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Chapter Text

Everything hurt.

Isidore Toller was barely conscious of a swinging, repetitive movement, as he was being transported to somewhere unknown. He couldn’t see anything and all he knew was that he was curled up, couldn’t move much and everything hurt, like he was pinched by a thousand little needles on his back, arms and legs.
How did a respectable man of intellect like him find himself in that situation? This was uncomfortably new and he couldn’t stay there.
He tried to struggle but he felt like he couldn’t bring his arms forward and couldn’t bend his legs: he was trapped in a too tiny space to do that. He had never been scared of small spaces before and never really understood claustrophobic people, until then. He could feel panic raising fast.

But he was smart, or at least he thought so of himself. All he had to do was to maintain control and find a solution to his problem as soon as possible.

He tried to regulate his breath and focus on his foggy thoughts.

First of all: what could he feel? It was dark, he was sitting in a very cramped and closed space, his wrists and ankles were bound by what seemed to be some ropes and he was gagged. He could faintly smell the salty scent of the sea. The walls felt wooden and circular. With all of these clues he could guess that he might be in… a barrel? On a boat, maybe?

But how? Why? He knew he could find a solution, he always did. Why was he here?

The last thing he could remember was from the celebratory dinner he went to with some of his inquisitor colleagues... and between them there were also a couple of new faces, the new doctors of the team. They were celebrating the conviction of a new sorcerer, a woman who used forbidden magic to erase the memories of the people she abused. A scum, like all the others that came before her.

He ate and drank well, toasting to the Inquisition… the new doctors specifically offered him a drink that looked red and warm. It was sweet and a bit alcoholic, with a bitter accent at the end.

It was totally unassuming at the time but the memories that came after were… foggy. He could remember that he started slowly feeling unwell, he stopped eating and the doctors offered to accompany him home. He must have passed out not long after.

Did they poison his drink? Was he kidnapped? He knew he had a lot of enemies but he never imagined that they could crawl and hide inside the Inquisition itself like some kind of parasite.

His breath, already irregular, became frantic.

He wanted to go out. He had to go out of that barrel. With a renewed strength he struggled uselessly against the bounds and when he didn’t succeed in freeing himself, he tried to straighten his legs and hit with his head the lid of the barrel. There was a moment of silence where he thought that all that he got was a worse headache, but then he felt a blow to the barrel coming from outside, and a moment after all the world was spinning, presumably because the barrel had fell and rolled a little.

Isidore felt glad when it stopped. He might have puked if it kept going any longer.

“Stay calm, inquisitor Toller” said a voice outside the barrel “we’re almost at our destination. And when we’ll arrive we’ll get you out of here. That is if you behave. Sounds nice to you?”

Isidore couldn’t answer even if he wanted to: the gag made him make just a strangled noise that he doubted would be audible outside of his wooden prison.

At least someone knew he was there, and that meant he wasn’t left for dead forever yet. And they wanted to get him out of there, so whatever ill intentions they might have had towards him, he could buy at least some time to understand the situation and maybe escape.

He wanted to go home.

He had a name in his homeland, certainly someone was already looking for him. And he was confident that he could get out of this situation one way or another.

Despite the pain and the fear, it didn’t take long for his already foggy consciousness to drift away and make him pass out again.

Chapter Text

Someone grabbed Isidore from under his armpits and pulled him violently out of the barrel. Isidore only had a moment to register the dim light of a torch before being shoved into a bed of straw.

He tried to scream but the sound was muffled by the same gag he had before.

Immediately he felt the blow of a kick to his stomach. It wasn’t too hard but he felt breathless nonetheless.

“Calm down, didn’t I tell you to behave!?” said the person in front of him.

Isidore curled instinctively into a ball to protect his guts from further damage.

He felt his captor take a step in his direction and he wondered if it would have been a good time to counter attack. But he was tied up and weak and any wrong moves could bring to a worse situation than the one the was he was currently going through. It was better to wait for the best time to hit them and escape and if he tried to be compliant at the start they might have lowered their guard at some point.

He just looked up instead to discover a very muscular woman towering over him. She had dark hair and eyes and her big eyebrows were furrowed in a stern expression.

She had a hand outstretched in direction of his head, as if she was about to grab his hair, but after a moment she retreated it, letting it slide by her side.

“We gave you a pretty strong dose but you’re already kicking and screaming like nothing happened. What a pain.” she said.

Isidore let out a muffled sound of exasperation.

She came closer and he flinched as she laid her hands next to his face, but when he realized she was just removing the gag, he relaxed a little.

“How are you, pal?” she asked.

“Not… great.” he answered truthfully.

“I figured.” she said.

He felt his throat dry, he was hungry and the pain still lingered in all of his body. His muscles ached for the unnatural position he was forced to take inside the barrel and his wrists and ankles were bruised for the struggle against the ropes. On top of that he noticed that he was still wearing some of the clothes of the dinner, he only missed his expensive jacket and boots and automatically guessed that they were stolen. What he was left with was filthy and he smelled like rotten fish.

On a normal occasion that would have been enough to make him have a breakdown, but he feared that extreme reactions could bring to equally extreme consequences and he had to do everything he could to stay alive and escape.

Maybe it was because of the cold, maybe because he was weak, or maybe because he had been bottling up so much, but Isidore noticed with shame that he had started trembling.

“What do you want from me? Money?” he asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Shouldn’t be too bad I think.” she plainly answered.

“Then why tie me up like this?”

“Because I’m just following orders. Now stop with the questions.”

Not promising at all.

His eyes darted to her side exploring the room to see an open prison door and leaning against the jamb there was a chubby man looking bored, with a couple of buckets beside him. From his position Isidore couldn’t see what they contained.

When the man at the door noticed that the captive was staring, he raised an eyebrow.

“Should we start washing him?” he asked.

“What?” Isidore couldn’t help shrieking a little.

The woman grabbed his arm unceremoniously.

“You’ll have dinner soon and we couldn’t possibly bring you to the count in that conditions, what would you think?

“The Count?”

“Yes. Count Roger J. Townsend, ever heard of him?”

He did, in fact.

Roger J. Townsend, formerly known as Jack Townsend, was an outlaw and a mercenary that used the money of his booties to buy a noble title. He was often the object of mockery in Isidore’s circles, but at the same time no one ever did anything to dispute his power. Some, because they were afraid of him. Some others, because he paid them well enough.

He was able to carve out his little land of peace where he could never be judged or convicted and as far as Isidore knew and he also gave up his criminal life for this.

But given his current kidnapping, that last part was almost certainly a lie.

Isidore never met him in person. What could that scoundrel ever want from him? He wasn’t even a sorcerer, so he wasn’t a target for the inquisition.

“I know him only by name. Why would he want to dine with me?”

I don’t think this is a good way to invite anyone, he wanted to say, but kept it for himself. He didn’t expect anything more from an ex-criminal wanting to mimic a noble.

“You can ask him about that. Come on Wayne, lend me a hand.” the woman said.

Wayne, the chubby man, came closer.

“What should I do?” he asked, nonchalantly.

“We’ll take him to the bathroom, so close the door when I exit, take the torch and bring in the last buckets.”

Without warning she grabbed Isidore by his hips and positioned him on her shoulder as if he was a mere sack of potatoes.

“Wait!” he screamed and uselessly tried to struggle. With his arms and legs still bound he couldn’t do much to protest.

“Here we go again.” she said, as they walked out of the cell door into a darker corridor. Then, Isidore heard another door opening and the next thing he knew was that the woman had positioned him on a rudimental wooden tub. There was no water in it yet.

When Wayne entered too, the room was filled with the fiery light he was bringing. He positioned the torch on a holder on the wall and put the two buckets in the left side of the room, close to some others. Most of them were filled with some liquid that Isidore guessed might be water.

Isidore tried to stand to see better but the woman grabbed his shoulder and shoved him back in a sitting position. The movement made his back hurt and he whined.

“Hey, Wayne, close the door.” she said.

“I hate this place. I can’t wait to go back upstairs.” he sighed, but did as he was told.

Isidore could clearly see her frown get deeper.

“Me too. But life is not made of milk and roses only, so now please stop standing there and help me with the inquisitor.”

“Yes, ma’am.” he said with bad grace.

He came closer and Isidore was able to see him better: he had thick, long curly hair and looked on his late twenties. He also looked softer and less physically trained than the woman, but they were both taller and wider than Isidore. He wouldn’t have stood a chance in a regular fight.

Wayne’s hands wandered up in Isidore’s direction until they brushed his shirt.

“You can choose between undressing yourself or letting us do it.” he said calmly.

Isidore was frozen and almost didn’t understand what the other person was asking.

“I don’t want to undress in front of you.” he complained.

Wayne’s eye twitched a little.

“And I don’t want trouble coming from you. Are you suggesting that we should do it for you?”

Isidore shook his head. He had already said the wrong thing, but thankfully his captor didn’t take the initiative without asking again. Isidore might not get a second chance the next time.

“I’ll undress but... I need my hands to be free to do that.” he said.

“Right. Nesta?”

The woman, Nesta, searched her belt to take out an old knife. Isidore didn’t move when her hands approached his ankles with the weapon.

“No funny business, understood?” she said.

“Understood” Isidore answered.

She cut the ropes at his feet and then the ones at his wrists. He cradled his bruised hands realizing that he was finally free from the bondage. But the door was locked and far and he felt too weak to even dare an escape. They would’ve gotten him before he was able to leave the tub.

He looked at his captors, half-hoping that they would turn away to at least give him some privacy, but they just looked at him expectantly.

He sighed and very slowly started unbuttoning his shirt.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

They had re-tied his hands behind his back and blindfolded him while they brought him through the corridors of the palace. Both of Isidore’s arms were tightly held by Nesta on the left and Wayne on the right.

Isidore tried to keep track of the way. Left, left, stairs, left, stairs, right, right… At the seventh turn he was already lost, but at least he could register that the oppressing moldy smell of the cells was replaced by fresh air.

At some point they entered a room, made him sit on a comfortable velvet chair and freed his hands for a brief moment only to cuff them again somewhere else.

Isidore immediately tugged at his new restraints and found out that he was chained to something just a little ahead of him.

“Easy.” Nesta voice said.

He felt her callous hands behind his head, removing the blindfold. When he was able to see again her frowning face was in front of his and he yelped in surprise.

“Easy!” repeated Nesta, backing away.

He was about to apologize, but bit his tongue before speaking. They didn’t deserve it. He was chained.

Nesta gave him a warning look, before turning to Wayne.

“He’s clean and we got him here, so the task is completed.” she said.

“I know. Finally! I can’t wait to take a bath in a real bathroom. The cells are foul.”

As soon as Isidore noticed that they weren’t paying him attention his eyes wandered through the room: a dining room, he guessed, and an expensive one too. The opulence of the palace’s owner was blatant.

Isidore was seated head of a mahogany table. There were tree chairs for each side and of course also one in front of him, all still empty. The table was set only on his place and on the side in front of him with a couple of ceramic plates, two chalices of different size and some golden coloured silverware, but no knives.

A deer head taxidermy towered on the wall in front of him, between two big frosted glass doors that probably led to a balcony. It was sunny outside, but the carmine red curtains and the dark stone walls captured part of the light, making the room seem gloomier than necessary.

The rest of the furniture kept similar dark colours ranging form black to red, with golden accents.

It was gaudy. Isidore had a very different, way more sober taste in aesthetics.

He looked at the chains dangling between his wrists and the table legs. They were shiny with a golden metallic glow, in tone with the rest of the room. And harder than stone.

He sighed.

And gasped a moment later, when he felt Wayne’s hand patting his back.

“Toller, we’re about to go.” Wayne said. Then, after a moment, he added: “Take care.”

Isidore turned to his direction as much as he could, with a questioning expression.

“And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”

Maybe their captors did have a heart in them, deep down, and he could take advantage in that.

Wayne opened his mouth to respond, but Isidore was faster: “You chained me. You kidnapped me, for the Gods’ sake! And you didn’t even tell me where exactly I am or why I am here.”

“Isidore, don’t shout...” Nesta said.

Isidore lowered his voice and continued with a whisper: “Please, you can help me. Free me. I won’t report about you to the authorities if you unchain me now.”

Nesta looked impassible, but maybe he had made breach in Wayne, who was shaking his head, visibly astonished at Isidore’s outburst. But then, the captor’s eyes darted to a different direction, somewhere behind Isidore.

Before he could turn too, a voice spoke at his back: “Don’t you worry Inquisitor Toller, I will take good care of you, I promise.”

When Isidore turned, he saw him. Count Roger J. Townsend.

Chapter Text

“Nesta, I thought I told you that I wanted to meet with our guest alone.” the Count said. Then moving his gaze to the chubby man beside her, he added: “I can see you brought here Wayne too.”

Nesta was the first to answer: “Yes, my Lord. We’re sorry, we were about to leave soon.”

The count waved his hand: “You’re dismissed.”

Nesta grabbed Wayne’s arm and turned to leave, Isidore heard their steps getting further and then the sound of the door closing.

But he was frozen, staring into the hunting eyes in front of him.

That was it. They were alone, facing each other.

The former criminal hardly looked like a Count. His tanned face wore the scars earned during the battles, barely covered by his beard and unkept shoulder-length hair. He could cover himself with fancy clothes, but an ermine cloak and velvet tunic could not hide the bulky shape of his body.

Everything about him, his posture, his slightly wrinkled smirk, even his sort of refined way to speak looked artificial and far from someone that grew up in nobility.

Isidore watched him as he raised a small bell and shook it producing a loud trill, probably to call someone else in.

“Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Count Roger J. Townsend.”

Isidore, who was usually good at conversation, found himself at a loss of words.

“I hope my servants treated you well.” the Count said. And after another moment of silence, he added: “What is it, cat got your tongue? There’s no need to be scared.”

“Then why am I chained?” Isidore managed to ask, deliberately not addressing him by any honorific titles.

The Count blinked once, before continuing: “For your own good. I wouldn’t want you to run away before I gave you all you deserve.” he answered. There was not love in his voice, but Isidore couldn’t understand if there was hate either.

“Why did you want to see me?”

“Because you’re very special, Isidore.”

Isidore considered himself very special indeed. He was an Inquisitor and his purpose was to purge the world from forbidden magic and every other kind of evil he could find, whenever he was able to. But he never told anyone out loud that he had such high views of himself, that would’ve been improper.

And a former criminal couldn’t possibly value that part of him.

“Why do you say that?” he asked.

The door behind Isidore opened and three servants brought in some dishes: in a matter of seconds Isidore and the Count’s plates were filled with broth and their glasses with wine.

At the mere smell, Isidore felt his mouth salivating. He discarded etiquette rules that imposed that had to wait until the first sip of the Lord before starting; Isidore had no intention to respect Townsend.

Even with the chains, he managed to reach his own mouth with no difficulty and found the broth to be exquisite. A little fatter and tastier than his usual, but he was fine with that. Maybe if there was something that nobles and criminals had in common, it was a good culinary taste.

“Suit yourself.” the Count said, raising his eyebrows: “After all you’ve been starved for at least two days and you need to eat if you want to live.”

Two days? No wonder why he felt so weak, then. Maybe the two fake doctors that kidnapped Isidore casted a protective spell on him that managed to keep him alive in the barrel, even through the several hours he had spent inside.

“You come from a very known and wealthy family, don’t you Toller?” he Count said.

He already knew him, so there was no point in lying: “Yes, I do.” then, with a little of malice he added: “What about you?”

The Count just smirked, but aside of that, ignored the last part. He instead continued: “Your father was Cornelius Toller.”

“Yes, an honourable man.” Isidore confirmed plainly.

The Count’s grin widened a little: “I knew him, a little. He was the son of some Dukes…”

The Duke of Mountvault and the Duchess of Moonsbreach, Isidore thought.

“...and grew up surrounded by unbridled luxury. But you didn’t get to experience that as well, am I right, Toller?”

“I like to focus more on intellect than material possessions.”

The Count’s eyes pierced him from across the table: “You say that, but you miss your old clothes, don’t you?”

Isidore gripped the spoon hard enough to see his knuckles pale. Foul man. He couldn’t help but to glare at him in response.

The Count seemed pleased at his response. He continued: “I can guess your palace is still full of the faded splendour it had when your parents inhabited it.”

“It would be not very different from this one, then.” Isidore teased.

“Don’t joke with me. I know about your financial situation and I can assure you: I’m several times richer than you and your family, with or without my title.”

Gloating about his pecuniary power, talking about a noble family’s financial situation in front of a member of that same family. He really was impolite and uncivil.

Isidore’s silence was covered by the sound of the door opening again: two servants came in to take the dirty plates away and other two brought another course: slices of turkey accompanied by potatoes.

Isidore didn’t lose time before starting to eat again and noticed that the food was slightly spiced. He hadn’t touched the wine yet, because he wanted to stay as sober as possible.

Townsend had started having a bite with his own food and for a blissful moment Isidore thought that the argument about his financial situation was closed. But of course, it was too soon.

Townsend picked a towel and tapped his mouth and beard, before saying: “You know, your dad caused scandal after scandal and squandered all his gold to cover up his errors. He even engaged me as a mercenary one time, to take personal revenge on one of his enemies… he told us stories of any kind, do you know how many half-siblings you might have by now?”

It was enough for Isidore: “You talk in a rather insolent way for someone who wants to pose as a nobleman!”

“Yes. And what are you going to do about that? Cry? Because I’m telling the truth?” said Townsend, unimpressed.

He took another bite and deliberately talked with his mouth half full: “Besides, legally speaking I am a nobleman now. I guess it’s not about the blood after all. And I can assure you, nobles are the most despicable people I’ve ever met. That’s why I think I belong to that kind.”

Isidore looked away, disgusted. He knew about his father already, he didn’t need another person to remind him about the faults of his family tree and even less someone who called him despicable. His hands started trembling a little.

But why is Townsend telling me this? Where is he going? Isidore thought. Did he want to just humiliate him? Did his father do something specifically to Townsend that Isidore didn’t know? The only thing he could do was to sit there and listen to whatever information the former outlaw had to throw him.

“You fell in so much misery that your parents, who never had to work a day in their life, had to make their own son do it. But you couldn’t do a peasant’s job, no, they still had to put up the facade of a wealthy, noble family. So you chose a job that could let you study and put to use your academic learnings. You became an Inquisitor.”

Isidore felt like he had to fight back.

“They didn’t make me do anything, I wanted to work for the Inquisition!” he protested.

The count waved his hand to shush him.

“Of course you wanted, you needed money!”

“No. It was a vocation.”

“A vocation, huh.”

As the servants entered again to gather the dishes Isidore started wondering whether he had said the right thing or not. He was so worked up in defending his family’s name that he almost forgot his precarious situation.

He watched Townsend addressing a servant to say: “No dessert for now. We’re almost finished.”

And Isidore had the terrible sensation that he could be thrown in another cell for days and could not be so lucky to have a mage to cast a temporary surviving spell on him like what probably happened while he was in the barrel.

Fearing dehydration he tried to reach for the jug of water nearest to him, but the chains were not long enough. He then tried to glance at the servants to ask them for help but no one paid him attention. Maybe they were even instructed to do so.

When they left Isidore stared at the glass of wine in front of him, still full. His last experience with a drink had been rather unfortunate, but at least this one came from the same bottle as Townsend’s and he saw The Count drinking.

He took a sip.

It was good. It made him ignore Townsend for a while.

The Count continued the conversation from where they left it: “Do you like your job, Toller?”

Isidore hesitated: “What should I answer?” he asked finally.

“Be sincere.”

Townsend already knew the answer, Isidore had said that it was his vocation mere minutes ago.

“I do.”

“Good, good. Did you know, I…” he paused for a moment, glancing at Isidore from across the table: “I had a husband.”

Chapter Text

“A husband?”

Isidore was genuinely surprised. He didn’t keep track of all the noble marriages... But a memory flashed his mind anyway, and an horrific thought appeared in his head.

There was ice in Townsend’s eyes.

“I think you met him. In court. I don’t think he ever mentioned me because he wanted to protect me from dark magic accusations, but he should have. Maybe you would’ve thought twice before giving him the death sentence... or maybe you wouldn’t have and we would’ve been here either way.”

“Are you saying that I convicted your husband?”

“I am saying that you are directly responsible for his death.”

I never killed anyone, Isidore thought. I’m good. A death sentence isn’t the same thing.

“Wait, who was he?” he asked.

“Han Sonner.”

“Sonner.” he repeated.

He remembered him: he was one of the last cases he concluded. Only some months before, in Bleakfall, a woman was able to catch him using forbidden magic to modify the bodies of some of his unwilling victims. And that was not a classic illusion, it was a real monstrous transformation made of flesh and bone.

He refused to give any information about him, but by his possessions they were able to make deeper researches to find his laboratory. He was apparently looking for a spell that could be able to bring the dead back to life.

Not long after they had set everything on fire and hanged him.

At the time of his death, they knew very little of him as a person, they missed the fact that he had a husband, for example. But they did know a thing: he was guilty. There were too many proofs that lead to him and he never pledged innocent either. He must have known that was the end for him.

Isidore never gave the death sentence lightly. Never. He just followed the law and the law saw Sonner as a person who killed and tortured at least a dozen of different poor people for his schemes.

He deserved to be punished somehow and the law said that that was the way.

Isidore couldn’t help but feel that something was wrong with that statement for the first time ever. The law couldn’t be wrong, couldn’t it? An unfair law was a contradiction. And Sonner was wrong, he shouldn’t have been able to walk around and do evil just like that.

Was Isidore guilty too? Was it this what Townsend was trying to tell him? Isidore didn’t want to die. Isidore didn’t deserve to die like this, he could be better than that, he could… find a solution. He had to.

“What do you want from me?” he asked finally.

He couldn’t bare to look at Townsend, so he kept staring at his silverware. The knife was still missing.

“I want you to pay.”

The Count’s words hit him like a hammer.

He snapped: “Hurting me will not bring your husband back!”

“And killing him didn’t stop forbidden magic, did it?” roared the Count.

Isidore flinched when he stood up.

“My dear Toller, I’d like to play a game with you.” the Count said, starting to walk slowly towards him.

“Don’t come closer!” Isidore shouted. He stood up too almost making his chair lose balance and tried to pull towards the door behind him as much as his restraints let him. “Help!” he cried.

The Count was nearer.

“Toller, there’s no use in doing that. No one’s going to come for you.” he said in a smooth voice.

Isidore felt the Count’s hand brush his arm and his first instinct was to bite at it. He felt his own teeth sink in the flesh without doing any real damage. The Count retreated his arm with disappointment, but otherwise didn’t react.

“I didn’t expect a nobleman to be acting like an animal.” he remarked.

Isidore managed to take a step back, running out of his chains’ length.

“I’m not an animal!”

“Yeah, keep yelling.”

The Count took a step forward, knowing Isidore couldn’t run any more.

“You’re pretty annoying, you know. But that could be fun.” he continued, getting closer: “I said that I wanted to play a game with you and I will.”

His face was inches from Isidore’s.

“I won’t let you do an-”

Isidore’s voice was cut short by the Count’s hand grabbing his chin.

“I don’t think you understand the position you’re in, dear. We know where you used to live, your colleagues, your friends. It’d be a shame if any of them where involved because you refuse to cooperate. And I can assure you, nothing can replace the hole a dead loved one leaves.”

Isidore was shaking. For the first time in his life he felt like a true coward, but it still wasn’t enough to make him hurt his friends. No one deserved what he was going through.

“Please, don’t… don’t take them, I’ll play your game.”

The count grinned wider. “Good.”

Shortly after the hand that was grabbing Isidore’s chin slammed his head to the table and Isidore saw white.

Chapter Text

“Wake up, dear.”

Isidore slowly opened his eyes to see an ugly grey stone ceiling, with some hooks dangling from it. His head was aching on the side, but otherwise he was fine.

How did I get here?

He rapidly got himself into a sitting position and in a few seconds he registered three things: he was with Townsend in a sort of torture room -he could see with the corner of his eye a cage and some chains-, he was free of his bindings and there was a door in front of him.

He didn’t wait any longer to sprint in that direction.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said Townsend, a bit too calmly.

Isidore didn’t listen and grabbed the handle to pull, only to notice after a few tries that it was locked.

He felt his legs yielding and all of the pain and the fear from before came again to take the place of the momentary bravery that possessed him.

Of course it was closed.

He felt steps behind him and gathered all the resilience he had to not start crying.

“I thought you wanted to play.” Townsend said.

“Yeah.”

“And what was that?”

“I…” Isidore didn’t know how to justify himself: “I wanted to see where the door leads.”

It wasn’t a lie at least.

The count chuckled and knelt beside him.

“You can open it.” he said.

“What?” a flicker of hope light up in Isidore.

“I’ll be the prize of the game. If you win you’ll be able to open it.”

“Oh…” Isidore couldn’t hide his disappointment.

“Come on, what’s up with that face! I don’t think the Inquisition ever proposed anything so kind to its prisoners, did it?”

Isidore slowly shook his head. He never heard of anyone bending the rules enough to give this sort of hope to their prisoners. But at the same time, maybe they did and the prisoners had just lost the game without earning their freedom.

“What do I have to do to win?” he asked.

“Easy,” The Count said, already smirking.

He stood up and took a couple of steps back. Isidore noticed that now his ermine cloak was missing and he was left with his velvet red tunic. He looked a bit excentric, but more comfortable, somehow. He wore those clothes like they belonged to him, not like he was pretending to be someone he was not.

Townsend opened his arms as an invite: “The only thing you must do is… beat me in a fight.”

Isidore didn’t answer right away. Was the Count joking? Isidore had no problems with the idea of kicking him to the point of bleeding, but the Count was almost twice his size, his toned muscles visible underneath the cloth that covered them.

It had been years since the last time he had felt so inadequate with his own body and this time it was only because he had never been facing such extreme conditions.

Isidore’s eyes naturally wandered through the room to see if he could find any tools, anything that could help him. But the room was pretty empty, besides the cage, the chains that circled around an anchor on the wall and what looked like a drain.

He shuddered. He saw a drain similar to it in some of the inquisition prisons too. He had never been present during the tortures, but a couple of times he happened to step in a cell that had been used not long before. He recoiled at the thought of the smell of blood and other fluids he didn’t dare to identify.

Was that drain a warning? If he couldn’t beat the Count, would he be a victim of torture too?

“Toller.”

The Count’s annoyed voice snapped him back to reality.

“I want to play! What are the rules?” Isidore blurted out.

The Count shifted his weight from one leg to another, before explaining: “We will fight, classical hand by hand combat. I have the door keys on me, so you can gain them over my dead body.”

“I have to… kill you?”

“I mean, if you can get the keys and run without doing that no one is stopping you. But I’ll still be alive and able to run after you.”

“And what will happen if I lose?”

“Then I get to have more fun with you.” said the Count, cracking his knuckles.

This whole proposal sounded off. Every rational person would’ve thought that Isidore was bound to lose. But one possibility was better than nothing. Did he really had the keys on him, or was he just messing with Isidore? He couldn’t answer to that, unless he tried.

“Alright.” he said. He might have been short, but he was trained a little. Maybe the Count was already underestimating him and he could take advantage of that. He could do it. He had to.

“Good.” the Count shifted to a sparring position while Isidore did the same: “We can start now.”

Isidore took a few seconds to observe the Count, circling around the room but never taking his eyes off of him. His adversary seemed resolute in not starting first, but wore an arrogant expression on his face. He knew he would’ve won this match. He didn’t even fathom the possibility of losing.

Isidore recalled to his mind the old self-defence training he attended to while he was younger, before studying at university.

He sprinted towards the count, knowing where to aim on the legs to make him lose balance.

One step, two steps, prepare the kick and… Townsend’s counter attack came first, hitting him right in the stomach.

The next thing he knew was that he was curled on the ground and he felt pain like he never had before.

“Come on, only one blow? This one was even mediocre.” said the Count’s voice, far away.

Isidore’s vision was blurred and all of his bodily functions were presumably concerned in trying to keep him alive. He felt a presence beside him and tried to crawl away on his back, only to be stopped by a boot on his chest.

“I think I’ve won this one, dear.”

The boot on his chest was removed to slide back, gaining power.

“No, no, ple-”

The kick landed on his shoulder and Isidore resorted in curling up trying to avoid more damage to his head, chest and stomach.

“Were you begging?”

Another kick.

“You can keep doing that.”

Another kick.

“Beg me to stop.”

Another kick.

“Sto-op, please, stop! Please...”

The blows didn’t continue. He perceived the count kneeling next to him and then he grabbed Isidore’s hair to pull his head up. He was already sobbing; during the beating he had felt in danger like never before. It was a new and uneasy feeling that he didn’t know if he could get used to.

The Count’s right hand, still free, slid next to Isidore’s cheek and softly brushed away one of his tears.

“Poor creature. Does it hurt?”

“Y-yes, it does.” Isidore weakly answered. Even talking required great effort.

“That’s good. But we need that, don’t we?”

“No, I… I don’t…w-” Isidore struggled to put words together: “Please, just let me go...”

The grip in his hair intensified in response and after a moment the hand on his cheek left it to return as a hard slap on his face. Isidore whined and tried to thrash away, but the grip on his hair didn’t let him.

He Count’s gaze was ferocious and unforgiving.

“You didn’t let him go. Didn’t even give him any chances.” he whispered, retreating his right hand.

Isidore didn’t find it in him to protest, so he just shut his eyes waiting for another blow. It came mere seconds after, leaving both of his cheeks burning.

There was a moment of silence, broken only by Isidore’s panting. He dared to open his eyes to see a Townsend with an expression that looked… incredibly worn-out.

“Did he beg?” he asked.

“Wh… who?”

“My husband.”

“I don’t know- wait!”

Townsend was ready to give him another slap. But he hesitated: “You’re right. You have a beautiful face, Isidore, and maybe I shouldn’t ruin it just like that. It can still be useful.”

He got up without releasing his grip and dragged Isidore with him until they were next to the cage. When Isidore saw the narrow space limited by the bars he felt panic rising. It was all to similar to the barrel and he couldn’t take that again.

“Not the cage, not the cage, please don’t make me go there!!” he yelled.

That provoked a husky chuckle in the Count: “You know, trying to break people of your kind is pretty fun. You’re telling me exactly what to do to hurt you.”

Then, he unceremoniously threw Isidore inside. Isidore hit the floor with his shoulder, the same that endured the first kick, and screamed in pain.

“You never experienced the cruelties of life, so I don’t even need to put too much effort to it.” continued the Count.

Isidore felt sick and coughed a couple of times. When he opened his eyes he saw blood. He had lost blood from the mouth.

It was too much.

He managed to scramble to a corner of the cage -it was small, but could easily fit one whole person standing- and just stared at the Count with blank eyes.

Townsend was in front of the open door, leaning on the bars. He was staring too. Just staring with a blank, indecipherable expression.

“Tell me about him.” he said after a while.

About his husband?

Isidore hugged his knees. The least thing he wanted to do was conversation, but the alternative might have been something worse. So he spoke: “What would you like to know?”

“Everything. Was he afraid? Did he fight back? Was he with someone else?”

“I… didn’t really spend much time with him. Most of the time he was locked up and I only saw him in trial in a couple of occasions. He…”

Isidore struggled to remember. Sonner was one of the last people he persecuted and yet one of the many. If Isidore really aimed for justice was it fair for him to crumple all the criminals, all the people he condemned in just one big space in his head? One he was keen to forget?

He focused on the man they were talking about. He was a monster, yes, and yet he had a life beyond that. He had a husband. A loving one, perhaps. He wondered how could the two things coexist. But what did he remember? What did he even looked like? Han Sonner was a short, skittish, middle-aged man with long, scrawny fingers.

“He used to move his fingers a lot.” Isidore remarked, almost absent-mindedly.

Townsend looked confused for a moment and then smiled in recognition.

“He did.” he confirmed. His voice was almost trembling: “Go on.”

“People told me that when the Inquisition caught him he fought like an animal, but we had too many soldiers by our side. When I saw him in court he looked… composed at first. Proud. It was almost an eerie sight. He refused to give almost any kind of information, but we already knew where his laboratory was and we had enough proofs to give him a guilty verdict without…”

“Torture?”

“Yes.”

“So you didn’t torture him?” asked Townsend sceptical.

“No, we… they did a little. But shortly after we found the information we were looking for even without his help, so we proceeded with the case without hurting him much more.”

Isidore was getting more confident. Maybe if he could tell the count more about his husband, he could find it in his heart to let Isidore out of the cage.

The count nodded at his words.

“How did he die?” he asked.

Isidore lowered his gaze.

“By hanging.”

Their eyes met for a moment. He saw Townsend grimacing, in his face a grief so human that almost created compassion in him. Almost. The man in front of him was the same that just minutes before was kicking him mercilessly.

Isidore looked away. As much as he wanted to understand what the Count could be thinking, he dreaded the possibility of recognizing a man behind the monster.

Townsend took a deep breath before saying: “You’ve been fun, but I don’t want to break you too soon.”

He took a step back, grabbed the door of the cage and shut it in a swift motion, too soon to let Isidore react.

