Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

• Description: Entry of an unnamed soldier. 
• Context: Found on the southern border of Silvand, likely written after the Northern land of Seges had been conquered by the Herena military. The letter was found in a small train wreck, carrying both minimal cargo and passengers.
• Date given: 3015, Spring, exact dates illegible.

[...] I finally saw what the very front lines were talking about; it’s as bad as they say it is. I’ve never seen warfare like this sort, and that goes for any other commentary that I’ve overheard. There was smoke everywhere, arising from this dark substance, I don’t know exactly what, though. People keep calling it “tar,” and I think it’s appropriate, judging by looks. It seems that we need gas masks from what [...] 

My squad lost many men, more than I’d expected from one small, “insignificant” battle. I don’t want to imagine what damage it would deal if it were more large-scale. [...] I’m scared that I [...] but I have to stay strong, like everyone else put here.

It’s gotten warmer out, but I really do hope the shipment of more coats comes soon. Mine is becoming tattered. I’d love to make it in time for your birthday, and I pray that this isn’t just wishful thinking. [...] I don’t mean to worry you, but rather to comfort you, that I am still alive. 

I hope this letter makes it to you safely.

• Traces of TAR found on the letter. No significant information about TAR’s composition was found. 

Documented: By Esmé Laurent, Silvand Medical Research Facility

Chapter Text

The silent gloom of fog lay a quiet tension onto the concrete structures, illuminated by the sun’s light feeble attempts to reach the land through thick clouds, a small circular glow visible behind the obscurity. The edifices are covered in a decent layer of frost from the meeting of the watery, yet poor soil the concrete stands on, attempting to claw its way up the hard surface. 

As the day reaches high noon, though, hardly noticeable from the biting cold and the continued dimness from the clouds overhead, a bell tolls in the distance, a distinct, clear noise across the muffled scenery. On queue, snow crunching underneath boots reveals the yellowed and weary grass underneath, the footsteps matching the sharp huffs of air of those leaving in a herd, out of a building and towards their next destination of comfort, some clutching onto a small, silver symbols, that of a five-point-star flipped onto its elongated top point. Such people stream out in small clusters, as sheep do, from a building, not grand, but a quite good size to hold people for a meeting, an event. 

The mass of concrete factories that tower over the smaller nearby buildings, meek homes, are what makes up most of the desolate country, depending on industrial work to compensate for the contents of land being bogs one half of the year, then ice the other half, and land inhabitable littered with small communities of people that’ve been turned cold and harsh from the climate itself. But this crude work of metal and smoke- constantly exporting and collaborating as much as they can- is what keeps this country from going into debt and disaster.

Within one of said factories, a dim hum echoes throughout the dark facility, any footsteps taken echoing across hallways. A faucet somewhere drips from a ragged pipe and onto a cold, slippery tile. Military personnel speak to one another in low voices, careful to not let their words run freely nor clearly through the vents. Walk down the corridors, and you are to be greeted by either a closed door or an open room, the glow of screens and humming of machines from the inside as cold-shouldered as the staff. 

In one certain room, where the doors are tightly shut by a mechanical system, lies one person within the whole room, in a colorless hospital bed. A small canopy of wires and thin tubes hover above the body, the devices held up by slender metal hooks and clips.

That bed contains a young man (if you could even consider him grown), hair pale, face likewise in coloring, still holding onto the youthful fat, expelling and inhaling air more shallowly than he should be. He looks as if he’d been becoming one with where he lies from inhabiting it far too long. 

His eyes move under eyelids, making them ripple, before they barely open. The beeps of monitors, hum of gadgets, the jungle of IV lines, the muzzling of an oxygen mask. He lies there for a good couple of minutes, the stimuli as dull as his train of thought.

He screws his eyes shut, then blinks for clarity, unable to recollect where he is, nothing coming to mind, just the muted stream of noise.

Then, slowly, stiffly, he pushes himself upright with his elbows, rustling the IV lines as he does so. Glazed eyes lazily drift around the rather cramped room, not finding any other presence of life in the room, other than himself. The IV lines tug back at his arms and neck to lie back down. 

Swinging rigid limbs over the edge of the equally rigid bed, he removes the oxygen mask, the IV needles, patches that connected him to monitors, all with fumbling fingers, removing any persistent needles with a rough movement. He moves as if he still believes to be in a dream only gifted by deep sleep, dexterity lower than preferred, breathing too warm and heavy.

He begins to shuffle towards a sink, the long and pale pants that match his long sleeves shuffling with each unstable step. The floor is untouched and cold, somewhat damp around the rickety sink, but the full sensation is stunted by the bandages that wrap his feet that go just below the knees. Above the porcelain sits a rectangular mirror with creeping grime from the frame. 

He touches the reflective material, as if not trusting the reflection to be true, then his own face, to confirm. Either form of recognition provides him with no recollection of who he is, his own face foreign to himself. 

Straight, dragging scars from each corner of his mouth reaching as far as the end of the flesh of his cheek, and a separate one from right below his bottom lip to… he pulls his shirt up …just below the umbilical region. Both of his long, yet thin scarring regions dips into the skin instead of puffing out or growing white as it so often does. The entirety of his fingers to the end of his forearms are wrapped in white bandages, though an odd dark color seems to have started to seep through from underneath. 

He spends the next minutes lifting and moving his clothes, observing himself.  He finds older injuries that litter his skin, faded over time and healing, some seem more recent, still colored and dented; some scars are clearly aged, but still retain their prominence. Using his fingers, he traces his skin, on his torso, then his face, then under his downturned eyes, darker and deeper than the rest of the surrounding surface. He puffs his cheeks with air, feeling the tug of the less elastic scar tissue, feeling the stiffness. No name comes back to him, no face flickers in his mind, nothing more than fuzzy static for memories. He slightly frowns with a quiet exhale from his nostrils.

His hair hangs where it barely goes beyond his earlobes, connected to the vaguely sharper tip of the pinna. Except for the roots on the top of his head, where new, dark hair had begun to grow, the situation similar with the new hair growth that sits just above the back of his neck: the hair is completely white. Shorter strands stick out more than the longer locks of hair, not laying flat, even with the little efforts of his fingers.

He surveys the cold, dim room again, unsure on how to feel in the moment. To be fair, there isn’t much to react in the room, the lack of stimulation is rather unnerving. The inside of his brain is too quiet with nothing else to compensate.

The only light source is a buzzing, fluorescent light that had been dying out over the years, the walls a dingy, beige color with no sense of warmth, only a bluish hue to it. The tall rectangular door is clearly a part of the mechanical system, simply hidden behind the large sheet of metal, with no doorknob, food slot, nor a keyhole, other than a small slit for a keycard to swiftly swipe through. To get out, some exterior power would need to intervene, somehow.

Just as he approaches to try and investigate the door, the mechanical system beeps, internal systems shifting as it unlocks, making him retract his footsteps. He swallows, pausing, not sure what to expect, friend or foe.

An man, older, steps in, middle-aged, his clothes consisting of a lab coat with a light beige uniform peeking out from underneath, a keycard in hand. Presumably a doctor. Maybe a soldier, looking at his uniform- but it’s difficult to tell.  He looks up from his key, surprised to see the pale man awake, lucid, standing. Having free thought. His neutral expression shifts into one of irritation. 

“What’re you doing up?” He speaks in a low tone. Tall boots make a dull noise against the slippery tile as he steps closer. The boy’s bandaged feet make little noise return as he steps away. “Get back in bed.” He advances forwards, hand pushing against the young man’s chest to encourage him to tuck himself in. The pale boy instead jerks his hands into action to try and push him off, hands grappling onto his forearm.

“I said, get back in bed, Five. You shouldn’t be awake right now. On top of that, the heads are going to hear about this, now that we need to raise your dosage,” he adds, tone sounding rather irritated. The one in the lab coat is more forceful now, and in response, fear rises for the scarred man, his need for the hand to leave him more urgent. It isn’t just that either, ever since he woke up, this place, this person, it all feels wrong. It feels malicious, it feels like cold creeping under his skin as the winter sets into the soil. He shakes his head defiantly. The other’s expression darkens.

Nimble hands find the boy’s shoulders and push him down onto the bed, and the limbs still heavy with sleep did not have it in them to escape this action. A rush of chills run through him as he hits the stiff  mattress, breath becoming shallow, his shoulder blades sticking out onto the shabby material of his shirt as he somewhat holds himself up with his elbows. The man still towers over him, and he doesn’t seem willing to provide any alternative to this situation.

He gets up again, using his legs as momentum, only to get pushed down again, this time more forcefully, making a sharp burst of air escape his lungs, from both the impact and a creeping sense of panicky frustration. This place feels abnormal, and this man isn’t helping his case.

“...Do I really need to call a doctor just to get you in bed?” He huffs. The man’s hands are back on his shoulders. He needs them off, he wants him out, he wants out. 

As his vision tunnels, the only noise in his ears is his own blood pressure, he lunges up at the man above him, hands reach for the head impulsively, and this time, a flash of fear appears into the man’s eyes.

✩ ✩ ✩

He slowly removes himself from the ground, head spinning, ends of his hair wet from the floor, trembling palms lifting himself up. His scattered vision gradually comes back together to hand his palm, the bandages on his hands now holding a mix of  blood, the water on the ground, and the same darkness lurking underneath. The small splatters of blood that had gotten on the wrappings visibly came from some exterior force, unlike the blackness from the inside. He swallows, looking up. 

