Harvests come and go, festivals come and go. The crops aren't always are bountiful as in the year that the princess visited, but they're good enough. The village is comfortable, though it's losing its young men to war. All three of Fort's boys go, along with all of Rowntree's and a dozen more from the village over the next four years. Only two come back, Rulf with a missing arm (he claims he can't remember how he lost it, but he cries into his beer whenever he visits the Hog's Head) and Rowntree's boy, whose mind isn't sound any more. As the boys go, their mothers and sisters take on the work in the field.

There's talk that the battlefront is shifting westward toward the Frontlands. The watch around the King's castle is doubled, as Rumple and Bae notice when they go to Avonlea to sell their goods and sometimes, to allow Midnight to find a mate.

Sometimes they bring back a barn cat or two, to trade. Although the village's cat population is growing through Midnight and her offspring, it isn't healthy to have just one bloodline, Rumple explains, and Bae, who works sometimes with Lucas' sheep and Fort's hogs, understands. He understands a lot more these days, as he watches the men of his village march off with the troops.

Bae and Morraine's dog training business goes nowhere, mostly because Bae is distracted by war stories and Morraine is distracted by Bae. Rumple becomes increasingly frustrated: despite the evidence to the contrary by the broken and missing sons of neighbors, as well as by his own father's permanently damaged knee, Bae fantasizes about swords and arrows and hometown parades.

"When I'm seventeen—"


Three Years Later

Bae slumps back in his chair, patting his belly. A belch is forming in his throat, but a sharp frown from his father reminds him that they have a guest, so he squelches the belch, straightens in his chair and sips his tea like a gentleman (or, rather, like his papa imagines a gentleman to comport himself. Of course, Rumple has never dined with anyone whose rank so far exceeds his own, so he doesn't know for sure).

Morraine is quieter than usual, even a little nervous, as she cuts into a potato. Then she stares at the tip of the knife. Normally she'd just spear up the potato slice with her knife. That's how everybody in the village eats, using the knife to manage solid foods and the spoon for soups and stews. But things are different tonight: napkins (though they be handmade), a new mug, a new tunic for Bae; when he leans forward to fill her mug with barley tea (another first; Bae's never poured tea for her), she catches the scent of wood ash soap—he'd actually bathed, and on a weekday! She notices that the back of his head is a little damp—he must have washed his hair, too.

So Morraine watches Rumple from the corner of her eye to see how he's going to bring his potato to his mouth. When he spears the vegetable with his knife, she sighs in relief and copies the gesture. She's heard that in Duke Cedric's castle, diners use a utensil that looks like a little pitchfork, but that is highly unusual, even for the nobles; it's said not even King Maurice uses these undersized pitchforks. The local clergyman who'd shared that bit of gossip with Lucas had turned up his nose. "Anyone who thinks he's better than the King needs to be taken down a peg. The Lord gave us fingers for eating, and if that's good enough for the Lord, it should be good enough for the Duke."

Morraine has taken meals in Bae's house for longer than she can remember. Gretchen says that the two children, only two weeks apart in age, used to practice their crawling on this very rug while their mothers sewed and gossiped. Through the thin walls of their homes, the children have overhead every parental argument, every tantrum, and every broken-hearted sob that passed within the two families. Morraine has even seen Bae naked (many years ago, of course, when Rumple would bathe him outside on a summer's eve). This sudden new formality is not only unfamiliar, it's unnatural, and she doesn't like it one bit. It makes her feel inadequate, something lesser than her best friend, with whom she's shared everything from teething toys to secrets. It makes her wonder if she's losing him.

So she swallows her potato and lets her knife fall with a clatter, and she folds her arms and scowls, first at Bae, then at Rumple. "All right, what's going on here?"

The Stiltskin men set down their own knives and with a reminding nudge from his father, Bae swipes at his mouth with his napkin. "We're practicin'."

"Practicin' what?" she demands.

"Well, you know we went to Avonlea yesterday."

