here, sir. Should more children be taken or the villagers decide to wrongly accuse one of their own. Someone must keep order. Please, I beg of you, let me take this on in your stead.”

Robin looked ready to protest, but Mulan stepped forward, taking Belle’s hand. “And I will have your back, sister of my heart.” She exchanged a meaningful look with Robin, who grimly conceded.

Across the circle from them, Will’s mouth twisted, “Oh bloody hell, alright. I’m in, too.”

Belle shook her head. “Two should be enough. You don’t have to take this risk with us, Will.”

He cocked his head. “This Book, it’s pretty well protected, yeah?”

Belle nodded.

“Under lock and key?”

She nodded once more.

Will’s hands came to his slim hips. “And which one of you knows how to pick a lock, then?”

Mulan and Belle exchanged glances. Mulan shrugged and held her other hand out to Will. “We leave at dusk?”

He clasped Mulan’s hand firmly in both of his own. “I always knew I’d end up back there, somehow. Might as well be doing a right hero’s job, eh?”

Chapter Text

Rumplestiltskin had barely slept in weeks. He tossed and turned in too-heavy blankets, suffocated by nightmares and doubts. Until at last he formed a plan. Belle had left no trail behind her, no sign of where she’d gone. But he was a clever man and an increasingly patient one, these days. Once he had been foolhardy, ready to rush in head first. Now, he had learned the value of taking one’s time to do a thing right. He sent out just the smallest of feelers, asked a few subtle questions to just the right people.

In searching fruitlessly for Baelfire, he had known all the while that the boy did not wish to be found. Yet he had doggedly pursued until every trail ran cold. As much as his conversation with Victor had unsettled him at the time, the revelation that his feelings for Belle might not be quite so one-sided continued to tug at him. It was a terrifying thing, living with that flicker of hope in a heart he thought long gone cold.

Rumplestiltskin took to practicing his sword work once more, learning new stances that worked around his uneven gait. The steady ache in his leg nearly outweighed the one in his heart, but both only served to spur him on. He spent long hours practicing in his chambers or a secluded part of the yard. The rest of the day, he was planning and plotting, developing new alliances among the servants. They liked him well enough as he had never been cruel to those in a position of servitude. He knew the taste of poverty all too well. One did what one could. Rumplestiltskin had been luckier than most in such a lowly station as was his birthright. And he knew something most nobles, for all their intrigues and pretense to wit, often ignored: one could hope for no better spy than those who already go unnoticed. Those scrubbing the palace steps knew more of the comings and goings of every highborn family than did the King’s very Steward.

The peasantry also spoke of ominous portents, signs of a coming storm. The air of the Enchanted Forest had changed, they said. It tasted of tears and metal, smelled of something sharp and unearthly.  No good would come of Queen Cora’s crusade against magic – because Magic was starting to fight back.

Rumplestiltskin knew these things to be true. For he could feel the shifting changes in that secret place deep inside where his own power burned brightest. It tested him, flaring out in a way it never had before. He felt as though a caged beast lived within his chest. It was drawn to something, prickling his skin and chilling his bones with a prescient sense he could not quite understand.

For the first time in his life, Rumplestiltskin regretted staying true to the laws of his beloved kingdom and never studying the magic that flowed in his very blood. Cora’s way had been to conquer and control, needlessly violent and abhorrent to his senses, but she had been right about one thing. Magic was something that needed a firm hand, needed to be shaped and molded like raw clay. By ignoring it, tamping it down, he’d done himself no favors.

So, he began to spend his sleepless nights among his books, tearing them apart for answers. Very little was revealed from their pages, meticulous as he had been to maintain only those with the most oblique references to magic.

He growled and threw down the book he’d been holding. Nothing there. Nothing in any of them. And the magic grew stronger every day. What would he do if he accidentally cast a spell before the court? If objects from his chambers began to appear in odd locations? How would he escape with his life and his wits intact to begin his new journey?

Swearing, he toppled a nearby pile of books and a couple of loose pages splayed across the table. He felt an immediate pang of regret. Belle would have chided him for such an action. Not for the display of temper but for damaging a book. That thought nearly brought a smile to his face. Her absence still echoed through his rooms, dreams of her smile only bringing him the smallest of comfort.

