celestine allison argent (lovesthechase) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2014-02-07 22:11:00 |
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Entry tags: | belle, door: tales, prince charming |
WHO: Belle and Charming
WHERE: Village in Beast's Valley
WHEN: Before Charming's Castle appeared
WHAT: Belle and Charming meet for the first time
RATING: Light!
STATUS: log; complete
Charming fully intended to go looking for his own lands, possibly, one of these days. He started out in Fabletown, as that was the most logical place for him to find himself in. It was a home of sorts now, although he spent most of time in Europe after they carved out a small city for themselves in the "real world." He had his reasons for not immediately going out on his own. It was a mixture of not knowing where to look, or uncertainty if he would find it, and the disappointment that would go with losing something all over again. Also, there was this blasted weather. So he ended up wandering into the village and regretting it once he did. Charming did not spend much time in the villages. He was a Prince after all, it wouldn't do. He wasn't exactly looking for Belle, since it was possible she was on the other side of the door. They didn't part on the best terms too, and he didn't exactly care. He could go back to Fabletown, where he had places to stay. This Beast owned the area, and he was no friend of Charming. How Rose Red managed to sneak her way into that bed, he still was baffled by. He stood out, in any case. He was undeniably a beautiful man, supernaturally attractive according to some. His hair was thick and black, his eyes bright blue, tall and stately with that presence of one accustomed to getting attention. He was smart enough to come prepared with a jacket and gloves, but even layers seemed stylish when attached to the handsome but untrustworthy Prince. The snow was high, a powdery sea of light and symmetry glinting wide and white, a new lunar landscape for the village in the valley. It piled past slim knees and nearing the still-blossoming bell curve of girlish hips, in spite of the men who took to the crook'd, narrow streets before the sun rose each morn. They brought homemade tools, instruments with flat heads to clear the drifts, to relocate the sparkling, ever-frothing snow to the gutters and along the wet wood of cold homes. There had been a standstill for a fortnight or so, when no man could leave his house, when children were forbidden from unlatching windows, when the winds had blown so, it chilled the bones blue, when doors froze shut in their jambs and water in the well was naught but ice. The villagers taken to dragging the snow in in burlap and melting it over the meager fire for water. In the morning, when the blizzard was blaring, they would attach leather ropes around men's middles and send them out to unearth wood, anything that could be brought in and dried for fuel. The men needed the ropes so they didn't lose themselves in the dizzying dimensions of snow. Some were lost, but overall, the idea was sound. For the most part, Belle had grown accustomed to this new climate. She had the lush cloak that had been gifted to her. She knew it was from King Henry. Belle was neither deaf nor dumb. Rose had sent her a miniature printing press. There was no other it could be from than the wolf boy, but after the memory she shared with him, she did not think he would be speaking to her anytime soon. -- Whomever it was from, it was a lovely and generous gift, warm and beautiful. She knitted it close around her throat, folds of plum protecting her hair and face from the cold. With cheeks rouged from chapping wind and two buckets in her hands, Belle trekked from the inn in the village square. She meant to find winterberries for the innkeeper, a wonderful woman whose stores of food were running low in the sudden plunging depths of winter. The girl wore the tracery of delicate gloves over her hands, calfskin and wool, another gift, these from her father. She felt warm enough, a small girl cutting through the snow, smiling at the clarity of the day. Belle's breath came in puffs of air. Her own beauty, that for which she was named, was obvious, dewy and youthful, her eyes a doe brown and her skin cream. But it was not her own beauty that captivated her this day. The sky was blue, stretched above like the eyes of daisies and the world glistened in crystal. It was a storybook wonderland, and her imagination feasted on the possibilities. If there was anyone else inhabiting it she did not know. Charming appreciated beauty in women. He admired well made clothing, and extravagant palaces, and occasionally his eyes would wander across a landscape that was worth more than a few seconds of his time. In general, he spent little time looking at the details in every day life. It could be because he was immortal, and the years became decades and centuries. Long ago, when the story first began, he was slightly different. Young and bold and eager to approach the world in a haze of wonder. He was sheltered in his castle and lands, so the concept of going outside of them, it was wondrous to him. Charming fancied the idea of being a knight, of riding on horses and saving damsels and doing anything other than lounging in a chair worrying about silly little things like laws and the economy. Blech. Of course it became very clear to him and