“No, wait!” he was too slow to reach for his freedom and landed on the bars of the already closed door.

He watched Townsend’s back as he approached the door. He didn’t even had time to think.

“Wait!” he screamed. “Let me out!”

Townsend ignored him and just patted his tunic to take out of some pocket a single key. So he really had one.

“Townsend, please!!”

Townsend turned his head in his direction, glaring: “You act too familiar with me, Toller. From now on I want you to address me only by my title. You can choose between My lord or Your Grace, thank you very much.”

“How dare you!” Isidore shouted, tightening his fists on the bars. He couldn’t help himself. He felt all the rage he had been bottling up exploding all at once. Townsend didn’t deserve his title, didn’t deserve to be richer and more powerful than him, didn’t deserve to be happy at all.

It couldn’t end like this, Isidore couldn’t let him leave.

Townsend was already turning the key, not caring about Isidore’s cries. But he had to get his attention somehow.

“My lord,” he started.

The door was now open, revealing only a dark corridor. But Townsend was still and his eyebrows had raised a little. That was it. He could try to convince him to let him out using his words or he could hurt him as much as possible.

He made his choice with no hesitation: “I’m glad your husband died.”

Chapter Text

“What did you say?”

The Count’s voice had a dark tone to it that made Isidore shiver. But he couldn’t back down now. For once, for the fist time during that day, he felt somehow powerful and he wanted to use this power to counter attack.

“I saw your husband die the most miserable of deaths and I’m glad he’s gone.”

The door of the torture room shut and in a matter of seconds the Count was already back in front of the cage, eyes wide open.

“You know, Toller, I think I’ve been far too kind with you.”

Isidore straightened out against the wall behind him: “You already abused me in too many ways!”

The Count gripped the bars and sneered.

“They’re never too many for someone like you. I even gave you a chance to escape. And now you could’ve slept peacefully for a while, but you decided to fuck yourself up, didn’t you?”

The bars functioned as a barrier between them, but even that last boundary shattered when the Count took out another key and after a handful of seconds the door swung open again. Isidore felt small and unprotected.

“You really can’t keep your head low, Isidore.”

It was already the second time the Count impertinently used his first name that evening.

“You can’t do that either.” he replied.

In response Townsend spit on him. It happened fast, and Isidore was too baffled to cover himself in time. The saliva landed on his cheek and he immediately wiped it with his sleeve in disgust. Brute, he thought sustaining Townsend’s gaze. He seemed to match his disdain.

“You know, people warned me that you were smart, but I guess that they were wrong. You’re just a spoiled child who had too many books to read.” Townsend said.

He grabbed Isidore’s see-through shirt and jerked him out of the cage in one motion.

He rolled on the floor, his whole body aching and all the defiant energy he had before disappeared at once.

“I’ll make you regret what you’ve said.” Townsend announced.

Was he going to kick him again? Isidore had to run. He had seen the keys, he knew what he had to do.

He tried to get on his hands and knees only to be grabbed by the back of his shirt a second time and lift up for a second that looked like an eternity. The shirt tore a little and he fell face down on the floor again. The pavement was made of hard stone and bruised his hands and face.

Before he could try to lift up again, he felt a big, strong hand keeping his head in place and a moment after a knee between his legs. Townsend was trying to position himself on top of him.

Isidore tried to squirm in a panic, but both of his hands were caught by Townsend and cuffed in front of him to the chains next to the cage.

He felt like a butterfly under a pin: trapped, prone on the floor, with both of his arms restrained and Townsend refusing to let go.

“Apologize.” the Count ordered.

It was already about to end badly. Why let him get what he wanted?

“I won’t” he said: “Leave me alone!”

“You took my greatest anchor from me and you dare say that you’re glad for it.”

“Because I am.”

Isidore horribly felt the Count’s weight shift as he brought both of his knees between the captive’s legs.

“I miss Han so much. And he’s dead because of you.” he lamented.

Isidore shivered when he felt something cold and sharp, maybe a knife, slicing through his gilet and already torn shirt. Townsend threw the shreds to the side, leaving him completely shirtless.

“Wait-” Isidore pleaded. He could only imagine where this was going.

“Shut up.”

He sliced through his pants too and exposed his whole backside.

“Stop, stop, what are you doing!?” Isidore shouted.

He felt a hand gently caressing his back. It was a stark contrast to what had came before, but somehow the intimacy of the act made it more terrifying.

“Aren’t you being unfaithful!?” he screamed out of desperation.

“Oh, only now you care about him. I told you to shut up.”

Isidore felt the sound of an unfastening belt and his heart sank in his chest.

No, this couldn’t be happening. Not really. This was all a bad dream. This couldn’t be happening.

The count shoved his belt in Isidore’s mouth, obstructing his speech, and then tying it behind his head, not caring at all about his protests. The unpleasant taste of leather filled his mouth.

“Besides, how can I be unfaithful to a dead person? Now, stay still.”

Isidore’s heart skipped a beat when he felt both of the Count’s hands groping his ass. Every shout, every squirm were meaningless attempts of saving himself from something he couldn’t avoid after all. There was no solution nor escape from the torment. He froze.

“Good boy.”

The praise made him blush with shame.

“I heard you mostly prefer men, right? Which hole do you usually use?” the Cunt asked mockingly, aware that Isidore couldn’t answer through the belt.

He slapped his butt.

And then Isidore felt a warm, already hard shape prodding next to his groin, knowing all too well what it was. He would have wanted to ignore it, but his mind had cleared out everything else to make him very aware of the danger behind him.

He tried to regularize his breath, like he had done in the barrel.

And time seemed to freeze.

This was about to happen and he couldn’t go anywhere. He was about to be defiled.

No.

He was going to let Townsend defile him, without even fighting or complaining. But could he really do otherwise? All his efforts seemed to only waste his energy and gain only more pain in return.

He had to stay still. Maybe if he let the Count do what he wanted for a while, he would’ve hurt him less.

Something thick started inserting into him slowly, excruciatingly advancing little by little. Isidore bit into the belt, hoping to make no sounds.

He felt Townsend’s warm, breath behind his ear as his voice pronounced a single, cruel sentence: “I hope this hurts.”

Then he forcefully pushed all the length into Isidore. He screamed.

The pain spread through all the lower half of his body, temporarily paralysing him, making him unable to react under the assault his body was enduring.

“Fuck. You’re tight, I might have torn something.”

The count gripped his hips and started moving back and forth keeping a fast pace. Every thrust sparked pain all the way to Isidore’s stomach, but he didn’t dare to move, eyes wide open, breath uneven.

The assault was not much different from the beating he had endured before. Townsend was doing it only as a different way to torture him and his aim was to teach him a lesson, nothing more.

Isidore already knew, in the back of his mind, that this would have happened sooner or later. The opportunity to do it had been there since when Wayne and Nesta washed him, even if they seemed more worried about the schedule than anything else.

But this time Isidore felt so much dirtier. Maybe it was the terror, maybe his body was just trying to help him, but…

“You’re wet. Enjoying yourself?” remarked Townsend.

Just the mere possibility made his skin crawl. But it was there, amongst the others: was it only pain that Isidore was feeling or was there something else?

After all the Count had already managed to put the seed of shame and regret into him and was going to convince him he needed to be punished for his actions too.

Isidore let the Count slid out of him and flip him on his back, his hands cuffed above his head now crossed to adjust to the new position.

Isidore saw a glimpse of his aggressor and instantly shut his eyes closed. He didn’t watch, but felt him entering again in the same hole as before, this time in less time since the slickness of both parties eased the process. A sound -something between a wail and a moan- escaped Isidore’s throat and Townsend’s grip on his hips tightened in response.

One of his hands moved from there and followed all the length of Isidore’s body, landing on his face and caressing it delicately. A moment after it was gripping Isidore’s neck.

He suddenly couldn’t breath any more and the situation got worse when the second hand followed the first.

The Count’s movements grew with an even stronger and harsher rhythm and Isidore lost control of himself: his body stared convulsing in the useless attempt of getting away, saving what was left to be saved, but it was all just a waste of energy.

As his consciousness started to drift away he asked himself if he was going to die there. Was this what Sonner felt before losing his life?

The thrusts became more sharp and rarer and then Townsend’s body stilled, as he released his orgasm into Isidore.

The tension on his neck released all of a sudden and Isidore started coughing hard, his spit blocked by the belt on his mouth. Townsend’s warm breath crept on his body and after a while he slid out.

“Hey.” he said, patting Isidore’s cheek.

Isidore just blinked, looking at the ugly grey ceiling, trying as much as he could to ignore his inner turmoil.

“You’re alive.” a simple statement given in a gravelly voice. But true, Isidore was still alive.

The Count got up to wipe himself and redress without bothering to take back the belt wrapped around Isidore’s head.

Only then Isidore dared to observe him better and took just a glimpse of his cock. It was bloody.

“You look awful. I’ll send someone else.” Townsend said.

The Count got out letting Isidore chained on the floor, trembling, dirty and bloody.

He had survived. He almost couldn’t believe it: he had survived. And he didn’t know how long could that last.

Chapter Text

The water was warm and sweetly scented and enveloped his body like the best of blankets. Amongst soap bubbles, tiny violet petals floated and gently caressed his skin. There was nothing else: just water, soap and flowers.

Wayne felt good. Flourishing. Relaxed.

His time in the bathroom was a good pause, between his day duties and his night duties. A moment he could use to just take care of himself. To cleanse away everything that came before and prepare for what was in store for him.

And no one could take that away from him: he was maintaining goods after all.

He submerged his head underwater and let out an exhale, a trail of bubbles seeking for the surface. He felt good even there, in a warm, silent world free of air and free of problems. It was his sanctuary and his temporary escape.

He emerged.

Don’t think, just relax.

He took the soap bar and passed it through his body a second time.

Don’t think.

He played with the petals and hummed a happy tune he remembered from one of the palace musicians. He was probably out of tune, but he didn’t care because this moment was just his.

He didn’t dwell in deeper thoughts than that.

He got out only when his fingers were wrinkled, slid into his bathrobe and patted his head with a towel. He applied his perfume, his make up. And looking at the moon outside his window he realized his alone time was already about to end.

He wore his low-cut transparent shirt, his pink corset, his pants. He fastened them with a nice bow. He smiled at the sight of the silver mirror. Even at thirty-three years old, he was an eye candy. His big, plump frame looked daintier and more approachable with those fancy clothes. But their importance was just marginal, because he would’ve been out of them in a matter of a couple hours maximum.

His shoes made their sweet tapping sound as he got out of his dressing room to make his way into the corridor. But instead of keep walking, he leant outside of his door, unsure.

The Count didn’t explicitly summon him to his chambers that day and Wayne didn’t have the occasion to ask him after dinner. So he had took it for granted. If the Count did want him and didn’t find him ready by night-time, Wayne might have got in trouble. And he was almost certain the Count needed his services: he got off on demonstrations of power in front of other people and whatever happened with that inquisitor… no, it wasn’t his business.

He just guessed the count might want Wayne to attend to his sexual needs even tonight.

So he started wandering towards the Count’s chambers, occasionally feeling the lingering eyes of other servants on him. Some scrutinizing, some appreciating the view. He knew he was beautiful, but he wasn’t for everyone and certainly not for free.

The Count gave him a roof, something to eat everyday, a personal bedroom and a personal dress room. He could live that courtesan life forever and ask for nothing more. He just had to never say no. Easy to do, since the benefits were far more than the drawbacks.

The passion, the bodily sensations and the privileges he earned managed to give him a will to live while still being fundamentally safe. Or at least safer than before. Don’t think, you’re fine.

He reached the stairs and heard someone coming, stumbling towards him. He recognized the sound and turned around to see the Count. Wayne’s jaw clenched as he realized there was something wrong about him. He was upset. And almost certainly drunk.

“My lord.” Wayne greeted with a smile.

“Wayne? What are you doing here?” the Count asked.

He looked like he had seen a ghost.

Wayne played with his hair, moving them forward on his shoulder: “You didn’t specify whether you required my presence or not tonight. My lord.”

His lord had bloody clothes. It was hard to see in the dim light of candles, because he wore a red tunic and the spots were little, but Wayne had come to recognize those little grotesque details. And the faint smell was unmistakable.

Whose blood? Probably not his, but Wayne didn’t want to guess.

“I… No, I don’t need you tonight. You can go rest.” the Count ordered.

Wayne nodded eagerly: “Thank you, my lord.”

There weren’t other guests to entertain that night, so he had gained some free time! The Count’s emotional and physical state wasn’t his concern any more and his mind was already thinking about ways to kill boredom.

But the Count didn’t go yet: “Wait, Wayne… you know a little of healing magic, right?” he asked.

Wayne blinked a couple of times, surprised.

“Only a little. Why?” he asked.

Magic wasn’t something that was required of him often. This couldn’t lead to anything good.

The Count didn’t answer right away, just clenching his fists.

Wayne took a single step towards him and softly asked: “Are you alright, Jack?”

“Don’t call me that.”

Wayne always called him that. In bed at least. And even in public when the Count, Jack, was still a mercenary.

“Got it.” Wayne answered badly hiding his annoyance behind his smile, then asked again: “Is everything alright? My lord.”

“Yes, I am fine!” he exclaimed, letting out a breath that smelled like alcohol: “Wayne, I want you to go to the torture room downstairs. The one next to his lab.”

Han’s lab.

“There’ll be the inquisitor. Prevent him from dying and don’t let him sleep. Understood?”

Wayne’s usual smile faltered a little: “Does this mean I can’t sleep too?”

“What do you think?” the Count said: “Grab this.”

He slowly moved his closed fist towards Wayne. When he put his hands under it, the Count dropped a single key. Wayne didn’t have to ask: it was the one for the torture room.

After leaving the key, the Count put his hand on Wayne’s chest and put light pressure on it to increase the distance between them: “Now leave, I didn’t gave you permission to come here today.”

Wayne’s smile faded as he bow his head.

“Yes, my lord.” he said.

He watched as the Count climbed the stairs, leaving him behind.

It was fine.

He just had a different task than what he expected.

He turned around and started travelling through the same corridor he came from, backwards this time.

It was not fine. The count was fucking weird and Wayne couldn’t predict what he wanted any more.

It had kept happening since the letter that informed him of his husband’s death.

Wayne was used to be the Count’s concubine, visiting him during night time when his husband was far away and sometimes joining them both in bed. The spouses had chosen him together, judging him fitting for the role for his loyalty, easy to gain, and his attitude, easy to manipulate. And of course also for his great appearance: the gentle features of his round face and the tender texture of his brown skin were too easy to love.

The spouses had wild tastes in sex -but not the weirdest Wayne had known- and were fairly bearable. Fun even, sometimes. They liked to playfully torture him and fuck him stupid, leaving marks that in the morning after he could proudly admire at his silver mirror. And he was kind of surprised to admit that he missed those mornings.

He certainly preferred them than some of the other guests and he’d take the Count’s cock in his mouth a thousand times before reliving some of those experiences.

Maybe Han and Jack had more regards towards him because they planned to keep him for a long time or maybe it was because he was sort of an old friend for them.

But when Han died…the unique dynamic they had found in their weird sexual relationship irreparably broke.

Jack’s grief was deeper and more devastating than anyone could’ve predicted and for a while the hedonistic, feisty man he had been in the past disappeared behind the curtains of his palace. He even completely stopped calling Wayne to his room.

Wayne had spent a month or so in fear of having already become obsolete, but then the Count found out who had made the choice to give his husband the capital punishment and that put light in his eyes again. Revenge relighted the fire he had inside and since he had started planning how to deal with his husband’s killer, he had also returned more active in bed.

Every night, during the last week, Wayne had visited the Count in his chambers. Their games had become a bit more extreme than usual, but Wayne attributed that to the difficult situation the Count was going through.

Wayne reached his room to change in more practical work clothes and unlocked one of his shelves to take out his catalyst: a small crystal orb, necessary to cast any kind of spell.

He followed the labyrinthic structure of the palace until he found the flight stairs that would’ve brought him downstairs.

It was already the second time that day.

Some of the thoughts that Wayne had been pushing away emerged like bubbles from the water.

Downstairs he would’ve found the inquisitor. He couldn’t pretend like he didn’t exist any more.

Chapter Text

The first thing Wayne recognized in the black void ahead of him was the smell of mold.

He gripped the catalyst in his pocket tighter and let out a small exhale as he felt mana slipping away from him to form a little flickering floating light that could follow Wayne in the darkness of the corridor downstairs.

He took a couple of steps forward and yelped when he noticed a rat running away somewhere back in the shadow.

“Gods… please, let this be the only one.” he mumbled.

Wayne already felt the need to go back upstairs and wash again. But that wasn’t a choice he could make for himself. He had pissed off the Count and so he had sent him in the worst place in the palace to do a job he clearly didn’t want to do.

Why him? His duties usually resided upstairs, not there, that morning constituting one rare exception since Nesta asked him to help her dealing with the prisoner.

“The count wants to have lunch with him, but he has been inside that barrel for a long time. He probably needs a bath,” she had explained, her usual rudeness replaced by a flat tone: “I think I’m too rough to do that without scarring him and you have a reputation of… making other people at ease.”

Wayne didn’t understand if her tone was supposed to be mocking or anything else, but what she had said was true: he was good at helping people release their stress and he did it better than her, but that wasn’t a difficult task, since she seldom willingly talked to people.

But the kind of stress they were talking about was different than Wayne’s usual and the method of approach needed to be different too. In other words, she didn’t want him to fuck anyone, she just needed his softer ways of doing things.

On any other occasion, with anyone else asking, Wayne would’ve refused. But this time he decided to agree. He wasn’t sure why.

Maybe he was scared of Nesta. She was taller than him and probably was one of the few people in the palace who could lift him up and carry him around.

But maybe the reason was that Wayne kind of pitied her. He had never seen her talk much with other people and the fact that she came to him of all people asking for help meant that he might have been the closest thing to a friend she had in that place. Not a friend, but at least someone she could count on.

Weird girl. If Wayne had half of her muscle power he’d probably also have half of his problems. But he had no problems, he was fine, now.

And he was stalling in front of the metal door of the torture room.

This one. This one was a problem.

How was he supposed to deal with someone in the torture room? He was even scared of seeing fresh blood! When he was travelling with the mercenaries he cowered away every time he saw soldiers coming back from the battle and returned to his tent only after hours, sure that the people with the worst injuries were out of his sight. He learnt healing magic only for his own sake, to be able to never see blood on himself again.

Stop thinking.

His hand reached key in his pocket and inserted the right one in the lock.

He took a deep breath. “Come on, Wayne.” he whispered, exhaling.

He turned the key and entered the room, looking at the floor at first. There it was: a trail of little blood spots already.

“Good evening.” he greeted, hesitant.

He heard a rattle of chains and looked up in that direction to see a small figure, pressed in the corner of the room looking at him with wide, fearful eyes.

Wayne dropped the key, stiffening in place.

Every instinct in his guts told him to run away, run upstairs, wash again and pretend nothing ever happened. Everything was fine. He had never helped Nesta, he had never pissed off Jack, he had never seen Toller again.

He wasn’t ready for what laid on the other side of the room.

Toller was almost naked, shivering from the cold and covered in bruises all around his body, especially his neck. He looked dirty again, like he had been dragged on the floor and stomped on multiple times.

With the corner of his eyes Wayne noticed that the clothes he was wearing before, or at least what remained of them except for the shoes, had been thrown on the other side of the room, presumably too far to reach with the chains binding his wrists.

Unpleasant memories threatened to rise and Wayne pushed them down with all of his might.

He tried to focus himself in kneeling to pick up the key.

Why was Toller naked? Did the Count know? Of course he did. He did this to him.

One more reminder to always do what the Count wants.

“Are you alright?” Wayne asked, raising again and hanging the key on a crook on the wall, sure that the other man couldn’t reach it while chained.

Toller just stared at him without saying a word. And Wayne felt himself start sweating.

“Right. Dumb question. I…” he softened his voice, trying to look less alarmed and more welcoming: “I’ve been sent here to… help you a little.” he said.

It wasn’t the full truth but he did have to heal him.

He took a shy step in Toller’s direction, explaining himself: “The Count told me…”

“DON’T COME CLOSER!” Toller shouted with a broken voice. He was now hugging his knees with his eyes closed and his head hung down, looking somehow even more wounded than before.

This hurt. It hurt in a way that Wayne had never experienced before. It was partially his fault, right? It was his fault Toller was in this conditions.

“Alright.” Wayne did as he was told and took a step back: “I won’t come closer until you let me. Is that good for you?”

Toller raised his head a little. In his eyes flashed multiple emotions at once… not only fear but maybe disbelief? Gratitude?

“Alright. Don’t come closer, please.” he repeated, his voice weaker and rasper this time.

“Fine.”

Wayne took a moment to study the room better: blood spots trailed across the room from the cage to the chains. They weren’t big, he probably hadn’t lost that much blood, but Wayne knew that the damage could have gone deeper than that.

He swallowed, trying not to make too much sound. What were his orders again? Keep Toller alive but not let him sleep?

He had to figure out a way to approach him fist.

“Do you, uh… need something?” he offered.

Toller narrowed his eyes: “Why are you here?”

“I’m here to heal you, for a start.”

“So you can hurt me again? Do you… are you going to take turns on me?” Toller mumbled, shaky with tears.

Wayne’s heart sank in his chest.

“I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.” he managed to say.

He hid his trembling hands by clenching his fists. What did Jack do to him? In Wayne’s experience Jack was one of the good ones. It couldn’t be.

He tried to focus on Toller, thinking about what he might have wanted in his shoes.

“Do you want me to bring you new clothes?” he asked.

“Can you?”

Wayne shrugged: “No one told me otherwise.”

Toller seemed to relax just a little: “Alright. Yes, I do want them. It’s cold in here.”

Wayne tried to smile reassuringly: “And are you hungry?”

“Yes… can you bring some water too?”

“Right. Of course. Anything else?”

Toller hesitated a moment, then shook his head.

Wayne waited for a handful of seconds, then turned to retrieve the key.

“I’ll be back soon.” he said.

He opened the door without looking back and closed it behind him. Then he collapsed on the floor, trying to hold back tears.

Jack knew. He had sent him there on purpose. He was trying to punish him for something, but Wayne couldn’t understand what. It couldn’t be only for the fact that he used the wrong name for him, right? It had to be something more. It had to be, or else all of his life so far was going to stop making sense.

Jack knew. After all it was him that found Wayne bloody, beaten and in the aftermath of his assault that time.

Chapter Text

That day Han and Jack had saved him. They were the reason why Wayne was still alive and relevant, so how did it came to this?

Wayne passed a sweaty hand through his hair and slowly got up on his feet. He just couldn’t bring himself to stay in the darkness for one more minute and certainly could not break into sobs in front of the torture room’s closed door.

He guided the magic flickering light ahead of himself, looking at its hypnotic shape, trying to distract himself from the memories that were still trying to haunt him. He had done such a great job pushing them down, living in the present for most of the time. But as much as he tried to smother his thoughts, they kept coming to the surface.

He had met them on the third year since he had started working for the brothel.

When he was nineteen his mom died and so he had the great idea to replace her in the job. He had never been good at other tasks anyway. Too loud to be a pickpocket, too off-key to be a singer, too weak to do any kind of manual job. He barely managed to dance decently, but when it came to sex he had found a rhythm that he could follow.

It was easier in a way: he just had to lay there, be pretty and take whatever people offered. No studies, no sleights of hand, just two bodies connected. It came natural to him. He was even good at it. Some costumers really liked him, coming frequently, bringing him gifts and tipping him often.

Moreover, it paid more than the other jobs he had tried, well enough to grant him a place to stay and some food almost every day if he managed his finances well.

But every week something new was required of him, every month feeling like he had lost a little more control of himself. He had to say yes to everything, even the things that maybe he didn’t really want. And it was an easy choice. He couldn’t afford to think about that differently.

He got by. He had his own cure: the magic shop across the street sold a drug that could make him dizzy and agreeable for a while. It was just expensive and he couldn’t always afford to pay.

He never managed to gain a good routine.

Sometimes he skipped rent, sometimes he skipped drugs, sometimes he skipped food and sometimes he skipped work entirely because someone he couldn’t pay had decided to teach him a lesson.

Three years after his fresh new start, in winter mercenaries occupied the city but spared the brothel to have a little fun. Two strangers, maybe ten or twenty years older than him, got the habit to visit Wayne together once a week. One was tall and large, the other one was small and thin. They were married or something across the line. And they were fine. They seldom pressured him to do something he wasn’t comfortable with and if they did, it was because Wayne insisted that he could take it.

But one day he couldn’t be available for them: some hours before their arrival, someone had picked a fight on him and after decided to make him work for free. Left on the street, half dressed and freezing in the snow, he just couldn’t bring himself to get up again.

But then the two customers, Han and Jack, found him.

That day he had been scared of dying.

Are you going to take turns on me?

Wayne shuddered as he reached the top of the stairs. He glanced to the moonlit corridors. Winter was over and a cool breeze was passing through the windows, gently moving the curtains.

He headed towards the kitchen.

If he brought food and water to Toller, would that have counted as disobeying the count? If he disobeyed how hard would he have been punished?

Jack was good with Wayne. He always had been.

In that freezing evening, Han and Jack rescued him and offered him to to join the mercenaries as a prostitute. No need to pay for rent or for food. He would have kept his job, while having more protection than before.

And so he accepted their offer. They bought his contract and Wayne effectively became one of the mercenaries’ lovers. And he never looked behind.

Life got better after that.

Jack and Han never hurt him that much. They even protected him from dickheads like Gordy and other people that did have ill intentions towards him.

All Wayne had to do was to just stay there, be pretty and pretend that all the atrocities that happened behind his back weren’t there.

He never looked at what happened outside of the tents. It was none of his business, certainly not his problem. He wasn’t miserable any more, and he had no intention of reliving the levels of violence he had endured before.

Jack wasn’t one of the good ones. Han too. Wayne knew they killed, hurt, tortured, even raped people. But they’d also helped him survive. And if Wayne didn’t look, he could pretend those bad things weren’t there.

But they had always been. Like his mom used to tell him: one can’t hide a corpse under the bed because it starts smelling soon.

Some sounds from the corridors startled him from his thoughts and his first instinct was to extinguish the light globe and hide in the dark, behind the curtains. He heard a couple of servants passing by, chatting quietly, without noticing him. He waited until they turned the corner to keep moving.

Was he really still safe in the palace?

Yes, everything was fine.

He was fine. He just needed to keep being good enough for Jack. He couldn’t trust himself in any other place, doing anything else, he just had Jack to return to. It might have been a rough time for the two of them, but Jack was the bedrock of his life and safety and Wayne couldn’t trade that with anything else.

He gave Wayne the possibility of being a step higher than someone with noble blood like Toller and Wayne was grateful for that. But that didn’t mean that he had to be as belligerent and punitive as Jack.

If Wayne had some power at all, he wanted to use it to keep himself out of trouble. And, when allowed, even to be magnanimous.

He opened the kitchen doors with a renewed determination in him.

He couldn’t afford to let Isidore free, but he could bend the rules enough to make him feel at least a little better now.

Chapter Text

After the Count had left, Isidore had been laying there, motionless, for a long time, just staring at the hooks on the ceiling.

The room was completely blinded, so he couldn’t keep track of time by looking at the sun. The only light source was a cubic container hanging from one of the hooks: it probably contained a light potion and could be recharged as needed. That one looked pretty new, but Isidore kept wandering about the possibility of that light extinguishing. Would they have changed it for him or just kept him in the dark, left for dead? It was unlikely. Those light potions lasted for about two weeks and if every day kept being like that one, Isidore couldn’t possibly last that long.

Someone should have come to rescue him first. Or he should have done it himself.

He didn’t know how he found the strength to get up and sit, to unfasten the belt wrapped around his head that was gagging him.

He stared at it, drool still staining the leather.

And he broke into tears.

People like him never found themselves in those kind of situations. People like him were safe, protected, important. It was absurd that he, of all people, was the one to be kidnapped and tortured.

But he was.

Even if all he did was to follow the law. Yes, he convicted Sonner. What else was he supposed to do about him? He did kill and torture people. And maybe it was better if…

If he was dead. But Isidore had hurt people too. Didn’t he deserve the same fate as Sonner? No, he didn’t, the death sentence was just a lesser evil! Every book he had described it as such.

A lesser evil.

But Isidore had forgotten along the way that it still was evil.

He was gripping the belt so hard that it almost hurt his hands.

Did he need to feel sorry for what he did? He wasn’t sure about that. He wasn’t sure about how to react at all in his situation. The only thing he was certain about was that he wanted to go home.

He had to do something.

He crawled to the corner of the room and hid the belt under his body.

He felt dirty. Everything hurt. But the moment the Count was back he would have been ready to fight.

He sat, shivering and patiently waiting for who knows how long. He tried his best to ignore the hunger and the thirst and the light headache that joined his physical pain. But he had to be ready.

At last the door finally opened and Isidore felt all of his resolution drifting away, replaced by raw fear in anticipation of more pain coming.

However, the frame of the door didn’t reveal the Count. In his stead there was his servant Wayne.

Their interaction had been almost comforting, somehow. For the first time that day Isidore felt that the care he was receiving was genuine. Wayne had promised to never hurt him.

Isidore had no intention to lower his guard: that same morning it had been Wayne the one to forcefully undress him before washing him. But as much as it sounded a hollow vow, Isidore wanted to believe that he could breath for a little while. After all Wayne did honour Isidore’s request to stay away from him this time.

He had left the room to retrieve some goods and so Isidore was alone again, just waiting for him to keep his word.

He looked at the ceiling again, mesmerized by the white light on the hooks. The lines around it were slowly getting blurry as Isidore felt more and more tired. But every time he closed his eyes, everything he could think of was the Count.

Why him? Of all the things his mind could dwell on did it really need to be the worst?

The silence was broken by the sound of his own sobs.

The Count had seen him crying. He had made him the most vulnerable version of himself in just a few hours and he couldn’t imagine what the future could bring.

Even if he was expecting it, Isidore winced when the door opened again.

A big man appeared on the frame: Wayne.

“Hello! I’m back.” he said, eyes dropping at the floor.

Isidore immediately wiped his tears and raised his head to watch him better: he was holding a tray with one hand and a bucket on the other. He also wore, hanging from his shoulder, a big bag that he didn’t have before. Isidore hoped that there wouldn’t be any kind of scary object inside.

Wayne set the tray on the floor, close enough for Isidore to reach, but far enough not to scare him.

“I, uh, brought these.” he said, tapping on the metal plate containing a simple loaf of bread and a big flask: “I hope you like them. I also have something in the bag, wait…”

He searched in his bag and took out a small pile of clothes that at first glance seemed less sophisticated than the ones they gave him before, that morning.

“I see.” Isidore said. Then he was struck by a sense of unease: if he moved, Wayne might have noticed the belt he was hiding behind himself.

“You can bring me the clothes, just… please could you turn around while I change?” he asked.

Wayne hesitated a moment.

“I’ve already seen you naked.” he said, with an awkward smile. Then he started fidgeting: “You’re right. I’m sorry, I… force of habit.”

He took a couple of steps closer, and dropped to his knees there, giving his back to Isidore. That constituted a very vulnerable position for him. Did he do it on purpose? Was it meant to be a demonstration of trust or a demonstration of power?

Wayne pushed the clothes behind him, closer to Isidore who didn’t wait to reach out and grab them.

He started dressing himself with the fustian pants. A bit loose, but they had a thin lace to keep them in place.

He grabbed the shirt after, but realized that with the chains on his wrists couldn’t really put it on, so he just left it on the side. He was luckier with the last piece: a sleeveless tunic that he could open and close at the side with buttons.

When he was finished he was still more bared than what he would’ve liked, but at that point he would’ve worn anything to cover himself. A warm feeling pervaded his chest, as he realized that he was less cold than before. Things could improve.

“How do you find them?” Wayne asked.

“Don’t turn!” Isidore scrambled back to his corner, hiding the belt under his tunic, careful to muffle the sound with the cloth.

But Wayne didn’t move an inch, resolutely staring at the blank wall in front of them: “I’ll wait, alright.” he said.

Isidore let out a breath he didn’t notice he had been keeping: “The clothes are fine.” he answered.

He was half-expecting Wayne to turn around now, but he was still facing the wall, firm as a stone.

Isidore looked at the wall too, wandering what the other might be staring at. It was just a sad, dirty and blank nothingness. Even the hook for the key was empty.

Empty!

Did that mean that Wayne still had it on him?

An idea flashed in Isidore’s mind and his hand instinctively started brushing the leather belt under his tunic.

He could try to strangle Wayne.

He could grab the keys and escape.

“I brought you the bucket for… you know, your physiological needs.” Wayne mumbled.

“Right. Thank you.” Isidore said, before he could stop himself. He was talking to his captor, he didn’t owe him kindness. He didn’t owe him anything at all.

But Wayne seemed to appreciate that: “You’re welcome.” he warmly replied.

