#why yes i did make this post to stall going to the rite

[jades-typurriter]

A short, untitled piece about the logistics of necromancy.

This one's pretty old (around 2021?) and it was one of the first things I did to get back into practice, so it's short and it doesn't have many frills. I gotta post SOME examples of my shorter work though, so!

A thin man, clad in a gambeson and cowled with a dark shawl, trudged across the battlefield, returning to his encampment after scouting for stragglers (or a new raiding party). All around him were corpses strewn--both first-timers and those freshly sent back to their rest. The terrain was, as all battlefields are, pocked with the marks of arms: mundane firebombs, misfired cannons, and the destructive power of a few magically-inclined specialists. Behind him, however, the land seemed even more disfigured. The grass wilted beneath the march of the corpses, the dirt dry and foul-smelling. The work of ill magic, he could only assume.

Near the sharpened-log palisades, the Rogue found one of his companions waiting for him. Stout was the Paladin, and round-faced beneath a haggard beard. Religious garb could be seen under shining mail and between sturdy plates; long hair, considered sacred as a part of the body, was tied back into something more manageable for times of war. The Paladin beckoned the Rogue inside and lead him up into a watchtower just inside the gate.

"Seems there's no end to these damned things, eh?" Asked the Rogue, for their army's advance had been stalled here for many weeks.

"Not so," replied the Paladin.

“How do you mean?"

The Rogue gestured across the battlefield.

"Fifth attack this week and I spotted signs of still more." The Paladin paused before replying.

"How do you suppose it is that civilization has not been destroyed by any of the many necromancers past?"

"We won. Got lucky, perhaps," the Rogue returned.

"Yes, but how? Any dark lord worth his salt, and clearly our Earthborne Army here, has mastery over the dead. Even if scores of scores of his shambling souls are slain, could he not simply raise them again? How does one truly free a body from his grasp?" The Rogue looked back out at the battlefield and nodded to the scattered carts collecting the corpses.

"Burnin' 'em is an easy way to do it. Ashes ain't corpses." He paused. "Though I suppose any way of breakin' 'em so badly they can't be put back together would work."

"Indeed. But not every army burns their corpses. A company of my peers, for example--have you ever seen a corpse cart following warriors of the cloth?"

"I haven't, now you mention it. Why is that?"

"Our weapons," the Paladin said, unslinging a hammer that seemed to have neither chipped nor tarnished since they had found themselves together, "are blessed. There are less violent ways to consecrate a corpse, but any fiend or ghoul smitten by a tool of this caliber is protected from its previous master by holy magic."

"Alright. So we can starve out a fell sorcerer the same way that they starve us out in a siege. Makes me feel a little better 'n pure luck, I suppose."

"We must simply hold fast. They need us. The grandest war machine still needs bodies to turn its wheels, and we can at least save each other from that fate."

"So why don't we?"

"We do, sometimes. Tell me, friend, have you ever been to a funeral that was held in a church?"

"Could never afford it. Nobody I knew could. Where I come from, they're not so public an affair. You get your family together, say goodbye in your own home, and off to the corpse collector they go."

"So often the story goes. Those who can afford their final rites are spared from all this," the Paladin said grimly, "but those who can't..."

“They end up on the front lines. Same as any other war, I suppose. The poor forced against their will to shed blood for their lord." The Rogue scoffed. "Makes that damned necromancer no different 'n any king of men, eh?" The Paladin barked a bitter laugh.

"Indeed it does. Indeed it does."

[raksha-the-demon]

First trip up Mount Alodiel: Wow this feels really cool and imposing. The extra time it takes to get to the Rite helps sell the idea that this one is more significant that the others. It really sells the idea that this Rite is Important, and that this is the culmination of everything my team has worked for. A+ game design, I love it.

Third trip up Mount Alodiel: i’m not ready to say goodbye again

[hanalwayssolo]

I open at the close.

In some astrological lore, Saturn returns every 27 to 29 years or so to the same place in the sky the moment you were born—a cycle called Saturn Return—which, they say, marks a time when one gets a nudge towards a new stage in adulthood. A cosmic rite of passage of sorts, if you will. 

I’ve never been a firm believer of these things, but I found the concept to be intriguing. And mildly alarming. Because it is 2018 and this year, I turned 27. Not only did I get a nudge, but I was shoved right out of my comfort zone, catapulted straight into the heart of the most difficult year I’ve ever had the displeasure (and pleasure) to live.

