It's almost spring time

Belle had knelt in a pool of golden fabric, at the foot of the throne, beseeching her father to have faith in the great last chance, as he descended the steps of despair. The reported fall of Avonlea to The Ogre War had sucked all the air of the room. Her two hands had curled along his arm, as she was staring up at him in earnest, unwilling to let that grave darkness take root, in herself or him, when the great knocking sounded throughout the room.

Her breath caught, desperate hope and more than a little fear, as she rose to her feet, tucking herself into her father's arm, leaning into him as they approached the entrance doors. It was not but disappointment that metered out within in her when the empty hall stretched to its wall of windows beyond, and not but wary surprise and odd curiosity that filled her mind when they were turned to find Rumpelstiltskin sitting on her father's throne.

This was him? Their monstrous savior? The one who stole children and sold dreams? Who could make gold and dethrone kings? Who had power unlimited and spent it in bartering deals that always ended badly?

He didn't look that terrifying. If his features were oddly colored, and his hair unkempt, he was shorter than an average man, with the dark spiked leathers, high pitched giggle and flamboyant hand gestures, teasing between that of a child and a jester. Even in the shady, sharp, ease with which he slapped a sword and then pointed at her. Not as if she were a person, but a shining bauble.

First giggling as he clasped his hands, wiggling his dark fingertips at her answer, and then bouncing on the balls of his feet, with that wide smile of dark jagged teeth. One life, for several thousand others. Neither of which mattered, to his overdone flourishes, or the hand at her waist that led her away, or the five steps outside that brought her suddenly into a snowcapped mountain Forever she'd resigned to him and the only thought not startled from her: Be Brave.



Belle had yelled for him and pounded on the thick wooden door to the dungeon until the flat of her fists and the palm of her hands were red as burns. She could tell, even if there wasn't enough light to see them in the rapidly set night. She'd bit her lip in the refusal to start crying as the shadows deepened, taking a long time about the whole sitting down process.

Cold, damp, dark cell, with absolutely nothing in it but herself, the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. That she no more wanted to sit in, than she wanted to stand in, or stay in. She had paced the walls, certain he'd have to come get her at some point. He hadn't asked for a prisoner, the way he had balked at the assumption of wanting her for a wife. He'd wanted a caretaker for his house he said, and if she was right, to prove he could take the most precious thing her father had in barter for the one he was most in need of.

Her, for the victory of peace. Her, with the ability to make their world crumble. If they said no, all the deaths would hang on her weak, unable, feminine vulnerability, the expectation of their valor over her delicacy, in being protected by tall strong men, who could handle the consequences of such a price. Her, with the ability to make them look at her and claim her the one too precious sacrifice to make.

Thus, they hadn't. But she had. She shut her eyes tight, pulling down over her vision a darkness more absolute than the deepening night, and told herself what she'd been saying since before shoving Gaston's arm aside, before turning back on them as though their surprised denials were worse insult than Rumpelstiltskin's plays could merit: Be Brave.



Belle had woken up the fourth time confused, before she remembered: why her pillow was so hard, why her night dress was so tight, why she was sitting upright in a corner. She hadn't slept well, but she had to have slept to keep waking. The last time stayed awake to watch the slow light of dawn change the wall color in front of her. Unhurt, but alone and unaware when he might return, whether she would even be fed or if she had been left, forgotten, to die here.

Yesterday, she dealt away her whole life to end the terrible war in her lands. The one that had lain on each person in that war and each other connected to them. Time kept moving, even if she could not. It was another day. Had the war stopped already? Were the men headed home to their mothers, wives, and children and was there to be a great celebration in the name of peace? What were her father and Gaston doing now?

What did they think had become of her? Had they expected this, when they shouted no? That she might be the next prized piece in the great dust covered collection that had been displayed in every corner of every room he dragged her through, awestruck and unassuming. Not beloved girl or great hero, watching the sun rise against the shadows of the bars. Who was she now? What was she now? What would come next after her given word, her gathered price?

Yet when the door had begun to open, with no click of keys or lock, she forced back the urge to plead as she scrambled upward, hands tightening in the folds of her golden skirts, chin raised. Her mind martialing an answer, as her heart sped up. She was the daughter of Maurice. The woman who dared to pay Rumpelstiltskin's price. The one who'd made it through a night in his dungeon.

She would hold them all, along with those words, until they were true: