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Chapter 51 Moodboard
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At the World’s Edge, the wind and the waves were a constant presence, as familiar to the Castle Païenie’s inhabitants as their heartbeat. Even when raised in summer gales or winter tempests, the elemental voices were old friends. But here they were, barely a week past the harvest, and winter had arrived howling, whipping the sea into an answering fury until the waves raged and roared as if to drag the castle into their depths.
Païenie’s four towers were already nothing more than white bulbous mushrooms pushing up from the ground, and the town below was lost in the swirl of clouds and snow. Thankfully, the people of the Vale were used to winter’s whims and prepared to weather the season, but if this storm was the first of many, they were in for a long and hard winter. The worst of it was the wind. It wormed its way through the chinks and cracks of the castle, burrowing into its bones as if seeking them out. Under the relentless onslaught, Dead Man’s Tower lived up to its name, moaning and groaning with every gale that swept across it.
Most of Castle Païenie’s inhabitants had the good sense to stay in the warmth of the lower halls. For those with the misfortune to have their duties upon the parapets….those unlucky few were faced with a long climb to the heart of the blizzard’s fury, with nothing more than a fur cloak to keep them warm. Only the most devoted would brave the parapets in this weather when a single wrong step could mean being plucked off the stone path and dashed into the Bay of Beast’s dark, deep depths below.
The most devoted or the most deluded, Belle thought to herself as she took another step and then another. Every groan of the tower echoed through her bones, and the wind’s screams in the hollow tower’s staircase ran like nails down her back. “It’s just a storm,” she told herself, but as she opened the door to the castle parapets, a chilling gust of ice and snow nearly swept her back down the stairs.
Thank Nimue, she had not climbed all the way up here in vain; out upon the center of the parapets, Morgana Le Fay, Lady of Avonlea, stood upon Nimue’s Stone, staring out across the Bay of Beasts as if there was not a blizzard raging about her. Her hood had long ago succumbed to the wind. Named for the circling seas that protected the Isle, her mistress was like her namesake: fierce and strong, ruthless and determined, deadly and without mercy.
Ageless.
Centuries had passed since her mother had bestowed her name, but the Enchantress stood unbent by age, untouched by weakness or disease. No wrinkles creased her cheeks, nor silver touched her hair-
Well, except for the snow. Flakes dusted her curls like stars in the sky.
Reluctantly, Belle took two steps out of the tower's safety but did not roam far enough that she could not fall backward into its waiting arms if the wind picked up without warning. She dubiously eyed the ever-rising snow banks upon the narrow walkways separating her from the lone figure on the parapets. On the opposite side of the walkway, the faint light of the brazier in the Watcher’s Tower flickered as the guard completed his rounds. Belle envied him that fire. Her extremities were starting to grow numb. Belle stamped one foot and the other, trying to bring feeling back into her frozen toes. “Malegrant certainly is in high form tonight,” she grumbled to herself. It was the thing people always said when a great storm raged in from the north: a hyperbolic bogeyman. The phrase mothers said to their children so they would behave and stay inside.
And yet, almost as if agreeing with her, a crack of thunder crashed overhead.
Her mistress turned, registering Belle’s presence upon the parapets for the first time. “Oh, it’s you. I was wondering.” She turned back to the horizon. “Come. Join me.”
It was not a request.
Belle was in no rush to plummet to her death over something as foolish as stepping on a rogue patch of ice. “My lady, the storm-”
The air grew dense as tendrils of magic pulled the air taunt. The wind picked up as if to answer, a crescendoing howl. “You would be wise to be more afeared of me than of the elements.” As much as Belle would have preferred to play deaf, her lady’s tone brooked no argument.
Belle stepped out of the tower's relative safety, instinctively pulling her cloak tighter around her. It may have been Belle’s imagination, but the blizzard seemed to have increased in intensity by the time she reached her lady’s side. She was already envisioning her quarters and the books waiting by the fire.
“Your precious books can wait. What news?”
Long accustomed to her lady’s ways, Belle put all thoughts of books and the warm crackling of her fireplace aside. “The main routes are already snowed in,” Belle said, gesturing towards the sea of white to the east.
“What does the castellan say?” The Enchantress never bothered to learn the names of her staff. She had already had four or five castellans in her lifetime and had long ago decided it was simpler to call a horse a horse and a castellan a castellan.
“Master Urien says the food stores will last, but Captain Vortimer worries if the storm continues unabated, we might be unable to come and go. He used the exact words “under siege by the storm.”
“Under siege,” Lady Le Fay repeated. “An interesting choice of words. They need not fret.”
The Enchantress had long given up any pretense of running the castle and regulated her ladyship’s duties to whoever was on hand. As her lady’s ward, Belle was the newest of a long line of stewards. She was no more a noble than the Enchantress’s prized mare, just another beloved pet of sorts, useful in the right situations, pampered by everyone else for being preferred by their lady, but at any moment in danger of being struck down from grace on her mistress’s whim.
Still, Belle pressed her luck. “You will forgive my boldness, but you speak as if it is a fine spring day instead of the earliest blizzard in living memory.”
“I have things under control.” The words were bared steel, but Belle did not have the luxury of heeding its warning.
“My lady,” she took a deep breath. Her mistress did not like to be reminded of mere mortal troubles, but there was nothing to do about it. “The harvest was bountiful, but…we were not entirely prepared. With the roads already impassable, if the storm continues longer than a week-”
“The sheep always bleat. It is a lesson to learn when there is a wolf among the pack and when shadows spook them.”
Belle's cloak had grown heavy with snow. “With all due respect, my lady, the wolf is at the door.”
Morgana turned to her, fully seeing her for the first time since their conversation had started. “And why do you say that?”
Belle squared her shoulders, searching for the right words. She cared deeply for her mistress, but her guardian was as unshiftable as the walls of Païenie. “This is no mere squall. There is something else in the air. The animals cower in their pens. The chickens have not laid a single egg since yesterday, and the most steadfast cows refuse to produce milk. My lady, your people know the telltale signs of magic.”
Power washed over Belle. A warning that she was no longer speaking to Lady Morgana but to the Swynawen of the Eighth Isle. “And you suspect I do not?”
One did not speak to the Enchantress without care. Belle weighed each word as if it might be her last one. “It is my duty to bring the concerns of the castle to you, and I have done so.”
“Do not be petulant. I am fully aware you are doing what the sheep have asked you to do, but I would have thought you intelligent enough to know you are not part of their flock.”
Belle let a flicker of a smile show upon her face. “I am your faithful sheepdog as always, my lady shepherdess.”
“Must you be so ridiculous?” Morgana chided, but the thrum of power faded away.
As they had spoken, the wind had tapered off as if the sky had grown weary of its tantrum. The sky was now simply a sea of white punctuating the gray, a tapestry of unimaginable beauty. Belle wished she could enjoy it, that there was not a litany of things to do waiting for her downstairs. “It’s really quite beautiful,” she sighed, reaching out over the chasm to let flakes fall into her open palm. They melted upon contact, disappearing as if they had never existed. Silence fell as the snow drifted down; the pain of the cold in Belle’s fingers and toes was slowly starting to shift into a burn of sorts; this was the kind of cold where one might fall asleep and never wake up. ”If not for the cold, I would think I was in a dream.”
“And you are so sure you are not?”
Belle drew her arm back to the warmth of her cloak, idly drying her hand against her skirts. “if this was a dream, you would not be chiding me over my sworn duties, and we’d be heading inside to enjoy a cup of afternoon tea.”
“Dreams of duty,” Morgana murmured. “You do always surprise me. Most women of your age and station dream of knights or handsome lordlings.” Before Belle could defend herself, her lady continued. “I will heed the sheep’s concerns-” Morgana lifted a finger. “Under the condition you share what you dreamt last night.”
The snow disappeared into the dark oblivion of the sea. “I fail to see how that has anything to do-.”
“You hope to goad me into anger with impertinence as if you were a child. It will not work.”
The Enchantress’s prowess with potions was unmatched and legendary, but few knew…what Mogana preferred no one to know—Fate whispered in dreams. And those dreams whispered to Morgana Le Fay.
Morgana was now wholly focused upon her, always an unsettling experience. Belle felt pinned to the spot, her tongue growing thick. “I am aware of the price of dreams, my lady.” Having seen what Morgana could defer from the simplest dream, Belle had long ago tried to cease dreaming —or at least stop recalling them. And yet, last night, one had come to her anyway. It had followed Belle like a shadow all day, so she could hardly be surprised. Still, the words cost her for the saying of them: “I dreamt of griffins.”
Morgana hummed. It was clear she had not expected it and was mulling over the implications in her mind. After a moment, she asked: “What did the griffins tell you?”
“Griffins do not speak.”
Her lady was not going to let her slip out of this so easily. “Not to those who would not listen.” The wind returned, cutting through her. Belle’s lips were growing raw to the point of discomfort, and even as she rubbed at them, her nose was growing painfully cold. “Focus. Were you riding upon its back?”
Belle squeezed her eyes closed, fighting to remember. “No. They flew above me.”
They had been terrible in their beauty, with their golden haunches and lashing tails held aloft by feathered wings. They had soared over a land of ruin, stones, and arrows clutched in their talons. There were too many to count, yet Belle was not afraid. Not until she had woken to the storm lashing at the windows.
After all, griffins symbolized the House Le Fay for a reason: three golden griffins upon a field of black. For some generations, they brought hope and fortune, but for others, they brought destruction and death.
Morgana’s eyes flashed as if she heard Belle’s thoughts aloud. “Did you dream of loss?”
There was a long pause. Belle’s heart thudded in her chest. Her world narrowed to the warmth of Morgana at her side and the image of griffins in her mind. She felt torn, just as she had when she had awoken. Half of her heart thudded in worry, and the other reveled, almost rejoicing—she could not reconcile it, much less understand it. Belle opened her mouth, but the truth evaded her tongue. “More like I spent too much time staring at tapestries.” She waited, barely breathing, wondering if Morgana had seen into her dream, had seen the blood on the stones and the wailing that had grown louder and louder-
“She dreams of griffins…” Morgana murmured. “Well, that does change things. Come.”
Morgana was already heading toward Dead Man’s Tower, and Belle was forced to hurry after her. “My lady, it was only a dream.”
“One you did not bring to me upon waking.”
“I do not bring you dreams of when I am a garden mouse, either, and you have yet to chide me for it.”
Morgana stopped dead on the stairs. Even in the safety of the stones, the tower shrieked as the winds wound their way through the chinks of the masonry, flickering the flames of the lanterns blazing a path back down to the main keep. It could have been her imagination, but Belle thought perhaps the wind had once more increased in its ferocity. “If you truly dreamed of being small and defenseless, perhaps. But if you dream of sneaking into my walls, under my nose, hiding and listening, I’d perhaps have reason to worry. Tell me, Belle. Do I have reason to worry?”
Belle’s chest ached. Even as a woman grown, seeing such disappointment in her guardian’s eyes cut her like a knife. “You’ll forgive me if I do not jump to conclusions when I have nonsensical dreams. Do you not ever just dream nonsense, my lady?”
“Never nonsense. Even when it does not seem to correlate, there is always a pattern,” Morgana answered. “ I’ve dreamed of lace and scales intertwined as one. Of a bear who wears a crown. A beating heart of pure gold. And of an endless night that will never see the dawn.”
