The pain in his ankle, neglected for so many miles, has given up seeking his attention, leaving behind in its place a numbness. He's tired of walking, tired of thinking, but it's still another fifteen miles to Ramsgate. He reaches into his knapsack for his hand spinner; although he carries it everywhere, he usually doesn't use it as he walks, because he'll get lost in the spinning when he really needs to focus on the sights and sounds around him. Travel, even on this well-used road, can be risky for a great many reasons. He's been soaked to the skin by sudden rains, chased by wild dogs, run off the road by drunken drivers, dive-bombed by birds protecting their nests, even skunk-sprayed once. He's been beaten and robbed four times. But as he walks farther and farther away from the woman he loves and the people he's grown attached to, everyone from king to cook (he will admit he even likes Aalot to a small degree), his heart hurts more than his feet, beleaguering him with doubts, so he reaches for the spinner and busies his hands.

An hour later, he growls in frustration. For once, spinning his failed him. With each crunch on the leaves, his footfalls are nagging him: Why not? Why not? Why not go back? Why not ask for that private audience with Maurice? Why not begin to court the lady who's made it crystal clear she wants to see more of him? Why not leave it to Belle or her parents or Fate to figure out what to do about the gray men? Why not put himself first?

"Because I love her, that's why," he mutters to his boots.

So he keeps walking.

Coming up fast from behind, a vehicle makes him dart off the road and into the gutter. He uses the interruption as an excuse to look around for a place to rest. He hasn't any food with him (why didn't he ask Helena? She would have happily packed him a lunch.) but he might scrounge some asparagus or fireweed or pennycress. He's also in need of water. As many times as he's passed this way, he knows every farmer who's willing to allow a traveler access to a well. Another three miles and he'll come to one—

The vehicle behind him is suddenly in front of him, spraying him with dust. Even before the driver has yelled "whoa," the little door flies open and a familiar voice shouts, "Rumple!"

She's out onto the road, her skirts dragging dust, before the driver can climb down to assist her. She's across the road, into the gutter and into his arms before he can collect his wits. She's as dirty and sweaty as he is, but she's also soft and firm at the same time, confident in her touch, and when she lifts her cheek from his chest and looks up into his eyes, her gaze is unafraid. "Rumple," she says softly, then she pushes away from him and scowls. "Rumplestiltskin! What do you mean by running out on us?" Her hand dips into her skirt pocket and then she's fluttering a paper in his face. "What do you mean, 'continue our friendship by letter'?" Moisture pools at the bottoms of her eyes. "Don't you—"

"Belle," he starts, but he has no idea how to begin an explanation.

She glances over her shoulder at the driver, who's pretending to adjust the harness. It's clear from the tension in the man's back, though, that he can hear the conversation, so Belle links her arm in Rumple's and draws him into the field. She finds a tree for them to hide behind and she lowers her voice. At last she allows the tears to spill over. "Rumple—" is all she can get out before the sobs come.

He brushes her hair from her face and rubs small circles on her back. He dares to press her against his chest and murmur in her ear, "Sweetheart, it's all right. All right."

Her sobs suddenly shut off like a river suddenly dammed by a fallen log and she glances up at him. "You called me 'sweetheart.'"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"Didn't mean 'sweetheart'? You don't feel—"

"Didn't mean to be disrespectful—"

"Oh, stop that!" She pushes against his chest but doesn't pull away. "Talk to me like I'm a woman, not—" She waves her hand toward the carriage; he understands she's indicating the King's insignia on the door. "A title. Call me 'sweetheart,' if that's how you really feel, because that's how I feel."

"Sweetheart." He breathes the word, pouring relief and affection into his breath. But his hopeless expression doesn't match his voice.

"Well, then, if that's how we feel," her chin rises in determination, "there should be nothing we can't overcome."

