Disclaimer: none of this franchise is owned by me.

Author's Notes: I hope you are all taking care of yourselves, that your loved ones are safe, and I grieve with you if you have lost anyone to this pandemic. I'm experiencing great highs and lows, too, and intentionally training myself to find the small appreciations that I can each day. One such: #quarantinewriting leads to your next update so very quickly (in comparison to my typical updating pattern).

#editingfail: updated chapter 5/8/2020 with a forgotten plot point (totally lost track of where Ariel & Eric went in previous chapters because I was referring back to the OLD notes while writing this one – oops!) Thanks for the catch & comment!

Unintentionally stole a line from another favorite movie of mine—"Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas" (2003).

Playlist songs for this chapter: "Once Upon a Dream" by Lana Del Rey, "Transformations" by Alan Menken, "Save Yourself" by Claire De Lune, and "Hurt" by Johnny Cash.

:: ::

let the shadows fall behind you

::

part 18

::

"Barricade it with—"

"Supplies in the far cabinet—"

"Bite down on this—"

"Does anyone remember—"

"Put her daughter there—"

A shout of pain.

Belle shudders. Splinting Kristian's broken leg is necessary: Fairy Godmother Agatha does not have her wand, and wouldn't be able to heal a malicious hex even if she did have it.

Between them, hastily sketched on the inner page of a lost book, is a diagram of the palace. Milo points out the weakest access point and says, "Anyone in or out, we can control."

Belle turns away from the map. Behind her, Agatha asks for his other ideas about an escape strategy.

They took refuge in the infirmary, usually used to address the castle's minor health concerns—like small work injuries, a winter cold, a tension headache. The room is large enough to hold everyone Belle recalls from the dungeons—adult and child alike—because the palace is designed for a kingdom emergency.

She'd always thought of earthquakes, or fires. Not…this.

What she wouldn't give for trained staff and a full hospital's amenities.

As head queen, she cannot roll up her own sleeves to sit at a bedside. That task is given over to others, like Ariel, who sits at her daughter's bedside. Eileen, too, lies in a bed, watched over by her father Taran, a former farmer who defeated the Horned King. Dowager Queen Leah's elderly body took captivity the worst, rattling coughs contained in a handkerchief and propped upright by Aurora. And Jane of the Jungle, as she was affectionately known, has done her best with Kristian's leg, but she is no medical doctor. His father Kristoff still pats his forehead with a damp cloth. Doing what little he can without painkillers.

They need experts on magical healing for Nakul, cursed with a sleep like death, and the Facilier girl. Cinderella and Anita sit watch between the two injured children, and the Judge's daughter keeps guard over her companion. Her eyes dart like a hunted rabbit.

Belle's hands clench, empty, by her sides.

At the door, Jasmine lets out Megaera. Anna and Esmeralda are already outside, makeshift weapons in hand. One more line of defense between the injured and the villainous. And the animated masonry, none of which has attempted to enter the palace…yet.

(But oh, what a terrifying moment, when they realized suits of armor were marching in the halls).

Snow White bustles down the center of their haphazardly looted space, a case of bandages in her arms. "We've done all we can for now. Did anyone consider an escape route yet?"

Belle nods her head toward Milo and Agatha. "That's them."

Their eyes lock, and Snow pauses in her hasty motions to keep busy. "You, too."

Belle looks away. This is no time for her to appear, in any form, weak. But her strengths are in gathering knowledge and guidance, organization and politics. Years of peace leave her with the sense that her fighting spirit is a candle flickering next to her own child's bonfire. Ben's out there, sword in hand, spry and strong and fearless. Belle's fears have had longer than a week to grow and take root in her heart. Her whole body feels the weight of missing meals and restless sleep.

A mind unrested is a mind prone to making mistakes.

Injured children watch and follow their example with every breath. Her status as a leader takes precedence. Perhaps Snow sees such answers in her eyes: she pats Belle on the hand and continues on her way without further comment.

A shuddering gasp whirls Belle around in time to see Agatha grasp at the table with both hands. "Fairy Godmother," Milo says, holding her by the elbow.

