Chapter Text
New Shoes
Prompt: @white-throated-packrat: For the Centaur verse, can you have something about Rumple getting horseshoes – a farrier could fit him with a corrective shoe to help with his limp, and I bet Belle could arrange it, if she could get Rumple away from his ‘owner’.
“Is this…necessary?” Rumple asked, voice meek and quiet. He rarely spoke to the stable-master, his ‘owner’ Mr. Westley, but he was getting increasingly uncomfortable with the situation and the man hadn’t told him not to ask questions. The stable-master wasn’t cruel; he’d never harmed the centaur and he always made sure the inhabitants of his stable were cared for and in decent condition. However, he was also impersonal and more than a little greedy - he believed in making full use of his property and taking advantage of anything that could get him more money… while also refusing to sink money into anything or anyone that did not turn him a profit. If Rumple stopped being a profitable investment, he would be contracted out or sold.
Mr. Westley snorted, not even pausing to look at the nervous centaur reluctantly standing still and allowing his hands to be bound together and tied to the hitching post outside of the Blacksmith’s shop. “I’ll say. That leg of yours is getting in the way of hauling, and that pretty lass that hangs around the field thinks this will help. If the blacksmith agrees with her, you’re getting shoes.”
Rumple’s ears twitched and behind him, his tail flicked. Belle had suggested this? He shifted his weight between his hooves and instantly flinched, quickly shifting his weight back to favor his bad ankle. The recent rain and cold had done him no favors. Even as a human, the shattered bones had ached in the bad weather and now he weighed considerably more and did not wear shoes. His limp had become much worse, both when he was let out to roam in the field and when he was pulling the stable-master’s cart, slowing him down, decreasing his productivity, and causing a lot of pain.
Bae had tried to help him by wrapping his ankle and cleaning his hooves when Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t reach them, and Belle had tried to help by bringing him ointment and bandage material, but continuous exposure to the rainy weather and damp ground meant their efforts were only slightly effective. Mr. Westley had been getting annoyed with Rumple’s slowness, but so far his spinning was enough to keep him productive in his owner’s eyes.
Apparently, not productive enough.
“Stay here, Spinner.” Mr. Westley ordered shortly, then walked away to find the blacksmith, who also functioned as the village’s farrier. Rumple tilted his head forward, hiding his eyes behind a curtain of hair as he observed his surroundings with unease. The binding on his wrists was tight, but he was a deft hand at escaping restraints if he desired (part of his father’s dubious legacy) so it did not bother him – he wasn’t going to escape, for fear of Mr. Westley’s reaction and punishment, but the knowledge that he could was calming. The busy street at his back, the realization that there were so many people so close to him, was much more nerve-wracking, as was the dark doorway to his left that led into the blacksmith’s shop. It was large, fully big enough to admit a horse if necessary, and the sound of metal striking metal came from within, punctuated by waves of heat and men talking loudly. Overall, it was intimidating and he was already trembling and bracing himself in expectation of pain.
Belle’s involvement reassured him, but he still didn’t like the thought of a stranger touching his legs and feet – or even noticing him. Generally, he was content to slide by unnoticed spinning in his stall or reading and relaxing in the fields, provided Bae was happy (and he was thriving in his position as apprentice at the horse-stables across town). Rumple’s social anxiety had not faded since leaving the Frontlands, even though the villagers’ comments had changed from spiteful ‘coward’ to impersonal ‘beast’ in the transition.
He wasn’t a brave man, never had been, and the desire to slip his bindings so he could go and hide was almost overwhelming.
But he didn’t. Belle thought this was a good idea, and he usually trusted her judgement. It had to at least be worth consideration. Besides, at this point, he didn’t really have a choice.
The centaur gulped as Mr. Westley returned, followed by the blacksmith; a massive bald man over seven feet tall with bushy black eyebrows, bulging muscles, and plenty of shining red scars, tokens of his profession that had yet to fade. His skin was swarthy and his hands were calloused from long days spent over the anvil. Even as he emerged from his domain, his thick leather apron remained on, protecting him from the super-heated metal he had just stopped pounding on his anvil. His brow furrowed as he talked to the stable-master, apparently confused until his gaze drifted over to Rumple and he blinked in surprise. His frown did not waver as he was led over to the unhappy centaur.
“This is him.” Westley waved, not bothering to introduce them before gesturing at Rumple’s crippled limb. “That leg is the problem. I’ve been told you can fix that?”
