"Belle!"

"Good morning, Rumple." Her smile is smug; she's managed to surprise him and it pleases her. Catching him off-guard also gives her a chance to see on his unguarded face how he really feels about her, and that information pleases her even more. "How are you?"

"I, ah, I'm all—Belle, what are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Bogamir City, safe and warm—Belle, you're the heir to the throne. Your father being here is bad enough—does he know you're here?" Rumple sputters as he struggles to sit up.

She merely chuckles. "From everything he and you have written, it's safe for me to be here. The ogres are gone, with one small exception. I'm eager to meet her, by the way. I'm glad to see you won the argument about wrapping the cage in tarp. We need to keep her healthy and, as best we can, happy, if we're going to earn her cooperation."

He's not ready to be distracted from his criticism of her sudden and unsanctioned appearance in a war zone. "Does your father know you're here? Did he give you permission—"

A frown slides down over her excited smile. "I'm a grown woman, Rumple. I make my own decisions. I listen to advice of those I respect, but in the end, it's my life and my right to decide how to live it."

It's a simplistic view, he wants to tell her; everything she does has an impact on her kingdom. She has responsibilities that can't be ignored, just as he did, when he was raising Bae; he had to shape his choices around what would be good for Bae. She is still so young that she doesn't quite get that yet, the breadth and depth of her responsibilities. He thinks he should point this out to her, but he realizes either she wouldn't see it, would think he was trying to use their age difference as a way of manipulating her, or, if she did see it, he would be robbing from her the freedom to dream that rightfully belongs to the young. Soon enough, life will chip away at those dreams, lay burdens on her shoulders, but she will not bow under them if she has had, in her youth, the opportunity to think and live as she feels right.

Besides, he's just selfish enough that he's delighted she's here.

He sits up—he can do without embarrassment, because he slept in his clothes, breathes in the crisp air to clear away the last of his drowsiness, and changes the subject. "Well, I'm sure we'll make much faster progress now with Ely."

But she hasn't gotten the reaction from him that she'd hoped to, and she needs just a bit of that, some encouragement, some sign of support—after all, she's aware that once the guardsmen learn she's come, there will be a protest, and if she can't fight back with her father on her side, it would help to have at least one supporter. "Rumple, are you glad to see me?"

He looks into her eyes and sees the need and the hope there. He reaches out to take her gloved hand. "I am. Even if I didn't need your help with Ely, I'd be glad to see you here. Glad to see you anywhere."

She smiles and squeezes his hand. Now she's ready to take on her father and the army. "Even if it weren't for Ely, I'd still want to be here with you."

"Let's go, then." He yanks his boots on. "Get some warm food in us, and then we'll talk to your father, in private. He tends to sleep in a bit late, so we should have time enough for breakfast before we need to confront him."

"He'll fuss and fret," she predicts, "but he'll be glad to see me, nonetheless, especially when we start working together with Ely."

He kneels, then pulls on his coat. The shine of metal against the wool catches her attention and, mouth falling open, she touches the medal. "Rumple! That's the Medal of Courage!"

His mouth tightens. If he'd had known she was coming, he would have hidden the medal: he'd rather she not know about it, because now the questions will come, now her father's little scheme to elevate the Spinner's public image will be exposed, and that can only lead to ill will all around.

"You didn't mention this in your letters. Papa didn't either; I guess he planned to surprise me when you all rode into Bogamir. Is that what you were thinking too, to surprise me?" she purses her lips in mischief.

"No," he mutters, giving her a slight push to urge her to crawl from the tent. She complies, but once they're outside and standing, she persists. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'd rather not talk about it. Let's get some breakfast, Belle. The cookfire's over there."

"Rumple?" She trails along behind him, then with some quick steps catches up and peers into his face. "I don't understand."

"Later, we'll talk about it later."

"No, now." She seizes his sleeve. While they're still out of hearing range of the soldiers gathered around the fire, she will have her answer. "Something's wrong and I need to know what it is."

