He awakens shivering, partly from a nightmare (an ogre breathing in his face, its needle-sharp teeth bared, saliva dripping from its lips, as its stomach growls) and partly from the cold. He grasps the blanket—no, blankets; sometime during the night someone, probably Bae, got up and fetched more blankets to cover him—and draws it away from his chilled body. He squints, expecting sunlight to fill his eyes, but it doesn't; instead he's staring up into fuzzy blue. He crawls until he's free of it, then as he rises he discovers the fuzzy thing that had hovered over his pallet throughout the night is a piece of tarp, with one end roped to the bars of the cage and the other end staked down into shallow rock. Someone, probably Bae, erected a miniature tent over him. Or rather, them: Bae is gone from within, but his pallet is still there, the blankets folded neatly. Rumple chuckles: he can't remember a day in the boy's life when he voluntarily made his bed at home.

And then he hears a low growl, one he's come to recognize, and fragments of his dream slam into his mind. Around him men and women in winter gear are moving about, some of them preparing breakfast, some of them preparing weapons (part of the daily routine, for other than the ogre who's pressed up against the bars as close as she can get to Rumple's pup tent, there's no threat nearby). His memory is flooded with his conduct of yesterday: his trembling, his pants-wetting, his uncontrolled and unconcealed terror as he entered the cage. He hangs his head, his hair hiding his face from his companions. He doesn't deserve to be here among them.

"Well, good morning," a deep voice booms. There's no sarcasm or anger in it, as far as Rumple can detect, but the King deals with all sorts of people all day long; he's bound to be a master at hiding his true feelings. "How goes it, Lieutenant? Sleep well?"

Rumple can't face him. If the monarch knows of Rumple's cowardice—and he surely does; surely Fendral, a good soldier, has reported every detail of yesterday—there will be a swift and decisive punishment. He'll be stripped of his commission, booted out of the Guard and booted out of the camp with only the clothes he'd brought with him and the nag that the Duke loaned him. Bae will watch the court-martial in disgust, then turn his back as Rumple mounts up. From then on he'll tell the world he's an orphan. And Belle. He expects there will be one final letter from Belle, with language as hot as any bonfire, full of shame and rejection and rage at the way he manipulated her, led her to believe he was worth her affection. A liar as well as a coward. He hadn't lied to her about his love for her, but he'll be too cowardly to tell her that.

But the King's arm drops heavily upon Rumple's shoulders and the King smiles, and Rumple is confused. "We built a kinda tent over you and the lad, after the snow started falling. She"—he juts his chin toward the ogre, hunched beneath her blankets, her head cocked so that her right ear is aligned with Rumple's voice—"she cried when we did that. Like she thought we were hiding you from her or something. That's when she moved from her old corner. She poked her finger at the canvas; I suppose she was thinking of ripping it away, but she didn't. She just sniffed at it and that seemed to satisfy her you were still there, just blocked from her. You know, Rumple, from the way she reacted when we set up the tent, I wonder if they might have some degree of eyesight. It seemed she could see what we were doing. Or maybe it's just their hearing, so much more refined than ours, huh? What do you think?"

"Aye, sire, the hearing," Rumple manages, still waiting for the hammer to drop. "There have been no indications that any of the ogres can see, even slightly. Ah, sire, about yesterday, I'd like to—"

"Yes, of course, my good man, about yesterday. Sorry, so much going on yesterday I was negligent in my duties. You'll excuse me? I'm more of a soldier than a statesman. " He snatches at Tristan's coattail. "Lad, fetch General Darain and Captain Fendral for me."

Rumple's head suddenly becomes too heavy for his neck to prop up. This is it, then. The court-martial. The general comes from the west side of the camp, a bow slung over his shoulder, with a young corporal trailing along behind: she carries a brace of rabbits. Darain's been out hunting this morning, and successfully. Fendral arrives from the east side of the camp, a fishing pole over his shoulder; fishy smells emanate from the wicker basket over his other shoulder. He's obviously been successful too. Rumple watches him walk into camp with broad steps, so much more at ease than his normal tight gait; Rumple wonders for the first time if Fendral is at heart a fisherman, not the soldier he appears to be; maybe it was the war that forced him out of his natural habitat. Maybe, now that it's over, he'll go back. But first he has to witness an expulsion.