“And you are so certain that all means something?”
“Many things. Some have already come to pass, some which might, and some never will.” It felt strange to look down at her lady in such a manner, and Morgana doubtless agreed, for she began moving again without responding. Belle raised a hand to brace herself against the wall, hurrying to keep up with her mistress, seemingly floating down the stairs.
They emerged from the Dead Man’s Tower to cross the castle courtyard, somber and suffocating under the great mounds of snow that only grew higher each second. Underneath their feet, the powder crunched and crumbled as their cloaks and skirts dragged along, growing heavier with every step. Belle stopped at the entrance to the main keep, but Morgana continued toward Hadrian’s Hall.
A perfect circle in the center of the courtyard, it had been built long after the rest of Païenie. The reddish-brown walls only went up as high as fifteen feet before they stopped short, exposing the entire hall to the sky as if someone had forgotten to finish their work. But nothing ever came into Hadrian’s Hall unless invited. Even now, the storm clouds hung heavy and dark overhead, but not one flake of snow had reached the floor. Belle bobbed a courtesy. “I’ll see how Master Urien is getting on-”
“You will do no such thing. The sheep can take care of themselves. Come along.” And with that, her lady stepped into the hallowed hall. Belle stood rooted to the spot for a moment before hurrying after her lady. Belle could count on one hand the number of times she had been invited into the hall for one chore or another, but never while Morgana worked.
Belle hurried after her lest her mistress rescind the offer. The second Belle passed through the archway, a welcome warmth enveloped her. The room’s unnatural heat came from the bubbling cauldron in the middle. It hung over burning golden embers, sparks of red crackling and popping off it, the Flame of the Fanatic. It was simmering and glowing dull, rosy ash at the moment, but it flickered and stirred when Morgana entered like an old dog sensing its master's return but too weak to raise more than its head.
Morgana had already busied herself with her work, currently weighing a sack of something that made an awful squelching sound as the scales shifted back and forth. Careful not to call attention to herself lest her lady remember her cardinal rule of no visitors, Belle retreated to one of the bookshelves along the southern wall and settled on one of the steps of the gleaming brass ladder. Belle wiggled her toes and fingers until all the feeling came creeping back in pins and needles.
Her lady’s work continued, slow and steady. One wrong step would render the work useless. Or worse, volatile.
It would be late afternoon now, and the kitchens were preparing dinner in the depths of the castle cellars. The sky was now a gray-white haze above them. Hail slammed against the hall’s great stone walls, growing louder and more frequent with every passing second. Belle’s attention turned to how they might best ration food for the winter ahead when a boom of thunder echoed around them.
It was too loud, too near, almost as if the castle gates had been thrown open.
Belle stood, already walking towards the hall’s singular exit, when Morgana stepped back from the cauldron. Her lady wore an uncharacteristically pensive expression upon her brow. “That will do.”
“My lady-” Belle began but Morgana had retreated to fetch something from the lower shelves on the far side of the hall. Belle tossed one last look over her shoulder, straining to hear over the wind’s relentless screech. She cast her eyes upwards, up at the gray-white sky, trying to recall if she had seen any lightning that had preceded the thunder. When she returned her attention to her lady, Morgana stood before her, holding two great feathers.
Belle’s entire body broke out in a cold sweat. Too late, she realized what was happening. “Phoenix feathers? But you never travel by air. You said it yourself; it’s too dangerous-”
“Danger is relative. Besides, I do not fear death. It is simply a state of being. One day, I will step to meet it…but it is not this hour.” The sorceress’ hair had fluffed up and around her shoulders. The potion began to bubble and froth, releasing bubbles and smoke into the hall until it was unpleasantly warm. “Come.”
Belle was glad she had not eaten since she broke her fast. Her stomach flipped upside down. She had never- magic was not something she had ever dabbled in; she had never tasted even one of her lady’s potions and brews- much less partake in a spell- Oh heavens, she was going to be ill.
Her lady’s face grew even more solemn. “Do not be sick in here.”
Belle squeezed her eyes close, trying desperately to continue breathing normally. “My lady, surely-‘
Morgana held out a single feather to her, an unspoken command.
Belle took it, half expecting it to feel warm and alive in her fingers, but no, it was just a feather, black and tapered. Belle bit her lip, almost daring to argue they should at least inform Master Urien, but there was steel in Morgana’s stance that warned her she would be wasting her time and breath. Despite the increasing ferocity of the storm outside, Belle would much rather take her chances with the blizzard than the cauldron, and yet she followed Morgana to its side.
The cauldron’s bubbling surface shifted to reflect the sky, except it was not the stormy winter sky of the Vale. This was a blue, cloud-filled sky where the sun still shone on the edges of golden leaves. “Camelot?” Belle demanded, hating the note of confusion in her voice. They were not due to depart for weeks-
“On the count of three,” Morgana commanded.
“My lady, this is-”
Her shaky protests went unheard. Morgana lifted one finger, then another- When the Enchantress raised her third finger, Belle had to lunge forward to plunge her feather into the swirling liquid sky.
The Flame of the Fanatic gave one last hiss before it died, but no one was there to hear.
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When the world finally stopped moving around them, Belle’s feather had burnt down to the nub, singeing her fingertips. She let the ember drop to drift down to the earth to gaze upwards at the great stone gate of Camelot.
This far south, there was no snow or bite of ice, only a mild wind coming up from the southern waters. The autumn breeze picked up Belle’s oversized cloak, whipping it behind her as if seeking flight. Though late in the evening, the singular gate remained open. Guards in brightly polished armor stood watch from the ramparts, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. Every one of them had their weapons trained on the two figures that had appeared out of nowhere. Morgana was already striding forward, unconcerned at the multitude of weapons trained upon them.
Belle hurried to keep up with her. “My lady, we need to send word to Païenie that we’ve departed-”
“You can handle everything in due time.” Morgana slowed, casting an appraising look over at her. “Honestly, I am surprised. I thought you would be pleased.”
It was characteristic of her lady to expect Belle to be joyous to up and disappear from Païenie, as if it was simply a benevolent whim of hers to depart for the southern kingdom on a moment’s notice. Sulking or throwing a fit would only antagonize her mistress, so Belle opted for diplomacy. “I am happy as always to see Camelot, but the storm-”
The Enchantress waved her hand. “You must trust me when I say the storm has abated. Our people are safe, and they will awake to the sun tomorrow. You can send a caravan of supplies up north in the morning; the merchants will find the roads passable by the time they reach the Vale.”
Morgana Le Fay might not care about the day-to-day duties of a castle, but she would never have left her people to suffer in her absence. So, Belle swallowed her frustration. “I’ll see to it.”
Her lady reached over to take Belle’s singed fingers. “It was a long journey. I suppose I should have used the Erne feathers. You’ll be needing a salve.”
It was the closest thing to an apology that the Enchantress would offer. So, Belle let her fingers curl around Morgana’s hand. “My lady, you must know I would follow you to the ends of the earth, and my selfish heart gladdens to see Camelot in the fall, but-”
Morgana gave their joined hands a quick pat before elegantly disentangling herself. “Your concern for those under your care does you great credit, Belle. However, you must remember they are, first and foremost, my responsibility. As are you.”
Morgana Le Fay had given her an apology and a compliment in the same conversation. Belle was not sure if anyone in all of Fae had ever witnessed such a rarity. Still, she did not miss the warning behind it. In the whirlwind of the day’s events, Belle had forgotten herself and overstepped. Unconsciously, she fell a step behind Morgana as they moved towards Camelot’s gate. Belle knew she should leave well enough alone, but she could not help but puzzle over her lady’s words. It was clear The Enchantress was intent on keeping her counsel in the matter of today’s events, at least for the moment, but she had gone from unbothered to all but fleeing to Camelot. Belle struggled to remember what had changed and when.
They were almost to the gate when a knight appeared, his hand on his sword hilt. “What business do you have at Camelot as the witch’s hour is about to strike?”
He may as well have been a yapping pup, for Morgana did not so much as break her stride. “Is this the great hospitality that Camelot boasts? Can a woman not visit her godson without being questioned?”
The knight fell to his knee as if struck, throwing himself directly into their path. Belle wondered if he had purposely managed that, for it accomplished exactly what he had requested. Morgana stopped just short of him. “Oh, for Nimue's sake-”
Ignoring the apparent annoyance of the most powerful woman in all of the Isle, Ser Gawain struck his breastplate with a gloved hand. “Lady Avonlea! My deepest apologies. We were not told to watch for your arrival. You must forgive me for my brusque words-”
“I would sooner have Camelot perish than disparage a dutiful knight.” The Enchantress waved her hand over him, a benevolent gesture abdicating the knight of all wrongdoing. “Rise, Ser Gawain.”
The knight clambered to his feet, but in doing so, his attention shifted to where Belle stood. He wrinkled his forehead in consternation as if trying to place her.
”Sir Gawain, I trust you remember my ward, Belle?”
Belle offered him a smile. “Sir Gawain, it has been too long. You have forgotten me.”
At this question of his honor, Gawain folded into a bow. “Why, I could sooner forget the sunset than such a countenance. Camelot has been dimmer for your absence.” Satisfied he had recovered from his blunder, he straightened. “Their Majesties will be overjoyed to hear of your arrival. Come.”
As they passed underneath the stone arch of the hill, Belle spotted at least twenty banners flapping languidly in the autumn sun. “So many visitors?”
Sir Gawain beamed. “Camelot is hosting a great many, ‘tis true! Lords have come to celebrate the anniversary of Camelot. The king has opened his hall to all in honor of the happy occasion. He has heard the people’s woes for the past week.”
Morgana's gaze slid over the banners, cataloging each sigil of who was here and who was missing. None of the western clans had traveled south. Not surprisingly, the clans had their ways. If none had traveled here to seek the aid of money, supplies, or men, it meant they were at peace of sorts. Nor was there a single banner from Tuatha Dé Danann, but those sigils had been rare in the southern lands since King Uther had slain Lord Gorlois in his hall.
Due to this influx of visitors, Camelot bustled even more than usual. A few people spared glances at their party, but more than most were focused on getting inside before the witching hour struck. Sir Gawain was caught up in his trademark small talk as Morgana entertained him, which Belle found effectively ended any conversation about their unplanned flight from the Vale.
Left alone with her thoughts, Belle trailed behind to take in the sights. They had wintered in the southern city for as long as Belle could recall. New wonders and marvels sprang to life every year in Camelot, and this visit was no different. In the setting sun, the wooden shelters that made up the guardhouse and stables gleamed caramel against the sky. Each was brand new, less than a year old, and stood out against the great stone buildings erected at the dawn of Camelot those fifty years ago. Each of these grand facades was emblazoned with the king's crest: two standing lions holding up a crown.
As they turned a corner towards the castle, Sir Gawain pointed out a row of new buildings under construction. These glistened white, unlike their darker stone brethren. “Is that whitestone?” Belle asked, taken aback by the sudden grandeur.
“You have a keen eye! We are importing it from the Seventh Kingdom,” Sir Gawain said with pride as if he had fetched it back. “The king hopes to have the entirety of Camelot gleaming by next year.”