He shook his head. His beloved Belle would have sussed the whole thing, by now. Her razor sharp mind always put his to shame. He had a head for deft and thorough planning, but Belle could always see her way to a previously un-thought-of solution. She’d have figured out what they really needed and where to look for it.

Rumplestiltskin sighed aloud and glanced toward the window. It was dark and the moon hung high. Surely very few would be afoot to see him. Good. He could likely slip into the King’s Library unseen. He’d been going there often, fishing through even larger and older tomes than any he owned. The Book of the Dark One and a few other purportedly magical texts were under lock and key, but many other books on ancient history and the world as it was were stored in the hall of records.

He made his way down to the library, only encountering a few servants and one or two tipsy guards, none of whom paid him any mind. Sir Rumplestiltskin was a person of little consequence these days and he counted himself the luckier for it. The double doors of the main Library were unlocked and unguarded for King George was not a man of any imagination but he did advocate for education among the nobility. Thus access was made easy for those who sought it. There were two bookkeepers who worked in shifts but both would be abed by now. The place was silent as a tomb.

Rumplestiltskin had muffled the end of his walking stick with a scrap of muslin but even such muted thuds echoed in the high ceilinged room. He tucked it under his arm, keeping a hand lightly hovering near the shelves, in case he became unbalanced. He was getting better at walking without much of a limp, though it would always pain him to do so. Slowly, he made his way back to the Hall of Records, a sealed room at the very back of the Library.

He stopped, frowning. Something felt off. He couldn’t say exactly what, but a little tickle at the back of his mind told him to brace himself. As the door came into view, he saw that it was cracked, no key in the large brass lock. A chill ran down his spine. From his walking stick, he pulled the hidden blade that he’d not yet had cause to use. He’d practiced with that, as well, adjusting to the much lighter heft.

Holding his breath, he slunk into the shadows, back to the nearest wall.

A whispered voice, male. Then a series of soft noises. From the far corner, Rumplestiltskin could just see inside the door.  Rumplestiltskin swallowed and inched closer. Then, his heart stuttered.

Stepping back on her heel, just into his view, was Belle of Avonlea.

***

“Can you work no faster?” Mulan hissed, glancing once more at the cracked door. Belle stood just behind it, hand to her blade.

“I’m not a bloody magician. Keep your kit on,” Will grumbled back, his voice carrying slightly in the high-ceilinged room.

Mulan shushed Will and he made an obscene hand gesture before returning to his lock picks. Belle bit her lower lip. Tensions had been running high since they left the Forest. Little wonder with the task before them.

Luckily, Belle was still familiar enough with the Guard schedule that she’d been able to sneak them past at the sundown changeover. From there, it had been a matter of slipping from passageway to passageway. She and Mulan both knew the hidden stairs and secret rooms. They had drawn Will a rudimentary map, in case they got split up at any time. From years of climbing trees and thievery, Will was almost as dab a hand as they at hiding in plain sight. What he lacked, however, was a sense of finesse. One clomping misstep had almost gotten them all spotted. They’d had to hide behind a tapestry for several minutes until a few nobles, soft and silly with drink, passed them by.

As they passed the West Wing, Belle felt her heart flip within her chest. She wondered if Rumplestiltskin was there, playing his favorite strategy game, a glass of wine at his side. She could picture his slender fingers caressing the carved game pieces, tapping his lower lip as he made his next decision. Could he sense her so near to him? Oh, no. Of course not. It was a foolish, girlish fancy. He was likely abed by now, if not asleep.

She remembered all the nights she lay in her own narrow bed, wishing she could slip beneath the coverlet of his, fold herself into the warmth of his arms. Had he ever imagined the same? Was it wrong to hope he dreamt of such things, even now?

Her breath had caught sharply and Mulan had turned to give her a long look. Oblivious, Will moved ahead and motioned for them to follow. Grateful for the silence, Belle had ducked her head and forced herself to refocus on the mission.

Making it to the King’s Library was simple enough. No one guarded the books. Belle almost smiled at the thought. So many underestimated the written word. Some of the greatest weapons in the land lived in this room, if only one knew how to use them. She shifted her weight, sensing movement on the other side of the heavy wooden door.

