Chapter 5 Rumple
five
Rumple
Rumple’s current form felt too large for the confined space, and he debated rearranging the damp bricks in the outer wall of the undercroft to accommodate his fractious mood, but when he recalled his shadows, they refused his command.
Instead, they lingered close by where the boy remained huddled in the corner, reluctant to part.
For as long as Rumple could remember, he and his shadows had acted as one. They had only ever obeyed him. Until now. Until this boy’s tears had burned him in a way no weapon ever had. Until the boy had screamed for them to stop—and they’d acquiesced.
Rumple looked back over his shoulder. Tear-stained cheeks dusted with cinnamon freckles were framed by honeyed waves that lightened to blond at their tips, and neither hid the faint blush that extended under the wide neck of his simple cotton tunic.
Rumple was a master of concealing his thoughts and emotions, whereas this human displayed them over his skin like ink over parchment.
What was it about this human that his shadows were so drawn to?
Rumple narrowed his eyes and examined the boy more closely.
He was younger than the usual prisoners—twenty winters at most—and although he hadn’t quite finished growing into himself, he already possessed a lithe frame that spoke of years of manual labour.
A mill, he had said. His family owned a flour mill in the far east of Falchovari, and Rumple could almost picture him there, the golden rays of the sun reflecting from his messy locks as he walked gracefully between bales of straw.
Such a visage was sorely out of place here. Rumple used his magick to install a small table upon which he conjured a bottle of his favourite cider brandy and a cut-glass tumbler. The whole while he poured the drink, his eyes never left the intriguing boy.
The opposite of everything Rumple ordinarily encountered, it was blatantly obvious that this boy was neither a thief nor a liar, and he hadn’t any idea what to make of that. He clenched his back teeth.
A human who could command his shadows was the last thing he had expected to find in the palace cells.
He sipped slowly and savoured the flavours on his tongue while weightless shadows continued their exploration of the boy.
He fascinated Rumple in a way no one else ever had, and his shadows seemed equally enchanted.
They scratched through his thick hair onto his scalp, they tasted the sweat from the back of his neck, and they sank inside that wide collar and under his tunic.
They caressed the smooth expanse of his chest and came to a fevered stop right over his pounding heart.
Rumple stilled with the glass resting against his lips—it couldn’t be!
Would fate be so cruel as to offer this spark of hope in an otherwise bleak existence, only to threaten its extinction in the next breath?
Rumple took a large draught, the potent smell of apples and alcohol gladly combatting the stench of stale urine and sharpening his senses.
Could the Heart he had spent his entire existence searching for really be the same one that beat fast and strong inside this boy’s chest? The frantic pace at which his shadows spread across the fragile human’s body would suggest so.
Another mouthful of cider brandy washed over his taste buds just as the boy’s eyes found his. Almost instantly the boy looked down again, and Rumple was surprised to discover that he missed that warm, chestnut gaze. He wanted those eyes on him. Rumple took another sip.
Never had he expected his Heart to be a human—or inside one.
If he had, he would have given up chasing after magickal artefacts aeons ago.
But how was this to work? He knew he needed to claim his Heart, but that had been a far simpler prospect when it had related to a trinket.
Nothing he had ever read had informed him of how to claim a human.
Rumple’s shadows conjured a chair and a small stool beside the table.
He sank into one, and raised his legs onto the other, crossing his ankles upon it.
They were far from done here. He needed to devise a plan—and quickly—or by sunrise his one true shot at freedom would be dead.
The hand not holding his drink tightened into a fist upon his thigh.
He could simply carve the Heart out of the boy’s chest. After all, it was his.
In response to that menacing thought, his shadows thickened around the boy like a living blanket of pure power. Interesting. But they had made their stance clear—if Rumple wanted to claim his Heart that way, then he would have to go through the shadows first.
With his suspicion about the boy’s importance strengthened, Rumple drained the last of the brandy and ruminated on the unique torture that was finding his Heart in the palace cells.
If his shadows prevented him from physically extracting his Heart, maybe it was the fact that it carried a beat all its own that gave it importance. Which meant the boy had to stay alive, despite the Queen’s threat, and he had to find a way out of their predicament.
