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Prydain could have gone better.
It had been a closer battle than Rumplestiltskin let on; the Horned King only ended up in Arawn's cauldron because Rumple held onto the chain ring longer. He didn't say much about it afterward. Belle suspected he saw too much of himself in his adversary—that undead, horned creature obsessed with power. The green skin probably sold it. Belle didn't press.
When Rumplestiltskin didn't want to tell her the stories of his travels, he brought home trinkets and gifts to distract her with their stories, and she always let him, happy to provide a distraction in return.
The bauble he brought back from Prydain wasn't a gift, but he was eager to show it to her. He sent Belle to fetch what she dubbed the "Blank Book" from the library, smirking at the skip in her stride; she'd always wondered about that book, and now, he had answers.
Up in his tower, the orb rose from his palm, glowing like a piece of sun in frosted glass.
Belle's eyes lit up.
"What is that?"
Rumplestiltskin swatted her hand away before she could touch it.
"That," he said, "is the Golden Pelydryn. A powerful family heirloom from the House of Llyr—enchantresses."
Her eyebrows lifted, intrigued. It had been a long time since he'd brought home a story that felt like a fairy tale.
"Are there any left?" she asked. "Enchantresses?"
"These enchantresses, no," Rumplestiltskin said. "It was said the House of Llyr died out centuries ago."
"Oh."
"Don't read too much into it," he said at her crestfallen tone. "The moment people start saying stuff like that, a girl wielding magic no one's seen in four hundred years pops up out of nowhere, and I'm the one who has to explain 'finders keepers' when she comes to reclaim 'what's rightfully hers.'"
Belle bit back a smile as he concentrated on the bauble, its glow rising and dimming at his command. She leaned in, entranced by the weight of the bauble's light on her face. In her periphery, Rumplestiltskin's skin glittered prettily, muted but multifaceted.
"What does this orb have to do with this book?" she asked.
"This," Rumplestiltskin said, touching the blank pages of the ancient tome under the orb, "is the Book of Llyr. And the only way to read the spells in the Book of Llyr is with the Golden Pelydryn."
"How?" Belle asked.
"That's the part I haven't figured out yet," Rumplestiltskin admitted. "Once I do, the Golden Pelydryn's light will illuminate the concealed runes in the book, and I will have magic no one has seen in four hundred years."
"I thought these were spells for enchantresses."
"I'm the Dark One," he said, extinguishing the bauble. "Alll the spells are for me. All of them. Every single one. Ever."
Belle narrowed her eyes. "I'm not sure that's how it works."
"That's why you're the maid,"—he summoned his chipped teacup into her hands—"and I'm the sorcerer."
Belle leveled her brow.
"A thirsty sorcerer, dearie, come on!" Rumplestiltskin said, shooing her away from the workbench. "Very thirsty. Very parched."
"Very needy," Belle said, starting down the spiral staircase.
"And oh-so-patient!" he reminded her, crossing to the staircase's railing. His bark lost a little of its bite by the time she was near the bottom. "I want lemon rosemary cakes!"
"Yes, O Dark One!"
"But only if they're made!" he called as she stepped out of sight. "You don't have to make them now! Just, if there are any—"
He shut his eyes and abruptly turned away.
"Oh, for Gods' sakes, man," he muttered to himself as he retreated to the workbench.
His demands were punctuated with far too many inferred question marks these days.
I'm the Dark One! Can I have some tea cakes, pretty please?
Rumplestiltskin re-ignited the Golden Pelydryn and placed it above the blank Book of Llyr. It hovered there in wait, soft, silent, and sentient.
Rumplestiltskin sighed.
Banishing all thoughts of tea cakes and skipping maids from his mind, he reoriented his focus on the Golden Pelydryn, raised his hand, and set to extracting its secrets.
There were no lemon rosemary cakes.
He'd have to settle for cinnamon spice.
Belle plated a half dozen on the tea tray: three glazed, three not. He liked to dip but hated the glaze melting into the tea. He ate the glazed ones, too—but when he did, he ate them upside down.
It was endearing. One of her favorite little things about him.
He wanted that sweetness to hit his tongue immediately and fully.
It was utterly insignificant, yet it spoke to who he was and made her cheeks hurt from suppressing her smile.
