#verabeakerfh

Vera has barely fallen back to sleep before she is woken by cries of pain from her mother. Circe is doubled over, both hands braced on her belly. The labor is long, but Loki does everything he can to help his wife through the delivery.

At last, the soft cries of a newborn fill the campsite, but before Cersei can hold her son, she is hit with another wave of sharp pain. Loki looks up, confused. The baby is already born; the labor should be over. For a moment, neither of them speaks.Then Circe barks a disbelieving laugh. 

"Twins." 

Soon another, much stronger cry fills the clearing. Loki carefully gathers the second infant before laying her beside her brother. Circe reaches out with trembling hands, touching each tiny face in turn.

"I think," Loki says quietly, "Victor."

"And Victoria."  

Their joy is short-lived, however. For reasons no sim could ever hope to understand, the Watcher calls Victor home just as quickly as he entered the world. A terrible silence settles, and then Circe lets out a broken sob, reaching toward the son she didn’t even have the chance to hold. The earth is hard with frost, and the grave Loki digs could easily be mistaken for a plot to plant vegetables. 

Once Victor has been laid to rest, Vera stands before the little mound of fresh earth, staring at it for a very long time. The image of the man with the binoculars is still fresh in her mind. She should tell Mama or Papa. They would want to know someone has found the campsite. 

"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.

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.