He's so tired when the carriage deposits him at the doorstep of his hovel, but the men who've delivered him are the King's men, so he invites them in to rest and eat. The driver starts to follow him inside, but Aalot declines the invitation for the both of them; "We can make it back to Faysea before nightfall. Duke Merek will provide us comfortable accommodation."
"But the horses need rest—"
"And so they shall have it, and all the grain they could desire, at the castle. This village boasts neither inn nor livery, and after that ride"—Aalot rubs his back—"I will not sleep on a pallet on a dirt floor."
Rumple tightens his mouth in annoyance at the implied insult, but what Aalot has said is true. "Have a cup of tea before you go, then. Let me call a boy to fetch water for the horses."
"Aye," the driver accepts before Aalot can speak.
His guests are no sooner settled with steaming mugs than the neighbors arrive, bearing platters piled with food. "Oh! I didn't know you had guests, Rumple," Gretchen says, but she comes into the hovel anyway, and Rumple knows it's a white lie; they're curious. The footman and the driver are as close as they'll ever come to royalty. So he invites them in and despite this initial protest, Aalot is fed, though he picks at the food and asks for spices and sauces, which neither Gretchen nor Rumple can provide. The driver, shoveling spoonfuls into his mouth, doesn't mind the plain fare. So Rumple and his unexpected guests, squeezed tight at the wooden table, bump elbows and chatter, answering questions about their journey, the castle, the outcome of the meeting, and most of all, Bae's health and happiness.
Morraine's questions reassure Rumple of her continuing interest in Bae, and he exchanges a knowing smile with Lucas. Rumple feels particularly old today, after being jostled and tossed and bumped and banged for incessant hours on end, and it gives him a measure of peace to think that the next generation will soon be ready to step into the business of family rearing. Through Bae and Morraine, the family will continue.
The royal representatives stay less than an hour before Aalot requires them to leave. As they mount the carriage box and Lucas, Gretchen and Morraine bid them farewell, Rumple notices that other village folk have come out of their homes, barns and businesses to watch. Once again, for the fifth time in recent memory, Avonlea has come to Ramsgate. Someday strangers in town will be commonplace. The world is shrinking, and in a way, Rumple has made it so.
"We want to hear about the King," Fort booms even before he, Tarrin and Rulf have crossed Rumple's lawn. "And so do half the town. Come on, we got a tavern full of fellas who want to buy you drinks."
"What's he look like? Is he big, like they say?" Tarrin blurts as they usher Rumple to the Hog's Head. "Big as us? Think I could take him in a wrestlin' match?"
His brother breaks in. "Forget the King. I want to know about the Princess." He whistles between his teeth.
"See there, Rum? Ever'body's got to know. I can see you're tired, but how often do the squeeze-pennies here offer to buy a guy drinks? So come on, have a few; it'll help you sleep."
It's past midnight when Rumple is finally released from his friends' and neighbors' custody. As he nods, half-dozing, before his fire, he muses that the cat on his lap was the impetus for all this change: the change in Ramsgate, the change in himself. "You did good, little furry one," he informs her, but her blinking eyes reply that she already knows that. He scratches her ears in reward.
"Dear Rumple,
"It took three days, every humble and charming flattery in my mother's being and every pretty word in my vocabulary, but we have a deal with the fairies. We are now on our way home, and so glad to be out of Firefly Valley, for though it's as lovely as it sounds, its sole residents are dwarves and fairies, and we had to sit on tree stumps and sleep in a tent on the ground.
