Five Guardsmen, accompanied by Janshai, have made their way over to the giants' side of the camp and they're hunkered down in the snow, alongside the eighteen ex-ogres. These five—Fendral, Bae, two female corporals and a male sergeant—have already volunteered for ambassadorships. That's nearly a quarter of the Guards here, Maurice points out to Rumple, and he's damn proud of them for coming forward. He rests a heavy arm across Rumple's shoulders. "That boy of yours." He shakes his head with a grin. "Something special. Not even twenty, is he? And already making a man's decisions."

Rumple suddenly realizes, "He'll be eighteen tomorrow." He could kick himself for forgetting. And he has nothing to provide for a celebration, not even the ingredients for a cake.

His frustration must be written on his face, because Maurice perceives it immediately. "This troop's got a longstanding tradition of celebrating birthdays. We'll make sure we have something nice prepared for tomorrow. "

"Thank you." Back at home, Rumple has a gift hidden away, something he bought months ago for such an important birthday: a saddle, secondhand but its worn parts carefully mended and its missing parts painstakingly restored, and as recently as last month, it had been soaped down, buffed and polished to a high shine. The army would provide its newest enlistee with a mount, but soldiers were permitted to substitute their own tack for the standard issue, and a comfortable saddle could make a big difference on a new horseman's tender backside. The saddle had cost Rumple an entire season's thread, along with hours of bartering as he swapped his writing services, first for a sturdy pair of boots, then the boots for a cloak, then the cloak for a table, then the table for a shoat, then finally the shoat for the saddle. All along the way, Rumple had daydreamed about the surprise and delight that would appear on Bae's face when he unwrapped the saddle from the burlap sacks now protecting it from dust.

Maurice perceives this too, and adds, "The negotiations are over. We'll be starting for home tomorrow. I want my volunteers to take two months' leave before they gather at Avonlea and head out to Maelyss. They'll have a lot of heavy work ahead of them there, so I want them to get some rest first. Any birthday gifts you may have planned for the lad, you'll have plenty of time to bestow. And, if scuttlebutt proves correct, there will be time enough for weddings as well."

"Yes, sire. I expect there will be." They watch the ambassadors and the hosts scratch out plans, drawing maps and composing lists; it's an odd sight, the giants with sheets of paper and pens that are three times as large as the humans'. Idly, Rumple wonders how much wool it would take to produce a single pair of trousers for a giant; then, less idly, he starts to form a question. "Your Majesty, I was thinking: Maelyss will need spinners—"

Maurice holds up a hand to warn off the rest of the suggestion. "I hope you won't think I'm butting in, Lieutenant, but I'd like to tell you a story."

"Oh? Of course, sire."

"When I was sixteen, my father decided that it was time I started taking some of the responsibility for running the kingdom, so he sent me out to negotiate a trade deal with a neighboring kingdom. The other king was just as eager as we were for this deal to happen, so it was no great challenge, but still, it was my first official negotiation. As you've no doubt surmised, the social aspects of governance do not come easily to me. Put me in front of a platoon, yes, I'm a leader to be followed, but put me in ruffled collars and buckle shoes and ask me to wield words instead of a broadsword, and I'll make the jesters laugh. That's my true nature, Lieutenant, though I've learned to keep it secret. I cover my nervousness with bluster, and given my size, it usually succeeds.

"Anyway, my father sent me to negotiate a trade deal in his name. It would mean a passageway through territory we'd previously been prohibited from entering, a passage that would save our wagons weeks of travel, so I realized the importance to our economy. My knees rattled like a skeleton's bones in a hurricane as I stood before King Falchine, and my voice squeaked like—well, like the breaking voice of the young man I was. I sweated and tugged at my ruffles. What a sight I must have been! But I managed to get through the negotiations and three additional days at Falchine's court as His Majesty paraded me around from party to party, showing me off for his gray men. On the ride home, I nearly collapsed with nervous exhaustion. But I'd succeeded, and as I stood before my father to report my success, I couldn't tell which of us was the prouder.

"Do you understand what I'm saying, Lieutenant?"

Rumple and the King share a smile, father to father. "I think so, sire. I think the moral of the story is, Maelyss may need spinners, but a young man out on his own needs to be just that: trusted to be out on his own, without his father trailing along behind him."

"He'll make mistakes. We all do, no matter how old. But he'll have companions to counsel him and a lifetime of lessons from a wise father to draw upon. And when he comes home in success and stands before you, neither of you will know which is the prouder."