He shakes his head; he can't let her get her hopes up. From his knapsack he takes out a spare tunic and spreads it on the ground, then takes her hand and urges her to sit. When she has, he lowers himself, depending on the cane as a substitute for a leg; she watches, ready to offer help if he needs it, but he doesn't and she makes no overprotective move. He admires that about her; it shows that her eagerness to be helpful is tempered with respect for other people's independence. It's how his friends and Bae treat him: not as if his disability doesn't exist, but as if he's perfectly capable of managing on his own and will ask for help when he's not. It's nothing like how Milah treated him ("Can't you carry some of the firewood for a change?" "Do have you be so slow?" "Do you have to leave that damn stick where I'll trip over it in the dark?").

They sit in quiet for a moment, her hand still in his, each pretending they've forgotten she no longer needs to be lowered to the ground. He admires this about her, too, that she doesn't have to fill the quiet, that she understands there's communication in silence too, a sort of trust.

"I think I was wrong to leave without speaking to you first," he begins. "It seemed like the less hurtful thing to do, but it wasn't."

"No, it wasn't," she agrees.

"Not for me, either." He falls silent again.

Her voice is steady now. "Tell me what went wrong."

"It's not us. You and I and Bae, we would be happy together. Not perfect—I'm so much older than you, and I live such a different life—"

"Quieter," she admits. "Less crowded."

"Less choice. In everything. Slower to change."

"Living in the castle is a tradition, not a requirement, for a princess. My parents would be pleased to give us a house of our own, small, outside of Avonlea. In fact, that's how their marriage started, so they could live in peace as they learned how to be married. They only moved into the castle when my mother said she was ready."

"Your parents are wise. A man could ask for no better in-laws."

"You got on with them well. My father respects you, and his respect isn't freely given. My mother enjoys your company. She considers you a welcome diversion from—" she waves her hand at the carriage again. That insignia has become for her a shorthand in expressing everything connected with a royal life. "Neither of them, really, was born into that life, and they've never become completely comfortable with it. They look upon the formal dinners and balls and the state visits as"—she shrugs—"part of the costuming. It isn't like that, most days. I mean, yes, my father has so many people he needs to meet with every day, but he manages to sneak out, once a week, to go hunting. And my mother is expected to take tea a couple of times a week with the duchesses, and patronize the arts. . . ." her voice trails off. "That doesn't have to be. . . I mean, as the Queen, yes, I'd have to fulfill the same duties as my father, but there's no prescribed role for a Queen's consort. And in the years before I take the throne, we would live as private citizens—" She blushes. "I'm crossing a bridge that hasn't been built yet, aren't I? Is that it? Am I too pushy?"

He shakes his head. "If you were a seamstress or a governess or the daughter of a baker, I would be kneeling before you now." He's blushing too.

"It's not us," she sighs in relief. "It's not me or you or my parents, or whether I'd be a good mother to Bae—"

"No!" he exclaims. "You'd be a wonderful mother to any children we might—" then he bites his tongue. "Now I'm the one being pushy."

Her voice drops low. "I think we'd make wonderful parents together." She pauses to think. "It's not really the way my family lives, either, is it? The castle, the servants, the balls?"

"No."

She spreads the letter out on her lap. "'I must leave now, so that you can become the leader you were meant to be.' What did you mean?"

"You must have the respect of your subjects, to be an effective ruler. All your subjects, including—"

"The gray men."

He nods. "And other rulers around the world. They must look upon you as invulnerable. Alone, you would have their respect; you're strong, decisive, knowledgeable; you generate trust and loyalty and affection, from all your subjects, from the street sweepers to the dukes. But your choice of husband will determine how that loyalty changes. It's the most important decision you can make, as far as your people are concerned. The man you choose must be as strong, decisive, knowledgeable and respected as you. Even though he'll never rule, and even though you're a smart and independent woman, the people will assume he's your foremost advisor."

"The power behind the throne," she mutters. "The curse of every queen. But I'll make it clear that the decisions are mine."

"And perhaps most people will come to believe you. But it may be too late by then. You will be judged—are being judged—by the people you associate with, and the most important of these will be the man you choose to marry and have children with. Marry a man like Gaston, who's strong and decisive—but also ambitious and egotistical—"

"And dumb as a rock farm," she interjects.