"The fairies were reluctant to act against the ogres. Though of course their magic can protect them easily against any size or number of enemy, it's part of their nature not to intervene in the activities of other races, even humans, with whom they have had a close relationship for eons. They prefer, so they say, to get involved at the individual level, and far in advance of any serious problems. It's why they will choose certain babies and children to deliver blessings and wishes to, so that those children will grow up to be leaders who can affect change from within their own lands. They choose their interventions carefully, picking children whose bloodline, social position, cleverness or courage will bring them into leadership when they have grown up. They are working at the cosmic level; the problems of small, insignificant humans don't interest the fairies. Not that they aren't sympathetic to the plight of the poor, the sick, the elderly—it's just that any act of magic, however small, can have unexpected consequences, so the fairies must pick and choose. This is what the fairies tell us. Mother and I think it's a bunch of hogwash. (Well, truthfully, we think it's a bunch of what you get after the hogs have been washed.) But we took advantage of that philosophy and reminded them that as royals, we are most definitely in a position to make things happen; that Aramore is the largest and most naturally diverse of all the kingdoms in this realm, and if Aramore falls, so too will all other human settlements; and that some of the blessings they bestowed upon me (a long, productive life; the continuation of my family's lineage; a happy and profitable reign) when in the cradle cannot come to pass if an ogre eats me.
"So after bowing, scraping and talking ourselves breathless (I know now firsthand how desperate some of the commoners feel when they come to my father to plead for help), we convinced them. We have brought them Robin's Bow, along with bows of the make that our army's archers use; they will study the enchantment upon Robin's Bow; and they will attempt to duplicate it upon our own bows. They will not stop their work until they've succeeded.
"I know Father will be proud of us, I know we've done well for Aramore, but Rumple, right now, apart from tired, all I feel is frustration. Can't the fairies smell the battle fires? Can't they hear the screams of our dying? If they aren't compassionate enough to care about us at the individual level, aren't they smart enough to realize that if Avonlea falls, Aramore falls; if Aramore falls, all of Misthaven falls; if Misthaven falls, humanity is doomed.
"In calmer moments, observing the Fairy Queen, I know she's just doing what she considers best for her people, including preserving their principles. Observing my mother as she negotiates and treats, I can see that both pride and humility are required. Observing my father as he agonizes over separating families to send troops into battle, I wonder if I will ever be strong enough to do the same. Those who believe the life of a royal is all balls, feasts, gowns and hand-waving are crazy.
"Rumple, I wonder if I'm capable of making the hard decisions that a Queen must make. My father has taught me that wise advisors are necessary to a productive rule, but he has shown me that having an understanding spouse is just as important. It's to my mother's arms that he retreats after he's signed the orders to send men and women to war. It's his sense of duty that gives him the strength to pick up the pen and sign, but it's Mother that gives him the strength to get up the next morning.
"The gray men tell me that a marriage must be strategic, bringing money or land or connections into the family. I agree about strategy—but the strategy the royal must take is to select the mate that will best comfort, support, encourage, correct and guide him. Or her. The mate who brings love into the marriage.
"My mother meets with the clergy tomorrow, to ask them to call for a day of prayer for the success (and speed) of the fairies' work. She and my father and I are already praying. I know you are too.
"Thank you, Rumple, for listening to my ramblings and my rants.
"Your friend, Belle"
"Dear Rumple,
"We have arrived safely home, to happy reports of your meeting with the generals. My father is pleased and impressed (and hard at work in drawing up battle plans).
"Upon arriving home to throw myself in exhaustion onto my bed, what did I find awaiting me at the threshold to my bedchamber? A small, furry and affectionate little birthday gift from my dear friend! She is a delight, Rumple, and already brings me joy with her antics. Unladylike though it may be, my mother and I sit on the floor after supper and play with her, and I allow her to sleep at the foot of my bed. As I watch her 'hunt' bits of yarn, I am reminded of the Midnight stories you've told me. I have often wished to meet Midnight, but now I have a bit of her to cuddle. Thank you, my friend! A more welcome gift could not have awaited me—unless (forgive me for seeming petty) it was the news that Gaston has been sent on a long, long mission, after his attack upon you. For which I am sorry, but from what I hear, you acquitted yourself admirably. As you know, he has been quite the pest and I am relieved to see the back of him.