"So?" Trips to Maurice's castle, however impressive, are quarterly occurrences for Rumple. That's where he makes the bulk of his sales. Then suddenly Morraine's eyes widen. "Did you meet the King?" She and Bae have often daydreamed of that possibility.

"No," Bae admits, but his grin broadens. "But almost as good. Kinda better. See, while Papa was making his deal, I saw these soldiers out on the grounds, practicin' with their swords, two by two. Except one of the soldiers didn't have anyone to practice with."

"That's no good," Morraine grumbled.

"That's what I said to him."

"You didn't!" Morraine gasps. "Bae! A royal soldier!"

Rumple shakes his head in bewilderment. "It wasn't just a soldier, Morraine. It was a second lieutenant of the royal guard. I've warned you, Bae, sometimes your impetuousness will get you into trouble."

"Well, this time it got me a job." A small frown from Rumple, displeased at his backtalk, makes Bae sputter. "Sorry, Papa." He continues his story. "Lieutenant Fendral said he liked my initiative and my quickness, though I wasn't much of a swordsman. I said that was because I only ever had sticks to fight with. So he asked me my name and my father's name, and when I told him, he said, 'Oh yeah, the spinner.' 'Cause, you know, the royal guards are supposed to know everyone who's let into the castle. Then he said, 'Come with me,' and he took me to the barracks and he gave me a mug of mead and a peach, and we talked about swords and the army and stuff. I told him I've always wanted to be a soldier, and he said, he always wanted to be a priest, but he's the second son of an earl, so he had to join the army. His little brother will be the priest."

Morraine understands. That's one difference between the children of nobles and the children of merchants and peasants: the nobles are ascribed professions based on birth order. Poorer children have a bit more freedom in selecting occupations—boys, anyway; girls are expected to marry and assist their husbands in the family vocation. She plans to break that mold.

As does Bae. "I asked him how come all the other guardsmen have squires to serve them but he doesn't, and he said, he's the newest; he just got promoted out of the regular army. Well, that is, his father bought him a lieutenancy so that he wouldn't have to go fight ogres. He also said there aren't enough squires any more. The nobles that have boys of the right age are all sending them off to schools in other kingdoms, to keep them safe. The Ogre War is heatin' up and the army's taking more soldiers."

"It's an impossible situation," Rumple growls around a chicken leg. "We've known for a decade now that we can't win. The ogres are three times as big as the average man."

"My papa says they're cannibals." Morraine looks to Rumple for confirmation.

Rumple busies himself with his tea so that he doesn't have to reply.

Bae rescues the conversation by continuing his tale. "Anyway, Lieutenant Fendral gave me another peach for the road home, and then went to speak to Papa. And guess what?" Bae spread his arms out. "I'm going to be a squire! I'm to report on my fourteenth birthday."

"Oh, Bae," Morraine moans. "That's next month."

Bae nods eagerly. "Papa bought me new clothes to get ready, and I'm reading up on the army and stuff." He glares at his napkin. "And practicin' my manners, 'cause, you know, that kind of stuff is important when you work for the King."

Morraine shares a sinking look with Rumple. They're both wondering how he will get along without his son, who's been not only his assistant all these years, but also his emotional support. She lowers her gaze to her plate, for Bae has been such a fixture in her life she can't imagine living without him. Until recently, she's thought of him as a brother of sorts; now that they are turning fourteen, she's been seeing him with fresh eyes.

As he's grown older, he's begun to pick up some of his father's perceptiveness. Bae can see the loneliness coming up in her eyes. "I won't be that far away. I can come back for three days every month, Fendral says."

"But the ogres are moving across Aramore, Papa says," she protests. "Toward Avonlea."

Bae shrugs. He's listened avidly to all the village stories about ogres, but only a handful of people here have actually seen one, so his image of the monsters is vague. His papa has never spoken of his experiences at war, but he gathers it was pretty horrible; still, Bae sees a big difference between his quiet, humble father—why did the army draft a lame man, anyway?—and himself, headstrong and adventurous. "I'll be all right," he assures them. "I'll be defending the castle. Who knows? I might even rescue the princess."