He stops, turns toward her and hunches deeper into his coat. "Belle, I told you what I did during the battle. All I did was blow a whistle. It was only after the last of the ogres was long gone that I went down into the canyon, and that was just to tend the wounded. I didn't even have a weapon on me. If I had, I couldn't have used it. I just—I'm not a fighter. I just don't have it in me. And so this—" he fingers the medal, resisting the urge to yank it off—"I didn't earn it."

"That's not true. In his letters, Papa described what you did. He was quite adamant that if not for you, we wouldn't have Ely and a chance to make peace." When he starts to shake his head, she persists. "Rumple, there are only two things Papa ever exaggerates: the size of the fish he catches and the amount of ale he can consume in one sitting. Matters of war, he takes very seriously. He wouldn't exaggerate an act of bravery, not even to please me, not even to flatter the man I love."

"I didn't—Belle, I came upon her by accident. If I hadn't been so afraid, I would have run away. I did nothing courageous. This medal is a lie. I shouldn't be wearing it. Especially when there are men right over there at that campfire who ran into the canyon and met the enemy head-on. They're the heroes, not me. Not ever me."

"To suggest that my father would give his highest award as a—a hoax of some sort, is an insult to him."

"I don't mean it that way. But your father is a generous man and a loving father. He wants—Belle, I think the purpose of this medal to convince the nobles that I'm worthy of their respect and worthy of standing beside you as a leader."

A cloud of cold air puffs from her lips as she huffs. "You're wrong, Rumple. Flat out wrong. I hope you haven't said any of this to him. He would be hurt."

He stares at the snow as he shakes his head again. "I won't argue with you, Belle. But I won't lie to you, either. This is what I think; this is how I feel."

"You're wrong. You conducted yourself like a hero. You captured a prisoner—one that could have crushed you with a swat of her hand. You can argue til you're out of breath and you'll never convince me." Her hands are on her hips, but when he doesn't fight back, she lets them drop to her sides. Her tone softens. "All right, I can see it's how you really feel. We'll talk about this later." She links her arm in his. "Let's get some breakfast. I rode a long way and I'm hungry."

He looks stricken as a new thought hits him. "Alone? Sweetheart, did you come alone?"

"No," she assures him. "I do have limits on how far I'm willing to break the rules. I know some of my choices may seem reckless, but I'm careful about them. I do know that who I am makes me a target for my kingdom's enemies, or even just desperate men who'd like to trade my life for gold. I came with two soldiers from General Celvin's command. A platoon of them were passing through Bogamir and they stopped at the castle to rest, and I managed to persuade two of them to accompany me."

His worry for her is shrinking, but he clamps his mouth shut to avoid revealing that fact. If he relents, it's the same as conceding that her decision was right, and he'll never do that, can't do that, it would only encourage future headlong runs into danger.

Her voice softens as she searches his eyes. He dodges her examination by looking behind her toward the campfire and the shivering soldiers gathered around it. "Rumple, please, put aside the 'should have's' and answer me truthfully. Are you glad I'm here?"

"It's selfish of me to—"

"Rumple," she presses, "are you glad I'm here?"

He nods, ashamed of his weakness but elated at the same time that his partner in research is here to solve this problem—and that the woman who fascinates him like no other is pressing her gloved hand against his cheek.

"All right." He pats her hand and quickly changes the subject to resist the urge to draw her in closer. "Now, our fare is rather rough, but filling and fresh. Come and have some fish and venison, and then we'll talk about how to approach your father."

"And then we'll talk about how to approach your ogre." She bumps her shoulder against his in a teasing manner. "Once we start working with her, I'm sure any objections to my being here will dissipate." She looks at him meaningfully. "Any objections, even yours."

