They're calling her "beast" and "monster" and "maneater." Oh, not all of them—not the King, who refers to her as "the ogre," or the generals, who refer to her as "the prisoner," and not Bae and Fendral, who have observed the species more closely than most humans and have mixed feelings about them, especially this one, which they recognize as barely more than an infant. But enough of the Home Guard speak of the ogre in terms that place her kind beneath all other living beings; they seem to think worms have more intelligence and decency—and right to live—than ogres. She hears them, of course, as they taunt her, and from the way she presses herself tight against the farthest bars of the cage, Rumple swears that she's capable of interpreting their tone if not their words. He has to remind himself that these soldiers have just cause for their anger—and that, in another year or so, when she has a full set of teeth and a fully developed digestive system, she really would become a maneater.

But for the present, he worries that some of the soldiers might try to act on their hatred. All would it would take would be a single arrow between her eyes, some night after Maurice had retired to his tent and Rumple and Bae had nodded off on their pallets at the side of her cage. He speaks to Maurice of his concerns, who, in the presence of the entire company, issues orders to Darain, Celvin and Carac that any soldier caught harming the prisoner in any way is to be court-martialed on the spot. Everyone knows, however, how quickly and silently an arrow can be shot. Some of these soldiers, Rumple realizes, will never overcome their prejudices, but perhaps a few can be turned. He understands how massive a challenge this will be, better than anyone. He's been dehumanized himself much of his life. He knows there are two ways he could go about discouraging her tormentors: fear—he can prod her to attempt to attack, so they can see just how powerful she is—and affection. The latter will be much more time consuming but much more effective. He can inspire positive feelings for her, if he can get them to see the ogre as a living being with a heart and a mind and a personality, not unlike the dogs that they've left behind at home, guarding their families and their homes, and the horses that have carried them safely in and out of battle. It's harder to hate a being you've come to know.

The first step is to give her a name. The name will de-objectify her. He reflects back to the names by which bullies have addressed him, Hobblefoot, Spindleshanks, and Triped, among the more colorful, but never his real name. To call him by his actual name, he came to understand, would be to humanize him, and humanizing a victim would make it harder to justify bullying him. So the ogre must have a name, if only a temporary one until they learn to speak to her and find out her real name.

The haters don't trust him—they call him "ogre lover" behind his back—but they have great affection for their young squires, so Rumple invites Favian, Tristan and Bae to come up with a name for her and to announce it at lunch. He can't force the soldiers to use the new name, but enough of them will, he believes, for it to catch on.

The second step is to clean her up, so the soldiers have fewer excuses for insulting her. As he watches her, he can see she will welcome a chance to wash and change her clothes; she plucks at them woefully, stained and torn and stiff from the dried urine and melted snow. It reminds him of Baby Bae, who, before he learned language, would strip off his dirty diapers and run around the yard naked, even in winter, too independent to cry for help as most babies would, and too proud to ignore his own filth. When the barrel of water was rolled into her cage last night, she scooped up handfuls of it and splashed her face and feet, and rolled up her pants as far as the knee so she could wash her legs. She grabbed the hem of her tunic—who sews the ogres' clothes, he wonders—and turning her back to the soldiers, started to lift the shirt as if to remove it, then stopped suddenly, hung her head and slumped to the ground, giving up on the bath. Why? Had modesty or the cold stopped her?

He wonders what the ogres use for soap and tooth powder. He wonders if ogres lick their newborns clean, like a cat or a sheep would, or do they prepare a warm bath and gently lower the kicking and giggling infant into the water, like a human would—like he had, so many times, until the sad day came that four-year-old Bae announced he was old enough now that he could bathe himself ("but don't go far, Papa," he pleaded, "'cause I might need you." "No, no, I'll never go far," Rumple had sworn.) He wonders if ogres tuck their children in at night and tell them bedtime stories to ward off nightmares of evil ogre-eating humans. He remembers every story he'd ever read to Bae from their tiny and limp book collection, and most of the stories he'd made up for Bae. He wonders if ogre papas give their little ones piggyback rides—he'd managed it with Bae, despite the walking stick, until Bae became too tall and heavy. He wonders if ogres kiss.

He wonders if any of the other soldiers, his comrades, wonder about any of these things. Some of them have wives and husbands and children at home; surely they must wonder about the life this ogre child lived until yesterday, until she became a caged object of ridicule and barely contained rage.