"You'll be serving the lieutenant," Rumple reminds him. "Cleaning his tack, grooming his horse, washing his uniform, fetching and carrying. You won't be fighting."

"Not at first, but after I get trained, and when I'm a little older—" Then he sees the shock in his father's eyes and he clamps his mouth shut. He realizes then, whatever dreams of swords and bows he has for himself, he needs to temper when he talks to his father, lest he scare the poor man to death. He tries to make light of it all by holding out his plate. "Can I have some more pork, Papa? I'm gonna need all the meat I can get, to do all that fetching and carrying."

"Those swords are heavy," Morraine agrees. "I got to lift one once. Bae, will you have your own sword?"

So the children—and in Rumple's eyes, they are still children, though he supposes he should change that point of view now—chatter and dream, and he washes the dishes, and then with the cat on his lap he sits beside the fire and stares into the flames, remembering a frosty field on a moonless night long ago, when the smell of burnt flesh and the rumbling laughter of ogres drifted for miles on a strong wind, and he and his leather-clad companions huddled together against the cold of their own fear.

And a sledgehammer called to him, promising a way back to Bae.


He's vowed he wouldn't. He not only loves his son completely, he admires him, even envies him a little, the boy's ability to shrug off cutting remarks and haughty glances. And he takes pride in the fact that this is the child he raised, mostly alone, but with some assistance from Lucas and Gretchen. The heavy price exacted by the sledgehammer was worth it. Every day, it's worth it.

But as Bae carefully folds his new clothes to go into his new knapsack, Rumple drops his hands from the wheel and blurts, "You haven't been drafted."

"Huh?" Bae throws a puzzled glance at his father.

"You haven't been drafted. You don't have to go. No one will come for you, if you stay here."

"I said I would." Bae blinks, as if his word to Fendral should be seen as a bond as compelling as a draft notice.

Rumple hangs his head, shamed by his own son's honor. He rises and fills their traveling jug with water, and fills a sack with bread, dried pork and apples.

"There'll be a lot of books," Bae says soothingly. "Fendral says hardly anybody at the castle can read, but the princess is trying to change that. She holds classes, and all the pages have to attend. Fendral says she'd probably be glad to let me borrow from the castle library."

Rumple smiles faintly as he ties the jug to the food sack and slings it over his shoulder. "Time to go, son."

Borin, Isolde, Morraine, Gretchen and Lucas are waiting outside. Lucas bestows upon Bae a parting gift: a pocket knife that he's carried for years. "Good for cuttin' leather, guttin' fish, or when you get bored, whittlin'."

Gretchen gives him a sack of small cakes and a kiss. "You've been—" she can't finish over her tears.

The children walk with Rumple and Bae through the center of the village, passing some familiar faces along the way, a few of them friendly; a few of the unfriendlies give Bae a respectful nod. Everyone in town knows where he's going and why.

When the little parade comes to the crossroads, they stop. Borin shakes Bae's hand like a man. "Kill an ogre for me, 'Fire." Isolde covers her sadness with a quip: "Say hi to the Queen for me." And Morraine grasps Bae's face and plants a lingering kiss on his lips. Rumple suspects it's not the first time; he hopes it won't be the last.

They walk, as they have many times before, up the hill that leads out of the village.

Bae walks in long strides, head up, practicing again for his new profession, until he realizes his father is limping hard to keep up. He slows and they walk in silence.

At the castle gate, Bae reminds them both, "I'll come home in thirty days."

"I could meet you here then, so you don't have to walk home alone."

"I can do it, Papa."