The guardsmen and –women recognize her immediately, even under her layers of wool and leather, and they bow to her; when she bids them good morning, they step back, making space for her at the fire, then they stare at her from the corners of their eyes and murmur among themselves. Only Fendral dares to speak to her; he brings her a cup of nettle tea. "Your Highness," he nods a greeting. "What are you doing here? Something wrong in Bogamir? Or back home?"

He's known her long enough and well enough to speak to her so bluntly without it coming across as disrespectful. She thanks him as she accepts the cup, blows across the top, then takes a small sip. "No, nothing wrong. My father wrote me about the prisoner. That's why I'm here." She reads the objection forming on his face and interrupts, "It's been nearly a week, hasn't it, since the battle, and there's been no sign of other ogres in the vicinity, correct?"

"That's so," the captain has to admit. "Still," he rolls his head toward the lightening horizon, "conditions here are too harsh for a lady. . . ."

"But not too harsh for them." She indicates the guardswomen crouched in the snow, their roughened, red fingers pulling off strips of meat from rabbit bones and popping it, steaming, into their mouths.

"Well, they've been trained for survival in all sorts of environments. And you—the kingdom needs for you to remain safe and healthy. Risky enough that His Majesty is here."

"You need these women here; that's really what you're saying, isn't it? They're warriors; I'm not." As Fendral reddens and fumbles for some sort of satisfactory reply, Rumple leans in to warn him in a low voice, "Give up. She can talk circles around you, you know."

"Yeah, I know." Fendral throws his hands in the air. "As long as you're here, Your Highness, we might as well feed you. I'll fix you a plate." He stomps over to the cooks and barks at them, taking his defeat out on them. Rumple takes comfort in not being the only soldier to lose a verbal battle with the Princess. As he watches Fendral loading up a plate, pride creeps up upon him: pride that his sovereign can rather easily manipulate even the strongest of men with just a few words. . . and a faint but undeniable pride in himself, that such a strong woman prefers him over all the suitors she could choose from.

He's on the verge of chastising himself for his crumbling resolve to do the right thing and separate himself from her when Bae trots over, bearing cup, plate and large, surprised grin. "Your Highness!" He bows, sloshing tea onto his boots, and the bread and meat stacked on the plate begins to slide off. He rights himself just in time and hands the food to his father. "Wow!" He licks his chapped lips as he searches for something to say, but surrenders to another "Wow!"

Belle laughs. "It's good to see you too, Baelfire. In his letters your papa has been telling me you've been assisting with his attempts to communicate with the ogre. Perhaps we could sit down somewhere," she glances about, and overhearing, two soldiers jump up from the felled log they've been occupying and wave her over. "And discuss your findings so far, the three of us?"

Bae pulls up even straighter. "Yes, ma'am!" He darts ahead of them as Fendral brings a plate to Belle, and he's unwrapping a scarf from his throat and spreading it out on the log as Rumple and Belle, carefully balancing their tea and breakfast, move more slowly to the log. He's a bit uncomfortable about touching a royal, but his papa's teachings have ingrained manners into him, so Bae takes Belle by the elbow and assists her in sitting down. Rumple, joining her, winks at his son in approval.

"Sit down beside me, Bae," Belle invites—using this as an excuse to scoot closer to Rumple. She sets the cup between her feet, using her ankles to hold it steady, as she lifts a bite of fish to her lips. She hums in satisfaction, then smiles in embarrassment as she wipes grease from her mouth. "Sorry," she apologizes around a mouthful. "It was nothing but jerky and hard biscuits, the past two days on the road."

"Yes, ma'am," Bae replies. He's not just being polite in his agreement; he's had many an indigestible meal on the road, himself.

"Would you like some?" She tilts the plate a little in offering.

"Oh, no, thank you, ma'am." He looks horrified at the thought of eating off the Princess' plate. "Us squires, we eat before we go around and wake everyone else up."

"A small perk of the job, and well deserved, too," she approves. "From what my father tells me of camp life, you squires work longer hours than anyone."

"Yes, ma'am, well, except the cooks."

