#bellagothfh

Circe emerges from the smaller tent, hair plaited at her shoulders, still dressed in her drawers and a camisole from the night before. She means only to relieve herself and fetch water to take a quick sponge bath, but she stops short.

Across the clearing, Bella stands far closer to Loki than she ought, but her posture is animated, almost bright. She is speaking softly, smiling in a way that does not quite fit the circumstances.

“You were very brave,” Bella is saying, reaching a hand for his sleeve. “I do admire a man who can bargain with Death itself.” Loki neither pulls away, nor corrects her. 

“I am not known for surrendering valuable assets.” She steps even closer, nearly flush against him.

“I could be… grateful in other ways.”

“Bella.”

The single word cracks through the clearing like a rifle shot.  Bella startles. Loki straightens.

Circe strides forward, fury barely contained beneath icy composure. “Back. To. Your tent. Now.” 

Bella retreats, shoulders shrinking as she slips inside the canvas. Circe disappears into her own tent to dress properly as the first light flakes of snow begin drifting down from the gray sky. She rounds on Loki the moment they are alone.

“You’re encouraging this?”

“It was nothing,” he insists, hands raised slightly. “A sick woman rambling gratitude. I humored her. That is all.”

“You were smiling.”

“And you are jumping to conclusions, which a scientific mind such as yours should know better than to do.” Their voices stay low but sharp, the air between them taut as wire.

"I'll show you my scientific mind."

Autumn is loosening its grip, and Winter waits just beyond the treeline. Circe is bundled in a dark winter coat, a scarf wound tightly over her hair. Bella, by contrast, remains in her tent still in her thin, ragged dress.

“If she has energy to flirt,” Circe says coolly, “she has energy to contribute to experiments.” Bella is forced into the wooden chair that sits in the corner of the larger tent, wrists secured. Despite Bella’s pleads, Circe does not soften.

The crackle of electricity snaps through the cold air. Bella gasps sharply, muscles tensing against the restraints. The smell of ozone lingers as Circe observes with clinical detachment, adjusting dials with measured precision. Loki watches from a short distance, jaw tight but silent.

By evening the camp is hushed again. Bella lies weak in her tent, trembling from a combination of exhaustion and cold. Circe keeps her distance from Loki as the fire burns low. Words between them have thinned to necessity. With a stiff sigh, Circe finally moves toward their tent, prepared to crawl inside and endure a strained night beside him, when a sudden, unmistakable pop echoes softly through the clearing.

Mortimer Goth has steered Freedom Hollow through rough winters, crime, and more than one heated town meeting, all while maintaining the stiff upper lip expected of a man in his position. Practical, proper, and prone to dramatic sighs, the Mayor is as devoted to the town as he is to his family — though keeping both in line is a full-time endeavor.

Not long before his daughter Cassandra’s ill-fated wedding, his wife Bella was kidnapped and the mayor extorted for exorbitant amounts of money. The entire town rallied to find her to no avail, leaving Mortimer torn between duty to Freedom Hollow and worry for his family, yet Bella still remains missing. 

Still, Mortimer watches over Alexander carefully, hoping his son’s curiosity leads to useful ventures and not more trouble. While he may frown at scandal and shake his head when the Doc rides by, Mortimer Goth remains a steady presence: the man who keeps Freedom Hollow running. 

Unlike his older sister, Alexander prefers the company of books, gears, and whatever contraptions he can fashion in the quiet corners of the house. Some say he’s destined for invention, while others whisper he’s just as likely to get lost in one of his experiments and forget the world outside.

"Papa?" She twists her dress between her fingers. “I need to tell you something.” 

"What is it, little bird?"

Vera lowers her voice.

"The night Mama had the babies…I saw a man in the woods.”  Loki's expression hardens. 

"What was he doing?" Vera swallows. 

“He was looking at our camp with those glass…things,” she gestures awkwardly, imitating. "I hid behind the log until he went away." The color has completely drained from Loki’s face, and Vera frowns. “I should have told you sooner, I’m sorry!” Loki then puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. 

"You've been very brave." He then spins suddenly, yelling for his wife so loudly Vera jumps. 

“Watcher above, Loki, I just got her to sleep,” Circe complains, gesturing toward the sleeping infant. Loki rolls his eyes. 

“Circe, they found the camp.”  Those words are all it takes, and Circe does not ask another question, she simply nods and says she’ll start packing. 

The camp erupts into a flurry of activity. Loki hops onto his horse and is off within moments. .Circe folds blankets and packs cooking pots, while Vera gathers anything she can carry and loads it into the wagon. Victoria sleeps through all of it, tucked securely in her Moses basket. Beside the fire, Vera rolls bedding, and glances over to where Bella sits on the log, bound with lengths of rope. She glances over her shoulder to be sure her mother isn’t listening, but Circe is preoccupied wrangling her and Loki’s tent. 