It should be important to note that I’m never one to fully share the detailed account of my personal life. If I had been more brazen, I would have opted to post this on my main—but then I remember how that space is strictly curated for work, so here I am. Anyway. If you’ve ever read any of the things I’ve written thus far, best believe some of the stories I’ve shared are blatantly punched right out of my heart. Writing my experiences under the cover of fiction is what I do best; a form of cathartic release and a tourniquet for the pain. This time, however, I want to grant myself a moment to chronicle what this year felt like at its rawest. 

Let me start at the beginning of the end.

It is April, and after months of happily journeying from one city to the next, I am now quietly crying in front of the Colosseum. 

I wish I could tell the handsome stranger staring at me that I’m crying out of sheer joy of being in Rome, or how I’m just genuinely in awe of the architecture and other bullshit that will excuse the irrationality of my tears. 

But no, I’m crying because I just got a call from my boss—my last remaining moral compass at work—that she has decided to leave the firm. I know if I say that to anyone, I’ll sound completely pathetic. But I guess if I have to drill down every single reason why I’m crying, it’s because right then and there, in front of the Colosseum, I’m starting to realize that the only reason why I stayed in my job was because of my boss, and how she made it so bearable despite the misogynist and sexist behaviour of the people around us. I’m crying because it’s dawning on me how much I hated my job, that every single time before a presentation or meeting with the male seniors, I had to go to the bathroom to stop myself from crying out of rage; that at some point, I had spent hours thinking of ways I could kill myself, and I would emerge from the stall pretending I was okay. I was so good at pretending that I’m okay. Besides, in this economy, I should value that ability when I cannot afford to see a therapist. So yes, fuck me that I’m crying in this beautiful morning in front of the Colosseum, because I am spiraling and my mind has completely lost its brakes.

Because for more than five years, I had this routine: work, try not to kill self, sleep, repeat. I stayed in my job out of practicality and financial stability. I needed to make a living. But the sad thing about it is, I ended up not quite living. I was not living my life—life was living me.

It is April, and I draft my resignation letter on the plane en route to Manila. I have decided to finally leave my job to pursue my passions. My last few weeks in London, I have spent thinking of all the different permutations on how my decision would play out. I keep asking myself: if I stayed at this job at the cost of my mental health, is it worth it? How many times do I have to wake up every single morning contemplating on the possibility of death? I weighed in the pros, cons, checked the privileges available at my disposal. In the end, I stick to my gut.

To some degree, some may find this romantic, a coming-of-age act of defiance, sure—but it all honesty, it really isn’t. The act in and of itself is an upheaval of everything I have come to know for the past five years. I have to shed parts of myself that I thought I needed, have to rebuild myself from the rubble of my own undoing. From a girl who prided herself with having an exit strategy, I became the girl who was about to jump off the cliff with no safety net. 

I no longer recognize what I have become, that I felt completely, utterly lost.

It is July, and it has been a month without my usual corporate routine. My freelancing stints have somehow helped me get back bit by bit to things that I have always loved doing. Frankly, I have never felt so liberated in my life.

But still, the demons in my head beg to differ. I should not get used to this comfort. Life never gave me nice things without asking for anything in return. I know I shouldn’t listen to them, but as it turns out, soon enough, I will know that they are right.

Fast track to November, and I have to note how grateful I am for having my family as my support system. Eventually, I finally land an offer for a full time post on a role that I find quite promising. It is wonderful, and I feel like I’m getting back on some sense of normalcy. I submit my requirements, comply with the pre-employment medical tests.

Except my medical results came back with one interesting find. A mass on my left breast. A category 3, probably benign, should be no big deal. But the doctor then tells me that we need to have this monitored for a period of six months. If anything changes, we have to consider surgery. 

You know how scenes in those movies play out whenever they find out some bad news? How time slows down, every sound turns to static? It happened just like that. I was staring at my mammogram results. My doctor was still staying something but I can barely register a word. A large part of me wants to treat this with a huge bucket of hope and positivity. I can brave through this. I know I can.

But then, there’s part of me, the one responsible for governing the deepest pits of my depression, that one voice I have not entertained ever since I left my job, is a sharp thought in passing: At least this way, you don’t have to kill yourself. Life is going to do it for you.