In the harsh light, he can see the figure of the man on the ground. His form is crumpled. He lies just below the sink. He crawls towards him on his knees, trying to conclude the current state of the man in the lab coat. He carefully holds the head, and turns it to see his face; his eyes are half-open and glassy, mouth agape, blood dribbled down from nostril and temple, half-clotted. He draws himself away, making a startled noise as he does so, the noise echoing in the small chamber. He can’t bring himself to look at his palm that’s even more wet than before, the hostile red more present. His eyes go up to where the edge of the sink is, the same deep color on it. 

The uncanny hum of the lights paired with the weak wheezing of the folded figure is the only noise for several heartbeats. The man is on his deathbed. He’d just damaged someone enough to render him nearly lifeless. He didn’t even know who he was, where he was, his true intentions, and didn't know his…

He runs his sleeve down his own face, trying to cease the trembling, and to subconsciously wipe the cold sweat.

He didn’t know him. He doesn’t know him. 

There is nothing to grieve over.

A shudder of odd logic comes over him with the thought. Oddly comforting, in its own twisted way. His mind is drawn away from his realization as he hears the low murmurs of people and footsteps walking by the room, and freezes. Darting eyes catch on the glimmer of the keycard. He wants out of here. He doesn’t like it. And he has the chance now. Whatever this now gone man had said, it was clear he wasn’t supposed to be awake, and that fact alone went against his wishes. The voices and footsteps die down, leaving the two in almost complete silence.

Now wiping the back of his neck with his sleeve, he begins to remove the clothing off of the man; first his lab coat, then the tan uniform. Now without the need to retain fear of the man, he sees that doesn’t seem to be a doctor nor scientist really, this “lab coat” was more of a safety garment for sanitation, rather flimsy and thin. All the other clothes closely resemble those seen in the military, consisting of the long sleeves with some buttons, pants that don’t hug the leg, a shiny belt, and the higher boots with tough soles and thick laces. He wears them all over his loose and long-sleeved garments, and is thankful for the belt, as this man is larger than him in both frame and stature. He dresses over his current clothes, facing away from the area of crime. He makes sure to tie the shoelaces around his ankles to ensure that did not fall off with one step. 

Then he painfully drags him up onto the bed, pressing the bloodied side onto the pillow as an attempt to hide his crimes, and tucks him up with the thin sheet. The man could be sleeping, he supposes, but this scene is already too unnatural considering the sudden bloom of red onto the bland colors. His eyes sketch over the man as he tries to isolate himself mentally from the body, doing his best to ignore his pained, weak breathing.

He takes one last look at the man that is to sleep eternally, guiltily thankful that there is a replacement of himself. He uses the keycard to open the door, then shuts it, hearing the mechanical whirring of its systems again. 

Outside the door is a coat rack with a jacket and a hat, a trash can beside it with other white coats. He shoots a glance around, and tosses the white garment, grabbing the cap and the jacket off its hooks. 

The coat color itself is a cousin to the tan of the main uniform, though it is more of a memorable color than the general uniform, and it reaches his mid-thigh in length. The cap is a plain dark color with no symbols. 

The jacket has a name embroidered onto the left breast: S-I-L-A-S. 

Silas. 

The name of the man inside, the man now left for dead. He glances back at the closed door, seeing a metal plate that labels “05.” 

He’d have to be Silas now, at least for the time being. They’ve switched places. And it cannot be undone. 

He tucks his white hair inside of the cap, wearing the bulkier coat, pulls his sleeves as low as he can to conceal his bandaged limbs, and sets off in the direction where the lights seem to grow brighter. 

The halls are quiet, and the lights here buzz too, though now with a lower, more controlled hum. The scarred man, “Silas,” moves with his head angled downwards, eyes flickering to observe the rooms he passes by quickly. He looked nothing like who he'd replaced, and he hopes that none of these other personnel had known Silas too well, and wouldn’t come up to him. He walks in a brisk manner, shoelaces flopping up and down, the soles making its stunted noise against the concrete floor. 

He spots an elevator, and contemplates between that and the hall he sees no end to. He stops, and inserts the card into a slit next to it, summoning the lift moments later, the squeaky gate opening up when it stops. He quickly steps in, scanning the button decorated with a ring of stiff brown seeped into the metal is listed from -3 to 5, excluding -1. He presses on 0 stiffly and feels the small space shudder before it moves.

The hallway soon opens up into a large circular room, the floor here decorated with a larger, cleaner tile, though still gray the walls here still concrete, but now decorated with some banners and posters. He pauses at the awning that acts as the transition from the hall to the room, the lack of light over where he stands acting as a cover.

A dark red banner, with the embroidered symbol of an intimidating snake. 

The red on the posters eerily resembles that of what’s on his hands now. 

He nervously tucks his fingers into a fist.

The posters emit a combative energy too, with the posters depicting an ambiguous animal being taken down by the same snake from the banners, having threatening messages like  “Take what we need” on it. 

He turns away, looking for an exit. On the other side of the open room, several people, soldiers, walk in from another doorway, holding casual conversation. They walk into another room with steel doors before coming out a couple minutes later with guns in their holsters or arms, and full-face gas masks, strapping it securely onto their faces before walking outside. He eyes them from the dark hallway before going in there himself. 

The room with the steel doors were locker rooms. The lockers, also made of uncolored metal, are lined up row by row, and have numerous subsections. This facility seems to adore the lack of comfort, each corner being a cold shoulder, unforgiving if one managed to bump an unfortunate hip or shoulder into it. Silas digs into his pockets before finding a key with numbers engraved into it, referring to the locker number. Inside “his” locker, there sits a revolver , two small boxes of ammo, a gun holster, a gas mask, cigarettes, and a lighter. He pockets all the smaller items, and straps the holster to his right thigh, around his belt loops, sheathing the firearm. Silas straps on gas mask; although, this gas mask was only for the lower face, only covering the nose, cheeks, and mouth, large square-frame goggles came with to accommodate. 

Whoever the real Silas was, it was evident that he worked inside most times. This version of a gas mask wasn’t meant for days, if not weeks in the areas with rough air quality.  Nonetheless, he puts both mask and goggles on gratefully, obscuring his identity further. His mind flickers to the room he’d escaped from only several minutes ago, envisioning the crumpled man, and he winces.

Hearing the steel doors swing open again, he briskly moves towards the exit of the locker rooms as  Silas brushes past some of the people who are supposed to be out here. Simultaneously, a deep alarm noise rises, the vibration felt in his sternum, and an intercom speaker crackles to life, speaking in its monotonous voice.

“Plausgound Military Personnel,” it starts, “subject in room A-5, Number Five, has been reported missing.” There’s a slight delay in the speakers in the lobby and lockers, and mingled with the echoing off of the hard surfaces, the space is chaotic with sound. Silas is back in the lobby, making his way towards the exit, trying to not seem unnerved by the announcement. 

“Five” was definitely him, the real Silas had called him that, and on top of that, the door of the room he’d left was also labeled so. The tension shifts as people begin to stir from within their offices, the stagnant air beginning to move. 

“Please search the area to capture the subject, and return to Dr. A. Mainler in office building ‘A’ if found.” 

He pushes the door open, then another, this time, requiring a keycard. Pushing beyond that, he sets foot to the outside.

The outdoors is brighter than he’d expected, making him squint momentarily. As his eyes adjust to the different light, he makes out his surroundings. The scene is gray and dead, to put simply. Though it is daytime, the brisk breeze and the slush that once used to be ice laying on the walkway clarifies that it’s sometime in winter. Everything is immersed in a thin fog, thinning out around the ground. 

As he begins to walk along the path, some of the edges of the stone path are wet from a mix of gray water swirling with suspicious bubbles and mud, tall brown grass occasionally reaching out to caress his shins. 

The building he’d just emerged from was rather large, and had several floors, and was enclosed by tall concrete walls, large funnels emitting a low stream of smoke. Looking into the distance, there’s several of these buildings. Some of them also have large cylindrical chimneys, some not in use at the moment. The alarm continues obnoxiously on small speakers near the entrance. 

“Do not hesitate to use tranquilizers or tasers on the subject. It is considered a dangerous subject. Pla-” 

The perimeter is enclosed by tall, barbed gates, and dark trees stand out vaguely in the distance, only large branches remaining, showing no movement against the slight breeze. A small structure or two, not a factory, stands quietly amidst the fog. Silas gazes at it as he walks, lightly intrigued, but not enough to overshadow the unease under his skin.

The closest fence is a decent sprint away, and the furthest, behind him, Silas can’t even see. The fence that built its way further into the haze slowly turns into murky outlines. 

Walking along the path cautiously, he only hears the dull sounds of his shoes under the hissing of the mask. Silas turns around every so often, hand hovering above his revolver. He doesn’t want anyone to notice that he is the said escaped subject. A shiver runs through his body. It’s not cold enough to shiver, but it’s unsettling enough. A loon cries somewhere off in the distance.

Approaching a sign that directs him in two separate ways, he halts. The one on top says Railroads, pointing to the right, and the one just beneath that says Supply, pointing to the left. He looks to the left, briefly, seeing a rather large building, not a factory, a glorified shed. He turns right, hands clenched, eyes shifting. He cannot see any sign of the mentioned railroads, but needs out of, fast.

Chapter Text

The stone walkway gradually merges into a dirt road, where footprints and tire marks alike bruise the wet ground. The tall metal fences have a gate, currently open, and the faint chatter of other soldiers can be heard just as the shapes of something large become more distinct. Tanks.

The area did not appear to be a battle ground, though, there were no signs of bloodshed if it ever occurred. No bodies, no abandoned gear from deaths, no trenches, no craters from any explosion. Silas treads carefully near the vehicles as if he quietly anticipates someone to be lurking behind them. 