"The spell," she replies, shaky, eyes wide. "I can feel—it's unravelling."

"Who?" Jasmine asks, her hands clutching a table used to barricade the room.

Agatha shakes her head. "More than one person, I know that much. I…" She shakes herself, straightening. "I can help."

Well, then. "Jasmine, Milo, keep planning."

The Fairy Godmother holds herself as though she maintains her full power, despite lacking her wand, as she slips through the barricade.

Belle casts her gaze about the room. The already-high tension ticks up another notch: truth cannot be denied. "Whatever happens out there will decide our course. Be ready."

:: :: ::

Silence.

An azure sky, partially hidden beyond slow streams of cloud.

Sharp ridges against her spine.

The taste of burnt flowers.

Blood in the air.

Hers? (Those who are hers?)

Mal moves to sit and her vision grays for a dizzy moment. Her sight clears just as firm hands grasp her shoulders and intent brown eyes block the rest of the world.

"Hades gave you that?" Jay asks, voice pitched only to her ears.

"Yes," she sighs, stomach twisting. There's a secret here, one only Evie knew. She forgot that this lie of omission is embedded in the foundations of her own gang. Jay's already got that suspicious twitch in his eye. "Tell you later—did it work?"

He moves aside easily, letting her catch her balance and pretending that his arm is casually slung over her shoulder. He's solid like rock, but holds himself as though something hurts.

In the middle of the blast radius lies the still-flaming ember, beside a now-inert and broken spell-stone—a crystal of some sort. (Significant? Historic? Who knows—not her.)

What matters is that Evie is across that cleared-out space in the middle, hair uncharacteristically mussed. Carlos, pressed to her side, unobtrusively holds her up. The lines around his mouth are deeper.

All the days apart seep out of their pores. They need a post-battle break, in their own familiar hideout way. Indoors, pillows, quiet. Words of pain and sorrow. A locked and blocked door.

That's not possible yet.

Jay sighs and Carlos nods and Evie asks, "Is it over?"

The Coach of Jay and Carlos' tourney team answers. "I don't know how—but the spell is broken." Either the Genie did not fall in the aftershock of that broken spell, or was faster back on his feet, and his eyes are piercing and worried. (Questioning. Unwelcome.)

A mad cackle—Uma, leaning into Harry, her eyes wet but her smile vicious and wide. "An' everyone else in the streets was whipped before we even got to the steps," she declares, reaching out and snagging an arm around Gil's neck. "None of those henchfolk have any muscle when you take out the bigger fish."

"Alice of Wonderland leads the citizens," Hugh adds, hovering behind Evie and Carlos. "And none of the big names are still standing, except for Mim and Gothel, who ran."

Uma smirks, glancing down at Gil, who has obediently bent into her arm's reach. He looks up at her with wide eyes, bright and hopeful (and innocent). "Did we win?"

Quiet permeates the space, heads turning back and forth. The Fairy Godmother emerges from the palace in a flurry of hand-wringing, heading straight to the Coach.

(And hers?)

Mal scans the remainder of her allies—at least, those she can see. She counts them: Anthony, injured but staggering toward the palace, Gaelle at his side; Phil kneeling beside very hurt Seth; Alim lingering beside Lonnie as one tear spills down her cheek; and Ben.

(Ash on his forehead and blood blotting fabric along one arm and bright eyes piercing—)

Ben.

Jay stays steady for her, as she stands, lets her lean into him as her side aches. She steps away, toward those tired eyes, that half-quirked mouth. Her hands want to fidget—with her hair, with her ripped gloves, with the hem of her jacket. She doesn't let them move from her side.

Can he read her choice in her eyes?

(Are the horns a clear symbol?)

His sword is lowered, though. His shoulders relax further the closer she steps. "Maleficent is gone."

His gaze remains steady. "Then she can't hurt you again."

"No." The sharp edge of one horn against her finger serves as a rebuke and a reminder. "Ben, I…"

(Need to leave. Want to stay. Look like her, now.)