His clenched fist uncurled, and his gloved fingers impatiently tapped at the speed with which half-formed plans arose before being discarded. Any combination of ideas he had all led down the same path—deceiving Queen Schon. Not an undertaking to be embarked upon lightly.
First, then, he had to be certain that this boy was his Heart.
This boy, who had his face pressed tightly into his knees and was sitting on the wet and cold stone floor.
This boy, who wouldn’t maintain eye contact with Rumple unless he held him by his chin.
To ascertain if this boy was his Heart, he needed to coax him out of his shell. But how?
As if on cue, the boy’s stomach rumbled loudly, and crimson flushed his cheeks. A wicked smirk tugged at the corner of Rumple’s mouth. What was that saying? The way to a human’s heart was through his stomach.
If Rumple couldn’t go to his Heart, then maybe he could make his Heart come to him.
Right there, on the small table beside him, Rumple conjured a wooden board with a selection of fruits, cheeses, and unleavened breads. Simple, yet surely appealing to the too slender boy who, like most of the citizens of Falchovari, had endured the famine for many seasons now.
“You said your family owned a flour mill. What crops did you handle?” Rumple asked, mindful of his tone as he silently commanded the footstool away. He wanted no barrier between them.
The boy mumbled something from between his knees that Rumple couldn’t decipher.
Selecting a piece of bread from the table, he snapped it in half.
“This is made from rye. Did you know that rye only grows in the north and the west of Falchovari, so the Queen has it carted in especially to be made into these small breads?” Rumple didn’t need to eat at all—he wasn’t even human—but he could eat.
So he took a loud bite and chewed with an open mouth.
“She says that rye produces the best cracking bread of all the grains, and often pairs it with soft curds made from sheep’s milk. Like this one.”
He commanded his shadows into an ornate silver knife, which he used to spread a thick layer of curd, and then set it to the side. He didn’t care for sheep’s curds.
“But I surely don’t need to be telling you this. As a miller, you must already know which crops produce the best unleavened breads.”
A small victory came Rumple’s way when that mop of tumbling curls nodded in presumed agreement. He acknowledged it with a throaty hum, filed the knowledge away, and carried on.
“However, I also know they don’t feed the prisoners here, so maybe you’d like to sample Her Majesty’s preferred combination?”
Slowly, finger width by finger width, the boy raised his head from the sanctuary of his knees and stared.
First at Rumple, then at the food. Rumple could see perfectly well in the dark, but the weak oil lamp in the corner allowed the boy to see him in return, and something about that sent a thrill through him the likes of which he hadn’t felt for a very, very long time.
Only when the boy’s gaze stuck on the food, when his body loosened a fraction from it’s tight huddle in the corner, did Rumple push for more.
He selected a grape from the vine and popped it in his mouth.
By far it was too sweet for his palette, but he didn’t let his preference show in his expression.
Instead, he kept his black eyes fixed firmly on the boy, while his shadows squeezed themselves between the wall and the young man’s spine, shrouding him as if they were a blanket.
Under their weight, the boy’s knees lowered from his chin.
When was the last time a human had found comfort in their embrace?
Was the boy even aware he had submitted to the shadows?
Was Rumple to take this as another sign of the boy’s unique importance?
Questions for another time. But the compliance was promising, and all Rumple needed. For now.
The boy’s gaze hadn’t moved from the small wooden board laden with food, conveniently positioned at exactly eye level. He was hungry. Rumple gently slid the already prepared bread and curds from the table into his palm, and held it out.
Hesitant fingers twitched with want, but were stayed by a healthy dose of caution. “What do you w-want?”
A question Rumple had heard countless times, yet asked here and like that, he found himself unsettled. Shifting position to bring the food closer, he shook his head. “For you to eat. It’s been a while since I shared the company of someone whom I haven’t been sent to kill.”
The boy tilted his head and an errant lock of hair fell across his forehead. “You aren’t here to k-kill me?”
A soft smile tugged at the corner of Rumple’s mouth in spite of himself. He pushed the bread into the boy’s hand in the hope of distracting his attention away from such a rare display of emotion.