As he proceeds with trying to spot out the railroad mentioned by the sign, a shadow of a doubt dawns on him. He probably shouldn't have put too much hope into the vague information of the sign, he thinks. But what other options did he really have? 

Maybe the tanks were the form of transportation. He breathes out a small noise of amusement at the idea. That’s certainly too flashy if he wants to escape this military setting on the unnoticed side. 

A blare cuts through the quiet static of a breeze, making Silas grimace as he advances towards the noise. Out of the fog, with the help of the small wind prying apart the obscurity, a shape of a train makes its appearance, with people in more beige coats scattered along the open doors of the boxcars. 

Faded yellows, peeled-off blues, and dented greens of the freight cars is a refreshing change in visual information compared to the muted grays. Most of the designs are plain colors, but some have an emblem of a sheep facing forwards- moreso a lamb- with simple, bold lines, closed with a circle around it. Soldiers, or plain workers, pile in boxes and crates tediously. Some people are inside the train to pull the cases in, some outside to heave it up. 

Silas lurks beside a tank, the barrel looking out at the train tracks as well. He leans slightly against the tank to try and see if he could possibly hitch a ride without diverting their attention to himself. There were the back sections of the boxcars which were closed up— even if they were locked, he supposes he could hang on or clamber up on top of the train. But if he’s able to get in one of the open doors…

He pushes himself off of the tank as he realizes that dried mud had gotten on him, using a hand to brush it off. He glances over at the culprit, his eyes drawn upwards as he sees the bold capitalized letters on the side of the large vehicle. PLAUS—, it says in white on the dark brown of the machine, half of the letters obscured. 

His attention is redirected from dusting himself off to the train again when it blows its horn in a blustering manner, this time announcing its leave. The workers close the sliding doors of the boxcars, hopping off of its steps, moving away from the tracks for their safety. 

He inhales shakily.

Silas rushes towards the track, the soft ground sinking under his soles as he makes his way near the end of the vehicle where he was eyeing prior to his distraction, voices of the workers whipping around his hair and ears, merging with the low whistle of the wind. His legs feel like they’re about to give out, likely from the prolonged lack of use. He grits his teeth, pushing onwards.

With the drive of his sprint, he’s able to lift himself up on the steps of one of the carriages near the end of the train with a leap, its doors still open. He shoulders the person currently occupied with trying to slide it shut, throwing himself inside, then dragging the door shut the best he can. The train lurches forwards with a high-pitched noise emitting from its wheels, making Silas unexpectedly stumble, and release his hold. Paired with the sudden movement of the train, the door slams open with surprising force. 

Silas scrabbles to the sliding door again, wanting to shut it before anyone, or rather, more people see him. He presses his entire body against it, doing his best not to look or fall onto the tracks that have started to become a quick blur.

The wish is granted when Silas manages to heave it shut, his body leaned up against it to keep it so. But as it doesn't lock from the inside. If the train is to stop unexpectedly, it’s bound to open. With his foot, he’s able to bring over and jam a slab of broken wood that had broken off from one of the wooden boxes this boxcar holds to keep the sliding mechanism from opening during the ride.

Whatever, he brushes off. He was in, and the train had already started to pick up speed, the rotation of its wheel stronger and grinding faster than the previous as it eventually fell into its rhythmic pacing. If the people wanted him out, then they would first have to get this train and stop it.

Silas creeps carefully within the limited space of the freight car, stance wider to keep his balance as he squints at the wooden boxes. They were more rectangular than the ones he’d seen being piled in up towards the front. It was rather large, about the potential height of a grown man in length, the height being just below his knee. He attempts to lift the top carefully, the simple hinge a little stiffer and he’d anticipated. He pulls harder. The lid lifts. 

Looking inside, there is a white cloth stained with black blotches, wrapping a large object, tucked under the object at the top and bottom. After a moment of observation, he comes to the realization that this box was in fact, is a coffin, and it looked like it could hold an adult because that’s what it’s exactly meant to do. 

Curiously, dark smoke, vapor, perhaps, is being lightly emitted from the covered body, most of it likely suppressed by the shrouds. Setting the lid so that it’s completely open, he carefully pulls back the layers of the cloth in the corner, then pulls the sheet up. , his breath hitches as he takes in the state of the cadaver.

The person lying inside is almost completely bare, and is rather knocked around, wounded and bruised, the physical state not in any position to be revealed to any one that’d been close to them while they were living. But that isn’t what catches him off guard, it's the coloration.

The limbs, both arms and legs, have an inky black color, unnatural, to say the least. Similarly dark-colored veins reach out to the torso, the neck and face. His eyes unintentionally look at the face, and he quickly pulls his gaze away, the realization that his actions were quite disrespectful sinking in. 

Silas tucks the shrouds over and under them again, and closes the lid, the ominous gas curling around the edges before it’s completely out of sight.

He sits with his back against it in a defeated manner, sighing, head resting on the top of the casket. Looking around at the other containers, they are all of the same-looking wood, all the same size. They all have bodies inside of them, he’s safe to presume. He’d probably managed to choose the most unsettling cargo on this train. The corpse didn’t have the impression of doing so well (for a dead body), with the smoke and the blacked flesh and all. But what was that? A variant of frostbite? That certainly explains the darkened limbs, but what about the veins?

  His mind pulls in even more thoughts of confusion and conflict into the mix, now running through the barrage of what he’d just gone through, hand going up to anxiously comb through his hair. 

He’d escaped confinement and from a forced medicinal coma, killed a man, discovered that his only companion on this ride is a body, and is now sitting within the ominous box car with said body…

He wants a distraction, he needs a distraction. He needs to spare himself from crumbling under his own mind.

The bandage on his finger slightly catches on his hair, making him slowly remove his hand from his hair, and bringing both his hands up to his line of sight, flipping it from front to back. His attention fixes itself on the tedious wrappings, with the off-white color up to his fingertips. Stiff, sure, but certainly secure. 

He pulls up his sleeves, all the layers that consist of his coat, uniform, and patient clothes, to try and see his arms more clearly. It seems to be wrapped further up, but it’s difficult to successfully pull all of the bulky layers up even further; but he can feel that the bandages are as far up to his elbows as he flexes. 

Moving the muscles in his legs, it was a similar situation, with the wrappings going as far up as the base of his knee. It doesn’t hurt, but his limbs don’t feel like much, other than the fact that it feels cold, tingly.

Silas picks at the edge of the bandage around his left wrist in silence as the train bumps along the tracks. He’s able to peel back the dressing a bit, the dark dapples under the bandages more clear. He stares at it, and prods the dark spots with a thumb. No pain of any sorts. Peeling it up a little further, he begins to see his skin under. 

Ink black, dampness of a similarly-colored fluid making the bandage cling. A pang of worry makes him shiver, his mental image flickering back to the corpse, the corpse whose casket he currently rests against. His curiosity was too strong for his own good, it seems. 

He tucks the bandage back in place. He wants his mind off of worry, and this distraction has done no good.  He needs a better distraction. He doesn't need more new information that’ll burden him. He likely has enough burdenings waiting for him at his destination at who-knows-where.

Silas recalls the items he’d taken from the locker. He shifts his sitting position, wanting easier access to his pockets. He pulls out the revolver from the holster, opening it up by pressing his middle fingers against the chamber. Five bullets inside, one empty for safety. He nods to himself, willing to not have the gun misfire onto his leg if anything happens. Silas presses it shut with his palm, and sheaths it again. 

The gun harness itself is a warm brown leather, smooth in texture, and a bit cool to the touch from the time it was left untouched in the locker. It’s held in place with thick, sturdy stitchings and numerous bijou buttons, the metal occasionally catching the light. 

He goes through his right pocket, pulling out the two scratchy-feeling boxes of ammo. As he counts, the copper jackets click against one another in response. Just two in the first box, and a full twenty-five in the other. He places the two spare ones in his pocket as strays, and flattens the now empty box, tossing it on the dusty floor. 

Scavenging through the left pocket now, he extracts the pack of cigarettes and the lighter. He ignites the tool, watching the flame flicker and sway in a feeble manner for longer and closer than he should before he removes this thumb from the flint wheel. It still seems to have fuel, judging from the sound it makes when shaken, and there are seven cigarettes left in the pack. Not much use to him, but perhaps for someone else. Not like he wants to smoke, anyways.

He exhales deeply, head sinking further into the larger coat. The lullaby of the train tracks are felt in the bones of the carriage, rhythmically with the pulsating of his heart. His breath comes out thinly, but it’s none of struggle nor strain. But from how shallowly he breathes, how his light sleep is only kept in place by the tender blanket of his eyelids, a stranger could have assumed him to be somewhere closer to death than life, each wispy exhale as faded as his the colors of his body; just like the corpses stored in this boxcar. 

Silas only stirs from either the subtle twitches of his body in his rest or from the bumps in the tracks the train mulls over, sleeping side by side with the bed of the secretly deceased, as if he is accepted as one of them.

The train, outside his knowledge, crosses over the ocean over a span of a few hours, over an enormous bridge that spans across two landmasses, made from an industrial mix of concrete and steel. The vehicle rides out of the reach of the grasp of the waves that climb up the giant pillars before it pulls back with its brethren. The vapor from each crash manages to kiss the sides of the train, adding a generous sprinkling of both salt and water. The grey sky continues to illuminate the scene, the brisk winds of the sea whipping around the machine, the natural breathing of the ocean works along the mechanical pulse of the train, side by side. 

When the train transitions from concrete bolsters onto the green whiskers of grass, dirt, and snow, hidden figures await ahead for the right moment to pounce.