"Now I must take you to task, my friend, for telling me falsehoods. In your letters, you have described yourself as a coward, a pariah, a dull man whose qualities drove a wife away. The writing of your letters has long made me suspicious of these claims: your words live on the page, Rumple. They bring Ramsgate to me. Your ideas reveal a mind of avid dreams and quick connections. Your son—whom I have come to know well and delight in, he's become such a help to me in my school—is the product of wise parenting. And now I have the reports of so many who are close to me, whose opinions I trust, that cast the light of truth on your humble lies. Yes, there are those here who disparage you for your lack of education and breeding, but they are fools. You have been listening to the likes of them for far too long, I fear. Listen to General Darain, who speaks of your sound common sense. Listen to Helena, who speaks of your attentiveness, so impressed is she that you took the trouble to learn her name. Listen to my father, who speaks of your dignity in addressing a room of strangers, and your patience with their questions, and your honesty in your answers. Listen to my mother, who, though she didn't get to meet you, feels that she knows something of your caring, through the gift you brought me, not meant to impress or to show off, but rather to comfort.
"So I think you lie, Rumplestiltskin, when you call yourself a coward and a dull man, and I think your wife must have been a fool to walk away from a wonderful son and a caring, attentive, dignified man. If I ever cross paths with her, I will tell her so (and thank her for her stupidity, because if she hadn't left, I doubt I would have ever found your friendship).
"And now I ask you to promise to allow me to form my own impression. When next you come to Ravershire to sell your thread, allow me to meet you. After all, a future Queen must learn to judge for herself, yes? Besides, I'm sure you'll want to see Athena again (which is what I've named your gift).
"Your friend, Belle"
Does that count as a royal command? Dare a spinner refuse a princess? Rumple has two months to work up the courage to face a second royal.
To face the woman he's come to depend upon.
"Bae!" Morraine's shout rings across the village and Rumple grabs his cane to come running. If Bae is home, a week early, that must mean he's wounded.
By the time Rumple makes it to the lawn, Bae is already engulfed in Morraine's arms and she's brazenly kissing him. Her embarrassed father has to pull her away. Gretchen is touching his shoulders, his arms, examining him: "Are you hurt?"
The boy appears puzzled, then laughs. "No, I'm fine. I'm early because—" he interrupts himself as he sees his father coming. He throws his arms around Rumple before finishing, "I'm early because my unit is going out on a mission next week, so Lieutenant Fendral gave me a few days off."
"A mission," Rumple frets. "If they're sending the Home Guard out to battle—"
"I didn't say 'battle,' Papa," Bae corrects. "Consider it a training mission. We're going out to Bogamir, to scout out good locations for battle. We'll test the whistles in various canyons and teach the soldiers how to use them. Meanwhile, Sir Robin and General Darain will be training the archers in how to use their newly enchanted bows." He grins. "It worked, Papa. The fairies duplicated the magic and they're casting spells even as we speak."
"Belle must be pleased," Rumple murmurs.
But Bae huffs. "Belle? Yeah, but what about the entire army and all the generals and all the kingdom, Papa? 'cause if this works like it seems to, this war is over."
"Well, come in, Bae and Rumple," Gretchen invites. "I have fresh bread in the oven."
"I want to hear these battle plans," Lucas says.
"I'm just glad you're home." Morraine links her arm in Bae's.
"As am I," Rumple adds.
"Let's celebrate, then. I have a keg of lager that's been waiting for an occasion," Lucas boasts.
As they walk into the hovel, Bae winks at his father. "And I have some books from the royal library for you, Papa, like usual. And letters from Belle. Who's been asking me a lot of questions about you, Papa." He raises his eyebrows innocently. "Maybe you want to ask some about her?"
"Maybe." Rumple's eyes twinkle. "Tonight. When we're alone."
Wrapped inside the first letter is a saucer-sized sketch of a familiar furry face, though attached to a longer body than he remembers.
