The odor nearly knocks Rumple off his army boots. The first thing he notices is that the creature has wet its pants—the second thing he notices is that he has, too. He can see the stain spreading across the ogre's ragged trousers; he raises his eyes—the creature is a head taller than he is—past a stained burlap tunic to a quivering chin to a flat nose with flaring nostrils to soot-stained cheeks to a round, bald head. . . to large round blue eyes.
Later, he'll reflect that if the eyes had been another color, or narrow and squinty, he would have spun and run, as best he could in the snow and the rocks, with his ill-fitting boots and his aching ankle. And he would have expected to be grabbed, crushed, bashed against the rocks and torn asunder for a hearty meal. Except when the ogre peels its lips back in a snarl, he sees it has only two teeth, on the bottom jaw, and he suspects it's not yet capable of tearing flesh from bone. With a hasty glance about at the strewn bodies, he realizes this ogre is barely a third the size of average: a child. And then there are those sky blue eyes. Before he can stop himself, his left hand rises, palm up, and extends itself as if to touch the leathery cheek.
The ogre quivers.
He can't stop himself. Some instinct drives him, as a father who sees a frightened baby in need of care; for a second, the parental spirit in his soul demands he protect this child, regardless of its size, species or smell. Slowly, so as not to startle, he releases the pouch from his shoulder, withdraws from it his waterskin, uncaps the skin and offers it. The ogre sniffs at the waterskin dutifully, licks its lips, but makes no move, so Rumple brings the waterskin to his mouth and drinks, demonstrating. When he offers the skin again the ogre merely cocks its head, turning its right ear toward Rumple.
"Oh," Rumple says softly, remembering ogres' blindness. He stretches the waterskin out as far toward the ogre's nose as his arm will go, until the creature catches on and snatches the canteen away.
The ogre tosses its contents back in a single gulp. Of course it's not enough for such a large creature; Rumple will have to find more water. He scans the creature's body for injuries but finds none apparent, thankfully: he knows nothing about the effects of human medicines on ogre babies. "We'll have to find you clean clothes," he says softly. "And food." He shudders as the thought strikes him: to this beast, Rumple would be food—well, not until its teeth come in.
"I'm a sentimental fool."
He knows what he's supposed to do: in his pouch is a mirror to be used for signaling. By angling it, he can catch sunbeams and reflect them back as flickers of light against the sky. He knows only one signal- long flash-flicker-long flash—but that's enough to summon help.
Help of the fighting kind, archers and swordsmen. Just the kind of help he'd want against an ogre, but not the kind he wants against a child. He'd rather have Fendral here, who'd ask questions first before shooting, but the only way to summon the Captain is by shouting—a very stupid idea in the presence of a nervous ogre. Or, gods help him, he'd rather have Belle here, so they could use their combined knowledge of the species to figure out together what to do.
He needs to buy time to think. He's a clever and inventive man, but not quick-witted like Belle. He reaches into his pouch for a small packet of food meant to provide some nourishment for wounded soldiers. There's a half-loaf of bread, some apples and a hunk of cheese, enough to make a meal for a man, but barely a swallow for an ogre, as he finds out when he offers the bread in an open palm. He doesn't even know if ogres will eat processed food, since they live in the wild and eat raw.
He finds out in an instant they do. Like any hungry child, this ogre will apparently consume anything in a gulp. Licking its chops, the ogre sniffs at his hands in obvious hope of more. He takes a step backwards, least the beast bite his fingers off. The ogre shuffles forward a step.
Oh. He takes another step back, this time waving the cheese under the ogre's nose. The creature inches forward, sniffing and drooling. Another step from him, another step from the ogre. It's like leading a stray dog. When the ogre hesitates and tips its head in confusion, he lets it have a bit of cheese. Its long tongue, swishing against his palm to catch every crumb, is rough like a cat's, and like a cat it seems to understand the importance of not biting the hand that's feeding it.
It's a slow procession as he and the ogre make their way up the least sloping trail up to the lip of the canyon. He estimates the journey will take more than an hour; his food supply won't hold out then. He has to come up with another plan. The next time the ogre pauses, he whistles at her—for convenience, he's starting to think of the beast as a female—the same little whistle he used to use to summon Midnight. He walks away and she follows. He keeps whistling, switching to a cheerful tune—are ogres capable of feeling cheerful?—and walking sideways, watching her through his peripheral vision; reminding himself that being blind, she won't be threatened by his staring, as another animal might. (Is that what she is, an animal? Or another class of being?)