everyone else that his most memorable trait would be how easy it was for him to move from one dream to the other. He told himself this was what he wanted, and his entire world, his focus, his needs and desires, they were wrapped up in one singular thought. Until he achieved it, and his dissatisfaction led to ruin. Not for him, no no no, Charming's existence surrounded his permanence, in stories and in the memories of those left in his wake. Ask his wives. Ask Bluebeard. Except not, since Charming fooled and slaughtered him. One of his finer moments, he thought, but no one knew his motivations. Nor would they, if it was up to him. Terrible idea, being honest about the things that mattered. He didn't give too many looks around him, but he saw her from the moment she stepped out of the inn. Ah, beauty. She was not the same as his Belle, so he didn't recognize her, outside of finding something appealing in her face and general presence. Charming had a knack for sensing vulnerability, for being drawn to the innocent and naive, and oftentimes, utilized it for his own good. Right now, he was only looking for answers. He flashed his most winning smile, all teeth and no heart. "My lady," he said in a pleasant low baritone, showing off with an extravagant bow. "If I may ask for a minute of your time." Belle appreciated beauty in everything. The downy fur of soft, gray mice. The red berries that grew on greenblooded bushes. She appreciated the beauty the sun radiated, the beauty that crowned flowers, the beauty that crawled in gritty crevices, the beauty that hid under the black-night fabric of shadows, in the hearts of men, between ink on a page. The world to her was bursting with stories, and stories had heroes, villains, anti-heroes, and so on. Stories were made of details, of letters made of lines and dots arranged on a page by the hammer of ink. It was a careful, but chance construction. She was intelligent, however. She knew there were differences. Reality and fiction were not one in the same. But there was overlap. Details were important wherever you were. It was this the maid was considering when she heard the crunch of crisp snow behind her. Turning in a spill of skirts under aubergine, she peered up at the stranger. Her curiosity was a spark evident in the black of her pupils. She did not know him. His face was handsomely carved over high cheekbones, his eyes mirrors of the sky. She did not know him, but she saw the outward beauty to him. Belle was intelligent, however. She knew there were differences. Inside and outside were not one in the same. But she was not a suspicious girl by nature, and she dipped in curtsey, a response to his fantastical bow she found most charming. His smile was a reflection of something different. She did not know what, but it stirred something beneath her breastbone. One gloved hand went to touch it. She smiled politely. "Of course," she answered. If the world once held wonder for him, it long since lacked. Immortality was an interesting curse that way. Popular fables, they never died, and he was the most famous of the princes. Charming thought perhaps that was where fantasy tied into reality; in one lifespan, he believed his choices would be different. But many came and went and he grew more jaded, more certain they were never going to have the happy endings that were whispered in their ear. His too, once. So he looked at the scenery, and the sun and the moon, and artwork and music and everything that should be beautiful and glorious, and felt very little about it. Some days he wondered if he was capable of feeling anything. It was hard to say, being this muted and disenchanted. But the war, the war brought the fire back for him. Charming believed in a better world again, he believed he could help shape one. It was like falling in love all over again, the rush and happiness and fear too, always that edge of fear. Instead he showed up here. That was the devil of it. It was really quite funny, when he thought about it. He was becoming his version of a good many again. He killed Bluebeard for Snow and Bigby, he gave them a house, a life they could have together. He started to make decisions for Fabletown that weren't only selfish and bored, he gave advice that ran contrary to his own wants, and he led the war. So of course that was the perfect time for everything to unravel and to find himself years set back. Alone, powerless, and nothing but an Alter. He figured he probably deserved it. "I am looking for Mademoiselle Belle, I believe she is in this village." Charming had intended to say something else entirely, but that was where he ended up instead. "Or it could be another one, I'll admit these aren't my lands, I'm a bit lost." His smile was rueful, running a hand through his hair, the gloves as sleek and coal black as his hair, which fell perfectly back into place afterward. "I'm Prince Charming." Belle's open face betrayed her. At the mention of her name, fine eyebrows contracted and confusion replaced the sharpness of curiosity in her eyes. She tugged the purple throat of her cloak tighter about her shoulders. She was not afraid of the man, but she had learned suspicion in these lands, she had been taught the lesson of meanness by Rose Red. She knew not all meant her well. The pink bow of her lips opened, knot slipping. "I am she," she finally conceded with another dip, a curtsy in the