"Bring me my civilian clothes," he asks Bae. The lad's face falls and his question is written clearly on his face: Is Rumple quitting the military? Giving up and going home? "For her," he nods toward the cage. "She needs some clean clothes." With relief Bae scampers off. And yes, the clothes are clean: the squires see to that, gathering up the officers' dirty clothes and doing a wash every morning. The generals insist upon it, even in winter, as well as daily splash-ups, if not proper, full-body baths, because they know how important it is to physical and mental health. ("We may be warriors," Celvin likes to say, "but we will always conduct ourselves as gentlemen and ladies.")

Rumple isn't sure the clothes will fit the ogre. She's a bit taller than he is, but she's scrawny like him; when she started to lift her tunic, he could see her ribcage protruding. Starved, he thinks. He will order a gradual increase in her daily feedings, though it means extra work for the soldiers—but then, other than stand guard and scour the hills for game, they don't have much to do. Trackers have reported back the runaway ogres beat a direct path west, and there are no fresh signs of other ogres nearby. "Just wolves, hungry from the winter," an archer grumbles, "killing off our venison."

When the clothes arrive, he's presented with a new problem: he can't communicate his intention with the ogre. He remembers how he did it with Bae, before Bae could talk: he'd hold up an object and pronounce its name distinctly, over and over, and Bae would mimic him. "Shirt," he'd say, holding one up. He'd slip it over his head. "I'm putting the shirt on." "Dirt," Bae would fumble with the word; sometimes his thumb, stuck in his mouth, got in the way. "No, Bae, shirt. Say 'shirt.'" "Dirt." "No, shirt." Until Rumple gave up and switched to an easier word: "Pants, Bae. These are pants. Say 'pants.'" Even for words he could pronounce, Bae always caught on, right away, as did Morraine and all the babies in the village. Teaching the words for tangible objects and actions was simple enough, but Rumple never did figure how the babies went from understanding "shirt" to understanding "tell the truth" or "play fair" or "be considerate." Somehow they just absorbed it. But the village babies had the advantage of eyesight. How, Rumple fretted, does one teach a blind member of another species how to understand words?

"Bring me paper and ink," he asks Bae. "I must write to Belle." Communicating with her, even if just in writing, always clarifies his thoughts. He sets the clothes aside and picks up the pen Bae fetches him, and lowering himself carefully onto a flat boulder, he writes. The sunlight is blinding his eyes when, three pages later, he finally sets the pen down. He looks up again at the ogre. She's been "watching" him—try as he might, he can't perceive it any other way; she "watches" him through her ears—the entire time. He understands this. It's not just that she's imprinted upon him, as a lost lamb might; it's that he's her sole lifeline in a crowd of bullies, any one of which could slay her in three seconds, if he walked away. He has no doubt that, blind or not, child or not, she understands what these soldiers did to her herd—to her tribe, he corrects himself. If he is to chip away at the hatred, he must use human terms when he speaks to others about her.

Another realization hits him and chills him like a strong northern wind: he must show no fear of her. More: he must demonstrate that he trusts her. He swallows hard at that realization and he buys himself another minute as he writes it in his letter to Belle. If only she were here. . . .He stands, pretending he can hear her voice, encouraging and calming him as he walks forward, leaning extra heavily on his cane. If only she were standing beside him, her arm on his, their banter bouncing back and forth cheerfully, exchanging observations, debating what they mean, making plans. If only she were here, he could be brave for her. At least there is Bae, leaning on the bars and gazing into the cage as he approaches. Bae, then: Rumple can be brave for Bae. Slinging the clean clothes over his shoulder, he waves the leader of the guard over. "Unlock the cage."

"Why? It's not feeding time," she sputters. She has a strong southern accent and a broad, friendly face, but her kindness is only for humans. She's been among the most vocal advocates for killing the ogre—"executing the prisoner," she calls it, "before it can attack us."

"We need the carts, for when it is feeding time." He points to the two carts they'd shoved into the cage last night.

"I ain't—"

"No, corporal. I am."

Now two mouths drop open. "Sir—" "Papa—"

"Open the cage, then close it immediately behind me." With his eyes he tries to convey a plea to Bae: Support me in this, son. Help me be brave. And that makes him wonder how ogre parents convey unspoken messages to their children. Is there such a thing as tenderness and affection among the species?