“A lofty goal,” Morgana acknowledged with a glance at the castle proper at the top of the hill. Known as the King’s Seat, the five castle towers loomed from the golden sky. “Camelot will be the envy of all Fae by the time my dear godson is finished.”
Sir Gawain nodded in agreement. “His Majesty has a grand vision of what Camelot shall be. Each new home will have a hearth to heat their bread and a place to lay their heads. The new marketplace will be a wondrous maze of foreign merchants and spices- and oh, the plans for a port to be built here- a miraculous marvel.”
Despite these great hopes, Belle could not help but notice the threadbare clothes of the people hurrying past. They were all gaunt and startled easily as they rushed this way and that. None took a moment to note the great white stonework; their eyes were down in the dirt. Belle frowned as a small boy wiped away tears as his mother bargained with a shopkeeper. Sometimes, a lack of foresight accompanies a grand vision, but Belle kept her thoughts to herself. She simply made a note to return to the marketplace with some spare coins once she had a free moment.
“I apologize,” Ser Gawain said in advance as he nodded to the great doors of the King’s Seat.
His apology was not for himself but for the pitiful creatures littering the pathway, some sleeping, others begging as passersby scurried to and from the castle. Most fell back as Sir Gawain strode ahead, his hand on his pommel but not all. One man was bold enough to clutch at Morgana’s skirts. “Please, milady, please! His Majesty sided with me, neighbor- I have nothing left- nothing-”
Sir Gawain drew his sword, the steel ringing as it came free from his scabbard. “You have your hands,” the knight pointed out. “Though you may not have them for much longer. Do you know whose robes you have soiled?”
“Sir Gawain,” Morgana warned, but the knight was too caught up in his righteousness. Every eye was upon them.
“This is the king’s godmother, Lady Avonlea; the Enchantress of the Eighth Kingdom, Morgana Le Fay.” The litany of names was impressive but hardly necessary. At the word godmother, the pitiful creature recoiled, babbling apologies as he hurried to hide his filthy hands in his robes.
Belle cast the knight a reproachful look. “Ser Gawain, is this really necessary? He means no harm.”
Ser Gawain paused, but he did not sheath his sword. “If he would be so bold to lay his hand upon a lady’s skirts, what else might he lay his hands upon?”
The beggar let out a groan of despair. Sensing Morgana’s patience reaching its limit, Belle sank until she was at eye level with the beggar. “Be at peace. No harm will come to you.” The man’s eyes flickered to where Sir Gawain and Morgana still towered over him. He did not look convinced. “Pay no mind to them,” Belle said, returning his attention to her. “From where do you hail?”
Sunken eyes peered through a filthy face as the beggar lifted his face from his rags. “Camulodunum, milady.”
The westernmost tip of the kingdom was a wild land that the clans had often raided in olden times. In these days of peace, it was mostly farmland and a few mines. In the summer months, it would be nearly a four-day walk. In the winter, it would be nearly impossible to make the trek. He must have been desperate to attempt it on autumn's eve.
Belle forced herself to smile. “I have never been, but I have heard tell of the beauty of Camulodunum.”
At this praise of his homeland, the man brightened slightly. “It is a most lovely land, milady,” he said warmly. “Almost as beautiful as yourself, begging your pardon.”
Belle’s smile widened. “A charming and brave man. To leave your home must have been hard. What brings you to the King’s Court?”
“Belle...do not encourage him,” Morgana sighed. “Come away before you get fleas.”
“If I get fleas, I hope you would be as good as to delouse me.” Belle turned her attention back to the man. “Go on, you may speak.”
Thin, cracked lips trembled as the peasant’s gaze swung from one fair face to another. “My crops withered and died on the vine while my neighbor had a record year harvest. Then, my cattle refused to stir from their sleep. I lost everything within the year. They took my farm- took the house I built for my betrothed- and my neighbor married her in the spring.”
Belle frowned. “That is a most unfortunate story.”
“Unfortunate!” the man spat the word. “It was a curse!”
Sir Gawain scoffed. “You believe your neighbor cursed you?”
“I know the signs of a curse, I do,” the man mumbled, more to himself than to them. “My mum, rest her soul, told me the signs.”
Morgana shook her head. “Well, then. How fortunate you came to me for assistance. What is your name?”
“Edward, if it pleases, milady.”
“It does not,” Morgana said with a sigh, “but it will have to do.” She clasped both hands together, her hand going up to her sleeve before she pulled out a small black vial. “Here. Take this and put it in your neighbor’s well.”
The man took it reverently, shaking like a leaf. He did not question what it did but clutched it to his heart before he stood and, with murmured thanks, rushed away, nearly knocking Belle over. Others started speaking up and swarming the trio until Sir Gawain put his hand on his sword and bellowed, “Enough!”
He lifted Belle to her feet with a gentle but firm hand under her elbow and led them through the thickening press. His sword discouraged a few from the crowd but not as much as Morgana’s glare, full of potent malice as she stared daggers at those who tried to get the courage to reach out to her.
Belle cast a reproachful look at her mentor. “What did you give him?”
Morgana’s lips twitched. “A simple bewitching spell. Anyone who drinks from the well will be wrapped in a fantasy. When they awake, the dreamer will work hard to accomplish his goal or die pining for it.”
“Hardly what he needed.”
“He alluded that I had gifted a curse to his neighbor. He’s lucky I didn’t turn him into a toad.”
“He was desperate.”
“That’s no excuse.”
Up ahead, Sir Gawain was pretending not to listen to their conversation but failing miserably. “Here we are, my ladies,” he said in relief as they arrived at a great stone arch. A large wooden door was set into the carved archway, ever so slightly ajar.
“You have our thanks, Sir Gawain,” Morgana said, a dismissal disguised as praise.
With a low bow that exposed the back of his neck, Sir Gawain took his leave of them. He did not head back towards the gate but up towards the kitchens. No doubt going to warn all of Camelot that the Enchantress had arrived.
The door swung open before Belle could ask Morgana anything further, and a footman bowed low. “Lady Avonlea,” he greeted, ignoring Belle entirely in his thrall. “Your presence does us all great honor. Please enter and be welcome to His Majesty King Arthur’s Court.”
---
AN:
In May 2019, I started writing this chapter. I have written it nearly 20x times over the past few years, and each time, I walked away from it frustrated. I let other projects distract me, but this is the arc that first inspired me to start writing this story. It only took 50 chapters of character development and storytelling to get here.
Last summer, I decided I was done resisting it. I wrote 15 chapters of this arc, but when I went to post it, I realized the first fifty chapters were over ten years old. I took the last six months to edit and enrich. This has always been my passion project, and I am excited to share this arc with you all every Monday for the next twenty weeks. This is not the conclusion of the story but the turning point. Also, yes I know not enough of Gold/Imp but this is The Arc ✨. Also, he's in this chapter. See if you can spot him…
Thank you to those who are new, those who returned, and those like @prissyhalliwell who never stopped asking about it.
chapter one l chapter two l chapter three l chapter four l chapter five l chapter six l now on AO3
At the end of their first month in the Stormlands, a letter appeared from King’s Landing. Bronn, no doubt curious, brought it to the breakfast table, where he might be able to linger and ascertain its contents. A savvy move that Tyrion could applaud if it were not for the fact Cersei and Jaime could not help but notice the royal seal.
At its appearance, Cersei fell uncharacteristically silent. Though at the rate she was straining her neck, she’d be out of commission for the upcoming week’s assemblies. His dear brother pretended he had gone blind, deaf, and dumb, but Jaime was not leaving either, showcasing his interest in the missive. Tyrion would have preferred to retire to read it in peace; he already guessed at its contents, but there was nothing to be done other than to face the music. Cracking the seal, Tyrion’s suspicions were confirmed within the first few words, and the following ones compounded his headache.
Outside, the evening clouds had not departed, and the trees were whispering to each other in the breeze. A storm was imminent, not one of the gentle spring rains that had come and gone in their few weeks here, but a proper tempest, the true namesake of the region. Judging the entire thing to be more trouble than it was worth, Tyrion tossed the letter away. It landed on top of the porridge and, under the weight of the royal seal, began to sink. Cersei shot her cousin a filthy look before ordering one of the footmen to fish it out for her. Receiving it with the utmost care, Cersei devoured the soggy paper’s contents. A smile bloomed across her face until her smile was the only bright spot in the breakfast parlor.
When Cersei finally deigned to lower the letter, a footman rushed forward to offer her a serviette. “But this is wonderful,” Cersei said, seemingly unaware she was daintily wiping her hands on the footman’s jacket and not the offered napkin. To think, the king—here of all places!”
Jaime stirred to life. “What fortuitous reason do we have to thank for such an honor?”
Tyrion rubbed his forehead, running his stubby fingers across the odd ridges of his skull, letting the familiar sensation soothe his threatening headache. “He claims to visit Lord Stannis, but no doubt he has heard father’s succeeded in running me off finally.”
Jaime did not argue. Everyone knew there was little love lost between King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, and Tywin Lannister. The vaults of King’s Landing were rumored to have long since run dry, but perhaps with a son of Casterly Rock at his side…
Cersei stood, pressing her skirt down, her eyes staring past both her cousins, fixated on something far in the distance that only she could see. “I’ll have to send word home at once. I barely brought anything suitable for court-”
“Were you not still planning to depart within the next fortnight?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Cersei snapped, this time directing her glare at Jaime. “The King is coming to Storm’s End, and he will, of course, call here.” Her eyes darted to Tyrion. “You’ll need a lady to lead the house, plan the ball-”
“Ball?”
“Host His Highness, and well he mentions his Kingsguard will be attending. No mention of any courtiers, but of course, the usual toadies will be in attendance- “
“Cersei, if you would like to play lady of the hall, by all means, my home is at your disposal, but do me the very great courtesy of not looking like the cat who caught the canary. It’s very disconcerting.”
“Only you would have the king send him a personal letter and look as if the world was coming to an end.” Tyrion did not think his brother looked any happier about this development, but Cersei seemed determined to ignore Jaime. “If you will excuse me-” and with that, she swanned out of the breakfast parlor, looking all the world as if she already had a crown upon her brow.
“She’ll be insufferable,” Tyrion lamented. “Robert’s no tactician, but he’s not going to ignore a lioness laying down on her back for him-”
“Tyrion,” Jaime hissed. “Have a care for how you talk about our cousin.”
“You should be glad she’s not eyeing your neck for the noose at the moment,” Tyrion continued, tearing into the pastry to find it still warm and steaming. The manor might be considerably smaller than the Rock, but he quite enjoyed the new proximity to his kitchens, even if his belt protested. “Perhaps Robert's visit will allow you more time to pursue your interests without hindrance?”
Jaime’s eyes darkened in displeasure. “There is nothing of interest in this desolate corner of Westeros. I am only here because of you.”
“Interesting,” Tyrion continued, “I, for one, have thought you rather intrigued by our resident beauty.”
Tyrion had not seen it at first. He had been so taken with the odd Miss Tarth, finding her to be one of the truly most unfortunate people he had ever seen besides himself, that he had almost missed the way his brother’s eyes tracked her around the room, how Jaime moved after her when she passed by as if caught in her wake and drawn after her despite himself. He was not sure if his brother was even aware of his interest, if not for the odd way his lips quirked whenever Miss Tarth was mentioned.