"Darain, good morning. We'll have rabbit for breakfast, I see." Maurice openly licks his lips. "Fendral, good morning. And trout. I'm more than ready for fresh meat. Thank you, gentlemen." He straightens his bear coat. "But before we eat, we've got some business to perform. Some happy business."

"Aye, sire," the general and the captain respond, flanking the King.

Maurice arranges his face into a solemn expression. "Captain Fendral and Lieutenant Rumplestiltskin, front and center." When Rumple has obeyed, still staring at the King's boots, Maurice continues, his hand sliding into his coat, "For your conduct in the performance of your duties yesterday, by capturing, without harm to it or anyone else, our one and only prisoner of war, and our best hope for a treaty, I hereby award you the Medal of Courage." The hand that had slid into the coat now brandishes two small pieces of iron fashioned in the shape of a sword. Maurice affixes one to Fendral's collar, the other to Rumple's. "Wear it proudly, gentlemen. It's yours."

As Fendral, standing straight and dignified, shakes hands with Maurice, Rumple opens and closes his mouth, unable to find any words, but behind him the squires cheer. He glances at over his shoulder at Bae, who's beaming. The King now grasps Rumple's hand in his two and pumps enthusiastically. "Good work, Rumple. Belle will be delighted to hear what your bravery has brought us."

Belle. Oh, so that explains it. Rumple fingers the medal. This is for Belle. A scheme Maurice has worked up—planned, no doubt, even before the royal carriage arrived at Ramsgate to pick up its passengers. Find some excuse to give the coward a medal, then detractors will be won over—some of them, at least—and Belle will be free to marry her beloved. Rumple's shame overwhelms him. The worst sort of lie, deceiving not only the public and all these deserving soldiers, but the Princess herself. Will she think he was in on the scheme, when she finds out about it? What will she think of him, but will it be too late for her to disassociate herself from him?

"Let's eat." The King wraps up the proceedings succinctly. Everyone except Rumple strolls over to the campfire to enjoy the sights and sounds and smells of fresh meat roasting on spits. Maurice violates the generals' strict prohibition against spirits of any kind in the battle camp: he's brought a case of what he calls "victory whisky." Never mind the fact that's barely eight in the morning; there aren't enough bottles for more than a sip for each soldier, anyway. When it's time to leave, Celvin promises, they'll stop overnight in Bogamir City and have a proper celebration. The local taverns have already been forewarned and are stocking up on food and drink.

There may not be enough whisky to go round, but there is enough meat going round and round on the spits, the fat dripping into the fire and hissing. Bread and dried fruit and nuts are brought forward but left to the side for now: the soldiers want to be good and hungry for the meat. Rumple watches Bae dart about, fetching mugs of tea for the officers, and plates and knives; soon, it'll be others who do the fetching for him, at his wedding feast.

Or—maybe not. Not when Ramsgate learns that once again, Rumplestiltskin trembled and shook and peed his pants in battle.

Rumple turns his back on the party, resumes his seat beside the cage. At least he can serve honestly in this way, tending the prisoner. He observes the ogre rocking herself to and fro again, her nostrils flaring, a whimper in her throat: she must be smelling the food. She hasn't been fed or watered in half a day. He's taking advantage of a lie, but he can't do this alone: he uses his rank to order the guards to assist him in gathering cheese, bread and fruit into a cart, along with a keg of water. When the gate is unlocked, the guards shove the carts in and prepare to slam the gate shut again, but Rumple squeezes through the opening first. He walks in with his medical kit. He stops about two yards from her, gives her time to sniff him and recognize him, then sniff in the direction of the carts. She shifts back and forth, as if undecided which she will approach: him or the refreshment. He makes the decision easy for her by pushing the water cart towards her and uncorking the keg. He's talking to her all the while, focusing on memories of his speech lessons with Baby Bae; it helps him to block out the sham he's just participated in. He remembers Baby Bae listening intently to each sound his Papa made as he talked. He remembers Bae watching his lips as he formed those sounds. The baby's ability to see as well as hear the vocalizations is important, Papa Rumple instinctively knew, and he made sure he always faced Bae when he was teaching new words.