Chapter Text

The sudden halt of the train as its wheels squeal and sparks on the tracks wakes Silas up with a start, his limbs flinching inwards towards his torso as his body is pushed forwards from the now depleted speed. He catches himself mid-stumble, and stills himself on the floor on all fours.
Silas sits in silence, straining his ears to try and catch anything other than the noise of the winter air whistling lowly with the higher-frequency whines of the train wheels.
He swallows, trying to gauge the situation.
There’s shouting, at first, voices of tumult, then forceful ones of order. It sounds like the train is experiencing difficulty with some… people.
Then, there’s the sound from afar of solid material being dragged against the boxcars used to create clamor, sharp noises of the vehicle squealing in damage, and stunted noise as the material’s impact hits every ridge of the train. The sound eases. A sliding door opens.
He sits there for a few more seconds.
It starts again. Another door opening. The sound is surely coming closer. The clangs are becoming more concentrated with each breath Silas takes.

Silas stands, looking around. It’s best if he doesn’t get caught. Wooden coffins, filled with the unnamed corpses of lost souls. Are they all filled, though? He tugs open at the lids of the caskets, trying to find if any are open, unoccupied. They’re made of poorer quality, some already jagged and splintered on the edges, their sole purpose being for transportation.
Alas, Silas pulls at a lid, finding an empty one, and slips inside, the racket made by those outside continuing in the direction of his boxcar. He shuts the top carefully above his wooden crib, praying it stays in place.

The commotion of the blunt force hitting the freight cars finally reaches him, the clangs echoing within the small space within, making Silas’ head ring. The noise stops, and doesn’t travel further. The rattling of the door can be heard, not budging from the hack of wood Silas had placed earlier.
The door is pulled roughly one, two, three times, the wood splintering further with each tug. His hand moves to the handle of his revolver. The cheap, brittle wood cracks under force allows the boxcar to open itself up to those outside.
The slow, deliberate walk of someone can be heard against the smudged timber floors as the winter temperature begins to welcome itself in as well. He holds his breath in anticipation.

A noise of one casket being dragged across the ground, with a gritty noise of dirt, before a dull noise of the lid being lifted.
Then a silence.
“...Found it.”
The sudden talking takes Silas off guard, making his eyes dart around in the darkness. The voice of a man’s comment is more to himself than any of the others, judging by his tone and the shouts from outside being more distant.
The caskets being dragged off the train can be heard. Despite the grunts of efforts being audible, the sounds of the cargo being taken out doesn’t slow down as the person outside continues to toss the coffins out, one by one, kept in pace by confidence of this supposedly successful discovery.
Silas feels his bed of supposed eternal rest move as well, heaved off, making him grunt quietly. Where he lands is somewhere more serene than he’d expected, the ground beneath him soft with the slight crunch of frost.
The noise of wood being scraped against wood and being thrown onto ground continues. The pacing of the solo work of the casket-tossing becomes more hasty with urgency.
The train screeches again, crying out in pain from the abuse as it pulls along its metal roads to evade the pillaging. The doors are still open, rattling against its frames as if the train is shivering. The clamor of small conversation is overwritten by the train’s acceleration.

The ground underneath Silas starts to move with a rustling, his coffin being dragged elsewhere, then it’s set down once more. Silas desperately clutches the protruding edges of the inside the lid, trying to keep himself undercover. His wrappings smell like sawdust now.
Then, a force, as to try and pry open the lid. Again, with something stronger, making Silas flinch. The wood creaks as it strains against a tough object as it pulls upwards, allowing thin strands of light from the outside to stream in. Silas inside quietly panics to try and prevent this forced opening, as the striated walls of the casket have nowhere better to grasp on, nowhere to try and tug it back to a safer position.
His hand grabs onto his gun, pulling it close to his face, cocking it.
The inevitable occurs as the top is yanked open, blinding him momentarily despite the goggles’ security. He sees the looming figure over his head, over on his left-hand side.

Silas aims quickly up at the figure, finger jerking on the trigger.
The shot was a blank. The damned empty sixth slot.
Silas tries to shoot it again, bandaged fingers moving the best they can over the cool metal in the middle of this panic. Before he can proceed any further, the man’s hand grabs onto the nozzle of the gun, pulling it out of Silas’ hands and out of his reach.
A crowbar hooks itself onto the front of the buttoned beige jacket, too close for comfort, before pulling Silas out of the coffin forcibly, limbs scrabbling at the sides of the coffin for some sort of stability. As his torso is the point of focus, his head lurches back, then forwards as the crowbar removes itself and boot presses onto his lower back, shoving him onto the snowy ground. The wind is expelled out of his lungs as his mask and goggles hit the snow. His hat tumbling off, making his white hair spill out.
Silas breathes heavily as he draws his arms and legs closer, using a sleeve to wipe the snow off the goggles, turning himself around so that he’d be facing the man once more. His gun isn’t too far off, half-buried in the snow.

Distracted by his stray weapon, in front of him is the said man once more. He’d left his standing position off to the casket’s left, where it had been pried open. He now slightly leans forwards to press the curl of his crowbar into his chest. Silas swears he can feel the coldness of the tool on his skin, the small hairs on the neck rise. His eyes dart to and fro from the man and the crowbar as he anticipates some form of impact.

His back is covered in a cloak made of some large animal’s grey-brown pelt, expanding off of his frame, and underneath, a dark green jacket, a patch of a stoat on the right shoulder; the length goes down to where the knees start, and the pants end where the dark snow boots swallow it up. A large strap is over to his chest, using it to hold the large shotgun against his back.
Silas gazes warily back up the stare of the worn-down gas mask boring into him with its squarish lens, along with the gaping mouth of the singular large filter on the center of the facial covering. Light brown hair can be seen, some strands going over the mask itself, but its short length keeps it from getting in the way of the lens itself. His general appearance is tough, worn into this shape from many struggles and dangers.
Silas can see the man’s eyes behind the lens, the look in them flickering through deftly from curiosity to something similar to a sneer, eyes tight at the bottom, looking down on him. Silas can not only imagine, but feel the curl on his lips mirroring the shape of the crowbar, both cold, both unpredictable.
He deftly scans his surroundings, a lush, dense forest with high evergreens, the ambient cries and messages of nature muted by hibernation. There are other coffins littered around the concentrations of grass, some of them being stocked by other people into wagons, horses whinnying and stomping impatiently as they toss their great heads, mist of chilled breath around their faces, awaiting their next spur into action.

The cloaked stranger leans further in.
“Aren’t you curious?” The words are muttered, barely above a whisper when he speaks, eliciting a small exhale birthed solely out of tension from Silas. He can see his eyes flicker up to his white hair.
Silas turns his head away, his chin his shoulder, as the man steps closer, boots straddling his torso as he stands above him with a scrutinizing gaze. Silas’ hands grab onto the metal of the crowbar as a desperate attempt to preserve his body from the possible damage the man could cause. Currently, he's unable to conjure anything better out of his weakened and frightened self.
The man roughly opens Silas’ jacket, observing the layers that emerge from under, from jacket, uniform, then patient clothes.

“They’ll love you,” he scoffs lightly, removing the crowbar from his chest. Silas uses this chance to try and bolt.
Using his weight as an advantage, the man pushes Silas back onto the ground with a heavy shoulder knocking the air out of him again, making him wince. He, again, straddles him, this time with no distance between their bodies other than thick clothing, and grapples for his arms as Silas writhes and thrashes in the snow.
He captures his wrists, binding them with some difficulty, then his attention goes to his ankles. Silas kicks in futile attempts, as the man tries to hold them in place, making him mutter complaints to himself. This complex wrestle in the snow is filled with white puffs of hot breaths from the mask, and the slowly dampening clothes; it ends with Silas’ legs bound as well.
Without the ability to properly act, not even able to look out for this man’s next actions, Silas is only left immobilized on the ground, as if he’s no more than the corpses in their tied-up shrouds.

A hand presses down on his upper back in between his scapulas, and into Silas’ vision enters a handkerchief, making him try and whip his head around in alarm, not willing to accept. The cloth wraps onto the filters of his shabby gas mask, a foreign smell of a chemical entering his lungs, making him feel faint. The borders of the gas mask quickly dims into the edge of his vision as he fights to keep his consciousness standing, against the weight, against the bindings, against the rag, against this man.
Silas desperately tugs and twists his arms and legs around to somehow try and free himself from his capture, his struggle only threatening injury as his muscles cannot stretch to his impossible demands. His movements wane as the smell of the chemicals penetrate his consciousness.
Not like this. He didn’t even have the opportunity to gain insight on where he is if he’s unconscious. He can’t have any part in saving himself from a possible brutal end. He doesn’t even know who he is— what if he is lost to this world? He wants his death to mean something. Even if it is only to himself. Something, at all.
The pressure on his back gradually weakens as his strength seeps away, each hiss of his filter being stunted with the cloth in the way, the shallow noise being swallowed up by his darkening vision, all his senses with a dull roar.

♥ ♥ ♥

Shit.
That’s all he could think as he begins to lower the now unconscious body onto the snowy floor. The tan uniform color is enough for him to freeze. The colors of Mons, the color of the enemy. Now, in front of him, for him to do as he wishes.
He swallows, adjusting his own gas mask.
It’s not the time to ponder such things, he scolds himself. Enemy or not, this person being in the boxcar is interesting enough to keep alive for information.
From there, he can be disposed, sent away. But until then, he’d have to hold onto him. He has to be in a fair condition to be able to discuss any knowledge he holds, and to observe the living breathing body. Such opportunity never arrives with the lifeless cargo he’s so used to.
The excuses he makes for himself are never not amusing.