“You are referring to which renowned Stormland beauty, Tyrion? Miss Tarth or Miss Baratheon?”
Tyrion chuckled. “Cersei has had your ear again, I fear. Miss Baratheon is not yet eight and ten. Her brush with death has added to her character, but I am not one for unaged wine.”
Jaime considered him across the table. ”And Miss Tarth?”
Tyrion grinned. “You know I am a great lover of beauty.”
His brother’s lips thinned, face darkening into a pensive glower until he looked just like their father. “Surely you of all people would think to look past appearances-”
“Have you?”
Jaime’s eyes shuttered, and he looked pointedly away to the storm gathering outside. “I have barely spoken a word to the party in question.”
“On the contrary, I believe you’ve spoken more to her than anyone else in the Stormlands.”
“If I happen to stand by the only other person who has less desire to speak than myself-”
“Happen? Jaime, you followed her around the length of the ballroom last week.”
Jaime shot up from his seat. “I should make haste if I want to get a ride in before the storm-”
“Jaime-” But his brother was already gone, leaving him alone with the great feast. Tyrion looked over at the footman nearest to the table, his cravat still smeared with oatmeal. “Do we have any blackberry jam?”
chapter one l chapter two l chapter three l chapter four l chapter five
Two days after the assembly, the Lannisters paid a visit to Storm’s End. Their visit was quickly returned, and from there, Lady Baratheon was pleased to circulate throughout the Stormlands that further acquaintance with Miss Baratheon was pursued by Miss Lannister.
“The young ladies are increasingly fond of each other. Why, the Lannisters have dined with us twice now in a fortnight and are due to visit again this very evening!”
Though initially a bit taken aback by this development, Shireen was pleased to become the dear friend of such an accomplished woman as Cersei Lannister.
Brienne perceived things rather differently.
The Tarths had been invited to each of the dinners to better fill out the party, and while it was true Cersei Lannister did actively seek out Shireen’s company, Miss Lannister’s overall manner and tone were always vastly superior towards everyone, often bordering on arrogance. Her manners were always excellent but Brienne did not miss the double entendres of her words, often directed at the lack of culture and beauty of the Stormlands and its inhabitants.
After careful consideration, Brienne rather suspected Miss Lannister’s attention was less due to the enjoyment of their company and more about Baratheon’s connection to the Iron Throne. She refrained from voicing these suspicions as she did not want to dampen her younger friend’s happiness.
Occupied in observing Shireen’s growing relationship with Miss Lannister, Brienne did not realize she herself was the object of growing interest to one of the party members.
Jaime Lannister had been taken aback to find Brienne Tarth in the dinner company at Storm’s End, but Cersei had later explained Miss Tarth was the only friend of the young girl, as no other families in the area would dine with the Baratheons for fear of catching grayscale over soup. After Jaime’s brief sight of Miss Tarth at the assembly, the sheer absurdity of her had hung in his mind, as a particular oddity is wont to do.
Truly unfortunate was a kind way to describe the lady, and yet, the more Jaime looked, the more he found himself unable to look away. He spent most of the first night trying to best determine the exact shade of her eyes and finally determined they were the same blue as a crystalline lake in the mountains. In his morbid curiosity, he learned in that evening alone, without speaking a word to her, that she was not fond of partridge and had a tendency to grow flustered if addressed directly in conversation but was not unintelligible when she composed herself to reply.
Upon the ride home, Cersei had been particularly vicious on the subject of Miss Tarth. Judging his cousin had not missed his particular attention on said lady throughout the evening, Jaime made it clear to himself and his companions that Brienne Tarth was the most unfortunate creature that had ever walked this earth. Satisfied, Cersei proceeded to sharpen her claws on how intolerable she found the elder Lady Baratheon.
Jaime resolved that to be the end of the matter until Cersei invited the two ladies to join them for dinner later that same week. Everyone had one redeemable quality, and Miss Tarth’s just happened to be those remarkable eyes, so of course, when she smiled or laughed, they lent a slight charm to her otherwise homely face.
Except as soon as he acknowledged that truth, he then began to notice her lips were rather full and often quirked upwards in pleasant reverie when she was not caught out or being forced to endure whatever ordeal was taking place at the moment. And while all her gowns were years out of fashion and only served to further make her look altogether too broad and heavy for anyone to consider pleasing, she had an uncanny sort of grace when she walked, a lightness that belied her stature.
Brienne remained perfectly unaware of this development, as Lord Lannister had yet to speak a single word to her directly. It was not until a large party was assembled at Storm’s End did Brienne notice his eye upon her.
“Whatever have you done to Mr. Lannister?” Shireen asked after Brienne pointed it out to her.
“Nothing in the slightest!”
“Well, we shall find out shortly, as he is coming this way,” Shireen announced. Before Brienne could escape, Shireen called out for him to join them. “I was just entreating Brienne to speak to Lady Whent about hosting a ball at Harrenhal.”
“And I was refuting the need for another dance so soon after our last.”
Lord Lannister raised a sardonic brow. “It is my experience that all ladies are keen for any and all opportunities in which to dance.”
“Your experience is limited to ladies of beauty and grace,” Brienne replied back before she could think better of her words. “Those ladies who are not gifted with such accouterments find dances to be a dreadfully different business.”
Behind them, a member of the party had opened up the instrument and began to play. Shireen brightened as Beric Dondarian led Cersei out for an impromptu dance. Struck by this idea, several others in attendance began to join them, including Tyrion and one of the youngest Penrose girls.
Shireen brightened in a way that boded ill for Brienne. “Shall we put your sentiment to the test, Brienne? Surely Lord Lannister would not mind partnering with you for one song?”
“You twist my words to sound bitter,” Brienne said, drawing away from them.
Jaime stepped forward and offered her his hand. “I would be most willing if you are, Ms. Tarth.”
She did not so much as regard his outstretched hand. “Thank you for the thought, but there is no need, I assure you. Excuse me, I believe I see my father looking for me.”
And just as neat as that, she was gone as the first song came to a close. Cersei appeared at his side with her dance partner on her heels. “Mr. Dondarian had high hopes to continue dancing,” Cersei said pointedly to Shireen, “but I am quite spent and could not oblige him.”
It was quickly decided that Shireen would be an ideal partner in her stead and they departed to join in for the next song. Jaime paid either of them little mind as he watched Brienne move around the edge of the room. Her declination of his offer had intrigued him and he was watching to see what she would do in the case of another offer.
“Jaime! Have you heard a word I’ve been saying to you?” He turned to find his cousin frowning up at him. “Do I interrupt your reverie?”
“Not at all. I was just musing on why a lady of little prospects would turn down an opportunity to dance.”
Cersei’s eyes went wide. “And which lady would be so foolish as to turn down a dance with a lion of Casterly Rock?”
“Miss Brienne Tarth.”
To his surprise, Cersei began to laugh. “Miss Brienne Tarth!” she echoed. “Why, Jaime, dear. Of course, she declined. The gentlemen of the region have long asked her to dance and then purposefully ridiculed her by leaving her waiting on the floor. She no doubt thought you meant to do the same.”
His brow furrowed at this news. “Why in the Warrior's name would I do that? What purpose does such behavior serve?”
“A lark is a lark,” Cersei said dismissively. “The question is, why would you ask Miss Tarth at all. You despise dancing.”
Her tone was prying, and he was in no mood for his cousin's acerbity. “This is true. Perhaps I have yet to meet the right partner.”
--
I'm amusing myself with this shorter bite-size chapter style. It's leading to quite an interesting structure, but I'm enjoying the practice so far.
chapter one l chapter two l chapter three l chapter four
The Stormlands were, like most of the families who had settled there, rather unremarkable. The rocky region lay nestled between the more wealthy Crownlands to the north and the more fertile Reach to the west. Most ever bothered to cross the mountain range that separated the regions, and to the south was nothing but the Dornish desert, as inhospitable as its people from what Septa Roelle had taught her.
It was a rugged land, as large and sprawling, pitted and scarred as she was. It would never be considered beautiful but it was what it was. One either learned to love it or they hated it and Brienne had adopted the same practice to her own life.
Many a day, Brienne went riding. Usually to train, but other days, just as an excuse to stretch her legs and clear her mind. But today, fresh from a wash after her morning bout with the Colonel, Brienne set out on the path towards the closet manor home, Storm’s End, to pay a call upon her most intimate of friends—her only friend to speak plainly.
Storm’s End was perched upon Durran’s Point, the southernmost stop of the King’s Road. Here, the elder of King Robert’s younger brothers had made his home nearly a decade ago now. Brienne had been too young to attend but her father had told her stories of the great retinue that had arrived with Stannis Baratheon and his young wife and how all of the Stormlands had celebrated for seven days straight before King Robert had returned north to his iron throne.
If the people of the Stormlands had hoped for a lively royal in their midst, they were sadly disappointed. Stannis Baratheon lacked the love of pomp and party that his two brothers had inherited, preferring the solemn and dreary coasts of Storm’s End to the other manors he may have claimed for his own as the King’s brother and heir.
As they arrived at the manor’s gates, Septa Roelle turned her nose up. “Oh, Lady Selyse is at home,” she remarked in the same tone she pointed out mice droppings. Septa Roelle liked few people but she actively disliked even fewer, but somehow Lady Selyse Baratheon had never risen high in the Septa's mind.
The Bartheons only had the one daughter, an intelligent, sweet young debutant of fifteen who though Brienne's junior, was more mature than any of the other ladies in the region. She was also, like Brienne, no stranger to cruelty at the sake of her appearance.
As tall and thin as both her parents, Shireen had the Baratheon bold blue eyes and the equally strong, jutting jaw which may have made her handsome if not partnered with her mother’s large ears and aquiline nose.
Fate had taken a hand in Shireen’s appearance as well. While still in the cradle, Shireen had been afflicted with grayscale. While she had recovered, she had been left with gray and black mottled scars all across her left cheek and down to her neck.
The more superstitious families avoided the Baratheons, believing the disease lay dormant in the skin and could be reawoken with a single sneeze. Folly, according to all the maesters but still even the more opportunistic fortune hunters steered clear of the young Lady Baratheon. Septa Roelle had also been conflicted. On the one hand, her charge rubbing elbows with royalty, and on the other, a disease so deadly that its mere name was considered dangerous.
Thankfully, royal blood, diseased or not, won out in the end, and the two unfortunates became fast friends. Shireen liked the loyal and true Brienne Tarth, finding her refreshing and more intelligent than any of the other ladies her mother tried to foster upon her, while Brienne liked the quiet solitude of Shireen’s company. Shireen never stared or ogled or winced and, on numerous occasions, put herself pointedly between Brienne and her tormentors at assemblies so no one would jokingly ask Brienne the Beauty for a dance.
Shireen had been in attendance at the assembly though her mother had kept her occupied with both Lannister brothers. “Brienne tells me you were the first to dance with Mr. Lannister,” Septa Roelle praised Shireen as they all sat down in the sitting room over a cup of tea.
Lady Baratheon beamed at the accomplishment, but Shireen was quick to deflect any praise. “Yes, but he danced with nearly every lady present. Though, he did ask after you, Brienne.”
Septa Roelle perked up at this. “Oh?”