There, in the shadows, something moved again. There was a brief glint of metal but then it disappeared . Her grip tightened on her borrowed sword. It was not so grand as the one she’d left behind but well weighted and recently sharpened. She could do what damage might be needed, though they had hoped to avoid an altercation.

And then, her breath escaped and her mind went nearly blank as Sir Rumplestiltskin stepped into the light. Her lips formed his name but made no sound as she pushed the door open further.

“Belle” he breathed her name, barely a whisper.

She felt Mulan take position behind her, braced to fight. Belle could only stare, transfixed, her blood racing and cheeks flushing hot.

Rumplestiltskin raised the hand not holding his walking stick, palm out, in a gesture of surrender. He approached slowly. Mulan side-stepped Belle to extend her sword toward his throat. “Make a single sound that would rouse the Guard and it will be your last.”

Rumplestiltskin nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ve no wish to see Belle come to harm. You can only benefit by acquaintance.”

Mulan’s gaze darted to Belle, a question in her eyes. Blushing harder, Belle nodded the answer.

Mulan inclined her head, lowering her blade and gave a brief, elegant bow in the style of her country. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Sir Rumplestiltskin. Belle has told me a great deal about you.”

Rumplestiltskin’s focus fell fully on Belle once more, his eyes dark and searching. “Has she?”

Belle’s mouth was dry as parchment, her hands suddenly damp. She pressed her lips together and offered a tremulous smile. “There was... much to tell. Sire.” A courtly bow, clumsily executed on shaking legs.

Rumplestiltskin’s mouth twisted. “I am no longer…

“Okay mates, all done. Let’s get a move on before the night guard makes his way over, eh?” Will swept around the high shelf, an ancient looking leather bound tome tucked under one arm. He stopped short, taking in Rumpelstiltskin. “Who the hell is this, then? I’m gone five minutes and what have you two got up to?”

Rumplestiltskin's eyes went wide as he took in Will and the book. “You’re stealing the Book of the Dark One?” he asked incredulously.

Will shrugged, “He’s a sharp one, too, isn’t he?”

“Stop,” Belle chided Will before approaching Rumplestiltskin with both hands extended. She stopped just short of taking his hand in her own, though she longed to do so. Taking a breath to calm herself, she spoke in a quiet, gentle tone. “Rumple...stiltskin, please understand. There is a very important reason that we need it. Innocent lives are at stake.”

Rumplestiltskin eyed her, his mouth a thin line. He shook his head. “They will be if you take that book. Such company you keep, these days! Whoever has led you to believe...? ” His brow furrowed and he pointed toward the book. “No good can come of that thing, I promise you. You must know that. I cannot let you do this. You’d be in danger. We all would.”

Mulan raised her weapon once more, “Belle, tell your Sire to take care. For your sake I would not spill his blood, but if he should choose to get in our way…”

Belle angled her body between them, putting up a hand on either side, palm out. “Please, both of you, just be reasonable.” For a moment, Belle felt the energy jumping between all three of them, her dear outlaw friend poised to strike, her beloved Sire ready to defend, herself a part of both worlds.  She only turned back to Rumplestiltskin once Mulan had reluctantly sheathed her sword. “The Blue Fairy appeared to us and told us that there is a Magician who wishes to take on the mantle of the Dark One. He has stolen children from the village for a ritual he must complete. This may be the only way to get them back.”

Rumplestiltskin’s face went ashen, his jaw clenching. Belle could see his bottom teeth as he grimaced. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he looked physically pained. “Children? Taken by the Dark One?”

“One who wishes to harness the powers of the Dark One, yes.”

Rumplestiltskin blinked at her, “the dagger was never found.”

“We don’t know for certain.” Her hands came to her hips as she closed the distance between them.

“That’s exactly my point,” Rumple returned smoothly, “you don’t know.” He punctuated the last word with a finger jab in the air.

Belle scoffed, “Well we aren’t going to wait around and find out, are we? Isn’t it better to act now and stand a chance of saving those poor children?” She was so close now, she could feel his breath on her face. That familiar thrill ran up her spine, her hands itching to pull him closer or slap him silly. She was never sure quite which.