Isidore’s right hand gripped the belt hard. Would killing Wayne be worth it?

“Hey, sir.” Wayne said.

The honorific startled Isidore: “Yes?”

“I’m… sorry about what happened to you.” after a moment of consideration, he added: “No one needs to go through that kind of pain.”

Isidore pressed his lips tight, stopping himself from saying that he would have been glad to repeat the treatment to the Count. He wasn’t even sure about that.

“My name’s Wayne, by the way.”

“I knew. I heard that from the girl, Nesta.” Isidore said.

“How do you want me to call you? I’m used to call people with their first names, but maybe you want something more formal.”

“I liked it when you called me sir.” Isidore remarked truthfully. But then added: “My first name is Isidore.”

Wayne had been the only one showing a speck of sympathy for him that day. Isidore felt like he had earned the right to his first name.

“Thank you, Isidore. Can I turn now?”

Isidore stiffened. If he wanted to attack Wayne this would have been the last chance to strike.

But he left the grip on the belt. Wayne was big and probably way healthier than him in that moment and besides more death only risked to cause more problems.

“Yes, you can turn.”

Wayne obeyed, then he threw a confused glance at the shirt still on the ground, but he probably put the pieces together a moment after and didn’t ask about it.

“Do you want me to take the shirt away or…?”

“I’d like to keep it anyway.”

Wayne nodded and then moved his stumpy fingers to push the tray closer to Isidore.

“Enjoy your meal.”

Isidore grabbed the flask first, unscrewed the cap and smelled the content. No scent. But if they were trying to poison him there wouldn’t be anything he could do to prevent it, so he took a sip hoping it wouldn’t be a bad choice.

The taste didn’t have anything strange, but had the water always been so good? He drank again, this time draining much more liquid.

“Easy, you risk to feel sick if you overdo it!”

Isidore slowed the pace and then placed the flask back on the tray, to grab the loaf and start eating it with small nibbles.

He was all too aware of the presence in front of him, staring at him while he consumed the food. Wayne looked like he had wanted to say something but was holding back.

“What is it?” Isidore asked finally.

The other reacted with a guilty expression, like he had been caught stealing.

“Yeah, uh. Sorry. I was just wondering if you… you risk a…”

Isidore stopped him, before he could finish the phrase: “Wayne.”

“What? If you risk a pregnancy I might be able to help you. I don’t have your same anatomy, but there are a couple of servants that-”

“I can’t get pregnant. I took care of that a long time ago.” Isidore cut him off, unable to mask his indignation.

“Alright. Great. So one less thing to worry about, right?”

Isidore just stared at him unimpressed, before taking another nibble of the bread. He could see Wayne’s effort in trying to cheer him up, but it only ended up making Isidore feel way more embarrassed now that he knew that the other understood exactly what the Count did to him. Being pitied like that felt as if he was naked again.

And Isidore felt like that part of him was something he didn’t want to publicly share with other people yet. He still had to come to terms with it himself.

Wayne sighed, maybe realizing he had just talked nonsense.

He straightened his back, looking more serious, and cleared his voice. Then said: “Listen, I do want to help you. I can heal you a little, your bruises I mean...”

There was something he was still keeping for himself, it was clear looking at how he was still avoiding Isidore’s gaze. After a few seconds he continued: “To do that I need you to let me touch you.”

“No.” Isidore’s answer came before he could think about it.

Their eyes finally met. In Wayne’s dark, warm brown here was a hint of worry and disappointment.

Isidore wandered if the cause might be the way he was reflecting on them. Weak, morose, his usual flowing long hair now unkept. He felt so ashamed of himself.

He put the bread back on the tray and hugged his knees making himself smaller.

“I understand, Isidore...” Wayne said “But I think you’ll feel better if we do this. All I need is to rest a hand on your shoulder for a while. You can keep eating, I just need to concentrate and that will be enough.”

Isidore’s nails dug on his own skin. Yes, he just needed to let this stranger invade his personal space one more time. Easier said than done. He kept losing control of the situations he found himself in and let other people do whatever they wanted to him. Even if it meant healing, he didn’t really feel like he had a choice on the matter.

But if he had to stay there for a while he might as well come at terms with the fact.

Wayne started speaking again: “Look, Isidore, I won’t insist if you don’t-”

“It’s alright. I allow you to do that.”

Wayne blinked a couple of times, processing what Isidore just told him. Then said: “Great.”

Isidore saw him standing up and shut his eyes.

“I’m coming closer,” Wayne warned.

He heard steps and then Wayne sat on his right, followed by a sweet scent of jasmine.

“I’m going to put my hand on your arm.”

Warm fingers grazed the skin on Isidore’s shoulder and Isidore opened his eyes. He took a timid glance to his right, to see Wayne holding a small crystal sphere on the other hand. A catalyst.

Wayne smiled, trying to look reassuring: “I need to warn you, I don’t usually cast spells so… I hope it comes out well.”

“Just do it.”

“Yes, sir”

It was Wayne’s turn to close his eyes and Isidore watched as the small orb started glowing little by little, responding to the exchange of mana.

At first Isidore thought it might not be working, but gradually he started feeling like a stone had been lift off his chest. He started to breathe better, think clearer, his body accelerating the healing process, bruises closing.

On the contrary, Wayne seemed to get tired, started panting and his hand became wet with sweat.

The process lasted several minutes in which Isidore managed to finish the loaf.

When Wayne opened his eyes he looked like he had been running for miles.

“Sorry I don’t think I can do more than this. Still need to figure out how to measure my mana well. How are you feeling?” he said, backing away from Isidore.

He stretched his legs in front of him, already missing the jasmine scent that had been replaced by the torture room’s usual moldy smell.

“Not good, but… better.”

A godsend compared to how he felt before.

Wayne now on the other side of the room, nodded: “Good, good. Listen, I have one more task for this evening.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have to keep you awake.” he said, sitting on the stone floor, next to the door.

“That won’t be difficult.” Isidore uttered. There was no way that he was capable of sleeping after all that happened. “Did the Count order you that?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Of course it was him. He wants to get under my skin.”

Wayne didn’t answer but his face was eloquent: the Count had already succeeded in that.

Isidore moved nervously a strand of hair behind his ear, feeling them a bit greasy.

“Wayne… why don’t you just free me?” he whispered.

“Again? Isidore, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Isidore cried in exasperation.

Wayne tensed visibly: “I could but I would get in serious trouble. I want to help you when it’s possible, but if I have to choose between your skin and mine…”

“… It’s not a choice at all.”

Isidore wanted to loathe him but beneath he understood. In his position he would’ve done the same. And he already did in the past. Be polite, but never go against the ones who gives the orders.

“Besides I wouldn’t even know where to look for your shackles’ keys” continued Wayne, twirling his hair with his index finger.

Isidore raised his brows: “Can’t you break them?”

“I, uh, wouldn’t know how. I’m not very strong and I usually count more on my weight than my non-existent muscles.” Wayne chuckled nervously.

“Oh.”

“Hey, listen, I have a proposal,” he whispered, pulling a lock until it became completely straight: “I cannot bend the rules to free you, but maybe I can let you sleep, as long as we keep it a secret.”

“Wait, are you serious?” Isidore asked.

“Yeah.” he answered with a shrug: “I’d like to sleep too. But is it alright for you? To run the risk?”

Isidore immediately nodded: trying to sleep could be his little act of resistance against the Count’s will. He curled on the floor, using the discarded shirt as a pillow and then stared at the dangling hooks on the ceiling, deep in thought.

Just a little while ago, Isidore was pondering to kill Wayne, but now he found himself happy for sparing him. He would’ve been unable to escape either way, but in the other case he wouldn’t have received magic healing and he would have left a corpse or a survived, untrusting, traumatized Wayne behind.

And he didn’t really want to hurt him. Wayne could have been the closest thing to an ally he could wish for in the abominable circumstances he found himself in.

Being responsible for other people’s deaths brought him in the darkest place of his life and for the first time he had started feeling the responsibility of his actions weighting on him.

The fact that sparing Wayne was the right choice had to be a sign from the gods and Isidore wanted to strive to do better.

Maybe there was a way to go forward. A hard way. But he wanted to choose it.

Chapter Text

The bells ringing from the steeple signalled the start of another day of work.

Nesta was up by sunrise, and she’d already checked on the calendar: a big cross in graphite meant that her usual routine would be interrupted at some point in the morning, because a guest was scheduled to arrive. Until then, it would have been regular guard duty.

She picked from the drawers the right bunch of keys and a basket she had prepared the night before to bring with her; since there was a prisoner, it was her job to go check on him first thing in the morning.

The evening before, a servant delivered her some notes from the Count detailing how to treat him.

“If Wayne managed to heal him, the prisoner will be fine,” said the note: “If he fights or insults you you can hit him, but be careful not to kill him”.

She read again the rest of the paper while crossing the corridors and she put it away only when she reached the stairs, descending then into the darkness of the underground.

The corridor was bathed in shadows but she didn’t need any torches to find her way. She stopped in front of the torture room and, for the fist time that morning, she lost her focus.

She took a moment to glance at Han’s laboratory.

It was closed and she didn’t expect anything different, but the sight always left her with goosebumps.

She picked the right key and inserted it into the lock of the torture room. While Nesta was turning it, some muffled sounds came from inside. She opened the door, discovering two people sat in opposite corners of the room: inquisitor Toller and Wayne. Both looked like they had just woken up and Wayne’s ruffled hair left no doubt about what was happening.

“Nesta! Hello! What are you doing here, my friend?” he said, immediately after seeing her.

Friend?

“My job. Weren’t you supposed to keep the prisoner awake?” she asked.

He straightened his back, eyes open wide in a surprised expression he couldn’t quite mask yet: “What, h-how…”

“The Count left me a message mentioning that you were here and why.” she answered.

“Oh, yeah, that tracks.” He quickly glanced to the other side of the room, where Inquisitor Toller was chained.

“Nesta, let me explain,” Wayne said: “we were both exhausted and he was really in bad shape. The Count told me to heal him and it was necessary for him to sleep to recover fully.”

Nesta examined his serious expression. Even if he was making up a lie, in that moment in the palace there were no mages good enough to confirm or deny his claim.

He pressed his lips in a thin line, thoughtful. Then added: “Please, don’t tell anyone anyway.”

She nodded: “Fine.”

Wayne raised his eyebrows and a moment after a little smile grazed his lips: “Thanks!”

“No problem, the Count has been very clear on the fact that we need to keep Toller alive for now.”

She moved her eyes on the prisoner but he didn’t look back at her, hugging some sort of folded shirt to his chest and staring at his own restraints.

Differently from how the note advised her, he was already dressed, but he looked weak and the skin on his arms and neck showed evidence of some healing bruises. She knew Wayne had cured him and she wondered how much worse could he have been before that.

She couldn’t help but feel a little guilty for the day before. Of course the way she treated prisoners was nothing personal, but if she knew Toller was destined to the torture room maybe she would've kept a different attitude. Or maybe not. It was too late to dwell on it anyway.

“How are you, pal?” she asked.

The inquisitor raised his head: “I… am hungry. And I want to go home.”

Then his eyes slid to the keys Nesta was holding, looking at them as if they were made of gold. She pocketed them.

“I can help your hunger.” she said.

She took an apple from the basket and threw it at him, hoping he would catch it. And he did, but his hands lost the grip a moment after and the apple rolled on the floor. Toller followed its movement only with his eyes, helpless.

“Can I have another?” he asked.

Nesta stared at him baffled for a moment. She picked the apple from the floor, rubbed it on her leather vest and offered it again, this time by hand. He winced when she came closer.

“It’s not poisoned. What’s the problem?” she asked.

“It’s dirty.” Toller said in disgust, but accepted the apple anyway.

“Don’t worry,” Wayne said, encouraging: “I think you’ll be fine if you eat it.”

Toller stared at the fruit for a long time before deciding to bite it. Nesta took the opportunity to check on his restraints.

Then she placed the basket on the ground, next to a tray that didn’t belong there.

“Did you bring this here?” she asked Wayne.

“Yeah.” he answered “I brought some food and water. And clothes. The flask on the tray is empty.”

Nesta took out a new recipient, smaller than the one on the tray, and handed it to Toller: “So, except for the sleep part, you’ve been efficient yesterday.” she commented.

“I have? I mean, thank you.” Wayne answered, twirling one of his curls around his fingers.

He was a strange sight in that room. Out of place like the tray coming from the kitchen, or like a pink ribbon on a stone.

“Why were you sent here?” she asked.

He shrugged: “Count’s orders.”

He didn’t say more than that and Nesta didn’t press him further. She focused on the prisoner that was still drinking from the new flask.

“Toller, that’s enough, give it back to me.”

Toller hesitated a moment, before giving it up. As she was grabbing the flask from his hands, he pierced her with his eyes. She saw pure, unadulterated rage for a moment. But then his sentiment visibly deflated into resignation as she placed the now half-empty flask back in the basket.

“I think you’re fine enough” she said.

Toller snorted in response.

She couldn’t afford to pay him any more attention: “My work here is done for now.” she turned to Wayne and added: “Speaking of Count’s orders, did you remember that today we’re expecting some guests?”

“No way, already? I must’ve lost track of time, I need to wash myself!”

He collected the old tray from the ground and Nesta did the same with the basket.

“I think you’ll have enough time if you go right away.” she said and fumbled with the keys to open the door.

“Yeah, uh…” Wayne glanced towards Toller one more time before exiting: “Bye!”

Before the door closed Nesta heard the captive’s weak response: “...See you!”

She grimaced. That level of familiarity between them was unprofessional at best, but she had no authority to tell Wayne what he could do with him. After all, interpersonal relationships were his field, not hers.

She just hoped that when the inevitability of death would've met Toller too, Wayne wouldn’t be too afflicted by it.

She took a handful of steps, but stopped when Wayne asked her to wait.

“What, you’re going to just walk in the dark?” he said.

A moment after, asmall shining globe appeared to his side, lighting his grinning face.

“I can see in the dark.” she answered.

The grin transformed into an open, round mouth.

“I forgot.” he said: “Is it because of Han?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, you were his masterpiece, right? Does the light hurt your eyes?” he asked genuinely.

“It doesn’t.”

“Then we can go upstairs together!” he said, patting his hand on her back.

He retreated it immediately after, probably noticing that Nesta’s muscles tensed at the touch.

Maybe he acts familiar with everyone, she thought, puzzled.

“Do you want to?” he asked.

Nesta nodded. She figured that he was easily scared in the dark and there was no harm in keeping him company while following the same path. On top of that, he smelled like flowers, so his presence made every place seem a little bit more welcoming.

They took only a few steps in silence before he started to talk again: “Hey, Nesta, about the prisoner…”

Here we go.

“What?”

“Please, try not to be…” he trailed off, as if he was looking for the right word: “...not to be too harsh on him.”

“I need to do my job.” she replied plainly.

“Yeah, but, I mean, you have the possibility of doing better right? I know you think you’re rough and everything, but you can at least try?”

There was no accusation in his tone, he looked almost pleading in fact.

She knew that the right answer to give would have been a simple no, I cannot, because my job requires a certain degree of violence from my part.

But instead she glanced at him, brows furrowed, wandering what was happening in his mind to make him act like that.

“Why are you asking me this?” she asked.

“I just… It must be horrible to be in his place, right?”

“Yes, that’s the point, no one wants to be a prisoner. He’s trapped because the Count wants to take revenge on him.”

“But you don’t have anything personally against him.”

“True.”

“So why don’t you treat him like you’d want to be treated?”

She didn’t answer to that.

He probably already knew the answer and his behaviour was due to the fact that he wanted to clear his consciousness for whatever he did in the cell.

There was no way to do that though. People had to live with their actions, no matter how bad they were. She might as well embrace that part of her, the weakness in her heart that compelled her to just blindly follow orders.

“I’m sorry,” Wayne said, defeated: “I know you can’t. You might lose your place here and… yeah, it would suck.”

He was right. If she quit her job, Townsend or someone else would’ve probably sent some assassins to put her down before she was able to leave the palace.

“Wayne” she called, not really knowing what else to add.

They were climbing the stairs and in a minute they would’ve parted ways.

“Yes?”

“I…”

I’ve been doing my job for so long that I stopped questioning it since forever, she wanted to say.

I don’t want to ruin our interactions arguing with you, I don’t even want to be harsh on purpose most of the tim e .

Did you really mean it when you called me friend?

She already knew he probably didn’t and she didn’t need his explicit confirm. Maybe it was childish of her, but until she asked him about that, she could still cling to the possibility of that being true.

And if Wayne maybe considered her a friend, then they could try to watch each other’s backs.

They had reached the top of the stairs and stood in the corridor, now bathed in the light of morning.

“Thank you for understanding, Wayne.” she said instead: “I’ll see what I can do with the prisoner.”

And to her own surprise she realized she meant it more like a promise than a lie.

Chapter Text

They entered the green room.

“Hildegard! Welcome to my humble abode.” greeted the Count with his arms open.

Wayne and Nesta followed him, positioning on either side of the man.

Since Hildegard, the long awaited guest, had arrived early, she had been left to wait there, while other servants took care of her baggages and her travelling companions.

They found her comfortably sitting on one of the couches, but she raised to her feet at their arrival. She was tall, even if shorter than Nesta, her blonde hair were tightly braided around her head as usual and despite her over fifty years of age, she still looked fiercer than a lion, a stark contrast with the Count who once could easily match her presence, but during the last few months had withered a lot.

That morning in particular he looked a little wasted, as if he was in hungover.

“I’m glad you invited me and my entourage to take a vacation here, Townsend.” Hildegard said: “Forgive me, should I use some honorific now?”

“No, no, you’re an old sister-in-arms, you can use my surname as always.”

Nesta felt, more than see, Wayne tense for a second but when she briefly glanced at him he had his usual welcoming smile plastered on his face. She wondered if it would have been better for her to smile too, but she discarded the possibility. Her smile was weird -or at least people told her that countless times- and besides there was nothing to smile about at that moment.

“Long time no see, Nesta.” Hildegard said, nodding in her direction.

“Ma’am.” she responded automatically.

The count gestured towards the couches: “Sit down, Hildegard. We can have a chat here, if you like the place.”

“Oh, I love this room.” she said, doing as he recommended: “I can assure you that some of the nobles I visited recently would kill for something like this. The green walls are a really nice touch, I find them appeasing.”

The Count sat too, and tapped the armrest of the couch as indication for Wayne to sit there. While Nesta kept staying still, the chubby man moved where the Count wanted him, but there was something off. Maybe it was his posture, maybe his expression or the unusual rigidity of his movements, but for a moment, Nesta felt an almost imperceptible hint of fear coming from Wayne. It had never happened before when he was next to the Count, as long as she remembered.

“Nesta, come and stand next to me.” Hildegard called.

She obliged.

“Thanks for bringing Nesta and your slut here, Townsend. They remind me of good old times.” Hildegard said.

“That was my intention.” he replied with a grin: “So, Hildegard, how was your trip?”

She grumbled before answering: “Wild. Why did you choose to live in an island? I had to take two different boats to come here.”

“A whole island grants me more control on my surroundings. But come on, it’s not even that far from the main land!”

“Ever the tactician, am I right? I’ve seen you use your skills for war, never for something like this. I guess we’ll see how well a woman of action adjusts to this relaxed life.” she ended the phrase stretching on the cushions.

“Do you still take part in missions?” the Count asked.

“Yeah, even if I’m rich now, I still like the thrill. But I’m not a mercenary any more, I’m orienting on more on private, smaller quests for now. They’re safer for an old lady like me.”

“You’ll never retire, I see.”

“I won’t, just like old Han.”

That sentence silenced the Count. She didn’t look embarrassed at all for bringing such delicate matters into the discussion.

“My condolences for your husband, by the way.” she said, leaning slightly towards the Count: “No one expected him to kick the bucket so soon, me and good old Gordy even used to bet that he would've lived until his nineties. I guess I owe money to a lot of people now.”

“Would you like to go hunting, later in the day?” he asked, almost interrupting her.

“Oh my, that would be great. You know how to keep a lady entertained.”

“Speaking of entertainment, all of my servants are at your service, as usual. Day and Night.” the Count said: “You can ask for whoever you want to keep you company and even Wayne will be free, this evening.”

If Wayne was struck by the sentence, he didn’t show it. The Count slid a hand on his tight and squeezed it briefly.

“Oh, such a kind treatment for an old friend.” she said: “I’m pretty sure I’ll ask for Nesta, but I’ll let you know if I want someone else with us.”

She paused a moment, before adding: “You kind of look unwell, Townsend. You know that, right?”

Nesta blinked a few times. She knew Hildegard could be brash, but that kind of attitude in front of the Count never ceased to surprise her.

“I hit the bottle yesterday.” the Count replied, scratching his beard.

Hildegard made a sympathetic face in response.

“You know what?” she said: “Why don’t we go hunting right away? I think that a day out might brighten your mood. Then, we can go back here and eat dinner with Nesta and Wayne.”

The Count nodded slowly: “They usually eat in the housekeeper’s hall, but I guess we can arrange something.”

“It’s settled then!” Hildegard exclaimed. Then she turned to Nesta and lightly brushed her hand, sending sparkles through all of her body.

“I look forward to spend some time with you too.”

Nesta clenched her jaw and nodded, loyal as a dog.

Chapter Text

Wayne and Nesta were patiently standing on either side of the dining room’s door, waiting for the Count and his guest to come back from hunting.

Nesta was just barely aware of her surroundings, focused only on what was coming.

Hildegard. A fancy dinner. She wants to meet me later. She wants to spend time with me.

A waving movement in front of her eyes startled her.

She realized a moment after that it was Wayne’s hand and that he was talking.

“I’m sorry.” Nesta answered: “What did you say?”

“Just that I’m glad to be about to eat real butter instead of margarine for once.” Wayne repeated.

“Yeah. You’re right.” Nesta remarked, even if she had never been able to really spot the difference.

Wayne’s head tilted lightly to the side: “Are you alright, Nesta?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You look a bit absent-minded.” he said with a softly worried smile.

Nesta genuinely didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t want to lie, but she couldn’t admit it either.

“Were you thinking about Hildegard?” Wayne asked.

“H-how did you guess?”

He started playing with his hair, pulling them slightly: “It’s not difficult, I know that you and her have had a history together.”

Nesta clenched her fists: “We did. Do. We do.”

Wayne’s fingers stopped moving, remaining tangled in his curls: “And is everything alright between you two?”

“Yes.” Nesta answered immediately, even if she wasn’t really sure about it: “Why?”

“It’s just…” he started. The hand on his hair dropped to his side: “Why didn’t she bring you too in her journeys?” he asked.

Nesta clenched her jaw.

She had asked herself the same question thousands of times before and never found any reason that would satisfy her enough to stop.

She settled on replying with the most plausible answer: “Maybe Han wanted me more than her, even if in a different way.”

She glanced on the side of the corridor, where some massive red curtains were blocking some of the last lights of the day: “Why do you care?”

“Well, I’m, as Hildegard put it, a slut, so I’m interested in knowing about other people’s relationships.” he answered.

“I still don’t understand. Hildegard wasn’t even interested in you.” Nesta remarked.

But as Wayne shrugged, a thought crossed her mind. It was memory coming of a long time before.

The soft grass of the meadow under her back, her hand brushing the one of another woman. One of the mercenaries’ lovers. Nesta’s too.

“Wayne.”

“Yes?”

She clenched her fists so hard that her nails almost dug in her skin.

“Did you.. did you perhaps know Linnea?” she asked.

“Linnea?” he frowned and a moment after his face lit: “In the mercenaries? Yes, she was one of us!”

“Do you know if she… What happened to her?”

The light on his his face left, replaced by dejection.

“I think she has been sold at an auction, I don’t know anything else. I’m sorry.” he murmured.

There was no need to add anything else. People who were bought like that seldom survived for long.

Their eyes met and he opened his mouth, but before he could say anything else Nesta gave him a small head shake, pointing to the corridor: the familiar sound of distant steps had alarmed her that the Count and his guest were coming.

Wayne seemed to understand and closed his eyes, to take a deep breath. When he opened them his smile was wide and charming.

Nesta assumed her military stance to properly greet their masters as well.

The sun had just set and the dining room was mostly lit by candles. Nesta sat at the right side of the table, facing Wayne, while their masters were at the two heads, facing each other.

She couldn’t help but to feel inadequate on that comfortable velvet chair, not really recognizing half of the silverware in front of her. It was true that they all used to have meals together when they were mercenaries, but they seldom ate in such fancy settings.

Since when she moved to the palace with the newly titled Count, the place designated for her meals had beens the housekeeper’s hall like for all of the other upper servants and she took the habit of eating strictly either during the hours in which she knew the hall would be empty or when there was enough people to blend in the crowd. She always disregarded etiquette rules because she both didn’t know and didn’t care about them and other people found her too menacing to scold.

She felt like she shouldn’t now. There were just the four of them in the room and her lack of sophistication would be there for all to see.

She was out of place like Wayne had been in the torture room.

She glanced at the others trying to match their actions: they all looked pretty laid back, the only one with a straight back being Wayne.

Of course he fit there. During the past years he had been invited plenty of times to dine with the Count and his husband, while for Nesta it was a first.

Wayne noticed that she was staring and rewarded her with a reassuring smile.

It was like an unspoken conversation and Nesta instinctively understood what he was trying to tell her: that they were sitting with two ex-mercenaries who wanted to relieve the past and didn’t really care about any fancy façades in that particular moment.

Nesta managed to relax a bit.

The Count and Hildegard were continuing a conversation they had probably started while returning from the hunt, but stopped when the servants brought in the first course.

“The dinner is based on the food we found today.” the Count announced.

As the servants poured a scarlet soup on their bowls, an earthy smell filled the room. Nesta furrowed her brows trying to decipher what it might be.

“It’s not blood,” Hildegard said, waiting for Townsend to have the first taste: “we found some turnips along the way. I think the cook added potatoes too.”

She brought a spoonful of soup to her mouth and hummed in appreciation.

“Townsend, I want your cook.”

“Find one of your own.” he snorted.

“Yeah, easier said than done.” she said. She then addressed the two servants to ask: “How do you find the soup?”

Wayne lowered his spoon and responded first: “It’s exquisite. The quality of the ingredients is outstanding, one could say that it tastes like the wild side of nature. The flavours blend well, making it almost sweet and easy to swallow.”

Nesta stared at him baffled by his oratory talent. At her eyes he had always been good with words, always capable of saying whatever other people wanted him to say.

The only thing she would’ve been able to reply was: good, ma’am, but with his help she managed to mutter a shy: “I agree.”

Hildegard looked pleased at their response, listening carefully to their answer. But something sharp in her gaze told Nesta that maybe the reason behind her smile wasn’t the fact that the soup was good, but the fact that the two servants spoke only when spoken to.

As if Wayne and Nesta’s were just a step higher than the furniture, useful only as long as they could keep them entertained.

And Nesta couldn’t imagine a possibility where things went differently. If no one ever addressed her again she might have fallen into a deep eternal silence.

Hildegard seemed to lose interest in them and turned to the Count: “There’s one thing I forgot to ask you before. I visited Gordy last month and he told me you never answer to his letters. Why?”

A dark shade casted on the Count’s face: “You still talk with that old twat?”

“I do. I know that you weren’t really fond of him, but to the point of ignoring him so totally? Did something happen between you two?”

“You know I never really liked the guy. Just kept him around because he was good at fighting.”

“Yeah, yeah, he was a bit of a nuisance. But he was part of the team.”

The Count sneered: “A nuisance is understating it. If you ask me, he could be dead and I wouldn’t care.”

“Oh, come on, you talk like you’re a saint but you did your own good deal of questionable acts. And he was the most cheerful during celebrations. I know you had fun too.”

“Fun? Go ask the bitches who died after spending the night with him. He ruined perfectly fine goods that we could trade.”

“I do remember he had a high libido. Hey, Wayne, did you ever sleep with Gordy?”

Wayne, that had been silently eating, put aside his spoon and answered: “No, never, ma’am.”

“Yeah, that explains why you’re still alive.” she chuckled.

Wayne was still smiling, but his lips were a bit tense, betraying his unease. Actually, Hildegard looked like the only one finding the subject funny.

She rolled her eyes: “Well, I do remember that he was awful with prisoners but he wasn’t with most of the soldiers. He only goofed around a bit, that’s all.”

“Enough about Gordy.” the Count said with a firm voice.

She sighed in annoyance, but nodded.

The servants entered again, taking with them the dirty dishes and filling new ones with the second course.

“This is Wild Boar Goulash.” Townsend said: “I struck it with an arrow on its eye.”

“Even in hungover you keep being deadly precise.” Hildegard commented.

Nesta looked at the fancy looking food in front of her, with its meaty and inviting smell that couldn’t quite catch her attention. Her mind went to Gordy.

She never interacted much with him, but she remembered him clearly: he was one of the heads of the troops and a close friend to Hildegard.

She had told Nesta that she used to be his second in command, before Townsend’s arrival.

He and Gordy seemed to have had a history before, but Hildegard never dwelled on details, maybe because she didn’t know about them either.

She just said that when Townsend challenged Gordy in a duel, putting the command of the mercenary army as price, Townsend crushed his adversary with a brutality she never saw him use again towards his companions. Gordy was spared only by miracle.

Things between them kind of settled after that event, when Townsend became the head of the army. He never reciprocated Gordy’s friendliness towards him but never banished or killed him either.

Nesta tried to recall more, but she didn’t remember much else. She never asked about their relationship because it was never her business to know. But she couldn’t help but to feel a little curiosity in that regard, also because Gordy seemed to be one of the few people that could intimidate the Count.

She felt eyes on her and noticed that Wayne was staring with a questioning expression. She realized that she hadn’t started eating yet, so she moved her fingers towards the fork, but the movement was too abrupt and the fork fell on the ground, sliding towards Hildegard’s side of the table.

“How clumsy, Nesta!” she scolded.

Nesta’s answer followed immediately after: “I’m sorry, ma’am”

She started getting up, but stopped when Hildegard said: “Stay where you are, I’ll pick it for you.”

Nesta obliged, feeling her cheeks getting hot, while Hildegard raised from her chair and bent down. When she returned sitting she had the dirty fork on her hand. She waved it in the air.

“I guess you’ll have to go without eating the Goulash.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She could feel Wayne’s eyes on her, but she dropped her gaze on the plate, fearing to see him judging her.

“Is that alright with you, Townsend?” Hildegard asked.

“As I said, my servant are yours for the time being.”

Nesta clenched her fists and raised her head to look at her master as she placed the dirty fork on a towel in front of her.

“Hey, Townsend, I noticed that there is some cool golden… stuff, under the table.” Hildegard said, in between bites: “It looks like an anchor.”

“You guessed right. It’s where I set the chains, when I want to treat some prisoner a meal.” the Count confirmed.

“That can’t be happening often, right? A lot of people told me that you got soft...”

The Count furrowed his brows and grinned a little: “Actually I used them just yesterday.”

Hildegard slammed a hand on the table: “No way! You have a prisoner in the palace?”

“I do. He’s the man who sentenced Han to death.” said the Count, almost proud of himself.

Of course he was proud, Toller had been his designated prey since when he had learnt his name.

“Oh…” Hildegard slightly tilted her head on the side: “That’s… pretty romantic of you.”

Wayne started coughing. He poured himself some water and drank.

“Wayne?” the Count called, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m sorry.” the other muttered: “Please, don’t mind me.”

Townsend turned to Hildegard without a second glance and explained: “He’s in the torture room right now. I still have to find a fitting way to murder him.”

The servants entered again at that moment. They collected all the plates without commenting, even Nesta’s which was still full.

“Murder?” Hildegard asked: “No way, and let him get away with it so easily?”

“What do you have in mind?” the Count asked, intrigued.

Hildegard smiled warmly at him, as the servants brought in the dessert: three round, light brown biscuits. Nesta stared at them wandering whether she should wait for permission to eat. For the soup she didn’t need that, but with the goulash that right might have been revoked.

She tried to look at Wayne, but he seemed absorbed by them as much as her.

“Oh, I have a few suggestions.” Hildegard said: “You can hunt wild animals... but dogs exist because humans can tame wolves right? What if we tried to tame him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Allow me to demonstrate.” she said. She lightly tapped on the table with her index finger: “Nesta, stand up.”

Nesta obeyed, before she could think twice about what she was doing.

“Come here, next to me.”

Nesta obeyed.

“Kneel.”

Nesta obeyed again. Hildegard bared her teeth in an unsettling smile.

“Here, good girl.”

Nesta felt her master’s hand patting on her head, and wandered how she could let Hildegard have that kind of power over her.

A hand holding the crumbs of a sharded biscuit moved towards her face.

“Eat.”

She opened her mouth and, for just a moment, hesitated.

How could she comply so easily?

She was bigger, younger, probably stronger than her, she could have grabbed a knife from the table and easily sliced her throat but in truth she couldn’t.

In truth she felt so small and insignificant that she cast any possibility of resistance far, far away a long time ago, defeated before even starting the battle. She had fought and lost too many times in the past.