He has no idea how to teach a blind child. He has a vague memory of an incident he and Milah barely noticed, because it came soon upon his return from war—from his desertion of his fellow soldiers. A one-year-old, discovered to be blind, was taken away from Ramsgate. No one would talk about where he had been taken, but it was common knowledge that he would not return. His parents, farmers living on the edge of the county, had kept to themselves before the boy's birth and saw no reason to become any more sociable after the child was sent away.

He shrugs to himself as he approaches the ogre, talking in soothing tones. His walk, he knows, is distinctive, with its cane tap accompanying every other footfall; she recognizes him and doesn't back away or tremble. He's talking to himself as much as to her, pondering the problem of how to teach her, and a second problem: if he does find a way, how long will the lessons take? For a human child, speech is a natural part of development, and even then, it takes a year. Perhaps an ogre can never learn.

He wishes Belle were here to discuss this. But then, she would have seen the farce with the medal.

Still talking, he leans against his cane to lower himself at her feet. He removed the soiled and wet bandage from her injured foot. She accepts his touch. With his waterskin he wets a strip of cloth, then removes a sliver of soap from his pack and works up a lather. She plops down on her butt as he begins to wash her foot. She even raises her foot so he can wash between her toes. Her eyes close and a soft rumble issues from her throat. It reminds him very much of Midnight's purr.

After drying the foot, he applies ointment to the wound and wraps it in fresh bandages. She wiggles her toes. He puts his medical supplies away, then hauls himself to his feet and limps numbly over to the water cart. She remains seated in the snow—he'll have to do something about that, he realizes; she needs a hot bath, clean clothes and fresh blankets, and some sort of shoe. Her wound will become infected if she continues to walk around barefoot.

He assumes she's cold: her skin is cold to the touch. But as little clothing as her tribe was wearing yesterday, he's not sure. Maybe they prefer the cold. Or maybe, after years of war, they've lost most of the clothing they once had.

He drags the cart toward her. Her nostrils flare and she pushes to her feet. She reaches out—he assumes it's for the water, but her hand instead comes to rest against his chest and she seems to be patting him. Is she thanking him? Are ogres capable of gratitude? "Water," he urges, giving the cart a little shove forward. "Water. Drink."

She grasps the keg with both hands and lifts it to her lips. Her muscles bulge, as big as Rulf's. She drinks, water coursing down her neck and wetting her shirt. She gulps the water as if it might be taken away at any minute. He begs her to drink slowly so she won't choke, but she doesn't understand, of course. Besides, babies always struggle to contain their urges. He remembers what he'd do when Bae would drink too fast from his bottle: he distracts her by waving a loaf of bread beneath her nose. She sets the keg down—he hears the water splash against its sides, informing him it's half full yet—and opens her palm.

He blinks. She could have snatched the food away, but somehow, it seems, she understands she could scratch him or knock him down if she did that. She holds out her open palm and whines, and he places the loaf in it. She gnaws on its rough crust. As she eats, he continues to talk to her, calling her by her new name. When she finishes the loaf, he fetches a pear for her, but before he gives it to her, he presses a finger against her chest. "Ely," he says firmly. "Ely."

She sniffs at the pear and holds out her palm.

"Ely. Ely." He keeps pressing against her.

She sniffs at the pear and holds out her palm.

"All right," he sighs in surrender and presses the pear into her palm. "Pear."

He leaves her to her meal. As he walks out of the cage, the guardsmen lock it hastily behind him. "Tryin' to teach it to talk human, huh?" Harry sneers.

"'Her,' not 'it,'" he grumbles, still walking. He knows that for a certainty now, after helping her dress yesterday.

"What, you gonna put her in a ball gown and teach her to waltz next?"

"Bring tarp to cover the cage," he orders. "All sides, so the snow can't blow in."

"Why should we give up our supplies to make that monster comfortable?" Harry protests. "She'll be easier to manage—"

"She can't serve her purpose for us if she freezes to death," Rumple snaps. He limps off to the officers' tent to think. He has problems to solve, many problems. He needs to write to Belle.

