"Rumplestiltskin." The voice is gruff but friendly at the same time; its owner has spent his life, with the exception of a year, living outdoors, among livestock and men. Walking past Fort's farm, Rumple exchanges some kind words with Rulf, the farmer's son, the wounded war veteran. One-armed, yet Rulf is tossing bales of hay off a wagon with as much square-jawed determination as he had a year ago. Rumple clutches his cane a little tighter and vows to show just as much fortitude as he continues his journey into town.
Fort's whole family has the same raw strength. Rulf's mother, also born and raised on a farm, is equally rough, a quality that made her a good match for his father, so many years ago. Fort had seen that immediately, with a single glance at her red hands and her stained apron; he had proposed without courtship and her father, with a single glance at the land Fort had inherited, accepted on her behalf. At the time no one had thought to ask Beryl her opinion of her suitor or his prospects. Twenty-five years later, still no one had. She's always gone about her work wholeheartedly, neither smiling nor complaining, and giving every ounce of her strength to the farm and her menfolk, so her family and the community just assumed she was happy. Or at least, content.
Rumple wonders about that now as he watches her hang the wash. He wonders, if she'd been asked, would she have chosen Fort and his farm? Or did she, like some farm girls, dream of a life in the city, as a merchant's wife perhaps, with modern conveniences? Or had she been raised to follow her father's expectations for her? Or maybe she really was satisfied with the life she'd been handed.
He wonders about her, not because he knows her—she's barely spoken a dozen words to him; she's always busy when he's come to the farm, always washing something or mending something or peeling something, and unlike her husband, she doesn't seem to need social interaction. But the reason Rumple wonders about her is that lately, he's been wondering about all the women in Aramore, those whose tender years are so quickly burned away with floor scrubbing and diaper changing, and those who wear gowns and dance in great halls. He seems them all differently now, those women whose knees and hands swell with labor and those women whose breath is choked off by ever-tighter corsets and equally tight-minded husbands.
He wonders about them because of Belle. A queen in the making who's never knelt to scour the stones, but who, nonetheless, has had no more choice than Beryl had in where she lived, what work she pursued. With indulgent parents, Belle was given an education and a childhood that featured play, but she'd always had a life prescribed by others, including people whom she'd never met, people who had died long before she was born. There is a major difference between Belle and Beryl, however: whether it's true or not, Belle believes she has some control over her fate.
Particularly as it regards her selection of a husband.
He's had letters from her, sometimes more than one a day, since returning from Avonlea a season ago. Her letters are frank and bold and affectionate. Her feelings for him have not waned—nor his for her. She continues to reject all suits, and her parents neither encourage nor discourage her in clinging to her hope for, as she puts it, "something to happen" that will change him, make him her equal in bravery. Make him her worthy.
He is so much older than she is, and that makes him world-wise and realistic, not just about people like the gray men, but about himself. As he walks past Fort's farm and exchanges a nod of greeting with Beryl, Rumplestiltskin accepts the truth about himself. Fate is smarter than he is, putting himself and Belle in different spheres, because if Belle had been a seamstress, a governess or a baker's daughter, he would have married her as quickly as Fort had married Beryl—and she would have been just as trapped.
Just as trapped as Milah had been.
Rumple has tried to make her understand that, but she's too strong-willed and his protests are too weak. He wonders if there will ever come a time and a place where people like him and Belle can live true to their natures.
He walks into town, in his mind composing his next letter. He walks into his little house, greets the cat sleeping on Bae's bed. She's slowing down in her elder years, he thinks; no longer is she fast enough to catch enough food to meet her needs. He cuts up some chicken for his dinner and tosses her a slice. This is not a bad life, he thinks as he scratches her ears: chicken in the pot, wool on the wheel, coins in his pocket, a son who will be coming home soon. Rumple is content.
Or should be.
"I know it's none of my business," Bae writes, "and maybe you think it's not appropriate for a guy to ask about his father's love life, but—what happened between you and Belle? I'm assuming something did, because right after you left Avonlea, it was like all the wind got knocked out of her. That's what my friend Peyton says. And it doesn't seem to be coming back anytime soon. She still works in the school, but she doesn't go out riding any more, or for walks in the orchard, or shopping. She doesn't go down to the kitchen and sit with the cooks any more either, Peyton says. So what happened? I thought you and her were getting along great."
"Dear son, Belle and I are indeed good friends and I hope we will always be. She is a delightful woman and the gentleman who marries her will be the luckiest man in Aramore.
"We have had heavy rains of late, which washed away the footbridge at the river road. . . ."
"Dear Papa, All right, I get it. I'll mind my own business. Love, Bae."
He resumes his two businesses, spinning and writing. He works sunrise to sundown, focusing on the work and the day in front of him, blocking out memories, because the past is out of his reach, and wishes, because the future isn't in his control. In the evenings he occasionally visits with Gretchen and Luke, or he reads the books Belle loans him. He writes to her about the changing season, about his garden and sheep, about spinning. The information he's sharing doesn't really matter; it's the fact that he's still sharing that matters, that he hasn't closed the door on their relationship. And she, likewise, writes about her school and the life of the castle. She stops challenging his notions about himself and his suitability for her. He knows her, though: she hasn't given up; she's just waiting for the "something."
In the last week of autumn, the kid who sweeps up at the Hog's Head comes running for Rumple, nearly sending him into a heart attack. Rumple knocks his knee against the wheel as he hastily stands in answer to the boy's breathless call. But it's not Bae, not Bae, just the kid running to stay warm on a frosty night as he's been sent across the village square to fetch the "town reader."
Rumple gathers his cloak and his cane and follows the kid, more stiffly. The tavern is smoky with burning lanterns and crowded with men with tankards in their fists. Their ale here is watered down, but the conversation is not, and spirits run high despite the weak drinks. As soon as Rumple enters, the crowd parts for him—he's puzzled by that—and the men quiet down. "Here he is," someone announces. "Give him the paper." Another adds, "And a hot buttered rum for his troubles."
Rowntree, Rulf and Fort are leaning on the bar, but the former straightens as Rumple is nudged to the front. A mug is thrust into Rumple's free hand and Rowntree welcomes him. "Stiltskin, got somethin' that needs readin.'" Without further ado, the farmer stretches out a scroll on the bar. Rumple recognizes the insignia imprinted on the parchment and the swirly penmanship of the message.
"Rider delivered it tonight. Said it's from the King."
Rumple confirms that, and murmurs ripple across the tavern. Men press forward for a closer look. "It's a proclamation. It says, 'By order of His Majesty Maurice, by these words let it be known that henceforth in the kingdom of Aramore'"—Rumple pauses for breath; the chamberlain tends toward excess verbosity—"'the first day of winter will be known as Soldiers Day, a day to honor the sacrifices made by all who serve and have served in His Majesty's army, navy and Home Guard. Let every town and every village show its gratitude for those who risk their lives and leave behind home and family to defend our kingdom. In witness whereof, I hereby set my hand: Maurice.'"
The men mull this over, then the chatter begins. The barkeeper slams his hand onto the counter and shouts over them: "Bein' a good loyal subject of the King, I'm buyin' the first round for every soldier, servin' and served, and the fathers of them that died in service!" He makes Rowntree his first honoree, followed by Fort and Rulf, then a dozen others press forward to collect on the offer. "Don't drink yet, boys; we're gonna toast our lads and lasses in uniform."
Mugs are filled and distributed, and when the barkeeper raises his in preparation for a salute, Fort bellows, "Wait a minute, you missed somebody, Micah. " He clasps Rumple's shoulder. "My buddy here."
"Pour the man a ale," Rulf declares.
"No sir, no sir!" the barkeeper shouts back. "Now I tolerate him in my 'stablishment for the sake of you boys, but I ain't buyin' for the likes of him. You want him to drink, you pay for it. But far as I'm concerned, he ain't no veteran and he don't deserve to drink with the rest of us."
There are responses of "hear, hear" and "you tell 'em" and even a "get the coward outta here." Fort can be heard over them, arguing, "Veteran or no, he's got a son servin', and that ougta count for somethin'."
"Does for me," Rulf says, slamming a copper on the counter. "Pour him a drink, Micah."
"Fellas, please," Rumple tries to interrupt in a soft voice. He casts worried glances over his shoulder as the crowd seems to press in on him. "Let's not—we don't need—I'll leave before trouble starts." He tries to turn, but Fort's heavy hand on his shoulder stays him. The farmer leans over the counter, into the barkeeper's face. "My son said pour the man a drink, so start pourin.'"
The barkeeper leans forward too, his sneer equally formidable. "Now, Fort, you had one too many tonight, otherwise I'd drag you out into the alley and we'd see who runs this tavern."