He collects the scattered revolver and hat off the ground, pocketing it; he leans down once more to pick the body up. A lithe figure, certainly not uncommon for these lackluster times. Perhaps the same age as him, sent to become involved in this senseless conflict that’s only ended tensions for the politicians, and never the people who are only pawns thrown around in the palm of the hand.
Like him.
He tucks the stranger’s head under his chin, and drags his soles through the snow, leaving a trail behind himself.
The frost and snow appear grey without the blue of the open sky above him, leaving the scene even more eerily tranquil, the continued passage and interruption of the trains and conflict clearing out nearby wildlife.

A horse slightly whinnies and stamps its feet as he approaches, and he frees one hand to pat the snout gently in recognition, and the large nostrils quiver and flare. A small wagon attached to the back carries a couple of the coffins he and the others have accumulated in the past half hour, attached to the horse itself with straps. But this bounty is nothing usual at all, no, this is a guest.
Using the stirrups, he heaves himself and the resting body up onto the saddle, atop the horse. Up higher, he can feel the wind whistle a little louder, threatening to strengthen itself if he remains here any longer.
A minute is used to adjust the man in his arms, carefully shifting him so that he’d be able to hold on with just one hand. Without the goggles, and being above the sleeping individual, he can see white lashes against the pale skin, some strands holding onto specks of frost. Something you only see in marble statues or porcelain art.
Aurae, he has to stop, he reprimands himself .
It’s quite the peculiar feeling to hold the person he’d been wrestling aggressively in the snow only several minutes prior. The situation calmed itself almost immediately, though the adrenaline spike is still taking its time to ebb away.
The revolver being the first thing he hears and sees when he’d opened the coffin was definitely a first for him. Someone so desperate for safety, that he would take any precaution if it meant that he could ensure that someone was confirmed, not a threat. What had he gone through?

“‘ey, Hagshaw.” He pulls his gaze away and to the rest of his team.
“What’s that little prize you got there?”
“...something intriguing.”
They grunt in response. “Anythin’ ‘ere is intriguing, they’ve all died in what I’d say, one the most painful ways, no?”
He flicks his jaw up in response, willing this unwanted conversation to end.
“Don’t trail around far from the group like last time,” they mutter as they flick the reins, urging their horses on.
Following the lead, he uses his own reins to compel the beast to move onwards with him, the guest, and his luggage, through the snow, in between the trees, and beyond the hill with the sign that reads “RIMA, SILVAND”.

Chapter Text

Silas’ senses return as he heavily lifts his head, feeling pain strike his limbs as he attempts to stretch. He blinks blearily, gaze drifting generally downwards.

Arms, on the armrest of a chair, legs aligned with the foot of the chair. His arms and legs- tied.

Silas inhales sharply as he forces himself to come to clarity, lifting his head. The room is lit by a decently warm light, showing how the space is segregated into two sections by a small step in the wooden floors in the center. 

One side, where the entrance is, sits a bed, a small square window with frost plastered, and some bookshelves with some open, some askew, but a decent accumulation.

On the right of the entrance is where Silas sits uneasily in the chair, the floor slightly lower than the bedroom floor. Behind him, he can barely see a messy work table, pencils and metal scraps flaked around a jumble of small wires, then a mug in a corner. The walls around him are adorned in hooks and papers, some carrying mechanical parts, one with an axe, one carrying… a shotgun, another carrying a crowbar…

Crowbar. Right. Silas remembers now. The train, the coffins, the snow, …the guy. 

Looking down at himself, he sees that his jacket had been removed, sitting on another stray chair nearby, but the uniform he’d stolen is still on, and his gun with the holster is nowhere to be seen And, judging by the lack of obscurity in his eyesight, his gas mask and goggles are off. On top of that, he’s shoeless, bandaged feet tied well around the front legs of the chair.

His current placement reveals more of his bandages, and he can feel the ropes rather firmly . Silas heaving his own weight to the side, he rattles in his seat, the chair dragging against the floor, urging the ropes to loosen. He tries again, this time to the opposite side.

“—Who in Orcus do you have in there, Franz?” A woman’s voice calls out. The chair thumps. Silas pauses. He moves again, this time more carefully.

“A friend,” replies a male voice, sounding irritated. “When’d you start caring ‘bout that, anyways?” 

“Don’t start with that,” the woman replies with an exasperated tone.

The brief conversation ends with the guy scoffing, and footsteps, presumably up some stairs. And also closer to Silas. He whips his head around, struggling further with increasing frustration against the bindings. 

Silas’ squirming ends abruptly when the door opens, revealing a young man, about his age. He pauses, mirroring him as he steps in and sees Silas.

“… you’re awake,” he states. The sentence begins with a hint of warmth, but it quickly becomes cold. 

He walks closer, but not enough to loom over him- he seems to be a couple inches taller than Silas. He has the same light brown hair that he’d had seen on his captor back in the forest, the same upturned eyes that are tight at the bottom. Dark green, the irises appear to be. But without any obstructions, he can be observed with much more clarity. 

He has a mole, one below his right eye, and two lined vertically on his left. His nose stands firm on his face, and he holds an expression of genuine interest. The pinkish scar that cuts through the top left of his lip and slightly down near his chin reveals a sliver of his teeth catches Silas’ eye.

“So…” he starts, while Silas’ eyes are still fixed on the scar. He grabs the chair with Silas’ jacket on it and drags it closer, sitting on it with his chest on the back post of the chair. 

“You’re… Silas?” He asks, lightly tugging the beige jacket. “Says it on your nametag.” The man scrutinizes him with a critical eye, Silas nods somewhat absently, observing him in return. Silas didn’t have a better answer to give him, anyways.

“Is that your first name or last name? Or really, is this even yours?”

To that Silas can’t really provide. 

He watches Silas’ silent gaze drift around his form. A plain shirt, some work pants, guessing by the abundance of pockets and smudges, and simple socks.

  “I’m Franz Hagshaw,” he replies to the nod all business-like. “Sorry for taking you here, but with that uniform of yours, you would’ve gotten a good beatdown by anyone else.” Franz fails to hide the slight noise of amusement. So he is his captor. His voice sounds more youthful when it’s not muffled by the gas mask, Silas notes. 

He points a finger at Silas’ clothes without outstretching his arm. “But you’re no soldier, aren’t you? Those clothes under don’t seem like anyone who fights is made to wear.”

 Silas furrows his brows at Franz's comment. 

“I only lifted your uniform shirt to see… the other shirt,” he reassures, seeing the look on his face, but a neutral tone remains. He lowers his finger, tucking it back into the loose fist. “What are they, anyways? Patient clothes? Prisoner clothes?”

Silas shakes his head. He has no better answer to provide him, he isn’t sure himself. What was he, a prisoner under medical observation? A captured patient? Or neither, being a mysterious, honorary guest? Silas’ eyes trail away as he thinks of something better to say. Franz watches him, now his gaze directed to Silas’ scars. 

“Whatever your situation may be,” he starts, filling the silence, “what were you thinking, prancing about Silvand— Orcus, the entire continent of Laeto- wearing Mons military clothes?” He inquires, a chuckle out of confusion leaving him, sounding condescending. “I mean, it’s practically a death wish. You in the coffin pulls it all together.” 

This Franz character seems to be excellent at humoring himself.

The only noise in the room is the wind whistling outside the small window, and a petite clock ticking from one of the walls. Franz drums the top rail of the chair before he gets up, nodding impatiently. 

“Right, Silas, you aren’t much of a speaker, but I’ve seen you nod.” He pushes the chair aside, and walks up to be directly in front of Silas. Now he looms over him. “I need you to answer something for me.” 

He looks down at Silas, his green iris meeting Silas’ dark blues. Franz soon pulls his gaze away.

“Will you please not… run, or attack, or anything along those lines if I let you go from those ropes?” Franz inquires. “My intentions are not to hurt you, like, at all. But if you act out of line, I will react in a similar manner. But then again, I…don’t…” he sighs, giving up on explaining as his stern persona slips. “Would you act violently if I release you, yes or no?” He sets plainly, words stiff again.

Silas shakes his head after a heartbeat.

Franz nods in turn, and steps behind Silas’ seat, beginning to undo the knots.

“These were for the safety of both me and you,” he adds. “Nothing malicious, promise.”

Silas wants to roll his eyes and return this attitude he’s giving him. Like that was going to change his opinions about this Franz guy. He'd still held Silas down, wrestled him to restrict his limbs, then rendered him unconscious; he’d left enough of an impression, that’s for sure.

 On top of that, Franz is too trusting. Silas could be concealing a weapon, or use one hanging on the walls in his room before Franz could act. That would certainly be a drab way to go out, much more flavorless than the ways Silas had imagined his own end on the forest floor. He narrows his eyes in thought. Maybe he was underestimating Franz? He was taller and surely broader than him, after all.

Whatever the case may be, Silas doesn’t have it in him to fight him. He’d rather see the situation out.

The ropes around his arms begin to loosen before they give away fully. He then begins to feel those around his legs start to shift as well. There’s a slight change in air as Franz opens his mouth to begin speaking once more. 

“...I think that it is best if you reside here for the time being. You are very clearly not from here, with your uniform, and you are also infected with TAR.” Sounds more like a command than a recommendation.

The ropes around his feet release, and Franz comes back into the center of Silas’ vision. The ropes around his torso still remain.

“That’s what the bandages are for, right? They have that lurking stain to them.” His sentence ends with a narrowing of Silas’ eyes. “They really should be changed though. They look kind of… wet in some places. Can’t be comfortable.”