"I'm sorry you’re all tied up,” Vera says. “I know you wouldn’t leave us.” The words catch Bella completely off guard, and she swallows hard, watching Vera disappear toward the wagon, her eyes stinging. 

By late afternoon, little remains of the camp they have called home, and just before evening, Loki returns, explaining they’ll have quite a ride ahead of them, but he’s found them a new campsite. 

Heavy snow begins to fall as the Beakers prepare to abandon the campsite. Circe walks one final time to the little mound of earth beneath the trees.

"We're sorry to leave you here, Victor," she whispers, . "But the Watcher knows where you rest."

For another moment she remains there in silence, then, with great reluctance, she stands, and never looks back again. 

Loki rides at the front, Bella behind him on the saddle, hands still bound. Behind them creaks the wagon, piled high with what little the family owns.

Circe walks beside it, Victoria bundled tightly against her chest, and Vera trudges faithfully beside her,  boots disappearing deeper into the growing snow with every mile.

At last, after a journey that takes the greater part of the night, Loki raises a hand. The new campsite lies well away from any road, tucked into a bend of the river where towering pines crowd closely together. It is quieter than the old camp, the sort of place one could never stumble upon by accident, and the family begins to set up their new home.

Though exhausted, Circe serves them a stew that is as much for sustenance as it is for warmth. As he sits beside his daughter and swallows the warm broth, Loki surveys the clearing one final time before allowing himself to feel the slightest bit of relief. 

Frost clings to the trees that surround the Beaker campsite, muffling the sounds of the forest and making the little clearing feel even more isolated. Bella remains where she has for months; secured inside her canvas tent. The Beakers are practical enough to understand that a frozen prisoner is of little use, and with the arrival of winter they have begrudgingly provided her with warmer clothing; a thick wool gown and a threadbare coat, the hems frayed. 

Outside, Circe spends the morning beside the fire with Vera, patiently guiding her through sums and reading.

"Again," Circe says, and Vera sighs dramatically. Her mother repeats her command, and by the time the lesson finally ends, Vera is more than happy to escape. She spends the better part of the afternoon kneeling in the frozen earth, happily pushing little stones through the dirt with a stick and constructing imaginary roads for pinecones that serve as wagons.

Later in the day, Loki appears with a fishing pole slung over one shoulder, and together they disappear into the snowy woods. Vera settles herself beside the creek, bundled snugly against the cold as she patiently watches her line drift beneath the icy water while Loki carefully gathers berries and fungi. Vera eventually lets out an excited squeal, and Loki looks up just in time to see her hauling a handsome salmon from the water.

"Excellent work, Vera!"

By the time they return to camp, Vera proudly carries two salmon while Loki's basket is filled with enough plants to occupy him for several evenings. Circe wastes no time preparing supper, roasting the fish over the fire and serving herself, Loki, and Vera with generous portions.

When she finishes filling their plates, she quietly ladles from a separate pot containing little more than a thin oat gruel, and carries the bowl toward Bella's tent without a word. The warm porridge does little to satisfy Bella’s hunger, but at least it chases away the cold for a little while.

Late that night, long after the fire has burned to embers, Vera stirs beneath her blankets. Still half asleep, she slips quietly from her little cot and makes her way into the clearing to relieve herself. 

Suddenly, she freezes. Across the clearing, beyond the dying fire, a man stands among the pines. He is almost completely hidden by the darkness, but he raises his binoculars to his eyes and studies the camp from behind the trees, taking care not to step too close or disturb so much as a twig.

Vera's heart begins to pound. Is he a bandit? A hunter? Something worse? Trying not to crack a twig herself, she drops to the ground and scrambles behind the old log the family uses as a bench, peeking over the log. She remains there for what feels like an eternity, until finally, the stranger turns away, and only the forest remains. 

Vera races back to her cot and slips beneath her blankets, burying herself as deeply as she can, heart continuing to race long after she closes her eyes.

That evening the forest turns bitterly cold, damp wind creeping beneath the canvas walls, and by nightfall Bella is shivering violently on her mat. What began as a cough that morning has worsened, and fever burns against her skin, and each inhale sounds fragile and rattled. 

She stumbles out of the tent toward the campfire as her coughing grows weaker, and then the air chills and a tall, robed figure materializes. Loki freezes for a moment before scrambling forward. Bella cannot die. Not now. Not when plans, leverage, coin; all of it hinge upon her continuing to breathe.

