Though he has absolutely no reason to, Rumple is tapping his fingers nervously on the tabletop as he pretends to read and take notes from Maritime Law. Bae is next door and Rumple is listening for some signal of the outcome of his proposal: a laugh, a slamming door, a shout, a cheer. Rumple already knows how Morraine feels about Bae: she's made that obvious every time Bae has come home and every time he hasn't. He already knows how Luke feels: the two men have speculated on their children's future relationship. And he knows how Gretchen feels about Bae: ever since Milah left, Gretchen has been Bae's backup mama. Rumple is certain they will accept Bae's proposal; they welcomed him into their family long ago.
Though it's winter, Rumple has left the window open. Of course, the house next door is sealed off from the chill, but if he listens closely—
A hearty laugh (Luke). A cheer (Morraine).
Bae—and now Rumple—have their answer.
The future in-laws share dinner that evening at Luke and Gretchen's. Rumple digs into his lamb savings to buy a bottle of wine from the Hog's Head (it humiliates him to have to deal with the barkeeper, and he knows he's being overcharged, but the Hog's Head is the only tavern in town). As he's counting the coins in the leather pouch, Rumple calculates how many of them he'll need for the wedding supper, which he'll hire out a room at the inn for; it will be expensive, for Luke's family has a lot of nearby relatives and friends, but Rumple is pleased to do it, for his only son's sake. Besides, he has a year to save up.
During the meal, Bae and Morraine sit side by side, their hands clasped under the table. Their heads tilt toward each other and they talk in low tones, conspiring. Rumple's stomach sinks as he watches them. He's happy for them, of course, but he in this quiet moment he sees the future: it's Bae and Morraine against the world and Rumple is on the outside. A beloved supporter and a respected advisor, yes, but outside nonetheless. Rumple has been displaced—and that's as it should be. Rumple can take pride in seeing that one of the most important tasks a parent has—preparing his child for adulthood—has been accomplished. Still. . . .
Gretchen is talking about housewares that she will gather over the next year for the bride and groom. Luke is wondering whether the army will permit sheep on the grounds of the married soldiers' housing unit: he would like to give the newlyweds a ram and a pair of ewes to start a flock. He's saying that he understands Bae will have little time for tending sheep, but Morraine will be glad to have something productive to do during the day, until the first baby comes. At this, Morraine lifts her head from Bae's and gives her father a playful slap. It's just a fond gesture, though: of course there will be a baby. Gods willing.
As the teasing and the plans fly back and forth, Gretchen watches Rumple from the corner of her eye, and at one point, as he refills her mug with wine, she assures him, "We'll borrow a wagon and go up to Avonlea once a month to visit them. You'll ride with us." What she's really saying is you won't be left out. He's grateful, though not surprised.
It's after he's gone home for the night (and Bae has taken Morraine for a walk around the town square) that Rumple reflects on the likelihood that those visits to Avonlea will mean he'll be running into Belle. Temptation and frustration.
But at least that's a year from now, plenty of time for feelings and lives to change.
Luke and Gretchen post the banns at the church the next day. Rumple and the young couple stand with them to talk to the priest, and then to accept congratulations, as is customary, from passersby as word quickly spreads. It's been nearly a year since the last wedding and with half the town being related to or friends with the bride-to-be's parents, there's hope that the wedding supper will be a big feast—though that doesn't seem possible, considering who'll be paying for it.
Rumple notices a lack of surprise—Bae and Morraine have been perceived as a couple ever since they played on the rug together as infants—from the public. He also notices a lack of sincerity in the congratulations—as they shake hands or kiss cheeks with the girl's parents, people keep frowning his way. Not that they don't think Bae's a fine lad and a good catch for a sheepman's daughter, but—shudder—perhaps cowardice skips a generation, eh? Heavens forbid that the babies to come will take after their paternal grandfather.