The Dark One has a sweet tooth.
She drifted from the kitchen to the tower in that contented haze, hoping he'd let her stay for tea despite his new toys.
She'd missed him.
Four days was a long time for him to be away. Usually, he was only gone overnight, sometimes for two nights. Any longer, lately, and he started entertaining the idea of taking her with him. But he'd deemed Prydain too dangerous, and she spent those four long days shifting in her seat, missing a piece of herself.
Only when he returned did the void fill, and she wondered if this was how he felt when she came back from the village.
Was it a feeling born of loneliness or love?
She knew her answer.
Her cheeks pinkened when she dared assume his.
Belle slowed near the top of the spiral staircase. It was as if she'd walked into a wall of charged, fuzzy air; it felt too thick, buzzing on her skin. She could smell burnt, broken glass, the bitter tang of ozone in her sinuses.
Heard the weak shuffle of boots and the tinkling of that broken glass.
"Rumplestiltskin?"
Concern propelled her up the last few stairs.
The Golden Pelydryn lay cracked on the floor, its now white-hot light shrunken and agitated. Half an alchemy set lay shattered around it, liquids snaking through the crevices in the stone toward Rumplestiltskin, who had propped himself up against a potions cabinet, eyes unfocused and breathing labored.
"Rumple!"
Belle abandoned the tea tray on a nearby table and dropped to her knees beside him. Perspiration coated his grey, sunken face as he fought to keep his eyes open, to stay conscious.
But an impossible weight had settled in his limbs—and it was quickly blanketing his cognizance.
Rumplestiltskin tried to shield himself when Belle reached for him, but he hadn't the strength to twitch a finger, let alone raise his arm to deter her touch.
"Don't," he rasped, but his face was already in her hands, his hair already being swept out of his closed eyes.
Belle shook her head, confused. "What happened?"
"I got in. For a moment…" His voice trailed off, breathless. His face melted into the warmth of her hands for a few breaths. He swallowed and continued. "It's not mine to know."
Belle's stomach quaked. He was being too cryptic.
"Rumple, what's happening to you?" A lump hardened in her throat. "Please."
"It's not mine," he murmured again, pushing the words through dry, sticky lips. "My magic… is burning it out of me. Like a sickness."
Belle gripped Rumplestiltskin's shoulders as he shuddered and slumped against the large chest beside them. She looked over her shoulder at the cracked orb as its light fizzled out, then to the Book of Llyr lying blank on the workbench.
She'd been right.
That magic was only meant for enchantresses.
And they had protected it well by making it a poison to anyone else who tried to possess it. By provoking his magic into scorching it from his mind.
Like a fever.
"What can I do?" Belle asked immediately. She'd had fevers. She could do this. She gave him a shake to get his eyes open again. "Can you teleport us to a sitting room or your chambers? So you can rest there?"
The corner of his mouth flickered. Not quite a smile, but an attempt.
"All my magic's busy at the moment." His head lolled, turning away from the afternoon light pouring through the window. "Just leave me here."
"I can't leave you here."
"It'll pass in a few days," he said.
"You can't lay on the tower floor for a few days," Belle said. Honestly, the stubbornness! "I'll move you."
Rumplestiltskin caught a fistful of her skirt before she stood.
"Stairs."
Belle's face fell. Gods, how was she supposed to get him down that spiral staircase on her own? Even if she did, he was in no condition to be dragged across the castle to the West Wing.
Belle looked around the tower, reluctant but defeated. She bit her cheek and took in Rumple's state again, donning her armor.
"I'll be back."
Belle pilfered what comforts she could from the nearest sitting room and bed chamber: pillows, blankets, towels, linens. She loaded a cart from the kitchens with tea, broth, and sundries, as well as a pitcher and bowl for washing. Getting it all up in the tower was worthy of its own story.
She swept the straw by the spinning wheel into a neat pile and covered it with several layers of linens. With pillows lining the wall and a blanket turned down, it passed for a serviceable, if lumpy, sickbed.
Belle roused Rumplestiltskin enough that he shuffled to it on his knees with her help. The straw rustled beneath him as he got comfortable, and the familiar sound lulled him back to sleep before Belle had the blanket over him.