“Fix? No. But I might be able to help.” The blacksmith was eyeing Rumple warily, making him increasingly nervous. But his next words were addressed to the centaur. “I’ve never worked with one of your kind before, centaur. You going to make trouble?”
“No, sir.” Was the quiet, deferential response. But the blacksmith was used to shoeing horses, had even handled the king’s most aggressive warhorses, and knew that the wide eyes, tense muscles, and constant shifting of his hooves could cause problems. Even a small centaur could easily crack open a man’s skull with the kick of a hoof.
“Don’t worry about him, he’s tame.” The stable-master dismissed. “What can you do for me, and how much will it cost?”
The two of them set to haggling, to Rumple’s discomfort. Apparently there were many different kinds of horseshoes, many different methods of shoeing, and many different kinds of metal they could be made of. The cheapest were copper, but the sturdiest were iron and in order to correct his limp, something more expensive was needed. They also haggled over whether he should get the one foot done, or all four, and how much time it would take – a rush job would cost more while doing at the blacksmith’s convenience would mean Rumple spent most of the day in the strange man’s care.
He was not permitted to add his opinion, but he listened to all of their arguments and tried to get a good idea of what was going on.
Finally, they settled on four simple fitted iron shoes put on at the blacksmith’s convenience paid half in advance and half after completion. Mr. Westley counted out the gold and silver while muttering angrily about how this better be worth it and then stalked off down the street in bad humor, leaving Rumple behind without a second glance.
“What’s your name?”
The centaur’s head jerked around from where he’d been watching his owner leave to find the blacksmith staring at him. Even with the height boost due to his transformation, Rumple was shorter.
“Rumpelstiltskin. Um, sir.” The incredulous look he got was very familiar and he sighed in resignation. “Mr. Westley calls me Spinner.”
“Why?” The question seemed genuinely curious and innocent, enough to settle some of Rumple’s nerves as the blacksmith took hold of the length of rope that connected his wrists to the hitching post, keeping it firmly in hand as he pulled apart the knot holding it to the wooden bar.
“It’s what I do.” He shrugged self-consciously, following without needing to be tugged as the taller man led him to the back of the smithy. “Or…what I did before Mr. Westley…bought me.”
“I see.” The blacksmith frowned. There was disapproval in his tone but it didn’t seem to be aimed at the centaur. “Well, ‘Spinner’, I’m in the middle of pounding down a sword at the moment, but I should have some time for your shoes after lunch. For now, you can stay here.” He stopped in front of what looked like a sturdy shed, but opened to reveal a small stable-space with only two stalls and a storage area. Rumple eyed it with trepidation – it was bare and made entirely from stone and bare wood, but dry and warm from proximity to the forge right next door. The blacksmith led him to the first stall and gestured him in, shutting the hip-height wooden divider behind him. There was just enough space to turn around and lay down if he wanted.
“I’ll be back in a few hours.” The smith eyed Rumple in obvious indecision. “Don’t make any trouble. If anything’s broken when I come back, I’ll charge your owner for it.”
Rumple flinched and ducked his head in a nod.
“Will…will it hurt?” He asked quietly as the smith turned to leave, drawing the man’s attention back to him.
“What?”
“Getting…well…being-” He tapped one of his hooves on the floor.
“Ah.” The smith tilted his head, something oddly probing in his eyes. “No. The nails won’t touch your flesh. It will probably feel like getting your fingernails clipped. And I can help with that leg of yours.”
“Oh.” Rumple considered. “Thank you?”
The smith snorted in apparent amusement. “I’ll be back in three hours. Just relax.”
He stomped out of the building and the heavy door closed in his wake, leaving Rumpelstiltskin in warm silence.
Before he could settle down, the door creaked open again just a sliver and a familiar tousled brown head poked through the crack.
“Papa?”
“Bae?” Rumple leaned forward, bracing his hand against the wooden gate to lean forward as he tried to get a good look at his son. “What are you doing here, my boy?”
At the sight of him, Bae smiled and slipped inside. There was more than a little relief in his expression as he approached his father’s stall.
“I came to let you out!”
“Bae…” Rumple sighed. He’d had this talk with the teenager several times. Bae was dead set on freeing his papa from slavery and believed wholeheartedly that if he could just get them out of the city, they would be home free. Rumpelstiltskin knew that wasn’t the case; he’d struggled in the wilderness when he deserted the army as a young man, barely surviving the scores of miles on his own. And that was in the spring.
