Content Warning: The next two chapters contain semi-graphic descriptions of child abuse and its effects.
NINE DAYS AGO
Gideon had to tell the Pines what he knew.
He decided the night he'd rescued Mabel from the Order, but by the time he did, it was too late. It wasn't until he was locked in his room, shaking from the pain of Gaston's fury, that he really thought through everything that had happened earlier. Everything he'd learned.
The Pines needed all three Journals to rescue Stanford's brother. And Gideon had said nothing to stop it. He'd even helped it along, even though he knew it would only end in the Pines' suffering.
He didn't tell Mabel this when he gave her his Journal because. . . well, he'd never told anyone. Not even the other Order members who already knew. It just. . . wasn't mentioned. Ever. It had been ingrained into Gideon's young mind to never bring it up, to never even hint at the secret he held. Especially around outsiders. Especially around the Pines.
But when Gaston had charged him with this secret, 'the Pines' had just been Stanford. The old grouch running a tourist trap with the help of a couple locals. Gideon had accepted, because the punishment was far worse than telling some stranger what he knew. Then he had found the Journal, and linked it to Stanford, and he'd felt a twinge of guilt. Not nearly enough to risk his wellbeing by giving up the secret, but a little bit.
Then Mabel and Dipper had come to town.
Gideon lay there in the dark on his bed, his mind running in crazed circles, any cohesive thoughts drowned out by the pain. He tried to focus on something else, but he couldn't, not when his arms and back were hurting like this. The servants had bandaged him up like they always did — nothing to soothe the pain, but bandages to stop him from bleeding on the bedding. Sometimes, Gideon wanted to rip the bandages off and soak his sheets with blood just to spite them. But that would be petty. It wouldn't change anything.
Telling the Pines isn't petty, his brain reminded him, bringing his thoughts back around. No, it wouldn't be petty. And it would definitely change things. But it would end in pain. Much worse pain than what he was suffering tonight.
If he told the Pines, and Gaston found out. . .
A fresh wave of pain knifed through him, scattering Gideon's thoughts. It may have been physical, it may have been imagined, it may have been both. He wasn't sure. It felt real.
It took him a moment to sort it out. These days, the pain of the abuse and the fear of the abuse were always with him, and he had increasing difficulty telling them apart. But this. . . right, he remembered. This was pain. This was real. He had run away to save Mabel, and Gaston had responded as he always did. With pain.
Mabel. . .
He imagined seeing her face when she discovered his secret. Shocked, hurt — probably more hurt than he had ever seen her, even after his own terrible actions. There was no way to avoid that horror, that grief, but maybe. . . if he told the Pines before they found out the hard way. . . maybe he could prevent some of their pain.
Some of the pain. . . but not all of it. Why had he given Mabel his Journal? Why hadn't he explained it right then and there?
Even as he asked himself, even as he cursed himself, he knew the answer. Fear. He was so afraid. . . afraid of his father, afraid of the Pines hating him — of Mabel hating him, again — and of the physical and emotional pain that would follow his confession. He'd been so caught off guard by Mabel's explanation of the Pines' project that he'd run on automatic: Don't tell. Mabel's pleading eyes had penetrated far enough for him to give her the Journal, but they had not gotten past the wall that Gaston had placed. The wall that would protect this secret at all costs.
And as Gideon lay there, wrapped in bandages that were growing more red by the minute, he hated that wall. He hated Gaston. He hated himself.
He finally dropped off to sleep that night, though he was woken up repeatedly by stabs of pain from his various cuts, bruises, and burns. When that happened, pure exhaustion drove him back to dreamland, which was every bit as unpleasant as reality. He was plagued with nightmares about Mabel, about Ford's brother, about the outcome of the Pines' mission to save him. Every end result Gideon could think of was negative, and his dreams showcased this. He wasn't sure how much of it was torture from Bill and how much of it was torture from his own mind.
Either way, there was no escape.
The next week passed in the same fashion, with night after night of horrible dreams. His injuries got better, though they left new scars that Gideon covered with long sleeves and a high collar. He couldn't leave his room with any skin exposed, lest his mother should see. He suspected she knew something about all this — Northwests had been using physical abuse as a way to control their sons for generations — but any mention of it around her whatsoever would lead to more torture from Gaston. So he wore long sleeves, kept a happy demeanor around Geneva, and quietly wasted away inside.