"Dear Rumple,
"My maid, Eloise, drew this sketch of Athena. Although she's been with us only a month—Athena, I mean, not Eloise!—as you can see, she's nearly doubled in size. She's all paws and ears, a blur as she hunts down mice (my mother refuses to admit we have any in the castle, but we do, but thanks to Athena, that will be a short-lived condition. My father says she's almost as good a hunter as he is.). As she runs from floor to floor, she skitters and slides and sometimes goes crashing into furniture, and she makes us all laugh. You really should see how she's grown. Really, you should.
"So when? When will you come to the castle next? Please do give me notice so that I'll be sure to be here and not in the village, shopping, or out on some mandatory call to the noblewomen of the kingdom.
"Your friend, Belle"
Rumple parcels out the remaining letters—there are three—and the books, carefully arranging the letters according to their dates and the books according to the urgency of their subject matter (anything about ogres and the science of sound will take priority over histories, biographies and travelogues). He will read voraciously from the urgent books, but everything else will be treated as a delicacy, a small sweet to be savored at the end of his day.
He's had a long talk this evening with Bae, a talk that changed their relationship. They both felt it. At first awkward and blushing, Rumple stuttered over his questions about Belle, but Bae answered them in detail, without teasing, and without withholding information, even the few bits that painted Belle in a less flattering light—which, conversely, made Rumple appreciate her more, as through Bae's honest portrayal of her, she became real in his eyes, flawed, and therefore reachable.
There's something else, too, in Bae's description: an openness and frankness that one man gives as a gift to another, when the level of trust between them is high. Rumple sits back in his rocking chair when he realizes it: Bae is a man now. Not quite seventeen, so chronologically, still a youth, but in his heart, a man, talking not to someone he expects will judge or criticize him, but to another man.
Bae had concluded with a gentle push for action. "Belle is twenty-seven now, three years older than the oldest unwed princess in Aramoran history. You should know, Papa, what that's doing to her and her parents, the pressure that's being put on her from all sides to marry. Not from her father and mother—they respect her decisions, though His Majesty does mention sometimes that he's nearly sixty and would like to bounce a grandchild on his knee while he still has knees to bounce on. Everyone else, though, from the chimney sweeper on up to the Lord Chamberlain, openly complains about the lack of an heir. Papa, ten years ago, Belle had suitors lined up all the way from the castle door to the Green Mountains, knights and dukes and princes, even a widowed king and a couple of sorcerers. She turned them all away, and as long as she was seventeen, that was okay. Let her take her time, the public said, after all, she's not just choosing for herself but for all of us for all the future. She turned eighteen, and they rubbed their hands and said now, now she'll start to yearn for romance, but she kept turning the suitors away. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, and they said she was too picky, too snooty. Twenty-two, twenty-three and they said there's something odd about her. Her father really should put his foot down; it's one of the most important duties of a king, to protect the throne. Twenty-four, twenty-five, and the lines were a lot shorter now, and some of the men standing in them were unsuitable. She's still a pretty woman, they say, and of course a future queen is always an object of desire, but the public and the nobles both are openly criticizing her and Maurice and Colette, and behind the curtains, some of the larger, more powerful families are questioning whether it isn't time for a new bloodline on the throne. Do you see what I'm saying, Papa?"
Rumple had nodded slowly. "My friendship with her is holding her back, keeping her from having the family she deserves."
"No, Papa," Bae groaned. "That's not what I'm saying at all. What I'm telling you is, if you think you could love here ou need to tell her before it's too late and she marries someone else."
"But she's twenty-seven; I'm forty-seven. She's cultured and—"
"Papa, if every man made a list of all the objections a woman might have—might have, I said—to his suit, the human race would cease to exist in a generation. And before you start on the whole 'royalty' argument, she's probably spoken five thousand words about you to me, and not one of them has been 'peasant.' In fact, she's started taking spinning lessons because, she said, it sounds like a relaxing pastime."