Rumple’s throat worked, his eyes darkening, “Belle..” his voice was low, rough.

Belle shivered, though she was not cold.

Mulan coughed softly, breaking the spell between them, and Belle stepped back, her face aflame once more.

After a moment of not meeting her eyes, Rumple ran his free hand through his hair and swore.“So Blue Fairy sent you here. Yes, yes of course she did.” he huffed, looking at each of them in turn. “Bloody fairies. Should have bloody known.” He licked his lips and gave his head a slight toss, flicking his now-tousled hair out of his eyes. “You’ll need the case. The one with all the markings on it. If you insist on taking that thing out of here, at least keep it under lock and key until…” he hesitated, gaze flitting to the floor, the window, and briefly back to Belle, “until it can be delivered into the right hands.”

Will cocked a hip, “Who put you in charge, eh? I just spent 10 minutes getting the damn thing open, now you’re telling me to nick it, too? It’s solid bloody oak and we’ve a long walk back. Who’s gonna carry the thing, you?”

“Horses,” was his simple reply.

“What?” Will and Mulan asked simultaneously. Belle tilted her head in confusion.

“I’ve access to the Royal stables,” Rumplestiltskin shrugged.

Will looked skeptical. “How d’ya plan to get them past the guards? Ask them nicely to tip-toe?”

“There’s a back gate, half underground.” Rumple explained. “It was meant only for the royal family, a last resort escape, should there be a coup or some other palace infiltration. It can’t be seen from the guard tower. No one has used it in eons but the lock still works. A… a friend of mine gave me a key he’d made for it. We may be the only two left who have them.”

“It is not a plan without merit, but we cannot return to camp that way. The hounds can track horseflesh more easily than our own.” Mulan asserted.

“Not if you all take them in different directions and then set them free. It will get you out of the city faster, either way. If you meet at the high point of the King’s river, you can wash away the scent and take off through the forest, untraceable. If we loose a few more horses, it will add to the confusion. They won’t know which scent to trace and may not even notice the missing book for some time.”

Will gave a low whistle. “For a knight, he’s got a mind like a thief.”

With an apologetic grin, Belle added, “he means that as a compliment.”

The ghost of a smile flit across Rumplestiltskin’s face and it felt so good to see even that. Belle sidled closer as Mulan and Will conferred in whispers.

“Was the key from Dove?” Belle asked him, quietly. She had been the only one in the Palace who was aware of the strange, quiet friendship Rumple shared with the blacksmith. She had greatly enjoyed their covert lessons in smithing, though she had no particular talent for it.

Rumple nodded. “He knows I have… been making my own plans to leave the Palace. ”

“Has the King become so cruel to you?”Belle frowned, her fists clenching involuntarily  at her sides.

A humorless chuckle eaten up by the night. “George has always been cruel but my loyalties remained unbroken until what he did… what he tried to do to you.” He met her gaze once more and her heart skipped a beat at the warmth she found in his golden brown eyes. “A friend of yours… he delivered a message to me when I’d very nearly given up hope.”

Belle barely dared to breath. She remembered with stark clarity the message she’d asked Victor to deliver.

Please tell him that I am sorry. That I’d have stayed if the choice was truly mine to make.

“His words - your words - they brought me back to life,” he continued. “And I knew then, with absolute certainty, that there was nothing left for me in this Palace.”

Heart in her throat, Belle grabbed his free hand. “Then come with us.”

“Why?” he asked, one tiny word with a world full of meaning.

“Because… “ a million things she could not put into words whirled round her head. But there was no time for that now. All she had was the bare truth and she would lay it out before him, as she once should have all those lonely weeks ago. “Because, Rumple, I don’t want to make the same mistake twice.”

His fingers entwined with hers, eyes shining in the pale moonlight. Hesitantly, as though she might stop him at any moment, he brought the back of her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across it.

“Then I will go with you.”

Chapter Text

The four made their way back down from the library into the main corridors of the palace. Here, they were at their most exposed, but not a soul was in sight. They caught glimpse of a few solitary Night Guards patrolling, lanterns in hand, and tucked themselves in corners until each had passed.