"You ain't gonna disrespect—"
"Fort!" Rumple wrenches loose. "I appreciate your loyalty, but this isn't worth a fight. I'll see you later." And before fists start flying along with words, Rumple pushes his way through the crowd. Once free of the tavern, he runs, as best he can, back home and panting, rests his back against the door. Thankfully, no one follows him.
When he writes to Bae and Belle of how Ramsgate celebrates Soldiers Day, he withholds this part of the story.
"'Dear Rumple,'" he reads the letter aloud to the cat, who's sleeping at his feet. "'Do you recall the Petition Day incident with the taxi driver who whipped his horse? Well, my father is determined that such incidents will not be tolerated in Aramore. He has passed a law making it punishable by fines or prison time to beat any animal, except where it may be necessary to save a human life (like if a woodcutter is attacked by a wolf). We call it 'Athena's Law.' We all know, of course, the threat of punishment will not prevent cruelty, but perhaps it will save some animals' lives. We must try, anyway.
"'You were there with me when this problem was brought to light. You have a share in this law, Rumple. It is a beginning, I think, of better ways. A beginning of what you and I could accomplish together. Even if it is only as friends. Your friend, Belle.'"
Rumple lays the letter aside. Unimpressed, Midnight twitches her tail in her sleep.
Morraine's seventeenth birthday arrives, and with it, Bae, who's been granted an entire week of leave. His master Fendral, now Captain of the Home Guard, has also gone home for a brief visit after their scouting expedition in Bogamir has been completed. Bae comes bearing gifts from a shopping spree in Avonlea, as well as, of course, books from the royal library: there is a mahogany walking stick that Bae's had cut to precisely the right size for his father, there is a bag of candies imported from Agrabah that he plans to give to Lucas and Gretchen just before he takes them aside to ask an important—but hardly unexpected—question, and for the birthday girl, there is a tiny velvet-covered box containing an item that it took him a full six months of saving to be able to afford.
"It's beautiful." Rumple admires the box's contents. "She'll adore it. Is it. . . more than a birthday gift?"
Bae explains to his father that it's a new custom that's come in from Montdemarre, a land formerly inaccessible but recently opened up for trade by Maurice's navy. "In Montdemarre, this is called a 'betrothal ring.' It's customarily given a year before the wedding, and on the day of the wedding, the gentleman gives a second ring." He smiles coyly as he awaits his father's reaction.
"So you intend to propose," Rumple beams. He marvels at the changes in his son, which he sees as indicative of the changes in the world: traditionally, in the Frontlands rings are never worn; they are considered a waste of money. Nor is there a lengthy delay between the proposal and the wedding ceremony, a month at most. But Rumple realizes that Bae wishes to wait until he's admitted into the army and has a decent income with which to start his married life. It's a solid plan for which Rumple knows Lucas and Gretchen will appreciate Bae's practical thinking.
Rumple also knows the reason Bae is proposing so early: there's a new family in town, the eldest son of which is twenty, tall, and casting his handsome gaze in Morraine's direction. For this Rumple appreciates Bae's practical thinking.
"I'm happy for you, son. Morraine will make a fine wife." Rumple wants to say more, but the lump in his throat gets in the way.
"It won't be an easy life, being married to a soldier," Bae worries.
"No life is easy. Not even the King's." Or the King's daughter's, Rumple adds silently. "But Morraine has a strong spirit and a sense of adventure that will see you through."
"And a sense of humor," Bae says wryly. "She's had to, to put up with me."
Rumple chuckles as he hugs Bae in congratulations. "You'll continue to live on the castle grounds?"
"There is some housing set aside for married soldiers. That was Queen Colette's idea, and it's a good one: when the soldiers go off to battle, the wives and children can look out for each other."
Battle. Rumple gulps. But this is the life Bae has chosen. And they are nearing a time of peace, a time of development, so perhaps Bae won't be called upon to leave the kingdom. Rumple pushes his attention to the latter part of Bae's statement. Children. "I presume grandparents help out too?"
Bae's eyes shine as he nods. "We'll expect to see you often, Papa."
For just a moment, Rumple feels lighthearted. Then his eyes fall upon one of the books Bae has brought, something he specifically requested to borrow, to assist a small shipping company headquartered at the port. Maritime Law, it's called.
Holding the borrowed book forces him to face a fact: it's time for Bae to hear the truth. Rumple's put it off for too long, for fear that Bae will turn against him, but he has to know now.