Though, a few folk murmur, the spinner has proven rather smart. . . and then their gaze travels from the cane-carrying old man to their own adult children, recently returned from a winding-down war, and there are shoulder claps and hugs for all friends and family gathered outside the church. Then a black cat appears in the doorway of the church and weaves itself around the visitors' legs, and that prompts some folk to remember Stiltskin's cat-loaning program, and with a "what the hell" grunt Enndolyn, wife of the baker Falk, pushes through the crowd and grabs Rumple for a hug. Now that's a surprise.
"Why you takin' so long?" Rulf wants to know. His question is slurred—it comes out more like wuh yuh takin' slong?—because he's on his fourth tankard; he figures it's okay to get sloshed because he's paying out of his veterans' pension.
Bae, by contrast, sips delicately from his ale. This is his first taste of alcohol and he doesn't like it—he'd probably set the tankard down and order a goat's milk instead, except that would be rude.
"After I turn eighteen I can join the army," he begins to explain, but he needn't continue.
Rulf nods sagely. "Money. Yeah. A married man's gotta think about his finan—finan—future." His statement is interrupted with belches. "I been thinkin' about gettin' married too. A little gal that works for the duke."
Fort snorts into his beer. "Little? She's six foot three."
"To us, that's little," Rulf guffaws.
"Aw, who'd wanna marry a one-armed harecop that smells like a cow and thinks like a tortoise?" the barkeeper mutters.
Rulf's fist, as big as the barkeeper's head, is offered in reply. "I might be one-armed, but this one arm can knock you clear to Avonlea."
"Aw, shut up." The barkeeper moves down the counter to other customers.
"Somebody's gotta open a new tavern in this town," Bae complains.
"Hey, lemme look at that drink he poured you." Fort snatches away Rumple's barely-tasted tankard, sniffs at the ale, then makes a noisy show of tasting it. "Yeah, like I thought. He watered yours down to about half of what he poured for us, 'cause he knows you won't know the difference."
"Or complain about it if you did," Rulf adds.
"Don't start something," Rumple warns. "This is a special occasion. Don't ruin it with a fight."
"Aw, hell, what good's a tavern night if you don't get one good fight out of it?" Rulf chuckles.
"'Cause you're my friend," Fort relents, "I won't start nothin', but I wish you would. People like him take advantage of you, Rum. I don't like to see it; you're a good guy what deserves better."
"It's. . . the way it's always been," Rumple answers in a low voice, desperate to change the subject, especially with his son here. "So, Bae, has Morraine decided when the wedding will be?"
"The day after my birthday." He grins. "The day after I'm inducted."
"Practical girl," Rumple approves. "I know she probably has some ideas for her wedding dress, but I'd like to make it, as my wedding gift."
"She'll like that. 'Raine's all thumbs when it comes to sewing. She'll like that a lot."
"I'd like to make something for you, too."
"I'll be wearing my uniform, but I'm going to need it taken in. The army tailor makes just one size: extra long. Then he hands you a pair of scissors and expects you to lop off the extra."
"I'll be glad to do that." There will be another gift, something Rumple has secreted away, stored all these years in a trunk at Gretchen's, but Rumple won't take it out until the day Bae announces the birth of his first child: it's the blanket that Rumple began weaving with his hand spinner while he was in the army hospital, recovering from his shattered ankle. A baby blanket.
"I appreciate it, Papa." He may be a soldier and the observer (if not fighter) of two battles, but Baelfire is not above hugging his father in public.
Rumple raises his tankard in the air and their friends do the same. Watered-down ale and insults aside, it's a great night and he's going to acknowledge it. "To the happy couple."
"Happy couple!" Rulf and Fort echo, gulping their beer.
"And to our friends" is Rumple's second toast.
"Good friends!" "Gotta have friends." "Aye, man's rich if he's got friends."