See? I guess in a way, the gremlins in the back of my head knew one thing right.

It is November, and I cry on my way back home.

It is December. My best friend and I go out of town over the weekend. “You know, 2018 is such a fucked up year, so let’s make the most out of it,” she tells me as we sit together in the cramped van taking us to the mountains. “Fucked up is an understatement,” I tell her, and we both laugh. She knows everything about me; we have been inseparable since we were both in kindergarten, and when I told her about my diagnosis, she just gave me a firm look and said, “I need you to have hope, more than ever. I won’t let you not fight this.” 

And it’s people like her in my life that I find myself grateful. Her and my family and the small circle of close friends that help me soldier on despite how fragile my mental state could get, and for going through this ordeal with me with an outpouring of love and support. Where I come from, mental health is still a stilted discussion that needs more encouragement, and I find myself fortunate that my family has not shied away in opening themselves to that conversation—regardless of how difficult it could be.

So, yes. It is December, and 2018 crushed me so beautifully. But broken as I may be, somewhere in the cracks, I find gratefulness and kindness. Because in this brokenness, there is more space for me to give love. There is more room for me to grow.

[mariequitecontrarie]

Mother Knows Best: Rumbelle 6x17 fix-it

Summary: Post 6x17 “Awake,” Rumple returns to the shop to tell Belle that the Black Fairy has Gideon’s heart, and Belle can’t keep silent any longer.  Rating: T    WC: 3294 A/N: Because I needed Rumple to talk to Belle about the Black Fairy having Gideon’s heart, and for Belle to confront the Black Fairy. Thanks to the wonderful @rowofstars for looking this over.

{On AO3}

This conversation wasn’t going to be easy.

Rumplestiltskin slowed his stride as he approached the front door of the shop, pulling out his pocket watch. It was nearly midnight, and he turned the key in the lock with a leaden heart. He wasn’t anxious to reveal what he had learned to Belle. The truth was, he’d been bluffing when he confronted his mother about holding Gideon in thrall. It had been a lucky guess based on magical intuition, and in her surprise, the witch had admitted her guilt.

He opened the door and hung his overcoat on the rack inside the door, pausing to light a few candles that dotted the tops of the display cases. Stop stalling, fool. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, then dragged his feet toward the back room. Belle would yet be poring over magical texts both light and dark, as she had been every night, until the wee hours.

It was one of several areas on which they’d come to a compromise. They would pursue any and all possible ways of bringing their son back to them; nothing was declared off limits so long as they agreed to it together.

His wife was stretched out on the cot when he pulled back the curtain leading to the workroom, her favorite place in the shop to conduct research. Now that the Blue Fairy was convalescing at the convent, the back room was much less crowded. Belle was lying on her stomach like a child, feet in the air and crossed at the ankles, a collection of heavy, dusty tomes strewn about the mattress and the floor. The one she was reading was propped up on her pillow, and she flipped the pages, scanning each one at a furious speed as she searched for a solution.

No, this wasn’t going to be easy. Not that any of their conversations were anymore. How he longed for those idyllic days when they planned picnics, spent afternoons in bed, or when the most difficult decision they made was what kind of cheese to order on their hamburgers at Granny’s. He snorted; he could count those perfect moments on one hand.

“Rumple, you’re back.” Belle looked up from her studies. She closed the book and offered him a tentative smile, then her eyes narrowed in concern. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head with a rueful smile. Earlier today, Gideon had called that woman his mother, yet Belle’s primary worry was his welfare. It was so like her—unselfish, caring, forgiving. Suffering in silence while she bled through on the inside. “I’m fine, Belle.”

Shadows flickered across the walls, creating deep hollows in her face, and it dawned on him how pale and gaunt she was. The circumstances of Gideon’s birth and the events in the days that followed had taken a terrible toll on all of them.

Hot tears stung his eyes as he regarded her, small, lost, and alone, and he staggered a bit, leaning against the doorjamb for support. How long had it been since Belle had smiled a true smile, one that lit up her entire face with joy? He supposed it was the day in the Underworld library, when he told her she was pregnant. Then he’d spoiled their happiness with his revelation about the dagger, crushing her faith in him once more.

Every good and beautiful rite of passage had been stolen from her; her youth, the joys of being a bride, a normal, healthy pregnancy. Now even motherhood itself had been stripped away. And he—the one who had sworn to love, honor, and protect her for the rest of his days—he was the thief.