At least Hildegard wasn’t hurting her to gain obedience any more. At least her master had become gentler with her and she might have been the only person left in the world who genuinely liked Nesta. Was it really worth it to kill her and run?

After all it wasn’t like she could hope for a better life than that, to rebuild something for someone like her.

At that point what did her dignity matter?

Nesta closed her eyes. And obeyed. Crumbs that tasted like honey filled her mouth as she licked her master’s palm.

“I knew she spent a lot of time both with you and with Han, but I didn’t expect this.” Townsend remarked, impressed.

“You never took advantage of her loyalty? Such a waste, Townsend!”

“I mean, she’s always been very useful for any kind of physical labour and that was enough for me. Did you treat her like that even in the mercenaries?”

“Yeah, she took a long time to train, but I’d say it was worth it. She even fought for us countless times, didn’t she?”

“It might be… worth it.” Townsend seemed thoughtful.

Hildegard didn’t hide the excitement in her voice: “So would you like to try this with your prisoner? Imagine him at his knees, begging to be hurt. He will be still alive but he will be the shell of his former self, will have the exact shape we want him to have-”

“I want him to have.” Townsend interrupted.

“Of course. He’s yours now, after all.” Hildegard retreated her hand: “What do you say, pal?”

“I say that we can give it a shot. After all I was planning to still keep him alive for one or two months and kill him only when I would have gotten bored. You’re invited to come in the torture room with me, after dinner.”

“Great! Nesta, are you coming with us?”

Nesta raised her head. In front of her there were Hildegard and the door and she knew that Townsend and Wayne sat at her back. She was glad she couldn’t see his expression.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Chapter Text

Just outside of the dining room, Nesta stood at Hildegard’s side, looking in front of her. To avoid Wayne’s gaze she focused on the floral decorations of a scarlet curtain in the corridor. She had already seen similar kinds of flowers, but she couldn’t recall their name.

Nesta was only good for fighting, for torture and for killing and most flowers didn’t serve any of that purposes, so it was useless knowledge for her, or maybe even dangerous: she couldn’t risk offending her masters by saying anything smarter than them.

Ignorance could keep her safe.

“Wayne, go set the baths for all the new guests, including Hildegard’s companions.” the Count ordered.

“Yes, my lord. How long do you plan to stay downstairs?”

In her peripheral vision Nesta perceived the Count scratch his beard.

“I don’t know, why?”

“I need to know when to warm the water.”

“Let’s say an hour? Maybe an hour and a half. Set Hildegard’s bath for last and keep it warm until her arrival.”

“Yes, my Lord…”

The count turned and took a couple of steps in the direction of the underground.

“… will you need my services tonight?” Wayne asked.

The count stopped.

“No. If no one else asks for you, you can go sleep unless I say otherwise.”

“Got it. Thank you, my Lord!”

Nesta dared to glance in Wayne’s direction only when he had started to leave and she felt safe enough that he wouldn’t see her.

But he turned his head and for a moment they locked eyes. She found concern in his.

Try not to be too harsh on the prisoner, she remembered from the conversation they had that morning.

Before she could react in any way he had already turned back into looking ahead of him and walked away disappearing into a different hall.

A hand lightly tapped her arm.

“Come on Nesta, let’s go.” Hildegard said: “Townsend, what do you plan to do?”

He smirked and started walking again: “We’ll prepare the cart with all the items we might need, we’ll bring it to the prisoner and we will have all the fun that we want.” he turned his head to wink at Hildegard: “You can give me your precious advice along the way.”

Nesta followed them like a shadow.

“Good evening, Isidore!”

The first one to enter the torture room was the Count, followed by Hildegard and Nesta.

She was pushing a little cart full of horrible objects that her masters meticulously selected just minutes before.

She found Toller chained in the same place as she left him, eyes wide in fear.

“I hope you’re here to free me.” he said, trying and failing to sound assertive.

His eyes glued to the cart. From his position it was unlikely he could see what it contained and that was by design. His imagination would've filled the gaps with all of the worst options, Nesta knew that by experience.

“Of course not.” The Count cooed, shaking his head: “How impolite of you to refuse my hospitality. I’m giving you a roof over your head and free food, you should be thankful.”

Then he gestured to his side, where Hildegard stood fierce as always: “I want to introduce you to my dear friend Hildegard. Prove me that you still retain some of your upper class heritage and greet her properly.”

Toller visibly clenched his jaw and said nothing.

The Count sighed and quickly crossed the distance between them to place a kick on his ribs gaining a loud whimper in response.

The sound raised Nesta’s back hair.

“What do you say when you meet someone new?” asked the Count, raising his boot again.

Toller cowered on the corner and managed to shout: “It’s a… pleasure to meet you miss Hildegard!”

“My pleasure.” she replied and giggled: “You really fond a lovely one, Townsend!”

The Count made a satisfied grunt and crossed the room again, stopping next to the cart. He took a quick glance inside and smiled, to then address Toller again: “Hildegard had wonderful ideas for some activities we can do together. We brought you some gifts!”

Toller leant against the wall and brought his hands to his hips, a little lower than where the Count had hit him, Nesta noticed.

“What do you say when someone gives you gifts, Isidore?”

Toller hesitated, then lowered his head muttering: “I do not want anything from you.”

The Count raised his eyebrows: “What was that?”

Nesta clenched her wrists. Stop acting stupid, Toller, she thought. There’s nothing you can do against them and your pride is not worth enough.

“It’s very considerate for you to bring me gifts, my Lord.” Toller corrected himself and despite his kind words, his tone was full of rage: “I just hope I’ll have the possibility of refusing what I receive if I don’t like it.”

“You won’t.” The Count answered plainly.

He turned to Hildegard, asking: “Well, what do you suggest?”

Her face twisted in an intrigued smile as if she was a kid who was about to crush a bug: “Before choosing I’d like to ask him some questions. Isidore?”

He seemed to tense: “Yes?”

“It’s yes, ma’am. How old are you?”

“I’m twenty eight.” he said, voice unsure. When she tilted her head on the side he was fast to add: “Ma’am.”

“You’re kind of a fast learner. Did you parents ever taught you discipline?”

“I consider myself well educated and well mannered, ma’am.” Toller answered.

“What about corporal punishments? Did you ever get any?”

Toller slightly shifted position, looking uncomfortable.

“Sometimes the governess smacked my hands with a cane if I misbehaved.”

“Did that happen often?”

“No, ma’am.”

Hildegard’s mile softened a little: “You were a good kid, weren’t you?”

She rummaged in the cart and pulled out a big key, offering it to Nesta: “This one’s for the anchor. You can open it and hang the prisoner’s chain on one of the hooks on the ceiling. Oh, and take off his tunic too.”

Nesta bowed her head: “Yes, ma’am.”

“Wait!” Toller shouted with a renewed strength, as she was crossing the distance between them: “What are you going to do to me!?”

He pressed himself against the wall as if he wanted to be swallowed by stone.

“Don’t come closer!”

Nesta pressed her lips in a thin line, trying to ignore him. She knew what her masters wanted her to to do, she had done it countless times before.

That never made it easier.

She knelt next to the anchor, grabbed Toller’s chain for safety and inserted the key to open the massive, rusty metal ring on the wall.

As soon as it clicked open she noticed Toller’s hand sliding inside his tunic.

“Hey, what are you-”

Toller pulled out a leather belt and launched towards her with a sudden, unexpected vigour. She instinctively caught his wrists before he could do anything to hurt her.

“Let me go!” he roared.

“Drop the belt” Nesta said: “Don’t be stupid!”

“No!”

“Drop it!”

She squeezed his wrists harder and he let go of his grip with a small cry.

Nesta kicked the belt far away and let go of his wrists, grabbing instead the long chain connecting them. Toller tried to squirm a couple of times before surrendering, all the fight gone in a whim. He was sobbing.

“What happened? Did he attack you?” Hildegard asked. She looked much more curious than worried.

“That’s my belt.” commented the Count, grabbing it from the floor.

“Yours?”

“Yeah, I used it to gag him, before I… well, I thought that Nesta would've noticed it while she was dressing him!”

“I didn’t dress him.” Nesta said, regretting her words a moment after pronouncing them.

“So who…” started the Count, before concluding: “It’s Wayne’s fault.”

“My Lord, I’m alright,” Nesta intervened, trying to make up for it: “Nothing serious happened, so there’s no need to punish Wayne in any way. I should’ve checked better.”

“True. But I think I’ll be the judge on that. Now hang him as we told you.” the Count ordered.

“Yes, my Lord.”

She helped Toller up pulling him by the chain. He barely was able to stand.

“Please… stop. Please don’t hurt me.” he breathed.

His words stung Nesta deeper than she would’ve been willing to admit. It was far from the first time she felt that sensation and she always hoped it might go away with time, but that never happened.

“I don’t have a choice.” she whispered low enough to be sure her masters couldn’t hear.

She helped him walk to the centre of the room and raised the chain above Toller’s head, forcing him to lift his arms too. She wrapped it around one of the hooks and gave it an experimental tug to make sure that he wouldn’t be able to move.

His hands gripped the chains above in a desperate attempt of gaining back a little of control.

She unbuttoned his tunic and unravelled his torso, a beat up version of the immaculate one she had seen the day before, when she and Wayne had washed him. No amount of magic healing would’ve been enough to make whatever happened to him disappear; maybe the bruises could go away but the memories certainly could not.

Toller looked terrified.

She glanced away, with the excuse of throwing the tunic next to Toller’s discarded shirt in the corner.

“Good, Nesta, come back here.”

She obliged.

The count tasted the weight of his belt on his hands and then started slowly circling around Toller.

“You thought you could fight? In your conditions?” he chuckled.

He brought the belt down without warning, hitting Toller’s back. He screamed.

“You chose the wrong target.” the Count continued: “Our Nesta is no regular guard. She was one of the deadliest soldiers in the mercenary army and the main reason for that is that she can count on superhuman strength and abilities. Tell him what can you do, Nesta.”

Nesta failed to shake off the tickly sensation of goosebumps, as she answered: “I can see in the dark, move without making sound, I’m stronger and faster than most people…”

“That’s right. Would you like to know how she gained them, Toller?”

He brought the belt down once again, gaining a pained yelp.

“It’s thanks to Han, he experimented a lot with prisoners and she was one of the few successes that are still alive today. It’s all thanks to my fucking dead husband.”

He punctuated the last words swinging the belt three more times, managing to split skin with the last hit. Toller was left trembling as little droplets of blood flew across the room, a couple landing on the Count’s grey velvet tunic.

“Damn it, I got dirty.”

“Don’t worry, Townsend, there’s no need for you to continue.” Hildegard said.

“What do you mean?”

“Nesta can do it. Can’t you, sweetie?”

Nesta’s throat clenched at the pet name. Of course she could do it.

“He tried to hurt you, don’t we need to teach him a lesson? Show him who is in control here.”

Nesta certainly wasn’t. Nesta would’ve gladly let his murder attempt go, because she understood that he was in a thorny situation and he didn’t see any other solutions to survive or to stop hurting.

But Nesta didn’t either.

She accepted the belt from Townsend and gripped it as if it was a lifeline.

“Belting is such a classic form of punishment” Hildegard commented: “I find it rather fitting for him.”

Nesta was aware of Toller’s shaking body in front of her. His hands stubbornly gripped to the chains above him, his eyes shut, tears running down his face, soft sobs covering the silence of the room. She circled him and positioned behind his back.

There were less vital organs there. And she could avoid seeing his face for a while.

She raised her right arm, holding the belt.

“Nesta, wait.” Hildegard said.

Nesta lowered her arm and heard Toller exhale in front of her.

“He’s being too quiet. He needs to become obedient and there’s still a lot of room for improvement.” Hildegard continued, crossing her arms: “Toller, do you hear me?”

“M-ma’am.” he weakly answered.

“Every time Nesta strikes you, you need to keep the count and you need to thank her. If you don’t, we’ll start again from number one, do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.” he said.

The situation was a little bit too familiar and unwelcome.

She raised her arm again, cursing herself. Was it so easy to break the promise she made Wayne that same morning?

“Nesta? Come on, you can start.”

She dreaded the sound of Hildegard’s voice much more than she valued her friendship with Wayne, which, realistically speaking, almost certainly wasn’t even real, just something she made up to feel some kind of comradery with someone that looked approachable and cordial enough.

But her masters would’ve hurt her if she didn’t do her job and the pain would've been real.

One wrong step and she would’ve been in Toller’s position in no time. They would both get hurt at the end and her protests would've been not only useless, but damaging even.

She couldn’t risk it all for a relationship that wasn’t even there.

She brought down the belt, careful to limit the strength of the blow as much as she could in a clumsy attempt of compromising with her inner struggle.

Toller screamed anyway. He panted and Nesta waited for him to speak before striking again.

“Too slow, Nesta, you can go again.”

Nesta clenched her jaw. And obeyed.

Toller screamed again, but this time managed to mumble: “One! O-one… thank you, ma’am.”

Nesta shuddered realizing that the ma’am was referred to her. She hit him again.

“Two, thank you, ma’am.”

Another.

“Three, t-thank you, ma’am.”

They kept going on, Nesta waiting for Hildegard or Townsend to feel enough satisfied to put an end to the macabre show they were offering.

At number fifteen, Toller faltered.

“Too slow, restart from number one.” Hildegard ordered, gaining a lament from the inquisitor.

As Nesta did what she was told she felt cold sweat on her own back.

It must be horrible to be in his place, right? Wayne’s words echoed clearer in her mind, bothering her like a buzzing fly. Yes, it was horrible.

She knew it by experience.

Nesta had already been there, in Toller’s position. She had even counted hundreds of strikes on her back.

It was one of the ways they had trained her, not the most effective but surely one of the most common. She had been groomed to believe that she had potential and that it all would’ve been wasted if she didn’t obey.

Of course she would obey.

Toller’s wails reminded her too much of herself but she couldn’t stop, could she? She had to obey.

She had to or else they would’ve wasted no time in getting rid of her and all the work they had put into her training. She was granted the possibility of being alive only as long as she was useful and yes, she was strong, but she was far from invincible.

Count Townsend alone would’ve been a hard match, though she never really understood if Han ever used magic to modify his body, but Townsend and Hildegard together would've been an insurmountable wall between her and her freedom.

And as much as she could fantasize about what she could do outside of the palace, that was it. They were just fantasies. At best she would’ve died alone and with no other purpose in life other than surviving as long as possible.

She was panting too.

Toller had stopped responding, so she settled on striking him only when Hildegard ordered her to.

“Too slow, hit him, Nesta.”

From the welts on his back droplets of blood streamed down freely, creating a macabre imitation of the flowery patterns she had seen on the curtains upstairs.

Scarlet flowers. She still couldn’t recall their name. Had they been just blood all along? Was everything beautiful in the world destined to be tainted by violence and blood?

Something was deeply wrong with Toller. His hands weren’t gripping the chain any more, inertly hanging from their bindings. He had stopped answering and probably lost his consciousness a while ago but no one had cared about that.

“Nesta?” Hildegard called.

When she was in his position she would've liked someone to care. Could she care now? She did, against her will and she wanted it to stop both for herself and for the poor, poor prisoner.

“He has lost consciousness, he can’t reply any more.” she answered.

“We know, but we aren’t finished yet. Keep going.”

Nesta gathered all of her might to ignore Hildegard’s command.

“Nesta!?” Hildegar called, tone sharper than before.

Nesta’s eyes darted right and left, while she was struggling to find a good enough justification.

Think fast, what would Wayne say now? What would convince them to stop this ?

“I think that going on might go against your interests.” she finally said in a low voice.

“What on earth do you mean?”

Hildegard’s voice set shivers down Nesta’s spine, but at this point it she couldn’t back down.

She tried to explain: “You said that you wanted to train him but… if he’s unconscious he can’t learn anything. And he isn’t used to pain, so he might also die prematurely.”

Hildegard narrowed her eyes and turned to Townsend, who looked mildly annoyed.

“We can stop for tonight” he said: “It’s true, I don’t want him to die so easily. I’ll send Wayne to heal him a bit.”

Nesta’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of the man.

“Wasn’t he scared of blood?” Hildegard asked.

“That’s what he gets for not noticing that damn belt” the Count replied, raising his brows: “And he has to toughen up. Nesta, tidy up the room.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Townsend was already outside, but Hildegard lingered a little bit more to say: “I’ll have a bath and then I expect you to come to my room, dear.”

Their eyes locked, Hildegard’s stare more intense than ever.

“Of course, ma’am.”

Nesta waited for both of her masters to get out of the room to remove Toller’s chains from the hook and position him face down on the stone, chained to the anchor again. It was only when she touched him that she noticed that he was burning with fever.

The welts on his back were a lot, and he had lost a considerable amount of blood for just a belting.

She couldn’t help but to feel guilty. She always did after punishing someone, but she usually didn’t let herself dwell on the feeling for too much, pushing it deep down and smothering it among other simpler and safer thoughts.

She couldn’t now, because Wayne’s words still buzzed on her head.

She sighed. It wasn’t like she could do much to improve the situation.

She pushed the cart out and placed it in the storage room where they had found most of the unused horrible objects they put inside.

She had to go upstairs, Hildegard was waiting for her and Nesta had to wash the blood off herself.

Against her better judgement she entered the torture room again minutes after, a bucket full of cold water in one hand and a two clean rags on the other.

She used one to clean Toller’s welts. She would’ve liked to place the other one on his forehead but she couldn’t turn him on his back, so she just used the cloth to wet his forehead.

He was still unconscious but he groaned, indication that he was still alive.

Nesta had no time left and she got up and went outside. After she closed the door behind her, she left out a long exhale.

Chapter Text

A cloud of steam enveloped the room as Wayne poured the water from the pot to the tub once again. For the occasion he had gathered a collections of flower petals and expensive soap bars, Hildegard was a guest that couldn’t be disregarded in any way, after all.

He submerged his index finger inside, observing that the water was at a perfect temperature.

And he was early.

He grabbed his catalyst and rolled it on his hands for a few minutes, quietly humming the same happy tune he had hummed the day before in his own tub.

He could bear the boredom of this job, because he could appreciate the ambrosial scent of every bath he set. It relaxed him, cradled his senses, made it easier to gradually expend some mana to keep the temperature of the water constant.

He felt peaceful.

He could avoid thinking about the inquisitor in the torture room.

Damn it. He was occupying his mind again.

But there was not time to worry, Wayne needed to focus. Focus on the smell and the soothing harmony of water droplets.

The sudden sound of the door opening startled him.

“What, didn’t you expect us?” Hildegard asked.

At the frame there were both her and the Count. A kind of puzzling sight. Were they going to bath together? As far as Wayne knew, they never had been an item before. But at the same time Jack’s behaviour had become incomprehensible since the death of his husband, so there was no use in guessing.

“You just made a loud sound, ma’am.” Wayne replied.

She shrugged and entered the room leaving the Count standing at the door. She carefully examined the tub and she crouched to sniff it, looking pleased. She saw the collection soap bars and petals at the edge of the tub and picked one of the latter between her index and her thumb.

“Are these roses?”

Wayne hesitated for a moment.

He kept a humble tone to answer: “Actually… no, ma’am, but you were close. Those are carnations, they look quite similar.”

They didn’t for him, but he didn’t want to offend her.

“All flowers kinda look like roses if you squint enough.” she joked.

Despite the statement’s severe obtuseness, Wayne forced himself to answer with a soft chuckle.

Hildegard sat on the edge of the tub and said: “Well, if you’re done here I’d like some alone time. Your boss also needs to talk to you.”

“Oh, of course, ma’am.” he answered, bowing his head.

So that was the reason why Townsend accompanied her all the way there. Wayne felt his own hands get sweaty, as he raised and walked outside to join the Count, closing the door behind himself.

His lord gave him a stern look, as if he had been profoundly let down. He had seldom worn those kinds of expressions in front of Wayne in the past.

Oh, gods, it has to be something big and bad.

“So, boss, what did you want to talk about?” Wayne asked to break the silence.

The Count cleared his voice and said: “You dressed inquisitor Toller.”

It was not a question.

“Yes, my lord, I did.”

The count narrowed his eyes: “Then why didn’t you take the belt away?”

“What? What belt?” Wayne asked.

“He had my belt hidden beneath his tunic. He used it to attack Nesta.”

“Really?” Wayne brought a hand to his mouth in shock.

He imagined Isidore scared and chained up. Wild dogs bit when cornered. There was no reason that, given the opportunity, a human couldn’t do that too.

“I swear I didn’t see any belt.” he said: “I'm terribly sorry, I really don’t know how that could happen.”

His last sentence was a lie. He actually did know how: while Isidore was dressing up, Wayne was looking in the opposite direction.

But that knowledge raised a new question for him: if the inquisitor had gained the belt the day before, why didn’t he attack Wayne first? He was visibly an easier target than Nesta and also alone.

He shook off the thoughts.

“Your carelessness could have resulted into a pretty grim ending.” the Count scolded.

“I know.” Wayne said, apologetic: “Is Nesta alright?”

“Of course she is. You know she’s skilful. But that doesn’t change the fact that if I sent someone else, your neglectfulness could have been fatal.”

Wayne hugged his own arms. And then he eyed the Count’s lips. He usually knew how to make him forget of most problems, but the Count had seemed pretty avoidant during the last couple of days.

Maybe there was no harm in trying anyway.

“Is there some way I can make up for it?” he whispered, slowly reaching towards him.

The Count took a step back and Wayne dropped his hand.

“Wayne, get a fucking grip, I’m not going to fuck you tonight.” his lord growled.

He looked tired more than angry, the dark circles under his eyes worse than usual. A strange sight, considering that now he was clearly more a perpetrator than a victim.

“I’m sorry, Jack, I thought...” Wayne cut himself mid sentence, noticing he had been to familiar once again. He sighed and tried to continue: “My lord, I’m sorry for what I did, please, just tell me if I can do something for you.”

The Count’s frown deepened, but his stance seemed to relax a bit: “From now on I’ll pair you with one of the guards to make sure you do your job without causing problems.” he said: “Now go to the torture room and keep the prisoner alive like yesterday. I instructed Henry, and he should be waiting for you at the top of the stairs.”

Wayne clenched his fists. He should’ve expected it, but he recoiled at the thought of going downstairs again anyway.

“Yes, my lord.” he answered: “can I go sleep after I healed him?”

“Yes.” the Count said and turned to go towards his chambers without a second glance: “Goodnight, Wayne.”

“Goodnight, my lord.”

Wayne stopped to the housekeeper’s drawer to retrieve the keys and then walked to his destination.

When he was crossing the last corridor he immediately spotted the guard who was waiting for him while leaning to the wall, but his attention shifted to Nesta who had just came up the stairs.

“Nesta!” he called.

He didn’t know how that could be possible but he saw her jump after hearing his voice. She pretended like she didn’t hear him at first, glancing to the opposite direction.

“I think he’s calling you” the guard said, pointing to Wayne.

She turned first towards the man who just spoke, sulking. Then to Wayne, with a more defeated expression.

“Hi, Wayne...” she said, almost immediately dropping her gaze to the floor.

“Hi.”

“I didn’t keep my promise.” she added, speaking so fast Wayne struggled to catch her words.

“Wha- wait, you mean…”

She lowered her voice, whispering: “Toller is having a very tough time. And I think it might get worse if you don’t intervene.”

“Alright… thank you for telling me.” he answered matching her tone.

“Don’t thank me. He bled, I tried to clean his wounds…” she whispered.

“How exactly bad is it?”

“I think he can get by for the welts, but he has a fever and…” she stopped a moment, and then she spoke like she couldn’t hold the words any more: “I was the one to hurt him.”

She had guilt plastered over her face and Wayne wandered whether that was because she didn’t like bringing harm to helpless people or because she couldn’t bear to break her word.

“They made you do that.” he answered, to reassure her: “And I wasn’t expecting them to go easy on him. Just the fact that you thought about what we talked about is a good thing for me.”

She had been watching the floor the whole time but now their eyes met. Her lip twitched a little.

“Alright.” she said: “Er, Hildegard asked for me tonight so I need to go upstairs as soon as possible. I’m already late.”

“So we’re basically switching jobs.” Wayne remarked, trying to cheer her up “Go, now! Bye!”

“Yeah, goodbye, Wayne.”

As she was strutting away, he turned to the guard, Henry, who returned the gaze expectantly.

He was a sturdy man with a stubble and short, wavy hair and while Wayne had already seen him on the job they had never talked much before.

“Shall we go downstairs?” Wayne asked.

Despite Nesta’s warnings, when Wayne entered the torture room he struggled to keep down the dinner.

It reeked of blood and the red stains had increased since than last time. The biggest was a little pool in the centre of the room, followed by the one under Isidore’s unconscious body.

Wayne forced himself to advance and kneel next to him to examine the situation. His back showed signs of whipping, skin broken in straight lines crossing multiple times. By eye he had endured at least fourty hits, but Wayne didn’t stop to count them.

“My magic will not be enough.” he told Henry, suddenly getting up: “I need to go to Han’s laboratory.”

Henry, who was waiting by the door nodded and followed him when he got out.

They had hanged a torch on the wall to lit the corridor and the metal door to the laboratory was clearly visible.

Wayne used his bunch of keys to unlock all three of the locks that kept it sealed and slowly pushed it forward, raising a cloud of dust from the floor.

A faint scent of mint and alcohol came from inside.

Some time before, the laboratory had been lit by a lighting potion, but the room had been unused for months and the last one they placed there had been extinguished for a long time. It was pitch black inside.

“Henry, please, bring in the torch but be careful not to wave it around too much. I think there might be a lot of flammable things here.”

“On it.” he said, stepping away.

Just seconds after he was back with the light source, to lift the shadows from most of the room. It revealed a big metal table and a number of locked drawers and cabinets. Some of them were made of glass and behind them there were some visible items: tools, recipients of different sizes, jars full of unspecified organic ingredients that looked a bit too much like body parts.

Except for the dust, it all looked clean and tidy, with nothing particularly standing out of place. Wayne knew that Han always cleaned the room and secured his belongings as well as he could when he had to travel far from the island.

That didn’t save him from being found out and killed anyway, Wayne grimly thought.

He had been there only in rare occasions before, when he got severely sick or hurt.

He usually tried to avoid those kind of unpleasant memories, but he needed them now to recall where Han would put the healing potions he had prepared in advance.

He knew that they must have been secured inside one of the drawers, but most of their locks were too narrow for the keys Wayne had used to open the door.

He spotted one of the few exceptions in the room: a small wooden cabinet fixed on the wall, on the other side of the room. Wayne circled the table to get closer to it and tried his fortune inserting some of the keys in his bunch.

After a handful of unsuccessful tries he got the right one and managed to open it to reveal a few personal belongings: a compass, fancy gloves, a couple of towels, small wooden boxes… among the stuff there was also a new bunch of smaller keys.

As he picked them, Wayne heard Henry snort behind him: “New keys? Paranoid, wasn’t he?”

“He had his reasons.” Wayne shrugged, trying to mask his nervousness.

Toller was still in pain in the other room, he couldn’t afford to lose more time.

He focused on his memory again.

There had been a time where he got a flu so bad that he was unable to work for almost a whole week. Any other servant would've been fired for that, but, since Wayne was their darling, Jack and Han granted him a pause from work.

He pushed down the memories of his symptoms, he didn’t need to remember the excruciating headache, the asphyxiating cough, the vomit.

During the fourth day of his illness, Han entered his room and accompanied him downstairs, in his underground lab. Wayne’s memory of that moment was fuzzy but he clearly remembered his terror, thinking that Han would just make him another test subject because he wasn’t able to entertain them any more.

But he just laid Wayne on some bed… no, it was the table, he just covered it with blankets… and attended to him the whole day.

When he woke up Wayne had felt cared about. Safe. It wasn’t even the first time they had turned his life for the better.

And when he woke up he also saw Han putting back the medicine…

“There.” said Wayne, crouching in front of the drawer closest to the door.

“There what?” Henry asked behind him.

Wayne tried the new keys on it and opened it easily to find out a bunch of objects including gauze, clean towels, and a series of small glass vials of various colours. Every one of them had a paper plate on it specifying in big letters what they were for and in smaller letters what they contained. Most of them were based on Han’s mana mixed with water and medical herbs.

Wayne felt glad for his late life decision of learning how to read.

He grabbed the emerald one for pain, the lavender one to disinfect, and a crimson one for blood. He looked through the others, but they seemed mostly irrelevant and he didn’t want to lose any more time, so he just added gauze and towels to the bunch.

He locked everything up as he had found it and promptly returned to the prison room where Isidore was unknowingly waiting for his help.

Wayne knelt next to him.

“Hey, Isidore.” he softly said, trying not to startle him.

He didn’t respond, the only indication of life being the up and down motion of his back caused by his heavy breathing.

“Isidore, I’m going to use magic potions on you. I’m not… an expert, so I’ll just try my best. Alright?”

“You call him by his first name?” Henry asked.

Wayne ignored him, focused on catching any answer coming from his patient.

Nothing.

He would’ve liked Isidore to be awake to cure him, but it wasn’t like he could wait any longer.

Wayne grabbed the vial for pain and opened it. It smelled exactly like the other ones Han had given him during the years, so he figured it had to be fine.

He gently put a hand on Isidore’s sternum to slightly lift him up and noticed that despite the cold of the room his body was hot with fever.

He then tried to maneuver his head in order that he could be able to drink but the prisoner opened his eyes -even though he really didn’t seem lucid yet- and weakly tried fight him turning his head away.

“Please, Isidore, this will make the pain go away, I promise.” Wayne whispered.

The prisoner relaxed just a bit. He shut his eyes and let the liquid pour into his mouth. Reluctantly Wayne covered his lips with his hand so that Isidore couldn’t spill any medicine on the floor.

He swallowed.

“Great. Good. One is done. Next one’s the disinfectant.” Wayne remarked, to keep track of his own actions.

He grabbed the lavender vial, knowing that it had to be used before the magic healing but not really knowing why. He poured some on one of the towels and pressed it on Isidore’s back.

When he answered with one sharp scream of pain, Wayne instinctively retracted the towel, disconcerted.

“It’s normal.” Henry commented.

“What?”

“Cuts burn when you disinfect them.” he said.

“I… I know, I just wasn’t expecting him to be so loud about it.”

He pressed the towel again, smearing the potion on Isidore’s back, gaining more pained whimpers.

“It’s alright, I’m just trying to help you.” Wayne repeated multiple times, to reassure him.

Gradually Isidore became quieter and after a while he fell silent again.

“Henry, could you help me lift him up by his armpits, so I can cover the wounds?”

“On it.”

He lifted Isidore like a feather, seemingly unbothered by his bad conditions, while Wayne used the gauze to bandage Isidore’s torso. When he was finished, he took the opportunity to make Isidore drink the last potion for blood loss and then he let Henry lay the man down like before.

Wayne felt already so tired, but he knew he wasn’t finished yet. He grabbed the catalyst from his pocket and rested his hand on Isidore’s arm.

He took a deep inhale.

To Wayne, magic healing was like running a very long distance without being properly trained for it. He could sprint for thirty seconds, he could walk for hours, but he usually preferred staying in the palace to relax. A long, prolonged effort would easily bring him to exhaustion.

He had to do it though, for the sake of the unconscious man in front of him.

To think that he had been the one to kill the man that had saved Wayne’s life at least twice.

He exhaled as he let the mana flow out, connecting with the catalyst and starting the process of rebuilding the broken parts of Isidore’s body.

Wayne already knew that he would’ve had to stay there much longer than what he planned.

Chapter Text

Nesta quickly washed herself with the cold water of a bucket and after she was finished she put her bloody clothes to soak too. The transparent liquid turned pink. Maybe her tunic would gain new permanent stains, but it wasn’t her problem.

She dressed with new clothes, the nicest she could find, even if she didn’t put much thought about it. She always looked like a peasant next to anyone anyway.

She opted for some dark tights and a plain greyish-white tunic on top. The latter was kind of itchy, so she had never worn it much, but that meant that it would’ve looked cleaner and newer than the rest. Or at least she hoped so.

She placed the bucket with her old clothes outside the door for the other servants to gather.

And she was done. Quickest preparations ever.

She used a towel to pat her head and then slid it on her shoulders to avoid wetting her clothes.

It had been a very tough day and before heading towards Hildegard’s room she had to wait for the air to dry her completely, so she thought she could as well concede herself just a couple of minutes to pause. She sat on the bed.

Her room was bare and kind of unpleasant to look at, with some visible cracks on the wall and its very old furniture consisting in just a bed, a drawer and a small, almost empty closet. But she didn’t mind. There weren’t many other servants with the luxury of privacy and she came there only to sleep most of the time anyway.

She passed a hand through her own black hair finding them still cool and wet. She kept it short for practicality, most of the mornings not even bothering to brush it.

She wondered whether Hildegard expected her to groom more than usual for the occasion. If that was true, Nesta would’ve gladly avoided it just to subtly irritate her.