“Please,” he says, his voice stripped of its usual smugness. “You’ve no claim here yet. She is not finished. We have,” he pauses, searching for words that might prove his case without giving Death just cause, “...arrangements.”

The figure tilts its hooded head. Loki presses on, urgently. “Take whatever debt you require. But leave her.” Death forces him to play a simple guessing game, and when Loki wins, with a slow, deliberate motion, the figure lowers its scythe. The chill recedes, Bella’s breathing steadies, and the robed presence dissolves like mist, leaving only the crackle of the fire and Loki kneeling breathless beside her.

Fever broken and her lungs drawing air more freely, Bella finds Loki nearby. Though still weak, her gaze is warm.

“You saved me,” she murmurs. Loki shrugs, recovering his composure. “It would have been terribly inconvenient otherwise.”

Later, once the crisis has passed, Loki and Circe sit close beside the campfire. Firelight flickers across Circe’s sharp features, and for once, neither speaks in strategy nor calculation. Circe reaches for Loki’s cheek in a rare moment of warmth shared not out of necessity but familiarity. They make use of the rough wooden bench near the fire in a manner that is neither hurried nor particularly ceremonial as the fire snaps and pops beside them, casting shadows that dance in rhythm with their movement.

When the cold bites at their backs, they retreat together into their tent, canvas falling closed behind them, where privacy brings a different energy.

Alone in the larger tent, Bella stares at the low ceiling, sleep refusing to come. The fever, the brush with death, and the strange mercy that followed, have shaken her and her thoughts spiral without anchor. In the corner of the tent stands a broom propped upright. Earlier that week, in a restless bout of boredom, she had tied one of the Beakers’ spare masks around the bristles – a small act of rebellion, or perhaps entertainment. Now, in the dim lantern light, it looks almost like a figure keeping watch. Bella pushes herself upright on the mat. 

“You startled me, sir,” she says with a faint, conspiratorial smile, dragging the broom closer, adjusting the mask carefully. “I owe you my life, and I am so very grateful.” Her fingers brush the wooden handle as if it were a sleeve, “You've come to keep watch over me? How gallant of you. But we must be discreet; the madame must never find out.” Bella’s laughter flutters, light and slightly unsteady; the sound of a mind balancing delicately at the edge. She smiles at the broom and lies back down, giggling to herself. The broom remains silent, leaning in the corner of the tent where she’s propped it.

The following morning, Loki and Circe ride into town together on Loki’s horse, the animal’s hooves striking a steady rhythm along the hardened autumn road. They dismount near the edge of the square with a glance of understanding. Loki melts easily into the bustle, offering a courteous nod here, a subtle sidestep there.

When he spots Dina Landgraab stepping carefully down the wooden stairs, he closes in with bold familiarity and steadies her from an imagined stumble, his hand lingering at her waist and laughing too close to her ear. By the time she recoils from his forwardness, scandalized, her coin purse is noticeably lighter. Loki nods with unapologetic audacity and disappears into the crowd before she can properly protest.

At the edge of the woods, where the trees grow thick and the road thins to little more than a suggestion, sits the Beakers’ campsite. Inside the largest canvas tent, Bella lies on a thin mat spread over packed earth. The ropes that once bound her wrists at night now sit coiled near a crate, unused. Over time, they have grown less vigilant. The forest itself has become yet another accomplice to the kidnapping; dense, disorienting, and endless in every direction. They know she cannot get far alone without food and a clear path, and without risking wolves or wandering into the wrong homestead. Still, freedom remains an illusion measured only in feet.

Vera and Circe sit near the campfire, toasting thick slices of bread over open flame. The smell of smoke clings to everything. Vera does not attend the schoolhouse in town; Circe insists her education is better managed at home, and she doesn’t trust the girl not to mention something about their guest to the wrong ears. Lessons begin as soon as breakfast is cleared, Circe guiding her daughter through reading, arithmetic, and the basics of natural philosophy. Vera listens attentively. She is quick, like her parents, and she finishes her exercises with careful penmanship.

When lessons conclude, Loki emerges from the shadow of the trees, pistol at his waist. He exchanges a brief word with Vera, asking what she’s learned and whether she’s grown bored of it yet. She answers with a small smile that suggests she rarely grows bored of anything. Then she is off, darting toward a cluster of trees at the edge of camp. She climbs easily, boots finding grooves in bark, hands gripping branches with confidence. From her perch she can see farther than most and can just make out the faint suggestion of smoke from town chimneys. 

By midday Loki is in the town square, blending into the slow drift of daily traffic. His posture is easy; unthreatening. He offers small talk here, a sympathetic nod there, the occasional plea delivered with just enough humility to soften a purse string.

Panhandling brings in a modest trickle of coins, but pickpocketing brings more.