The stables were just as deserted. Rumplestiltskin used one of the four keys in his hip pouch to unlock the Royal Stable. One by one, they pulled horses from the stalls, saddling four as they went. As he lashed the box that contained the Book of the Dark One to one of the saddles, Rumplestiltskin thought he sensed something watching him. He stopped, looking around for any possible movement that might seem out of place. There was nothing but the strangest tickle at the edges of his senses. None of the others seemed to notice anything amiss as they worked with quiet efficiency to put the horses on leads and string them together.

Possibly just his nerves, he thought, and returned to the task at hand.

These were well-tempered beasts, meant for nobility to ride for sport and nothing more. Not a warhorse or hunting stallion in sight. Thus, they were easily cajoled through the practice yard with soft voices and sugar cubes.

They kept to the shadows along the back wall, feeling beneath the vines for the secret gate. It was found beneath a heavy thatch of overgrowth and Mulan sliced away just enough to find the lock. Rumplestiltskin inserted his key and tried to turn it. Nothing happened. He bit back a swear, jiggling it in place. Behind him, a horse whickered and stamped. He heard Will speaking quickly and sweetly to the animals. They seemed to calm under the boy’s attentions.

Rumplestiltskin withdrew the key and examined it, winging a prayer to the goddess of Luck that this mad plan could still work. Dove had replicated it from his own key, made decades ago and nearly forgotten. Why Dove had made it in the first place was unknown to Rumplestiltskin. The taciturn man had been characteristically unforthcoming.

It was a strange shape that barely looked like a key at all, three seperate parts that entwined and curved upward. He bent to examine the lock and then he saw it. A vine had wound its way into the opening, blocking the key’s proper entry. He felt Belle at his side before he heard her make a soft noise of disappointment.

“Do you think Will could pick it?”

Rumplestilskin shook his head, glancing at Belle. She was so lovely in the starlight, tendrils of her dark curls escaping from under her hooded cloak. His heart gave a leap just being near her again, at last. He took a deep breath to steady himself. Now was most certainly not the time.

“This lock was designed not to work with normal tools.” He showed her the unusual key. Belle pressed her lips together and held her lantern closer to the lock. Her eyes narrowed as she studied it.

“Oh!” she gasped, placing her lantern on the ground and flitting over to Mulan. At the whispered command she gave, Mulan and Will led the horses away from the gate as Belle dropped to the ground, reaching for something.

Rumplestiltskin watched her in confusion as she returned with a slender twig in one hand and handed him her waterskin with the other.  

“Be ready as soon as it flares.” She opened the side of her small lantern and dipped the twig inside, catching it aflame. She thrust the burning twig into the lock, igniting the vines that had twisted their way inside. The fire spread quickly, and Rumplestiltskin stared at Belle, in awe. She grinned back at him for a split second before turning her face back to the lock.

“Now!” she hissed, just as the flames began to climb up the vines.

Rumplestiltskin uncorked  the skin and doused the fire. The water sizzled and steamed against the iron but the flames were extinguished. He reached gingerly into the still smoking ivy and fit the key to the lock. This time, it clicked immediately into place.

Rumplestiltskin released the breath he felt he’d been holding since they left the library as he and Belle exchanged triumphant looks. He wiped at the flop sweat that had gathered on his brow and pushed open the gate. A dark tunnel that dipped downward, beneath the palace gate stretched out before them. Belle touched his shoulder, a soft smile playing around her mouth.

“Almost there,” she whispered.

He nodded and she whistled for Mulan and Will to bring along the horses. There was some hesitation as the animals smelled the smoke but they allowed themselves to be led meekly through the passageway.

Mulan stopped short at the doorway on the other side, her expression resolute in the flickering lantern light. “The three of you go on. There is… something I need to do before I leave these walls.”

Belle’s mouth went tight as she turned to the other girl. “Now? Are you sure you’re ready?”

Mulan shrugged, “I did not think I would be but,” she glanced between Belle and Rumplestiltskin, “I think you, of all people, understand why I must go to her. If only to see if that door is closed forever… Will you be alright without me?”

A mare butted at Rumplestiltskin’s shoulder, huffing impatiently.

