They're too far off for Rumple to make out anything they're saying, but he can tell just the same it isn't good news they're sharing. The two soldiers who accompanied Belle on her journey from Bogamir have taken General Darain aside and are gesturing most emphatically.
A moment later, Darain has spun on his heel and beelined for the King, and a moment after that, they're disappearing into the officers' tent for a one-on-one conference.
Suspicious looks are cast and mumbles ripple across the camp—Rumple can feel them even as he huddles beside Bae and Belle on the fallen-log seat from which he's been observing the ogre this past week. They're sitting too close together, heads bent over Rumple's notes, and the soldiers find the familiarity disrespectful, Rumple understands that; but each time he tries to slide surreptitiously away from her, Belle shivers and slides toward him. Either she, with her small frame, is overly susceptible to cold or she simply wants to be close to him. Perhaps both.
Nevertheless, she's digging herself a deeper hole with these soldiers: she shouldn't be here in the first place—she doesn't seem to recognize that her presence is making their work harder. Protecting the King, who's at least weapons-trained and as big as this ogre, is one thing, but at least he talks and walks and thinks like a military man, and he doesn't expect any courtly courtesies while he's here. The Princess has shown up here uninvited, untrained, unarmed, uninitiated into the ways of camp life and unfamiliar with military rules and procedures. Now, in addition to guarding the King and the ogre, and patrolling the canyon for signs of threat and scouring the woods for edibles, this small platoon will have to keep an eye on the Princess, following her everywhere she goes (but maintaining a respectful distance and remembering to bow and call her "ma'am"), even into the woods when she needs to answer nature's call. Then, to make matters worse, in the view of some (the women soldiers tend to disagree) she's shown up in men's clothes; from the back or side, how are they supposed to know that's a royal and not a garden-variety female soldier?
And now, look at her, she who should be the model of ladylike propriety, all scrunched up cozy with the peasantry. Rumple knows that's what they're saying to each other and he worries for Belle. If in her youthful exuberance she continues to trample over their expectations for her, how will she retain their respect? Without their respect, yes, she can command their obedience, but will she lose their loyalty? When her father passes on and she inherits the crown, will their affection and admiration for him continue to shield her or will they fall away? Rumple should take her aside and share his concerns; she respects him and will listen and perhaps will modify her behavior under his counsel, but he has no right, really, to talk to her about personal matters, especially since their relationship is, can be, nothing more than a friendship between two people who share intellectual interests.
He is saved from making a decision by the arrival of her father, whose scrunched up expression informs Rumple that he shares the same worries. "Pardon me, gentlemen," the King asks of the Stiltskin men, and Bae sits up straighter under the term gentlemen. It's one of the reasons Bae loves military life, he's admitted to Rumple: a soldier's social rank is significant only in the beginning of his or her military career, establishing whether he or she will be created an officer; from then on, progress in the career is dependent upon the soldier's own merits. In the King's Guard, any peasant came someday become a general.
"I must speak to my daughter alone."
"Of course, sire," Rumple fumbles for his cane, his joints stiff in the cold; Bae slides a hand under his elbow to help him to his feet. The two of them bow and start to walk away, but Maurice stays them. "No, you men may remain here. Belle, please come with me to the officers' tent," he casts a quick glance over his shoulder to the troops who are standing guard at the cage. "So we can talk in private."
Belle licks her lips nervously. "Yes, Father." She brushes the snow from the seat of her trousers and with a humbled posture follows her father into the tent.
After several minutes of her continued absence, Rumple sits back down again and Bae decides, "I guess I should check in with Captain Fendral, see if he needs anything. I'll come back when she does."
Rumple nods. "That's just as well." He glances toward the officers' tent. "It may be a while." He picks up his pencil and tries to focus on the ogre, but Ely's not doing anything worth noting, just idly poking holes in the snow with a stick. More honestly, he's worried all over again for Belle. If her father sends her packing like a disobedient child, how will the soldiers feel about her then? How will she feel about herself? Then he tightens his chin as it occurs to him that her leaving will impede their work with Ely. He starts to mentally compose a defense for her being here, for the good of the kingdom. His fingernails dig into the wood of his cane. He'll argue with the King, if he has to, to keep Belle here.
That's when he knows just how far gone he is, that she's gotten him to overlook caution and propriety just to keep her by his side. Bemused at his own shifting mindset, he shakes his head, poking holes in the snow with his cane.
Ely apparently becomes bored with her stick, because she swings her head toward him and makes a puzzled sound in her throat. He needs something productive to do, so he gathers his medical kit and approaches the gate, nodding once at the guard standing nearest it; the guard says nothing as he allows Rumple admittance.
"Ely," Rumple calls out as he steps through.