Bae is the one who takes the key from the corporal's hip. "Yes, sir." He lifts his chin as he opens the lock. His eyes fasten on the ogre—the corporal snaps her fingers at her squad and they raise their bows—and he swings the cage door open. Rumple tightens his grip on his cane and limps inside. The door clangs shut behind him and for a moment, he feels trapped. Oh, but her nostrils flutter rapidly, drawing in his scent, and her body trembles, then shakes as he moves toward her, one slow, firm step at a time. She's crouched in a corner, her back to the bars, her knees pulled up to protect her chest. She's a baby, he reminds himself, practically toothless, and she can't digest meat, let alone tear it from the bone, and she recognizes him as her guardian in a confusing and dangerous world. As, almost, a parent.

He begins to sing to her. Behind him some of the soldiers guffaw. "That's it, Papa," Bae says quietly, as much to block out the derisive laughter as to encourage him. But there's a tenderness in Bae's voice because he recognizes the lullaby; it was his favorite, after Milah left.

The ogre lowers her knees. Her nostrils are still fluttering, but she's breathing more easily now. He keeps singing as he inches forward. He takes his clean tunic from his shoulder—its rough wool comforts him; he remembers clearly the day he spun it. She can't see him—he has such trouble remembering that—but he holds it out to her, sort of a flag of peace. He finishes the lullaby and starts it over. A small whimper escapes her but she stops shaking. When he is three feet from her he stops. She still stinks and though she's a baby still, the muscles of her arms are more impressive than any he's ever displayed himself. He can imagine Fort wanting to arm wrestle her—if not kill her, in revenge for her species taking Rulf's arm and Jarin's and Tarrin's lives.

Fort and Rulf would be proud of Rumple now. They'd raise a beer in his honor, if they knew what he was doing.

He stops singing and starts talking, the tunic outstretched. "Shirt. This is a shirt. Say 'shirt,' child. 'Shirt.'" She makes no sound, but her mouth stretches and gradually, the corners rise. "Oh my gods," he mutters. "You're smiling."

Ogres can smile. He wants to rush out of the cage, jump on a horse and gallop for Bogamir City to shout it to Belle. But that would be ridiculous, his analytic mind sneers. Just as ridiculous as thinking that a blind species would smile. Why would they, when they can't see each other's faces? But that's what she's doing.

Slowly, noisily, so he won't startle her, makes the last step toward her. He rubs the shirt against her arm so she can feel its texture, then presses it into her hand. Her long dirty fingernails (not quite fingernails, not quite claws) dig into it. He holds still just a moment, the stillness calming her, then he lets his hand drop away. She's holding the shirt now. Her fingertips rub against the fabric. Now it's his turn to smile: it's almost as if she's judging the quality of the weave. "Everybody's a critic," he says to her. "Don't judge my work until you can do better."

The tension drops out of her shoulders.

He dares to touch her elbow, lightly at first, but when she doesn't strike out or pull away, he touches her more firmly, pulling up. "Stand up, child. Let's get you dressed."

She doesn't react. She doesn't understand. He tugs at her more insistently. Her skin is rough and thick. Those muscles are powerful. She could pick him up and toss him against the bars. But she won't; he's sure of that. He keeps talking, explaining what he wants.

At last she catches on and scrambles to her feet. He takes a step backward, giving her space. When's she steady, he tugs at the hem of her tunic. "Off, let's take it off, put on this clean shirt. You'll feel much better."

It's a slow go, whether it's her not understanding him or her modesty, but an hour later, he's got in clean clothes and he's tossed hers into a cart, to be washed. She will feel a little more secure when she can have her own clothes back.

He remembers Bae's security toy, a stuffed lamb that Rumple had made for him; it had comforted him after Milah left, and even before. He wonders if ogre children have toys. He's worn out and sweating by the time his former trousers are rope-belted to her hips.

But she's smiling. Definitely smiling.

Singing to her, he takes a few steps backwards, then turns away. His back is to her now; she could easily strike him. Looking out of the cage, he sees the guards nock arrows. He shakes his head, dismissing them, and leaning on his cane—he's so tired now—his bad foot dragging, he makes his way out. Bae dashes in to grab one of the carts, and Tristan, taking courage from the Stiltskin examples, follows suit. The corporal locks the door. The guards murmur, some of them complaining at the unnecessary risk, a few expressing amazement, as Rumple passes through. He wants to be away from them, he needs to be alone to sort out the feelings that threaten to overrun him, so he picks up his ink and his letter and make his way to the officers' tent. He needs to write about this experience to Belle—she can help him sort out the next steps—but his hands are shaking. He sits down at the generals' makeshift table and buries his face in his hands.