She cleaned a small cauldron, boiled water, then heated some broth. As it simmered, she threw a towel over the Golden Pelydryn, put it in a velvet drawstring bag, and locked it in the Cursed Curios cabinet. The Book of Llyr went on top of the bookshelf on the opposite side of the tower. It was like separating two naughty children.
Now see what you've done to poor Mr. Stiltskin.
At sundown, she dropped a cushion next to Rumplestiltskin's makeshift bed and settled in, wiping the sweat from his skin and hoping the scent of the broth would coax him back into consciousness. She tucked a poultice behind his neck where she knew her headaches manifested when she felt unwell, and she brewed fresh tea.
It made Rumplestiltskin gag.
His voice was still frail and deep but steady.
"Did you brew maidensweet again?"
"Meadowsweet," she said with a smirk, pushing the cup back into his hands. "It helps with fever."
Rumplestiltskin's eyes hurt too much to glare at her properly. Instead, she got a very broken, very beleaguered sigh.
"It's a magical fever," he said. "Meadowsweet and broth won't help."
"Well, I don't see how they could hurt."
Rumplestiltskin finished the tea before the heaviness in his face dragged him back under. He gave Belle the cup, and his hand dropped soundly between them, fingers curling into the soft crunch of the straw.
"There's nothing you can do."
"I don't believe that."
"You can't just sit here… until this is over."
Belle offered him a glazed tea cake.
"Who's gonna stop me, Dark One? You?"
When Rumplestiltskin had sat at her bedside last summer, he poked fun at her for apparently muttering two words in her fevered state, gleefully taking them out of context until they were both humiliated beyond reason. And he knit her a blanket.
Rumple actually did talk, though.
At first, it was harmless: "Shut up, David," and "Put that thing back where it came from or so help me." Things of that nature. He said a spell at one point that made her book rise out of her hands, too. It was still stuck on the ceiling.
Then he started to talk to her, which, to her knowledge, wasn't how talking in one's sleep worked.
To her, but not altogether there.
At first, it was harmless: "Chamomile is for cowards," bartering the moon for a kiss. Something about an owl named Reginald eating maps.
But as his fever climbed, nightmares.
Strange, straggling gasps and twitches, twisting away from monsters and memories and cragged, black vines descending on his sleep.
A raw, troubled whine: "I almost lost you."
It struck Belle like none of his other mumblings had.
She put the lid on the kettle in the fireplace, wiped her hands on her apron, and sat on the straw pile with him, touching the back of her hand to his cheek, then his neck.
"I'm right here," she said, opening the neck of his shirt more to let the night air cool him. "It's just a dream."
"No!" he asserted hoarsely. His brow creased, gripping her skirt so tightly his knuckles turned white. "Don't you understand?" he hissed. "I… I picked a spot for you, Belle. Under that yew tree you like."
Belle slowly removed her hand from his neck. Blood rushed into her ears, telling her to listen. Rumplestiltskin's breath hitched, and her fingers sank into his sleeve.
"I told Beatrice,"—his voice skewed high—"to lay a dress."
Belle stared at him.
Beatrice…
He was talking about the black spell that had weakened her for months last winter, that had brought Beatrice into their household until she was well again. Belle knew her condition had deteriorated rapidly at one point, but neither Beatrice nor Rumplestiltskin had let on as to how hopeless it had been.
Belle's eyes reddened, voice small.
"You picked a spot for me?"
"Nothing I did worked," he said. "Nothing."
And she saw his heart break all over again.
"You were… never going to know everything I was too afraid to say." A hard swallow. "You wouldn't even know… that I'd failed you."
Belle took his hand. She clutched it to her chest as she blinked back her tears, letting him feel her heartbeat.
"I am alive because of you," she said. "You did not fail me. I am right here."
It gentled his brow, however marginally. His breathing evened as exhaustion set in again, and he turned his hand in hers, fingertips casting long shadows in the firelight as they grazed her neck.
"That spell was from Prydain," he whispered. "I saw the counter-curse in… that book."
And he didn't want to forget it, Belle realized. Just in case. To spare them both their agonies.
Belle sniffed. She shifted her weight on the straw, settling closer to brush a damp curl from his pale face. His hand grew heavier on the side of her neck, and she gently removed it, laying it in her lap.