He closed his eyes and made a rare plea to the gods. He needed strength, strength and the words to tell Belle about Gideon’s heart. All he wanted to do was curl up and sob until sleep finally came, just as he had done the evening he shed the Blue Fairy’s blood. That night, Belle had been the one to comfort him; now it was his turn to be strong. Besides, they had promised each other total honesty, no matter what. It was another one of their compromises.

“Belle, sweetheart, there’s-there’s something I need to tell you.” He pushed a few books aside and sank down on the cot next to her. He enveloped her small, cold hands in his and took a deep breath. “The Black Fairy has Gideon’s heart.”

“I know.” The reply was a whisper.

“You do?” He stared at her, astonished. He supposed it was the inexplicable bond between mother and child that told her something was wrong, but he wondered why she hadn’t shared her revelation with him. “How?”

Her lower lip wobbled and she leaned toward him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I can’t explain it,” she said in a quivery voice. “Somehow, I’ve always known, but today when she came here and taunted you, that confirmed it. Those times when our son came to me in dreams, playing the part of Morpheus to twist my feelings, claiming you were going to tear us apart—it wasn’t Gideon or you. It was her. And I believed it. Every word. I didn’t even question it, didn’t ask for your thoughts or feelings. I’m so sorry, Rumple.”

She turned her face into his neck, and her cool mouth vibrated against his skin. “What have I done?”

When she pulled away, her face was crumpled in anguish. “Oh, Rumple. What have I done to our son?”

The demand was always the same, the same as it has been on that terrible night when they’d discovered that their newborn son had vanished without a trace. Had it really been only been a week ago? It seemed like he had lived another three lifetimes. Belle’s eyes brimmed with tears as she pleaded with him; for answers, for absolution, for hope.

He floundered, the right words eluding him; no response was good enough. No soothing phrase or sweetly crooned lullaby would make this nightmare go away. He pulled her close, tucking her head under his chin, rocking and shushing her as she sobbed.

Betrayal—it marked a person for life. How many promises had he made and abandoned? How often had he chosen the selfish path, only to leave Belle standing alone among the ruins, paying the price? The scars of his betrayal had crept around her heart, squeezing out her hope, and this once joyful, vibrant woman had shattered under the weight of his sins.

If she was ever going to trust him again, he needed to fix this mess and pick up the pieces.

Feeling helpless, he fumbled for his pocket square and began to mop at her wet eyes with trembling hands. “Belle, sweetheart, this isn’t your fault.”

“Don’t do that,” she said on a hiccup, shaking her head.

Stung by the rejection, he stilled, then moved his hand away from her face. “What, the handkerchief?” He tucked the damp silk back into his breast pocket.

“No, that thing where you blame yourself for everything.” She snorted a humorless laugh. “I can tell, you know. I feel you retreating inside yourself. Rumple, you’re not responsible for sending our son away. I did this.”

“Let’s not queue up the band for my Hero Parade just yet, all right?” he said wryly. “None of this would have happened if I hadn’t gone to such lengths…trapping you in that elevator, threatening to speed up your pregnancy. I’ve no excuse. If I’d given you any reason to trust me, I would have been there for his birth, holding your hand, guiding you through the delivery. You never would have needed to send him away or asked that gnat to play fairy godmother. We would be in our bed at home, and our son would be asleep in the nursery down the hall.” He choked on a sob.

She sighed. “We’ve both been absolute beasts, haven’t we? Now Gideon is paying the price.”

“Seems we all are.” He dropped to his knees beside the cot, cradling her hands once more. “But we will get Gideon’s heart back, Belle. I promise you that we’ll fix this. The Black Fairy will not destroy our family, I swear it.”

“I know,” she said, cupping his cheek. “I know because I believe in you.”

He tilted his head to lean into her touch, allowing his eyes to drift closed. He felt the brush of her lips against his, the sensation no more than a whisper, and he blinked in surprise. Her blue eyes were huge and uncertain in her pale face. He brushed her lower lip with his thumb, then he leaned forward, sealing her mouth with his, the taste of her salty and wet with tears. It was a kiss born of mutual comfort, not passion, or so he told himself, but his breath was ragged when he raised his head. “Belle?”

“Yes?”

