Rumple has accompanied Bae to Ravershire Keep, to see him sworn in; they could have fetched one of the Bogamir nags back from Fort's farm, hitched him to a cart and made the journey more quickly (though not necessarily more smoothly), but they chose to walk. It would be their last such journey together.
They arrive without incident—the roads are in better condition now, as traffic between the city and the village has increased—and after taking one last private meal in a tavern, they make their way to the castle. The yard is strangely empty; no soldiers are practicing their swordplay or archery, and only a handful of Guardsmen are patrolling the grounds. Most of the army is occupied on the north edge of the city, busy building homes for the incoming ambassadors, while most of the Home Guard is away on leave. Bae and Rumple search the barracks for a familiar face, but finding it unoccupied, they make their way to the castle. Favian, who's exercising Darain's horse, spots them and comes at a trot. "Ah! We were expecting you today. Go on into the kitchen; Esme's got some pie waiting for you. I'll let Fendral know you're here. You're still gonna enlist today, aren't you?"
"You bet I am." Bae puffs out his chest.
"Wish I could. But I've got another three months." Favian wheels the horse around and gallops off.
Bae stands a bit taller, feeling mature. "It'll be his turn soon enough. I hope it's apple." He starts for the kitchen, where his wish is granted, and though they're already stuffed from the tavern meal, they scarf down slices of pie and cups of buttermilk. After insisting that they wash up and change clothes ("you don't want to enlist in those dirty things, do you?") Esme and Helena keep them talking—seem to have questions for everything from the weather to Ramsgate's cat population—until Rumple begins to suspect something fishy. When Esme fills his cup for the third time, Rumple pushes back from the table. "Now, Esme, what's going on here? Where's Fendral?"
"Oh, he's. . . he'll be here soon enough. More pie, Rumple? How about a nice slice of roast beef?"
"I don't mean to be impatient, but we were hoping to get the enlistment papers signed so we could get back on the road before sundown."
"Well, just a little longer, Rumple. He's coming. Say, you haven't met Spot yet, have you? That's our new kitchen cat. She's a descendant of your Midnight. Helena, go get Spot so Rumple can—"
The door suddenly flies open and there stands Fendral, his hair neatly combed, his jaw freshly shaven, and his body clad in a spotless uniform. "Bae! Good to see you, lad. Lieutenant! You seem well." He shakes their hands. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but—you'll see." He urges them to follow him up the backstairs. Behind them, the cooks giggle.
Bae puzzles, "But the war room's that way, isn't it? Isn't that where the inductions are done?"
"We have a little something planned." Fendral leads them into another corridor, then into a third.
They are both startled when, instead of the war room, Fendral leads them to the Petitions Room, where a small cluster of castle inhabitants are waiting. As the Stiltskins are led forward, they pass by familiar faces: Aalot, Aloys and Peyton the footmen, Ulrich the butler, Belle's maid Eloise, the King's weaver, Esme and Helena the cooks. The servants are lined up on either side of the carpet that the castle rolls out for visiting royals: the upstairs staff on the right, the downstairs staff on the left. Aalot dips his head as Rumple passes by: "Sir." Just beyond the servants, the Home Guard stands in formation; the squires Tristan and Favian hoot as Bae passes by. A sharp warning—"Gentlemen!"-from Darain brings the hooting to a hasty end. Then the General snaps, "Attention!" and the troops click their heels and straighten their backs and stare straight ahead, all expression wiped from their faces.
Bae gasps, then quickly collects himself, for he's one of them now and he must comport himself as a soldier. But he wasn't expecting this at all—the induction ceremony is usually limited to one officer, a sergeant and the inductee—and he certainly wasn't expecting the King himself to be standing on the stage to which the Stiltskins are now being led. Yet there he is, big as a giant, smiling down, with Belle and Colette standing on his left and Darain on his right.
Puzzled—then worried that this means something terrible—has war broken out in the few days since their return from Domin Canyon?—Rumple looks to Belle for a sign, but she's smiling as broadly as her father is, and she winks at Bae. Colette is a bit more dignified, her hands folded demurely. "Hope you don't mind me making a bit of a fuss," Maurice says to Bae. "I know these things are usually private, but I wanted in on the celebration too."