She clenched her fists fantasizing about possible ways she could defy her master -suffocating her that same night, in physical combat the day after, waiting for the next dinner to actually grab a knife and put an end to her life for good-. She knew all too well that they all would be futile.

Hildegard was able to make her feel both the most violent hatred and a supreme devotion.

Nesta felt uneasy every time her master was near but at the same time she didn’t want her to disappear. She needed her presence. She needed a guide, someone to look up to, someone who knew her deeply like she did. Someone who wanted her too.

However twisted their relationship might be.

And Nesta didn’t have any other options. All the people closest to her had disappeared, except for Hildegard. Because of Hildegard.

Linnea too.

Her eyes dropped to the drawer beside the bed.

She opened it.

Inside there was the most valuable and elaborate object of the entire room: a jade comb, with the incision of a flower on it. An oleander.

She didn’t use it to comb her hair, she just cradled it between her hands, holding it like a relic.

It wasn’t hers. She received it several years before then, when Han was still alive and Townsend wasn’t Count yet. It was a gift.

Linnea’s gift.

Nesta saw her for the first time in one of the last cities they raided. Linnea had been taken to work as a prostitute, joining Wayne among the others, keeping a subtle grace and lively eyes that set her apart from other more weary looking servants and soldiers, the ones like Nesta.

At the time she was still a test subject for Han, but she dedicated most of her hours to Hildegard, for both training and company. After all, her master had taken a liking to Nesta since the first time she saw her slaughtering enemies with her unnatural strength.

Nesta’s life was simple and her human interactions even simpler: she always did what the ones above her wanted.

Sometimes she glanced at the prostitutes, at Wayne and Linnea, pondering that their lives were not so different from hers after all. Their body didn’t really feel like it belonged to them.

She fantasized many times about reaching towards them, about speaking to them. But she never dared. She was aware of her menacing build and reputation and it wasn’t like she had anything meaningful to say.

So she could hardly believe it, when it was Linnea the one to start the conversation first.

That cool spring morning they were both standing outside of Han’s Lab, both needing non urgent medical care. The lab was temporarily closed because Han’s assistant had made a mess with the potions and was still trying to fix the problem.

Linnea leaned to the wall, her long hair cascading over her torso.

“It should be time for columbine flowers to bloom.” she said, her gaze distant, to the hills in the horizon: “Do you have a favourite flower?”

It took a while for Nesta to understand that the other woman was talking to her. It felt like it had been ages since someone approached her so naturally, with no ulterior motives or anxiety involved.

“I don’t know much about flowers, but most of them are beautiful. It would be hard to choose one.” she answered, truthfully.

“I understand, there are so many good picks. But I’m sure about mine: it’s oleander.”

Nesta recognized the name. Oleanders grew in her home town, or at least they did before the mercenaries ransacked it and took her away with them.

“Isn’t oleander a poisonous plant?”

“It is, but there’s a beauty in something that despite looking so helpless, can still fend for itself somehow.”

Nesta frowned not really grasping the real meaning of what she said. It was only days after that she understood that maybe Linnea was subtly talking about them both. Telling her that they ought to be like oleanders, keeping just enough poison inside to fight back.

After that time, when Nesta looked for her from afar, their eyes began to meet. A knowing glance, speaking more than words.

One day, after training, when Nesta was headed to the river to wash alone, Linnea interjected her and asked: “When can we meet again?”

They did it always in secret and when Hildegard was away. It didn’t happen often. But having someone just talking to her and enjoying her company was like taking a breath of fresh air after almost drowning.

They spoke about trivialities: colours, plants’ names, clouds’ shapes. A couple of times they even kissed. It came naturally to them and Nesta didn’t feel pressured to contribute like she did with Hildegard.

For once Nesta could feel like she was laying on grass instead of thorns.

She never got to know Linnea deeply though. She never had the time.

It had been less than three months when Hildegard found out about them. And so she took care of Linnea.

If Wayne was right, she sold her in an auction.

And Nesta never saw her again.

The comb in her hands was a memento, something that made her remember Hildegard’s true colours. She was the best she could get, yes, but Nesta could still try not to give in completely, she could still refuse to forgive. That could be her own kind of oleander poison.

She heard the sound of a turning key and swiftly hid the comb under the pillow.

“Nesta.” Hildegard’s voice called.

“Ma’am” she answered, turning to face her.

At the door there were both her and a servant with keys in her hand.

“You’re late.” Hildegard scolded.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I was waiting for my hair to dry.”

“I don’t care about that. I had to ask the servants to bring me to you.” she said as she stepped in.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am.” Nesta replied. She mechanically took a military stance, pushing away the will to shout the other woman to get out.

“I wanted to visit your room but… gods, it’s hideous.” Hildegard remarked looking around: “Come on, let’s go to mine. I don’t want to lay on an old bed if I have better options.”

Nesta’s legs moved automatically to follow her master and after she exited, she saw the servant close the door and grab the bucket of dirty clothes, probably to bring them to the laundry. She gasped at the sight of the blood staining the water.

Nesta wandered what it had to be like, living an existence where violence was something so small and far away to be startled by dirty clothes.

Chapter Text

During the whole path Hildegard didn’t speak and Nesta couldn’t focus on anything but the blood pumping in her ears.

They reached the guest room and Hildegard pushed the door open revealing a large space delimited by soothing green walls, just like the ones in the living room.

Nesta immediately spotted on the right side of the room the large canopy bed and she felt her own face heat in anticipation of what was coming.

She heard Hildegard close the door behind them and then the soft click of a lock.

A moment after her master pushed her against the wall and pulled her down by the tunic, making their faces meet with a kiss.

Her lips were as soft as ever and it had been so long since Nesta received a touch that was so eager, so loving. She felt like melting.

Weak.

She was so weak. But for once she was at the receiving end of something that wasn’t exclusively bad. For once she wasn’t focused on violence, for once she could feel cherished, adored. For once it felt like their relationship wasn’t one sided.

She couldn’t wish for anyone else after all. She didn’t deserve love nor peace, so at least she could settle for an improper, almost ridicule imitation of them.

It was a sort of reward for everything she had been made to endure.

When Nesta forced herself to shut her brain and enjoy the moment, she disappointingly discovered that it was easy. Hildegard’s tongue tasted as sweet as honey, and her scent was flowery. Calming.

Unusual for her.

Hildegard slowly retreated from the kiss to whisper: “I missed you.”

Her lips were still brushing Nesta’s skin when she asked: “Did you too?”

No. Yes. What does she care, if she can have me either way?

“It’s alright, you don’t need to answer.” Hildegard said, lowering her hands to grip Nesta’s hips: “Your longing expression tells me you did, at least a bit.”

Her hands slipped inside Nesta’s tunic and caressed her back, feeling every muscle, every scar.

“You’re not mad at me, right?” she asked.

The question surprised Nesta. She was, actually, and she had all the reason to be. But at the same time she knew that that wasn’t what Hildegard wanted to hear.

“Why should I?” she cautiously answered.

“I didn’t bring you with me. I left you behind with Han and Townsend.” her hands wandered up and down in a movement so delicate that Nesta could hardly believe was coming from her: “We see each other only about once a year…”

Even less. Only in the rare occasions Hildegard decided to take a long pause from work.

“…You must feel so lost. I’m horribly neglecting you, am I not?”

“I’m fine with that.” Nesta said.

“Oh, are you really?”

Nesta took a moment to considerate what to answer: “You can do whatever you want to me, I’m fine with that, but…”

Hildegard’s hands found their way to Nesta’s chest, squeezing her breasts, giving her goosebumps: “But?”

“I’d just… I’d like to know the reason why you left me here.”

“Sweetie.”

Hildegard leant closer pressing her body against Nesta’s.

“The reason is that you’d distract me too much. I’d spend every day playing with you, my pet. I’m getting older and I’m also getting weaker with my impulses.”

Nesta hated herself for the little smile that grazed her lips because what Hildegard said made her feel special.

Hildegard’s hand found Nesta’s and their fingers tangled. Her master took a step back, towards the bed and gently pulled her pet in the same direction.

Her master helped her out of the tights, leaving her legs completely bared. Her hand reached Nesta’s labia and started fondling them with ease, finding them already slick.

Nesta was seeing stars. With her eyes rolled back, she tried to hold back moans.

“You can make sounds for me, sweetie, go ahead.”

Nesta let go and the noise of wet slapping was overshadowed by her voice.

Hildegard slid a couple of fingers inside her while her other hand drew small circles around her clit. Nesta could feel herself start clenching more and more, her hands gripping the white sheets of the bed. It didn’t take long for her to reach the climax.

With it some of the shame she left behind came back too.

“Good girl, you’re such a good girl” Hildegard murmured repeatedly.

Her hand slid out and she wiped her fingers on the sheets.

“Did you like it, Sweetie?”

“Yes…” Nesta answered, still feeling dazed.

“Then take off your tunic.”

Sluggishly, Nesta obeyed, getting totally naked. Hildegard’s eyes looked like they were eating her alive.

“Kneel beside the bed and bend forward.”

Nesta obeyed again. She felt a hand caressing her back.

“You have so many beautiful scars. I think some of these belong to me too.”

“They do.”

They came from all the belting and whipping sessions Nesta had gone through in the past years.

The hand on her back left and Nesta heard Hildegard pacing through the room, opening drawers.

“The servants have been very kind to indulge in my requests for tonight and now we have something more to play with than just our hands. Arms behind your back.”

Nesta obeyed. Some kind of ropes bound her wrists together. Nesta bit her lip, embarrassed by the fact that she was getting wet again.

She wanted more. She wanted to be used more, to be a toy so alluring that it could distract even the same person who tried to discard it.

“Lay supine on the bed.” Hildegard ordered.

Nesta used her legs to pull herself up and move on the white sheets, her arms pressed under her body.

Hildegard crawled next to her and looked at her from above, with a malicious grin on her lips.

She was still almost completely dressed, but started unbuckling her belt and getting rid of her own pants.

She straddled her, moving forward until Nesta could recognize the familiar sight of her cunt in front of her face.

“Can you use your tongue for me, sweetie?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good girl.”

Hildegard lowered her groin on Nesta’s face and everything became muffled by the tights that were squeezing her head and covering her ears.

She was a good girl.

She was a pet worth keeping.

This was the closest thing to love she could ever get.

Chapter Text

Wayne had been knelt beside Isidore for a time so long that his knees hurt almost as much as they did when he was a beginner in the brothel. His right hand was still gripping the catalyst, while his left was placed on Isidore’s shoulder to ease the connection between Wayne’s mana and the wounded man’s body.

Once again. This time it’ll work better.

The torture room’s door clicked open to reveal Nesta behind, one hand on the handle, the other holding a basket. She glanced first at Henry, who was standing next to the entrance, then at the corner, where she spotted both Isidore and Wayne.

“Wayne? What are you doing still here?” she asked.

He didn’t reply, didn’t even greet her, still focused on the spell he was trying to cast.

“He’s being delusional.” Henry answered.

“What do you mean?”

“He has been attending to him he whole night, but the prisoner’s still down. Wayne’s casted so many spells that he even fainted a couple of times because of mana exhaustion.”

“And you didn’t call for help?” she asked Henry.

“From where I come from, mana exhaustion is cured by sleeping. I let him rest on the floor for a while.”

Wayne felt his own hands start trembling, his vision blurring. He sighed and dropped the catalyst in his pocket.

“He’s right, I should really go to sleep.” he confirmed, defeated.

He rested his back on the wall so finally the weight was lift from his knees. When he turned to Nesta he noticed her eyes widen at the sight of his face.

He already knew it had to appear horrible with all that lack of rest and skincare. He probably looked worn out. Or worse. Old.

He didn’t want to hear anyone observing that out lout, so he asked about something different: “What time is it?”

“It’s morning.” Nesta said: “Have you been here all night?”

“I guess so. I’m trying to keep the prisoner alive, but he keeps making my task harder.”

“What happened?”

“I gave him some potions from Han’s laboratory, but he vomited…”

Nesta looked around, but before she could comment, Henry stated: “And he made me clean.”

“Thank you again, Henry.” Wayne politely replied, ignoring his own growing irritation: “As I was saying, he threw up, so I don’t know how effective the potions actually were. I had to use my magic to compensate.”

Nesta looked at the still unconscious Isidore and her expression twisted with worry: “He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning, so I brought some food and water. Do you think we can feed him?”

“Look at him, he doesn’t even know where he is.” Wayne said, gesturing towards the prisoner in frustration: “Healing magic could help me but I’m not good enough.”

Nesta took a step towards them, slightly raising her hand: “Wayne, you should stop. You can’t get hurt yourself to save him, the Count might get angry at you.”

“I don’t think I’m his priority any more.” Wayne bitterly replied.

Nesta and even Henry raised their eyebrows in surprise.

What a stupid thing to say, Wayne thought. If he had properly rested he would've been smarter and kept that for himself.

He was quick to change the subject: “I can’t deal with this mess alone. I need to talk to Jack.”

Nesta frowned, probably not recognizing the name right away: “You mean the Count?”

“Yes.” Wayne said.

He raised to his feet and wiped his hands on his own tunic.

Wayne’s grip on Jack was getting weaker, but he could approach the problem from a different angle. Lately the Count had been taking advice from Hildegard and if there was someone in the palace who could influence her…

Wayne turned to Nesta: “Would you come with me? Back me up on this?”

“I-I, uh…” the woman looked unsure: “What use could I be?”

“Just you agreeing with what I say should be enough.”

Nesta’s fingers tightened around the basket.

“Alright, I can come.” she said: “Will Toller be okay?”

Wayne took one last glance at Isidore.

The bandages on his back were stained in red, and he was frowning, showing that he was still in pain. But at least his breath was even now.

“I mean, there’s no one who can help him now. Not even me.” he said: “I think we can be more useful if we ask for backup. Let’s go upstairs.”

“Fucking finally,” Henry exclaimed: “my shift is over.”

Wayne shot him a deadly look before exiting the room.

Chapter Text

When Wayne and Nesta arrived upstairs they discovered that the Count and Hildegard were having breakfast and were planning to go hunting again, later.

They sent a messenger in the dining room, requesting a meeting with them both regarding the prisoner’s health. The same messenger came back minutes after, telling them to wait for the Count in the green room.

And so they did.

Wayne reached one of the armchairs and collapsed on it, gladly feeling with his hands the soft texture of the cushions under him.

He bit the interior of his cheek to avoid falling asleep, despite the burning of his eyes and the dizziness of his thoughts. It wasn’t the first time he had been awake almost all night, but it was the first in which he felt so fatigued and close to pass out again because of magic.

Nesta was still standing with a straight back and her eyes lingered on him with a mild curiosity.

“What?” he asked.

Her eyes darted away: “Nothing.”

He shrugged and even if Nesta had stopped looking at him, he kept staring back at her, suddenly noticing something unusual.

There were love bites on her neck and arms.

She and Hildegard definitely did fuck the night before.

He wondered about the nature of the two women’s relationship, unsure if he was able to grasp it.

Hildegard treated Nesta as something lesser, as someone she could puppet, belittle and manipulate.

That wasn’t a bad thing per se. Wayne had a kind of similar relationship with the Count, after all. But the big discriminating factor was that he chose to leave behind the brothel to reach brighter horizons, he chose that kind of life for himself.

Nesta didn’t.

He wasn’t sure if Nesta was as glad as he was for her life as a servant.

But the night before she seemed reluctant to dive deeply into that topic and if she wasn’t willing to acknowledge potential problems, Wayne certainly wasn’t going to force her to.

Everything was fine, after all.

The door finally opened and the two tall figures appeared at the entrance making their way into the room. Wayne stood up and bowed his head and Nesta did the same.

“I hope you have a good reason to delay our hunt, Wayne.” the Count said.

He strode and settled on the armchair in front of him, while Hildegard placed on the sofa and signalled Nesta to come closer.

“I have, my Lord.” Wayne replied, sitting again.

“Come on, I’m all ears.”

“You said that you want to keep the prisoner alive, but he is already in critical condition.” he explained, slightly lowering his head to show deference: “I fear that I’m not qualified to be his healer.”

“You called us for this trifle?” Hildegard croaked a small laugh and said: “Sorry, sorry, I tend to forget that you’re dumber than you seem.”

Wayne kept his head low, suppressing in his mouth all the witty, petty replies coming to his mind.

The woman relaxed her arms on the seatback and continued speaking with the most condescending tone known to man: “The solution is incredibly easy, Wayne: just leave the task to a more competent mage.”

That was a stupid suggestion. She had to know that too, saying it only to make him look stupid: Wayne couldn’t take that kind of decision without consulting the Count first and even if he could, there was a simpler, bigger reason why doing it wasn’t possible.

It would've been impolite of Wayne to explain that out loud, when his lord could do that for him. But the Count he remained silent instead.

Hildegard was evidently impatient to hear his opinion too, because she incited: “Am I right, Townsend?”

The Count raised his head towards her, but his eyes darted from left to right as if he was trying to find a good enough response.

“I don’t have any other mages here.” he finally admitted.

“… You’re joking, right?”

He didn’t answer, just impassibly sustaining her gaze.

“You’re joking.” Hildegard repeated: “I know for sure that beside Han you had brought here at least three other mages.”

“They don’t work in the palace any more.”

“What? Why?”

He turned his head to the side and for a moment Wayne saw in his profile a glimpse of the old Jack, the one who was both understanding and understandable for him.

He looked peevish, like he always did when he was upset.

Hildegard shifted position on the sofa, taking a more austere pose, with her back straight and her hands on her tights.

“Townsend? Answer me.”

He threw a fist on the armrest and snapped: “They couldn’t carry on Han’s work, alright!? They all weren’t worthy of occupying his space!”

Hildegard flinched, but returned composed a moment after: “Woah, calm down. Were are they now?”

“I sent them to kidnap Toller as their last job. They’re not working for me any more.”

“Can’t we get them back?”

“No. I won’t replace him so easily.” Jack ended the phrase with a sigh, closing his eyes.

The room fell silent and Hildegard pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration.

Funny, Wayne thought, it was so funny how the day before she called Jack romantic for torturing his husband’s killer but now she despised it when the same kind of romanticism brought him to act in an equally irrational way.

She looked like she was about to insult him, so Wayne decided to speak before she could: “It doesn’t need to be his replacement, but we need to have someone with specific medical knowledge here. What would we do if you got sick? I could hardly serve as a nurse.”

“If I get sick I’ll handle myself!” Jack growled.

“You are not capable of doing that” Hildegard said with venom: “Besides, if I get sick, I want to have a professional attending to me, not any illiterate whores. You need to get over it and find a new mage.”

“Be fucking careful about what you say” Jack hissed.

His gaze was vicious, sharp and Hildegard matched it with the same intensity. Wayne understood that they were about to fight, physically fight, so he tried to glance at Nesta for help.

She didn’t notice him, her pose more tense than usual and her eyes darting from one master to another unsure on who to focus on.

Maybe she couldn’t react now, but Wayne could still try to prevent a disaster using his words.

“My Lord,” he interjected: “Are you sure there is no one who could fill the role? Not even one of his apprentices?”

The Count turned to him, redirecting the tension between him and his guest towards his servant.

“The last ones were all crap, Wayne,” he answered, irritated: “but…”

He frowned then, thoughtfully looking at the floor: “… Maybe there was one.”

“Who?” Hildegard inquired, impatient.

The Count narrowed his eyes, but continued: “…Years ago, Han told me that he had in mind one assistant to carry on his legacy. The only one he thought really worthy of praise. His name was Manuel Clerk.”

Wayne remembered him. He had worked for Han about eight or seven years prior.

“Why are you talking about him in the past? Is he dead too?” Hildegard asked.

“I don’t know if he’s dead. And I advise you to stop reminding me about my husband’s demise, Hildegard. This is my last warning.”

She clenched her jaw, visibly frustrated but unwilling to complain more.

The Count’s lips tensed in something that couldn’t quite be called a smile and then he continued the explanation: “I was talking about him in the past, because he moved away a long time ago, when we dismantled the mercenary army. I don’t know where he is, but I know that Han put some sort of magic mark on him. He kept a compass in his laboratory to always know where to look if he ever needed to find him. That could help us track him down.”

“My lord,” Wayne intervened: “I’m sorry for interrupting, but don’t magic marks disappear when the person who cast them… doesn’t hold on to their magic any more?”

“Not always.”

Every member of the room turned towards Nesta, who’d just spoken.

How comes that she know more about magic than me? Wayne thought. Then, he felt stupid. In that room she was certainly the one who spent most time with Han in the lab, probably hearing him talk about his projects every day.

“I was there when he put the mark on his assistant Manuel.” she explained.

Hildegard raised an eyebrow: “Come on Nesta, just tell us what you know.”

Nesta nodded: “Han told us that marks need a constant consumption of mana to remain active and the source is almost always the mage who casts the spell. But at the time he was experimenting on a way to transfer the source from the caster to someone else.”

“Wait, you mean that that the mana source isn’t Han any more?” Wayne asked.

“He ensured that at the time of his death, the link between the compass and the magical mark would be kept alive by Manuel’s magic, instead of his. If he’s alive, the compass should still be working.”

“That’s pretty convenient.” Hildegard commented: “Why didn’t he do it with everyone?”

“I got the impression that it might have been a very demanding spell and it wasn’t worth to give up part of his mana for anyone. Manuel was…”

The count ended the sentence: “Dear to him.”

Wayne was sure that Han didn’t give Manuel that magical mark out the love of his heart. But he could have done that out of some other kind of strong feeling.

“Will he be willing to work for us?” Wayne asked.

“He will, or else we’ll persuade him. We’ll figure it out.” Hildegard answered. Then, turning to the Count, said: “So, you consider him good enough to take on Han’s work.”

He begrudgingly nodded: “If there has to be someone, it has to be him.”

“Great. We need him both for safety and for pleasure, damn, if the prisoner keeps being so frail Han’s assistant will have to work a lot.” Hildegard followed the statement with a giggle, before continuing: “We’ll bring him here. Who wants to go to an expedition with me?”

The Count widened his eyes: “Hildegard, you want to personally go?”

“Yes. I’ll extend the duration of my vacation here, if it’s not a problem to you.”

“Are you sure? It might take months and I invited you here to relax.”

“As I said before, I am a woman of action. Besides, travelling to bring here old Han’s apprentice sounds really fun to me.”

The Count lowered his head, seemingly deep in thought.

“If you lend me Nesta I can bring some of my travelling companions.” Hildegard proposed.

He sighed: “Deal. I’ll come with you too.”

Then he turned to face forward and his eyes met Wayne’s.

“My Lord?”

“We will be out, but you’ll stay in the palace and take care of Toller. I’ll instruct the guards to help you with the surveillance and possible punishments.”

Punishments? Wasn’t it enough? Of course not. Wayne would've had to use his magic until passing out again and again and Isidore would’ve been in an even worse situation until a real mage came into the palace.

He dug his nails into the soft cushions of the armchair. He had to do something to make it better, anything.

“My Lord, I have a request.” he said.

“What is it?”

“The prisoner is very ill and he has a bad fever now. If we don’t want it to degenerate quickly he needs to sleep in a real bed, with real blankets.”

The count frowned, studying Wayne’s expression, as if he was trying to take a glimpse of something beneath the surface.

“Request conceded. While I’m gone he will take your bed.”

“Thanks, my lord” Wayne said, almost unbelieving of how easy it had been: “but where will I sleep?”

“You can either find someone who wants you in their bed or sleep on the floor. Or sleep with him for all I care.”

Wayne felt his own skin crawl as he watched the Count carelessly stand up.

“I’m sorry Hildegard. I guess our hunt is cancelled for today.” he commented.

“Don’t worry, I’m packing for a real field trip! When will we leave?”

“Since I see you’re so eager, if we’re fast enough we can go even this afternoon.”

“Oh, I’ll be fast for sure. I can’t wait to find him.”

“I’ll grab the compass then.” the Count said.

He quickly glanced at Wayne, before dropping his gaze to the floor once more.

“My Lord, do you need…”

“No, Wayne, I’m fine. I’ll go alone.”

Wayne watched both the Count and his guest exit the room, heading to opposite directions.

And he realized a couple of things.

The first was that Jack was probably going to enter Han’s lab for the first time since his death.

The second was that Wayne had never seen his lord in a truly vulnerable state.

He’d seen him in most variations of horny, happy or angry, he’d seen him tired.

Even physically wound.

But never crying. Maybe some watery eyes and shaky voice after his husband’s death at most, but the Count had been determined to never let anyone near enough to be able to acknowledge his whole authentic spectrum of emotion.

To people outside he looked tough, fearless and cruel.

And it was easy to fall for that mask even for those who were closer to him.

Even for Wayne, sometimes. But he knew Townsend could cry. Although he’d never seen him, he’d heard him, outside of his tent with only Han inside or even more recently, outside of his door.

Alone.

Jack was going to cry alone in that lab.

Wayne clenched his fists, not really knowing what to do with that thought.

If only Jack could let his rage out in some better ways than constantly stomping on other people’s heads, if only-

Stop thinking. Everything is fine. You’re fine.

It’s thanks to him if you’re fine.

There were only him and Nesta left in the green room.

“Sorry. I would've liked to agree more with you but I didn’t know when to talk.” she said.

“Oh. It’s alright, things kind of worked out in the end, right?”

“Is Toller really risking his life?” she whispered. Her tone betrayed a deep guilt in her.

“Don’t worry” Wayne replied: “I’ll do my best to handle him. Even if I’m not as good at this as Han or Manuel, I’m still a bit useful.”

She nodded, then suddenly asked: “Did you already made him move the muscles of his back?”

“What? No I didn’t, why?”

“He’s been cut, so the scar tissue could make him lose a bit of mobility. You can prevent that if you encourage him to stretch a bit.”

Wayne didn’t need to ask how she knew that information. Either Han told her so or it had been useful to her in the past.

“Thank you for the advice. You’re pretty smart.”

“I’m really not.” she said.

“Yeah, I kind of feel the same way about me. But if we’re still standing, this has to mean something.”

The faintest of smiles grazed the woman’s lips.

“I guess I gotta go, wouldn’t want to be late like yesterday.” she said. Then added: “Try to rest a bit.”

“I will.”

Chapter Text

Wayne went to his room and crawled under the blankets, not even daring to take a single glance at the silver mirror in the corner. He peeled away his clothes and immediately fell asleep.

The warm light of the afternoon was already enveloping the room, when he woke up. Outside, birds were tunefully chirping.

But it was a knocking sound at the door that caught all of Wayne’s attention.

“I’m coming!” he said, loud enough to be heard: “I just need to get dressed…”

He raised from the bed completely naked to pick the clothes that were still scattered under the blankets and the reflection of the sun through the mirror blinded him for a second. He was halfway through putting on his white pantaloons when the door opened, reminding him that he’d been too tired to even think about locking it before.

Behind the frame there was the Count, with seemingly no one else around. He wore a big fur cloak wrapped atop of one of his old mercenary leather armours. His expression was relaxed, but his eyes were a little redder than usual.

Wayne already knew why, but he knew better than inquiring about it.

“Eager to appreciate my naked body, I see.” he teased with a smile.

The Count didn’t reciprocate it.

“Were you sleeping?” he asked instead.

“Yes, my Lord.”

Since his lord didn’t bother to close the door or move, Wayne pulled the pantaloons all the way up. He then proceeded sliding into the soft fabric of his shirt.

He had done the reverse so many times times that the situation bordered onirony. The count stood in front of him silent and lost in thought, seemingly uninterested in the half-naked body of the man he had consistently been fucking for the past decade.

If he wasn’t there to get laid, then…

“Why are you here?” Wayne asked.

The Count blinked a couple of times before meeting his gaze again.

“We’re about to go.” he answered: “I wanted to personally give you guidelines on what to do in the meanwhile.”

“Alright, tell me.”

As Wayne finished dressing, the Count briefly explained the details of what were his tasks, who to report to, when he would've had to expect letters and even the names of the guards that would've helped him. Amongst them, to Wayne’s disdain, there was Henry too.

“It’s crucial that you don’t give the prisoner any more comfort than necessary.” the Count explained: “I know that you despise blood and real torture, so you won’t be in charge of that, but I need you to let the guards do their jobs, which will include keeping him in line.”

Wayne suddenly stiffened: “What do you mean? Don’t I already do that?”

Isn’t that the reason why I’m needed as a healer?

“You tend to go too soft on him, Wayne. He’s not your client. You don’t need to make him feel good…”

“I wasn’t planning on raping him!” Wayne snapped before he could stop himself.

He covered his mouth with a hand and took a shy glance to the Count. He had raised his eyebrows but his expression was otherwise unchanged.

“I know.” he flatly commented: “I don’t think you would be capable of doing that. I’m talking about things like you letting him keep my belt. You should never lower your guard around him even if he looks weak, even if he looks hopeless.”

Wayne gripped the bedsheets.

“It know it might look hard,” the Count’s words were bathed in acid: “But remember that he’s a monster. He doesn’t deserve to be treated with respect and care.”

Wayne nodded, despite the word monster soundingpretty misplaced in his ears.

“Stay sharp, Wayne. If your care leads to carelessness, then you’ll end up dead. And…”

The Count’s gaze was intense, his icy eyes piercing Wayne with an unexpected warmth in them.

“…I would be very pissed off if that happened.” he said, finally taking a step inside the room, closing the door behind or at least trying to do that while his furry cloak got caught between the door leaf and the jamb.

Wayne took a moment to understand what the Count had just said. No, not the Count, Jack. Jack didn’t want him to die. Jack cared about him.

How long had it been since he felt so close? Wayne knew it had to be just two or three days, but it looked like an eternity nonetheless. Jack still wanted him around, how could Wayne ever doubt that?

He relaxed his pose, noticing only then that his hands were still gripping the sheets, and warmly smiled at the thought that he wasn’t obsolete yet.

He jumped off the bed andslowly walkedtowards to his lord, saying: “Don’t worry,dear, I’ll be attentive.”

The Count let him get near, until their chests were softly brushing against each other. He leaned down to give Wayne a small kiss on his forehead, spreading a warm feeling through all of his body.

“Don’t you dare to do anything stupid while I’m out.” the Count uttered.

Wayne understood that it was his clumsy way to tell him to take care and his smile grew wider as he lightly touched the Count’s chest plate.

“I’ll take your advice.” he answered: “And you should look after yourself too!”

“I’ve been a mercenary for a long time, I think I can handle myself.”

“I know. You’re still one of the strongest men I know…”

Wayne’s hands slowly raised to caress his neck, his chin, reaching for his cheek, gently pulling Jack’s face closer to his…

But the Count took a step back and the door reopened with the motion.

Wayne immediately retracted his hands, apologetic. The Count didn’t seem mad at him, but he avoided his gaze: “Goodbye, Wayne, I’ll write you letters” he said.

He didn’t kiss Wayne. He just walked away as the warmth of the sunlight slowly clouded over into gray.

But Wayne wasn’t upset. He’d just had the proof that everything was fine.

“He’s really out of it, isn’t he?”

Cecilia and Alvaro, two of the guards assigned to help Wayne, roamed around his room carrying a plank on top of which Isidore laid on his stomach. He was conscious now, but just barely, occasionally muttering some half-baked sentences that Wayne guessed might be pleas to be left alone. He forced himself to ignore him the whole way.

Not knowing where else to put him, they placed the plank on the floor and while Wayne was changing the sheets they cut the ropes that bound the prisoner. They had to tie him to the plank to prevent him from falling, more than anything else; he certainly didn’t look like someone who could resist in that state.

“I think I used too many potions yesterday. That might have made it worse.” Wayne confessed.

“Shouldn’t you be the expert?” Alvaro made a disappointed noise: “Well, I don’t understand shit about magic, so I shouldn’t speak either.”

Right, finally someone who gets it, Wayne wanted to say but he just tapped the bed signalling them to move Isidore there.

As soon as they put their hands on him the prisoner whined and feebly struggled to no avail, relaxing only when his chest touched the cool fabric of the new sheets.

Wayne had chosen the pastel blue ones, finding that colour to be the most soothing among the other reds and pinks he usually opted for himself.

He placed a chair beside the bed, sat and gripped his catalyst with one hand and Isidore’s arm with the other in the same way he did that morning.

“I’ll try to heal him again,” he told the guards: “you can stand outside. Leave the door open if you need to.”

He had regained some mana while sleeping, enough to last for several minutes before starting to feel his vision wavering again. He stopped. Fainting one more time would be no use to anyone, after all.

Isidore had his eyes closed and for the first time since that night he looked like he was sleeping peacefully, not frowning or trembling or whimpering.

Wayne looked out the door to call the guards in again.

“I’d like check the welts on his back. Could you help me?”

He instructed Cecilia to hold him extremely gently as he removed the bandages revealing a back thick with cuts that were already rebuilding with connective tissue. His inexperienced magic had been useful after all!

Cecilia inspected the prisoner, distrust on her face.

“He’s getting better. I think it’s time to cuff him again.”

“I don’t think there’s the need to…” Wayne started. But didn’t finished the sentence, because they would've done it anyway.