(Hurt can be more than broken bones.)

Gentle hands engulf hers between them, and intentionally light grip. He looks her in the eye as he says, "That first day on the Isle, when we realized that you couldn't do it alone. Do you remember what I told you?"

("Love is not your greatest weakness. It's going to be your greatest strength.")

She shakes her head even as she admits, "You were right. I was strong enough to beat her." Her lips tighten into a grimace and she looks away. "And strong enough to 'claim my inheritance', as they said." Both of her parents, even if one uttered it like a curse and the other like a prize. (Now, of all times, Hades—)

(There is not enough room in this conversation for her father, too.)

Ben's fingers tilt her chin back up. The pressure is grounding and his eyes are sincere. "You're not her."

(How does he know—)

The same way he's known so much, even when she doubted. The same way he's proven, over and over. All the way to that fragile wavering dream. Bringing this insanity called hope to life.

Whatever her face looks like leads Ben to laugh.

He got them all to go be big damn heroes and they won.

Ben's still laughing when she frees one hand from his too-loose grasp, sliding it up his shoulder and around the back of his neck. He smiles when she lifts herself onto her toes. And when the upwards curve of her lips meets his, she basks in the lightness of her heart.

:: :: ::

Carlos plants his feet. Evie's wobbly in the knees, but firmly grasps his forearm. Jay's shoulders are lowered though his sword's still in his hand. Battle's over, for the moment, and all three of his gang are here, whole.

Mal and Ben end their kiss and Carlos is still grinning. He's not alone: Jay's eyes crinkle at the corners and Evie beams like it's her own story-book ending.

"Asya." Anthony's voice cuts the moment sharply, rough and as deeply pained as that wound in his side.

It takes a moment for Carlos to connect wide eyes, aimed toward the sea, with the name. With where Asya is, and why. To turn. To look. A fluorescent pink creature bobs above the Isle. It dips. Fire streams in a distant ribbon onto the island.

"She wasn't at the feast," Evie whispers, that brief joy sucked right out of her eyes. "Or the barrier spell would have stopped her."

Mad Madam Mim could have gone anywhere else, but in her rage, in vengeance— She must have learned—

His stomach churns at their failure.

"The Isle," Ben says, turning toward his father. "Others are still there! Hurt, or needing care, we left them—"

His father snaps, "Take the wounded inside. You're in charge here."

"Dad, wait—"

"We'll go," General Mulan says, sheathing her sword. Grim lines draw her lips tight. "Your duty is here. We can move faster, less of us are injured."

Ben's chin tilts stubbornly. "They won't trust you, not without us. They know us."

"And this kingdom knows you, too." His father's shoulders bunch with tension. He's come closer, while others—generals and kings and warriors—move toward the stairs that lead to the city. "You were elected to serve. Your face was broadcast this morning. Warn the city, speak to them and our neighboring kingdoms."

Even though he re-purposed the Isle alliances, even they have followed him all this way, even though their war began when his coronation was interrupted… the comprehension finally, fully dawns. And not just on Ben, but on the rest of them, Carlos included.

The High King cannot abandon his throne now that it's retaken. The High King's duties do not include leading the charge to rescue the remainder of their helpers. The High King must serve as a beacon, must speak to the city, the country, the kingdoms. Auradon has been re-taken.

An interrupted coronation is a ceremony, not the vote itself: that was already decided. Even if Ben's been away, effectively leading a rebellion.

(No pressure.)

The weight on his friend's shoulders is evident, but Ben's only response is a brisk nod.

The heroic figures from their warped childhood stories take this as their cue to depart with haste. Carlos hates that they'll see the Isle as the graveyard it has become, hates that they expect a prison they could put out of their minds. Maybe it's right, for them to think that, for them to see it, even. Yet he still does not want it.

(Nowhere else to hide. Not anymore.)