"You don't need it anymore," Belle said to him. "I'm safe."
She rested her forehead on his temple.
"Let it go and come back to me."
Rumplestiltskin squeezed her hand, feeble but sure.
Belle smiled. She lifted her head, eyes shining and heart painfully full. She stroked Rumplestiltskin's cheek, smoothing the shudders and despair from his face until sleep took him.
Once it had, Belle fled to the window, gulping down the breeze to suppress her sobs, tears cold in the corners of her eyes. She breathed deeply until she felt lightheaded and lay the side of her flushed face against the cool stone.
The image of Rumple's gray body sagging on his throne bombarded her, of rubble and sunbeams and that long, wrought iron shaft sticking out of his bloody abdomen. Everything happened in such a whirlwind that day—discovering him, helping him, healing him—she hadn't had time to entertain the aftermath. If he had died, he would have been gone, and that was as far as she got.
But Rumplestiltskin…
He had time to watch her die.
Finding him impaled on the throne was the worst limbo of her life, and it had only lasted an hour. Rumplestiltskin, however, had to endure that hopelessness for ten days.
Gods, she didn't wake up for ten days… How could she have done that to him?
And to know he'd picked a spot…
Told her the spot—
Belle covered her mouth with her hand and closed her eyes. He'd looked so haggard when she finally woke, and she had no idea, no clue as to what she'd put him through. He harbored such despair that it had finally leaked out of him, and her guilt was overwhelming.
But to know she was that loved, to see that devotion in the way he tried not to break long after he'd shattered, made her feel whole.
Belle wiped away the fresh tears spilling from her eyes. She sniffed, turned away from the window, and quietly curled onto the hay bed, watching him sleep as if he hadn't just devastated their whole dynamic in his delirium.
She took his hand, rough and large in her own. Tucked it under her chin with a quick kiss and rubbed one of his talons with her thumb to soothe her stricken heart.
"Come back to me," she whispered again. "Let it go."
The next morning, as a mist-shrouded sun bathed the tower walls in cool white light, Rumplestiltskin slowly blinked awake, bleary-eyed and stiff. The sooty scent of smoke drew his gaze to the ashen logs under a cold kettle, and a fresh crop of goosebumps rose on his skin as the wind drifted through the window.
His clothes were drenched with sweat, clinging to him. As if he'd broken a fever.
He did feel lighter. Drained, but lighter. The oppressive weight in his muscles had abated significantly, clearing his head somewhat and allowing deeper breaths. His magic was calmer—still inflamed, but calmer. Coursing rather than raging.
Rumplestiltskin weakly raised his left hand. A purple-pink wisp of shimmering magic weaved and wove betwixt his fingers as if to say hello.
He smiled, relieved.
Not there yet, he knew, but on his way.
The straw shifted.
Rumplestiltskin frowned, then smirked, then looked to his right.
Belle, entirely fed up and caught up in some dream, was rolling away from him, yanking his blanket tightly around her shoulders as if to punish him. She muttered something hostile before going completely lax again, back rising and falling like the gentlest fawn.
His eyebrows bent in amusement.
He'd never heard her grumble in her sleep before. It was absurdly adorable.
Time to ruin it.
"My, my!" he barked, startling Belle from her sleep with a squeak. "It's half past breakfast with no breakfast to be found!" He lifted the blanket, ignoring her indignant glare. "Where is that little maid of mine— Oh! Oh." His sly grin spread. "There she is."
Belle rolled her eyes and sat up.
"You seem much better."
"I've woken up in a pile of hay with a woman. Any man's bound to feel better after that."
When she didn't scoff or swat at him, Rumplestiltskin looked at her, expecting an admonishing glare or an exasperated eruption toward the sky. He expected to get a rise out of her, perhaps be resisted in return.
But Belle had the softest look in her eyes. Something wise and peculiar. Something that whittled away his smirk into something more serious and set him on edge.
He narrowed his eyes. "What?"
Belle blinked, smiled, shook her head.
"Nothing. I'm just glad you're awake."
"That's not a 'nothing' tone, dearie. Try again."
She looked away. Her lips disappeared into her mouth as if debating whether or not to bolt.