He wiped the remaining tears tracking her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Don’t doubt in the dark what you know to be true in the light. You’re a hero, sweetheart, and our son wants to be a hero because of your example. Never forget that.”

xoxo

Belle lay in bed, worrying her empty ring finger as the grandfather clock in the parlor beneath the floorboards of their bedroom tolled three o’clock. Her fingers moved to the chain around her neck, the metal and stone of her wedding band a comforting weight against her heart. Rumple’s arms were wrapped around her waist, his warm, even breath caressing the back of her neck.

Since the night Rumple had darkened his soul to keep Gideon from harming the Blue Fairy, they had begun sharing a bed again. Not to make love—they were too raw yet for that—but to offer hope and comfort. Falling asleep and waking up beside Rumple was a constant that helped her believe better days were ahead, that they could get their boy back and be a family again.

They’d clung to each other and cried that night, clawing and trembling in their anguish, unable to let go. Rumple had magicked Blue to the convent to recover, and they’d collapsed together on the cot and slept until sunlight streamed through the blinds. After that, it seemed natural for her to move back into the old salmon Victorian they had once called their home, and Belle transferred her things from Granny’s that day. She’d volunteered to claim one of the guest rooms, but they decided against the idea. Why clutch at straws after all they’d been through?

Sending Gideon away had choked out her bravery until there was nothing left. It felt like her own heart had been torn from her ribcage, and she was wary, snappish, questioning everything she had ever known to be true. But Rumple had been her strength and her hope. He still had faith in their happy ending. The trust they were rebuilding together was like spun sugar, fragile and beautiful. It was a delicate gift, a reminder to love one another better this time.

Though she was safe tonight in Rumple’s embrace, Belle couldn’t close her eyes. Each time she did, the waking nightmare returned. She saw her precious Gideon, cold and alone without his parents to hold him tight. Disturbing images of their boy being imprisoned, starved, and beaten, tortured her mind in a continuous reel. If it wasn’t Gideon’s face tormenting her, it was Rumple’s. Yet another lost boy, abandoned again and again, even by her—the one who had promised to love him even in the darkness.

Belle shifted onto her side to smooth the hair at Rumple’s temples, grateful that he slept peacefully. Deep grooves had settled around his mouth and eyes, and he’d looked bone-weary when he returned from confronting the Black Fairy tonight. When the Black Fairy had come to the shop to announce her arrival in Storybrooke, Belle had listened to her twisted promises and saccharine speech about a happy family with gritted teeth and clenched fists.

Talk about the mother-in-law from hell.

Carefully, she unwound Rumple’s arms from her middle and eased out of his embrace. Feeling her way in the dark, she slipped out of her nightgown and put on her clothes. She cast a wary look at the bed where Rumple slept undisturbed and rifled through his nightstand for paper and a pen. She dashed off a note and padded downstairs. If he awoke to find her gone with no explanation, he would fret and come looking. He might in any case when he knew where she was headed.

Restlessness beat in her breast like a drum, beckoning her to the woods north of town. She had words for that conniving witch, things that needed to be said tonight.

Brambles cracked and popped beneath the tread of her boots as she wound her way through the maze of trees. She stopped when she reached the valley where the Black Fairy had killed the field of pixie flowers. But in an act of defiance, their Gideon had kept one bloom alive. There was still hope.

“I know you’re here!” Her breath was a white burst in the frigid air. “Show yourself!”

The Black Fairy appeared in a swirl of black smoke, a cruel smile stretching her face. “Belle, darling, how sweet of you to pay me a visit.” She clasped her hands. “I was so hoping we would have a chance to chat and get to know each other.”

“I didn’t come for tea,” Belle said, fisting her hands at her sides. “I’m here with a warning.”

She stared back, and for a moment Belle was mesmerized by those haunted brown eyes. How could those eyes be so like Rumple’s and yet so different? His were filled with light and love; love for her and his children. Hers were dark and cruel, a barren wasteland.

“A motherly tête-à-tête?” Her smile was sly. “I’m touched.”

Belle trembled from head to toe, but she squeezed her knees together to still their knocking. Now that she was here, she was terrified, but she would never show it. “Don’t flatter yourself,” she said. “You’re not a mother. You’re vile, depraved, and barely human. I feel sorry for you.”