Their other allies withhold any response they might have given, some other time or to some other king. Gaelle has tucked Anthony under her arm. Uncharacteristically, he drips panic despite his tight jaw. Gill follows in her wake, and Harry hooks Uma's arm and tugs her, adrift, to his side. Uma looks like she might want to argue, but not enough to keep her eyes on their former home.

"We'll return with those we find," the former king declares, retreating to the steps with one unfathomable glance at the Isle teens retreating into the palace.

Mim dips down in the air again, destroying what Carlos hopes are buildings.

(Please be buildings.)

The battle is supposed to be over. Their plans worked. How did they fail with this?

Carlos meets Jay's eyes. Evie's. All three then look to Mal. That's who they follow. And she, in turn…

Well, she's taking the opportunity to snatch up that blue flaming ember. But as soon as she's stuffed it into a pocket, she turns to the High King.

Ben has yet to look away from the island. Even as he dispatches Hugh, Alim, and Phil to go down to the streets and spread word or find any of their allies still missing. Even as Lonnie takes over supporting woozy Seth, who stumbles and trips into the palace. Even as Mal returns to his side.

Carlos can read the lines on Ben's face. Failing Asya, Dizzy, and the rest of the wounded they had kept with them on the Isle would be…far worse, in some ways, than losing those who came to fight with them.

(The battle's supposed to be over. Is the war won?)

Mal tugs on Ben's elbow. The High King of Auradon finally looks away from the flaw in their plan and follows her wordless request. They finally turn toward the palace, too, seeking shelter.

Below in the streets, cheers and shouts of victory ring.

:: :: ::

(Where is our storybook ending?)

No one knows.

:: :: ::

(Let's hear a story.)

Once upon a time, in a great kingdom torn apart by cold revenge disguised as the wheels of justice, the heroes of their own tales discover what that magnificent plan has wrought. Brought together in an infirmary meant for minor illness, they easily fill the space, the shadows of unspoken words filling the corners and empty space in the middle of the room.

There are tales of fracture.

Jasmine of Agrabah fusses over her son Alim. His father and their dear magical friend are on their way to the Isle of the Lost. She hopes her sweet daughter, left behind for the coronation, did not see the morning's broadcast, surely sent out to the kingdoms. And she wonders after the son of Jafar, who avoided aid for an obviously injured shoulder and followed the High King out of the room. She is ashamed for not knowing how to reach out a hand that the young man would receive.

Reaching out a hand has never been difficult for Tarzan of the Jungle: from vine to vine, from his beloved wife to his ape family, there has never been cause to hesitate. But now, his mercifully uninjured daughter Janet remains lost in a jungle of her own thoughts. She looks at those young ones with whom she roared into battle, and there's a wound her parents cannot soothe.

Snow White sees shadows in her son Seth—in his bloodied face, swollen eye, and guilty heart, all under Snow White's dainty, delicate hands. Her husband left to an island she never liked to remember. Despite her resolution in a dungeon cell, disappointed in herself, she nevertheless pretends not to see her younger, blue-haired step-sister across the room.

Unconcerned for any remnant of a Horned King lingering in the land of the living, Eilonwy cradles Eileen's unconscious head in her lap. Her husband, no longer a farm-boy, knows their daughter ran from the fight. To come so far shows more courage than she'd expect of her sweet, shy daughter. That she abandoned her task? That disappointment will never pass from the strong queen's heart to her lips.

By contrast, Anna of Arendelle's heart is all too clearly understood. Her guilt compels her clasp of her son Kristian's hand. She offers her own bones to clench against his pain. His father's hands would do this task better, they both know, when he can lift the stone bodies of his family without losing breath. But this queen's current priority is to be a mother.

(Far away in Arendelle, an ice-witch, a spirit, sits on the throne and waits with frozen fingers for word. The broadcast cut out on a purple-haired girl's sneer and no one knows what has happened next. She, and her allies, wait with cold fury in their veins.)

Some tales are twisted beginnings.

Wild-loose red hair gets in both of her children's faces, but Merida of Clan Dubroch clutches them close despite their protests. For once, they don't elbow each other out of the way to take more of her arms for themselves. She is angry it took such strife to finally break down the lingering effects of her children's worthless fathers. She fought to keep war from their doorstep, and there was no grand villain they had confined to that island. Her heart is afire.