She still presses herself against the corner bars in the side of the cage farthest from the camp. She still trembles when anyone other than Rumple approaches her side of the cage. But at least now, as long as no one is approaching, she relaxes her posture, stretching out her long legs instead of pulling them to her chest; she even dares to lie down when she's sleepy (she sleeps about half the day, but Rumple doesn't know if that's normal or if she's not feeling well. Or perhaps she just doesn't have anything else to do in this small space, fifteen feet by twelve feet by ten feet). When she is awake, she sometimes moans or whimpers softly to herself and rocks back and forth—mourning her family? At other times she simply looks bored, poking around in the snow for sticks or stones.

Right now, though, she looks distressed. She squirms, her nostrils flaring and her head swinging left to right, left to right, in time with the marching of the ten soldiers guarding her cage. Rumple can't figure out what's wrong: she isn't plucking at the bandage on her foot, and she still has a half-barrel of water left, along with a plentiful supply of nuts, fruits and roots (which some of the soldiers complain about; "providing aid and comfort to the enemy," they call it, at a cost to themselves. Bae grunts at these complaints, reminding them that when off-duty, they've been permitted to go hunting and foraging, and their leaders have made sure that the camp stores are kept full. "Some people don't know when they've got it good," he mutters, and Rumple suspects he's remembering his own hungry days, before Midnight came into their lives and raised their economic prospects. It's one more thing that Rumple is proud of: Bae takes nothing for granted.)

Finally the ogre's shoulders slump heavily and with head drooping, she turns toward the cage bars, attempting to escape the soldiers' notice, but with them marching around the cage, there's nothing she can do that they won't see. As quietly as he can move, Rumple eases around the cage to see what she's doing. Her head swings in his direction and she makes a sound like pain deep in her throat, but then she shifts away from him and lowers her trousers and squats. As quickly as she finishes, she straightens, hauls up the pants and scuffs her feet, throwing snow over the pile. She scrambles to the other side of the cage, as far away as possible from the space she's now marked as her toilet. She settles onto the ground with her chin tucked in and her sightless eyes closed.

Is he anthropomorphizing, or has he just learned that ogres feel embarrassment? Rumple pulls a sheet of paper from his coat and makes notes.

He finds another flat boulder big enough to sit on, brushes the snow away and settles in himself, continuing to study her, though at the moment there's nothing more to note. Her body is still, but from her breathing he concludes that she's not asleep, just doing what little she can to avoid notice. He supposes he'll have to find a way to give her a bath soon, even though the temperatures are below freezing even at midday. Perhaps if she's clean, she'll make less of a target for a few of the soldiers (he knows enough about human behavior, though, to realize the true bullies will simply find something else about her to taunt). He'll also need to provide her with a change of clothes. Trouble is, she's wearing the only civilian clothes in camp. Along with the complaints about feeding her, some of the soldiers also complain about giving her human clothes to wear. He won't provoke them further by putting her in a uniform. He has to pick his fights carefully if he's going to keep her alive.

It's his clothes she's wearing. That gives him a strange feeling—not about her, but about himself. As he starts to nod off in the relative quiet, the rhythmic footfalls of the soldiers lulling him to sleep, his imagination drifts back years, to other soldiers and another monster in these very same clothes, to Hordor and cohorts, tormenting a lame and half-starved spinner, humiliating him in front of his son. Monster. In those days, he couldn't deny it: he was something less than human, to himself as well as to them. Only Bae saw a man beneath the rough homespun.

Self-pity and shame rise up in him, as fresh as when Hordor had him kneeling in the dirt, and as he falls asleep his last wish is to crouch in that cage, where he belongs. But he's pulled from the past when he feels something thump on the boulder, feels warmth at his side and the brush of a shoulder against his. "Sorry, didn't realize you were sleeping."

He jerks his head up to find Fendral now seated beside him. "Oh. Hello."

"I was thinking." Fendral bends to pick up the paper that's fallen from Rumple's hand; he returns it and Rumple tucks it away. "About her." He directs Rumple's attention to the sky. "It's going to snow again tonight. We have plenty of canvas, now that the army's cleared out. We could cover the cage, give her a little warmth."

"Good idea. Bae and I could use some of the leftover blankets to sew some warmer clothes for her."

Fendral nods. "I'm a fair hand with a needle, myself." He grins. "Being a bachelor. Some of the other fellas can sew, too."

"But will they?"

"It's in our Code of Military Justice to treat prisoners of war humanely."