"It's one thing when a spinner courts a seamstress or a barmaid, and only their families have the right to an opinion on the matter, but when a future queen considers marriage—"
"You're trying to cross the ocean when you haven't even built the boat. She wants to meet you. That's all. She's never mentioned anything more than that. It's rude to keep a lady waiting, and didn't you always teach me to be considerate of a lady's feelings?"
He reached for the last straw, but it was a flimsy one. "She's not expecting me until I'm ready to go to market again, another two months."
"Papa, don't be daft. Like Lucas says, either cast your line into the water or pack up your pole and go home."
Bae is in bed now, worn out from his long day; he lies on his back, the cat on his chest, and Rumple can't tell which of them is snoring, but someone definitely is, as energetically as Fort sawing logs for the winter. Rumple asks himself frankly whether he's dragging his feet because of all the things wrong with a potential courtship between him and Belle, or if he's simply afraid that when she meets the real man behind those intelligent, insightful and charming letters she'll see what Milah saw.
He folds up Belle's letters neatly and secures them in their special box. Would it be crueler to ignore Belle's invitation than to let her lay eyes on him and break her illusion. The one thing Rumple can be sure of is that if he does nothing, Bae will have reason to consider him a coward.
"Dear Belle,
"On the first day of summer, my season's spinning will have yielded enough thread to bring to Ravershire and Avonlea"—
Rumple stops abruptly and throws the letter into the fire-not because he's changed his mind already, but because the tone of his letter hides his nervousness behind formality. He starts again.
"Dearest Belle,
"When Bae hands you this letter, go out onto your balcony and look down. The man with the cane in his hand and his heart on his sleeve is me.
"Hopefully, Rumple"
His knees are knocking and apparently Bae can hear them, because the boy slows down his steps as they reach the Y in the road. If they turn left, they'll reach the city proper in another three miles. Under normal circumstances, that's what they would do; with a cartload of baskets of thread to sell, they'd spend a day working a rented stall in the market square. But these are not normal circumstances and they have no cart, just a knapsack each, and they have two tasks ahead. Bae needs to report in with Fendral and immediately start to prepare the gear the two of them will need in Bogamir. He will need to pack tight, because they expect to be gone six weeks or more. Rumple will worry the whole time, of course, but he trusts Fendral to take care of his young charge.
It's himself he doesn't trust right now, for the task ahead of him. As they turn right without hesitation, he watches the foot of his cane as it makes steady and rhythmic contact with the dirt. It's pulling him along behind, leaving him no choice but to follow. When the wind rustles the trees overhead, he thinks he hears a name whispered: "Milah, Milah." Milah was a peasant girl from a large family of peasant girls. They had nothing but their looks and their cleverness. And yet Rumplestiltskin the spinner wasn't enough for Milah the peasant girl, so how can he hope to win over a princess?
The cane snags in a rut and Rumple stumbles. Bae catches him by the elbow and steadies him. "Just a hello," Bae murmurs, allowing him a moment to rest. "She's a woman who knows her own mind and speaks it, and what she wants is to talk to you."
Rumple nods, wipes the sweat from his brow and steps out again. As always, they stop at the well to wash up and drink, then they shake the dust from their clothes and approach the castle. Bae is back home again, bidding good afternoon to soldiers and servants, and Rumple can be proud that his boy fits in so well in two worlds. Wherever his adventures lead him, Bae will make a home for himself.
They stop at the back entrance, as always, but this time it's only Bae who goes in. Rumple positions himself directly under the balcony where he once saw a lady in gold. He taps his cane against his boot. Why did he choose to arrange the meeting this way? It would have made more sense to go into the kitchen, where he and Belle have each spent many comfortable afternoons. They could have seated themselves (is it proper for a man to pull out the chair for a princess? Or, because she's a royal, should he keep his distance?). They could have chatted over cups of tea with cooks and maids to chaperone them. What if it had been raining when he'd arrived? Would he have stood here drenched and expected the princess to do the same? What if—
"Hello, Rumple."
