"Don't encourage him, Sam," Dorothea, said sharply. She and the dwarves were silent on the topic of Sam's uselessness -- none of them were willing to agree with the Marshal on any point he made, yet they didn't wish to hurt Sam's feelings. Dorothea went on: "He's just trying to manipulate you."

"The princess is a child compared to you," the Marshal said, blatantly ignoring the cat. "She's not [i]your[/i] princess, yet you let her snap at you and tell you what to do. All she's seen her entire life is the inside of a castle, a few trips to visit her perfect boyfriend in his perfect kingdom, and she thinks this gives her the right to tell her elders what to do, make them feel inferior, while she pretends to be a hero for the sake of her Prince Charming, ignorant of the country that's falling apart around her."

Alphonse jumped to his feet at that, wielding his spoon like a sword. "Stand down, you knave!" he shouted.

"Someone [i]gag[/i] him," Dorothea hissed.

"This idiot plan is doomed to end in [i]war[/i]," the Marshal raised his voice, and he was still talking only to Sam. "More people dead, the dwarves will be first to go -- if you sit here on your hands feeling sorry for yourself, just because the cat yells at you and the dwarves treat you like a porcelain child. There is one thing that you know well that [i]they'll[/i] never understand: that things are never what they seem." He watched Sam intensely, and he was talking about her, and himself, and the princess and the kingdoms."[i]Your[/i] voice is the most powerful of all of them, but you keep it locked under their condescension."

"You never answered her question, Marshal," Dorothea spoke up again, low in anger. "Why do you care?"

He replied, with a cruel smirk, "I wish you'd use my name once in awhile, Princess."

"Your name is dead to me," Dorothea snapped.

Coralie had gotten up, dusted off her hands and marched over to the bound Marshal. Once Dorothea had finished speaking, the dwarf snapped a cloth into the Marshal's mouth and tied it tight behind his head, silencing him and returning peace to their meal.

Alphonse shook off the discomfort of cold words, and he smiled. "Well, that's better," he piped. "Who'd like some more stew?"

The Marshal -- pale and haggard from blood loss and hunger, the ropes and the gag cutting into him -- nevertheless glared fiercely at Sam, daring her to stand up and think for herself.