Rumple wants to object, but Bae's face is shining and Rumple won't take this moment away from him. "See you in thirty days, then." He slides his free arm around the boy's shoulders; Bae allows it, though he reddens a little when a cavalryman rides past. Bae's mind is fixed entirely on the future, so he doesn't see that this is an ending, but Rumple knows it is. It's an end to fireside spinning lessons and awkward talks about the birds and the bees. It's an end to reading lessons and trips to the market and endless "why" questions and endless "pick up your clothes, Bae" warnings. It's an end to soothing nightmares in the middle of the night. It's an end to patching up trousers and knees torn by falls from trees. It's an end to a time wonderful and nerve-wracking, a time that, if he's lucky, Bae will know again, from the father's side, but that Rumple will never know again.

This is life. All things change, grow old, pass away. Rumple knows this; Bae will have to learn it.

Rumple hugs him. Then Bae does a manly thing: he reaches across—because he's as tall as his father now—and he kisses Rumple's rough cheek. "Thank you," Rumple whispers.

Already Bae's attention has wandered to the barracks, where a squad of soldiers is exiting. A captain barks and they fall into formation. "Best get to work, son." Rumple lets him go.


The first day back home without Bae is the hardest. Rumple had always assumed that the boy depended upon him; he's now come round to see that he depended upon the boy just as much. There is work to do, of course, tidying the house, washing clothes, preparing supper, spinning—it goes so much slower without company, and it feels almost pointless. So he goes about his chores, and his ankle drags from the long walk back from Avonlea. He reminds himself that this is his opportunity at last to give the house the thorough cleaning he'd always planned to but never found the time for. He reminds himself Bae will be home in just thirty days. He speculates on how Bae will see this house, this village, his father, when he returns after a month living an adult's life. Much like he himself felt, he supposes, when he returned to visit the spinsters who raised him after he'd gone out on his own at age fifteen. Everything will seem to Bae old fashioned and small. . . even his father.

Rumple completes the washing, but his ankle throbs and there's a lump in his throat that just won't go away, so he decides to make an early night of it. He settles for tea and a slice of bread slathered with cheese for his supper. The cat reappears after a hunting trip and curls up on Bae's pallet. He watches her wash her face as he washes the knife and mug. Her belly rises and falls with a sigh and she stretches out on Bae's pillow. He wonders if she's expecting Bae to come busting into the house, as he often does this time of day, now that he has friends to socialize with. How long will it be before she worries that he's not coming back? Or will she accept the change gracefully, just as she accepted her own offspring going out into the world?

He sweeps the rug, and that's all the energy he has left for today. Picking up a book, he drops into his rocking chair to read in the remaining daylight. As she so often does, the cat takes that as an invitation to jump up into his lap. She falls asleep promptly; she's had a long day too.

A hand drops onto his shoulder, startling him, but Midnight is unfazed. She cocks her head up at the visitor, stretches, kneads her master's thighs, then settles back down for yet another nap.

"Sorry." Morraine draws up a stool besides his chair and seats herself, a book in her lap. "I know Bae used to read to you while you spin at night, so I thought I'd pitch in."

"You're right." Rumple stands, the cat leaping deftly to the rug. "I should get back to work." He limps to his bench and picks up a handful of roving. "What book have you there?"

"The first book that Papa ever bought for me." The book appears new; there are so few books in this village, she takes extra special care of hers. "It's about a little boy who lives in the desert and rides camels."

"I remember. You and Bae would read it over and over."

"Yeah." She opens to the first page. "I still like it." She begins to read.

Though the story is full of action and strange creatures, her voice soothes him. He closes his eyes as he spins. At his feet the cat purrs.


The second day without Bae is the hardest. The cat is already gone on her neighborhood patrol when he awakens, in the dawn as usual, but he has no one to cook breakfast for and no one to awaken. He eats a leftover potato and sits down to spin, but he can't find that half-aware state that he likes to let the spinning take him to.

When darkness falls, the cat flops onto Bae's pillow and grooms herself slowly, as if waiting for her boy to return home so they can fall asleep together. Rumple nods off before she does.


The third day without Bae is the hardest.