"Lieutenant."

He must have fallen asleep.

"Rumplestiltskin." A deep voice slices through the remnants of his dream (himself at a wheel, spinning thread that will become a tunic for himself and a toy for Bae and a wedding gown for Belle. Spinning, so placidly, as his son plays on the rug and Belle stirs the stew.)

"Son." A heavy hand squeezes his shoulder. He straightens, dropping his hands away from his face and blinking in the dim light of the tent.

He looks over his shoulder. "Oh! Your Majesty." He searches for his cane so he can stand in the presence of his king, but Maurice shakes his head and pats Rumple's shoulder.

"Don't get up. We don't stand on ceremony much here." Maurice seats himself in a chair across from Rumple. "What you did just then—I didn't see it; I was plotting with the generals, but I was told. Remarkable, lad. I don't know if I have the guts to do something like that. Remarkable."

"Or foolish, that's what some of the guardsmen say."

Maurice shrugs. "Or foolish, possibly. But since you got in and out without harm to yourself or the prisoner, let's call it courageous. A necessary first step. If we can get the beast—if we can get her to understand us, we may be able to get some information out of her. Who's their king, where we can find him. . . what he values, so we can negotiate with him."

"Or her," Rumple adds. "Perhaps it's a queen."

"Aye." Maurice smiles fondly. "Like Belle will be. A courageous and wise queen, with wise and courageous advisers by her side." He squints meaningfully at Rumple.

"That was only a small first step. A far cry from the careful and delicate communication skills needed for treaty negotiations."

"Aye." His Majesty leans back in his chair. "But a first step, nonetheless. Let's pray the next steps proceed apace, before the Ogre Queen gathers forces and seeks revenge."

"Or a treaty. If she's courageous and wise, she'll come to us for a treaty."

"Is it too much to hope for, two brave and wise queens?" Maurice muses. He reaches into his coat and produces an envelope, which he tosses onto the table. "Which reminds me: a note arrived by relay, from Belle for you. She's arrived safely at Eudes' castle and Duchess Gidie has made her welcome. She arrived tired after her long journey, but anxious to know the outcome of the battle. I'm sending Favian out after lunch with a note from me, assuring her of our safety." He taps his finger against the letter Rumple has been composing. "He can take yours, too. It'll be in her hands by morning."

"Thank you, sire."

Maurice stands. "I'll have lunch brought in so you can finish the letter. I'd like to get Favian on the road within the hour. Belle's very worried." He winks at Rumple. "About both of us." He pauses at the tent flap. "A leader is only as good as the courageous and wise people around her. I've been lucky in that regard, with people like Darain and Celvin—and especially my beloved Colette. I pray that Belle will be as lucky. I think she can be: she chooses her counselors wisely. But it's up to them whether they'll stand beside her or choose the quiet of a private life. Something to think about, Rumple."

He is thinking about it—he's fully cognizant of Maurice's meaning—as he picks up his pen and begins to describe his foray into the cage. Tristan backs in, using his back to push the tent flap open; he sets a filled plate and a steaming mug onto the table. "Perch," he says proudly. "Some of the guys went fishin' this mornin' and caught perch. And there's carrots too." From his pocket he produces a knife and spoon and gives these to Rumple. "And my name won."

"Your name?" Rumple is puzzled.

"For the ogre. We voted and mine won." The boy straightens his coat and his back, as if preparing to make a grand announcement. "Her name is Elylrac. I know that's kinda hard to say but it means our hope in my father's home language. We could call her Ely for short."

"Ely it is. Thank you, squire."

"And Favian's saddled up. He's ready to ride as soon as you finish your letter."

"Point taken, squire. I'll finish in a few minutes and bring it out to Master Favian."

Tristan hovers. "Lieutenant. . . ."

"Yes?"

"Sir, they said you went into the cage. They said you walked right up to the ogre and touched it and—" Tristan cocks his head in disbelief—"and helped her change her clothes."

"Her clothes were dirty."

"I know," he smiles ruefully. "I'm the one that's got to wash 'em. So what they said, it's true?"

"You're washing the clothes, aren't you?" Rumple picks up his pen and returns his attention to the letter.