The bedposts were perfect to be wrapped by chains -Wayne already tested that many times for recreational purposes- and Cecilia closed a handcuff around both of Isidore’s Wrists, letting him enough chain length to stand up from the bed, but not enough to walk around the room and reach the drawers.

By the time they were finished, the birds outside had stopped chirping, already asleep in their nest.

And Wayne was starving.

“I need to grab some food.” he announced: “I’ll leave him to you, alright?”

“Hey, isn’t this your bed?” Cecilia asked, pointing at the one occupied by Isidore.

“Yes.”

“Where will you sleep?”

Wayne checked her out. She looked a handful of years younger than him, her body athletic and the skin on her face flawless, without scars nor wrinkles.

He swallowed his envy and decided to take his chance.

“If you want, I could warm your bed.” he answered with a sly smile, keeping a playful tone.

Her eyes darted to Alvaro for a second.

“You mean that you, the Count’s courtesan himself, open your services to us guards too?”

Wayne shrugged: “Why not? I need a bed for tonight. If you aren’t interested I’m sure that I can find someone else.”

“No, no, it’s fine, you can come. We can have a party in the servants’ quarters…” she said.

“Is the invite extended to me too? I’d like to come.” Alvaro added.

That was right, only the upper servants had access to private rooms, the lower ranking ones like them all slept together in a handful of rooms downstairs. Wayne wasn’t planning to do any kind of group activities but the thought of it didn’t really bother him too much. Besides, if he played his cards right, he could even manage to convince them to sleep with with him one at a time, a single different guard every night, so they would be eager to wait for their turn and he wouldn’t have to do anything too tiring before going to sleep.

To do that, he just had to firmly set his boundaries and with the Count’s ownershipprotecting him he had no problems in that regard.

“I’ll need to set some rules before,” he said: “the housekeeper and the Count might not be happy if we handled things in way that’s too messy.”

They both nodded.

“We’ll talk about it at my return, alright?” Wayne continued moving his hair forward on his shoulder: “See you later, sweethearts!”

He winked at them before leaving the room. Only when he was deep in the corridor he clenched his jaw.

Isidore was alone with them now. Wayne didn’t have to to feel worried about him and especially didn’t have to to feel attached, the wellbeing of the prisoner was his responsibility only as long as he was sick and needed a healer.

But he couldn’t shake off the tingling feeling of anxiety that was putting him into a choke hold since the first time he saw him in the torture room. Maybe the Count was right, he was caring about Isidore more than he should have and that empathy was both useless and detrimental for everyone, Wayne included.

He had to stop thinking too much.

He took deep breaths, recalling to his mind the warm feeling of water on his skin. He recalled the scent of the jasmine perfume he had the habit to use for himself every day. And he washed away any harmful thought still lingering in his head.

He became empty.

The deepest thought he had in the housekeeper’s hall was whether to eat cabbages or carrots.

Chapter Text

The salty breeze of the sea ruffled Nesta’s hair as she reached the deck, the floorboards creaking at every step, partially covered by the shouts of the sailors. She placed to the side a large box of supplies and, not really knowing what else to do, she sat on it and tried to ignore her own unease. She could cover many roles, but a sea dog wasn’t one of them and on a boat she felt as unsettled as she did during the fancy dinner of the night before, even if in a different sense.

She had travelled by sea many times, especially since the Count moved to the island, but she had never been able to shake off the eerie feeling that pervaded her whenever she was far from land. The knowledge in the back of her mind that beneath the water there could be something big and unknown, something whose power exceeded hers and everyone else’s.

The land was familiar, she was confident enough that with her feet on the ground she could handle most of the threats that could come there. She knew the Count, she knew Hildegard, she did not know the sea. It was nothing less than alien, full of creatures that looked so inhuman.

Land and sea were two worlds so far that, whenever a boat sailed, Nesta felt like it was grazing the thin line separating them, she feared that it might break the delicate equilibrium between them.

She tried to push away the thought but it clawed at her head. She was travelling to someone else’s home, breaking the invisible wall that she thought might be separating them for good, going to disrupt someone’s peace. Not some eldritch marine creature’s, no.

Manuel’s peace.

The boat had finally sailed and the shouts lessened. Lulled by the sound of waves, she watched the massive body of water reflecting a sky as grey as her mood.

Just a couple of days before she had been on that same vessel, bringing Inquisitor Toller to the palace like a lamb to the slaughter. She had been just following orders, yes, but did that really absolve her from the fault? It did not. She chose to follow orders and she chose to put her own well being on top of Toller’s.

It was his life or hers.

And soon would've been Manuel’s.

Manuel Clerk.

They knew each other. They were both Han’s masterpieces, in a sense: Nesta being his favourite test subject and Manuel his favourite assistant.

During the two brief years he spent with the mercenaries, he visited Nesta and helped Han more than any other mage. She remembered his initial reluctance, the care in his hands and worry on his face every time they subjected her to a new body modification.

To Nesta, his presence was strange at first, she had even caught him talking to himself more than once, realizing only later that it was probably because of his magic.

He exuded gloom,his lean, tall, dark-skinnedfigure was slightly stooped, his face sharp with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. But the thing that stood out more than anything else werehis watery, downcast eyes, that lit up a little every time Han entered the room.

She recognized that light, it was the same she had with Hildegard.

Not quite happiness, not quite calm. Something closer to some sort of uncanny attraction to someone who had complete power over them but still chose to elevate them above others.

Though Manuel never stopped acting slightly conflicted, nervous around Han.

She felt like trying to get to know more about their relationship could only bring more trouble, so she never asked. Their physical closeness, the times when their hands touched, the eagerness in Han’s voice whenever he addressed Manuel didn’t matter to her. To Nesta, Manuel was just Han’s assistant and that was the end of it.

It was not like he would talk to her about his personal problems anyway, he was probably scared by her like almost everyone else.

They did have some common ground though: they were both very good at their jobs.

Nesta endured most of the spells they cast on her and became the deadliest soldier amongst the mercenaries. Manuel studied and searched knowledge like a thirsty man looking for water.

Their training was never enough, they were always striving for more, to please their masters or just to feel safer, knowing that with either muscles or mind they could navigate their respective realities managing to get hurt as little as possible.

She guessed that he kept himself close to Han because that could grant him access to the expertise and collection books belonging to a great mage.

Why did he flee then? Maybe because Han’s overbearing presence had become more dangerous to him than everything else.

The air seemed to get colder all of a sudden as she heard the familiar voice of her own masters climbing the stairs to the deck.

Nesta straightened her back, half-expecting to be addressed, but they just ignored her, heading towards the ship’s bow.

“So where does the compass lead us?” Hildegard asked walking besides Count. She took a bite out of an apple, probably taken from the supplies that were meant for the sailors.

The Count grabbed the round object hanging from his neck: “North-east” he answered, without even checking the needle.

“That’s the same direction as Bleakfall.” Hildegard commented.

That was the same place where Han had been taken to trial and executed.

The Count fell silent, only tightening the grip on the compass.

“I heard there’s a big cemetery, we could pass by if you want…” Hildegard offered, her voice lower and careful.

“Han’s probably been dumped into a mass grave.” he answered, his voice drained of any life.

“Oh. Right.”

She took another bite of the apple, while the Count left his grip on the compass, resting both of his hands on his hips.

“…I’ll think about it, Hildegard.” he finally said: “I’ll decide when we get there. Now, where were we?”

Nesta found herself eavesdropping as they talked some more, reminiscing old times, occasionally mentioning Han but never diving too deep, never risking to rub salt in the wound.

But Nesta couldn’t shake off the feeling that he never actually left their world. Ever since she had known Han, everyone who ever came in contact with him had been indelibly marked.

Even now that he was dead, his absence was incredibly deafening. Even dead, Han seemed to still have a grasp on the living. He was always there, hunting their mind.

Nesta’s, Townsend’s, Toller’s, Wayne’s. Manuel’s.

Even with him on the other side. They were all bound to him.

There was still a line separating them from the beasts underwater. Was there something of the sort for the dead and the living?

Han was the man on the boat. He was disturbing their peace from the other side.

Chapter Text

Soft. And warm.

His nightmares were now far, far away. Isidore was laying face down on something soft and warm. As his consciousness began to drift away from slumber, he felt the comforting feeling of a mattress beneath his body. His family might have been on the verge of disgrace, but they could still afford a couple of decent enough bedrooms for him and his mother.

Bells were ringing outside, with a new tune that he had never heard before. They couldn’t be the ones in the Toller mansion, they hadn’t rang in a long time. Was the sound coming from the sacrarium? Or maybe from the Inquisition Courts? No, they were too far from home…

For some reason the blankets were covering only his pelvis and legs and a cool breeze grazed his naked back. He got goosebumps and felt his own muscles tense in the cold. They ached, almost burning.

He begrudgingly accepted that his rest had been definitively ruined and it was time to leave the comfortable bubble that sleep granted him during the night.

He finally opened his eyes and was suddenly blinded by too much light. He blinked a few times, struck by confusion.

That wasn’t his room.

The walls were magenta and full of floral decorations, nothing like the sober white marble he was expecting to see. He moved his hands to change position, but a rattling sound startled him: he was wearing cuffs.

Memories flooded back to him all at once and he realised that everything -the kidnapping, the torture, the rape- had not been a nightmare at all.

Panic hit him like a hammer. Before he could think better of it, his body began to move on its own, thrashing, screaming, squirming, tugging at his chains to find a way out.

It was in that moment that a distant voice called him.

He found himself panting on the floor, with his back burning and arms outstretched on the bed because of the chains. He heard steps coming closer and raw fear threatened to swallow him one more time.

“Isidore! Hey, Isidore, please calm down” said the familiar voice.

“… Wayne?”

Isidore raised to his knees to see the Count’s servant approaching him with careful steps.

“You’re awake!” Wayne exclaimed: “What happened? Are you alright?”

“I’m…”Isidore started, but his gaze moved from Wayne’s concerned face to below and he immediately lost his voice.

Wayne’s shirt was totally unbuttoned, showing the fat, hairy chest and soft belly underneath. Isidore turned his head in embarrassment, feeling like he was somehow intruding someone’s personal space even if he had been brought there against his will.

He glued his eyes to the mess he had made with the bedsheets. They were a nice hue of light blue and he dared to guess that they were made of silk.

He cleared his voice before asking: “Where am I?”

“In my room.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t really know what else to expect. It was better than being in the Count’s room, but at the same time he still felt unsafe.

Isidore recoiled at the possibility of the intimacy of a bedroom used as a weapon against him. Wayne was already half naked, what if he had brought him there only to abuse him more?

But he had promised not to hurt him and up until then he had fulfilled his word.

Isidore dared to peek at him with the corner of his eye and he noticed that Wayne had started buttoning his shirt up, leaving bared only his neck and a reasonably small portion of his chest.

“What am I doing in your room?”

“I have been given permission to heal you here, instead of the torture room. I thought that a bed would be a better place to rest.”

“It is.” Isidore said. Then he sighed.

As he slowly calmed down, all the energy that possessed him a moment earlier seemed to disappear leaving only dullness in its place. He had a dizzying headache and his back was stinging, but not as much as he would’ve expected after that brutal belting.

Wayne offered his hand to help him up, but Isidore refused it, trying to get up on his own. He gripped the chains connecting to his wrists and used them as support, but the motion was painful and drained him of all strength. He immediately collapsed face down on the mattress but was quick to crawl to the headboard and assume a dignified sitting position to make it look like he had done it on purpose.

His back was directly touching the surface behind, a painful yet bearable feeling given that in that position he felt less like a worn out training dummy and more like a noble expecting his servants to bring him breakfast.

He forced himself to assume a stoic expression before turning to Wayne, who was still looking back with concern.

“Are you sure that you want to sit like that?” he asked.

“Yes, Wayne. You healed my back.”

“Yes, I tried to. I’m not sure if I did a good job.”

“Well, at least you tried. When the Inquisition will find me it’ll be over for the Count, but I’ll ask them to spare you.”

Wayne widened his eyes in shock and turned his head to one of the two doors in the room, checking something that Isidore didn’t understand. When the servant faced him again he still looked a bit nervous: “You woke up during the changing of the guards so I made an exception, but I’m really not supposed to talk with you.”

Isidore felt like he had said the wrong thing, even if he couldn’t understand what yet. He tried to find something to say that would win the other man’s favour again.

Wayne took some steps back and pulled out of a wardrobe a pink tunic to wear on top of his shirt. He started walking towards one of the doors: “If you’re fine, I need to go.”

“No, wait!” Isidore pleaded.

Wayne actually listened to him. He stopped and glanced at him, with some unexpected regret on his face.

“I- My back still hurts. Please…” Isidore offered.

Wayne sighed, then moved a chair next to the bed to sit there: “Don’t worry, in a few weeks a better healer than me will arrive and your back will be as good as new.”

Isidore was sure that by then the Count would give him worse wounds to worry about, but didn’t comment.

Wayne pulled out his catalyst and asked: “Could you give me your arm?”

Isidore complied.

Wayne rested his hand on the other man’s forearm and closed his eyes like he did before in the torture room. This close Isidore was able to notice the overall more unkempt appearance of his healer: loose and ruffled hair coupled with slightly smeared make up and bad eyebags that made him look like he hadn’t slept well in days.

“Wayne, are you tired?” he asked him.

He opened his eyes immediately, almost looking horrified: “Do I look like it?”

“No,” Isidore was quick to lie: “I just know that magic spells can be draining for beginners.”

Wayne didn’t look convinced, but nodded anyway.

“I was asking because I can take the pain.” Isidore continued, then he forced himself to swallow his pride and add: “But I’d still like you to stay …I need someone to talk to.”

Isidore knew he was pushing a boundary Wayne had just set, but at the same time wasn’t able to see any ways out other than his help to survive.

His desperation must have been visible even from the outside, because Wayne looked, for a lack of a better word, shattered at his words.

“I-I don’t know if-”

Isidore gripped his wrist: “Please, Wayne.”

The hold wasn’t strong, but Wayne didn’t pull away. His eyes were avoiding Isidore’s, squashed under his furrowed eyebrows.

Rain started falling outside and little droplets were hitting the window glass, covering the otherwise silence of the room.

When a knocking came from the door they both gasped in surprise. Isidore immediately retreated his hand and Wayne stood up and walked towards the exit.

As Wayne walked, a movement in the room caught Isidore’s attention and he suddenly realised that there was a mirror facing the bed. He found himself staring at the wreck of a man that eerily looked a little bit too much like himself: his bare torso showed a number of new colourful spots going from greenish to violet. His cheeks were sunken and his lips dry. When Isidore finally locked eyes with the horrified ones of his reflection, he immediately looked away, focusing back on the owner of the room.

When Wayne opened the door, he found behind a lean man in leather armour.

“Hello, Blake.” Wayne greeted.

“Hello. I’m here to watch the prisoner.”

“I know” Wayne said. He took a quick glance at Isidore and added: “He hasn’t eaten anything in two days. Could you bring us something from the kitchen? Some… ginger broth. The cook knows the recipe.”

“It’s not my job to do that.” Blake protested.

“I know, but I was in the middle of casting another healing spell, so if you could please do me the favour I might return it later.”

Blake sceptically glanced at Isidore, across the room.

“Fine,” he said: “I’ll be back in a while, try not to die while I’m out.”

“Will do.”

Wayne waved at Blake while he walked away and then closed the door again.

“We have about fifteen minutes.”

Isidore struggled to find the words to respond and settled at the end for a whispered: “Thank you, Wayne.”

Wayne sat beside him again: “Just don’t tell anyone I’m chatting with you, alright?”

“As you wish.” Isidore said, adding then: “I think I might have startled you before, when I mentioned the Inquisition, I didn’t mean to sound violent or-”

Wayne raised a hand to stop him: “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You did sound violent, but I understand. So don’t explain yourself.”

“Yes, but if they do come here I could really talk to them. You even have some experience with magic, I’m sure that if you wanted to leave this place you could work for them and-”

“I’m sorry, Isidore,” Wayne interrupted, looking deadly serious: “but I don’t think there’s anyone looking for you.”

That statement sounded definitive, but Isidore still wanted to believe he heard that wrong.

He gripped the sheets under his hands: “What do you mean?”

“I talked with Nesta the other day, when you were still in the barrel. She told me that the mages who kidnapped you forged a corpse to make it look like it was you. They made sure that it would be easy to find and identify.”

“No…”

“The Inquisition thinks you’re dead.”

“No, no it can’t be!”

He looked at Wayne right in the eyes, trying to find any signs of deception, anything to keep holding on the hope of being rescued. Nothing of the kind. Wayne looked sympathetic.

Isidore was alone in this.

He thought about his parents, his dead father and distant mother. Maybe she thought that losing the only legitimate heir to the Toller family was a fitting ending for their bloodline. Maybe one of his half-siblings would step up and take his place in Isidore’s absence.

What about his colleagues? He had never been actually close to them, always looking down on them because he was born in nobility. He had the privilege to be educated since his childhood and he often lectured them on how to do things, how to wear clothes, how to speak.

He felt on a step higher than them, even if he had no proof he actually was except for his noble blood. His useless noble blood.

A lifetime spent on valuing his status more than his human relationships and he was repaid with no one looking for him when he really needed them to. But if he was on the other side of the equation he would've stopped searching too.

Who could ever miss a spoiled know-it-all who used his status to cover up for his family’s errors?

Isidore slowly started dissolve into tears, trying to wipe them at first, but giving up not long after.

“I hate this.” he mumbled.

Wayne rested his hand on his shoulder, in a timid attempt of consoling him: “I know.”

“I hate the Count, I hate the torture room, I hate Nesta-”

“Hey…”

Isidore threw a punch on the headboard: “Why don’t you help me!?”

“Stop it, you know I can’t.”

“You are useless!”

“I’m fucking not” Wayne got heated too: “Listen, I know it’s though for you, but some of us are just trying to do our job and get through the day alive.”

“I was just trying to do my job too and look at where it brought me! I pissed off one single man and now he wants to see me suffer until the last day of my life!”

“I know, but do you think we do it eagerly? That I want to see you bloody and abused? I hate that too, I would not be complicit to this if I had a choice. We all had to make sacrifices to survive, but not everyone had the privilege to start in an equally high and protected position as yourself.”

“I was not so high and protected, my family could only afford four servants and our mansion was run-down.”

“You could only afford four servants? And how many could they afford? Did you ever stop to think about them?”

Isidore hugged himself in a mixture of shame and sorrow: “At least I d-didn’t torture them…”

His body shaking with sobs now. His fist ached, his head was throbbing, the bright colours of the room overwhelmed him.

“I-I’m sorry, Wayne… I didn’t mean that,” he mumbled: “I didn’t mean to say that you’re useless, it’s just that…”

He found himself unable to continue, every time he tried to speak his words came up broken and interrupted by his sobs. He gripped Wayne’s hand on his shoulder to try to communicate his apologies without needing to speak.

The servant returned the grip: “Look, Isidore, I don’t want to fight.” he said, sounding genuinely sorry too: “I want to help you much as possible. But trying to make you escape would be impossible for me right now.”

He got closer, his voice lower: “Listen, we don’t have much time. I wanted to tell you that for a while you won’t see the Count, but the guards have been ordered to still punish you sometimes. I’ll try to delay that as much as possible and if the time comes anyway, I’ll be ready to heal you, alright?”

Isidore shook his head. He didn’t want that torment to go on, prolonging it longer might just be the thing that would drive him mad.

“I’ll die like that…”

“No, I won’t allow that. Even the Count doesn’t want you to die.”

“I’ll never be myself again.”

Wayne’s hand softly squeezed his shoulder: “Hey. You can still talk to me in secret. I’ll try to be there for you.”

Isidore nodded and when Wayne’s hand left his shoulder he felt inexplicably alone. Wayne came back a moment later handing out a white tissue. Isidore’s tears reshaped his brown and pink, plump figure into a blurry silhouette and he was grateful when he managed to wipe them away and see his comforting smile again.

Not long after, Blake came back with the meal and Wayne excused himself, leaving Isidore alone with the guard. He felt nauseous more than hungry, but forced himself to drink the broth anyway, ending up feeling a little better after he was finished.

Blake, the guard, spent the whole time sitting on a chair next to the exit and facing him like a statue, definitely a more menacing presence than Wayne.

When Isidore lost himself in his own thoughts and panic raised again leaving him a crying, sobbing mess, Blake did not hand him a towel, just impassibly staring from his chair. He did not move an inch to help him.

In the end, deprived of anything to do or to say, Isidore just fell asleep again. Every time he woke up there was a different guard staring at him. They offered more broth at dinnertime, but otherwise didn’t communicate.

Until Wayne came back, the day after.

“Hey, I’m here for a quick check.” he turned to the woman sitting on the chair: “Cecilia, I can handle him from now, you can go. Alvaro will be here in a while.”

She nodded and a moment after she was out of the room.

“Hey, Isidore. How is it going?” Wayne greeted: “We won’t be alone for long, but this time I wanted to ask you something. Just for you to know, you can refuse to answer if you want.”

“I missed you.” Isidore whispered, still under the blankets.

Wayne tilted his head: “What was that?”

The prisoner moved into a sitting position, to better face his interlocutor: “Go on, ask me.”

“Alright. I know you attacked Nesta with a belt.”

Isidore stiffened.

“And I know you already had it when I was in the room.” Wayne continued: “So why didn’t you attack me? You had the opportunity, I even gave you my back for a considerable amount of time.”

Isidore’s gaze dropped to the floor, while he was pondering whether or not to answer. But Wayne had been the only person in that palace to try to treat him with regard and he wanted to thank him somehow.

“I… considered it, but I genuinely didn’t find it in me to hurt you.” he truthfully explained: “Nesta was about to torture me, she had the order to strip me, I though… I was afraid. I thought that the belt might have been the only way to protect myself. I guess I only made things worse.”

He sheepishly raised his head to see Wayne’s expression. Surprised, with no traces of anger or fear.

“Thank you for telling me,” he answered: “I genuinely don’t know what I would’ve done in your shoes.”

They heard steps coming from the corridor outside and they were quick to drop the subject. When Alvaro entered, Wayne was already giving Isidore simple medical instructions and helping him stretch his back. They exercised for about ten minutes and then Wayne took his leave again.

During those days, Isidore understood that Wayne was probably in a closer position to him than he thought. He didn’t have much decisional power nor influence to change how things were, but he still tried to take Isidore’s side anyway, even when everyone else had moved on. Even when everyone else seemed to want to either ignore or harm him.

Wayne’s little bending of the rules were always meant to comfort Isidore and he was risking his position and maybe his safety to keep this kind of passive resistance.

Wayne really was his lifeline. And Isidore was grateful for that.

But still Wayne could not protect him from every harm. In one of their secret chats, he told Isidore that for a few days, while he was recovering, no one would've touched him.

But the moment of the next torture was probably approaching and there was nothing Isidore could do to escape it.

He just hoped Wayne would be there after that too.

Chapter Text

As time passed by, Isidore gained a routine made of sleeping, eating simple food two times a day and yearning for the brief chats with Wayne.

The fourth day, during the changing of the guards, he even approached him with a request: “Hey, I’ve been feeling grimy since the torture room. Is there any possibility that I can wash myself?”

Wayne seemed to think about it for a couple of seconds, before answering: “I think the easiest and safest way would be my dressing room,” he pointed at his right, to the door that wasn’t the exit: “I’m not sure that I can grant you the kind of privacy you would have at your home.”

Isidore narrowed his eyes, remembering their first encounter after Nesta pulled him out of the barrel: “Does that mean that you would stare at me like last time?”

“I-I uh…” Wayne started fidgeting with his hands: “I’m sorry about that.”

It sounded sincere, but Isidore wanted to push him further: “Go on.”

“What else is there to say? I could’ve been more attentive to your needs, but… I still didn’t know exactly what was about to happen to you. I just knew you were the one who killed Han.”

For a moment he wondered if Wayne could feel any sort of affection for a monster like Han Sonner, but he immediately pushed away the thought, disgusted. Wayne was on his side now, not Han’s.

“Thank you for the apology, Wayne. I’ll keep it in mind. I guess you mentioned my privacy because the guards will not allow me to go inside a room alone, right?”

“Correct.”

“Will they watch me wash too?”

“I can try to convince them not to, but I can’t guarantee anything.”

Isidore passed a hand through his matted, greasy hair and sighed: “So be it. I need to get rid of this layer of dirt.”

He had already done it, he could take it again. Maybe if he felt uncomfortable he could even ask Wayne to stop and maybe he would listen.

Isidore locked eyes with him and added: “If there has to be someone with me in the room, I want it to be you and no one else. You’ve already seen me naked, so that would… limit the damage.”

Wayne silently nodded and their conversation paused as soon as they heard steps outside. Alvaro peeped out from behind the door and after the initial greeting, Wayne jumped straight to the point and told him that -for strictly medical reasons- Isidore really needed to be washed and Wayne could handle that without anyone’s help.

“We’ll need to tie his hands again…” Alvaro said, already handling the length of rope that he had circled around his belt.

“Or maybe not.” Wayne rested his hand on the guard’s and that was enough to stop him.

“What do you mean?” Alvaro asked.

Wayne leant closer and whispered to his ear something that Isidore couldn’t understand. The guard widened his eyes and energetically nodded.

“Deal. Have fun.”

Isidore felt his stomach drop, trying to imagine what Wayne could have ever said to persuade him, but he remained obediently still when he came closer to unlock his cuffs and followed him, when he lead him beyond the dressing room door.

The new space smelled like spring and looked somehow much cosier than the bedroom: four pastel pink walls surrounded a beautiful white clawfoot tub in the centre of the room, while a vanity, a wooden chair and a shelf holding a collection of soaps, towels and perfumes were placed at its corners.

Some copper pipes ran through the only wall with a window and attached to them there was a tap with a handle and an empty bucket underneath.

“Do you like it?” Wayne asked: “There are only three of them in the palace: one mine, one for the lab and one for everyone else. Not even the Count has the luxury of having a tap of his own. I guess there are some perks in being the one who prepares his baths.” he explained, almost proud of himself.

Isidore absent-mindedly nodded and flinched when Wayne locked the door behind them.

“Hey, you can take your time if you need, I still have to fill the tub.” Wayne said.

Then he turned the handle and water came out of the tap, rapidly filling the bucket. He poured the water in the bathtub and placed the bucket back to repeat the action.

Isidore watched him while still rubbing his bruised wrists, almost unaccustomed to the feeling of them being free.

He asked: “What did you whisper to the guard?”

“To Alvaro? Oh, nothing serious, really.” Wayne said, pouring another bucket inside.

Isidore frowned as all the worst hypotheses came to his mind.

Wayne probably noticed and conceded: “Oh, alright, I’ll tell you. I offered him a blowjob in exchange for an hour without handcuffs for you and his silence about that. He’s a simple person, it wasn’t hard to convince him.”

Isidore’s jaw dropped in shock.

“What’s up with that face?” Wayne asked.

Isidore tried and failed to regain composure: “You-you’re selling your body for something like this?”

“Er, yeah, I’m a prostitute, I do this pretty often.” Wayne’s tone became ironic: You’d rather I didn’t?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just…”

It’s just that I would’ve never done the same, he thought. He couldn’t say that out loud.

He had sex with people he didn’t know very well in the past, but for himthat kind of intimacy was something that needed to be earned, not bought. The thought of giving sexual favours to anyone to gain something in return never remotely crossed his mind and even less the thought ofpaying someone to have sex.

He wasn’t like his father.

“… I didn’t expect you to be a prostitute” he finally said.

“You didn’t? What did you think my job was?” Wayne asked, pouring the last bucket inside and turning off the water.

“I don’t know… a healer?”

“Damn, we’d be doomed if I was a professional.” he laughed, walking towards the shelf: “Listen, I’ll give you something to wash with.If you want I can even turn away, like I did in the torture room.”

“Yes, please.”

“Alright” Wayne was still smiling when he added: “Just please don’t attack me with a belt!”

“I won’t attack you as long as you don’t provoke me.” Isidore replied.

“I’m told that I’m quite provocative, but I’ll try my best.” Wayne teased, handing him some towels and soap bars.

Isidore felt himself blush with a hint of rage. Wayne was taking it a bit too lightly for his liking, but maybe he’d just made that joke to try to break the tension.

“Do you want me to warm the water? It might take a while.” Wayne asked.

“Yes, do it.”

They didn’t talk while Wayne cast the spell on the water. After a handful of minutes he nodded at Isidore and went to sit on the chair, facing the wall.

Only then, Isidore truly realised he was essentially free.

Nothing was binding him, no one was watching him, he still couldn’t escape and still wasn’t alone, but the amount of trust Wayne was putting in his hands made him feel slightly in control. He wanted to put that to the test.

“Wayne, from now you will turn only if I tell you to.”

“Yes sir. Just, try not to take too long, or Alvaro might come to check on us.”

“Yes.” Isidore said, walking towards the window. He could see the sea from there and suddenly remembered that one of Townsend’s properties was in Mema, an island in the small archipelago of the Sleeping Chain. South of Bleakfall.

Isidore opened the window with a creaking sound and the scent of wet grass and sea engulfed him. Dark clouds signalled that a storm was coming.

He looked down. It was too high to try an escape.

“Was that the window?” Wayne asked.

“Yes.”

“Close it.” Wayne ordered, sounding more serious than usual.

Does he fear that I might jump down? Isidore asked himself. He would never, his life was too precious to be thrown away like that.

He closed the window and started undressing, happy to verify that Wayne had not moved an inch just as promised.

He slowly dipped his toes inside the water, finding it warm. He didn’t wait to immerse the rest of his body and winced when the water touched his bruises, but he got used to the slight pain pretty soon and closed his eyes to enjoy the moment.

For the first time since what felt like an eternity, Isidore felt genuinely good. It felt like after having become a scared little creature he was finally turning human again, finally able to wash away the dirty feeling the Count had stuck on him since that first night.

He grabbed a soap bar that smelled like lavender and passed it through his own body, he used his fingers to untangle his hair and he gradually saw the water turn grey. Before getting kidnapped he had never been this dirty and just a week before he might have been disgusted by water of that colour, but now the only thing he wanted was to stay there a little longer.

Maybe a storm was coming, but it hadn’t start raining yet. Isidore would appreciate every last bit of the calm that came before.

After a while he allowed himself to murmur a soft: “Thank you, Wayne.”

If it weren’t for you I don’t know if I’d be still alive, Isidore thought, but didn’t say that out loud.

Wayne straightened his back and even if he could not see it, Isidore imagined a stupid smile plastered on his face.

“You’re welcome!” he cheerfully replied.

Wayne’s enthusiasm was so contagious that Isidore found himself inexplicably smiling too, despite the gruesome situation he was in.

Good grief, he was starting to grow fond of him.

Chapter Text

An immense expanse of grey clouds had been covering the sun since their departure, painting sky, sea, hills and towns with a melancholic shade of grey. It made the landscape look more like an autumn than spring one, as if winter wasn’t over yet and this was just a short moment of peace before returning to the unforgiving cold once again.

As soon as they reached the shore, a team consisting of Townsend, Hildegard, Nesta and their horses followed the magic compass pointing north, towards Bleakfall. They moved relentlessly under that downcast sky, even when it rained, covered by capes and scarfs to conceal their faces. On the fourth day they finally reached the city.

The town square was overflowing with people. Apparently the city guards had captured three thieves and their execution had been scheduled in a few hours, in the early afternoon.

When Townsend proposed to stay and watch it no one dared to argue with him.

Only Hildegard suggested: “We have still some time, why don’t we go visit the market instead of just waiting here?”

He accepted.

As they walked into the streets and elbowed their way past crowds of customers and sellers, a toy stall caught his attention. A number of wooden objects of different shapes and dimensions were displayed to the customers, all useless. But maybe fun.

He had never really owned any toys when he was young, he managed his loneliness personifying twigs and rocks, but never telling anyone. Before all of his teeth even emerged he was already too mature for such childish trivialities, already fending for himself.

Some of the most refined pieces on the stall were spinning tops. He tried one without asking.

“They can keep spinning for minutes before stopping” the seller said, but Townsend hardly paid him any attention, captured by the movement of the toy.

The pink and purple flowers that were painted on the wood all melted together in colourful circles. It reminded him of Wayne.

He stopped the movement and bought it as a souvenir for him.

He usually brought himexpensive jewels or make up, but this time opting for something simpler seemed the best option. Wayne had been unbearably considerate during the past weeks, no, months, both towards Townsend and the prisoner.

A cheaper gift would be a good way to let him know that his mistakes were unforgotten but forgiven for now. Keeping the tradition, but not letting him off the hook easily.

Besides, Wayne came with a naturally playful energy so he was sure he would've liked a gift like that too.

As Townsend placed the toy inside one of his sacks, he looked around. Hildegard was calmly negotiating the price of a knife, Nesta towering at her side, patiently waiting. He also found a stall selling rum and he moved towards it to refill his flask.

No one spared them more than a glance.

Bleakfall had been occupied by mercenaries for a long time, but their base was out of the city itself and it had been seven years since they left it, when Townsend had become Count. During this time he had grown a true beard, refined his moustache and in addition he seldom travelled out of his palace in Mema.