“Yes, but it was later in the evening, and poor Mr. Tarth had already called for the chaise. Mr. Lannister did seem rather disappointed.”
“My departure, if truly noticed, was nothing but a slight inconvenience, if that.” Brienne insisted lest Septa Roelle get the wrong idea.
“Oh, but he was most sincere,” Shireen protested. “He mentioned you had spoken for a moment and while he was rudely whisked away, he had great hopes of the two of you finishing the conversation before the night came to an end.”
“I dare say he’ll have to get used to disappointment,” Brienne murmured into her cup.
Shireen heard it and gave her a knowing smile, but Septa Roelle had already moved on to the next eligible bachelor. “Is there any truth to this rumor that the elder Lannister is set to marry the cousin that was in attendance?”
“It was obvious to even that blind old bat Whent,” Lady Baratheon confirmed. “Ms. Lannister did deign to dance with some of the local gentlemen but never more than once. As for the Lion of Lannister, he was most disagreeable. I was in his company for nearly the entire evening, and he barely uttered a word. Most unfortunate. Good breeding does not always result in good manners.”
Brienne could only imagine what Jaime Lannister had thought of Selyse Baratheon shadowing his every move. His unpleasant mood became less of a mystery.
“The youngest Mr. Lannister told me his brother is not much for conversation among strangers but is a remarkably agreeable fellow among his intimate acquaintances,” Shireen contributed.
“Simply making excuses for his family,” her mother replied. “It was clear to the whole assembly that he is a sinfully prideful man. Comely or not, I’ll be happy to see the back of him.”
“I do not see why he should not be proud. He is the most handsome man I have ever seen, and his family is reported to have more wealth than even Uncle Robert’s treasury. If our roles were reversed, I would surely be proud, wouldn’t you, mother?”
Selyse Baratheon bristled at the suggestion. “I certainly would not. I am not so vain as that, child!”
“Vanity is something different entirely,” Septa Roelle corrected. “A person may be proud without being vain. Pride is our opinion of oneself; vanity is what we would have others think.”
The two older women soon fell into debate on the subject, with Septa Roelle taking the high ground of her faith and Lady Baratheon that of her education. Shireen scooted closer under the guise of rearranging her skirts. “All this talk of pride and vanity, but you never said, what did you think of Mr. Tyrion Lannister, my dear Brienne?”
Ensuring Septa Roelle was caught up in the debate, she confessed, “I found him to be an odd sort of fellow.”
“How so?”
Brienne shared what she had overheard, speaking low so as not to be overheard. By the end, Shireen was clearly amused. “He ought not to have said those things,” she conceded, though it was unclear if she was speaking of the younger or elder Lannister.
“It was not gentleman-like,” Brienne conceded,” but neither of them were wrong.”
Shireen lay her hand upon Brienne’s to administer a gentle squeeze. “You are too kind to others and much too hard on yourself,” she admonished.
“Careful, lest you make me too vain of my so-called good nature,” Brienne teased.
“Never. I can only attempt to make you proud of it,” Shireen rallied back.
“Girls? What are you two whispering about?” Septa Roelle demanded. They quickly echoed platitudes about the weather and the rest of the visit was spent discussing the health of Lady Whent.
---
Just some general story establishing today, folks. Next chapter, everyone is back.
Brienne woke, still in the previous evening’s ill humor. She had forgotten to close the shade and thus was rudely awakened despite seemingly only just falling asleep. She lay there for a moment, knowing Septa Roelle would not begrudge her a lie-in after her evening at the assembly. For a second, she was tempted to do just that. Lie there, stewing in the memories of Tyrion Lannister’s voice, bordering on admiration but landing in disbelief, and green eyes, dabbling in disbelief but ending, as they always did, in revulsion.
Instead, Brienne rolled out of bed and laced on her boots. She donned an old threadbare gown before she quietly made her way down the stairs. Faint snores emanated from Septa Roelle’s room, even though the kitchen staff were already awake and seeing breakfast. The scully maid was too busy poking worriedly at the unrising loaf of bread in the oven, so Brienne grabbed an apple from the basket before anyone could see and slipped outside. Mr. Tarth may pay their wages, but Septa Roelle ran the staff with an iron grip, if any of them saw Brienne up this early, they’d have fetched the matron at once.
Despite the lingering humidity, the early spring air was frigid this morning. It felt refreshing and by the time Brienne had made her way to her gate, she was wide awake and eager to start her day. Taking another large, satisfactory bite of her apple, Brienne meandered down the path to the Colonel’s yard. Having foregone a bonnet, she tipped her face to the cloudless sky to enjoy the warmth against her skin.
“Dinna expect to see you, this morn.”
Inhaling deeply, Brienne lowered her gaze to where the Colonel stood at his gate. “Morning,” she greeted before finishing the apple with another large crunch. Juice ran down her fingers, and she was tempted to lick her fingers clean, but she didn’t dare. Colonel Brandon was a lot of things, but he was also still a man. One more interested in other men, whether for the love of boxing or for another kind of pleasure, Brienne couldn’t say. Nor did she care.
Forging the pleasures of the apple, Brienne lowered her hand to her side, discreetly wiping her fingers against her skirt. It was ruined anyway; being slightly sticky and smelling of apples was hardly the worst thing to befall it. “You’re finally fixing it?” she nodded to the gate, one creaky hinge slightly off-kilter and causing the entire panel to sag into the dirt of the path.
“Thought I’d have the time.” The Colonel spat into the bushes as he leaned against the fence post he was repairing. “What with you having had the ball or what not.”
“The assembly,” Brienne corrected.
“Word is the new master of Morne Manor is the runt of the litter. Any truth to that?”
Brienne recalled the mismatched eyes crinkled up at her in solidarity, a queer sort of understanding between two outsiders. “He seems like a good man,” was all she said.
The Colonel snorted. “Your a’ great deal too kind to people in general, lass. You never speak a cruel word of anyone, including those who deserve it.”
Brienne’s grip tightened around the apple core until juice squeezed between her knuckles to drop to the dirt beneath her boots. “Up for a bit of sport this morning?” Brienne proposed.
“Most ladies would be talking my ear off about the new lord and his company,” the Colonel observed as he swung the gate open to permit her entry.
Brienne tossed the apple core aside. “And what would I have to say about the new tenants? Lord Tyrion is shorter than most, this is true- but he possesses no shortage of wit. He danced nearly every dance and conversed with all that approached him.”
“Beggars cannae be choosers,” the Colonel grunted as he dropped into a ready position.
Brienne followed suit. “He was a deal more pleasurable than his brother or their cousin.”
“Heir to the Rock dinnae have to be pleasurable. A dwarf bastard does.”
“He’s not-”
“Fists up!’ The Colonel had taken a swing at her, and she stumbled to the left to avoid the jab.
“I wasn’t ready!” she protested in disbelief.
“Stop your chattering then,” he advised, feinting back before issuing a clean uppercut. Brienne blocked it, and he danced away, giving her a precious moment to compose herself. “Always be ready. Distractions are just that, distractions.”
They fell into a familiar pattern. The Colonel was older, slower, but precise. He waited for her to drop her guard before dancing close. Brienne circled slowly, keeping her fists up. She was careful to keep her feet light, knees bent, elbows close as she watched her opponent.
The next time he came at her, she was ready. She feinted to the left, and when he followed, she sidestepped neatly. He floated past her, already turning on his heel, but she pressed the advantage. She had him against the fence with three quick punches. He raised his elbows, took the hits, and returned them in equal force.
He was a tall man, maybe as tall as Jaime Lannister, but he had been brawnier in his youth, where the young lion was lean. Now, the Colonel’s brawn had withered away to a hollow chest, leathery sinews, and a weathered face. Still, they both had that same easy grace of a soldier in their movements and in the way they looked at her, sizing her up not as a woman but as an opponent.
The Colonel lashed out, and Brienne, caught in her recollection of the handsome stranger, barely raised an elbow to block him. His punch landed on her chin. She staggered backward, and instinct took over. She pitched forward to offset her momentum, throwing out her left hand wildly to prevent the Colonel from pressing his advantage, but he was already lowering his arms.
“Ah,” he groaned, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand. “You here or somewhere else this mornin’, lass? I havene got such an easy hit since you were sprouting ringlets.”
Brienne straightened, internally cursing herself for three times a fool. “Here,” she proclaimed before dropping into a fighter’s stance. Boxing was her respite, her haven. Here, everything else faded away to the dance. She was no longer too big, too tall, too strong- here, she was no lady, no one’s daughter, just a boxer.
A damn good one too.
Brienne released a flurry of jabs and punches, ducking once, twice, three times before landing an uppercut before spinning away. The Colonel did not follow, taking the time to set back up before she came towards him again. This time, she danced around him in a circle, just out of reach. Her skirt flapped about her ankles, but she paid it no mind. It was nothing to her. Here, she was not the Beauty, the maid of Tarth, or an unfortunate wench. Here, she was Brienne.
As the sparring practice continued back at Morne Manor, the trio of Lannisters were just arriving home. Jaime and Cersei stumbled off to sleep, but Tyrion, still slightly drunk on brandy and good times, made his way to the breakfast room.
The staff had already laid out the morning meal, noticeably less than most mornings but perfectly suited for his needs. There was toast and porridge, a rather large pot of coffee, which he ignored, and boiled eggs. He helped himself to a bit of everything, humming some country tune he had just learned that evening. His legs were cramping terribly, but overall, he was in such a fantastic mood he could barely be bothered to care.
He was free. Free to do whatever he liked, such as throw the plate to the floor, demand more brandy, or fall asleep in his porridge. Here, clear on the other side of Westeros, his father’s shadow was not quite as long. Tyrion had six thousand pounds to his name, an estate of his own, and was quite satisfied with the arrangement as it stood.
Unbidden, he thought of Tysha and how well she would like it here, but the thought sucked all the joy out of the morning. Tyrion crashed back to earth, all too aware of what he was, what others must have thought of him. He grew somber as he stared out the window across his new garden, where the trees were starting to bud, and dew glistened on every blade of grass. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day, yet his mood darkened.
Tysha was a sore spot, much like an abscessed tooth. He ought to leave it alone, but he found he could not. How did one forget their first love? Their only love?
A whore, Tyrion corrected with a shake of his head. “I ought to have known,” he said aloud as he looked down at his stubby fingers where they clutched the knife and fork. “Ah, but it was a sweet lie while it lasted.”
Humming the same tune from earlier, he hopped down and made his way towards his bed. He was growing aware of the alcohol leaving his system and the dregs of exhaustion growing too pronounced to ignore much longer. At the top of the stairs, he stopped to look about his manor.
Red and gold hung everywhere, all orchestrated by Jaime in some misguided guise to remind Tyrion he was a Lannister. Poor, dim Jaime had never understood their father did not think of Tyrion as anything more than a cruel jape, a millstone about his neck.
“Well, father,” Tyrion drawled. “I would have been happy with a cottage in the woods with a whore for the rest of my days, but I suppose I’ll make a go of playing the lord’s son.”
He had not expected Jaime to come with him. He had barely spoken to his brother since Tysha but Jaime had been there at his departure and throughout the journey east. And just as he had always been, Tyrion was somehow comforted by his presence.
