Hi again! This story is a lot less fluffy than other work I've done, but as always, I promise a happy ending.

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Raucous laughter and the sound of heavy pewter striking wooden tabletops drifted to the slight man on the footpath outside. It took more of his strength than it should to open the heavy wooden doors. The warmth of the air and the rich smells within took his breath away for a moment and served to remind him of the urgent need to get back home.

The tavern fell quiet as the thump of his walking stick hit the boards. He was used to it.

"Milah? It's getting late. Won't you come home?"

A woman, thinner than her bones demanded though better fed than he, tossed her head and rolled her eyes. She held up a full mug of drink and waved at him, draping the same arm across the shoulders of a rough and cruel looking seafarer.

"Please, Milah." He said, trying not to plead.

"What is this, Milah? Is it yours?" The man she had chosen to favor asked, pointing casually in the general direction of the man firmly gripping the walking stick. It steadied his hands.

Milah plucked her clothing, just shabby enough that anyone could see that she wouldn't say no to the right offer. "That," She said, pressing herself to the man's chest. "That is Rumplestiltskin. My husband." The woman grinned with cruelty fostered by drunkenness. "Why, are you jealous?"

The tavern erupted in laughter and Rumplestiltskin wavered. Whether she knew it or not, Milah had thrown a gauntlet.

"Milah, please. We need you at home. Just come with me and I'll take care of you."

The large man whose lap she'd occupied stood and placed his hand on his sword. "I think she can stay as long as she likes. Or do you plan, as her husband, to compel her? Or me?"

He trembled. Clutching the stick now was no help. "Our boy. He needs her. Please, let her come home."

Milah staggered and lifted her mug in a toast, said not a word, and drank. The ale spilled over the edge of the mug, dribbled over her neck and left droplets trailing into her tunic. The hand on the sword gripped harder as the man saw a prize to be achieved.

"Rumplestiltskin, I believe your son is hungry. Go feed him." The man never took his eyes off Milah's breasts.

"He needs his mother. Please Milah." He was begging openly, and addressed the man directly. "She's my wife!"

The man was infuriated. "Is that how it works here? Then claim her, runt!" He stepped forward and shoved Rumplestiltskin backwards. "If you want your woman, take her!" The man's voice dropped to a growl. "Or are you too much of a coward to take back what is yours?"

The tavern hushed. He knew he should fight. That's what men did when they were threatened, when someone tried to do wrong by them, take their wife. But not him. Even if he won, and Milah was obliged to come home, she would hate him and probably their son as well.

But he wouldn't win. He was cold, tired, and hungry and he had to think of Bae. If he fought, he risked injury that might keep him from working or, worse, he'd be hurt badly enough that he'd have to rely on help from his five year old son.

So, to the roaring laughter and catcalls of the tavern, he took his only real option: he walked away. A few small projectiles hit his back as he went.

Silver pieces.

"Those are from me! You can tell your son that Killian Jones bought his supper tonight." Milah was in the man's arms again.

If he picked up the silver, he'd sold his wife. But he'd be able to feed Bae for a week.

He made one last attempt. "Come home, won't you, Milah? To Bae?" He could feel his lips trembling, his voice shaking out the words. "Your son?"

Her eyes reflected the hurt, but it was too late. Years with him had taken too much from her. She turned her back and took another full mug.

The silver pieces glinted on the floor in the firelight, and he prayed no one would kick him as he stooped to pick them up. He no longer had space for pride, that feeling for men with plump cozy wives, pink cheeked children, and clothes that kept out the wind. It was after sunset, and Bae was hungry. Porridge did not cook itself.

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...

The Marchlands were under siege. Red skies in the distance threatened the normally pink and yellow sunrise as the breadbakers and egg sellers scurried far below at the market stalls. At her window, La Fille de Marquis Isabelle Marie deFiler Patrie, Belle to her childhood nurse, daughter of the Duke and only heir to the rich lands and the castle that commanded them, watched the market as events swirled around her.

An advisor droned to her father, Sir Maurice. "The match would ensure access to not only Sir Gaston's men, but to aid from King George as well as training for our archers."

"And horses? Armor? Food for the people here?" Sir Maurice was not a strategist, but he knew enough. "What about medical supplies and healers? If they wish to use us as the front, then I demand the support needed!"

Scribes flicked their quills, composed missives and outlined contracts. That she would be married to this Gaston was a given. The question was the amount of compensation to her homeland for acting as the buffer zone and strategic gambit to the rest of the realm in an Ogre war.

"I am assured that Sir Gaston is able to provide any and all needed supplies, both for the actual war as well as for the expected effects and suffering it will no doubt bring. He is prepared to send the first wagon loads once his suit is accepted, then more as the public announcements and arrangements are made."

Belle admired a handsome cart of pigs destined for market. Another cart was heavy with fruit from the orchards on the southern side of the castle.

"I'd like an apple." She murmured.

"Sir Gaston also intends to provide the people with spiritual help and guidance, and promises to build a fine monastery where your people can find comfort."

Sheaves of wheat and sacks of grain moved below. Belle wondered if Sir Gaston had ever been hungry.

"If the ogres can be beaten back, then he may build as large a monastery as he wishes."

A chime rang out through the castle announcing the noon meal.

"Counselors, we should retire to the hall and eat. Let us continue these talks and return here tonight." Sir Maurice swept across the room to his daughter. "Dear child, you will be second only to a queen when all is said and done. Through this match we will ensure safety for the entire realm!" He kissed her forehead and patted her shoulder. "Oh my, that open window lets in a draft!" Sir Maurice pulled the window shut and laid the heavy curtain over it, leaving the room dim and stuffy. "We will see you tonight, my dear!"

The last of her 'guests' left the room, the door shut behind them by her guards, and bolted from the outside.

No one brought her an apple.

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