A pounding at the door drags Rumple from his dreams (luxuriously silky auburn curls being tossed over a creamy shoulder) and from his bed. His heart pounding in time to the knock, Rumple struggles to catch his breath—Bae? Is it Bae?—as he grabs his cane and manages to avoid stepping on the cat, who doesn't seem to hear the pounding. A groan from the other pallet, followed by snuffling and coughing (Bae had two full tankards last night) reassures Rumple that the pounding is not a death announcement from the crown. Before he can yank on his trousers, the door jerks open and two bears sashay in—no, big men in fur coats, because there's a layer of new snow on the ground, as Rumple can see through the open door. The man in the lead bellows, "Rumplestiltskin! Baelfire!" as he pulls his hood back to reveal a wind-reddened face and bright eyes fringed with frosted lashes.
"Your Majesty!" Rumple turns equally red-faced, but for another reason: he is literally caught with his pants down. He doesn't know whether to bow first and then pull his pants up or vice versa. He tries for both.
With a yowl, Bae shoots out of his pallet, dragging the blanket along (the cat chases after it). He wraps himself in it to cover his longjohns. "Your Majesty!" His tongue sounds coated in wool.
The second man holds out his arms. "May I take your coat, sire?"
"Yeah, looks like we'll be here a while." Maurice lets the man take the bear-fur coat. Stamping his boots on the wood floor, the King slaps his arms. "Fine day for a ride, gentlemen. Brisk."
"Y-y-your Majesty, excuse our state of undress." Rumple's voice is muffled as he yanks on his tunic. "We were out rather late last night."
"Undress excused." Maurice rubs his nose with the back of his hand. "I come unannounced. Rude of me, that's what Her Majesty said, but this is too good to wait."
"Oh?" is all Rumple can manage. Like a clown he's standing there with the ties of his tunic in each hand. A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach overtakes him as he's consumed by a possible explanation for news "too good to wait": Belle must be getting married.
Bae has the presence of mind to stir the embers and greet the second man: "Lieutenant Fendral! Good to see you, sir. Almost didn't recognize you under that grizzly."
Fendral chuckles and spreads Maurice's coat on the rocking chair so that it can dry. He drapes his own coat on a hook near the door. "We won't need 'em for long. We're headed south." So it's not an impending wedding for Belle, after all.
"Back to Bogamir," Maurice explains. From Bae's letters, Rumple knows that's in the mountainous south. "But we had a foot of snow last night in Avonlea, hence the coats."
"Cup of tea, sire?" Bae doesn't wait for an answer: he puts the kettle on and rinses out the two mugs for their guests and two bowls for himself and his father.
"Will you be seated, sire? You too, Lieutenant."
"Captain," Maurice corrects. "I promoted him last night."
"Congratulations, Fendral!" Bae cheers.
"Thanks, Bae."
Rumple has reason once again to be grateful for the small legal jobs he's been doing that have added honey and rosemary tea to their larder. He brings down their precious commodities, along with bread and jam, from the cupboard. "Did you breakfast yet?"
"We left in a rush. Threw some dried fruit and jerky in a bag and off we went." Maurice plops down on the bench at the dining table. "We'd be glad of a little something."
Following long years of practice, Rumple and Bae assume their individual cooking duties, putting on a pot of oatmeal, some eggs and bacon. "You were saying, sire, about Bogamir?" Bae prompts.
"Aye." Stretching out his long legs, the King groans and rubs his knee. "The cold gets into a man's bones. Anyway, Bogamir. As you know, Rumple, Fendral here and your son led a squad down to Bogamir to scout battle locations. Found 'em."
"A good many canyons perfect for our purposes," Fendral adds.
"Now Darain's got a fightin' herd of ogre rounded up and pointed south. It's their biggest herd." Rumple wonders why the King has chosen that term for the group of ogres: wouldn't squad or platoon be more accurate? "When I say 'biggest,' I don't just mean in number. These are prime fighters: on average, a full foot taller than the typical ogre. We got most of the herds cleared out of the north; we think they're throwing their best at us in a final attempt at victory." Maurice takes a swig from the steaming mug Bae sets before him; he's oblivious to his burnt tongue. "Gentlemen, it may be too soon to declare an end to this war, but—that declaration may not be far off."