After all, the two had been close as far back as Tyrion’s earliest memories. In spite of all their great oppositions, Tyrion loved his brother even though they could not be more different in temperament or life experience. Tyrion had learned at an early age to charm with wit and quip, but Jaime had always been loved for his beauty and brawn and had never developed any charm. He was blunt and bold, and people permitted it because he was heir to Westeros's richest estate.
And yet here he was, with Tyrion, attending dances and setting up manors, all things Jaime Lannister hated.
On the way back from the assembly, Tyrion had pressed Jaime for his thoughts on the Stormland assembly, eager to hear what his brother had to say. “Very pleasant people, these Stormlanders,” Tyrion had declared. Sure, people had whispered and pointed but they had done that in the Westerlands as well. “And the girls- as pretty as any girl in Lannisport,” he needled, watching Jaime’s face closely.
Jaime just lifted an eyebrow and went back to watching the horizon roll past as Cersei dozed beside him. He had spent the evening in abject boredom, having found the company dull and vapid. The girls had not been any prettier than any he had seen before, the country fashion far out of style and the dances clumsy at best. The talk had been of weather and crops, same town gossip, and that of the militia coming to town by summer. He had been bored within the first hour of their arrival.
Though, there had perhaps been one note of interest, that huge hulk of a woman, the one his brother had called the Beauty of Tarth. He had been taken aback when he had first laid eyes on her. Her strange, homely face had been so open he could read every thought crossing her mind- but then he had seen her arms- capped in ridiculous sleeves and adorned in white gloves- the lace only served to accentuate the tendons in her arms, the curve of the muscle, the only curves she possessed judging by the way her gown fell in a shapeless sack.
Jaime would have taken odds the horrible excuse for a dress hid a waist as thick as a tree trunk. And by the time he had remembered himself, she had been flushed as red as a Lannister flag, every inch of flushed skin covered in freckled skin that spoke of too many days in the sun. She had somehow managed to disappear into the crowd before he could get another look at her. Surprising considering her broad shoulders and the fact she had towered over even him.
Brienne the Beauty. Whoever had given her name had been in his cups—there was truly nothing beautiful about that poor creature. Brienne the Brute, Brienne the Bear—he amused himself with the various nicknames, her name rolling around in his mind like wine in a cup—each new alliteration causing him to grin: Brienne the Barbarian, Brienne the Beast, Brienne, Brienne, Brienne.
As he fell into his bed, Jaime stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Despite his exhaustion, whenever he closed his eyes, he could only see a pair of rather remarkable sapphire eyes.
--
AN: I honestly can only blame @butterednuggets17, who commented and reminded me this existed. After that, it would not leave my head, so I wrote some more of it.
If I still have any rumbelle followers, do any of you remember the fix where Belle is looking for a specific house and Mr Gold is the real estate person, and there are past lives and a horrible fire and it’s SO GOOD. It scratches an itch that nothing else has but I can’t find it!
The Unforeseen, Unanticipated and Unexpected: A Tale in Three Parts
Dear @moonlight91 Your prompt was so amazing (I do like a challenge) that I wrote a million different stories before I finally settled on a bit of fairytale hilarity with a little bit of the fake dating trope thrown in just for fun. So, thank you for your patience these last two weeks, and a big thank you to @rumbellesecretsanta for allowing me to help out.
Merry (belated) Christmas- I do hope you enjoy it!
Read it on AO3
At the seventh stroke of midnight on the seventh day of the seventh month, the Dark One found himself summoned with blood, ash, and bone to a deep, dark grove.
All this pomp and ceremony was unnecessary, but if he didn’t go about setting weirdly-specific conditions, he would be summoned left and right and would never get anything done. As the summoner rose from the make-shift altar, the moonlight bounced silver off the figure revealing the Dark One had been called forth by, by his least favorite thing in this world and the next, a knight.
Said knight was already peering down his nose, clearly unimpressed. Rumpelstiltskin knew the type. He could have shown up as a fire-breathing dragon, and this fool still would have been disappointed. “Do I have the honor- “ the knight’s tone made it clear it was anything but- “of addressing the Dark One?”
Rumpelstiltskin cracked a particular toothy grin. “Present!” he trilled, adding a flick of his wrist for a pop of flair. Knights loved pageantry; it always helped to give them a bit of a show. “And who might you be exactly?”
“I am Sir Gaston LeRoux, the First Sword of Avonlea, and I have need of your aid.”
I love how Rumpelstiltskin really gets annoyed over his reputation having a firstborn child as a prize, it does make me wonder what had started it and how he had to deal with the rumor for so long. Gaston was such an idiot for lying to the Dark One and even getting himself outflanked by his own ego where he was lucky to have just had banishment as his punishment.
The way you incorporated the prompt with this story is incredible with that last portion making me laugh at it does sounds like something Rumpel have to deal with and Belle still continuing to convince her hubby that she is in love with him and the marriage is forever.
I’m so pleased you liked it. I was beyond excited to see your name as my giftee and loved the prompt- lends itself to so may things! Thanks for the opportunity to write for you! 🥰
The Unforeseen, Unanticipated and Unexpected: A Tale in Three Parts
Dear @moonlight91 Your prompt was so amazing (I do like a challenge) that I wrote a million different stories before I finally settled on a bit of fairytale hilarity with a little bit of the fake dating trope thrown in just for fun. So, thank you for your patience these last two weeks, and a big thank you to @rumbellesecretsanta for allowing me to help out.
Merry (belated) Christmas- I do hope you enjoy it!
Read it on AO3
At the seventh stroke of midnight on the seventh day of the seventh month, the Dark One found himself summoned with blood, ash, and bone to a deep, dark grove.
All this pomp and ceremony was unnecessary, but if he didn’t go about setting weirdly-specific conditions, he would be summoned left and right and would never get anything done. As the summoner rose from the make-shift altar, the moonlight bounced silver off the figure revealing the Dark One had been called forth by, by his least favorite thing in this world and the next, a knight.
Said knight was already peering down his nose, clearly unimpressed. Rumpelstiltskin knew the type. He could have shown up as a fire-breathing dragon, and this fool still would have been disappointed. “Do I have the honor- “ the knight’s tone made it clear it was anything but- “of addressing the Dark One?”
Rumpelstiltskin cracked a particular toothy grin. “Present!” he trilled, adding a flick of his wrist for a pop of flair. Knights loved pageantry; it always helped to give them a bit of a show. “And who might you be exactly?”
“I am Sir Gaston LeRoux, the First Sword of Avonlea, and I have need of your aid.”
“And what help could a great warrior such as yourself possibly need with little old me? Can’t be ogre problems. I got rid of those things centuries ago.” Rumpelstiltskin tipped his head back and forth in consideration, mulling it over. “Perhaps you are in need of a magic sword, that sort of thing?”
“I have no need for magic weapons,” the knight managed through a clenched jaw.
Rumpelstiltskin picked a moonflower from a low hanging branch. It must have just bloomed, for the scent was ripe and sweet as he plucked first one petal off and then another, and another- “Then, tis a woman.”
He knew he was right. True, this Sir Gaston was more handsome than the usual lovelorn sort and well aware of his good fortune judging by his perfectly styled locks, but men of the sword were often hopeless when it came to affairs of the heart.
The knight bowed his head in acquiescence. “Thou speakest true. I am betrothed to the Lady of Avonlea, but my heart belongs to another.”
Rumpelstiltskin tsked. How boring. He ever only got involved in this sort of nonsense on the off chance he stumbled upon a case of True Love. And there was no chance this vain peacock knew the first thing about love. “Then, why not just break it off?”
The knight cleared his throat. “It is no easy feat. I have tried, but….the reason I have come to you is...in truth, I suspect my betrothed is, herself, a sorceress. She has bewitched all those around her to do her bidding. Her father has stepped aside to let her rule in his stead. Why even I was briefly under her sway. I fear, not for myself, but what she would do to my love if she ever uncovered my heart is no longer a slave to her spell.”
For the first time in the conversation, Rumpelstiltskin’s interest was piqued. A sorceress was rare. Sure, the occasional noble lady did pick up a spell or two here and there, but more typically, they just had a magical heirloom of sorts at their disposal. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a colossal waste of his time after all. “I do like a challenge,” Rumpelstiltskin acknowledged, already mentally listing possible lost artifacts he might acquire. “What’s in it for me?”
The knight grew even more somber, impressing, considering he had yet to show any actual emotion. “I have heard of the monstrous price you require. So be it.” He inhaled deeply, then as if it pained him to even speak the words, he said,” For the Dark One’s assistance, you shall have my firstborn.”
Oh, great. This again.
Rumpelstiltskin had rather thought he had put an end to this rumor sometime last century. Honestly, he had no idea where people kept getting the fantastical notion that he wanted their children. It had just been the one time, and he hadn’t even been serious then. Besides, any halfway decent looking man was sure to have a litter of bastards in every kingdom. “I hardly want your byblows,” he scoffed. “You shall have my help. But first, I require three truths from your lips, and afterward, a favor.”
The knight hesitated. “You...you’re sure you don’t just want my firstborn child?”
Oh, for the love of - It had been a slow decade and growing more monotonous by the minute. There was no excitement anymore. Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t even recall the last time he had been called upon to partake in some great struggle between the forces of good and evil. It was just the same thing day in and day out. What he wouldn’t give for a good war right about now...
Rumpelstiltskin snapped his fingers, and a rather long, intricate scroll appeared, the terms of the deal neatly inscribed upon it. “Three truths and a favor. Do we have a deal?”
These were words that could change a life forever, especially when said by the Dark One himself. Only the truly desperate or truly deluded ever agreed to them, and the man before him did not appear desperate.
As anyone could have predicted, the fool agreed to the terms of his demise without so much as reading the fine print. There, in the heart of some nameless swamp, the knight committed to his ruin. He finished signing his name with a flourish, only for it to shift and change in a shimmer of light and magic.
“Gaston LeGume,” Rumpelstiltskin read aloud. He bared his fangs in a mockery of a smile. “My, my. A baseborn son of a landless farmer has styled himself the First Sword of Avonlea.”
As expected, his companion’s mood darkened in an instant, a hand descending to the hilt of his blade. “I warn you, sir- do not mock me!”
Rumpelstiltskin almost wished the knight would draw his sword. It had been ages since he had turned anyone into a frog. But business was business, and he was confident he could not only profit here but have a little fun with this destined-to-be bullfrog. So, he simply wiggled his fingers, adding in a giggle for good measure.
(That always threw these types off.)
“Touchy, touchy,” he admonished. “What do I care about your birth? You owe me three truths, and the first one has now been collected. Count yourself fortunate. Now, for the second truth, who is this paragon of beauty that has awoken you from the sorceress's spell?”
Gaston hemmed, and he hawed, but the magic got the truth from his lips in the end: Princess Allissa Óir, the only heir to the throne, riches, and lands of the great kingdom of Ormiston. Gaston waxed on a bit about her beauty, grace and the usual nonsense men said about women they barely knew before Rumpelstiltskin cut him off to ask the question that truly mattered. The third and final truth: “And this paradigm of a woman- does she love you as well?”
The knight clutched passionately at his breast again to drive the point home. “Most ardently. Her father has even blessed the union.”