Bae stammers but the King's grin prompts him to grin in answer. "Aye, sire."
Maurice glances at Darain and the General speaks formally: "Baelfire of Ramsgate, raise your right hand. Is it your wish to enlist in the army of His Majesty, King Maurice of Aramore?"
Bae answers clearly and loudly. "It is, sir."
"Baelfire of Ramsgate, do you pledge to defend your brethren in arms, your country and your King against all enemies, foreign and domestic, to the utmost of your abilities, and with your life, if need be?"
"I do, sir!"
"Then, Squire Baelfire, I hereby induct you into His Majesty's army at the rank of private. You will report to your unit for duty on first day of the third month of spring, sixty days hence."
"Yes, sir!" Baelfire salutes, and after returning the salute, the General shakes his hand. To the formation, Darain orders, "Soldiers, welcome your new brother. Dismissed!"
Chattering breaks out and Bae is quickly lost in sea of celebrators. Rumple, too, receives handshakes from the understaff and from those he served alongside before Belle sneaks up behind him and tugs him aside. "Let's get some mead, Lieutenant," she suggests, directing him to a banquet table upon which various beverages and treats have been set. The footmen pick up trays and begin to move about, serving the royals first, then the soldiers. The cooks and maids offer quick hugs for Bae and Rumple before leaving the Petitions Room to return to their assigned stations. Rumple wonders momentarily what the gray men would make of all this, all these ruffians wandering about where they ought not be.
Then he wonders, if any of the nobles were to learn of this and demand of him why his son, an ordinary recruit from an insignificant village, merited the attentions of royals, how would he answer? Heat creeps up the back of his neck as the words come to him: "Because he defended you and your lands against ogres, that's why."
As for himself, however, and his own merits, he would have no answer.
"Lieutenant." Maurice's voice booms as he approaches the banquet table. "Good to see you again. I trust all was in order when you and Bae returned home from Domin?"
"Yes, sire, everything was fine." He nods at the tankard that Belle has pressed into his hand. "Thank you for this, all this."
"I hope we didn't embarrass him too much." Maurice accepts a tankard from Peyton. "It's out of the ordinary, but. . . ." He shrugs. "When the time comes for the other two squires, I'll do the same. They had a hard row to hoe and they did it without complaint. Such a young age, and yet they're war veterans now."
"To our veterans. All of them." Belle's eyes sparkle as she raises her cup in a salute and the men join her.
"Hear, hear," Maurice says. He drinks heartily before turning to study the room. "They're a good lot, all of them, and they did Aramore proud."
"They are, that," Rumple agrees.
Maurice proposes another toast. "And to the Spinner's Whistle and ogre experts, who made a treaty possible."
Belle and Rumple exchange blushes but respond to the salute. "To the ogre experts. Thank you, Father."
Another quaff and Maurice sets his tankard down. "I guess I'd better go rescue your mother. She's surrounded by generals. Congratulations, Lieutenant." He pops a cookie into his mouth before plunging into the crowd.
Belle sighs. "At last, a minute alone!" She pulls Rumple by the sleeve to the far end of the banquet table, out of earshot of the footmen. "I just wanted to say how proud I am of Bae."
"Thank you. I am too."
"And the wedding? Is it on?"
He grins into his mead. "It is. The first of next month. They'll leave for a honeymoon immediately after."
"And will she be going with him to Maelyss or wait for him in Ramsgate?"
His grin widens. "She was thrilled about Maelyss. She says she considers that assignment the army's wedding gift to her and Bae."
"I'm glad. She sounds like she's ready to be an army wife."
Rumple hesitates a moment, taking a long drink, before he ventures, "We'd like for you to come to the wedding, if it's not asking too much. I don't know the protocol. . . a royal attending a common wedding. . . . if people would consider it improper. . . ."
She sniffs. "Nonsense. I'm honored to be invited, and I accept with all my heart. I was there once, if I remember correctly, in Ramsgate."