Will stroked its nose and inclined his head to Mulan. “Oh, go on, then. No time for a long goodbye. These beasts are getting restless.” The mare snorted and Will produced another sugar cube for it. “Greedy too,” he added with a chuckle.

Belle nodded, hugging her friend briefly. “They are at the far end of the West tower. Prince Phillip brought his own guards from Nordland, very well trained from what I’ve heard. Please be careful.”

“I will.” Mulan hugged Belle once more and clasped hands with Will. “It has been an honor to serve with you both. May we meet again with happy news, all.”

“Wait,” Rumplestiltskin pulled the gate key from lock on the exit and offered it to Mulan. “Just in case you need to make a quick exit.”

Mulan took it solemnly. “Thank you, Sir. I shall not forget this. Take care of my friends.” As Belle and Will maneuvered the horses out of the tunnel, Mulan took one step closer, dropping her voice so only he could hear. “Treat her heart kindly, Sir. Or I shall be forced to return as an enemy to you. And I truly do not wish that.”

Rumplestiltskin blinked at her rapidly, unaccustomed to being threatened so politely. Before he could formulate a response, Mulan had disappeared back into the darkness.

With his staff strapped across his back, Rumplestiltskin mounted his chosen horse, a gentle dappled creature with a soft mouth. She would not be a good choice for a long ride but they only needed to get as far as the river.

Will cut each animal loose, slapping them one by one across the backside and sending them galloping off in different directions. The last one he has saved for himself and swung into the saddle. The case that held the book of the Dark One was strapped securely to the saddle. With a tilt of his head and a mocking salute, he took off.

Belle pulled her horse up beside Rumplestiltskin. “See you at the river?”

“Aye,” he whispered, reluctant to let her out of his sight after so long an absence. It was foolishness, pure romantic nonsense. But he couldn’t stop the way his stomach flipped when she leaned over to touch his hand briefly before taking off toward the forest.

He rode quickly and steadily along a circuitous route. His scent would be the easiest to track, as most of his belongings had stayed behind at the palace. His leg throbbed slightly but he ignored it, caught in the thunder of hoofbeats and the whip of wind against his face. The village was just beginning to stir when he reached the outskirts but none of them would recognize him anymore. The hero Rumplestiltskin was said to be ten feet tall and he was just a weathered old man on a well groomed horse.

***

It had gone rather well, all told, Will reckoned as he wrung out his soaked tunic. He and Belle were crouched along the riverbed, hidden behind some large boulders. Belle was looking pale and worried, her head bobbing up at the smallest sound. Still looking for her Knight Sire, Will surmised. Hero or no, the man was past his prime, no doubt. He’d probably got winded and head on back to the palace for wine and a song. Noble folk was like that though, just as like to disappoint as not.

Not Belle, of course. She was made of tougher stuff, but she was an exception rather than the rule.

They had loosed both of their horses before jumping in the water, sending them to run amuck with the others. But the distraction would only hold for so long. They had to get moving, again. The sun was beginning to peek through the canopy of leaves above and it was bloody cold, wet to the bone as they were.

“Come off it, Belle. If he was coming he’d have been here by now.” He thumped the wooden box containing the big bloody book he’d nicked. “We’ve got to get this back to camp.”

Belle pressed her lips together and nodded. “I know. I just…”  she took a breath, her eyes full of pain and something else that he couldn’t quite read, “I just hope the City Guard didn’t catch him.” She turn away and he knew there was something else bothering her.

He touched her shoulder. “He’ll be alright.” He said the words because it was what she needed to hear. For some daft reason the girl was barmie over her Sire, had looked at the man like he was still the legend they sang about in great feast halls. Nobody he knew of sang those songs anymore, at least not the respectable versions. Still, Belle cared for the man and that was fair obvious. “Look, once we’ve got the kids all sorted, we can go back and -”

Luckily, he was saved from whatever ridiculous half-truth he’d been fixed to spin by the distinct sound of approaching hooves.

They crouched low to listen. A singular rider with no horn or spurs. Not a guard and probably not a cleric. The former jangled as they rode, cruelly prodding their poor mounts and the latter never travelled alone. Probably because they knew what could happen to them, given their lack of popularity with the King’s subjects.