She smiles, her nostrils twitching as she takes in his scent. Her smile expands as he comes within arm's length of her and she holds out her open palm. "No," he chuckles. "You just ate an hour ago." And then he makes a mental note to add to his research notes: ogres apparently eat for emotional reasons, like humans do. "Foot. Medicine." He bends to pat at her foot as a signal; she understands and plops down on her fanny. As he washes and applies lotion to the nearly healed arrow wound, he wonders if it's that she understood his words or if it's his tap on her foot that she interpreted as a command to sit down. Midnight over the years has absorbed a dozen commands, but he's never stopped to wonder whether it was the word or the touch that she understood.
Ely purrs and wiggles her healthy foot as he works on her injury. It reminds him of how Midnight leans into him when he scratches her ears, or how Bae would wiggle in the tub when Rumple washed his back (oh, but how he'd whine when Rumple dabbed the cloth into his ears!). With the ogre so relaxed, Rumple closes his kit and tries again, touching each item as he pronounces its name: foot, toe, hand, shirt. Only four words; not too many to absorb. He repeats them and repeats them. Ely makes no effort to mimic either the sounds or the touches.
When his ankle won't hold his crouching weight any longer, he hauls himself up, collects his kit, pats her head and turns away. All around the cage, the soldiers snap to attention and raise their weapons. He chuckles to himself: he knows how they hate it when he turns his back on the ogre. They've complained to Darain about it, that he's intentionally making himself vulnerable. Not so, Rumple's argued back; he's proving to them that Ely can be trusted, and demonstrating to Ely that he trusts her. Darain has so far remained neutral on the subject.
Belle and Maurice have returned to the fallen log by the time Rumple's exited the cage. Their faces are solemn but not grim; they've apparently come to a compromise, or at least a truce that will allow her to stay, because she's smoothing her trousers legs as if they're a skirt and she's seating herself on the log as Maurice perches a foot on the log. They don't keep him wondering. As soon as he's in earshot, the King announces, "Two days, Lieutenant. Do you think that's enough time for you two to make a start on teaching the ogre to talk?"
"Perhaps. . . ."
"Because that's the time you have." Maurice squeezes his daughter's shoulder. "We've agreed Belle can stay for two days. After that, she's going back to the safety of Bogamir Castle."
Belle nods in confirmation. "We can make headway in two days, can't we, Rumple?" Her tone is confident but her eyes urge him to give her hope. "One word? If we can get her to say one word, we can continue."
"If it can be done, we can do it," he offers. "We are, after all, the leading human experts on ogres."
"She's a child just like one of ours; she'll want to learn," Belle muses.
"Best of luck, then. Whatever resources you need, you need only ask," Maurice concludes. "I'll leave you to it." After a hasty hug with his daughter, the King strolls away.
Belle waits until he's out of hearing range, then tightens her mouth. "Rumple, I need to tell you something. It's about why I was in such a hurry to come here that I didn't wait for permission."
Rumple clutches his cane.
"There's talk in Avonlea. The Avonlea Regiment arrived home a couple of days ago, and my mother sent a message to me at Bogamire. The town is up in arms. They want to execute the ogre, in retaliation for all the lives lost. They say it will be a detriment to any ogres who might be thinking of raiding Aramore again."
Rumple's back stiffens. "Your father knows this?"
She nods. "I shared the message with him just now. It's why he set the two-day deadline. He wants me back in Bogamir City, where he thinks I'll be safe."
"Belle, I—"
"I tried to convince him that none of us will be safe if we don't manage to win Ely over to our side." She fixes him with a glare. "You do believe that, don't you?"
"What I don't believe is that we should risk your life—"
"You believe in me, don't you, Rumple?"
"Oh, Belle," he moans. "Don't turn this into a test of my love for you."
"No, but it is a test of your faith in me."
"Belle, no, this isn't personal-"
"Rumple, you've stayed in Bogamir Castle. You've seen Duke Eudes' military force."
He nods ruefully. "All twenty of them. Not a man, woman or horse among them that's under the age of sixty."
She presses a hand against his knee and leans in to study his expression. "Rumple, you tell me, where am I safer: with them in Bogamir or here, with Darain and my father's Home Guard?" When he swallows, caught between a truthful answer and an emotionally satisfying one, she adds, "Besides, if you were an ogre out for revenge or a rich meal, would you attack this camp, with its forty armed and trained guards, or a barely protected village like Bogamir, or a city that's too big for its army to protect, like Avonlea?"
He sighs. "We had better get to work, if we have only two days."
She sneaks a small kiss of gratitude onto his cheek. "Thank you for being on my side."
"Belle, I'm always on your side." He sneaks a hand squeeze in. "Even when I disagree with you." He rises, leaning on his cane. "I'll find our note-taker so we can get started."
When Rumple returns with Bae in tow, Belle is standing a safe distance from the cage and watching the ogre closely. For her part, Ely is also standing still, facing her observer. Her body shivers and as Rumple and Bae walk around to her side of the cage, they can see her nostrils fluttering rapidly. "That's a good sign. She's curious, not nervous."
Bae chuckles. "Which 'she'?"
Rumple catches the humor in the question. "Both, I suppose." As they join Belle, he notices she now has a bag slung over her shoulder. "What's that?"