No wonder this fellow had gone to such desperate lengths as to summon the Dark One. With just his good looks and silver tongue, the son of some carrot farmer had transformed himself to the next king of the most powerful kingdom of the age. There was just one thing in his way, his betrothed, the Lady Belle Levasseur of Avonlea.
The Dark One knew Avonlea; it was a minor holding on the edges of Ormiston. Which explained why the false knight could not just disappear into the night and emerge as a king. The two lands were neighbors, and if the Lady Levasseur was indeed capable of magic, the new King and Queen of Orimson would pay dearly for their marriage.
Yes, yes, an almost interesting case. A king in his pocket would do nicely. After all, Rumpelstiltskin had been purposefully vague on what “a favor” entailed. First, he had to deal with the one responsibility that fell to him: removing Lady Levasseur from the equation.
It was best to get it over. So, Rumpelstiltskin made his way straight to the small fort that the inhabitants of Avonlea called a castle. It was an odd, misshapen thing with a sloped roof tower by the gatehouse that looked like someone had been drunk when designing it and even drunker when building it. The rest of the hold appeared stable enough, though there was not one taller than an adolescent ogre amongst the five turreted towers.
There was a light in the gatehouse, but the lone watcher was none the wiser of the wolf lurking in the shadows. To ensure it stayed this way, Rumpelstiltskin swept his hand up and over his head, and oblivion helpfully draped itself about his shoulders, rendering him as visible as a spiderweb in the dark.
Inside was no better in terms of architecture. Every wall, both exterior and interior, was composed of an assortment of gray cobblestones, held overhead by low hanging wooden beams that even someone of his low stature would risk walking straight into. Though he was loath to call this hovel anything more, the inhabitants of the castle had done their best to make the place look respectable. Rich tapestries hung in strategic spots, and the candelabras upon the wall were pure gold, equipped with beeswax candles that had been neatly wicked.
In a residence of this size, it was easy enough to spot the Lord’s Tower. It stood in the center of the courtyard; a royal insignia stamped helpfully upon the wooden doors. A simple snap of his fingers and the doors were gone.
It was easy enough to make doors disappear, but he had not quite determined how to handle the disappearance of the lady herself. For to ensure his end of the bargain was met, she would have to be removed. Perhaps he could turn her into a swan; that had been rather popular last century. Or a sleeping curse was always an option. The lady could stay young forever, and perhaps after a hundred years or so, some prince would wake her with true love’s kiss. Oh, there were endless options. All of them were as easy as the right words and a snap of his fingers-
He just had to find the lady first.
Because despite the hour, she was not in her chambers.
Her bed had been slept in or at least laid upon. The windows had been drawn and shuttered, and the fire had dimmed to embers. He stood in the doorway for a moment, considering the scene, when he noticed a small drop of wax right inside the door. He shifted and then spotted another drop, a larger one out in the hallway. Both were hardened but not scuffed. Not fresh, but made this night.
To his left, there was a staircase descending back down from which he had come. To his right, a long hallway. Had the lady gone to visit a lover? How droll. Perhaps he could simply expose them, allowing Gaston to annul the betrothal and marry his princess without penalty. It was hardly titillating, but Rumpelstiltskin had long ago learned to keep his options open…
The hallway dead-ended into another door, no doubt the Lord’s Chambers, judging by the heavy snoring emanating from it. To his left, there was another staircase, but this one ascended. And there was a faint drop of wax on the third stair.
He followed it to the top of the turret, only to find one last door. This one was ajar, and from within, a light was burning. The tip of a turret was always a popular spellcasting spot, but there was nothing he could sense in the way of magic. Nor was there any sound of passion, no whispered words or bubbling potions- just silence—a conundrum.
He paused, considering for a moment. This task was proving to be a bit of something different. If pressed, he would almost admit he was enjoying himself. He made a careful note to keep the door from so much as making a squeak lest it announce his entrance.
But of all the things he might have imagined, he could not have predicted he’d find himself in a makeshift library of sorts. The rounded room had books piled along the walls, large and small, with spines of every color, carefully stacked in orderly rows. There was no fire to keep the night’s chill at bay or brighten the darkness, nor was there any tapestries or rugs to make the room inviting.
Besides the hundreds of books, there was just a single desk with a candle nearly burnt to the last. There was a lone cloaked figure at the desk, but they had fallen asleep, their head upon the desk’s surface, dead to the world. There were no cauldrons, no familiars, not even a vial of something foul. The only clue to the figure’s identity was a mass of auburn curls spilling out across the desk from beneath the hood.
He made his way closer. The floorboards silent; knowing better than to so much as creak underneath his weight. Outside, an owl hooted as if sensing a fellow predator. The call was followed by the sound of wings as it swept down from the roof upon its helpless prey down below-
And just as the Dark One reached out his own talons to squeeze around the neck of the sleeper, she stirred. He prepared for a gasp or even a scream- but he was not, however, prepared to find a dagger pressed into the underside of his jerkin.
“Another move, and your entrails will be on the floor.” The dagger pressed deeper as his “prey” slowly stood. She was a head shorter than him, but the light of the almost extinguished candle was too meager for him to make out her features. He could only see the fine-boned hand currently wielding what looked like to be a letter opener.
As annoying as it was to find himself in such a predicament, he had to admit it was rather masterfully done. If he were any mere ruffian, he would be entirely at her mercy. But the Dark One was not in danger of something so trivial as a dagger in the dark. He snapped his fingers, and in a heartbeat, her weapon turned into a single red rose.
It’s thorns bit into her white-knuckled fingers, drawing first blood. She hissed in surprise, dropping the flower to bring wounded fingers up to her mouth. “Magic,” she mumbled around her hand, sounding rather impressed. She lowered her hand with a sigh. “He must have paid a pretty penny. It’s almost flattering, truth be told.”
Rumpelstiltskin chose to ignore the insinuation he could be bought with something as trivial as money. As if he needed gold.
He whispered a simple charm and a twist of his finger; the candle burned back to full life. “You know for what purpose I have come?” he demanded. The lady nodded, and in doing so, her hood shifted and finally slid down to her shoulders.
Rumpelstiltskin was rather lucky he had not dropped the cloaking spell yet, as he found himself at an utter loss for words. This was the woman Gaston was spurning? He understood the man had been ambitious, but good lord, was he blind? In his long lifetime, Rumpelstiltskin had seen the great beauties of lore, the ones who the bards still sung of- none of them had ever struck him as half as lovely as the woman before him. Her features were delicate, classical, and yet there was a strength in the set of her jaw and intelligence in her manner that set her apart from the usual vapid emptiness that so often accompanied the truly beautiful.
She laid the rose upon the desk, subtly casting her eyes in his general direction. “Of course. You’re not the first to come. I wasn’t naive enough to think he’d stop trying.” If she was afraid, her eyes didn’t betray her. She looked more put-out than anything. “You’re the first with magic, though,” she added, in what sounded oddly like a compliment.
He held the cloaking spell in place. He wanted answers, and if the Dark One were to materialize before her, he was not sure Lady Belle would continue cooly discussing her brushes with death. Well, she might. This did not seem like a woman prone to hysterics, but he wasn’t taking that chance quite yet.
(He really loathed hysterics.)
“Why wait for death? Why not use the magic you possess-”
She began to laugh. “Wait- magic? Magic I possess- Is that what he’s telling people now?” To his complete befuddlement, she collapsed back into the chair, wiping away tears of laughter. “Me! Magic!” She fought to regain some iota of self-control but was failing miserably. “Oh, that’s a good one. As if I wouldn’t turn him into a toad first thing-”
“He’d make an impressive bull-frog.”
She made a genuinely horrendous noise like two gears grinding, and he realized she was laughing. “He would, wouldn't he?” she managed through laughter. “I can just see him sitting on the side of the lake, all puffed up.” She helpfully mimicked this by puffing out her chest and filling her cheeks full of air.
He had somehow completely lost control of this encounter. There was nothing to do for it. He discarded the cloaking spell, and her laughter died in her throat. “Oh,” she breathed, eyes widening. He was gratified. Most ladies tended to faint, scream or try and attack him, so this was at least a nice change of pace, if nothing else. “Oh. You’re-”
He sneered. “That’s right. So, if you are quite done laughing- you should know I have struck an agreement with your betrothed. But-” and here he raised a finger, “figuring as I’m in a good mood at the moment, I shall gift you a boon. You may choose your fate.”
His anger rarely ran hot. This self-control had served him well, allowing him to contrive and dole out some truly horrendous forms of revenge in his long life. Gaston would become king. He would rule, safe in the knowledge that he had gotten away with it, that he, a lowborn knight, had hoodwinked the most powerful creature that had ever existed. Only then, would the Dark One drop the Lady Belle back into play, reveal Gaston’s true nature, take all that he had gained, and leave him in the dirt. Possibly as a bull-frog. He’d have to see how he felt in a decade or so. There was nothing quite like a fate delayed. Ask Oedipus.
“You have three options. The first is that of the air. You shall live as a swan for a decade and a day, free to roam the world as you see fit. The second is of the earth. I shall turn you into a statue, and leave you here to watch over your people for a decade and a day, and on the second day, the sun shall rise upon you as a human once more-”
Just as he was about to explain the fire option, which was an excellent spell that involved the sun’s rising and setting- she, to his utter and complete astonishment, raised her hand. “If I might-”
Oh, for Nimue’s sake-
“Is all of this necessary? I have no interest in marrying Gaston. His precious princess is welcome to him.”
He sucked his teeth. This woman was making it impossible to get anything done around here. “Then, why, pray tell, is he trying to kill you?”
She made a sweeping gesture as if encompassing everything around them. “For Avonlea! Why do you think- Ugh!” She pinched her brow, and he could hear her counting to ten under her breath.
He hadn’t needed to ask. He was well aware of how these things worked. With Belle out of the way, Gaston would claim there had been a marriage. The elderly Lord of Avonlea would soon pass either from a broken heart or a knife in the back, and then Gaston would be Lord and Ruler of Avonlea, a fitting husband for a neighboring princess. Their union would unite the two lands...and Ormiston would continue to grow and prosper.
There was no earthly way that the knight had thought of this himself, which meant the King of Ormiston had gotten someone else to do his dirty work. Rumpelstiltskin ground his teeth. He had been played for a fool.
But a deal was a deal. He’d make sure they’d all pay in kind, but the fact of the matter was...this Belle would have to first pay the price.
“You can no longer remain here as the lady of this land.”
“Fine,” she huffed, standing abruptly. “I have to go away for- what was it? A decade and a day? Fine, so be it. I’ll go with you then. Surely, you need….I don’t know some sort of assistance. You have a castle, don’t you?” He opened his mouth, but she did not need an answer to continue the conversation. “Wait- no. Hold on, answer me one question. The deal- was Avonlea a part of it?” He mutely shook his head. “Oh, good. Here’s what we’ll do-”
And then, she laid out in very clear detail her master plan.
It was beautiful in its simplicity, calculating and cunning in its execution, and nearly diabolical in terms of vengeance. By the time the sun rose upon the Lady of Avonlea and the Dark One, a new alliance, had been forged. One that would change the landscape of the world forever.
It went as thus. On the evening of the eighth day, at the eighth hour at the eighth minute, the Dark Lord came (back) to Avonlea. His arrival was not expected at the pre-nuptial feast of Sir Gaston LeRoux and Lady Belle Levasseur, so his appearance was met with (alas) hysterics.