He was pretty confident that no one would recognize him or one of his two companions and, even if someone did, they would be too afraid to ask for confirmation.

After all no one had recognized Han, not even by name, before killing him.

Han.

Guilt was still piercing Townsend like a spear: he should’ve done more to make his husband’s face and name known outside of the mercenary army, maybe if the Inquisition recognised that they had a bigger enemy they would've refrained from killing him, maybe if Han hadn’t spent so much time experimenting and more time outside they would've spared him…

Or maybe some of the inquisitors knew exactly who he was and they decided to do nothing to save him. Because what could Townsend do besides kidnapping onesinglelawyer and take his rage out on him?

He made Toller pay even though that didn’t give Townsend any satisfaction, because he deserved it, as a substitute for the whole Inquisition. At the same time, that same institution could keep going on with its business with just one less employee one that wasn’t even that important.

Toller’s nobility was a joke as much as Townsend’s own bought title: worth a god-damned nothing.

Power, influence and money were much more useful than a family name and Townsend had some of those, enough to live safe in his lair, but not enough to compete with a bigger organisation under the King. Not any more.

When the mercenaries were still a thing, it was because the King of Poenitia had sacrificed the existence of an official army to finance the Inquisition.

There had been a time where mercenaries had been far stronger than the Inquisition but when Townsend had started getting older, he accepted a deal with the King: Townsend’s mercenaries would be dismantled and in return all of them would be forgiven of all the crimes against Poenitia they committed in war. Townsend became able to buy his noble title, some of the soldiers were accommodated with small plots of land, most of the remaining people were hired to form a new army, this time working directly for the king.

That same army worked alongside the Inquisition too now.

Townsend now felt like he had been cutting his own throat with that deal. His goal had been to finally gain some peace in his life, but could he say that it worked? It never worked.

The place changed, some of the people he had around changed, but Han’s curiosity never went away. Townsend’s fear never went away. And his fear was ultimately right: he had never been truly in control of his life. He had lost his husband.

Han was dead. He could do nothing about it.

Heavy clouds seemed to forebode a coming storm.

It was time. They were in the town square now, among the people gathered to watch three criminals die.

A guard recited the list of crimes they were going to be hanged for. Trifles, in comparison with what Townsend and his two travelling companions had done in the past.

They were far and the faces of the criminals were not clear, but by the posture and body type, Townsend guessed that one of the three might still be young, on his twenties maybe. He couldn’t decipher his expression and maybe that was for the best. A moment later a guard hid that head with a bag and did the same with the other two.

Townsend pulled out his flask and took a long sip, the bittersweet alcoholic taste filled his mouth and burned his throat.

It was their time now.

Their bodies all dropped and there was a crack of some neck snapping. One of them was still moving their feet and one of the guards mercifully pierced his heart with a sword, ending their suffering for good.

They all had been graced with a quick death. Townsend could only hope that was the case for Han too.

Han.

Townsend had watched the execution hoping to feel somehow closer to him.

Han.

His mind was stuck in a downward spiral repeating himself always the same things, but every time feeling a bit worse.

The void he left in his heart was infinite. He wasn’t able to let him go. How could he? How dared he even try to get over it? That pain was the only thing still linking their souls, he could never let go of Han. He could never let go of the only person that was able to truly understand him, to love him.

The criminals’ corpses were left to rot, as the rain began to pour.

Food for birds and worms, as Han always said. It was such a cheerful way to look at death, to become a feast for smaller creatures. But they were always talking about someone else’s death, theirs was always postponed, the impatience and youth in Han’s eyes made the end look impossibly far away.

And then it came. And now they had been irreparably separated.

There was no way out of this.

“I think it’s time to go” Hildegard said, tugging at his cape.

He nodded and followed her and Nesta just out of town, in a tavern they had been talking about during the way.

They were inside now and he was playing with the top he bought for Wayne. Looking at it spin, spin, spin, losing momentum, roll slower and stop. Again. Spin, spin, spin, losing momentum, roll slower and stop. Again. Spin, spin… he abruptly stopped it with his own hands and looked up.

Hildegard was talking to the bartender, asking if they could book two rooms for one night. She kept a flirty tone, much to Nesta’s dismay.

He pulled out the flask and drank again.

“I’m going out.” he said.

“But it’s raining cats and dogs!”

“I’m not soft, I’ll be fine.”

And there he was, wandering under the rain, not really knowing where he was going, finally able to break his facade and cry like a baby, taking comfort in being able to hide his tears under the drops of water coming from the sky. No one could see his weakness there.

When the rain started to subside he found himself in front of the cemetery. A feeling in his bones told him that the mass graves had to be close.

The thought that his husband might have been dumped among animal carcasses and rubbish made his skin crawl. Not even during his burial Han had been granted the dignity of a human being.

Han did horrible things, but Townsend didn’t care. They were both monsters, but everyone was. Humans were predators to each other, it was supposed to go like that.

He shouldn’t be surprised that the end his husband deserved was such a miserable one.

But he didn’t have to go so soon.

Townsend was calling his name now, frantically digging in the mud, not even sure why. Was he trying to find Han’s bones? Or was he digging his own grave?

He stopped, watching his fingers smeared with mud and some of his own blood.

He was acting foolish.

Han wouldn’t want that from him.

Han wouldn’t want his life to end.

The rain stopped. And a sudden, warm feeling enveloped him.

Han would want him to keep looking for his assistant. Han would want him to try to keep working on one of his old projects.

If they couldn’t live forever together, they would've reunited in death, but Townsend’s time was still far.

Chapter Text

Humid air in the kitchen, his hands into the sticky dough, the scent of medicinal herbs, the incessant whispering in his head.

They were there.

He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there, floating around him, too weak to taint his sight, but strong enough to interfere with his hearing and leave a bitter taste on his tongue. Ghosts.

The souls of the dead had been following Manuel since he was a child, since the first time he used forbidden magic.

His mum had stolen some expensive catalysts with the intention of selling them in the black market and she took Manuel with her, trying to escape. But three guards found her and disarmed her easily, not paying attention to her kid while he was snatching the catalyst. Manuel tried to help his mum, tired to cast a disruptive spell with mana fuelled by his panic, tried to get rid of the guards for good. And he did it.

With them, he made clean sweep of everything and everyone around him. He found himself surrounded only by carbonised bones and grass.

The guards, their belongings, trees, grass, his mother… wiped out by his unstable mana explosion.

Gone.

He still didn’t know how long it took, but while he was running away, sinking into an ocean of despair, four familiar voices crept into his head. He recognised the whispers of the people he killed.

He couldn’t see them, but he knew they were there, he could hear them muttering unintelligible words. His mum’s voice was unmistakable, but it sounded more cold and scared. She was probably looking for him in the spiritual plane, unaware that he was still alive and despite being able to feel her presence, he didn’t know how to communicate.

Most of the ghosts were unaware of the physical plane, in a similar way in which most of the people alive were unaware of the spiritual plane. Manuel found himself in the role of a weird link of conjunction between them.

Not long after the incident, when he applied as assistant in a small magic shop, he learnt that he was uniquely good at magic and almost no one else was able to hear the dead like he could. People were scared of the spiritual plane interfering with the physical, so the Inquisition declared that almost every interaction between them was forbidden magic.

His first explosion had been a blatant example of one of those interactions gone wrong and if the Inquisition ever found out, they would’ve already killed him. Luckily, they never did. The blame of the spell fell on his poor dead mother and the case was closed immediately.

He could count in one single hand the people who knew his deepest secrets, how long his hands had been stained red and why he occasionally talked to himself, why he looked always tormented.

Even with the passage of time, even if the souls of his first four victims had long since disintegrated in the spiritual plane, the dead still haunted him.

Even now in the small kitchen of his home, while he was working, they couldn’t leave him alone.

Manuel let out his mana one more time to turn the substance under his hands into an analgesic potion. It became clearer, started boiling and changed colour into a bright lime green with a gelatinous consistence.

The whispers grew stronger, but he ignored the words because they wouldn’t make sense in any case.

He poured the potion into a number of different vials, wrote the labels and stocked them on the shelf. As he cleaned the counter with a rag, he heard the door opening behind him and the loudness of both the spiritual and physical plane brought him to cover his hears.

The whispers reached their peak of clarity, before turning back into the usual quieter mumble.

Manuel turned. At the entrance there was Ciaran, tired but serene, with black hair framing their smiling face and their sturdy body languidly moving forward with a calm that could only signal the end of a day of work.

“I just closed the shop” they announced.

They reached the opposite wall to open the window, to let humidity float out of the room. Then they sat on one of the wooden chairs surrounding the table.

Manuel went back to cleaning, his mood slightly lifted by the presence of his spouse. He said: “The analgesic potions are ready.”

“Did you use the arnica dough I made as a base?”

Manuel nodded: “Yes.”

“Tomorrow we will move them to the shop. But for now we can have a break.” Ciaran stretched on the chair while talking.

“You worked in the garden this morning. Did you manage to plant the new seeds?” Manuel asked, scrubbing a particularly stubborn stain.

“Yes, we have some new ginseng and ginger plants growing!”

Manuel used his mana to change some of the soap into a stronger detergent and the stain finally disappeared.

While he placed the rag in the laundry hamper, the voices in his head started piling up, yearning to catch his attention.

They were bothersome as usual, but that day Manuel was way too tired to deal with them, they were giving him a headache. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to focus.

They never shut up, never shut up, never shut up.

“Manuel?” Ciaran asked, suddenly standing up: “Is everything alright? Are you hearing crows?”

Crows was the code they used when they had to talk about the ghosts. They were alone in the room, but they still worried about someone eavesdropping and reporting them to the inquisition.

Manuel let Ciaran grab his arm. Their face betrayed concern.

“Yes, Ciaran, it’s just… sometimes it’s harder than usual,” he lowered his head, and with voice tainted with shame he murmured: “… sometimes I wish Han was still with me.”

Manuel didn’t have to explain further: Han Sonner had been the only person capable of making a spell to silence the souls coming from the spiritual realm.

He chose to never teach it to Manuel: it was easier to keep him at hand and obedient that way.

But it still wasn’t enough to keep him forever.

If only Han had been someone reasonable, Manuel’s life would have been probably much simpler. But at the same time, maybe he wouldn’t have gotten with Ciaran and the mere thought made him grateful for where he was now.

He glanced at them and noticed that the last statement had made them speechless.

“I- I didn’t actually mean that” Manuel quickly said: “…Han made me do even things I didn’t want. I don’t miss him, I miss his talent with magic.”

Ciaran slowly nodded and bitterly said: “You didn’t deserve that. He played with you like a cat does with a mouse, he was a… a bastard!”

“He was.” Manuel confirmed: “But he was certainly not a cat, cats are cute.”

Ciaran’s lips widened slightly: “As cute as you?”

“No, as cute as you,” Manuel replied, lightly pinching his spouse’s nose.

That exchange seemed to slightly beak the tension in the room.

“Among the crows, is there anyone particularly insistent?” Ciaran asked, while they caressed his arm.

“No, not really.” he lowered his voice: “They’re just a handful of people who recently died around the village, I’m like a magnet for them, so they cling to me for a while. Most of the things they say don’t even make sense.”

“I wish I could do something for you” Ciaran muttered.

“There’s no need, you’re already here.”

It had become routine for them, managing their life around Manuel’s problems. The ghosts followed him everywhere and always cluttered his mind.

Sometimes, especially when he used a lot of mana, they weighted on him so much that he couldn’t even get up and do things normally. People in Sawind Village thought that he was suffering of some kind of illness and Manuel chose to play along. He did look ill most of the time.

Ciaran gave him a soft squeeze: “Hey, maybe I’ve got something that could cheer you up”

Manuel raised his brows and watched Ciaran exit the room to return with a basket in their hands and a big smile.

“Miss Barry wanted to thank us for curing her broken wrist so she cooked us a savoury pie!”

“Oh!” Manuel couldn’t help but smile too: “I’ll lay the table then.”

He put the tablecloth out, picked the best cutlery they had, choose two cups and placed one jug of water and one of wine on their wooden table. The void space in the centre was occupied by miss Barry’s pie. The smell alone made his stomach rumble.

There was a science in creating a cosy environment and Manuel liked to think that he and Ciaran mastered it together. They ate and chatted about their day as much as his headache consented and when they finished the pie, Ciaran reached closer to him and caressed his face. The feeling of their metal wedding ring brushing his cheekbone filled him with bittersweet joy.

How dared he wish his life was different. Ciaran was all he needed to go on.

They kissed and for a moment all the buzzing in his head seemed to subside, everything else went far away and in the whole universe there were just him and Ciaran. He wanted that moment to last forever.

But he knew that it wouldn’t last more than a couple of seconds. His life could never be easy.

He was stained and Ciaran was too, but they had a strive to be good in them that Manuel lacked. He knew he could never be clean again. He knew that deep down he didn’t regret the two years he had spent with Han Sonner.

If he did he would've fled before letting Han bind him to his magic compass so that his master could always know where his assistant was.

Manuel moved away from him, deluding himself into thinking that he could easily live with ghosts again and that he would be capable enough to replicate Han’s spells on his own. That some distance would be enough to wash away all they did together.

But deep down he still hoped that Han would look for him, to bring him solace from the ghosts again, to be the easiest solution for his problems and letting him set everyone else aside.

They didn’t matter, as long as he was well.

But he wasn’t well, was he? Even with his master. Han constituted a danger on his own, constantly pushing Manuel’s boundaries further, almost making him believe that he could become like him.

Would he have liked to become Han?

The mere thought of the question made him shiver and glad that there was no point in asking himself that any more.

He chose to move and when he met Ciaran again, they chose to rebuild their life together.

They bought a small house in a small village, set up a pharmacy shop in the ground floor, helped people thanks to Manuel’s magic and Ciaran’s expertise of botany, poisons and antidotes.

Manuel didn’t do it for the people, he was just glad that he had a place to practice his magic without sounding suspicious and during the past seven years he had tried to replicate Han’s spell to silence the ghosts again and again to no avail. Helping people was just a side effect of that. A nice treat to cover his heinous past of experimenting on unwilling individuals.

But Ciaran lived for it. Helping people with their scientific knowledge made them feel truly realised and despite the effort that kind of job required, they managed to end almost every day with a smile. And their kind of smile was capable of melting even Manuel’s cold heart.

When the kiss ended, the buzzing in Manuel’s head came back. They never shut up.

Ciaran gave him one more kiss on the nose and then raised to pick up the dirty plates and put them in the sink. Manuel wanted to help, so he grabbed the now empty jug of water, but he faltered after a couple of steps.

His hands lost their grip and the jug fell on the ground, the sound of glass shattering overwhelmed him along with the voices of the dead, and in his cloudy vision he started losing grip on reality.

The ghosts needed to shut up.

They needed to go away.

He covered his ears once again, as if it could help him muffle a sound coming from another plane.

The problem was not in his hearing but in a different sense, something he could not stop physically and he did not know how to stop spiritually, but he had to try anyway. The trembling fingers of his left hand grazed his catalyst necklace and it began to glow along with his wedding ring. He tried to improvise, spending mana to dig in the spiritual plane, trying to find a way out of his problem.

No good spell ever came from improvising and the sudden memory of his mother was enough to make him stop at once. He used more mana to reverse what he had started and then dropped his left hand. He raised his head looking for his spouse, but he was met only with a wall of white and black dots clouding his vision. He stared at that nothingness, painfully aware that he was too weak and inexperienced to face the souls once again.

His legs gave out.

When he opened his eyes, the right side of his head was aching physicallyand realised that he was laying on the ground. He could see Ciaran above him calling him, but he was still too dazed to understand the words.

Manuel recognised the symptoms of mana exhaustion, something only novices experienced, usually, and cursed himself for having made such a simple mistake. He concentrated on Ciaran’s hand on his chest, gently pressing down and then up intermittently, and he tried to follow the rhythm with his own breath.

Slowly, slowly he managed to regain all of his faculties and Ciaran’s words started to make sense again: “Manuel, are you alright?”

“T’s exhaustion” he managed to say, despite his tongue weighting like lead.

“… Really?”

No wonder Ciaran was surprised. They had known each other for more than ten years and had lived together for six and Manuel had never fainted for exhaustion in front of them.

“I- I pushed myself too much, trying to silence the spirits. I’m sorry.”

Ciaran’s lips curled in a sympathetic smile as they said: “You don’t need to apologise.”

They helped Manuel sit on a chair while they retrieved a broom to sweep the glass shards away.

“Luckily you didn’t fall on any of those. You don’t have any cuts, right?”

Manuel shook his head, watching his partner work.

“You’ve been short of mana, recently,” Ciaran said: “since that day, a couple of months ago.”

Manuel nodded.

It happened in winter, during an afternoon: all of a sudden his magic stopped working for a couple of minutes while a point between his shoulder blades started burning with an unprecedented intensity. When his mana came back it was fewer than usual and it never turned back to its full potential. He had always been pretty good at managing it, so that had never been a real problem… until his faint.

As for the cause, he had no doubt: Han Sonner had died.

The point between his shoulder blades was where Han had put his mark of control, the magic that bound Manuel’s soul to a special compass. Han had told him that if he died, the compass would steal Manuel’s mana to keep working.

Not only Han hadn’t taught Manuel the silencing spell, he had left him with a deficit of mana. One day Manuel would've had to go to Jack Townsend’s palace to retrieve the compass and break the spell, but he still didn’t feel ready.

In Sewind Village he could still pretend that his master was still alive. Would it be a good thing? He didn’t know, but at the same time the thought of him dead distressed him more than the other option.

His spouse was throwing away the glass shards: “You said it was because of Han’s death” they said.

Manuel nodded with tight lips.

“Will his crow reach you? Will he bother you again?”

“I doubt that” Manuel said, trying to sound more reassuring than resigned: “It would take a miracle for his crow to fly all the way here.”

He meant that. The spiritual and physical plane were parallels and influenced each other, but Manuel had the impression that souls did not have a good sense of direction, at least in the physical plane. They all clung to him because he was probably shining like a lighthouse on the other side, but they seldom moved very far from their belongings. Han’s soul was probably still stuck in his grave, waiting to dismember into pure mana.

Manuel’s attention shifted to Ciaran, who was carefully kneeling in front of his chair and firmly took his left hand between theirs, his wedding ring shining with the last lights of the sunset coming from the window.

“I’m glad you’re safe. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Ciaran truly meant the best for him. They were capable of being so inherently good, so pure. They had some skeletons in the closet as well, but unlike Manuel, they truly looked capable of doing better.

As for why such a bless of a person would want to live close to someone like Manuel, he was still confused.

Manuel had taught them some easy spells, but their most impressive talent was something they already knew how to do on their own: growing plants and nurturing them.

The care they had for the flora manifested in the way they treated Manuel too: while he was busy collapsing and causing collateral damage to their belongings, Ciaran had managed to calm him down and sweep away the whole mess.

They were able to relieve his pain like an analgesic potion. They weren’t a cure though. He could get temporarily better, but never be truly free of his curse.

Was Han meant to be his cure? Manuel bit his lip, feeling immediately ungrateful.

If Han was a cure, his collateral effects were far worse than ghosts and besides he wasn’t even reachable any more.

Manuel wanted to set for the analgesic, for his beloved Ciaran… so why did he feel so miserable? He couldn’t even bring himself to reciprocate all the help they had been giving him. Was his life meant to be clouded by storms of death, headaches and fatigue so heavy that he would never be able to truly enjoy a moment with his partner?

He felt like his head was being hammered and he raised from the chair, deciding that maybe it would've been better to just go to bed and try to sleep it off.

But a hammering sound came from the outside too, startling the two spouses.

Their eyes locked and they realised that they both wore the same quizzical expression.

“Someone’s knocking at the door” Ciaran whispered: “I closed the shop. Might they be some guards? Or maybe an emergency?”

Manuel frowned: “We have a peephole for that. Let’s try to make no sound and look.”

Ciaran was faster than him and sneaked in near the entrance of the shop, followed by Manuel. His spouse quickly glanced in the hole and retreated.

“Three people, I don’t know them” they mouthed.

The knocking came again, stronger this time.

“Open the door!” ordered a commanding voice.

Manuel instantly recognised it and before he could stop himself, he sprinted to the door and opened it. His jaw dropped when his eyes met the icy ones of the man who had shouted a moment before.

He was no guard. He was none other than Jack Townsend.

Han’s widower.

Chapter Text

At the sight of Count Townsend towering at the entrance, a wild energy had propagated on Manuel’s body like electricity.

Townsend was Han Sonner’s husband as well as one of the scariest people in the mercenary army. He looked different from the last time Manuel saw him: older, despite Han’s efforts to keep them both young and healthy with magic, and now he also kept a longer beard and more refined moustache that gave him a somehow aristocratic look, something he totally lacked before buying his title.

But his icy eyes though, those were unmistakable. They pierced Manuel and were enough to keep him pinned in place, waiting for orders.

“Manuel Clerk. I’ve been looking for you.” he said, authoritative.

“Yes, of course,” he replied, despite having no idea on why: “should I- may I offer you some tea, your grace?”

He gestured towards the inside of the shop, where he noticed that Ciaran wasstanding in the dark next to the counter, carefully scrutinising the strangers andsilently weighting how dangerous they might be.

Manuel’s spouse could easily be dangerous too, they had just chosen not to, but in case of necessity Manuel knew that they would’ve been ready to fight back.

However, their way of fighting tended to be more stealthy than direct and with the impulsive act of opening the door, Manuel had blown their cover. He pressed his lips in shame and turned back to Townsend, who after casting a quick glance around took a step inside the shop.

He leant close to Manuel to say: “I appreciate you using my honorific title, but I’m travelling undercover. Just referring to me as sir should be enough.”

Manuel slowly nodded.

Townsend clearly wasn’t worried about hiding his identity too much, however Manuel had no reason to protest.

Why is he here? Manuel figured that it wouldn’t be wise to ask right away, Townsend was someone used to power and probably wouldn’t appreciate someone inquiring him.

Manuel guessed that the reason might have something to do with Han or his magic compass, probably, but what exactly? Could inviting them inside be dangerous? Townsend usually was known to be dangerous, but he revered Han more than anyone else and Manuel left him on good terms, so maybe he could still benefit from their relationship. Besides, Townsend had been insistent on meeting them, but he didn’t otherwise show any intention of harming them.

Manuel decided that he had to be alert but still amicable towards his guests.

Townsend’s two companions followed the Count’s steps without a word and Manuel glanced at their faces under the hoods.

The first one to enter was a blonde and austere middle-aged woman, who he recognised as Hildegard. Ex-mercenary too, one of the fighters.

The second one locked eyes with him and Manuel’s heart skipped a beat.

It was Nesta, one of Han’s -and therefore also Manuel’s- preferred test subjects.

Manuel had experimented on her since he started working under Han.

He was responsible for at least part of her superhuman qualities, but at the same time never asked for permission before trying new spells and potions on her. There would've been no point in doing that: if she refused to comply, Han would've just done it anyway.

That was the way his master worked, he knew exactly what he wanted and took it, not caring about his subjects’ opinion. Maybe Nesta was stronger now, but she had to be the one to suffer through the process -a long, painful and very much stressful process- without a say in it, while Manuel and Han studied her reactions and transformed her body.

During the past seven years he had tried to not think much about her, pushing away the worst memories of his time with Han. Maybe that was the reason why his idea of their relationship was so coated with nostalgia. But he had always done what Han wanted too, the only difference being that he had the privilege to get the silence in his head as a reward, and only the Gods knew how much he needed that.

The ghost’s were loud now.

His gaze was fixed on Nesta and he was half-expecting her to have some sort of visceral reaction at the sight of him as well, but her expression remained impassible. She gave a small nod and headed inside too.

When Manuel closed the door, a light rain started falling outside.

“Just in time.” Townsend commented, before looking around the wooden shelves full of potions and medicine and stopping his gaze inly when it reached Ciaran: “And who would you be?”

They looked at Manuel for just a moment, but then raised their chin and answered: “Call me Ciaran. I’m Manuel’s spouse.”

Townsend blinked one time, seemingly surprised. A strange smile formed on his lips when he replied: “Nice to meet you, I’m sort of an old boss of his.”

Ciaran did not react, just staring at him. That unwelcoming attitude was unusual for them, but it was clear that they understood that the three people who Manuel invited inside were coming from the mercenary army and they didn’t trust them at all. Manuel was sure that in Ciaran’s head they could only bring trouble and, all things considered, his spouse wasn’t wrong.

But as Manuel lit a candle to lead them all into the kitchen, he couldn’t help but admit to himself that the reason why he had opened the door was that for a moment he had thought that he might go back to how things were.

He shook his head to shake away the thought too. It was still buzzing, even though lower than before.

In the kitchen he kept himself busy with the tea, while at his back Townsend and Hildegard sat at the table and Nesta stood beside the door, next to Ciaran.

Manuel had the habitof making tea multiple times a day and the task itself had become a therapeutic ritual for him. He greatly enjoyed pouring water in thekettle, heating it with magic or fire until it boiled and steep dried leaves in the water. It was something simple, harmless, and it could usually grant him a little moment of solace from his thoughts, even if the voices of the souls neverleft him alone.

This time was different.

He stiffly moved the kettle on the fire holding his breath, the hair on his back raised. Four… no, three menacing foreigners loomed behind him and they were impossible to ignore.

While the kettle was heating on the fire no one talked at first. The only sounds that Manuel could hear were the crackling of the fire, the light rain outside and the constant whispers in his head. He turned from the fireplace in time to see Ciaran losing their patience.

“We forgot to bring honey in the kitchen,” they abruptly said: “I’ll go grab it, I’ll be back in a minute.”

They were lying: Manuel had used honey that same afternoon and the jar was still half-full and steeped in a cabinet. Maybe Ciaran was taking the risk to leave him alone with them to grab something else… weapons? Tranquilliser darts?

“There’s no need for you to exit the room, I’m sure the tea will be fine even without honey.” Townsend replied.

Ciaran didn’t insist, but they didn’t hide their frown either. They hesitated just a moment, before suddenly blurting out: “So why are you here? What do you want from us?”

Manuel’s eyes widened.

He glanced at Townsend to see if Ciaran’s direct question had offended him somehow and saw that his gaze was indeed sharper than usual, but still not quite irritated.

“Oh, I don’t want anything from you, my friend” Townsend said, leaning forward on the table: “I only need your husband to come with me at my palace.”

“At your palace? Why?” Ciaran asked, echoing Manuel’s thoughts.

Nesta’s attentive eyes followed his spouse as they started menacingly walking towards Townsend.

“Not another step, sunshine.” he warned.

“You don’t get to command me in my house!” Ciaran shouted, visibly clenching their fists.

But they halted, causing Townsend’s moustache to slightly twitch when he smiled. Behind them, Nesta crossed the small distance between them and slowly put a hand on their shoulder.

“Don’t touch me.” they said, slapping the hand away.

Manuel felt pressured to intervene.

“Ciaran-” he said: “please, stop. Let’s just listen to what they have to say.”

His spouse’s amber eyes darted to him, an intense gaze that communicated worry, annoyance and defeat without a single spoken word.

They looked so small next to Nesta. Manuel just wished that they wouldn’t do anything else reckless. If something happened to them because of his pasthe was sure that he would never be able to forgive himself. He could try to overlook his faults towardstest subjects and strangers, but Ciaran…

A sudden, sharp pain coming from inside his head made him groan, the whispers in his head growing louder and louder. When they subsided, the kettle was whistling.

“Manuel!?” Ciaran called.

“What’s up?” Hildegard asked.

“Sorry, I’m just having a headache, but I’m fine.”

He didn’t care about his trembling fingers when he took the kettle and poured the water into the teapot. He was glad that the attention had shifted to him at least, away from Ciaran.

“Aren’t you like a medic or something?” she questioned.

“Yes, I am, ma’am,” he answered: “but this specific condition of mine is something I can’t help.”

She snorted, unconvinced.

“He’s telling the truth.” Townsend intervened, without elaborating further.

Manuel’s grip on the kettle tightened.

Had Han told him about the ghosts? He certainly did and Manuel felt stupid to have ever thought otherwise. But his master wouldn’t spread information lightly.

Manuel was precious to him and Han knew better than anyone else about the danger that the Inquisition posed for sorcerers like them. If he had told his husband, it was because he knew the secret would be safe with him.

“And I have first hand evidence that he’s good at his job.” Townsend continued: “After the battle ofCanzonia he cured my wounds alongside my husband. I’m still grateful for that.”

In Canzonia Townsend had had a rough time, Manuel could tell it from the state of his body, but the mercenary’s attitude didn’t show it at all. Manuel couldn’t remember a time where he had ever looked weak. It had not been the only time Townsend had needed Manuel’s help, but the others had always been mostly about trivialities.

When his injures were serious, Han usually tended to him alone.

“I remember too. I’m… glad to hear that.” Manuel replied, lowering his gaze to the steaming water.

He steeped the leaves in it and covered the teapot with its lid.

“Look at me when I talk to you, Manuel.”

Manuel turned immediately.

Townsend was sitting just a couple of steps before him, comfortably leaning on the table as if the house belonged to him and not to Manuel and Ciaran: “My husband always spoke well of you. And I trust his opinion, especially on this matter.” he nodded towards Nesta: “For example he said that she made more progress with you than with any other assistant. It’s clear that you were the best.”

To compensate Ciaran’s growing hostility, Manuel forced his lips to form a welcoming smile: “I appreciate the compliments.”

“Did you like your job? Working with my husband?”

Manuel’s eyes left Townsend’s for only a second to glance first at Nesta, then at Ciaran. The former looked utterly uncomfortable, a strange sight in their own home. He went back to looking at Townsend, carefully weighting his words: “It was a pretty demanding job, but… I learnt a lot with Han.”

“That’s great, but I didn’t ask you that, did I?” he rested his head on one hand: “Did you like it? The answer should be a simple yes or no.”

“I…” Manuel felt like walking on eggshells. He thought about the experiments, the victims, Han’s unwanted attentions, his praises, the silence in his head.

He swallowed and felt his palms start sweating. Townsend’s gaze on him was the last push that made him answer: “… yes, I did.”

It sounded way more sincere that he meant to. Did he really like it? He really was doomed from the start.

“And if you could go back in time, would you do it again?” Townsend continued.

Manuel was damned, stained and there was no way of cleaning for him. He had been a killer since way before the mercenaries and at least with them he could try to stop worrying about the consequences of his actions.

He almost regretted leaving. The souls were still whispering and he wanted them to shut up for good.

“…I would.” he answered, trying not to sound as ashamed as he felt.

He wondered if his answer could have disappointed Ciaran, but they just looked disoriented, as if they weren’t believing what they’d just heard.

Townsend on the other hand was flashing a toothy grin, as if somehow proud of Manuel.

And he realised he missed it. Someone being proud of his most inhuman qualities. Things were easy that way.

“My dear Manuel, that’s great news for us,” his expression shifted, becoming suddenly more serious: “because Han wants- wanted you as his successor.”

“He’s gone.” Manuel said. It wasn’t really a question.

Townsend grimaced, before answering: “He is. The Inquisition got him.”

Ciaran gasped and Townsend raised his eyebrows, confused that the bigger outburst of sympathy had come from them.

Manuel just pressed his lips. He wasn’t surprised after all, Han had many enemies and the Inquisition was one of the most powerful. It was just funny that exactly that had been the cause of his master’s death. The Inquisition had played an important role in both his and Ciaran’s life, after all.

“Don’t worry, I’m properly taking care of this problem” Townsend continued: “and one of the ways is meeting you and your spouse.”

“I thought you said you didn’t want anything from me” Ciaran commented.

“Yes, but I like you, sunshine. So I’m willing to include you in the conversation, am I allowed?”

Ciaran opened their mouth to respond, but Townsend cut them short asking: “Isn’t the tea ready by now?”

Manuel, who almost forgot about it, suddenly nodded: “Y-yes, let me pour it for you.”

He ignored a new wave of headache as heprepared six cups and distributed them: one to Townsend, one to Hildegard, one to Nesta, one to Ciaran and… his hands still held the last two.

“You made one too many, pal?” Hildegard scoffed.

“Yeah” Manuel nervously chuckled: “I must have messed up with the numbers.”

There was something strange going on, as if his mind was reading one more person in the room. The whispers grew stronger again.

“Don’t worry, I’ll drink that one too” Townsend said, accepting the second cup and raising it as one would do with an alcoholic beverage: “To Han!”

Hildegard and Nesta imitated him and Manuel chose to do it too. He eyed Ciaran who after a moment of consideration begrudgingly joined them, without saying the words.

Townsend sniffed the first cup before drinking it in one go. Manuel tried to ignore his headache and took a small sip too. The slightly bitter taste of the brew filled his mouth and warmed him, making himfinally feel a little more comfortable.

