Chapter Text
Belle wasn’t sure whom she should speak to. Her father was the obvious choice, who loved her and had nearly collapsed from relief at her return. But coming “home,” to this place that no longer felt right to her, had not been her first choice. She had sought the forest and mountains, liking her month of freedom and adventure: her new-made friends and the new sights. They were wondrous: grey hills and deep blue pools that left her feeling as if her broken heart had been soothed.
If life had taught her anything, it was that good things did not last, and she had been defeated by nothing more than her own clumsiness, a fall from a slick rock and a badly broken arm. Luckily or unluckily, she had been close to the place she had called home for so long, and she did miss her father and friends.
They had welcomed her with open arms and comforting words, though uneasy faces, at times. She had spoken a few short words about arguing with Rumpelstiltskin and his casting her out. Now, though, everything was so much more complicated. She wished to simply sit in her room, by the white curtains, and read, and she wished to be in the forest with knife and book, and she wished to be back in the Dark Castle, pouring tea. She could have none of them, though, so maybe it was better not to wish.
Best to start simply. She dressed for the day, in a simple brown dress and boots, and walked to the house of the town’s herb-woman. Mistress Cevan’s home was as she remembered from childhood, low and dark, rafters hung with a mixture of cooking and healing herbs. The similarities comforted her: she felt so different in her skin these days, no longer the lady she had been, no longer the housekeeper, no longer the adventurer.
“Good morning, Belle.” Mistress Cevan was a small, sturdy woman: her face more lined and hair whiter than last Belle had seen her, but she still walked with a straight back, and her green eyes were clear and sharp. “What brings you here?” Belle shifted uneasily and twisted her hands. She felt cold all over and sick: this was no easy thing to say. Mistress Cevan perhaps sensed her distress and placed her rough, strong hand over Belle’s now-callused one. “Don’t worry, my dear. You can tell me anything.” Belle nodded, clutching her hand, and blurted out her worry in a gasp.
“I haven’t bled in nearly two months,” she confessed, then buried her face in her hands, wondering what the older woman would say. Mistress Cevan sighed and wrapped an arm around Belle’s shoulders.
“Oh, child…” she guided Belle to sit down and offered her a cup of water, which Belle sipped at shakily.
“And I’m sick often, and I feel weak.”
“Is this something from your traveling back to us, or earlier?” Belle could hear no scorn in the other’s voice, no contempt, and was glad for her tactful way of asking when, and who.
“Earlier,” she said, in a small voice. Mistress Cevan frowned, and gathered her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
“I hope you gave him a bloody nose for his trouble, girl,” she said in a choked voice, pity in her eyes, and Belle wasn’t sure if she wanted to laugh or throw up. Which was worse, being raped by a monster or going willingly to his bed? She shook her head.
“No, no, it was…he didn’t force me,” she managed. That wasn’t sufficient explanation, but some of the tightness went out of Mistress Cevan’s shoulders.
“Well, then, that doesn’t make this any easier, does it?” Belle shook her head dumbly. “Belle, I’m not here to sneer at your heart or your desires, even if I can’t understand your choice, all right?” Belle nodded tightly, jaw aching, and then was suddenly weeping in the herb-woman’s arms, sobbing into her shoulder, letting all the hurt she had been holding since he had thrown her out of the dungeon escape her in sobs that were half tears, half screams. Mistress Cevan only wrapped her arms around Belle, letting her muffle her crying against her shawl.
“He, he said he d-didn’t love me,” Belle choked out, and the other woman stroked her hair, making shushing sounds, rocking her gently.
Mistress Cevan made her drink a chamomile tonic, to calm what was becoming hysterics.
“Belle, I can take this away from you, if you truly wish, but I do not want to. It’s a harsh business.” Belle shook her head, lips pressed tight. She could not say she wanted the child, but she could not cast it aside, either.
“There are herbs, then, to take, and foods you must eat, for your health and the babe’s. But you must decide what to tell your father.” Belle knew. Trying to hide it would be impossible: the only reason none of the castle women had noticed yet was that they had been giving her a wide berth, half-frightened of her.
“Yes, I know. I’m just not ready.”
She waited a long time; perhaps too long. She spent much of her time sitting on a bench in the garden, reading, trying not to think about what she must say, and what she would have to do. There would be no more lying: she’d had enough lies from Rumpelstiltskin’s lips that she was half certain she would never lie again.
Finally, cursing her own reticence and fear, two weeks after she spoke with Mistress Cevan, she knocked on the door of her father’s study, heart hammering. She had been ill earlier that morning, and she knew that one of the maids suspected her condition. She had to be the one to say it.