“I hear there is to be a wedding,” Rumpelstiltskin crackled. He rubbed his hands together briskly, clapping them at the end in glee for good measure. “I love weddings.”
Gaston was quite taken aback, but he rallied to put on a good show. He drew his blade, proclaiming loudly and for all to hear that he would protect his lady love. As for the bride, she simply sat in her seat, finishing a custard while an older man with a halo of white hair tugged at her sleeve, urging her to flee.
“Begone, foul beast!” Gaston roared, but he was slowly backing away from the dais, leaving the lord and lady of the castle unprotected. Not that anyone noticed. The entire hall had fled or was cowering under trench tables lining the room. “I shall strike you down before I let you so much as gaze upon my fair lady.”
“Pretty words for a pretty boy,” Rumpelstiltskin cooed up at him. He took another step, baring his teeth in a smile. “I came to allow you to mend your mistake, Lord Maurice.”
“My-my-” The old man was stuttering, white with fear, but he had not let go of his daughter’s arm.
“I had rather thought my wedding invitation must have gotten lost,” Rumpelstiltskin supplied helpfully, starting to pick at imaginary lint on his sleeve. “But then I started to think perhaps I wasn’t invited-”
“You were not!” The knight demonstrated a few fancy parries, and then with a little fancy footwork, he danced his way to the opposite side of the Dark One, blocking the remainder of viewers from the rulers of Avonlea. “Begone from this place at once!” Gaston crowed and had the audacity to wink. The fool, he was still playing checkers; they had moved onto chess.
Rumpelstiltskin waved his arm in a lazy arc, and the knight-who-would-be-king was stopped dead in his tracks, frozen with his sword raised overhead in a rather wickedly uncomfortable position. “Now, then, where were we? Ah, yes. I’m sure it was not your intention to purposefully slight me, was it, Lord Maurice?”
The older man’s jowls were quivering, mouth opening and closing with no sounds coming out. Belle took the opportunity to rise, placing herself pointedly between her father and her conspirator. “There was no slight meant, sir,” she assured him. In the light of the candelabras overhead, her golden dress glowed warm and bright. “What can we do to atone for this grievous oversight?”
A few of the party-goers were starting to creep out from beneath the tables and from behind pillars, their self-preservation losing out to their curiosity as he knew it would. Happened every time.
“You know, I’d rather like a wedding of my own, come to think of it.” He turned to the gathered, huddled masses. “Good people of Avonlea, I shall spare your lands from pestilence and pandemonium on one condition.”
“Good heavens, but name it, sir!” Lord Maurice exclaimed. “Anything and everything I have in my power to give is yours!”
Rumpelstiltskin whipped around, a huge grin spreading across his face. She had worried things might not go according to plan, but he had told her it would be easy. People were so predictable. Well, most of them. The ones not named Belle, at least.
“A bride!”
The entire congregation moaned in horror, and Lord Maurice collapsed in his chair.
“But-but-but-”
They had worked it out carefully; each knew their lines as well as each other’s - but Rumpelstiltskin always did love a bit of improvisation. “Let’s see,” Rumpelstiltskin sang, already descending the dais towards a group of young women huddled in a corner. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”
The girls, predictably, descended into sobs. They clutched at each other, but he turned away sharply, peering under a table at two serving wenches. “And who do we have here?”
One screamed and started to push the other at him.
“Enough, sir.” Belle had descended after him. “ As I am the only bride here, and it was my wedding which so slighted your honor, ” with a court curtsy, she prostrated herself before him, “I am the only one suitable.”
When Belle had suggested this ploy, Rumpelstiltskin had nearly swallowed his tongue. She made it clear she had no interest in marriage, and while she would like nothing more than to roam the world to explore new and far-flung places, her place was here in Avonlea, and if she could, she was honor-bound to remain. As a married woman, wife to the most powerful creature in the world, she could do just that.
After nearly an hour of debating, threatening and whining had not changed her mind; he had finally relented. Rumpelstiltskin would be free to come and go in the decades the lady lived, and Belle would be free to do as she liked as Lady of Avonlea.
The terms of his deal with Gaston would be met, with his betrothal to Belle broken beyond repair. Of course, without Avonlea to bring to the table, Rumpelstiltskin rather doubted a crown was in Gaston’s future, but as Belle had so cleverly seen- Avonlea had not been part of the bargain.
That was why you always read the fine print.
“Done!” Rumpelstiltskin proclaimed, and taking her hand, he helped raise her to her feet. Around them, the crowd began to whisper and moan, a few of the ladies having fainted. Belle met his gaze, bright blue eyes twinkling in mischief. Rumpelstiltskin realized he hadn’t known what color her eyes were, but he was reasonably positive he would never forget again. “We shall be married here, and now, that is unless anyone objects?”
“Belle!” her father moaned. “My dear girl-”
“It’s fine, Papa,” she assured him, but she never took her eyes off Rumpelstiltskin. “I know what I’m doing.”
There was utter conviction in her voice. Rumpelstiltskin had to suppress a shiver as he was still holding her hands. Some little voice in the back of his head was starting to wonder if he was way over his head in this after all, but he ignored it.
There was a clatter of steel on stone as the spell containing Gaston dissolved. The knight pitched backwards, down the stairs, and onto his back. There were gasps, and the crowd began to murmur, even louder this time as their favorite son, and would have been lord raised himself to his feet.
His beautiful face was twisted in rage. “WE HAD A DEAL!” he bellowed, already charging at them. He swung his broadsword, fully intent on cutting them both down where they stood. Rumpelstiltskin instinctively drew Belle to his side, sheltering her from the swing even though a crook of his finger was all it took for the Dark One needed to send the sword spinning into the air.
Even weaponless, Gaston was not cowed. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go!” he railed, far too lost in his rage. His perfectly styled hair fell into his face as he thrust a finger at them. “We had a deal, Dark One. She was to die, and Avonlea was to be mine! I was going to be the king, you-”
Now, the words died in his throat as the murmurs of the crowd swelled into a furious chorus. It appeared the First Sword of Avonlea might have been well-loved but not more than their lady.
“Scoundrel!” an older woman called out, ignoring her husband’s attempt to pull her back behind the safety of a suit of armor. “Blackguard!”
Belle took charge. Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t realized he had still been holding her tightly to his side until, with a squeeze of his hands, she stepped out of his arms and towards the man who wanted her dead. “Sir LeRoux, you are to leave this hall and this land at once. Return to your master of Ormiston and tell him Avonlea has a new lord. But first, I believe it is only fitting that you bear witness to our union, seeing as you had a rather large hand to play in its arrangement.”
“You b-”
Gaston did not get to finish those words. His hands, already reaching out for Belle’s neck, went to his own throat as invisible hands cut off the oxygen. There was no humor in Rumpelstiltskin’s voice now, all acting had gone out the window. “That is my bride you are speaking to, sir. Have a care what you say, or I will feed your tongue to the dogs.”
As Gaston struggled to breathe, Belle turned to a portly gentleman who was tightly wedged between his seat and the table. “Good Uncle Bartholomew, will you read the bans?”
The man looked from Belle’s calm and collected face to Gaston’s purple one, to the Dark One. Then, he turned to where Lord Maurice sat, still collapsed in his chair upon the dais. “My lord?”
“Belle, my dear, surely we can-”
“Papa,” her voice was steel. “I’ve made my decision.” She half-turned to Rumpelstiltskin. “All of you have borne witness to Sir LeRoux’s words. On the eve of our wedding, he has plotted my death to take over Avonlea as his own. If the price for my life and the prosperity of our lands is to wed the Dark One, who has saved me though he may not have known it at the time- then so be it. It is a price I will happily pay for you and all of Avonlea.”
“Here, here,” came a voice, and another echoed this and then another. The people closest to them were still eying Rumpelstiltskin warily, but with Gaston now on his knees, no one was daring to make too big a fuss.
In the end, the bans were read. It was an odd wedding. The bride’s father cried the entire time, the guests were somber and morose, and the man who should have been the groom was prone on the floor, barely able to breathe, much less object when that part of the bans was read aloud.
As for the bride and groom...Well, Rumpelstiltskin had been married once upon a time, and while this was in name only, the usual flutter of anticipation was in his belly, and he couldn’t quite help the lopsided grin on his face. He would tell anyone who dared ask it was all an act, but in truth, he couldn’t help smiling at his bride, who was positively beaming at him like a cat who caught the canary.
The guests would tell anyone who would listen (and everyone wanted to hear the tale) they had never seen a happier bride. Others would swear the groom looked almost nervous, but no one believed the Dark One could be nervous.
Gaston fled to Ormiston, only to be flogged, denounced to a hedge knight, and banished from the kingdom forever. That was the last of Gaston they ever heard of, and the princess of Ormiston married some other lordling’s second son who had more interest in farming than war. Rumpelstiltskin always denied he had a hand in it, but after that, Avonlea and Ormiston’s kingdoms were at peace.
As the bans concluded, and after Gaston had long made a run for it, Rumpelstiltskin was walking his new bride out towards the Lord Tower to her chambers. He would lock them both inside and then depart back to the Dark Castle, returning in the morning, and rinse and repeat for the remainder of the fortnight to ensure no one challenged the union. “So,” Belle said, her arm neatly in the crook of his own. “Told you it would work.”
“Yes, yes,” he grumbled. “Your clever plan has left you wed to the most fearsome creature in the world. Just wait. Scores of knights will show up to defeat the evil dragon and rescue the fair lady. You simply tell me which one you like, and I’ll play dead so you two may run off into the sunset. Do we have a deal?”
Belle considered this for a moment, tipping her head back and forth. Then, her blues eyes twinkling as bright as the stars overhead, she said, “No. I’m afraid I never much cared for courtiers. Besides, being a married woman comes with some advantages. No one can tell me what to do anymore, and if anyone gets too out of hand, I have a husband to sic on them. No, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. I’ll remain wed as long as you don’t behave too beastly.”
He shook his head at her, but internally, found he was rather pleased. “I’ve been told I’m incorrigible,” he warned. “Impossible and ill-mannered.”
As the lock on her door swung shut, she simply grinned at him and quipped, “I do like a challenge.”
--
If you were wondering, it took Belle five months and five days, but she finally got it through to her husband that she was perfectly happy being his lawfully wedded wife. He relocated permanently to Avonlea having fallen very much in love with his wife, though it took her seven months and seven days to make him understand she felt the same way and was very much ready to be his lawfully bedded wife, but that dear reader is another story.
(and as always a big thank you to @prissyhalliwell for being a wonderful friend/sounding board0
I want to mourn her death. I want to honor her. I want to pay tribute to who she was as a woman, as a mother, as a lawyer, as a fighter, as a wife, as a justice, as a patriot.
I want to mourn her and celebrate her and thank her for everything that she did, all the decisions that she made that helped me grow up in an America where I was safe to pursue all the things I wanted.
Instead the first emotion I felt wasn’t sadness, or humility, or solemnity. It was fear. Chill down the spine, tears in the eyes, heart racing, muscle clenching fear.
Still trying to come to terms with the fact I'll never be a librarian who can speak a dead language and be recruited by a ruggish but handsome explorer for a quest to lift the curse and save the world
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