"But what if the prisoner isn't human?"

Fendral shrugs. "The Code doesn't say that's a qualification for being treated decent. They'll sew, if His Majesty tells 'em to. And he will." Fendral waves Bae over. "Best get started now. Squire, fetch us a couple of sewing kits and blankets."

"Aye, sir." Bae, ever energized, trots off.

"He's a good lad," Fendral remarks. "You did a good job raising him."

"He made the job easy. Thanks for looking out for him." Rumple isn't one to share his feelings with someone he barely knows, but there's something about being out here in the snow, in the wilderness, with a man that, in a way, he now shares his son with. "I, ah, I wasn't happy with his choice of occupation, especially in wartime."

"Most fathers aren't."

"But he's always had a mind of his own."

"And a good one it is. He listens to his superiors and obeys orders. He won't do anything rash."

That's the most we can hope for, I suppose."

"I'd say so."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, then Rumple dares to bring up another touchy subject. "Thanks, too, for not telling the others about—how we brought the ogre here. The singing, I mean."

Fendral lowers his gaze and blushes. "Well, I should say the same. Neither one of us would make acceptable court minstrels."

"Or poets."

The men are chuckling when Bae, assisted by a pair of young corporals, returns with the requested materials. Bae takes a moment to appreciate the scene—the two most influential men in his life, laughing together—before asking the purpose of the materials.

"The ogre needs a new set of clothes." Fendral answers, but he's sending a frown across Bae's head to the corporals, daring them to protest.

"Aye, sir." Bae clears off a space on the ground and kneels, rolling out a blanket. He takes a bit of chalk from one of the sewing baskets and begins to mark off cutting lines for a pair of pants.

"Wait, we'll need to measure her first."

"No, sir, not necessary." Bae waves his chalk in the ogre's direction. "I can tell from how my father's clothes hang on her, how much to cut." He smiles over his shoulder at Rumple. "I've been making clothes for Papa and me ever since I could hold a pair of scissors."

"Well," Fendral stares at the corporals. "Don't just stand there. Get to cutting. Or if you can't sew, go find someone who can."

"Aye, sir." The corporals drop to their knees beside Bae.

Througout the remainder of that day and entirety of the next, he keeps trying to teach her simple words: apple, snow, foot, pants, her name. As avidly as she appears to be listening—she always turns her right ear in the direction of his voice and cocks her head—she makes no effort to imitate his words. He would have been happy with a single syllable, just some slight indication that she'd caught on to the concept of human language, but she doesn't even try. It frustrates him, because he's sure she's smart enough: she washes herself in the warm water he brings, she dresses herself in the new clothes they've made for her (though she scratches at her belly and legs; apparently her skin is, remarkably, too sensitive for wool). He's even seen her nibble the tip of a stick into a point so that she could fashion a sort of pick with which to clean her teeth. Best of all, she comes to him when he calls, so he has reason to believe she recognizes her name; she will come when Bae calls too. A long, deep sniff of Bae the first time he entered her cage apparently informed her that he's Rumple's family and that makes him safe for her. He begins to wonder if there is some physical impediment, some blockage or something missing in her throat that makes it impossible for her to mimic him.

Still, he keeps trying with the same method, because he can't think of anything else.

The guardsmen develop a pattern for their days. At sunrise, three of them will prepare the meal, while the squires fetch wood and water and five others stand guard (down from ten, by orders of Darain, who has determined the prisoner poses no threat). After breakfast, the squires clean the camp and do the laundry while Maurice and the guardsmen go hunting or fishing. Rumple stays near the cage, mending his comrades' clothes, writing letters to Belle, studying and talking to the ogre.

After lunch, the guardsmen sit around the campfire, swapping stories while they sharpen their swords and knives, restring their bows and cut new arrows. Rumple watches the ogre listen to them, her head bobbing as she falls asleep to their voices. In the beginning, Maurice's booming laughter wakes and startles her, but she gradually becomes familiar with his voice. Fendral often joins Bae and Rumple at cageside, helping to sew her another set of blanket-clothes and pairs of booties. As Fendral shares stories from his own adventures and admits to a longing for home, Bae opens up also; it surprises and pleases Rumple deeply to listen as his son talks about his childhood with fondness and gratitude, as though all the humiliation and hunger of the early years had never happened. Rumple has to excuse himself from the camp sometimes, to fade into the woods for privacy as he wipes his moist eyes.