"And the people won't respect you. Marry a man like me—I'm everything Gaston isn't, including smart and loyal and respectful of your leadership, but I'm also a known coward. Not just for my army desertion, but against every man who's ever raised a hand against me. . . ." His voice grows hoarse. "And every woman who's ever cursed my name. . . especially my former wife. I've never fought back. I've stood up to no one, not even her."

"Gaston," she interrupts hastily. "You stood up to Gaston."

"For Bae's sake. For myself," he lowers his gaze to the ground, "I can't even speak. And that's the truth of it, Belle. Not false modesty, and no titles, no castles, no amount of bowing and scraping will change that. Among my friends and loved ones, I feel safe and I can stand my ground in a disagreement, but even that small confidence took a long time to build. It will not happen for me against the likes of the gray men. Sweetheart, a marriage to the likes of me will bring a quick end to your rule, and this kingdom can't survive that. Especially now, weakened by war, impoverished by expenditures for that war, we need the security of knowing if anything happened to your father, you would assume the throne."

"It doesn't have to be me," she says stubbornly. "If I abdicate, my cousin is next in line. He's a good leader and a good man."

Rumple shakes his head. They both know she's wrong. "It's you we need. And you need this. You were born to lead Aramore."

"What do we do?" she asks miserably, clenching his hand tighter.

"The right thing."

"Don't we deserve to be happy?"

"You might enjoy the quiet life in Ramsgate, but you won't be happy because you won't be living as your true self."

"Something will happen." She purses her lips. "Something will change. They say love is the most powerful magic. We will be together."

"I need to go back to Ramsgate," he says gently. "And you need to go back to Avonlea. And we'll continue to write letters, because we're good for each other."

"And we'll continue to hope that something will change." Her tone is firm, but there's a question in her eyes.

"We'll continue to hope that love will deliver an answer."

She stands. "Well, at least, let me give you a ride back home."

His ankle accepts the invitation on his behalf. He gives Belle his arm and takes her back to the carriage, and when the driver moves to open the door for Her Highness, Rumple shoots him a glare; confused, the driver steps back and Rumple quickly takes his place at the door, opening it and holding Belle steady by the waist as she gathers her voluminous skirts for the short climb inside. He no longer wonders whether Belle will be insulted by his boldness in touching her; he's pretty sure she likes it as much as he does. But once she's settled into her seat, he allows a moment to worry that this ride—it'll be about three hours yet—will be one long tussle between them. Belle's a fighter, he knows that about her already, and she's not ready to accept his reasoning that they not pursue a courtship. When he lifts himself into the carriage, however, he discovers his worry is unfounded; they won't be speaking of anything personal, because a chaperone is present, a woman younger than Belle, whom Belle introduces as Eloise.

Belle is, so properly, sitting beside her maid. Rumple would grumble, except it's probably better this way. They must keep a distance if they're going to keep their friendship intact.

"The artist of cats." He remembers the sketch of Athena that the maid created. "A talented artist, may I say."

And after that, Eloise is won. Belle and Rumple could say or do anything and she would not report them—more likely, she would assist them. The three of them chat idly, about cats and sketching and the castle and Ramsgate. They slip into silence as the carriage's rocking lulls them into a half-sleep.

When they arrive, an hour or so before sunset, he invites them in, though he's anguished because not only is this hovel no fit place for a princess, it's also a bit of a mess. At least the dishes are clean. He's gotten a bit sloppy since Bae moved out. Belle doesn't pretend to not notice; rather, she pretends to be charmed, especially at the cat who's sleeping on Bae's pallet and pries one eye open momentarily before dozing off again.

Belle kneels beside the cat. "Midnight?"

"Yes."