“Enter,” he said, and smiled when he saw her. “Belle.” His whole face softened at the sight of her, and Belle wondered if he was about to destroy the image of who he thought his daughter was. “I haven’t been seeing enough of you, my girl.” Belle smiled weakly. Better to get it over with right away, and she could not keep her voice from shaking as she spoke.
“Papa—I’m with child.” She said it simply, hands clasped in front of her, and watched his face go from confused to white with rage in the space of a few seconds. He picked up his inkwell with shaking hands and smashed it against the wall, mouth twitching, then put his hands over his face, much as Belle had done. His posture was stricken, and he seemed unable to move towards his daughter, only looking up at her with helpless eyes.
“It’s all my fault, Belle. I never should have let him take you away. That monster—“ He was trapped between grief and rage, and that only made Belle feel worse.
“Papa, listen.” It twisted her stomach to confess, knowing his disapproval would follow, but truth mattered. “I chose to go with him. You didn’t ‘let’ him. And—“ Her tongue tried to tie itself up, but she pressed on. “I went to bed with him of my own choice. He never forced me—I love him.”
Her father only shook his head, looking sick.
“No, Belle, he must have bespelled you. You’re confused.”
“I’m not!” she snapped, irritated at his denial. He shuffled papers on his desk, hands still shaking.
“Belle, please. You’re not some demon’s whore, my girl.” To her disgust, Belle started to tear up, but she swallowed and forced the tears away, unsure if they came from anger or grief.
“Listen to me! I’m telling the truth!” Belle looked wildly around the study, unable to focus on her father’s face. The study had once been such a comforting place, with its wooden walls and rug. She had spent time here as a girl, with a doll or a small book, to be in her father’s presence even when he was busy. Now, though, it felt as though the walls were shattering like a breaking mirror around her.
“My daughter wouldn’t fuck a monster,” he half-snarled at her, and Belle flinched away from his crude words. “And you’re not bearing a demon’s child.” Belle shook her head, wondering desperately why love kept doing this to her—casting her out, seeing only the worst of her.
“He’s not a monster,” she said fiercely, eyes blurring finally with tears, and that was true. “And it’s my child.” Her father shook his head, and Belle realized, with a rush of nausea that had nothing to do with pregnancy, that she was already dead to him. He couldn’t reconcile the daughter he loved with a woman who would make love to a monster.
“Get out, then,” he ordered, shaking, half-crying, and for a second, she was standing in a cell, with a different man, who stood stiffly as he bade her leave. She knew how this went.
“I’m still me,” she said, voice cold: colder than last time, because this was a second heartbreak, and a different kind, and she knew how this went. “Still your daughter, and you’re making a mistake, because you can’t imagine that I could give up my innocence of my own will!”
She packed hastily, trying to find her roomiest dresses, those which could be laced loosely to allow for the swelling of her waistline. It wouldn’t be long, she was sure. Her maid from childhood half-clung to her arm, which was no longer tender and splinted, and tried to dissuade her from leaving. Belle ordered her out rather rudely after a few minutes as she tried to decide between a length of cord and a portion of cloth. The castle’s no-nonsense steward barged into her room a while later, and Belle glared at him, prepared to have to wrestle him out of the way.
“Peace,” he said, and handed her a waterproofed pack. “I won’t send you out again without something.” Belle took it with a nod and a few surprised tears.
“Thank you. I thought you were here to stop me.” He frowned gravely.
“Your father would prefer it, no doubt, but I don’t think you should be a prisoner here anymore than you should with him.” Belle wondered if he knew that she was pregnant, or if he would be so kind if he knew it was the Dark One’s child she carried.
Half the castle shrunk away, and most of the rest looked ready to sneer or spit, but there were a few kindnesses, enough to tell her that her once-home was full of people mostly confused and scared, not bad-hearted.
She was a little better prepared this time, going out in her leather jerkin and with a heavy cloak and pack. She would have to be careful this time, now that she knew, but the woods had welcomed her once, and they would again. Her child might have neither father nor grandfather, but she could make sure it had the love it deserved, a life free from whispers about demons. She could be a war widow to anyone she met, and if they didn’t believe her, better to be called a runaway foreigner’s bastard than Rumpelstiltskin’s offspring.
Summer was in full swing, and the woods were warm, full of greenery and life: Belle could hear small things rustling as she passed, and smell the rich scent of fruit and flowers. She kept one hand firmly on the walking staff she had procured from one of the guardsmen—he’d also given her a better canteen than the one she had picked up on her travels—and let the other rest over her stomach, still flat. The brown-leafed path stretched out before her.