Townsend placed the empty cup on the table and took the second with one hand, gesturing with the other: “Since I see that you’re so eager I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Manuel. I’ll bring you -and your spouse if you want- to my palace and from now on you’ll work as my new doctor and mage. I’ll offer you both room and board and you’ll have access to all the luxuries of an upper servants and more. I’m being very generous with this offer. What do you think?”

Manuel felt Ciaran’s gaze on him, but something in his head -the whispers?-told him to ignore them.

Townsend wasn’t different from Han, when he wanted something he just took it. There was a reason why he had brought in Hildegard an Nesta too, two of the most powerful soldiers in the mercenaries, their menacing presence served as an unspoken threat. Manuel could maybe try to fight back, but Han had certainly made Townsend resistant to offensive magic. There was no way of refusing.

Besides, it wasn’t like Manuel would have refused. Still, he wanted to try to negotiate a bit: “Will I have access to his laboratory, books and notes included?”

“Of course, he would’ve wanted you to. How could you the job otherwise?”

His notes! Maybe he could find out about the damned spell Han had always kept from him! Maybe there was still a way to make the souls quiet for good.

Manuel quickly thought about what else he could add. They had certainly found him through the magic compass and if he ever changed his mind and decided to flee, with that they would've known where he was.

“… Will I have the magic compass back?”

Townsend gaze darkened. There, Manuel was just at his second request and already pushing his luck.

“No.” Townsend drily replied.

It was definitive. And Manuel had to go with it, but it was fine.Compass or not, he was confident that he could get by. And he would have already answered, if it wasn’t for Ciaran. He was concerned for them and wanted to know their opinion, so he turned towards them and...

The same sharp pain as before struck his head again, he let go of his tea cup to grab his own head. He heard it hit the ground and then felt the warm liquid splash at his feet, wetting his shoes and robes, raising a small cloud of steam.

The souls were as loud as ever now and he realised that a sudden pain of this scale had never happened before. Their voices felt pained and strange, somehow. Most of them where mumbling nonsense as always, but there was one… one of them was laughing.

“Manuel!”

He didn’t have time to wonder about what happened. NowCiaran’s hands were on him and he was able regain his grip on reality.

“Manuel, I’m here.”

They hugged each other tight, almost forgetting that there were guests in the room. He kept his eyes wide open and noticed that the cup was still rolling on the ground, seemingly intact.

“It’s alright, Ciaran” he said, moving a strand of hair behind their ear.

He gently let go of the hug, grabbed a rag and knelt to clean the pavement, bashfully mumbling apologies to his guests. Ciaran crouched beside him and softly grabbed his hand to stop him: “Don’t push yourself.”

He shook his head: “I’m almost finished, you can stand up, Ciaran.”

They clenched their jaw, but did as told.

“Does this happen often?” Hildegard asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Not really, today I’m just weaker than usual” he answered. His voice was trembling, maybe because his body was too. He raised to his feet holding the fallen cup and while putting it in the sink headded: “You know, because the compass makes me weaker. If I had it I could try to break the spell and get better.”

If Townsend understood the snipe, he didn’t show it.

“Before deciding if I can come with you, may I have a word with my spouse?” Manuel asked.

“If?” Townsend cooed: “I thought you were looking forward to work for me.”

“I am, just-” Manuel stumbled, feeling his face heating up: “please. Can I talk to them in private and give a definitive answer tomorrow?”

Townsend narrowed his eyes in an expression that looked irritated at first, but then softened a little.

“Marital life can be hard, especially when there are working trips involved, am I right?” he darkly chuckled: “I should know something about that.”

He startled both Manuel and Ciaran, suddenly raising. He came closer and closer until he was right in front of them and rested a hand between them on the kitchen counter to lean forward, eyes darting from one to the other.

“I’ll lend you ten minutes to talk, but I want to hear your decision right after, Manuel. It shouldn’t be difficult…” he said: “…after all we all know that there’s one single right answer, don’t we?”

Chapter Text

Their private meeting happened in their bedroom upstairs. Ciaran had proposed to go outside, but Townsend refused.

“No, you won’t go where I can’t see you when my friend Ciaran here stillhas that antagonistic look on their face,” heclicked his tongue enjoying the irritating effect of his words on Ciaran, then hecontinued: “I smell trouble, but I’m willing to let it slide if you cooperate.”

He had been willing to let them have a moment alone though, provided that they let Nesta guard the door.

So now Manuel and Ciaran were sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands in theirs, and he could hardly bring himself to look at them, ashamed of how easily he was willing to let his life in Sawind Village go. But even if he had a choice to stay, he accepted that there was no place for him in that small town. The villagers’ idea of him as a quiet and soft-spoken pharmacist was far from what he really was: a sorcerer in close contact with the spiritual plane who regularly attempted forbidden magic, someone who killed people before and didn’t regret it as much as he should have.

The constant buzzing in his head reminded him that he was way beyond repair. He was a natural repellent for a peaceful life.

He needed to make Ciaran understand, but they started talking before he could: “What’s gotten into you? Why are you being so obsequious?”

“He’s Jack Townsend, Ciaran. You’ve heard the stories about him, both from me and from the victims of the mercenaries. We shouldn’t get him mad.”

“Alright, but you still shouldn’t go. You won’t be safe with them, he’s already threatening you.”

“No- I mean, yes, he is, but I already made up my mind. I have to go” he said, lowering his gaze to the timber floor.

“What?” Ciaran couldn’t hide their bewilderment: “So you weren’t lying before, you would do it again?”

“I mean…” he started.

The wood on the boards of the floor occasionally curved in shapes that resembled eyes and he felt watched. Under the scrutiny of Ciaran, of himself, of the gods.

Weren’t the ghosts enough to bother him?

He faltered, thinking about what to say, but Ciaran spoke before him: “You told me all kinds of terrible things about Han Sonner. He was everything but a good presence to be around, you can’t be serious about this. They’re asking you to do what he did.”

Manuel slightly raised his head to make the eyes on the floor disappear from his sight.

But maybe like that I’ll finally stop pretending that I’m at peace again, he thought. He knew he shouldn’t have, but it was not like he could stop his mind from thinking.

Ciaran lowered their voice: “I can get my knife here. We can still refuse, if they attack us we can show them that we care about each other more than we fear them-”

He frantically shook his head: “But I don’t want to!”

They let out an exasperated sigh: “Manuel, why do you want to give up so easily? We’re finally happy and safe here, we should fight to keep this. Or is there something that I’m missing?”

“Ciaran I- I… don’t feel like you do. I know I should, but-” he swallowed, trying to hold back tears: “I’m tired. I’m just so tired to be like this-”

He raised a hand to his mouth, ashamed.

“Manuel? Hey…” Ciaran sorrowfully whispered, barely audible through the buzzing in his head: “…you- you never told me that before.”

They tried to get closer, but Manuel shook his head again.

“I-I… I’m sorry-”

“No need to apologise, when we’re in a better situation you can even tell me all about that if you want. But right now we need to make a choice and I think that following Townsend is an awful idea. Even if you’re unhappy, going back into a harmful environment won’t make you feel better.”

He wastrying to find something good to say to stop the conversation from degenerating. He should have known that he wouldn’t be capable of making them see his point.

They were too good for someone like him. Why they chose to marry someone who constantly dragged them both down, that was a mystery.

“Manuel, listen to me” Ciaran softly squeezed his hand: “Han abused you. Would reliving that really make you feel better?”

“His magic helped me.”

“He made you torture people!”

“It was for research-”

Ciaran shook their head, astonished: “You still have nightmares about that-”

His free hand moved to the bedsheets and gripped them hard. They were right, on that same bed at least once a week he woke up screaming or tearful. Sometimes nightmares were about his youth, but most of the times he found himself in the mercenary army again. At the side of Han again.

However...

“…I’ll keep having them either way.”

Ciaran’s gaze grew intense, their voice broken: “He assaulted you, Manuel.”

“You shouldn’t bring that up” Manuel said, with disdain. He retreated his hand from Ciaran and placed it on his lap, closed in a fist. The other was still gripping the bedsheets, helping him release some of the stress he had accumulated since before dinner.

“But it did happen. He took advantage of your vulnerabilities multiple times, you told me that yourself.” Ciaran replied. Their voice sounded truly sorry and delicate, but Manuel found it also patronising, as if they were trying to explain something to someone who didn’t quite understand the topic.

His stomach churned. He still wasn’t sure about how to classify the sex he’d had with Han. Had he really been assaulted? He had grown to fancy Han, crave him. What he didn’t crave was to dive too deeply into that conversation.

“I- he… ugh, I was- I wanted it.” he quickly said and upon seeing that Ciaran was about to reply, he continued: “Our relationship was complicated to say the least, alright. But Han’s dead. He can’t do anything to me any more.”

“His soul…”

“Souls can’t rape people if that’s what you’re worried about. And Townsend won’t tutor me like he did, so the problem does not arise.”

“Do you really so want to defend him so much?”

“I’m not defending Han, I’m being pragmatic. Listen, you saw me before, I’m getting weaker day by day, the headaches are getting worse, I don’t have the energy to handle the ghosts on my own any more. I don’t know how long I can take this, before I go mad, but If I went to his laboratory I could find the spell that will free me from them once and for all and honestly I don’t care if it’s forbidden magic. I need it.”

He ended the phrase looking Ciaran straight in the eyes and realised that they were wet like his.

“I’m scared, Manuel.” they slowly said. They hugged themselves as they continued talking: “I’m scared that they might hurt you. That they could separate us.” they let out a small sob: “I’m scared that they’ll try to change you into something you’re not, like the Inquisition tried to do.”

At the mention of the Inquisition, Manuel’s memories went back to older times, when they were both younger and witless.

He had joined the Inquisition in his adolescence because he thought that if he stayed close to those who purged killers and sorcerers, he could cleanse himself from his sins too. He got a job as a healer under the guidance of Master Willow.

They mostly healed soldiers and victims, but sometimes Willow tended to the people in the torture dungeon too. Those were the days where she spoke the least.

Oh, dear Master Willow.

Willow had humble origins and had raised in the ranks of the Inquisition making a name for herself with the sole aid of her talent and perseverance. She was an orphan and all the family she had left was a younger sibling of the same age as Manuel, whose name was Ciaran.

Ciaran worked for the inquisition too, but as a spy. Their job was to help the investigators to find evidence to prove that some people were sorcerers.

Ciaran always took their duties seriously, which meant that they had to prioritise the Inquisition over even their family.

One day, their team followed a lead that brought them tofind a secret trapdoor near Ciaran’s house. Under it there was a magic laboratory filled with books about forbidden magic and a goldmine of evidence all linked to none other than Master Willow. She had been practising forbidden magic for years and never told anyone, not even her sibling.

Ciaran had no choice. Pressured by their team, they reportedtheir own sisterto the Inquisition.

Since master Willow was someone of relative importance and had been working with that institution for at least ten years, they hoped that the Inquisition would just fine her and give her a second chance.But their sister got executed in less than a monthand they never had the chance to talk to her again after the denunciation.

At that time Manuel felt like death.

Betrayed. And terrified.

He had been trying to mask his connection with the spiritual plane more than ever, trying to be a good mage like his master, until he found out that she was using forbidden magic too and would be soon executed for it.

He had never told Willow any of his deepest secrets, but she had probably realised that he was closer to the spirits than most, before dying.

Her soul reached him and started tormenting him, talking louder than the others. It had a unique clearness to it that the others lacked,because of her magic talentand extensive knowledge of the spiritual realm. She could talk to him almost as if she was constantly right behind his head, essentially depriving him of any privacy.

At first he had tried to ignore her, but she was insistent.

She begged him to meet her sibling.

And he finally agreed. One night Manuel reached Willow’s home and followed her instructions until he reached the roof, where he found Ciaran, sitting on the edge and watching below. The sight of them, swallowed by the guilt of being responsible for the death of a loved one, made a crack in his heart.

He told them about the ghosts.

He told them that he could hear their sister. He proved it, reciting word for word what the soul told him: harmlesssecrets of both Ciaran’s and Willow’s youth and of the house they lived in, something so specific that only Willow and Ciaran could know.

Slowly Ciaran dragged themselves closer to Manuel to listen to his -and their sister’s- words. He acted as translator between the two planes, giving Ciaran Willow’s own post-mortem speech.

She had no resentment towards her sibling. Reassuring Ciaran and spending one last night with them soothed her soul, turned her serene.

The last thing she did before disintegrating into the spiritual realm was offering her forgiveness to her sibling.

And Manuel knew that Ciaran deserved it. They always meant the best for people and their moral values were strong.

After that night they found themselves in a tricky position: Ciaran knew about Manuel’s ghosts and they both felt unsure about still working under the inquisition.

Not long after, they left their jobs together and took their belongings -including a couple of Willow’sforbidden magic books that Ciaran had managed to keep hidden in the backyard of their house- and left the city too, with the intention of travelling together to better places.

But they entered the wrong territory and got caught in a war where Townsend’s mercenaries were winning. Ciaran managed to escape, but Manuel didn’t and… well the rest was history.

He met Han. And with him started the best and the worst time of Manuel’s life.

If the Inquisition ever taught him something it was that people like him were more easy to kill than to fix. Ciaran deserved their sister’s forgiveness, but Manuel never got anyone’s. He wouldn’t even dream to ask for that.

“Listen, Ciaran” he said: “Townsend’s palace is not the Inquisition. They won’t hang me because I hear things that I don’t want.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. It’s the polar opposite of the Inquisition, but still another extreme.”

In which I might fit.

He slowly raised his arms and wrapped them around his spouse.

“We left the Inquisition, we lost each other and then we found each other again. I’m sure that we’ll get through this if we’re together. But I don’t want to force you. If you don’t feel like it-”

“I won’t let you leave alone.” Ciaran cut short, defeated: “I’ll come with you.”

A sparkle of hope lit Manuel’s face and he tenderly tightened the hug.

How selfish of him.

To want both his old job and his spouse who hated it at the same time.

“I’m sorry, Ciaran.” he said: “I wish I could do better.”

“You can, Manuel. We’ll figure it out.” they placed a small kiss on his neck: “I’ll try to help you see that too.”

Escorted by Nesta, the spouses went downstairs to refer the news to a smiling Townsend.

He took the occasion to invite himself and his two companions to spend the night in that same house, with the couple.

“I’m sure there’s an inn in town…” Ciaran proposed, badly masking the horror in their voice.

“But you have such a lovely home! Besides, someone can sleep on the floor, we have enough sleeping bags for that.” Townsend said.

He was clearly doing this mainly to mess with them. He could and no one would've ever won an argument with him, even Ciaran probably understood that at that point. Manuel was about to offer their bed to Townsend, but his spouse shoot him a glare so vicious that he immediately shut his mouth.

While they were setting Hildegard and Nesta’s beds on the kitchen floor, Townsend scheduled their departing for the next morning.

Ciaran immediately protested: they were worried about habitual clients who needed constant treatment and would've liked to stay one more day to delegate the pharmacy duties to someone else, but Townsend simply wouldn’t allow it. They compromised that Ciaran would write a letter with the shop’s key inside and if Townsend approved the content of the text, they would leave it in a trusted person’s letterbox the morning after.

They also organised to take turns in the bathroom. The trip would last for about a week and they weren’t sure about how many times they could use a proper bathroom to wash away the mud of the road from their skin.

Manuel took from his closet four towels to distribute them to the guests and, after a moment, realised that he had took one too many again. What was with his head that evening? He placed one back with the other clean clothes and went downstairs. He scribbled a list of things to take with him for the relocation while he waited for his turn in the bathroom.

And when it finally arrived, he closed the door behind himself and let out a long exhale, feeling relieved in that moment of solitude.

Finally some quiet.

The lock clicked and the room fell totally silent.

Wait.

Something was missing. Was he dreaming?

He hurried to one of the buckets and splashed some chilly water on his face. He saw the waves crumbling his reflection and heard the droplets fall back in the bucket.

What he did not hear any more were the ghosts.

“H-how…?” he mumbled, realising that he could still hear himself and wasn’t going deaf or about to faint again.

“Manuel” someone called.

It wasn’t Ciaran. It wasn’t one of the guests either.

“Manuel, my doll. I think you can hear me.” echoed a single, extremely clear voice in his head: “I hope you forgive me for showing up so late, but I wanted our moment to be special. Did you like my present? The silence you yearned for so much.”

Manuel raised a hand to his mouth in shock.

No wonder why he made too many cups of tea and took too many towels. There was someone else with them, but it was someone who lacked a body.

“It took a while to figure out how to control the souls as a soul myself, but after all they are just manifestations of mana and I’ve spent my whole life playing with it.”

It was nothing like the usual whispering and it was clearer than any ghost he’d heard before. Clearer even than Master Willow. He could recognise the timbre of the voice, the particular way in which it grazed his mana, his overbearing presence.

The waves of the bucket steadied to reflect Manuel’s stunned face.

There was no doubt. What he was hearing was Han’s voice.

“I’m glad you chose to come back.”

Chapter Text

The bathroom was extremely quiet. The water in the bucket had stilled, the rain outside had stopped and even the guests in the other rooms of the house refrained from making noises for a moment.

Manuel heard no voices in his head. No ghosts. Except for one.

“I can hear you, Han.” he slowly whispered, looking at his own reflection in the water.

His face looked shocked. He wasn’t sure about how he should feel.

“You really can! I knew you had it in you, dear! You really are one of the greatest mages I’ve ever met.” Han Sonner’s soul replied.

His old master lacked a body and therefore Manuel couldn’t see his expression, but his voice manifested in his head like induced thoughts and by the timbre of it and the way Han’s soul lightly weighed on Manuel’s, it was obvious that he was feeling elated.

Manuel looked around, as if scared that the others could hear Han too, but he already knew the answer: he was probably the first person Han had been able to speak to in months.

A weird form of ecstasy and horror slowly grew inside of him. He could speak to Han Sonner again! He felt like on a pedestal again. He had thought that his relationship with Han had reached the end of the line for months, hell, years, but Han’s ghost had managed to crawl all the way there and shatter his beliefs once again.

Shatter his life too, maybe. Well, that wouldn’t actually be a big deal, given that he was already going through big changes.

FirstJack Townsend’s arrival, then Han’s… it was happening all too quickly. But maybe it wasn’t a coincidence.

Manuel soaked a rag in the water to mask the sound of his own voice and whispered: “How did you find me?”

“Oh, I need to thank my husband for this one. He paid a visit to Bleakfall’s mass graves and I managed to grab on to him and our compass.” his soul joyfully shifted around Manuel’s: “It’s hard to measure physical time in this plane, so I don’t know how long it took before he decided to come to me, but I think my body had started decaying and I was glad when he arrived carrying some of my things with him.”

Manuel kept soaking the rag and wringing it out in the bucket. Half of the reason was to cover his voice, but the other half was that continuously repeating that motion managed to calm him down somehow. At the end of the conversation the rag was probably going to be much more cleaner than him, he realised.

“You followed his soul up until here.” he commented.

“Yes, dear. It wasn’t hard to find you.”

“He had a compass pointing to me.”

“That object is no use in the spiritual realm.” Han explained: “But here everyone can see your soul. The souls of the living are usually vapid but you… you are magnificent. Like a tree full of fruits surrounded by starving peasants. Good to know that I’m the only one able to climb and eat from you.”

Manuel felt warmth coming from Han, as if he was trying to communicate his feelings by caressing his apprentice’s soul. Manuel suddenly felt flustered and he placed the rag on his face, cooling it with the water.

“I’d say that I’ve successfully managed to interlace my soul with yours,” Han explained: “I know that you’re happy to hear my praises.”

Manuel dropped the rag in shock, which splashed under the water again.

Can he hear my thoughts?

“Not everything, yet” Han suddenly replied: “but I heard that, even though you didn’t move your lips at all.” before Manuel’s mind could ask more, he continued: “I can understand only your clearest thoughts and I have a vague idea of when you use your mouth to speak and when you don’t.”

Manuel shook his head.

“I can tell that you’re confused. And scared, now. You want me out of your head but you’re still conflicted about this, right?”

You can see that too from the spiritual plane? Manuel thought, experimenting with the intention of communicating only by mind.

“No. But I know you well enough to understand that, Manuel. Don’t worry, there’s no need to be scared of me now.”

The warmth came back and Manuel forced himself to accept that it was surprisingly pleasant. It was soothing his turmoil, that contact happening only in the spiritual plane but with effects manifesting even in the physical.

What do you want from me? Manuel’s mind asked.

“I’m just trying to avoid death.”

But you’re already dead.

“True, but what I mean is the ultimate death. As long as I’m interlaced with you, my conscience won’t dismember into the spiritual realm. I will help you manage the ghosts and guide you like I used to back then. I’ll keep living because the world hasn’t seen the last of me yet and you’ll be my hands and eyes, Manuel.”

You want to live vicariously through me? Manuel thought, Do you even feel what I feel?

“If you mean if I can feel your five senses like you do, the answer is… that it’s still complicated. What you physically feel becomes muddy and vague here, but I’ll figure it out soon.”

The ecstasy was overpowering Manuel’s horror. His curiosity was pushing him to ask more, to understand better, to please his old master, to forget that he had an uninvited guest in his head.

Han was silencing the ghosts. Manuel was able to think more clearly now and for once he could get something out of the situation too.

Describe me what you see, he demanded.

He felt Han’s soul roll and stretch as he was probably thinking about what to say.

Being able to feel a single soul so well was a strange sensation for Manuel, even though he had been hearing ghosts for so long. Han was different from the rest, he was able to confidently move in the spiritual plane as if he owned it.

It was something so exclusive, so weird to think that only them and them alone could communicate like that because Han had spent so long studying forbidden magic and applying it and Manuel lived in a constant state of liminality between the planes.

“I can tell that you’re alone in a room…” Han started.

That’s not impressive, you said that you can feel the souls of the living, Manuel replied.

“There’s water somewhere,” Han continued: “my guess is that you’re in the bathroom, am I right?”

You’re right.

Manuel got up, and to challenge his master he walked to the small mirror hanging on the wall, above the sink.

“You’re… looking at someone else?” Han supposed, but soon corrected himself: “Wait, no, that must be your reflection, am I right?”

You’re right.

Manuel looked at himself too, focusing on one detail at a time.

“Your hair is still dark, but they have some new gray strands on them,” Han said: “and you still braid them like you did when you were in the mercenaries.”

That was true. It was a single practical braid to keep them out of the way when he was working. The idea of cutting them had never even crossed his mind.

“You have a clean-shaved chin. You wear a gray tunic and you have a catalyst disguised as a necklace. And… also one on your left ring finger.”

You’re right, Han. I think that you might see clearly only the things I pay attention to.

“I think so too. You know, it’s good to be experimenting with you again. Soon I’ll be pushing my limits and I’ll be able to do even better than this.”

Does this work the other way around? Can you influence what I feel somehow? Manuel asked.

“Oh, Manuel, don’t act dumb, I’m talking to you, of course I can influence you!”

And you can silence the other ghosts too, Manuel noted, were you the one who gave me those sharp headaches, before?

He felt Han shifting around him, squeezing his soul.

“Busted!”

Why did you do that?

“It was a sort of happy accident. I was trying to find a way to communicate with you” Han explained: “but every time you thought about your nag of a spouse and I saw them in your mind, my first instinct was to make everything explode. My emotional shift probably caused the souls around me to become more louder for you.”

That was right, strong emotions were known to influence mana.

“That made me figure out that maybe there was a way to make them quiet too and so I managed to do it. It’s relatively easy.” Han’s soul said “And don’t worry about the headaches. I can control myself: I didn’t make a scene while you were discussing with your spouse before, right? I wanted you to choose on your own whether to follow my husband or not, without me interfering.”

Manuel nervously scratched the skin on his left forearm, looking at his own reflection frown.

Han’s negative emotions towards Ciaran could prove dangerous. Was it just simple hatred or was it jealousy?

You shouldn’t talk like that about my spouse, Manuel thought, they’ve been there for me when you weren’t.

“Alright genius, and whose decision was it to move away? Yours. I wasn’t there because you didn’t want me at the time.”

And what makes you think that I want you now?

“The fact that you still hadn’t done anything to shoo me away.”

Manuel couldn’t lie to himself. He actually didn’t want him to go away, because he needed Han to keep his head quiet and… he had to admit that despite all he missed him.

“I think I know why you accept me now, Manuel.”

Manuel took a step back, shaking his head, worried that Han could have read in his mind how deep his longing was.

“I might have put you through hard tests that scared you in the past, but I also let you experiment with your powers, pushed your boundaries. I encouraged the parts of you that scared you the most. I made you overcome your fears.”

Manuel felt the need to disappear, but he couldn’t hide from his head.

“Your spouse has made you a washed up version of yourself.”

Stop it. I just… aged, Manuel’s mind protested.

“No, what you did was to give up. They made you give up. Isn’t that right?”

Manuel wanted him to shut up like the other ghosts.

Asshole.

“Oh, I can hear you, dear. But don’t worry, I prefer it when you’re sincere with me. I want to see you unravelled. Lies and masks are pretty useless when one’s as powerful as we are.”

Unravelled?

Manuel did put a mask, in Sawind Village. But he had to. Using magic at his full potential made him destroy his mother. Indulging in forbidden magic brought him to experiment on unwilling people.

Unravelling meant feeding his darkest instincts, letting himself hurt others just to know more, just for himself, just because he could.

How could he? With Han’s voice in his head he felt like he was already losing control of his life once again… like he did before fleeing from the mercenaries.

But Manuel wasn’t going to be a puppet. He might have fallen for the Inquisition when he was younger, but now he wanted to believe that he knew better. That he wouldn’t let Han Sonner unbind him of all of his inhibitions just to see how far he could go.

Manuel looked at his hands. He was real, he was still alive, Han was not. Manuel was the only link his master had to the physical realm. That had to count for something.

He turned to the left and opened a cabinet, where he and Ciaran kept most of what they used to groom themselves.

Hey, Han, tell me what you see now, he commanded in his head.

“What?”Manuel felt Han’s soul twist in confusion: “Well, one comb, one hairbrush, soap bars, a scissor and a razor. …Wait. Why are you focusing on the razor so much?”

Manuel rolled up his sleeves.

“Manuel-”

You want to live through me, right? Then you’ll listen to my demands.

He took the razor with his right hand and experimentally lowered it on his left forearm, cutting a straight, red, burning line. He felt Han’s soul writhe.

“Stop, Stop! Don’t you dare damage your body, Manuel.”

Or else what?

“Or else I’ll give you one of those splitting headaches again.”

Do it then.

A moment passed. Then another. Nothing happened.

“Were you bluffing?” Manuel uttered, before he could stop himself.

Han’s soul twisted, but didn’t communicate in any other way. Manuel got the impression that even though he would’ve preferred Manuel not to find that out, he was somehow proud of his apprentice.

Manuel was starting to understand the situation.

You feel it too, don’t you? You feel the same pain as I do. My headaches hurt you too.

He revelled in the tension he felt in Han.

“They do.” his master begrudgingly admitted: “Stop hurting yourself.”

I’ll do it, if you’ll obey me.

Manuel felt a spike of satisfaction, because for once in his life he had Han under control. Han could talk to him as much as he wanted but he was ultimately powerless, while Manuel could deprive him of his very last chance.

“I’ll be fine, you would never kill yourself.” Han complained.

That was true, Manuel still had someone to live for. But dying probably wouldn’t be necessary.

Are you really willing to risk it, Han? Where else could you find someone who can hear ghosts? Your soul would be dismembered before you even come close to someone like me.

Han’s soul turned on itself, thoughtful.

It really looked like risking his host’s safety was a price too high to pay for him.

Manuel remembered how Han was always willing to risk his subjects’ life, only growing mildly concerned over the ones that lasted for more than one year with him. Gambling with other people’s lives was fine and he drew the line only at his own, or Manuel’s.

“You’re playing with fire, my doll” his soul said.

So are you.

Manuel went back to the bucket and washed away the blood from the razor and his arm. Then he healed himself with magic, gladly noticing that Han’s presence made him spend less mana than usual. He was probably lending some, Manuel figured.

“So you want me to obey” Han said, intrigued: “Well, what are your requests?”

Manuel knew exactly what to ask: Teach me the spell to silence the ghosts.

“I don’t know how to do that in my state and to be honest I wouldn’t do it either case.” Han replied.

Manuel dropped his arm, now completely healed. He sighed.

Why is that?

“Because I need you to need me, somehow, right? It’s in your best interest to keep me in your head right now and I want it to stay like that. I don’t think you can force me to tell you.”

Manuel decided to let it go. If he was going to Townsend’s palace, maybe he could find the spell by looking in Han’s notes with or without his help.

Then you’ll keep the other souls quiet and you’ll shut up when I ask you to.

“But I love talking to you! I think you’d be a great persecutor, you know?” Han teased.

Shut up and stop interrupting me, Manuel thought, just to see what would happen.

And Han did as told. Manuel could feel by the way his soul was shuddering that his master was somehow enjoying this turn of events. Was this a way to unravel Manuel too?

As long as he could use it to his advantage he didn’t care.

You won’t bother me or my spouse in any way. This is my last request for now.

“A bit generic, isn’t it?”

It is, but this only means that you’ll need to be twice as careful.

“Alright, and what do I get in return?”

I’ll talk to you, and you’ll be able to avoid your soul’s death like you wanted to. I’ll also do some of the things you want, if they don’t make me uncomfortable or go against Townsend’s orders. Is that alright for you?

“I guess it’s better than nothing.”

Great, this means that we have a deal.

Manuel passed a hand through his bangs, uncharacteristically satisfied with himself. Had he really managed to keep his master under control? He had. He did great.

I need to wash myself. If I take too long the others might suspect something…

Manuel started unlacing his belt to undress, but he hesitated.

“What’s up?” Han teased: “I’ve already seen you naked.”

He had, but that didn’t make the situation easier. The souls in his head barely knew about his connection to the physical realm, clinging to him only because he could grant them a somehow longer post-mortem existence, but with Han, Manuel felt like he had to say goodbye to his privacy for good. The same problem had arisen with master Willow, but at least she had the decency to not be so invasive about it.

Shut up, Manuel ordered.

“Oh come on, already?” his master protested.

Han. The razor is still there.

Han didn’t comment anything else and Manuel tried to go back to his washing routine ignoring his own unease.

When Manuel went back to the kitchen, he almost tripped on Nesta who was curled up in her sleeping bag on the floor.

She looked much more gentle when asleep.

“You alright, Clerk?” Hildegard asked from the table: “Do you need me to wake her up and move her? She’s thick as mince, she should’ve placed her bed in the corner instead of there.”

Manuel raised his hand to signal that it wouldn’t be necessary: “I’ll tell Ciaran to be careful too.”

Hildegard shrugged and went back to drinking from a glass in small sips and her gaze trailed to Townsend, who was sitting in front of her seemingly unaware of what had just happened. He was totally absorbed in writing a letter with Manuel’s ink and paper.

“Focus on him, Manuel” Han said: “Look at Jack, please. I want to see him.”

Manuel satisfied his request and slowly walked closer to the Count.

He didn’t look much different from before, his loose, wavy hair hanging low and his cold eyes focused on the paper. They suddenly darted up, looking at Manuel.

“He looks… so worn out.” Han’s soul said: “When will you tell him that you can hear me?”

I won’t, Manuel replied.

“What!?”

You don’t teach me the spells to silence the ghosts, I don’t tell your husband that you’re here.

“I- damn it, Manuel, stop being so fucking difficult!”

“Can I help you, Manuel?” Townsend asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I was wondering if you or Hildegard needed some chamomile tea to help you sleep” Manuel offered.

“No, I already have your fine wine to drink” she said, waving her glass: “Besides, I think I’ll stay awake a little longer.”

They’re mounting guard? Manuel asked himself.

“Of course they are, you’re full of catalysts in this house and they still don’t trust you yet.” Han replied, annoyed.

“I’ll refuse too… thanks,” Townsend replied, before lowering his head to his letter again: “I just need to read this once again, so tomorrow I’ll be able to send it right away.”

“What is it?” Manuel asked.

“A letter for the palace.”

Manuel nodded and his eyes fell on the first two words, who revealed the addressee: Dear Wayne.

Townsend’s hand abruptly covered the rest of the text: “It would be polite to ask before reading someone else’s letter.”

“I’m sorry-” Manuel immediately replied, stepping back.

Townsend’s frown relaxed a little: “You’re forgiven.” he briefly glanced at the wooden clock on the wall to add: “You don’t have much time before tomorrow, so go pack your things with your spouse upstairs. If you forget something we won’t come back to take it.”

Manuel nodded and timidly pointed to the table: “I made a list of things to take with me before, can I grab it?”

Townsend grunted and folded his letter so that Manuel couldn’t spy on it any more, then said: “Come.”

Manuel swiftly reached the piece of paper but then he hesitated. His eyes fell to the inkwell. Small black spots were scattered both on the wood of the table and on the back of the folded letter, indicating that Townsend’s writing wasn’t very elegant.

“May I?” Manuel asked him reaching for the inkwell, as if it didn’t belong to himself and his spouse.

Townsend frowned again, but nodded.

Manuel took the quill and added one single last word to the list: razor.