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“Am I boring?”
The words tumbled out of Belle’s mouth before she could stop them, blunt and embarrassingly vulnerable. She really didn’t know what had triggered the question. She and Rumple had finally moved into their new home, and only an aura of bliss hovered in the air. No tension, no bitterness, and definitely no doubts-at least, not on her part.
The only sort of domestic trouble she endured had nothing to do with her husband. For days, Belle had struggled to find the perfect locations for every piece of furniture. Rumple hadn’t minded which corner of the kitchen shed the most light on the dining room table or which curtains best complemented the walls of the parlour. He’d been incredibly patient as he switched the curtains from white to blue to white again with merely a flick of his wrist. Belle had tried to convince him that magic wasn’t necessary for the task, but he just smirked at her. She suspected that he flaunted his magic in order to keep himself amused through the entire ordeal. He wouldn’t have cared if she covered the windows with loose pages from her old books.
Now Rumple paused as he stood above yet another rejected pile of curtains, his arm raised in anticipation of another request. His brow furrowed. Belle felt her face flush accordingly to the rampant pounding of her heart.
Rationally, she knew that Rumple knew what he was getting into when he married her; he certainly didn’t conform to the ancient breeding standards that glorified money and class. Some Storybrooke residents still adopted this idea with enthusiasm in spite of their new environment. Also, Belle had read enough romance novels and observed enough couples in Storybrooke to know that no couple could harbor enthusiasm for each other all the time. Even if Rumple did find her boring right now, he wouldn’t colour every interaction they ever had with that feeling. She'd even once seen Snow, the advocate of true love, roll her eyes when Charming re-enacted his first swordfight for Henry. So Belle knew that she and “the Dark One” were subjected to the same standards as anyone else, even if they were considered an odd couple by some.
Yet Belle still felt her throat tighten as she waited for his response.
“Boring?” Rumple repeated, and Belle felt a small flood of relief at his perplexed tone. He crossed his arms, deepening his gaze as if she were a riveting page in a book. “Why would you think that?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Belle tried to mask her voice with nonchalance. As foolish as she felt, the idea had locked onto her heart and restricted any semblance of reason. “I just always had this...this vision in my head, ever since I was a little girl in the palace. I used to dream about travelling to faraway lands. Being a skilled combatant, a doctor, a sorceress...” A chuckle emerged from her as Rumple raised his eyebrows. “Just about anything exciting I could think of. And now here I am” she waved her hands in the air with zeal “fussing over what colour curtains fits best in our home. It’s not life or death, but it matters to me. I want everything to be perfect. And I know that what matters to me isn’t exactly exciting to other people.”
“Well, to be fair, I don’t think many residents of Storybrooke can make it through a hundred pages of the books you read,” Rumple replied. “If they were able, then they could defeat whatever new monstrosity invaded this town.”
“Oh, I’m sure they could if they wanted to. If they could rest for a day without being under attack.”
“I doubt that, with even an endless amount of free time, the sharpest of minds in Storybrooke can muster up your level of dedication.” Rumple flashed her a smile.
“It’s a job for a librarian, I suppose.”
“It’s a job for someone intelligent and capable,” Rumple corrected. His eyes molded into hers, picking up on her sour tone.
Belle could never find the words to illustrate the spark that flowed through her whenever she learned a new piece of information. To her, it was a better feeling than wielding magic-not that she had any experience with that. Sometimes she wondered; were her passions really that pale compared to the rest of her family? Magic may not necessarily be tied with strength and combat, but she knew that she had none of those qualities. Heroes didn’t spend their time in the library reading books; they marched to the heart of the battleground and won.
And they certainly didn’t panic over a heap of curtains.
Rumple stared at her expectantly, silently encouraging her to continue.
“I guess I’ve always been a librarian at heart,” Belle said, her voice softening as ghosts of memories swept through her. “My parents always tried to shield me from the evils of the kingdom. I couldn’t associate with anyone they thought would poorly influence me. I couldn’t learn to fight because it was too dangerous and I would ‘injure myself.’ Everyone deliberately withheld news from me that they believed to be too upsetting. Apparently I was too weak to handle anything of importance.” She smiled grimly. “My brothers were expected to carry on the family line; I was expected to marry someone worthy of one.”