"Yes. A harvest festival." He waits, hoping she'll remember more—to whom she awarded Livestock of the Year, for instance.
She frowns slightly as she digs for the memory. "I remember it's a two-day journey and I stayed with Duke Cedric." She shudders. "Horrible man. Even horribler, I remember seeing the Dark One hovering in the shadows. The Duke made him sleep in a dungeon."
"Yes." Rumple's shoulders slump a little; she has forgotten meeting him and Bae at that festival. "We saw the Dark One from time to time, but always at a distance. The Duke would trot him out to scare us, then rush him back to the dungeon again."
"Cedric's replacement is a much nicer man. When I come for the wedding, I could stay with—" she interrupts herself. "No. A bad idea. I remember in one of your letters you mentioned an inn."
"Yes, but not suitable for a Princess—"
"Is it clean? Free of rats?"
"Yes. . . ."
"Frequented by robbers or enemies of the crown?"
"No, but, I mean, it's small and plain and the mattresses are woefully thin."
"Last week, remember, I slept on the ground. I think I can tolerate a thin mattress for one night." She slips her arm under his. "What I'm thinking is that I should come. . . not as myself. Not as a royal. A wedding day belongs to the bride and groom. If a princess appears, it will detract from them. I'd be a disruption. Do you see what I mean?"
"I think so."
She begins to plot aloud. "But if I come in ordinary dress. . . if I say I work here and that's how I know Bae. . . that my name is Eloise. . . ."
"Yes, I see." Rumple imagines her in a maid's uniform. The image stirs his senses.
"Or that I'm a cook. Yes, that makes more sense. Bae has been friends with Helena for a long time; he's probably mentioned her to people in Ramsgate. Yes. I'm Helena the cook from Ravershire Keep and Bae used to charm treats from me when he was younger. And I'll come with my friend Eloise, in our Sunday dresses, and we'll stay at the inn. We'll tell Morraine and her parents the truth, but to everyone else, we're simply friends of the groom."
"Very clever." Rumple starts to lean forward, his instincts driving him to kiss her in reward, but then he remembers where they are and pulls back. "Thank you for thinking of Morraine and Bae that way."
"It's their day. All eyes should be on them." She glances around the room. "Speaking of eyes, no one is looking. I'll take that kiss now."
It's not as warm a kiss as he would like, but it pleases him anyway.
It was the wine. Too much of it and too many varieties of it. He'd never been a drinker, but his father, who had been (to such an extent that Malcolm could probably be considered an expert on drunkenness), had told him once that a man could drink more if he stuck to the same type of drink all night. But that would have been rude—the father of the groom was downright obligated to sample all the wines, from Fort's mulberry to Leofrik's brandy. To fail to take a hardy draught from each would have been an insult to the friend who had brought it.
Friends! Only last night had it caught up with him how many friends he and Bae have now, and friends at varying levels of closeness, too! Nodding acquaintances, borrow-things-from friends, good-time pals, got-your-back buddies, and even three new family members, brought into the Stiltskin fold by a few words spoken over them by a priest last night.
And now, a confidante. Rumple isn't sure how he feels about that. He's never confided in anyone, not even Milah. He's never dared to, lest the information be used against him.
It's too late now. He downs the dregs of a cup of tea to wash the cotton taste from his mouth as he rests his forehead against his kitchen table.
He remembers walking home with Belle last night after the wedding dinner (and all those bottles of wine, provided as wedding gifts to a war hero). He hadn't been drunk, just giddy, too fuzzy-headed to realize the impropriety of taking a woman (a Princess!) into his hovel, unchaperoned. He hadn't been drunk, just loose-tongued, and his tongue made freer by the fact that it was Belle who seated herself across from him at this very table. They'd been laughing—he couldn't remember what the joke was—then they'd transitioned into sighs at the beauty of the wedding, Morraine's sky blue dress, Bae's new uniform with brass buttons and a war ribbon, tall ivory candles in the church's candlestick holder (the candles are Belle's gift to the couple. She'd made them herself, under instruction from castle staff. She'd given much thought to her gift, she had confessed to Rumple last night. To give the sort of gift a royal typically would give would have felt wrong, not only ostentatious, compared to the other guests' gifts, but also impersonal. And that is not how she feels about Bae. Far from it. So she gave the newlyweds something handmade and lovely, and Morraine had been so delighted with those candles that she asked the priest to set them aside for her after the ceremony, so she could carry them with her always, a token she could light every year on their anniversary.)