"You talk in your fevers, Dark One."
Rumplestiltskin froze. Proceeded very carefully.
"And what, of my malaise-induced musings, has you so skittish, little maid?"
A beat. "You asked for a kiss."
Rumplestiltskin ran his tongue over his teeth.
Oh, he must have said something if she was trying to sell this. She hadn't even blushed.
I'm listening…
"Did I…get said kiss?" he asked.
"No," she laughed, lightly shoving him away. "I was promised the entirety of the moon in exchange for one kiss on the cheek. No moon, no kiss."
Rumplestiltskin made a face. He glanced at the window as she stood and picked pieces of straw off her skirt.
"On the cheek?"
"Mhm."
"For the actual moon?"
"That's what you said."
He wasn't buying it.
Rumplestiltskin's knee popped as he pitched it, lying on his side and clasping his hands as Belle plated a tray from a large basket on the workbench.
"What would you even do with a moon?"
"They were your terms, Rumplestiltskin, not mine."
He fixed her with a smug grin again as she returned with a tray of cheese, bread, marmalade, and leftover tea cakes.
"You're afraid I'll get the moon," he said as she sat, "because then you'll have t—"
Belle kissed his cheek.
Rumplestiltskin stopped. Blinked.
Regarded Belle dubiously.
"So," she said, folding cheese into a hunk of bread, "when do I get that moon?"
Rumplestiltskin watched her, eyes bright, knowing. The weight of the softness he'd seen in her eyes was too heavy to be about the moon and kisses, but he'd let her keep it. He'd let her have this normal while she parsed through the emotions of the last two days.
If he'd revealed something, it was safe with her.
Perhaps even something she'd already known.
But for now, he was awake, he was better, and she was still here.
Rumplestiltskin cleared his throat, scooting closer on his elbow as he reached over her for a tea cake.
"Might I offer you a prize more…readily available than the moon?"
"No. No, I can wait," Belle said, tempering her smile so she could meet his eye. "I'm patient." She nudged his shoulder. "And I know you'll come through."
Rumplestiltskin lowered his tea cake.
He could feel his heartbeat in his eyes, the floor falling away.
"…Could you be any more impossible?" he marveled softly. "A bedridden man, clearly out of his mind with fever and regret—"
A laugh. "Oh!..."
"—offers you the moon—"
A swat.
"—and you hold him to it?"
"You would!"
"Are we sure this deal wasn't the other way around?" Rumplestiltskin asked, twirling a finger between them. He narrowed his eyes and leaned in. "Because it makes much more sense for me to receive the… heavenly body—"
Belle's eyebrows shot into her hairline. "What?"
"—and express my deepest gratitude"—he snuck a sip of her lips—"accordingly."
Belle laughed, beet red as she shrank away from his incoming kiss and put two fingers to his lips. He hummed as if that had been his intention all along, pressing the kiss to her fingers and trying his damnedest not to pull them into his mouth.
"You still have a fever, Rumple," Belle said.
"Magical fever," he reminded her, leaning in again. "It's not contagious."
Belle trapped his face in her hands. She held it firmly until he inched an eye open, meeting her stern gaze.
"You need to rest."
And then his hands were on her face, gliding up her jaw before sinking into her hair and bringing her within an inch of her life. His breath was hot on her lips, eyes burning clearer than they had in days.
"I'm the one who gives the orders around here."
Belle's pulse quickened. This wasn't control; it was certainty—the hunger of a patiently starving man wasting away for her touch. This welled up from the same fountain of truth as that yew tree, trying to drown her.
She shivered as his hands slowly slipped from her face and did the same, backing away from a landmine. She stayed very still, very compelled not to encourage that delicious salt in his tone.
Eyes still locked, Rumplestiltskin retreated, a threat or a promise in his eyes, she couldn't be sure.
He pushed her back against the pillows.
Belle's eyes detonated wide open.
"Rumple! Ah—!"
A pillow landed soundly in her lap.
Belle panted incredulously, arms out at her sides as Rumplestiltskin laid his head right in the middle of the pillow, facing her feet.
"Now," he commanded, voice gentling as he snuggled down into the pillow, "comb my hair."
Her laughter made his head bounce.