She casts her head from side to side, taking in all the sounds around her, jerking and shuddering when she hears something that upsets her (half of what she reacts to, he can't hear at all). Periodically she whines deep in her throat and sniffs the wind—seeking her mother? Or would that be father? No one knows anything about the family structure of this species. And still she follows Rumple, accepting apples and cheese from him; the longer they walk, the closer her footsteps follow his. He realizes she's becoming dependent upon him. . .expecting him to protect her. . . .The realization twists his gut when he thinks what the archers or swordsmen might do to her. He has to make certain they don't get to her first.
An idea strikes him and he tries it out, just a little: he switches from whistling to singing, softly, but when she doesn't appear put off by it, he sings louder. His song doesn't rhyme or stay in rhythm, but it does carry a message: "Captain Fendral, come to me, this is Rumplestiltskin/Captain Fendral, come immediately, I have a prisoner following me/Captain Fendral, right away. . . ."
Walking and singing, walking and singing and occasionally feeding. One bat from her huge hand and she could knock his head off his shoulders. One stomp from her huge feet and she could crush his chest. "Captain Fendral, come to me, this is Rumplestiltskin/Captain Fendral, come quietly, don't scare off my prisoner. . . ."
It seems to take forever, but eventually, from behind a boulder, a voice answers him in song, "Rumplestiltskin, it's Fendral, and I can see your prisoner/I'm over here behind this rock so bring her over this way."
Rumple tries to keep walking, but the ogre startles at the new voice and freezes in her tracks.
"What do you intend to do?" Rumple sings back. He has to fight to keep his tone cheerful: "She's only a baby so don't shoot her."
"Sleeping potion's on my arrows, she'll only take a nap/We can get her in a cage and all of us will be safe."
Rumple stops and holds out his hands toward the ogre, temporarily forgetting she can't see. She hears him stop, though, and sniffs in his direction, hoping for an apple. "She's only a baby, that potion's too strong/Fendral, please don't shoot her."
"Rumplestiltskin, we have no choice/She will surely kill you/Bring her closer, we'll take a chance/I can hit her in the foot/Bring her over here."
The spinner isn't sure that an arrow shot in her foot will inject any less potion into her system. He's also not sure he can urge her any closer to that strange voice; she's already sniffing the air in that direction and growling, her lips pulling back to expose her two teeth. Rumple sings to her, begging her to calm down, and she whines at him. He has half a mind to turn her around and make her flee.
Behind him he hears a rustle, a thunk and a hiss, and he knows it's too late. He glances back to find Fendral standing, bow vibrating in his hands. "Oh, Fendral," Rumple moans, dropping into a crouch, his arms and his cane slung over his head for protection. A roar splits the air. Any second now he's going to feel those claws sink into his back or that hammy hand slash him into the rocks. He's a dead man and Fendral will be next and then every soul in the camp up there. He hears Fendral ready another arrow.
But there's no attack, just a thump, and the ground shakes. Rumple peeks out from beneath his arms. She's landed on her butt, clasping her injured foot with one hand and grasping the arrow with the other. She's sobbing, and when she's removed the arrow and tossed it aside, she struggles to get to her knees but slips and lands back on her butt. She cocks her head in his direction and holds out her hand, whimpering.
He curses. It's a stupid thing to do—he's worked around wounded animals, both wild and tame, plenty of times, so he knows better, but he crawls to her, just out of her reach. She sniffs at him and he jerks his head back in fear, but she's still crying.
From behind the boulder, Fendral hisses, "What are you doing?"
Slowly, pleading with her for patience, Rumple brings a bandage from his medical pack and pours whisky on it to moisten it. He edges forward on his knees, holding up the bandage, letting her sniff it—she opens her mouth as if to eat it, and he chuckles. He starts telling her a story about the day four-year-old Bae tried to ride a ram and got bit for his troubles. As he applies the bandage to her wound, he describes the bandage he applied to Bae's wound, then he sings her the soothing song he sang to Bae. He ends with "I'm a bloody fool."
The ogre rocks herself back and forth, snuffling, her head cocked in Rumple's direction. She lets him wrap her foot—it takes every bandage in his pack. She seems to understand she shouldn't pick at the bandage. (Do the ogres have some sort of first aid? Do they soothe their crying children?) The two of them sit back on their haunches and listen/watch each other as the sleeping potion gradually takes affect and she stops crying and her blind eyes close. "You'll be all right. I promise," Rumple glares over his shoulder at Fendral, who's lowered his bow and is simply gawping. "I give you my word, I will protect you."