A warm, soft hand touches his, the one that holds the cane. Instead of coming out on her balcony to look down upon him (he'd planned it that way with the notion that if she didn't like what she saw, she could simply fade wordlessly back into her bedroom) she's come to him. But Belle knows her own mind and will speak it, and as he shifts a little to gaze upon the woman whose hand is still resting on his, it's perfectly okay with him if that's how it will be for the rest of their lives.
Her voice is quiet, her manner, gentle, but her bright eyes dance on the edge of mischief (just as he'd imagined they would), and her smile is dimpled and her long, dark hair falls clumsily into her face, just begging to be brushed back by a lover's hand.
"Hello, Belle." He reaches over with his left hand to squeeze hers, a little longer than strangers should touch.
"I've been waiting for this for such a long time," she confesses.
He withdraws his left hand, because a door slamming from somewhere inside the castle reminds him that dozens of people pass by this spot every hour and some of those people wouldn't approve of a strange man holding a woman's hand, or a peasant touching a royal, or—well, there's too much that people wouldn't approve of.
Her smile flickers as she withdraws her hand too, and clasps it with the other in front of the folds of her dress (a blue dress, like her eyes, well-tailored—his thread!—simple and functional, the dress of a teacher, not a future queen. He starts breathing again, allowing himself to pretend she's an ordinary woman. She does nothing to disillusion him.)
"So have I," he agrees.
"I feel as if I know you, as if we've been friends a long time." She talks a bit too fast.
"We have," he dares to say.
A scullery boy rushes past them with a yoke of water buckets, and this spurs Belle to action. She takes his left elbow and urges him to turn. "Come this way." She leads him away from the castle, toward a grove of apple trees, past the hum of bees and the inviting sweet scent of the fruit. He wonders if they will stop and sit beneath one of these sheltering trees, but she urges him on, deeper into the grove, to a storage shed. Amid the tools and the bushel baskets, there's a small wooden bench, and behind it, a crate filled with books. "I come here when I want to be alone," she informs him, dropping onto the bench, then she blushes and stares at her shoes, as if she's wondering if that was too personal a thing to say, if he would take it as an insinuation.
He sits down beside her, then realizes that was probably too forward and jumps up again. She laughs, causing him to laugh, and suddenly the air is clear between them and he can sit beside her and they can look at each other without doubt.
"I've missed you," he remarks.
It's a nonsensical thing to say, but she understands. "It feels that way, doesn't it? Like we've been apart—"
"But shouldn't have been."
Forward and improper it might be, but that's exactly the right thing to say; it's what he feels and what she feels, and he takes her hand freely now.
"I sometimes write my letters here, or read yours. I carry Athena out here too and she chases mice or apple blossoms while I write."
"I have a rocking chair by the hearth. Midnight sleeps at my feet or in my lap while I read your letters."
"In the spring and summer, I open the windows," she nods at the dusty glass behind them. "The scent of apples drifts in, and songs of birds, and sometimes I try to imagine that I'm in Ramsgate."
"Through my windows I can hear Luke's sheep bleating, and his dog growling at them to keep them in order, and Gretchen singing as she cooks."
"What does Morraine do?"
"She stands on the lawn and watches the stars come out."
"Thinking of Bae. I wish I could be there to see it all."
He tilts his head in the direction they came. "Sometimes I imagine you standing on your balcony in the evening, watching the clouds drift, counting the stars."
"And trying to understand the minds of ogres," she chuckles softly.
He squeezes her hand. "We did good, didn't we?"
"We accomplished something." She squeezes back. "Together. We make each other smarter, I think."
"How much more might we do," he hesitates a little before adding, "together?"
She rests her head on his shoulder, and his arm slides around her waist, and for an hour she's not a princess. She's his.