Silas stares back up at him as he rubs his wrist with his fingers. He wasn’t wrong, the bandages did feel more wet than they had before. He thought they’d been from the snow, but with this easygoing temperature in the room, it would’ve dried up by now.  

Franz leans down with his hands on his lower thighs. Silas leans back, not liking the sudden loss of distance. 

“I’m just going to check the condition. Nothing more.” 

Silas sits there for several seconds, hesitating, before he slowly gives his left arm for Franz to observe.

Franz gently pulls Silas’ sleeve all the way up, revealing the expanse of the bandages, then the pale skin. 

Silas visibly tenses. Franz is so awfully warm compared to him.

“See? I’m just… touching. That’s it.” He can’t help but admit that his words are reassuring. He still acts on his own accord, yet, the knowledge that he takes Silas discomfort into account is something new.

Seeing just how far the wrappings go, Franz frowns as he reaches the most proximal point of it, just at the elbow. He peels it back, slowly unraveling it until he sees the stark difference in Silas’ paleness, and the grey that fades into the inky darkness.

He exhales slowly, composing himself. He’s rather careful for someone who acts so coarse.

“... gonna need Esmé to check that out,” he mumbles, putting the bandage back in place. 

Franz backs off, digging under his bed to reveal a medical kit, getting out some bandages.

“I’m going to undo all of your bandages,” he says, pointing again. “Then I’m going to redo all of them. I have a friend that can help at some other time, or, at least she should be able to. She knows more than me.” He kicks a metal trash can closer. “Stay still. I don’t want it burning me.”

He silently watches Silas before he proceeds with his plans as he sets a rag on Silas’ left thigh. Silas vaguely frowns, but does nothing to change his current situation. 

Cautiously, Franz unravels the bandage on the left arm fully. His fingers are calloused, where it accidentally brushes against unaffected skin.

Silas’ arm really is ink black. His fingernails, every wrinkle, is this unnatural color. Now knowing himself that this darkness reaches up to his elbow, he can’t help but worry for himself. The body in the train, the smoke from it, the darkness of it all- is it going to be him? Wrapped in shrouds, nameless as ever? 

“When was the last time you changed them? Damn,” Franz mutters as he drops the wrappings into the trash. The innermost bandages come off in a gross, goopy manner, coated with this fluid. He eyes Silas’ bewildered expression. “Do you not know about TAR? Even when you’re infected rather mid-stage?”

Silas parts his lips, inhaling carefully, eyes adjusting to look at Franz.

“...I don’t remember anything.”

Franz blinks, not expecting any words out of Silas at all. His hands pause in undoing the wrappings of the right hand, and he nods, halfheartedly. 

“...Right, right.” He clears his throat. “Well, TAR is a… a substance that is very toxic, and it acts as a sort of disease, infection to the body. They used it in the War.” His hands are back on task. “It can be caused by long term exposure from it being in the air, or from it entering your body from your mouth, or wound, its…” Franz furrows his brows. “Let me get to the point, it’s not good for you. It’s… it’s typically… fatal. Affected areas will secrete TAR as well, and it negatively affects both you and those around you. The best you can do to deal with this is to wrap the affected area, like yours were.”

Franz moves onto the legs. “Judging by how it’s spreading, I think it’s from long-term exposure. But I have to say, Silas, your gas mask— respirator, really— was really shitty, it could be the cause if you were out there long enough,” he chuckles. 

It’s hard to judge if the statement came from a place of humor or insult.

Franz wipes the sweat off his hand on the rag before beginning to handle the new bandages. Carefully, he starts from Silas’ fingers, wrapping it firmly to ensure that it stays on during movement.

Silas tenses from every touch, doing his best not to tug himself away, gnawing inside of his mouth, the warm hands that hold his arm steady are a stark contrast to his cold, clammy flesh.

“Does it hurt?” Franz asks, only his eyes moving to see Silas’ response.

Silas shakes his head.

Despite Silas’ answer, he keeps the skin-to-skin contact as minimal as possible, the grazes of his hands primarily with the bandages.

“I have some spare clothes. I advise that you get out of what you have now for both your and my sake.”

Silas looks up when he mentions that it’s for Franz's sake as well, slightly confused.

Franz lightly tilts his head. “I can’t be seen with someone wearing enemy clothes, yeah?”

⚰⚰⚰

Silas has been comfortably fitted into some fresh clothes. Those he had shed off were taken by Franz, looked at with mild interest, mumbling to himself about some “stupid telephone” and the “Esmé” person again as he folds them onto his desk. 

Then, Franz shows him to a room across the hall from his bedroom- a guest space. A simple bed, small window, small dresser. It’s like the side of the room Franz keeps his bed on, and without the extra workspace.

“I’m not confining you here or anything,” he says, slightly petting the bed, subconsciously trying to show Silas the appeal of residing in the room. “I’ll put some more clothes in the dresser later. Don’t need you dressed like a prisoner again.” He then adds, chuckling, “Can’t ruin what’s left of my reputation.”

Silas steps closer to the window as Franz uneasily traces the seams of the blankets.

Outside is grey, grim from the current season, but warm glows can be seen from nearby houses and buildings. A short distance away, there is a larger, rather square building, marginally concealed by tall, lanky trees. More towards the left from Silas’ view is a thicker, dense woods, the ground level much lower than where he currently stands, and glimpses of a thin railroad can be seen from the gaps in the leaves, stretching out, the distance swallowed by the swirl of frost and gale.

“That’s Silvand for you,” Franz says, hovering above Silas’ shoulder. Silas stiffens, eyes shifting to see Franz. His eyes are solely fixated on the view outside. But the proximity itself with him is unnerving enough.

The obscured shape near Franz's front pocket seems to be a handgun, the outline more visible as he shifts his weight around. He catches Silas’ eyes this time.

“...I will use it, if you ever give me a reason to.” His tone is slightly lower. “But we won’t be needing that to happen, yeah?”

Silas nods. This guy was more careful than he’d first judged him to be.

The eye contact is kept with Silas’, then they drop down to his facial scars, seeing how it drags over his neck, any further, Silas’ clothes obscure it. Franz pulls his gaze away with a sharp inhale, placing his hands behind his back as he turns on his heel, heading for the door. 

“I’ll see if… there’s food. I’ll call when… there is,” he informs choppily. And with that, he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him, leaving Silas somewhat mystified.

♥ ♥ ♥

Franz feels a sense of anticipation and dread well up inside of him as he shuts the door, socks sliding on the wooden floor as he leans on the wall.

He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t get close, not again. He’d failed himself too many times like this, breaking his own tender treaty. He’d made this for his own well-being, so that he wouldn’t get hurt again.

But there he is, heaving out hospitality for this scarred, foreign guest, who looks up at Franz with such a keen gaze. So observant, alert. It seems like nothing escapes those eyes. 

It was over for him the second he saw that Silas was the same age. No way Franz had any chance sympathising and connecting with someone the same age. 

Guilt nestles firmly inside of his heart with each beat, but he can't help but admit that it entertains him in the best way possible. In its own cruel and twisted way, affection and care manages to creep through to his… prisoner. Friend. He can’t get ahead of himself. Admittedly, the thrill makes him a little lightheaded.

Franz walks down a few steps down the stairs, and he still sees Lianne in the central room, causing him to creep back upstairs; this time, into his room.

He runs his fingers over his mouth, feeling his lips, then the scar. He traces it momentarily before his knees meet the bedframe. He flops onto his bed, ruffling his own hair in irritation. He’s so fed up with himself, yet somehow, somehow, he still hungers for more. What an insatiable beast he is. At this point, he’s setting the trap up himself, letting Silas receive his own clothes, now offering him a bed and a promise of a warm meal. What was he doing, releasing the restraints? Have a death wish? 

He does have a gun concealed under his clothes, but again, still risky. Maybe revealing that he is armed and potentially dangerous a stupid choice, yet that seems to be a possibly effective route to make Silas less impulsive and more compliant.

Running his hands over his face one final time, exhaling greatly. A test for him. That’s what Silas is. He’d gotten friendly so far, but only here, he’ll set the limit soon. It’s still a recoverable situation. As a prisoner, he’s still feeble, weak, blatantly underfed and mistreated. Fighting him, if ever needed, should be a manageable situation. If someone more… trusting, Silas can be someone to be casual with, to help, to call over for a run to the pub- that’s it, he nods. It just so happens to be someone the same age as him. He can manage that sort of easy-release attachment. 

He should be.

⚰⚰⚰

Silas ends up eating a small, easy dinner with him downstairs about an hour later, consuming as much as the warm soup as he can handle without hurling it all up, pausing numerous times as he eats to try and fight off the queasiness. It was evident that Silas hadn’t consumed much solids recently, and though Franz did his best to hide it, he seemed to have picked up on this already, having provided the small portion of the already easy-to-digest food for supper. 

Silas focuses on the contents of the soup in his mouth, as if it’s the most interesting combination of cabbage and pepper he’s tasted, trying to pretend that Franz's staring isn’t burning a hole in his face, chewing slowly, head tilted to his right to prevent spillage from the healed wound over his face.

The downstairs is entered (from the top floor bedrooms) through a narrow hallway containing stairs. It’s one big central room with a decent-sized kitchen with a small dinner table to one side, a simple sofa with a humble radio set in the center of the on a neighboring wall with bookshelves, and next to the radio, an area is designated to books and stray papers stacked in corners. There’s a small door, somewhat open, that shows a bathroom, a bathtub partially visible. Directly across the room from the entrance to the stairwell is the front door.