If they managed to get outside of the city – and that was without considering the potential punishment if they were caught – their struggles would be just beginning. There would be no food, no home to go to, no goal, and (since the spinning wheel would have to stay behind) no easy skills to barter for gold. On top of that, Rumple was crippled so could not flee or survive in the wild and centaurs had no more rights in the surrounding kingdoms than they had in the Marchlands. If they tried to go into any city, he’d simply be enslaved again and his new master might be far worse than Mr. Westley. Bae would survive, but his future had many more opportunities and skills if he completed his apprenticeship before leaving the city. Otherwise, he might be forced to turn to theft or poaching. That was not a future Rumple wanted for his son.
But Bae was young and determined, confident in his own immortality (as teenagers tended to be) and the practical consequences of his decisions faded when he dreamed about the ‘freedom’ beyond the gates.
“Papa, they’re going to nail metal to your feet. I can save you!”
“Bae, lad, I wouldn’t make it a mile out of the gate.” He reminded gently. “And the blacksmith would notice I was gone.”
“But…”
Rumple reached out and covered his son’s hand where it lay on top of the latch to the stall-door, trying to push away his own reservations and show confidence in what was going on – even though he still had plenty of reservations. Instead of revealing his own fears, he smiled at Bae and repeated the words he’d heard from the blacksmith and the stable-master.
“Bae, the shoes are to help with my leg and protect my feet from the damp. They won’t hurt me.”
“They’re going to nail-.”
“…metal to my hooves.” The centaur finished, sounding more confident and knowledgeable than he felt. “Hooves are a bit like fingernails, son. The nails won’t touch my skin. It won’t hurt.”
“Do you want them to do it?” Bae still sounded downright appalled at the thought of his father wearing horseshoes, but there was a shadow of doubt in his eyes.
Rumple paused at the words, unwilling to lie but not wanting to expose the depth of his fear. Finally, he responded quietly. “Belle thinks it’s a good idea.”
A deep frown was his only answer, but the doubt in his son’s expression grew. Bae knew Belle, and he’d come to like her for the kindness she showed his father. More than once, she’d contrived to help the two spend more time together and she responded enthusiastically whenever Bae talked about freeing his father (though Rumple knew nothing of their talks – they wanted a plan before they brought it to him).
“If…if you’re sure…” Bae muttered, worried and downtrodden. He’d thought he was going to save his papa…
Rumple smiled. “Why don’t you keep me company until it’s time?”
“…Okay.”
By the time the blacksmith came back many hours later, Bae had left but Rumple was feeling a little bit more confident about what was about to happen.
Getting shod felt strange but that was mostly having unfamiliar hands touching him so much. The smith’s grip was firm, sometimes to the point of discomfort, but he kept his word – his tools never so much as grazed the fur on Rumple’s feet. The centaur twitched and fidgeted unhappily as his hooves were filed down and fitted with iron shoes, but never lashed out. Whatever reservations the smith had at first vanished somewhere along the way and he had no qualms positioning and directing Rumple as needed. And once the shoes were sized, the smith left him tied to a hitching post while he heated and hammered the iron into the proper shape on his anvil. By the time he returned, all four shoes were ready to be nailed in place.
That was the part Rumple was truly dreading, even more than having a stranger’s hands all over his feet and legs, but it proved to be anticlimactic. The smith knew what he was doing and the nails – six per shoe – went in clean and straight through the tough keratin of his hooves, without ever touching his flesh or drawing blood. His crippled leg was done last, and that was painful, but it wasn’t the blacksmith’s fault - merely stretching it into the correct position to receive a shoe tortured muscles and bones that hadn’t been able to move in over a decade. Rumple braced himself, closed his eyes, and managed to get through it with only a few bitten off whimpers.
“There we go, all done.” Rumple looked at the smith through eyes that had teared up in pain to find the man smiling with satisfaction. He received a friendly clap on the shoulder that startled more than any touch so far and the bigger man let out a warm chuckle. “You did well, Spinner.”
“I…thanks?”
The blacksmith laughed again and walked back inside, leaving Rumple to readjust to his new balance.
Belle and the smith had been right. His feet felt much better filed down and protected by shoes, and the modified bit of metal on his bad foot took pressure off of the side of his ankle that he was normally forced to walk on, providing welcome relief. The familiar horrible pain had decreased to a persistent ache, better than it had felt even as a human.
When Belle came to see him the next day, caught between apologizing for inspiring his owner to put him through the ordeal and asking how it went, he greeted her with a smile and a gift of golden thread.