"Son, there's something I need to tell you. A lie—it's about a lie I told you, long ago." His eyes plead for patience, if not understanding.
"A lie." Bae's tone reflects disbelief. His papa has never lied. Avoided answering, yes, but never lied.
"Your mother." Rumple is stumbling. He had prepared his explanation, long ago, but now that it's time to give it, he's having trouble letting the words out. Why not keep the secret? It's highly unlikely, after all, that Bae would ever find out on his own. But Bae is almost eighteen, almost a soldier and a husband; he's a man. "When you were very little, she—she was unhappy. We were poor, and the village, they wanted nothing to do with us, except to revile us—me, revile me, because of—because I deserted. And you two paid the price, but especially her."
Bae's face has frozen and his eyes glaze over; he is remembering, vaguely, and he's reliving those days.
"She had no friends, no family here, just us, and she was lonely and tired and the work was ageing her before her time." Rumple can't face him now; he stares at the book, at the words Maritime Law. "She wanted to leave. She thought if we went somewhere else, far away, things would be different, no one would know about me, but I knew different. I tried to make her stay. I thought we should be enough for her. I didn't understand—I'd never had friends, never felt a part of anything, like she had. I didn't know what a difference it makes, having people who like you." He tilted his head toward the door, reminding them both of the friends they had in the village. "She was lonely and, I think, afraid, and angry, so, so angry at me. I don't know—she said she wished I had fought in the war instead of deserting. Sometimes, when she would come home from the tavern, she would say she wished I had died, so she could collect a war widow's pension and—and the glory of being the wife of a brave man."
"What actually happened, Papa? In the war, I mean. Yeah, you're a timid man, but you've never shirked your duty to me. I don't think you did it then either. Why did you desert?" Bae's voice is brittle.
Rumple rolls up his trouser leg and props his foot on the table. He allows Bae to see the thick scars that cover his entire right calf, and the twisted ankle and deformed foot that previously, Bae had only caught glimpses of. "I did this."
Bae's eyebrows shoot up. He'd always assumed an ogre had mangled the leg.
"To myself. So the general would throw me out. I did this because I was afraid, in part for my own life, and in part for yours. Because the general had a special prisoner, a witch who could foresee the future, parts of it, anyway, and that witch, she predicted your birth. Because of my actions on the battlefield, she said, you would grow up without a father. I was foolish. I believed her words at face value. So I took a sledgehammer and—did this." He turns the ankle in his hands, as far as it will turn; it's been a long time since he's looked closely at his old injury. Then he rolls his pantsleg down again and sets his foot back on the floor. "I've come to know that words can have multiple meanings. I may have been here while you were growing up, but in a way, because of what I did, you were fatherless. I—"
"No!" Bae snaps. "That's not so. I had a father, a good one, who made sure I didn't go hungry or dirty, who taught me—"
"Who robbed you of the life you would have had, if I hadn't been branded a coward."
"Who knows?" Bae throws up his hands. "Dain's father died a drunk. Borin's father ran off and they never heard from him again. Nobody called them cowards, but they were, just the same. You gave me the best life you could, and you loved me, that's what mattered. So no, I won't let you say you weren't a good father to me. What you did"—he waves his hand toward the leg—"yeah, I wish you hadn't done it, but I—" he shrugs. "I've seen men wet their pants before running out onto a battlefield. I've seen them faint. And I've seen them hide under dead bodies, then crawl out when the fighting was over. I don't believe in the word coward any more, not for those who've gone to war. I just believe that people do what they think they have to, to stay alive."
"Most people don't see it that way. For the life that I gave you, because of my desertion—for the life that I didn't give you, I hope that someday—"
Bae holds up his hand in stop gesture. "I forgive you. And for the life that you did give me, I thank you." His hand drops onto Rumple's.
"Thank you for that," Rumple murmurs. "But that's—there's more I need to tell you. I told you, long ago, that your mother died, but that's not true. She met a man, handsome, young, tall, a pirate named Jones—"
"And began an affair with him," Bae surmises, his mouth drawn in a tight line.
"Yes. On the day she went missing, Gretchen told me she'd been seen boarding Jones' ship. We thought she'd been taken. I ran—" he slaps his leg in frustration. "As fast I could manage. I was so afraid the ship would leave before I could reach it, more afraid of what they had done to her. I imagined unspeakable—I ran. They allowed me to board. They laughed; what was I to them? Just a cowardly cripple, not even carrying a weapon, and there were twenty or more of them. Their captain threw a sword at my feet. Pick it up and fight if you want your wife back, he said. I thought they were holding her against her will. I thought they were hurting her. Bae, if I wasn't a coward before, I was then. I couldn't pick up the sword. I begged for her release instead."