She starts to suggest something, but thinks better of it and changes her tactics. "Baelfire, I have an idea. Let's think of ourselves as scientists, for the time being, and talk freely between us, as scientists would. We must feel free to be frank with each other, and to disagree, yes? If we're going to learn all we can about the ogre."

"Oh. Yes, ma'am." Bae's eyes widen.

"So let's start by making ourselves comfortable with each other, all right? You can call me Belle—" she catches the objection in his eyes; such familiarity goes against all the etiquette his father and his captain have taught him. "Just between us, as we talk in private. All right? And if it's all right, I'll call you Bae. When the others can't hear."

"Yes, ma'am."

She tosses a smile over her shoulder at Rumple. "Let's eat, and then we'll go wake my father and have a little chat with him, and then we'll get to work with Elylrac." She pops another chunk of fish into her mouth as she turns back to Bae. "If she doesn't mind, I'll call her Ely too, as you do."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Bae, are you sure you wouldn't like some fry bread? It looks delicious and Captain Fendral gave me more than I can eat."

He exchanges a questioning glance with Rumple, who nods. "Well—thanks, ma'am. It is good." He plucks a slice off her plate. Rumple chuckles softly, certain that when Bae writes home to Morraine tonight, sharing breakfast with the Princess will lead off the letter.

With Rumple a few paces behind and Bae waiting outside, Belle sweeps into the officers' tent and plops down onto a chair at the table upon which maps and Rumple's notes are spread. "Good morning, Father!"

"Belle!" the King squeals, stumbling over his trousers, which he was struggling into before being so rudely interrupted. Rumple allows himself one quick glance—the King's longjohns look no different from his own, he discovers—before politely looking away.

Grunting as he fights both embarrassment and cloth, the King hurries to finish dressing. His rope belt finally tied, he huffs, "Now then! Do you mind telling me what the hell you're doing here?" Then he gulps. "It's not—nothing's wrong at home? Your mother—"

She waves a dismissive hand. "Don't worry, I'm not here as a message bearer. I'm here as a scientist."

"What the—"

"You know it's a fact, Father: I'm Aramore's leading expert on ogres. Possibly even in all of humanity." She leans back in the chair in complete confidence, and Rumple and Maurice exchange a befuddled shrug. "You need me here. Not that Rumple isn't knowledgeable and clever." She tosses him a fond smile. "And persistent and patient and attentive and he's obviously won the ogre's trust and he's making progress, more than anyone else could—except me. We have no idea what the ogre kingdom might be planning, do we, Father? Or where they are, or even what they want. They may be regrouping even now. We think this war is over, but what if a new one is brewing? We must not waste time, Father." She slams her fist on the tabletop and Maurice and Rumple both startle with the noise. "Learning a language without the benefit of a translator or even a written text to study is difficult enough, but it's even harder between avowed enemies, and harder still when there are, from what Rumple has written me, likely physical differences between our species and theirs. We must not waste time, Father!" She hops to her feet. "If we're to have any hope of achieving a treaty, or at least a truce, it's going to take all our knowledge, combined." She twirls about and swishes through the tent flaps, calling back, "Aramore is lucky to have the two leading experts on ogres right here, where we're needed. So, with your permission, Father, Rumple and I will get right to work. If you don't mind, we'll need a tent of our own, in place of that pup tent of Rumple's, and a table and chairs and lanterns—we'll be working into the night, no doubt—"

"A tent?!" Maurice yelps. "The night?! Alone in a tent at—"

"If you're concerned about propriety, Baelfire will be with us." She sashays away from the officers' tent. "Taking notes."

Maurice echoes faintly, "Taking. . . ?"

"Rumple! We're wasting time!"

Rumple smiles sheepishly at his King. "Sorry, Your Majesty."

"Oh, I know," Maurice sighs. "I don't blame you, Lieutenant. She's just like her mother." He runs his hands through his shaggy hair. "A force of nature against which we men don't stand a chance."

"Rumple, come on!"