Full of her own quiet fire, Megaera, wife to a demi-god, ruffles the hair of each of her sons, wiping their bruised knuckles and cataloguing the shadows under their eyes. This, at least, she knows: caring for a returning warrior, knowing that their father's gifts gave them each just that little bit of extra protection. If she could have stopped this from happening, she would have made any deal.

(On his way to an island, Hercules ponders a purple-haired girl who could use a blue-flaming ember.)

Anita Radcliffe maintains her post near the daughters of two madmen, and her husband stands at her side. She has never been more grateful of their shared desire not to have biological children. Both husband and wife cast lingering glances to a white-and-black haired young man nearby. Roger wonders if this child knows that they wanted to meet him long ago. Anita wonders if this son of a madwoman wants to know them.

Esmeralda the Romani knows how the Judge's daughter would answer that question: Frollo's soul-wounded daughter's eyes flicker between staring and hiding with every breath. Esmeralda guards the door, waiting for her husband's return, and holds her son Quinn. He's brought another Isle child back with him. This Isle girl is equal to his height and unafraid in bearing and yet, still avoids directly meeting the Romani dancer's eyes. These children are truly lost—and she cannot let that remain the truth.

Another woman's eyes alight on the fearless girl from the Isle. Rapunzel of Corona did not flinch when her son Felix breathed this girl's name in her ear. She longs to reach out, to ask, to know why. They shared a monstrous mother. Do they have the same story? With every breath she inhales, she hopes not. With every exhale, she wonders if her husband has made it to the Isle yet.

Milo Thatch also wonders at the stories of these children. Too many of them have a battle-scarred look in their eyes. He's no stranger to taking up a fight that he's hardly prepared to win, but they're only a few years younger than his own daughter. And his token of residence in Atlantis was lost during his captivity: he cannot offer the healing power of the crystal. Even as he helps where he can, he worries over his wife, gone to battle again—on an Island they never wanted to exist on their seas, never asked for a nemesis to be held in.

(Far away in Atlantis, the daughter of the Queen stands under the city's crystal, mind racing through the legends of her people. Her grandfather abused this power, she's been told over and again. The crystal demands a price. If the lands above do not return the kingdoms to peace…is it one she is willing to pay?)

Other tales are strife threatening anew.

There are children clustered in a corner far from the door, as though being at the window-end of the room will afford them protection that an open embrace would mimic.

Lonnie's war-hero parents have slipped on the well-worn cloak of battle, trusting her to be a dutiful daughter. In her mind's eye, she watches the flash of her own sword, sending a girl her own age over a ledge. She recalls a man's yellow eyes, before her father and mother came. Before they stopped him, permanently. Lonnie did not ask, before they left, if they had seen, if they knew, about that man's daughter. She sits near a window. Trying to forget what blood looks like on stone.

Doug is ever-grateful that his father never leaves the family mines. He still feels Jane's weight over his shoulders. A blue-haired princess has smiled at him, but this is no invitation to join her busy quartet, not yet. Not when he doesn't know how to explain his guilt. Battle won yet his own, personal mission, failed. All of his effort in the background of greater schemes, vigilant at Jane's side—and she still managed to hurt herself so very badly.

Aria holds herself seashell-fragile, now that she's awakened from her injury. She thinks herself too-close to enemies, even with her mother at her side, to all appearances unconcerned with the sea-witch in the room. Her eyes flicker constantly: from her dear friend, apparently asleep; to the windows; to the girl she can only see as a threat. She's trapped, yet free.

(Far away in a kingdom under the sea, a ruler with a trident directs his troops. His sea-living granddaughter awaits them ashore, an emissary to Arendelle. His heart is tugged by his most vocal soldiers, the ones who always treated his granddaughters well, who warned of dangers yet posed by the sea-witch sisters. The land will feel the full wrath of the sea if his youngest granddaughter is not returned to her family safely.)

