One warm Spring morning, Rumple journeyed with the Spinsters to Sir Maurice’s castle. Instead of spinning with them, as he often chosen to do, he decided to venture outside where he’d seen King Maurice’s only daughter, Belle, playing in a blossoming apple tree with the son of a knight, a tall and very smug boy who commanded from Rumple that he be called Sir Gaston.
One day, Rumple thought as he watched them climb through the tree, he’d be fully grown and would marry Belle, and his first command as King would be to cast Gaston from their kingdom forever.
That’s not actually me, she’s moved to a-khaleesi-not-a-queen.
Beauty and the Beast
A lifetime. That was what he promised when he finally surrendered his heart to her. They laughed, and they cried their way through the years. Tears of happiness and joy, tears of sorrow at the passing of the years that saw so many pass on beyond the veil of time as we know it.
The sun rose upon a scene of utter stillness on that cold September morn. Two figures, clasped in an embrace that would last forever.. It would be written on their tombstone.
Belle and Rumple
They had a lifetime of love.
Two decorations adorned the stone monument, pieces of a broken china cup, used in a mosaic heart, and a rose etched forever in the stone as a testament to true love. A lifetime of true love.
That’s not me, sorry. This is her new url.
“No,” replied the Beast, “you alone are mistress here; you need only bid me gone, if my presence is troublesome, and I will immediately withdraw. But, tell me, do not you think me very ugly?”
“That is true,” said Beauty, “for I cannot tell a lie, but I believe you are very good natured.”
- Beauty and the Beast; Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved. - Shakespeare