“To be kept in the dark,” Rumple said quietly. “only heightens one’s fear when an actual threat arises.” His face darkened as though a memory of his own was settling into him. His raw expression tugged at her heart, and she reached over and placed her hand on his shoulder. Placing his own warm hand over hers, he squeezed it, prodding her to continue. So she did.
“I kept myself knowledgeable of everything by reading books and listening to every hushed conversation,” she confessed. “And I saw that outside the kingdom, there was a whole other world. Everything seemed-and still seems-so full of mystery and a kind of magic that doesn’t come from sorcerers. So I dreamed of travelling to those worlds. And in my head I was always incredible.”
The next part was a bit embarrassing, and she struggled to keep her voice aloof. But the heaviness in her chest eased a bit when she saw that Rumple was patiently waiting, listening. He would never judge her.
“But the funny thing about dreams is that you can pretend to be anyone you want.”
“Marrying the Dark One just isn’t as exciting as trekking through dangerous lands, is it?” Rumple teased.
A brief smile crept across her face before she continued, brusquely, “I’m not a warrior. I never was. You know I would have gone to Neverland with you in a heartbeat, and I would have stayed by your side the entire time. I just...consider everyone in our family. I’m not the one who’s going to defeat the next monster that invades Storybrooke with a sword or magic. I’m not like you, I’m not a fighter and I’m not a hero.” Then Belle forced herself to spout the thought that had consumed her. “I’m boring.”
“Hold on a minute,” Rumple interrupted. His features smoothed into a stoic expression. “Not a hero? Belle, you of all people should realize that swordplay does not make one a hero. I may have won many battles with my magic, but that doesn't make me a hero.”
“I knew you would say that,” Belle replied. “You may have done horrible deeds in the past, but you’ve also done so much good. You saved the entire town from Pan! You may not be perfect, but it doesn’t matter. You’ll always be a hero to me. No one is perfect, not even heroes.”
Surprise rushed through her veins as Rumple let out a chuckle. “Don’t you see, Belle?” he said. “You’re perfectly willing to accept me with all of my faults, but you refuse to accept yourself.” He gestured to the sad heap of fabric on the floor. “Take your obsession with the curtains, for instance. You demand perfection from yourself. So much so that you conform to the ancient ideals of the Enchanted Forest. But the old way that encouraged naive young men to charge into battle when they were barely out of the cradle is now lost to time, and for good reason. You are no less of a hero because you choose words and wisdom first.”
“Yes...but...” Belle agreed with him that the Enchanted Forest’s pro-war rhetoric was outdated, but she couldn’t help the nagging feeling in her gut that told her she was bland. But the word 'perfectionist' resonated in her. She wondered how she would have reacted if, say, Henry had confided to her the same feelings. Would she have believed that he was lesser because he couldn’t wield a sword like Charming?
Honesty kicked in. No. The thought would never have even crossed her mind. Why couldn’t she follow her own advice?
A perfectionist. Now that was the right word to describe her. Her husband may have been the Dark One, but they both had legitimate issues to work on.
“I suppose I am a hypocrite,” Belle admitted bleakly. She wrapped her arms around Rumple and leaned her head against his chest, closing her eyes. “Childhood dreams are hard to give up. But it’s time I accept myself just like I accept you. I think I can overcome it; I am a perfectionist, after all.”
Rumple kissed the top of her head. “See, you can do it. Just view yourself the same way you view me and everyone else. You pick apart the moral greyness of every situation. Your intelligence is a far greater asset than the greatest of sorcerers, and yes, that includes your love for home decoration. And that makes you a hero. ”
Her face grew warm, and the lightness in her chest confirmed that telling Rumple the truth was a good thing.
“I will try,” Belle promised. A sudden burst of inspiration hit her, and she smiled impishly. “But the travelling part of my dreams is still possible.”
“You think we should travel for a bit?” Rumple asked, and added in mock-horror, “How will Storybrooke cope without us?”
Belle laughed. Burying her face further into his chest, she whispered, “And I choose the blue curtains. Take the white ones and...zap them out of existence or something. I need to stick to this decision.”
“Are you sure this time?”
“Absolutely.” Belle was sure, not only of her decision, but her future. She would always be the librarian whom the town depended on to find a locator spell, or the way to defeat a ravenous beast.
And a true hero accepted that.