And yet more tales are laden with loss.

Tiana of New Orleans brushes the sides of her son's face with both hands, wishing desperately for a miracle in magic. A parent's kiss is love, true as any, but the curse has yet to break. There must be more to the mix. Her playful, laughing husband is rendered grim and unsure. He wraps his arms around her. She tells herself: if their enemy's own daughter has found love in a gaunt-faced girl curled at her side, then surely her son may be loved, too. Unknown to her, her husband wonders that this enemy's daughter was also lost and, maybe, found.

Chad has been cut by that same sleeping curse, and Cinderella clutches her son's hand and sobs. Brought back to the palace in his father's arms, her husband hangs his head in fear. She does not yet notice the boy three beds over who resembles her step-sister, whose glazed eyes stare bleakly at the ceiling, nor the girl who clutches his hand close to her scarred mouth.

Belle does see the scarred girl, and the boy lingering near her who shares those dark eyes. The pair lingers on the edge of her vision as she embraces her son, before his duties take him back out. Ben must send word to the kingdoms from elsewhere in the palace, and Jafar's son is his shadow. This time, when he brought a young, horned fae with him, Belle makes sure to smile. Adrift and awaiting word of the Isle, the former High Queen ponders her own courage and whether she dare approach a wounded, wary pair of siblings.

Aurora clutches her daughter Audrey close to her side, wishing for her husband's speedy return from the Isle that used to hold the deadliest threat to her life. Her weak mother's hands are trembling in her grasp, growing colder even outside of the stone dungeon. From time to time, she looks at the young horned fae and remembers the chilling words that connect them. Each of them suffered at the same hands, and neither truly was raised by a mother.

Fairy Godmother did raise her daughter. Despite every other wounded child in the room, her complete and utter devastation traps her at her daughter's side from the moment her young half-dwarf friend brought her back. The scars on Jane's little fae soul are deep. They are born of over-extending in dangerous ways, of stretching internal power far too thin. A parent should never be their own child's healer, but she's all Jane has, and she can't figure out how to help. Not even with a returned white wand gleaming in her hand.

Once upon a time…

Several hours. Time passes relentlessly in uncomfortable glances, uncertain whispers, stilted conversations. Tears. Mourning. Pain, loss, and relief. This is the tale, and parts of it are certainly as old as time itself.

The tales are a tapestry, intricate yet simple.

(See how fine the weave in this one?)

:: :: ::

(Where is our storybook ending?)

The island burns.

:: :: ::

A tingle sets in at the base of her horns at the clatter in the corridor. Mal, Evie and Carlos pause in determining their next best move. At the sound. At the sight.

Princes and warriors have returned, crispy at the edges, with smudges of fire soot on their hands and faces. Murky to her eyes.

In vivid technicolor, instead, are a scant few children, waist-height or barely reaching her shoulder. Hermie of the Bing Circus. Cora of a line of royal Hearts. Eddie, a butler's son. And—

"Evie!"

Her friend gasps, falls to her knees with arms wide open. Dizzy crashes into her. Tear-tracks trickle through the dirt on her cheeks. "Dizzy," Evie replies, her voice cracking. "You're all right."

A bed away, Anthony struggles in Gaelle's grasp, eyes flat.

Oh.

"Drusilla," he calls, reaching palm-down, trembling with the effort.

Dizzy's shoulders shake. Evie pulls them both upright, setting the petite girl on her feet. When Dizzy removes her face from hiding in Evie's gown, her crumpled expression is their answer. Yet she still leaves Evie's arms to come to her cousin's side, half-hiccupping all the way. "Asya tried to—she made me hide, she told—a-and she—she—"

When she's close enough to reach, Anthony hauls her trembling, sobbing form to his own shoulder. She clambers up the bed to his side. Shaking, white-faced, he curls his arm closer around her. Gaelle lets him lean back into her support.

(Too much. Exposed. Look away.)

Mal can only blink.