Bae hoots, fist pumping the air, and Maurice chuckles. Rumple's never known a time when the kingdom wasn't at war, but with a wedding in the works, he's eager to experience peace—and a little prosperity.
"We're headed down there now to help Darain." Maurice licks the honey from his spoon. "We think it'll go quickly—the actual fighting, that is. Treaty negotiations, now, that's another thing. That's where you come in, Rumple. If you're willing and able."
His knees buckling, Rumple dares to sit down at the table, though his monarch hasn't invited him to. "Me, sire? How can I help?"
"I'd like for you to come along. Help us figure out how to communicate with them. We can't negotiate when we can't communicate."
Rumple swallows hard. "Uh. . . .No man has ever communicated with an ogre. Or vice versa. As far as we know."
"You'll be the first, just like you were the first to figure out about their hearing range." Maurice leans forward to peer at Rumple, who avoids his gaze. "Apart from Belle, you know more about ogres than anyone in the kingdom. We need you, Rumple. Chasing them out is one thing, but keeping them out is another. There's a call among the nobles to pursue the ogres out of the kingdom. Chase 'em down and kill every last one of them. There's some merit to the idea, I have to admit."
"This is the third Ogre War," Rumple observes. "Each time, regardless of who's won, the ogres reemerge."
"A treaty is our last measure before we pursue a slash-and-burn strategy. We don't know if we can broker a deal: we don't even know if they're smart enough to understand the concept, let alone keep any promises. But we have to try. It's the right thing to do." Maurice leans back in his chair, welcoming the plate of bacon and eggs Bae offers. "Gods help us if we give up our decency for a killing spree."
"Besides, we've seen what ogres can do when they're cornered. The cost of a never-ending ogre hunt will destroy us, in terms of life as well as taxes," Fendral explains.
"That's not the legacy I want to leave my daughter." Maurice picks at the eggs, suddenly not hungry. "Not how I want my people to remember me, the way they remember the Bloody King."
"She can be a wonderful ruler," Rumple agrees, "but she must inherit a kingdom worth inheriting."
"We are men, not beasts. We must conduct ourselves humanely in victory as well as in loss," Maurice surmises. "Rumplestiltskin, come and help us. I'll give you a battlefield commission and any aid you need—starting with your son."
"Lieutenant Rumplestiltskin," Bae grins, serving plates to Fendral and his father.
"I, ah," Rumple searches his thoughts. "I don't like this any more than you will, sire, but I need Belle too. It's her, not me, who knows more about ogres than anyone in the kingdom."
"We'll have a runner. Send messages back and forth," Maurice relents that far. "The Duke of Bogamir has a castle on the border, some fifty miles from the canyon we intend to use. We'll headquarter Belle there, if she's willing. And I'm sure she will be."
"A relay of riders could cover that distance in half a day," Fendral points out.
"Her mother will throw a fit, but if Belle's going to command troops, I suppose she should have some preparation for it."
"You'd have to lock her up in a convent to keep her away. Even then—"
Maurice snorts. "She's likely to punch out the nuns and run away."
Rumple's heart swells with pride for Belle, though he has no right to feel that way. He'll dream tonight not of luxurious auburn hair but of her soft hands. . . clenched in fists that fly in sanctimonious faces.
"Papa?" Bae is nudging him. "Are you going to accept? I'm going with them, regardless, but if you want to go, I'll pack your bag."
What can he say? He feels his own fists forming at the thought of his son and his. . .his. . .Belle in a danger zone while he's at home sitting by the fireside with his cat. He's neither swordsman or archer, but he figures he can distract any ogres that might threaten a boy or a princess. "Pack the bag, Bae."