"You're not going to let me up, are you?"
"You told me to rest," he said. "Comb."
Belle chuckled again. He felt her lean to the side, then over him, placing his forgotten tea cake right in front of his nose. He shut his eyes as the glaze melted on his tongue—and melted into Belle as she pulled his locks through her fingers. A contended sigh rumbled in his throat.
"You know, this isn't what I meant," she said, after she'd fed him a tea cake and started petting him.
Rumplestiltskin flexed his magic in his hand.
"I can teleport us to a bed now."
"Don't you dare."
"Who's going to stop me, little maid? You?"
Belle's fingers curled in his hair, tight. "Yes."
A sound caught in Rumplestiltskin's throat.
"Yes," he agreed—croaked.
I am the Dark One! Could you pull a little harder, pretty please—?
"Get some rest," Belle said. "You still owe me a moon."
"That contract is invalid, and you know it," he said, looking over his shoulder. "My faculties were compromised."
"I already gave you the kiss."
He flashed his eyebrows haughtily, turning back over. "A pathetic little peck, if you ask me—OW!"
A sharp sting snapped on his cheek. She'd flicked him!
Rumplestiltskin rolled onto his back, hand on his face, utterly shocked and affronted.
"Are you mad?"
Belle took his hand from his cheek, leaned over, and kissed it, soft, full, and warm. She hummed as she did, effectively reducing him to a boneless puddle in her lap. He felt her smile before she pulled away.
"Now you owe me two moons," she said.
Rumplestiltskin blinked up at her, jaw slack, eyebrows climbing.
"Three moons," he rasped. "Three is…a much better number of moons."
Belle laughed. "You can get me three moons?"
"I can get you all the moons. I can make moons if we run out—"
She firmly poked her finger in the middle of his forehead when he tried to sit up, keeping him on the pillow.
"Go to sleep, Rumplestiltskin."
"Come on, three moons," he goaded, turning his cheek toward her. "Three moons!"
Belle rolled her eyes. Chuckled helplessly.
Then, slowly, she scooped his cheek off the pillow in her lap and pressed a long, loving kiss to the other. She smiled again at the way his breath collapsed at the contact, how her affection folded an apology and gratitude into the space between her lips and his skin.
He must have felt it. His fingers reached for the side of her neck, gently grazing, asking a question. Belle pulled back just far enough for him to turn his head. He tucked a sunlit strand of hair behind her ear as he gazed up at her. Not with mirth or mischief, but with reverence.
Belle knew what he saw. Not moons or kisses, but a yew tree.
A spot he'd picked for her.
When it registered on his face, she took his hand from her neck, kissed its heel, and held it to her cheek. She saw something break in him then. Something raw flooded his eyes, and his fingers twitched at her temple, like she wasn't real.
A lump formed in her throat.
If he'd been standing, he'd be on his knees by now.
How could she have done this to him? For ten days?
"Was it really that hopeless?" Belle asked.
Rumplestiltskin swallowed. The past surfaced on his face for one agonizing, aching heartbeat.
"Yes, it was."
The hand on her cheek urged her closer.
"But you stayed," he whispered. "You stayed. And for that"—he cupped her face in both hands—"for that, I owe you much, much more than every moon in every realm that ever was."
His thumbs stroked her cheeks, eyes hollow and shining.
"I almost lost you."
"But you didn't," she said.
Rumplestiltskin shook his head.
"And I don't plan to."
Belle kissed his forehead, freeing the sob knotted in his throat. When she lifted her head, he rolled onto his left side, hiding his face in her stomach as his right arm wrapped around her waist. He clutched her like he did that night, when he whispered an untold number of prayers and pleas into her neck, begging her to stay and be strong.
He sagged against her as she ran her fingers through his hair again, slow and soothing. She shushed him and let him cling tighter, and he drew his knees up to her thigh. After one last sob shuddered out of him, he got his other arm around her, settled, and drifted off to sleep, face buried in her bodice.
He'd already picked a spot for her, long before that yew tree: at his side. In his arms. In his heart.
That was where she rested.
That was where she was home.
Where she was his.
Belle continued to stroke his hair with a soft, sorrowful smile.
Rumplestiltskin could keep his moons.
He'd already given her everything—and more.