Anthony's masks have completely shattered. Closeness is for closed-doors, gang hide-outs, the clink of glasses against one another and the darkness of a room lit by a single dimming lightbulb, a half-melted candle, or moonlight. Their allies are fully exposed—

And, she realizes, catching Gaelle's glare from over his shoulder, this is not calculation. Something has also broken in her Isle allies.

(Or—healed?)

Experience enough has led her to understand: in her childhood, this would have been an exposed belly laid open to a kick. And now, older and wiser, this is the least of what watching foreign eyes expect to see in cousins and companions. Manipulation 101 could easily be coming into play now. As could the honest realization that the rules are all different, here.

(Who else?)

Mal lets her eyes roam only as far as her own Isle allies. Without Ben at her side, she is wary, on guard for her own. And. There are others that she has not yet seen.

The fighters they brought are accounted for swiftly. Uma maneuvered her Isle allies in one area of the room, a united front. Anthony and Gaelle's bed behind her, Freddie and Claudine the next one over. Gil guards his sister's side, and his captain and her first-mate flank each end of the bed. Other crewmates—like Big Murph and Ginny—have found their places nearby.

Missing: Diego and Yzla, splinters who might not have come back for any number of reasons. And the heads of the last gang—

(A larger, darker dragon set ships on fire.

Ash in the air, every step taken on city streets.)

Her stomach lurches. A trio soaked in the briny waters of deep grief cluster, far too silent. That's a tell that she should have recognized earlier. But she was caught up in her numb relief at the end to fighting, caught up in planning what to do next for her own gang, to pay attention to the leaders she'd drawn into their alliance.

Mal approaches them carefully.

Harry removes his silver hook from the folds of his coat, skimming his fingers across the tip—the first gesture he's made with it in a while, and drawing more than one wary look to him. He doesn't shift to hide Uma, whose distant eyes are suspiciously red-rimmed.

Mal clears her throat. "Uri and Harriet?"

Uma's eyes shut for a grimace-strained moment. "What, you didn't notice when she blew them up in front of you?"

(Did Mal—)

(No. They wouldn't be talking if it had been her.)

"I'd hoped they jumped ship."

Uma's laugh roils like the tempestuous sea. "Captain goes down with the ship," she quips. Her voice cracks and, shockingly, tears glimmer in her eyes. Tossing her head, she crosses her arms. "Doesn't matter. It's not like he ever wanted to stick around."

("Remember that little lie we used to tell ourselves, running around on the docks?")

To lie is to belong. To lie is to protect. To lie is to gain and win.

Mal could let Uma lie to herself. Leave Harry to his silence. Uma's the voice, but Harry's own down-tipped chin speaks to his belief in the same. She could step back to her own gang. Play by Isle rules. Close off and conceal and turn inwards.

("We'd say, 'Mother loves me in her own way.'")

Uma's lie was truth once.

Mal's taking her turn.

She looks the sea-witch dead in the eye and says, "Yes, he did."

Uma snarls, leaning in. "No, he didn't! He never wanted to be alive most days! Joined someone else's crew, took off for the waves!"

(Breaking?)

"And whose ship did he end up on, huh?" she snaps back, gesturing at her silent first-mate. "Think that was an accident?"

"He didn't stick around—"

She shouts right over Uma. "Yes, he did!" They glare, eye to eye. "When the barrier fell, Uri didn't leave it all behind. He was there." She punctuates it with a flung arm, at the invisible island that was their home. "He was still looking out for you."

"So, what? I should be grateful? My brother is dead 'cause of it!" Her voice cracks again, at the end, the sound of holding back tears. Salt-water shimmering in her eyes.

(Healing?)

Mal can't stop. She reaches forward, one palm taking Uma's trembling shoulder. "Be mad as you want.. He probably saw it coming before any of us even left the Isle." A truth they only briefly had a chance to learn. She looks across Uma's shoulder, to Harry, whose own grimace is more pained than furious. "But they both made sure they'd get in her way. And that wasn't for our alliance, or for Auradon. They did it for you."