On the encroachment of darkness on the third night of Ely's capture, Fendral examines the sky and predicts dropping temperatures and new snow. "She's cold enough already," Bae grumbles. "She'll get sick if we don't do something. Think we can build a fire in her cage?"

"I don't think she'd disturb it, if we did," Rumple judges. "She seems to understand what fire is, though there have never been reports of ogres building fires."

"Won't do much good," Fendral objects, "without some sort of shelter to hold the heat in." He glares at Harry and certain other guardsmen. "We have to put up some canvas around this cage."

They're all thinking the same thing, and they're right: just as soon as they raid the supply tent for canvas, ropes and stakes, loud protests arise and Harry even plants himself in the path, arms folded. "What the hell—pardon, Captain—do you think you're doing?" Three other guardsmen rush forward to side with Harry.

"That should be obvious, even to you, Corporal." Fendral plants himself too, face to face with Harry, as Rumple and Bae, each carrying an end of a heavy bolt of canvas, detour around their opponents. "We're erecting a tent around the cage, in accordance with the Code of Military Justice, Section III, Part A., Rules Regarding the Treatment of Prisoners of War."

"Well, we say that Section III don't apply here. We say that what's in that cage ain't no prisoner of war; it's a animal."

"No different," another guard adds, "than a dragon or a bull. Maybe it walks on two legs, but it's no more human than a bear, which can do the same. And which has got a lot more usefulness than that thing has."

"And smells a lot better," a third man grunts.

"This is an order, Corporal. You and your friends will stand aside." Fendral's hand comes to rest on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

Harry and his companions stand aside, but Harry persists, "We'll see what His Majesty has got to say about it."

"I should think His Majesty's opinion on the subject would be obvious as well." The big voice and even bigger form of the King, bundled in his bear coat, interject into the debate. "We took this prisoner for one purpose only: to study her, to figure out a way to communicate with her so that we can eventually through her make a treaty with her king. Providing for her welfare while she's in our keeping is simply self-serving. We not only want her alive but trusting of us." Maurice waves a hand at Rumple and Bae, encouraging them to continue with building the tent.

Darain appears to settle the would-be insurrection. "Private Harry, you were warned. You are hereby demoted for disobeying a direct order and coercing others to do likewise." The general doesn't appear fazed in the least when Harry clutches his sword. "Furthermore, you are removed from guard duty and for the duration will serve as a relay rider."

Harry's mouth opens, but before words can spill out, Darain thrusts a finger into his chest. "One more and you're dishonorably discharged."

Harry steps back, dropping his hands to his sides and lowering his head. "Yes, sir."

"Grab your gear. You're relieving Private Kamen at the ten-mile marker."

"Now, sir? But it'll be dark in less than—"

"Now, Private Harry!"

Harry snaps a salute, spins on his heel and marches off to the officers' tent to collect his belongings. From there on, the remaining complainers keep their thoughts to themselves. Rumple notices, however, that when he lines up for chow, the portions he's served are less than everyone else's and frequently overcooked. He snorts. If these amateurs think they're getting under his skin with their lame attempts to belittle him, they don't know the first thing about bullying.

He falls asleep beside his son, under the shelter of their makeshift tent, with a small campfire and a big ogre just on the other side of the iron bars. He can hear the wind howling outside, but inside, he can hear Bae breathing thickly through an oncoming case of the sniffles and Ely purring contentedly, warm for the first time in three days.

In his dreams the wind and the purring merge and he imagines he and Bae are back home, Midnight sleeping on his hip.

Morning comes on; his body can sense it as the sky and the wind lighten and the snow stops falling. Outside, he hears birds chirping and soldiers beginning to stir, but he's holding onto a fading dream that warms him inside and out. A soft feminine hand brushing his hair back from his face, a soft feminine voice urging him to wake and the scent of roses keep calling him back into the dream, until the crack of a twig finally breaks him into reality. Before he opens his eyes, he's aware of two things: Bae is gone and someone is kneeling beside him, stroking his forehead and speaking.

He yanks his eyes open. "Belle!"