"Presents." But she quickly corrects the misconception she sees in Bae's brightening eyes. "For her, not for you fellows. Sorry, Bae."
"Presents for an ogre?" Bae is skeptical.
"It's a long-standing tradition among royals for the visitor to bring gifts to the host." Belle lets the bag slide from her shoulder; it's apparently quite heavy.
Rumple assists her in setting it down in the snow. "What makes you think she's a royal?"
Belle flashes her dimples at him and he swears he can feel the snow under his feet melting. "I don't, but who doesn't love presents?" She roots around in the bag and produces her first offering: a leather kickball. Bae's eyes light up again and Rumple feels a bit guilty. For years as he was growing up, Bae longed to own a kickball—he would've been only the second child in Ramsgate to possess such a treasure—but Rumple never could manage it, neither through barter nor money saving.
He wonders if Bae, soon to be soldier, soon to be husband, would consider himself too old to receive such a gift this Yuletide. When does it become too late to make up for the past?
"Introduce me, please." Belle tucks the ball under one arm and links the other through Rumple's.
He cautions her first. "We won't go inside the cage yet, nor any closer than arm's length. It's not that I'm afraid she'd hurt you."
"I've gone into the cage many times and she's never made a threatening move," Bae adds. "She does like to pet my hair, though, and sometimes she gets a little heavy-handed when she does it."
"And if they"—Rumple nods toward the guards—"saw her raise a hand towards you—"
Belle finishes the thought. "They'd shoot first and ask questions later. I understand. I won't approach her."
"Very well, then." He leads her a few steps closer to the bars. Ely cocks her head and sniffs, first toward Rumple, then toward Bae, then finally, Belle. The ogre smiles and purrs. Belle doesn't have to ask for an interpretation: "She likes me! It's because you vouch for me, I'm sure."
"Ely," Rumple calls out, "this is Belle. A friend. Belle."
The ogre pushes her face against the bars, stretching out her nose as far as she can so she draw in the stranger's scent. She snuffles, but delicately, and that makes Belle laugh in delight and begin to reach out to touch her, but Rumple seizes her hand and pushes it down. "Sorry, I forgot," Belle explains. "She's just so friendly. Not at all what we expected, is she, Rumple?"
"Not at all. She's curious and playful and gentle, like a human child. I just wish she would take an interest in learning to talk."
"Ely," Belle says, "I have a present for you." She kneels to roll the ball through the bars of the cage. When Ely makes no effort to retrieve it, Belle urges, "For you. A ball."
"Maybe she doesn't know about toys," Bae speculates. "Me and Fendral watched a band of ogres for weeks, a while back, and they didn't have anything like toys."
Belle has an alternative explanation. "Maybe that's because they were on the move. Refugees."
"Or a war band. But they did have four young ones with them. A little bigger than this one."
Rumple adds, "The way they might see it is they were a hunting party. Not too unusual for parents to take the older kids with them on a hunt, to teach them."
Belle urges the ogre again, "Ely. Ball. For you. To play." When Ely doesn't move, Belle huffs, "I wish I could touch her. Move her hand to the ball so she knows it's there."
"Let's take a step back," Bae suggests. "Maybe she's too curious about us to pay attention to the ball." So they retreat to their fallen log and sit down, chatting idly, and sure enough, eventually, Ely stands down from her perch at the bars and loses interest in her spectators. She sniffs about, finds the ball (how she can smell a ball, Rumple can't fathom) and plops onto her butt beside it. Clearly uncertain whether it's safe, she just sits there and waits for the ball to do something: attack, bite, run away. Several silent minutes pass with neither the ogre or the ball making a move. The child-ogre's patience wears thin and she pokes the ball; it rolls away a few inches and she backs off, startled, but when it comes to a stop and stills, she pokes it again, harder. The ball rolls farther; she comes to her knees and crawls after it. Belle giggles and claps her hands, but softly, so as not to distract the ogre. "They do play with toys!"
Ely's game continues for nearly a half-hour before she apparently decides she can trust the ball. She picks it up and licks it, then makes a face as her tongue comes away coated with slush. Next she squeezes the ball, but she stops just short of squashing it. She sits cross-legged in the snow, letting ball rest in her lap while she redirects her attention to the humans. Her head cocked, she eavesdrops on their conversation.
"Ball, Ely," Bae calls out. "Ball."
She clutches the ball to her chest, whether protectively or affectionately, Rumple can't guess. Either way, she's clearly happy, because she's purring.
Bae comes toward the cage and kneels, holding out his hands. "Ely, give me the ball. Give me the ball."
She doesn't understand. He persists, but when she doesn't release the ball he finally gives up. Just as he's turned back toward the log, the ball comes flying at him and bounces off his leg. "Ely!" He fetches the ball, exasperated but pleased at the same time, and rolls it toward her. She sends it back promptly, more gently this time, and with chuckles on both sides of the cage, a game is underway.
Belle rests her chin on her fist. "Now, how do we go from a game to a conversation?"