So Rumple and Belle had taken their conversation from silliness to sentimentality as they sat across from one another, alone in his hovel, holding hands across the table. And the sentimentality had led to questions from Belle about the newlyweds' courtship (it had begun, Rumple said, when two-year-old Morraine had shared a cookie with her favorite friend, and Bae in return had given her a sip of goat's milk. "That was the month Bae had learned to say 'Mine!'" Rumple remembered. "And boy, did he show it off. He wouldn't share anything, not even with me, until Morraine gave him that cookie. After that, whatever he had was hers, and whatever she had was his.")
And as he told the old stories, getting a little misty over them, his imagination traveled to the nights and years to come, when this hovel would sit quiet and dark, with only an elderly cat to break the stillness. One minute he'd been bragging about Bae's bravery in standing up to the bully Borin; the next, Rumple had been sobbing unashamedly in Belle's arms. She rubbed his back and let him dampen the collar of her dress, and didn't chide him for his tears or try to cajole him out of his overwhelming emotions, such a strange mixture of pride, joy, loneliness and purposelessness, now that his work as a father was done. She just let him cry.
Somewhere around dawn, he'd pulled himself together sufficiently to make tea, and they'd talked about safer topics: preparations for the ambassadors' arrival, the "sales pitch" that Colette had, with Maurice's advisors, put together, to persuade the public to accept their guests, and the laws that Maurice had rushed into the books that would enforce the agreements in the treaty. Along with her candles, Belle had brought much news, including a report from Janshai to Maurice, that, after being so long unoccupied, Maelyss had been overtaken by wilderness and the giants had had to start their community all over again. They were sleeping under the canvas donated to them by Maurice's Home Guard, because spring had already come to Maelyss and ground had to be broken immediately for crops. "Houselessness" (Janshai had drawn a sharp distinction between that and "homelessness": "We have a home. We have returned to it.") was no great hardship, after centuries of living as refugees.
"There's even news from 'our child,'" Belle had giggled. From her pocket she brought forth a sheet of paper that, when unfolded, proved to be as long as her arm. "But it's all about proportion, you know. To the giants, this sheet of paper is no bigger than one of ours."
Uninterested in the science of communication with giants, Rumple had eagerly seized the paper. There were no words upon it, but none were needed: a charcoal sketch of three stick figures holding hands (and one of them holding a cane) conveyed Ely's message. "She remembers us." If he'd had any tears left, he would have lost them now.
Belle pointed to a large figure in the background. "I thought that was a tree at first, but now I think it's Janshai. Or maybe my father. In his letter Janshai said she asks about us. She still has the doll, and when she tucks it in at night she sings it your lullaby for Bae."
Rumple had to clear his throat. "We'll see her again."
"We will." Belle had pressed the drawing into his hand. "You keep it. She'll send more, I'm sure."
"We should write her a letter."
"Yes. Tomorrow, after we've gotten some rest."
"We should draw her a picture."
"Of the wedding. I wonder if the giants have weddings?"
"We'll find out soon enough. We'll find out all about them."
"And they'll find out about us." Belle could no longer hold back a yawn. "We should get some sleep."
He set the drawing down to pick up his cane. "I'll escort you back to the inn."
She looked closely at him. "I don't want to go back to the inn."
He didn't pretend he didn't understand her meaning, but he stood and held out his free hand. "As much as I want to say yes—"
"I don't care what other people think."
"You have to," he said gently, and he grasped her hand. The cat grumbled as she was forced off Belle's lap when the Princess reluctantly rose. But at the threshold of his hovel, before Rumple could pull the door open, she tugged at him. "Promise me: someday I won't have to go back to the inn."
"I can't."