snow, skirts brushing the fairy powder, her little nose red. But it was his name that placed him. From the book. She was surprised. The man, a prince, who spoke sourly with some and sweetly with others. How she did not know, a strange magic. There was a fine crescent of a smile on her lips then, whether by custom, wish, or habit it was unknown, and the curtsy grew more formal, stiff in the back, a fitting greeting for someone of his stature. She did not look at the ground as she was supposed to, unlearned in such manners, but her deference was obvious. "Good day, Your Royal Highness. It is a pleasure to meet you." Belle. Ah. If nothing else this cemented the difference between their worlds, because she wasn't like his Belle. Then again, none of them were the same as some of their counterparts. They were forced to merge with reality, to adapt to a modern world, and it changed them fundamentally. They were always aware of the fictional and magical nature of their existence. She seemed young and innocent, which his Belle had as well, but she lacked the trickle of world weariness, the savvy that made her an excellent deputy for him. Charming was capable of love and loyalty, it just came and went, but he cared for his Belle. She was not a woman to be loved and left. She was his friend. And this was not her. He was accustomed to disappointment these days, and his mask of calm geniality was much better at staying put. "Good day, my lady. It is an honor." He was trained to be courteous, and he was a master of it, but he was lazy in the past few years. Still, he smiled at her, slightly more real this time. Charming's eyes were calculating; he was adept at deciding how useful people were. He didn't intentionally go around burning all the bridges in his life, but with some people their differences were insurmountable. His bitter relationship with Snow and Rose Red, for example. But for now, perhaps he was only seeking allies. Or people less inclined to throw things at his head. "I owe you a bit of an apology for being rude on your journal." He wasn't sorry about what he said to them, not in the least. He would say it all again. It simply wasn't mean to bother her. "Also, I hoped you could answer a few questions about this place. It's very different from what I'm used to." The girl colored, cranberry glass, at 'lady,' just a small, girlish blossom of rosy pink on the ivory apple of each cheek. Her eyes swept to the snow, to the footprints the prince had brought with him, then back to the man with the crocodile eyes and the prince's gold-toothed smile. Flustered by her own reaction, Belle tucked a stray bit of gold-brown hair, open gothic tracery in soft metals, behind her ear. Her hair was not primped, nor piled; it was not done up in the way of royalty or the nobles. It was tied low, by the nape of her neck, with a simple blue ribbon. The hair too was colored, whitewashed, by a constellation, a galaxy of snowflakes, some tumbling into her lashes, where they would melt above her eyes. "I am no lady, sir," she said politely, regardful. "You may call me Belle." She paused a moment, shoulders slight under ianthine pile-on-pile, uncertain. But she remembered her stories and knew the plot must advance. "There is no need for an apology, sir. I assure you. -- Of course I will answer what you will. I am at your pleasure, sir." Belle carried words with her. She absorbed ink from pages into the mirror of her skin. She remembered what the prince had said. But, it did not matter so very much. There came another soft curtsy and Belle smiled again, her composure regained and shelved, her little pointed chin high and her snubbed nose too. Her boots were soaking in the cold and she wished desperately for a fire. Charming was used to having that effect on women. It was part of his history, of the skill both natural and learned. If she was anyone else, he might have intentionally leaned on it to get more from her, to find a tie that bound her in some part to his will. He'd changed, recently. Not enough to ignore decades of experience, but he was trying for the first time in a long while. He tried. She was younger and more innocent than his Belle, she couldn't look straight into his soul and break him down with the experience of a woman accustomed to controlling a difficult man. But the memory of his friend meant a part of her called to where his basic decency was crushed down. Damnation. "Maybe not in official title, but all women are supposed to be treated like ladies. It's the way of my people." Charming was taught well, it was double edged. Treat others with respect, but never forget you are better than them, my son. Smile and bow, but command more than that in return. He was beautiful and poised, an artful artifice. He was irritated at the time Rose Red and the twisted version of Beast were left with a free rein. Charming had no intention of staying in this damned undeserved area for long. Or maybe he would, just to irritate Rose, they were very good at that. "How long exactly has the snow been happening, do you think? Is the town equipped for it?" He was skeptical. He stood around in his sleek expensive wear and tailored suits, and longed for New York already. But it wasn't his. "If it gets worse, there are other places to take refuge. I know where people can go." "The snow has been falling… since autumn." Belle answered after a moment's thought, her