“You, sorry for me?” She pursed deep red lips. “You’re nothing but a vessel for the child of the Dark One, dearest. I’ve waited centuries for Gideon to be born. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been some other unsuspecting chit. Anyone could have done what you’ve done. Pushing out a baby doesn’t make you special.”

“What you did to Rumplestiltskin haunts you, doesn’t it?” Belle crossed her arms. “That’s why you’re demanding this sick, Oedipal version of a happy family now. You gave him away for the same reason you stole our son. Because of your lust for power. And you regret it every day.”

She cackled, the sound harsh and ugly in the still night air. “I regret nothing. Power is life—it’s all that truly matters. Life with Rumplestiltskin should have taught you as much. That same darkness that you claim to loathe in me rules your husband’s heart. You cannot have it both ways, dear. Dark or light. There is no in-between.”

Belle shook her head hard. “You’re wrong. If there’s anything I have learned, it’s the folly of seeing the world in black and white. There are gray areas. My husband uses dark magic, yes, but he uses it for good. Rumplestiltskin is a strong, courageous man. He has beaten back the darkness and chosen love while you’ve embraced hatred.”

“How sweet,” she simpered. “You’ve fooled yourself into believing that he loves you more than his precious dagger and he’s clever enough to make you fall for his lies over and over.” She cocked her head. “Like mother like son, perhaps.”

“No, he’s a good man with a loving heart and you can’t take that from him. No matter how hard you work to destroy him, you will never rip the love out of his heart. He’s nothing like you. He is good and kind and honorable and he loves his children with everything he is. Anything he’s done wrong he has done to protect us.” Belle inhaled the sharp, cold air. “Stay away from my family…or else.”

The Black Fairy laughed. “Or else what? You have no magic. You are nothing but a pretty face and a big brain filled with clever words. You’re a foolish girl who was tricked into giving away your baby, and now he’s mine. And soon, Rumplestiltskin will choose me, too. Then you’ll have nothing.”

Belle smirked, displaying a confidence she didn’t feel. Do the brave thing. “I might not have spells and potions and smoke and mirrors, but I have something more powerful and rare, something you’ll never have. True Love. And from what my husband has taught me, there’s no more powerful magic in all the world.” She narrowed her eyes. “We’ll get Gideon back and bring him home to us for good. And nothing you do will stop us from being a family.”

“Threats…from a hero?”

“You see, that’s just it.” Belle gave her a nasty smile and took a step forward. “I’ve never been very good at being a hero. Give me back my child’s heart. Now.”

“Mother!” In an instant, Gideon was standing between her and the Black Fairy, his eyes wild and dangerous. Belle didn’t know if the title referred to her or to the Black Fairy. “You shouldn’t be here,” he told her, his voice low and urgent.

Before she could speak, Gideon whisked her away, and deposited her on the front porch of the Victorian. Dizzy from the unexpected trip, she pitched forward, catching her hip on the porch banister.

She regained her balance and smoothed her hands over her belly, looking at her son. “You protected me,” she said softly.

“It was the right thing to do,” he said. “A hero’s duty, just like your book taught me.”

Belle reached for him, but he ducked away. His jaw was set in a hard line, but the twitch of his nose gave him away. She saw herself in the dungeon of a castle in another world, its master determined to send her away. Because of love. Because of fear. And a mission she couldn’t yet understand. Belle bit back a sob. Oh, Rumple. Our boy is so much like you.

“Gideon…” Belle swallowed. “We—”

“Mother, listen to me.” He settled a hand on her shoulder, his gaze warm and loving. ­“Do not come at the Black Fairy again. Please…I don’t want to see you hurt. I can live with anything but that.” He was shaking, his dark eyes wary as they darted toward the second story of the house. “I won’t say anything to Father about this.”

“It’s all right if you do, son.” She smiled sadly, then lifted her chin. “We don’t keep secrets from one another. Not anymore.”

He looked as if he wanted to ask what she meant, but then he stiffened, his face a hardening into an impenetrable mask. “Fine.”

Belle knew he would say no, knew there was no use in asking so long as the Black Fairy held his heart, but she could no more stop herself from speaking to her child than she could stop the tide from crashing against the beach. With or without his heart, she had to let him know he was wanted, needed, that there was a place for him, with her and with Rumple, whenever he chose. Always.

Belle moved toward the door and opened it wide, then stretched out her hand, meeting Gideon's now cold gaze. “Come home?”

###