Bae returns his father's words to him. "A cowardly cripple against a pirate captain and twenty cutthroats. Papa, I know for a fact you've never touched a sword in your life. Jones would have run you through before your hand even touched the hilt."
"Nevertheless, I should have—"
"Why, Papa?" Bae blurts. "And leave me orphaned?" He's shaking with anger but he fights to keep it penned in.
"At least, you would have grown up knowing your father did his best to protect your mother. At least, she would have known I loved her enough to try to rescue her."
"What use would that knowing have been? I still would've been left alone." Bae sucked in a breath. "I've seen this sort of 'bravery' on the battlefield. A friend of mine ran in swinging his sword and shrieking, half out of his mind, when an ogre devoured our lieutenant. Can you guess what that sacrifice bought him?"
"I learned later that it was all a joke, what Jones told me on that ship," Rumple growls. Rulf had seen them board the ship: arm in arm, they were, Milah and Jones, and once on board, they kissed. For years, I had nightmares of what the tortures I thought she'd been subjected to. I hated myself for not fighting him. Kissing that pirate was no torture, I suppose."
"She must've been happy. She never came back—did she?"
"No. For nearly a year, I would go down to the docks whenever a pirate ship came in and I would ask after them, but—there were tales, of course, of the dashing pirate Jones and his gray-eyed companion who wore a sword on her hip and fought and stole alongside the men. But their ship never returned and she never sent a message. Where she is now, and whether she's alive, I don't know."
"Fendral could make some inquiries for me—if I wanted to know. Not now," Bae spat. "I don't give a damn. Maybe someday, maybe my children will want to know—maybe Morraine and I will want them to know the truth about her, not the pirate queen fantasy. But not now."
"If I'd been a better husband, I would have done as she asked, moved us far away."
"You never could have moved us away from everyone who knew how you got that busted ankle." Bae fixes him with a scowl. "You and Milah would have known. Neither one of you would have ever forgiven you."
"Do you?" Rumple lets a little hope into his voice. "Do you forgive me for lying to you about her death?"
"That was cowardly. That was foolish. Didn't you think I'd hear rumors? Rulf wasn't the only villager down at the docks that day. I'm angry, Papa. Yes, you should have told me the truth—"
"What if you had tried to run after her?" Rumple pleads. "Or worse. What if you had grown up thinking your mother didn't want you, chose a pirate over you?"
"At least it would have been the truth!" Bae rises. "I don't want to talk about this any more. I'm going over to see Morraine." And he's gone before Rumple can protest.
Rumple listens for a long time for the opening of the door. When it doesn't come, he gathers some paper and writes to Belle. Was I right, he begs to know. Should I have kept it a secret? He would have been happier. How much does it hurt, even with ten years passed, a child to learn he was abandoned? Rumple has some experience with that particular emotion, as Belle now knows. Belle knows all his secrets, and now so does Bae. All except for one: how much he needs her.
Bae returns late in the evening. Rumple has waited up and is sitting at fireside with the cat and the box of letters at his feet. Bae nods curtly, strips down to his underwear and climbs into his pallet, his back to the fire. Rumple puts out the candles and goes to bed.
"I'm going to talk to Lucas and Gretchen today." Bae is sitting at the table when Rumple awakes. He's stoked the fire and has a kettle on, as well as a pot of oatmeal.
Rumple's heart warms as he struggles to his feet, reaching for his new cane. Bae is speaking to him, although his tone is cold. It's a start, better than he has a right to expect. "I should feed the lambs."
"Already done."
Rumple washes and dresses in silence, uncertain how to proceed with the conversation. At least there is one. He sticks his foot into a boot and yelps, then hops about on one foot as he upends the boot and shakes it. A ball of black fur rolls out and vanishes into the cupboard. Rumple shakes his head and Bae snorts a laugh. "Still at it," Bae muses. "Doesn't she know she's an old timer now?"
"Even an old timer can indulge in mischief. I have some nice pork I can fry up tonight, if you'd like to invite Morraine and her parents over for dinner."
Bae smiles ruefully. "If they accept me."
Rumple clicks his tongue. "Ah, Bae, they accepted you a long, long time ago."