boots biting into the snow as she turned slightly away from the prince. Her breath was hoarfrost and her hair wind-whipped. She sought the winterberries as they spoke, knowing they could not remain out long. Even the sun did not obey the word of a prince. The orb of light and gold, though high now, would be gone soon, on its own journey to other forests, to deserts and oceans beyond, the sort that curled in ink on pages, the sort that Belle could only dream off. Snow clung to her skirts. "The village is not well-equipped, no. But we are making do. I do not think traveling with such masses would be wise, if I may say so." The title of respect, the Your Royal Highness, was forgotten. Belle dipped her fingers into the cold, slushing away snow from the tiny, brambly branches of brush that clung to the barren landscape as a man dying, desperately, but without hope. She withdrew a hand from the warmth of a glove and groped for the berries, careful to be gentle. She cast her eyes up only once to look at the prince's garb. She did not think his cloak—his coat?—was enough for the weather at present. "Do you know King Henry?" She asked with open curiosity, her eyes falling back to the dexterous weaving of fingers and thorns. "This is magic, whatever it is. I don't have magic myself, but I've been around people who have it." That wasn't entirely true. Charming had his own type of magic, it was subtle. He was not about to show all of his cards. Having decent trickery was one of his many skills, which cost Bluebeard his life. And no one was sorry for it. "I've been in the Homelands like this, and a blizzard this long is unusual." No one seemed able to get to the bottom of it. That made it particularly dangerous. One of the few purely good traits he had was his genuine desire to help the common folk, to a point. He was good to his people. These may not be his, but he didn't like the weak suffering. "It may be necessary, one of these days, if this gets worse." He couldn't make that decision for everyone himself, but he was confident it might come up later on. Charming watched her tenderly touch the plant, and he briefly found himself sincerely concerned. They needed to get to the bottom of it. Maybe it wasn't his world, but he had to walk in it. And even he was tired of getting snow on his cloak and slush on his boots. He was going to get sick of it quickly. He was planning a journey, and it would be a long one in this. If it bothered him she dropped the title, it didn't show. He was Prince of nothing at the moment, it was a flowery title at best. Besides, she was still some version of Belle, and she never used ceremony with him. He frowned at the question and remembered the strange confrontation they had. He expected something different. "Not this one. Mine is a very different man. He is kind and … insecure, in a lot of ways. He can't always control his shifting." It didn't occur to him Belle might not know everything about this Beast. "But he was a good sheriff under my rule. It's strange to see him with Rose Red, they rarely spoke." Belle listened quietly. The man spoke well and refined, and she allowed his words to flow over her in the wind-swept sea of snow, as she picked the little rubies from the bush and dropped them into the bowl of her skirt, held aloft and round by her other hand. She was not mannered enough to blush at the underskirt she was showing. Indeed, this seemed the most efficient method to her. She had a kerchief, a square of warm cloth she wore over her head in hotter months, tied to one slim wrist, but she would catch the berries first, wash them off in the snow, and transfer them. Until then, she piled the red beads onto soft fabric and listened, her gaze filtering upward when the prince began to speak of King Henry. A small bit of confusion worked its way into her expression. Her hands stopped moving, fingers stilling and muscles shivering in the cold. She suspected a mystery hid in Charming's word choice. "Shifting?" Pink lips turned downward. Her breath hung in the air, fog in miniature. "What does that mean?" In truth, Charming should have told her. He wanted to, after he got over the initial shock, since of course she wouldn't know. They hadn't come anywhere close to breaking the curse or even speaking to one another really, thanks to Rose Red. This Beast of theirs was rude to him and no doubt having to answer questions about that would bother the hell out of him. That was one thing he figured crossed over; the shame and inner anguish, in a form not his own. He was quiet, the explanation on the tip of his tongue, but something made him hesitate. Some small amount of respect for a person who didn't exist here, perhaps? Charming made strides to being a better person lately, in part thanks to Belle and Beast. But avoiding it outright would just make her more curious, so he tried to find a middle ground. "I think that's a tale for another day. Or coming from another man." If she asked Henry himself, well, that wasn't up to Charming. Not spilling the secret was as far as he was willing to take it right then. "My lady, please allow me to escort you back inside. It is far too cold out here." And while she was dressed as best as she could for the weather, she was catching berries in her kerchief and shivering. Charming offered her his hand gallantly, and this time when he smiled, it wasn't entirely with crocodile eyes. |