Her hand in his quavered. From the chill, perhaps, as he opened the door. "Promise me, then, that you want to."
With a deep sigh he drew her against his chest. "I promise you I'll always want to." And he kissed her like a lover before escorting her back to her rented room, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the inn's caretaker. Outside, he'd stood for a moment on the empty road, staring up at the window that was hers; somehow she must have known, because she pushed back the drapes and waved at him before retreating. He'd retreated too, to his cold hearth and his cat.
The sun has risen fully now and still he's hunched over his cup. He should be sleeping. The village will forgive him for his late night; no one will come looking for a contract or thread today—it isn't every day that a father sends his only son off on a honeymoon. But he hears the faint rustle of ghosts behind him, or thinks he does (probably it's just the cat, sniffing for mice). There's the sensation that Bae is lying back there, just behind the kitchen, on his pallet, fighting off the wakefulness creeping up on him. There's the sensation that Belle is kneeling at the hearth, poking at the embers to raise a fire to boil water for tea. He thinks he should get breakfast started for his family: fried eggs for Bae, oatmeal for Belle. A scrap of pork for Midnight, whose hunting skills have dulled with age.
He wants to provide for them: a nourishing meal, a warm home. His love.
Except Belle is probably asleep now, and Bae and Morraine are in a coach bound for the Green Mountains, for a honeymoon, and Midnight is sitting on the window sill, staring out at something Rumple can't see.
He's happy for them. Truly, he is. But he's selfish too, and he's sorry for himself.
A rap at his door and a sing-songy greeting bring him out of a messy slumber. As he wipes the edges of his mouth and invites his guest in, he wishes he had bathed before allowing himself to fall asleep at the table. He smells like Malcolm used to.
Nobody will mind today, though. They expect some dishevelment from both fathers, the one who gave away a daughter and the one who let go of a son. The instant Bae returned from Avonlea with his enlistment papers in his pouch, the two families' standing in the community had changed. Even the boys who used to bully Bae now have to look up to him, in his stiff new uniform (and if any one of them didn't treat him with the respect a soldier deserves, that coward could expect a thrashing from Rulf. He might be one-armed, but the fist at the end of that arm was as solid as an anvil).
"Come in," Rumple invites, and the door swings open with Gretchen in the entrance. She's carrying a covered plate, which she sets down on the table.
"Sorry I'm a mess," he mutters.
She fills the kettle with water, then she stirs the fire. "You should see Lucas."
Rumple takes comfort in that. "Is he awake?"
"No. He fell into bed about an hour ago, still in his wedding clothes. Some of the men decided that if they couldn't keep Bae out all night, Lucas would do." She uncovers the plate to reveal two slices of plain bread. "Here, you need to get something in your stomach to soak up all that wine. I'll have tea ready in a few minutes."
"Thank you, Gretchen." He stares at the bread, barely able to tolerate the smell of it, but he knows she's right. As a small boy he learned to feed dry bread to Malcolm after he'd dragged him home from a tavern. "Did we make fools of ourselves?"
She brings him a mug and a spoon from the kitchen cupboard, then stands over the kettle, waiting for it to whistle. "No more than you should have. After all, it's a wedding." She turns around with a sly smile. "Everyone's asking when there will be another."
"Another?" He manages to swallow a bite of bread. "Another drunken display from two old men?"
"Another wedding." She's smug in her question. "They saw you leave with 'Helena' last night—while her companion Eloise went back to the inn."
He remains silent, pretending to examine the spoon.
"Rumplestiltskin, we've known each other nearly twenty years. I've never seen you so happy as you were last night."
"Wine will do that."
She slams her fists on her hips and huffs. "That wasn't wine making your eyes shine and your voice all whispery. The same look that was on Bae's face last night was on yours."
"She's a Princess."
"That's right. She's also a woman. A smart one, I think; one who knows her own mind."
He growls, "She's a Princess."
"She's chosen you."
"A bad choice."
"She's chosen you and she's waiting for you to choose her." When he starts to argue, she waves a finger in his face. "All I've got to add to that is: she doesn't deserve to be lonely and neither do you. You can fix that." She walks out.