Rumple rubs the back of his neck, reflecting. He'd never had a protective parent to shadow him; he'd fended for himself, however inadequately, from the age of twelve, when he became apprenticed. But his marriage had taught him a little about the dangers of interfering parents, as Milah's mother had stuck her nose into the newlyweds' personal lives from the day after their wedding until the night Milah ran off with her pirate, and Milah's father had felt free to express to all who would listen that his runty son-in-law was a failure and his pretty daughter could have done much better for herself, if she hadn't soiled her reputation with unladylike flirtations with every male in the territory. Bae need have no worry about such involvement from his future in-laws, but now that he reflects upon it, Rumple can see that if he trailed along after Bae and Morraine to Maelyss, their marriage wouldn't have the freedom it needed to grow.

"Aye, Your Majesty," he says at last. "A good spinner knows when it's time to cut the thread."

"Aye." Maurice stands and stretches his long legs. "Let's go see how your other child is doing." He guffaws. "For a few days there, I thought it likely I'd wind up the foster grandfather of an ogre. Not that I wouldn't love any child my daughter chooses to raise, but—phew! Can you imagine escorting an ogre granddaughter to her first ball?"

Within an hour of sunrise, few signs of human occupancy remain in the camp. Every bit of canvas, burlap, iron and steel has been cleared away; the wagons that brought it all have been loaded and the horses, their heads bobbing in the harness, are anxious to begin their work, taking their masters home. Some of the giants and some of the humans mingle, bidding each other farewell. Ely has thrown her final tantrum, kicking her feet and screeching when, once again, Belle declines her invitation to "be my mama." When Rumple reminds her of her vow to take care of Bae, and when Janshai promises to take her to Avonlea for a visit as soon as it's safe, she settles into a redfaced pout. At the last minute, as Janshai leads his troops away, dragging her along by the hand, she bestows upon the humans a final two-teeth grin. "Bye, Mamabelle! Bye, Rum! Love you!"

Standing side by side, Rumple and Belle wave cheerfully tearful goodbyes. When the giants have faded into the forest, he takes her hand and walks her to the horse that brought her here, a lifetime ago. He holds the stirrup still as she mounts. Maurice keeps a respectful distance, pretending to adjust his steed's cinch so that they can talk in private.

"Won't you please reconsider? It'll be an opportunity like no other, to study the giants up close. And we need you, to speak out on behalf of the giants. The people will trust you—"

He shakes his head as he secures her foot in the stirrup. "I can't, Belle. I'm no orator, and I'm certainly no figure of respect, not for the commoners, certainly not for the nobles. I'm just a hobblefooted spinner who once ran from battle."

"Not this time." Her eyes flash and her words tumble over each other. "Not this time. You stood on this hill with the other soldiers and you did your duty. And it was because you didn't run when confronted with an ogre that we now have a treaty. You are a hero, Rumplestiltskin; no soldier here would argue otherwise."

"Staring into the face of an infant ogre is hardly the act of a hero."

"No, you're wrong—"

"And it's a far cry from facing down a castleful of noblemen." He reaches up to squeeze her gloved hand. "Safe journey, Your Highness, and I will eagerly await every letter." He takes a step back, then as her lips part in protest, a muscle in his cheek begins to twitch and he has to turn away from her. His eyes connect with Bae's as he walks to where the squires are waiting with saddled horses. Bae looks as if he'd like to argue too, but wisely, he merely bows a farewell. "Good luck, Your Highness."

"Good luck to you, Squire." As her father rides up to her, she gathers her reins and turns her horse, but at the last moment she gets in one more shot. "Ramsgate is not so far from Avonlea that you shouldn't expect an occasional visitor, Rumplestiltskin. One who needs to purchase thread or seek the advice of another scientist. . . or one who's just feeling a little lonely." She touches her heels to her mount's ribs and catches up with her father.

Rumple watches her ride away before accepting the reins from Bae and awkwardly swinging his bad leg over his horse's back. Maurice and his large entourage will make the two days' ride to Bogamir and stop for a rest and a bit of a celebration at the castle, but the Stiltskin men are headed in another, less populated direction, a more direct route home. They have a long ride ahead, with no villages between these mountains and Ramsgate. His swaybacked plug, a gift of the Duke, settles into a jagged walk behind Bae's horse.

Even after the King and the other Guardsmen have long vanished into the mountains, Rumple keeps looking over his shoulder in the direction of Bogamir.

"And then what?" Morraine scoots forward on the kitchen bench, soaking up every word.

Bae shrugs. "That's it. We came home."

"Wow," she breathes. "What an adventure! I'm so glad you're home, and safe." She pretends to reach for the teapot, but sneaks in a quick squeeze to her fiance's hand before she grasps the pothandle and pours. "Nothing happened here while you were gone. Nothing ever does." She plops a cube of sugar into the cup before pushing it towards him. She knows how Bae takes his tea, how he likes his toast buttered, how crabby he is in the mornings and how late he likes to stay up at night. She's known him literally all his life and she loves him in spite of it, or because of it, or both. Rumple isn't sure which—he never had such a connection with Milah—but he's happy for his son—and for any grandchildren that may come someday.