A “mystery door” sits near the living TV, to the far right from the stairs. Apparently, Silas ponders a little too long as he looks at it, trying to figure out what room it is. 

Franz, already staring at Silas, answers his unspoken question.

“It’s Lianne’s section of the house.” His words divert Silas’ attention. “…my cousin.”

Silas nods, thinking about the talk he’d overhead when he first gained consciousness in this house. 

Dinner finishes up uneventfully, and no mention of Lianne comes up as well. Franz does notify that he is taking the cigarettes that were in the pocket of the beige jacket, and asks numerous questions along the lines of, “Is the food okay?” “Do you feel like you can stomach this?” and “Do you feel alright?”; all to which Silas replies with a quiet nod, feeling a sort of heat warm him up from the inside. It’s the soup, he assumes.

Silas lurks in the background Franz as he washes the dishes, and lingers about an arm’s length away as they both clean their faces and teeth by some odd monitoring from Franz. He can’t tell if he’s being taken care of or under guard.

They trek their way upstairs, Franz quietly rushing Silas when a door being opened downstairs could be heard, clearly not wanting to be seen by his cousin. Franz slides the door at the base of the stairwell shut, locking it with a key he shoves deep into his pocket. 

A prospect of an escape doesn’t seem hopeless either. Maybe he could find a way out with whatever he can find in Franz's room. Silas doesn’t like the idea of sitting around doing nothing, nor does he want to be a sitting duck in the home of a potentially dangerous stranger.

Franz departs with Silas for the night at the doorframes of each of their bedrooms. 

“...If something happens, you know where to get me.” He shifts his brows as he formulates more sentences. “I have work tomorrow, but I should be back at three in the afternoon. I certainly advise you to not piddle downstairs—” his index finger makes its appearance again, pointing from Silas to the general direction of the stairs, “—since Lianne is usually there. I don’t want you getting kicked out of here, and get sent to some stupid prison. Or into an actual coffin, she has tools in her room,” he mutters. “ My room should be… interesting enough. I trust you have enough reason to not mess with my personal belongings; I’m locking them up too.”

Silas nods halfheartedly, more focused on the movement of his hand back and forth. The words hang in the air as Franz runs out of warnings. 

“Alright. G’night,” he says, slipping into his room. 

Silas follows suit, shutting the door softly.

⚰⚰⚰

The day starts for Silas when he awakes at noon. Glazed eyes lazily drift around the rather cramped room, not finding any other presence of life in the room, other than himself. Swinging rigid limbs over the edge of the bed, Silas stretches, yawns, and rubs his eyes, pulling his scrambled mind together. That sleep was well needed, and well deserved too. Silas runs his fingers through his hair, standing up.

Tiptoeing to the dresser, Silas stares at it for a moment before opening the very top. More clothes. Silas’ lower lip quirks upwards in mild satisfaction. Franz was onto this mission of getting more clothes for Silas with great determination, it seems. A man of his words, even. 

He changes clothes, and sneaks over to the downstairs bathroom, then back upstairs, this time to Franz's room. Maybe he could do some good with some digging.

Chapter Text

For about a week, a schedule like this proceeds.

Silas wakes up at about noon, sneaking around the house as he occupies himself with the books that fill the shelves in Franz's room.  The weapons against his walls had been removed elsewhere, and even with Silas checking the closet, dresser, and under the bed, they were nowhere to be found. There had been a sliding door at the base of the stairs that Franz had mentioned before, and locked, from his attempts to pry it open. Franz wasn’t that careless, after all, and true to his word.

What he had left out, though, were pieces and pieces of metal trinkets, some as large as his forearm, others as small as his pinky. Gears and mechanisms intricately line the innards of the miniature machines. One looks like an arm, mimicking the elegant twist of the radial and ulnar bones. Silas had seen a glimpse of these knicknacks on Franz's desk when he’d first woken up here, but this is the first time he’d seen them up close and in focus. The fact that Franz had placed care and time into these subjects were clear.

When Franz would come home, he would almost always come straight up to his room to find Silas on the floor or on his bed, reading quietly. From there, Franz would check his bandages, his condition with a light crease between his brows, a hand that suppresses its urge to hold firmer. His coldness is more and more obviously a facade every time he talks to him, the suppression of concern and care becoming unveiled layer by layer. The warmth in his eyes as they flick to assess is something Silas doesn’t miss.

Silas has considered escaping on several accounts, but a glance outside was enough to discourage him. Silvand- a land unfamiliar to him, blistering cold. His cousin downstairs has the potential to be a threat. On several accounts, Silas has found himself in Franz’ room at night, trying to find some key, some weapon but to no avail. The locked door leading downstairs doesn’t budge.

A couple of times, when Lianne had left the house, Franz did his best to try and persuade Silas to bathed in the upstairs bathroom. Nothing against hygiene, but he wasn’t going to take his chances after one incident where he was in the room with a hot bath being filled and nearly thew up from the heat. On top of that Franz has stated that he’s firmly against letting Silas tend to himself while bathing (something about being worried) and Silas isn’t too keen with letting him wash him up. He’d rather run outside.

This led to Silas backing away and worming around and away from Franz as he attempts to get him in the bath, as he dodges his arms to evade both the treacherous bathroom and the threat of contact.

Tonight was such a night. Out of Silas’ knowledge.

Franz had come home as per usual, just past 3PM, and Silas could hear movement downstairs, some water running, then nothing. It’s too quiet, so no Lianne. But Franz isn’t coming up the stairs. 

Curious, Silas walks downstairs, fingers trailing against the handrail. The sliding door is open, unlocked. He sneaks a peek downstairs looking out towards the kitchen and bathroom, where he’d heard most of the noise from. He turns towards the living room— only to be met with Franz's smug expression before being completely bodied, arms enveloping his torso, freaking out when a forearm tightens around his chest, and being forcibly brought over to the bathroom. At least the barriers of clothing were present.

Silas kicks his legs, thrashes his torso with no avail, arms stuck at his side, only left to look up at Franz with an irritable expression. He looks too proud of himself. He needs to stop.

“—sorry, sorry,” he apologies, the entertainment barely suppressed. “But you really should get cleaned up.”

The water running had been the noise of a bath. Now completely filled, it sits there as it waits for Silas, steaming in an inviting manner. Sure, it’s really nice to feel the sudden humidity in the proximity of the bath, and how the soap smells nice, and how nice it could feel once he get in— but there’s seriously no need to be bare and hop in a bath in front of some bloke that Silas met a week ago.

Franz releases his hold, letting Silas back on his feet. Silas doesn’t dare to face away from him or the bath.

“It’s a bath, so it’s going to conceal you.” His finger makes an appearance again. Waggling and directing. “And, I’m only checking where the TAR is affected. Esmé said it was bad for TAR to build up with constant bandaging. You’re sooo feeble, and I can’t have you getting sick and stinky,” he teases.

Again with that Esmé person. 

Silas sucks on the inside of his lower lip in conflict. 

Franz shifts his tone out of the sarcasm. “...Silas, seriously, I’m not forcing you to get in, but I’m here to just… comply with what you want, if and when you do get in. I haven’t been lying when I said that I think it’s best if you do, though. The TAR needs to get cleaned. I don’t want some guest stinking up my home in the next week either, I just might have to let you get beat up outside.”

Silas stands there for a moment before almost begrudgingly, starts to pull off his sweater. Franz's eyes widen, and he turns around, facing a corner like a punishment for misbehaving. Silas thinks it’s well-deserved though, he didn’t enjoy the surprise scoop into the bathroom.

He removes the other articles of clothing swiftly, unwrapping his bandages, taking this chance to enter the safety of the soap and pleasantly more-lukewarm-than-hot water to obscure his figure.

He hisses as the water seeps into his skin, feeling the affected areas absorb the warmth with alarming tension and a sort of achy pain. The warmth gradually seeps into his bones, making his muscles release some tension.

Franz takes a second before he turns around slowly. Somehow looking more nervous than Silas, he rolls his sleeves up and sits on a nearby stool, avoiding as much eye contact with the general direction of where the bath is. Like he didn’t beg him to get in.

Silas gently rubs his arms with a towel, seeing how older secretions of TAR were “clotting,” in an awkward stage of neither liquid nor solid. Franz scoots closer, eyeing the arm, rolling his sleeves up. Silas hands over the towel and holds his arm out further for him, and Franz takes the towel gratefully. He wipes and rubs the arm, only holding his palm, seeing if Silas was overly sensitive or if there were any missed wounds. The touch is forgiving. Purposeful. 

Franz's eyes trail up the arm, then to the scarring on Silas’ mouth, seeing how it goes far down. The lack of the shirt helps show that the scars do go into the area of the chest, but the obstruction of water stops him. It looks more gruesome than Silas had expected, now that he looks at it himself; a darker color of the old wound is more prominent from the water, and the slight jagged edges it holds. 

The shameful curiosities he holds are certainly intriguing to Silas. Franz could simply ask. 

…Silas would say no, but still, he’d expected Franz to ask about them by now from how much interest he holds, and how he can’t seem to resist getting closer. 

“...nothing looks wrong, really, you should be alright.” He clears his throat, putting his hands on his knees as he gets up. He’s avoiding all eye contact again. “I’ll leave you to it, tell me if any of the affected areas are odd.”

Silas bath ends in a success.

Franz considers a loss of his dignity.

More importantly, during the week, Silas learned some interesting information from the scavenging in Franz's bookshelves. A lot more useful than he’d expected, actually, giving him hope that he could go out and escape on his own.