Disturbed by the approaching stranger, the cat gives up on her nap and with a yawn, stretches out her paws. Her muzzle has grayed, Rumple notices, with a start, for the first time. When did that happen? Belle presents the back of her hand for Midnight to sniff. The cat obliges, then permits Belle to scratch the top of her head. As she converses with the cat, the maid sits quietly in the rocking chair, uncomfortable, torn between the need to respect her superior's privacy and her duty to the royal family. In this one-room cottage, it's not possible to achieve both aims, so she focuses her attention on the cat.

"This must be where Bae sleeps, then, since Midnight is sleeping here too," Belle remarks. "And that one?" She points to the other pallet. "You sleep there?"

"Yes. There isn't much to see here," he adds apologetically.

"But it's just as you described it. I feel as if I know this town and all the residents."

Rumple prepares tea—realizing, as he starts a fire, that he has only two mugs but three guests. He could hurry next door to borrow mugs from Gretchen, but then he'd be obliged to introduce the visitors to the neighbors, and that would kick up a fuss all over the village—an unnecessary fuss, as he sees it. In an hour, the guests will leave and all will return to normal. He decides he and the driver will simply have to drink from bowls.

He moves about, subtly straightening up as he assembles the tea things. Belle begins to ask about the neighbors, the village, Midnight's descendants—she remembers everything he ever wrote, and it all seems to be important to her. From the small window and the open door he introduces his world to her. She stands improperly close as he points out Luke's house, the communal well, the tavern, the bakery. Looking down at her, he watches her shoulders ease, her breath coming more slowly and deeply, a smile slowly forming. She is comfortable here.

The driver comes in from tending the horse and Rumple invites him to the table. "If we leave soon, we can make it to Petitdale at nightfall, ma'am. There's a nice inn there."

Eloise prompts gently, "We can send a message from there. Your father will be worried."

Belle glances at Rumple. "No, he won't. But yes, we'll leave soon."

Eloise relaxes now. The tea is ready, the driver doesn't complain about the bowl, and Rumple is able to produce a little bread and cheese to make a meal. Belle continues to chat, so easily that Rumple falls into the conversation too, almost forgetting he's being observed by two servants, but never forgetting that he can't build false hopes by allowing the conversation to turn too personal.

Belle's cup is drained and Rumple offers to refill it, but a gentle "ma'am" from the driver produces a sigh from her and she stands. "I suppose we must go. Thank you, Rumple, for showing me a part of your life."

"Thank you, ma'am, for the ride home."

She looks hurt by the formal address. They both know why he's doing it, though. She walks to the carriage, her entourage following. This time, after lifting Eloise in, the driver mounts his box; he's learned his lesson. His hands on her waist, Rumple starts to steady Belle, but she pauses on the step. "You'll write to me, won't you?"

"Immediately." It's a silly thing to say, but his head is filled with clouds. She turns toward the carriage and he lifts her. Her ear brushes against his cheek and he can't stop himself from whispering, "I feel—"

"What do you feel?" she whispers back, turning her face toward his.

He opens and closes and opens his mouth, not daring to say what he really wants to. "If you were a seamstress—"

"Or a governess, or the daughter of a baker," she finishes. "But I'm not."

"Or if I was a. . . " he looks down in shame. "If I was a brave man. But I'm not."

"Are you sure, Rumple?"

Her question surprises him. He doesn't answer.

"Write to me." She climbs into the cabin and pulls the door closed behind her. She raises the shade on the window to watch Rumple as the driver shakes the reins and the horse starts forward.

He's still standing in the road after the carriage has taken its choice of roads at the crossroad. Morraine rushes up, grabbing his sleeve. "Is it Bae?"

He understands the question. She's misinterpreted the presence of the royal carriage and she's shaking like a daisy in a thunderstorm. "Bae's safe," he assures her.

Her mother has caught up with her now. "That was the Princess, wasn't it? I thought I recognized her from the festival."

"She gave me a ride home." He's still watching the road. "She happened to be driving by and she noticed my cane."

"Come and have supper with us," Gretchen offers. "You've had a long journey." With a hand on his arm, she urges him to turn away from the road.