Her rocking stops, then her shoulders slump, then she slides onto her side and just before she passes into sleep, he strokes her arm, like he used to do for Bae. Then she does something six-year-old Bae used to do, and it wrenches his heart: she pops her thumb in her mouth and sucks on it.
The battle may be over, but by orders of Darain, the celebrating will have to wait. Grumbling, the warriors and whistleblowers are sent out with tools and sleds to drag the dead ogres into the center of the canyon. The dead and wounded humans are loaded into wagons to be taken back to their villages; the winter will slow the decay of the bodies, for which Maurice expresses gratitude. He knows firsthand how important it is to a family to be able to say goodbye by means of a funeral. The ogre bodies are stacked and burned; to bury them in the rock would be impossible.
Reports come in from all the platoons. There are no other prisoners, though there were two escapees. Darain sets guards, just in case; General Celvin believes that the ogres possess sufficient intelligence to "know when they're licked" but Carac claims that revenge means more to them than their own lives. Of the humans, eighteen of the twenty from Bogamir will return home on stretchers; a rider is being sent ahead to warn the castle so that the Duchess and Belle can prepare rooms and remedies. The Home Guard has suffered two losses, for whom Bae and the other squires grieve; Favian will return to Avonlea without a master. He'll be given the choice of being reassigned or mustering out, and right now, his grief is so heavy he's expected to go home and join his uncle's carpentry business. When word goes round that as soon as all the burials have been attended to and the wounded are stabilized, the three generals will take their troops home, cheers are slow to come. "I've seen this over and over," a battle-weary major mutters into his coffee. Freshly washed and dressed in a clean uniform, Rumple, seated beside him at the campfire and poking at a plate of meatless chili, isn't sure if the major is addressing him or just talking to himself. "It never gets easier."
"Will they get over it?"
"They'll pretend they have, as soon as they reach their home cities. They'll celebrate and be celebrated. They'll tell their stories—some of them will; others will refuse to talk about it—and they'll pick up their pension packets once a month, and they'll try to focus on their farms or their businesses and their families, but sometimes it'll just hit 'em. Middle of the night, or middle of dinner, or when they're drinking with their buddies or going to church with their kids. It'll just hit 'em." He doesn't explain what it is; Rumple has experienced it too.
He finishes the chili, though he can't taste it; his body needs the nourishment and will need sleep soon. But before he can crawl into the officers' tent, Bae comes running. "Where do you get all that energy, son?" Rumple muses.
"Oh, I'll crash tonight, no doubt about it," Bae confesses. "But the ogre's awake. Thought you'd want to see it before you turn in."
He grabs his cane and lets Bae help him to stand. Limping towards the north edge of the camp, he catches his frosty breath to ask, "What're they doing do her?"
Bae peers at him oddly. "Her? How do you know it's a her?"
"I don't. Just guessing."
"Wouldn't you rather know what she's doing to them?"
"Both. Both matter."
"She's just sitting in the middle of the cage, doing nothing. Still kind of sleepy, I guess."
"Lucky that potion didn't kill her. It's meant to take down a full-grown male, three times her size," he complains. He has to pause a moment and lean on his cane—until Bae slides an arm under his shoulders and allows him to lean on him.
"Remember, Papa, she might be a baby, but she's still capable of ripping any one of us apart."
"What are they doing to her?" He knows that an entire platoon has moved their tents to the north edge and ten solders at a time are standing guard, some with sleeping potion-tipped arrows, some with fairy-blessed arrows poised at the ogre's eyes (blue eyes, like a baby's, or like Belle's).
As he rounds the bend he can see the cage, with its ten poised guards. The ogre has clambered to her feet—she's listing to the left, keeping her weight off her wounded foot, and in answer his ankle nearly gives out in a stab of sudden pain. "You'll get used to it, and then it will heal," he says softly, approaching the cage.
"What will heal?" Bae asks, assuming his father was addressing him.
There are grumbles as he pushes through the guards and walks right up to the bars of the cage, but he hears someone say, "That's Stiltskin," and the identification is sufficient for the soldiers to let him pass. As he wraps his hands around the freezing iron bars, someone else says, "Ogre expert."
"You need water and food."