The horse stopped and the rider dismounted with a low grunt. Will and Belle peered above the rocks.

“I’ll be damned,” Will muttered.

“Rumple,” Belle exhaled, as though her whole soul were lighter for having seen him at last. She shot up from their hiding place and launched herself at the older man with such force that he nearly stumbled back.

Rumplestiltskin wrapped both arms around her burying his face in her shoulder and murmuring something in a voice too low for Will to hear. Belle nodded and peeled herself from him, a relieved smile spread across her face. The man hobbled toward the water and, with a look of dread, stepped in. It was not so very deep, so he had to wade out a bit before he could submerge himself fully. As he did this, Belle fed the horse a remaining apple and sent it on its way.

Shortly, the three of them were making their way further into the woods. Rumplestiltskin was leaning on his walking stick but kept pace with Will’s much longer strides. Between them, Belle took double to each of his steps, exchanging not-so-surreptitious glances with her former Sire. At one point, he thought he caught sight of their hands entwined but when he blinked, both hands were empty at their sides.

They moved at too fast a clip for speaking and Will was not ungrateful for the silence. It was slowly dawning on him that what he was seeing was far more than the devotion of mentor and pupil.

And he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.

***

As the sun rose, the light softened by her gauzy bed curtains, Regina lay back against silk pillows and thought about what she’d seen.

As had been her habit in childhood, she had left supper early to go down to the royal stables and visit with her favorite horses. She’d taken one out for a trot and then a bracing gallop, allowing her mind to drift. She could have ridden one of these gentle creatures blindfolded and come to no harm.

Mother was getting close. Closer than she’d ever been. Magic was alive all over the kingdom and it had gone from causing strange mishaps to taking shape in the form of real power. Regina felt it everywhere she went, despite being dampened by the runes etched into most of the palace walls. Physical awareness of her magic was something Vizier Jafar had taught her. To keep it ever-present, just at her fingertips. They had worked a very long time on building that awareness and she could still feel the cold rap of his snake-headed walking stick against her skin when she got it wrong. He was a cruel teacher, but she had been an excellent student.

Her mother’s tower was one of the only places she could breath unstifled. It had been built after the days of the Dark One and those runes had somehow never been added. Despite the fact it meant spending time with Mother, Regina found herself spending large portions of her day in that tower. She poured over Mother’s books on the pretense of helping Cora’s deranged cause. Mother truly seemed to believe that she could either become the Dark One or at least control his powers. It was laughable. It would be the death of her.

But it suited Regina’s plans to let her mother believe such a thing. Cora would destroy herself in the effort and Regina, left standing in the ashes, would be free at last. Perhaps the Dark One would need a powerful ally, if he did rise.

Still pondering this, Regina returned her mount to the stable stall, brushing her down thoroughly. She had just finished caring for the animals when she heard unexpected footsteps. She ducked low behind the stall. With a trickle of magic, she shielded herself from easy detection. The sound of horses being saddled and others being led out of their stalls piqued her curiosity. She shuffled to the side, finding a small hole to peek through. At first, she only saw movement, the dark fabric of rough-spun capes. And then she recognized one of the strangers.. Sir Rumplestiltskin, her mother’s long-time enemy, gently leading a dapple mare with his walking stick in his other hand. Regina had no cause to hate the man. No cause to love him either. But any enemy of her mother might be of use to her.

Regina shook her head. If he meant to escape the palace on that horse, he’d not get far. These creatures were raised for their attractive breeding and sweet natures, not for speed or endurance. He did not mount, however, only seemed to linger a moment, tying a large wooden box to the back of a saddle. Regina squinted, trying to place where she’d seen the hinged box before. It had markings on it against magic, old and carved very deeply. She did her best to memorize them so she might look them up, later.

The four intruders, along with what looked to be about ten horses, left, locking the stable door behind them. Regina rose to her feet, dismissing the small spell she’d cast. The horse beside her startled slightly, and she calmed it absentmindedly.

Sir Rumplestiltskin helping bandits of some kind to escape the palace in the dead of night? The most loyal Knight to King George and proclaimed hero, betraying his former Knight Sire?

What an interesting development.