A truth that scrapes her mouth raw coming out, tossing the rules of the Isle aside. This is not meant for early morning light streaming through a palace window.

But Uma's shoulders stop trembling. And her eyes close, tears finally spilling over. Her voice is rough when she asks, "Y' made her pay?"

(They'd know, anyway.)

Mal abruptly becomes aware of the hushed silence in the room. "I stopped her."

Uma's eyes open, whites starting to redden at the edges. "You're certain?"

"Watched Maleficent's last breaths me'self," says a new voice. Megan. Mervin nods once, solemnly, from his place at her side.

They're clear across the room. Too many eyes, too many ears. Why did she think this was a good idea? Mal wants to back away, lets her hand fall from Uma's shoulder.

"Harriet would raise her glass to y'," Harry finally tosses in, lowering his implicitly threatening hook. "Call it an eye for an eye."

Now that's a truth. And without a fight even threatening to break out.

(Did that…work?)

Mal's ears burn. Conversations have picked up again in other corners, leaving her to calm her own pounding heart, to resist the urge to listen in to what these foreign eyes may be saying. At least those her own age know the left-out parts of this story.

She doesn't trust them to guard their secrets, but their lost gang members don't need to be hidden away.

The lingering haze of grief in the air pulls her attention to Gaelle, who lifts her hands in old, familiar gestures. Mal goes to her, watching the words take shape on her hands. Not having memorized all of her variations, and lacking Anthony's input to boot, Mal makes her best guess. "Your father won't be back, either."

A single grave nod in response.

(How many of her Isle allies will be able to say the same?)

A groan emits from a different bed. Relief ripples down Mal's spine. Their last gang leader lifts a hand to her own head. Freddie's eyes are still shut, and one hand is clasped tightly between Claudine's fervently-praying hands, but the priestess has woken. A small triumph.

"Where…?"

"You were hurt," Carlos answers, approaching the foot of her bed. "Battle's over. We've probably won."

Freddie grins, eyes still shut tight. Then her lips twist in a frown. "I failed."

"No," Claudine answers, fierce, stretching out one hand to cover Freddie's eyes. Her tense shoulders relax a fraction. "He's stripped of his power."

Freddie snorts. "Oh, the spirits sure did take back what they wanted. My head feels muggier than the fog at night." Then she swallows, voice turning throaty. "I don't want him to still be here."

(How many of her Isle allies will be able to say the same?)

Claudine hums. "The Lord takes, and gives, as pleases Him."

"Mm, my goddess begs to differ."

"Contrary, as is fitting."

Mal steps away, a jerk of her chin signaling Carlos. At some point during her risky attempt to help her allies, Evie and the Coach guided the other Isle brats brought back to others without an adult to cling to—Lonnie and Doug quietly, solemnly welcome the newcomers. Evie rests one hand on Doug's shoulder, betraying her own uncertainty in the simple gesture.

"Now what?" Carlos asks in an undertone, stepping in closer. "We don't have much of a plan for after Jay and Ben get back."

She's longing for the chance to hole up somewhere, too. "We need to know more." Surely sending a message out to the neighboring kingdoms won't take much longer.

"If we didn't actually win…"

Mal half-smirks as her smartest gang member tilts his head, considering another angle she may not have seen—

"Now, this is quite the party!"

Ice-fire shock thrills down her spine.

Framed in the door, lounging nonchalant as though weapons aren't being seized and raised within a heartbeat of hearing his voice, Hades tosses the flaming blue hair in his lame rocker's mullet and laughs. Someone lurks in the doorway behind him. To her eyes, the cloaked figure is obscured by the intensity of his gaze.

(Too close yet far closer than he's been in too many years—)

"Twice in one day? You're smothering me."

(Oh, was that her?)

Well, silencing the room—again—wasn't ideal, but at least she stops the defensive posturing aimed at a full-powered god. And, irritatingly typical to form, he laughs and uncrosses his arms, leaning across the threshold.

"I'm here to pick up my little loan. Discuss the terms of our deal." Staring her down in blatant challenge. "Got a minute, Mallie?"