He couldn't talk to anyone. Not even his own mother.
He couldn't go out to the forest to wind down, either. After his blatant disobedience the other night, Gideon was basically on house arrest. No leaving the grounds, and Gaston kept his amulet locked up. The only time Gideon got to use it was when he performed memory wipings for the Order. And for that, Gaston sent no less than two servants along to escort him. Gideon's father knew as well as he did the limitations of the amulet: one person at a time. If Gideon dared to use his amulet against one servant, the other one would subdue him.
Gideon tried to make plans to run away and tell the Pines his secret. But with constant supervision and no amulet, it seemed impossible.
Then, five days after rescuing Mabel, he heard the news: The Pines had broken into the Order headquarters. They'd stolen the first Journal.
They had all three.
When Gideon heard this, he locked himself in his room for a solid five hours. He just. . . he had to be alone. His first reaction, after escaping the eyes of everyone else in the house, was to sink to the floor, crying and shaking and hyperventilating. He never let anyone see his panic attacks — not ever. But sometimes, when all the pain and frustration and rage built up too high for too long, he couldn't hold it back anymore. He usually could go a couple months before that happened. Not this time. Though it'd been less than a week since his panic attack in the graveyard, here was another one, unwanted but unavoidable.
Once the physical reaction had run its course, Gideon lay huddled on the ground, tear tracks etched into his face. He could think through this, now that his traitorous body was done with him. He wasn't sure how long he'd been in here. It didn't matter.
He had to stop the Pines.
Not the way the Order did — the Order wanted to shut the entire thing down. Most of its members believed it was because of the danger the Pines' machine would pose, but Gideon knew the real reason: Bill did not want the Pines to succeed. He didn't want Ford to save his brother.
Gideon didn't know what he wanted, himself. He just knew that turning on the machine would bring negative consequences for everyone, including — especially — the Pines. If they had all the information, they wouldn't be doing this. But no one would give them all the information.
No one but Gideon.
He pushed himself upright, staring around his room. He would, but how could he? He was trapped! He was limited to the Northwest Manor and the Order headquarters, and none of the Pines was there. For a second, Gideon entertained a foolish hope that the Order would capture the Pines, just so he could see them again and tell them. He immediately shut that thought down. It was the imagination of a crazed mind. He didn't need that right now. He needed solutions.
Do you? his mind asked timidly. Or do you need to put this whole thing to rest? The Pines can take care of themselves. This isn't worth your father's wrath. Are you really going to risk certain doom just to confess bad news to the Pines?
Gideon followed that train of thought for a while. Wouldn't the Pines be okay without his meddling? Was it even possible to deliver the message? Or would he just get the worst beating of his lifetime? Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he should just leave well enough alone.
Then he saw Mabel's face.
He saw it so clearly in his mind's eye that, for a moment, his addled brain thought she was in the room with him. The phantom Mabel stared at him, her eyes filling with tears, looking worn down and miserable, her body crumpling in despair. She'd be heartbroken.
Well. . . she'd be heartbroken whether or not Gideon told her, because she was going to find out eventually. But the sooner he told them — told her — the sooner he could prevent the worst of it.
Gideon sat there, alone on the floor of his bedroom, thinking this whole thing over for a long time. He vacillated a lot between his two options: try to tell the Pines, or just sit here quietly as they unknowingly brought upon themselves anguish. The latter was by far the more logical and practical. Whenever his emotions got in the way, his logic screamed at him that he'd just be making things worse for himself. Whenever his logic cleared the air, his emotions would just come right back, showing him Mabel's horror and Dipper's anger and Stanford's anguish.
Eventually, his emotions won.
That simple fact disturbed him. His emotions. . . never won. It was too dangerous to be emotional around Gaston; Gideon had to keep his eyes open and his mind sharp to do what he must to avoid punishment.
But this. . . this was the opposite of avoiding punishment. This was inviting punishment. And he'd done it before, too. Just five days earlier, when he had gone after Mabel.
She was the reason his feelings finally defeated his analytical mind. Gideon wasn't sure what to make of that.
But he didn't try to fight it.
Art by CeaLirhes