Morraine hasn't forgotten Bae's birthday. As soon as word rushed through the town that the Stiltskin men had been spotted at the crossroads, she'd grabbed her tin of flour and her mixing bowl, and by the time they'd crested the last hill into town, she had a cake in the oven and she was dashing down the muddy road, tearing the apron from her waist and tossing it in the bushes somewhere. She has a gift, a pair of socks she's knitted for him; her skills are lacking but Bae immediately yanks off his boots and replaces the socks he's wearing with hers. He wiggles his toes for all to admire the stitching. "Thank you, 'Raine. They'll keep me warm all winter."

As she blushes with pride, Luke carries forth a large bundle wrapped in burlap. "I took the liberty of fetching this from Fort's. Thought you'd want to have it ready."

"Thank you, Luke." Rumple sets the bundle atop the kitchen table. "Son, seeing that come tomorrow you'll be signing your enlistment papers, I thought you ought to have something appropriate for a soldier."

Bae yanks the burlap aside and yips as he runs his hands over the shiny leather. "Papa! Oh my gods, Papa, this must have cost a fortune! I thought it would take me a year to save up for my own saddle!"

"Not a fortune, just some arrangements."

Midnight, a bit put out by the lack of attention she's been shown since her masters returned, hops onto the table and plucks at the leather on the cantle until Bae swats her away. Tail raised, she leaps back onto the table and eyes the saddle suspiciously. Taking pity on her, Rumple lifts her onto his shoulders, where, as in her kitten days, she settles down for a nap. "I'm glad you like it, son."

"It's beautiful. I'll take it with me." He hastily glances up at Morraine. He's told her all about the ogres and the battle and the curse, but he hasn't told her everything yet—and now it's time. He reaches out for her hand. "'Raine, come outside. There's something we need to talk about."

Once they're gone, Luke leans forward with his elbows on his knees to ask in a low voice, "Is this about the wedding?"

Rumple deliberates a moment and decides he has a greater obligation to Bae, to protect his privacy, than to his friends. Bae is taking on a man's responsibilities, with the enlistment and marriage; although Fendral will be nearby to offer advice if asked, the newlyweds will be living on their own, making their own decisions. One of the first of Bae's adult decisions should be when and how to break the news of his Maelyss assignment to his future in-laws; clearly, he's decided to discuss the situation with his bride-to-be first. Rumple compromises with "I'm sure they'll tell us soon enough. Would either of you like some more tea?"

Gretchen accepts a refill, but holds onto her husband's thought. "I've almost finished the wedding-circle quilt. Maybe Angmar and I should work faster?"

Rumple had a glimpse of the quilt in its early days; he even provided thread for it. It will be colorful and warm and full of sentiment, made, as it is, from scraps of clothing Gretchen saved over the years, starting with the shirt that the midwife dressed Morraine in immediately after her birth and ending with a square from Bae's uniform. The quilt has been kept hidden at Gretchen's friend's house, and over the past year, several of the women of Ramsgate have gathered there of an afternoon to sew. As she's confessed to Rumple, Morraine has known about this secret all along—not much can be kept hidden in this little town—but she pretends she doesn't. Gretchen gets dreamy-eyed when she talks about the quilt's progress: she imagines the role it will play in her daughter's life, from the wedding night to the birth of the first child to the day Granny Morraine draws her final breath. There's a catch in her voice as she speaks; it draws Midnight's attention and the cat leaps from Rumple's shoulder to Gretchen's lap to offer comfort.

Rumple can think of no more significant a gift for a wedding than a quilt. He's been deliberating for ages as to what his gift to the newlyweds will be: some pots and pans would be useful, and they'll certainly need human-sized kitchenware in their new home, for, if anything is left in the long-abandoned land of Maelyss, it will of course be giant-sized. Tools would be a good choice too: the ambassadors will certainly need them to build their homes. But as Gretchen describes the nearly finished quilt and idly strokes Midnight's fur, the answer comes to Rumple. His gift will be highly unusual, but, like the quilt, both practical and sentimental. He folds his hands over his belly and settles deeper into his rocking chair, content with his decision—and at the same time, feeling a chill crawl across his skin. Two years is a very long time to be without his son. So much can happen in two years: why, by the time they meet again, Bae may have become a beefy, leather-skinned, callus-handed farmer with a long beard on his chin and a toddler on his shoulders.

Rumple rips his thoughts away from his fears and focuses instead on immediate plans. Tomorrow, he will walk over to the tavern and make some discreet inquiries regarding the object of his gift. When he finds what he's looking for, he will need to make arrangements to hide it, as Gretchen has done the quilt, until the wedding day.

A noise at the door draws his and his guests' attention. Red-cheeked, Morraine is swept in with a blast of cold air; holding her hand, Bae is right behind her. "Mother, father, we've got something to tell you," she says breathlessly. She smiles over her shoulder at her beloved.