Bae takes this comment as a command; he grabs one of the other squires and they hurry off to the cookfire. But one of the soldiers suggests the ogre will be more manageable if it's left unfed and unwatered. Weakened, it won't be as dangerous.
"If you think that, you're a fool," Rumple snaps at him. "You ever gone without food and water for an extended period of time? Makes you crazy, doesn't it?"
"Sure," another soldier agrees with the Ogre Expert. "It's like with a wild dog, Harry. Fill their belly and they're less vicious."
"Well, we shouldn't be wasting our precious resources on one of them."
"Shouldn't we?" A booming voice interrupts the argument and Maurice appears, though keeping well out of reach of the cage. "This little ogre is a blessing in disguise, gentlemen and ladies. It's going to lead us to its king, so we can negotiate an end to these bloody awful wars."
"What if it don't? What if they ain't smart enough to negotiate? We ain't even seen signs that they can talk."
"Well, then we'll kill it," a soldier sneers. "And make a meal of it, like they do us. Right, Your Majesty?"
"We only kill it if we have to," Maurice answers grimly. "We can learn from it, and maybe it can learn from us. That's how wars end, people. Not with swords and poison arrows. Three ogre wars should be enough to make that obvious."
"Yes, Your Majesty," soldiers mumble. But Rumple suspects that some of these soldiers will look for opportunities to fabricate a "have to" situation. Whether it's revenge or fear, they'll want an excuse to kill the captive.
"I won't let that happen," he says softly to her, and she replies with a small whimper. "Someone bring her blankets."
"While you men and women are standing guard, you could make yourselves useful, observing this creature. Anything you observe—anything she does, any sounds she makes—see if any of it has any meaning. You never know what information might be useful," Maurice orders.
"How the hell—pardon, sire—how the heck are we supposed to know what something means? This is a monster, not a dog or a horse that can make sense."
"Observe the creature's actions and sounds and report it to the Lieutenant here."
"Her," Rumple corrects, his eyes fastened on the captive. Both his lack of eye contact with the king and his correction are rude; he should speak to his sovereign with courtesy, but etiquette seems to have slipped his mind. "It's a female, sire."
"Maybe we should give her a name," Bae suggests. He's panting as he drags a cart up to the cage; Favian is behind him with a second cart.
Someone snorts, but Rumple gives the suggestion serious thought. "She already has one. We just need to find out what it is."
"How do we get the water into the cage?" Favian ponders, for that's what he's brought, a keg. "If we open the lock she'll attack us."
"No it won't." Harry raises his bow, aiming an arrow at the ogre's right eye. "Go on, beastie, give me a reason. Just give me a reason."
"She won't attack," Maurice decides. "Look at her. She's shaking."
"I'll talk to her," Rumple promises, "keep her calm while one of you opens the lock. Then just roll the cart in. But uncork the keg first so she can drink from it." He begins to speak to the ogre as Favian obeys his command. He tells her a bedtime story that always worked for Bae; he ignores the snorts of derision and the sarcastic comments. "What, gonna sing her a lullaby next?" Harry sneers. Apparently Fendral has not revealed Rumple's method for luring the ogre in.
"Corporal Harry, unless you want latrine duty for the duration, you'll refrain from interfering with our expert's techniques."
"But sire, I'm a sergeant—"
"One more word and you're not."
Harry clamps his mouth and lowers his bow. But the other soldiers stand ready as the cage is unlocked and the two carts are pushed in. Just as quickly, the gate is shut and relocked.
"Worked," someone grunts. "She didn't move a hair."
"Bring my pallet here," Rumple asks Bae.
"You're going to sleep here, Papa? In the snow?"
"I think that's wise. Bring your father a double set of blankets." Maurice claps Rumple's shoulder. "And I'll bring him a pot of tea."
Eyebrows rise in the moonlight: the King will serve tea to a spinner. Even more surprising, when he does, he seats himself beside Rumple on the pallet and they talk quietly about ogres and treaties and the history of warfare until late into the night, as soldiers stand poised with bows. Every so often, the name Belle is mentioned, just as often by one man as by the other, but of course nothing personal is said. Finally the King rises, complaining of his cold bones, and heads off to bed.
Rumple draws his blankets about his shoulders, smiling a little as the ogre mirrors him. When he lies down, she lies down.
"Mind if I join you?" Bae appears, his pallet and blankets under his arms. He settles in; he doesn't need to wait for an answer. The last thing he says before he falls asleep is "I'm proud to be your kid, Lieutenant Papa."