Luke, Gretchen, Morraine and Bae have been gone since the break of dawn. There is so much to do, so much they'll need for the wedding and after; they've made a list and have split up the chores, and although it means the young couple won't see each other until evening, the four of them have gone off in different directions. Rumple, too, has a portion of the list; one of his duties is to prepare as much thread and yarn as he can, to provide for the newlyweds' clothing needs, so he's at his wheel until lunchtime, with Midnight curled in a ball on Bae's pallet to keep him company. When she raises her head and yawns, he smiles at her. "Thanks to you, I'll have a wedding gift for them," he declares.

She flops onto her side, clearly unimpressed. But she does look up when, at lunchtime, he grabs his cane and his coat and makes his way over to the tavern. As he expects, the pub is crowded with men, mostly farmers who've come in for gossip and ale and a warm fire; but against all expectations, as soon as he pushes the doors open and crosses the threshold, he's greeted with handshakes, backslaps and offers to buy him a drink and a meal. "Tell us what happened in Bogamir," someone urges. "We had reports, but they were pretty vague."

"What's this about a curse and giants?" Another man asks, pressing a steaming mug into his hand.

"How big are they, anyway?" That's Rulf, leaning against the counter. "Taller than this here tavern? Taller than a oak?"

"I, ah—"

Someone grabs his arm and ushers him to a table. "Get on over here and sat your arse down. Someone fill a plate, pronto! Ramsgate don't let its war veterans go hungry, and they sure as hell don't make 'em pay for their own beer. Somebody fill a tankard—and none of that horse's piss, either."

Rumple stumbles and his cane clatters to the floor as he's pushed into a chair and the bespoke tankard and plate are planted before him.

"Eat, boy, eat! And tell us about the war."

The room quickly becomes overheated as men crowd around the table. Despite the laughter and the calls for war stories, Rumple can hear his stomach growl as curls of steam rise from the roast pork, boiled potatoes, fried onions and carrots piled high on the plate. His memory—a victim's memory—cautions him against trusting this food: it's a trick: they've probably doused the food in sheep dip and salted the ale. That's the only explanation that makes sense. But Rulf has swung a chair so that it faces backwards and he's dropped down onto it, his arm crossed over its back, and his face is eager and innocent, and by damn, Rumple believes him, believes them, though over the past eighteen years he's experienced kicks, slaps, insults and opportunistic cheating from half the men in this room, and the rest have stood by, letting it all happen, either laughing at him or ignoring his pain. Rumple sticks a knife—it's clean! They've given him a clean knife! –into a slice of potato and carries it up to his nose to sniff. He smells nothing suspicious. He takes a bite. He tastes nothing suspicious. It tastes good. He swallows and the men continue to prod him for war stories.

"Well. . . Domin Canyon, that's where the ogres were holed up. A two days' ride from Bogamir. . . ."

"Shhh! Shut up, you lot! We're tryin' to hear this man's story."

Rumple glances up; it's the bartender who's shushing the rest of the room. He's standing beside Rumple, his arms crossed, glaring at the men behind him. Obediently, the tavern falls silent, except for an occasional belch or clatter of spoons. "Go on, Stiltskin," the bartender urges. "'A two days' ride,' you was sayin'."

"From Bogamir. On the Duke's horses, that is; a sorrier set of beasts you've never seen. But Bogamir's a poor region and they had a draught last year. We got into camp after dark. . . ."

Two hours later, his belly overstuffed and his chin greasy, Rumplestiltskin picks up his cane and makes his way home. He's completed his mission—after telling his story, he remembered to ask about the object he wants to purchase for Bae and Morraine—and has made a good trade for it. He is satisfied, inside and out.

But what he can't get over, as he explains to his cat as he hangs up his coat, is that in the brief time he and Bae were gone, the entire village changed. He doesn't understand it—doesn't trust it, and won't, for a long time yet—but he left Ramsgate barely a month ago, eighteen years a coward, and he's come home a war veteran. And all he did to earn that new reputation was blow a whistle and sing songs to an infant.

It won't last, of course. Another day or two and they'll see him once again for the coward he is. But in the meantime, he longs to allow himself to enjoy the recognition (in some cases, even admiration), though it's based on a misunderstanding.

As he walks home, passersby nod to him on road. One man even tips his hat. Enndolyn, wife of the baker, greets him with "Welcome home, Captain."

"Lieutenant," he corrects her in a mumble.

She doesn't notice the correction. "When you have a moment, come by the shop. Falk and me want to make a cake for your boy's wedding. No charge."

"'No charge'?"

She shrugs. "Something we do for war heroes."

"Heroes?" he echoes faintly, but she's already walking away. "War heroes?!"

Strange, strange world.