There’d been a war, the one Franz had briefly mentioned, lasting from 3010 to 3016. The War of Red Tar. It’s been about two years since it ended. Within the six-year span, TAR was only used for the last two years, but certainly left its impact with its massive death toll, mainly caused by an entity named “Caedes,” meaning violence. It’s been speculated to be machine, an attack squadron, even one seemingly invincible soldier; but no matter what it was, its entire being caused mass destruction to the population with the TAR. Physical, mental, and geographical wounds have been etched deep, barely having time to begin the healing process.

Silas had seen photos of geography books, mapping out 3 continents, the countries and cities distinct and competitive in their own diverse ways, years of history etched into their religion and morals, which created the blueprints in where they stood in the wartime. Franz had kept numerous newspaper clippings in these books, on his walls, and some even in the desk drawer, all having highlights of what disaster would occur.

“WAR DECLARED ON SEGES BY HERENA”

“DUST JACKETS IN SILVAND”

“APPEARANCE OF CAEDES”

Pictures of a green coat, like one Franz had worn the day they met in the forest, being advertised with the caption “For the soul of the Laeto Continent!”

And photos of a beige jacket, like the one Silas wore, having the caption, “Know your enemies.”

From what Silas can figure out, the country Herena from the continent Mons had declared war to try and annex the country Seges, in the continent of Laeto, all because of a trade dispute that became amplified from conflicting groups joining in on the issue. Religion, politics, ethics, economy all joined in, or better yet, dragged in.

Though separated by sea, the Herena military had no shortage in motivation in transporting soldiers and weapons alike by boat to Seges, even utilizing the massage bridge for trains to get to their destination. From the 6 years, Herena set up a peace, a truce after annexing half of Seges, resulting in what is today. 

People are still tense, death’s mark still burns with guilt, and rivalries persist in these tough times. Due to Seges being a sister country that sits under Silvand, the people had been urged to join in and fight, being close enough to witness the flame and gore of what Herena was taking from the land. They’d witness the brutality of TAR being used, harming either and any side; the substance being extremely dangerous in battle, not to mention the fact that it becomes a gas-state after some time, being equally toxic. So many affected, still alive, but with no cure, only progressing until the body succumbs.

His mind always recalls the train he’d ridden, with the bodies. It makes more sense now, the corpses, the blackening. His condition, what it is, feels more clear now. But not how he got it, or why, or how bad it is. The more he discovers, the more burdening it is.

All this, and Silas remembers none of the cruelties. He’s clearly old enough to be alive for those events. 

But Franz knows the cruelty, and he still took him into his home, witnessing that he wore the clothes of the enemy, and treated him with nothing short of kindness. 

Was Franz really that generous? Was he simply pitying him? Ulterior motives?

Silas runs his fingers through his half-dried hair, feeling the dry bandages on his fingers sit securely. He needs to learn how Franz does it. He can’t depend on him forever. But such worries are meant to be for tomorrow.

Chapter Text

     A silver blade is suspended midair, twirling delicately as it captures the light, small, intricate designs envelop the holding end. Such a beautiful dagger, small in comparison of a sword, yet capable of its own harm. 

Silas reaches out, waiting out of here. He’s certain he felt a door handle, but what he grabs is the weapon. His hand has no bandages. The cold is exchanged from the handle to his palm, and the warmth is given to by his fingers.

“You know how to use it, don’t you?” A low voice of a man appears over his shoulder, a breath gracing his ear. He whips his head around. Nothing.

Seeing where he stands with more consideration, he stands on elevated ground, looking out towards pews.

No one sits in these rows of emptiness. 

“Use it,” the voice says once more. “C’mon. Haven’t I shown you enough times?” 

He swivels his head sharply again, seeing a glimpse of light catch a pair of square glasses, but nothing more.

He looks down at his hands. A rabbit, it’s feeble, soft, body limp and lifeless, and the dagger stuck straight through its ribs.

He swallows, blinking rapidly. Why? It’d done nothing wrong. Did he do this? He had the blade. He did this himself. Why didn’t he stop himself? Why couldn’t he?

“Do I need to remind you why you need to do this? Why this is your role?” 

Silas screws his eyes shut. 

They reopen. 

The rabbit disappears. 

The dagger remains.

He points it towards himself, hands trembling, as the honed edge is gently drawn closer, the clarity decreasing as his vision grows blurry. 

With a sharp inhale, he plunges it into his chest.

♥ ♥ ♥

Franz quietly approaches Silas’ bedroom door, and cracks it open. Despite it being the morning, the sky is still dark, the depths of nighttime still clinging on the soon to arrive dawn behind patches of fog and clouds alike.

Looking inside, he sees the shape underneath the blankets. Franz stares at it for a moment before squinting, and stepping inside, advancing towards the bed.

Silas isn’t there.

A jolt of fear enters from the base of his neck, and pools at the bottom of his stomach. Silas doesn’t know anywhere else here, in the humble town on the edge of Silvand. So where could he have gone?

Franz runs his hand through his hair as he rushes out the room, eyeing the fact that he’d forgotten to lock the hallway door last night. Clock in for his shift at work. Then move from there. He needs some help finding Silas, before the situation becomes wrapped up with any more people, rotting with danger.

✩ ✩ ✩

Silas awakes with a gasp, fighting for air as if he’d been submerged in water. The dark wetness in his bandages should be enough to compensate. His chest heaves up and down, the cage of bones barely containing his expanding lungs and erratic heartbeat.

Shivering, Silas rubs his face. It’s moist as well, but this time, with a clammy sheen of sweat. It’s too bright, a cold, concentrated beam of an operatic light shining near him, the glare making it difficult to much more than the dimmer room. Not something he’s usually met with when he wakes up. The chill in his bones had banished anything that remained from the bath he’d taken. It’s tolerable, but something he’d rather not deal with.

He sees an IV line connected to him. A tray of tools nearby, glistening in its silver glory under the penetrating light. For a moment, one of the scalpels looks like a dagger, and his breath hitches. He blinks to reestablish what he really sees, to reassure himself. 

Silas goes to pull the thin tube out of his upper arm, a rather thin blanket moving off. He still has his bandages on. 

He scans the room as he squints. Other tables, large trays, if he may, with cadavers of the same bodies he saw on the tray, several of them lying in the light. Wrapped in both shrouds with blackened limbs and bandages peeking out from beneath, atop the steel surface, adds a tangible weight to the atmosphere. Feels morbid. Unethical. These are akin to the dead bodies he’d ridden the train with.

His eyes catch a figure in the far corner. He stops. 

The figure begins to move along the edge of the room. The noise of the shoes are languid, and a small humming follows it. A soft voice, a woman’s. Silas feels a pang of worry as he considers that Franz could’ve been the one who brought him here; his own naivety bringing his demise.

Silas begins to edge towards the tray of tools, reaching for the scalpel. His bandaged fingers slide easily over the handle, an odd familiarity in the compact blade. The image dagger flickers in his mind, partially manifesting itself in his vision, and he blinks rapidly to rid of the mirage.

Standing slowly, he stalks into the light as he begins to approach the woman’s back in the center of the spotlight. 

The figure finally turns around, partially illuminated by the light. Long, black hair tied neatly in a bun, pinned against the head, but a long strand of hair is loose on her left side and tucked behind her pointed ear. The white, high-collared uniform with similar pants. She’s tall, for sure, and her dark complexion is highlighted from the pale uniform. In her hands is a clipboard, and her fingers lightly hold the pen, hovering above the paper. A small name tag is pinned on her left bosom: LAURENT.

The eyes of “Laurent” finally slide from her clipboard to Silas. Seeing him awake and up, and her humming dies down. Her amber irises paired with the rather thin pupils feel… intense, to put plainly.

“Set that down,” she says firmly, eyes making out the blade in his hand. 

Silas rubs his thumb over the ribbed side quietly, glowering.

She reaches for Silas’ arm, the one wielding the blade.

From the sudden reach, instinct runs thick in his veins, making him raise the scalpel up quickly; she parries, the blade halted by her clipboard swiftly smacking both hand and metal. To him, less of a defense and more of an equally ferocious action.

The force flings the blade from Silas’ grasp, grazing his cheek before it clatters to the ground. Small, black beads of blood well up from the scratch as he stands there, panting, still caught up in the moment that borders survival and rationality with a light tremble.

She observes the abnormal coloring of blood, and guides Silas with a clipboard against his shoulder to the cot he was sitting on previously. He sits quietly, sensibility creeping back.

“... you’re rather interesting. The first patient brought in under the label ‘sleepwalking,’” she says with unveiled curiosity, tongue swiping over her oddly sharp canines. She sets her clipboard aside with a quick toss, landing on the edge of the cot. “I was skeptical of those claims, but you really were unconscious.” She leans in somewhat closer, flicking a small light into her hands, shining them into Silas’ eyes. 

Caught off guard, he sits there, screwing his eyes shut, bringing a hand up to shield his vision.

“How do you feel?” She asks bluntly. Her tone isn’t anything rude nor kind, just unembellished intrigue. She disregards the violent action from only moments prior.

Silas swallows, feeling the clammy cold on his skin still, and he rubs the back of his neck. He doesn’t feel like talking with her. The situation is too uncertain.

“Do you know why you were sleepwalking?” 

She gets dead silence in response.

She lightly cocks her brow; then again, it’s nothing rude. “Do you not speak this language? Mute? Vocal cords damaged?” She uses the now disabled light in her hand to direct at the scar draped over his throat, and despite it not touching him, he sways his head away with an irked expression. She responds with a bemused look.

As she parts her lips to speak again, the door to her lab opens with a quick swing, slamming into the stopper. Her expression quickly turns into annoyance.

“What did I say about entering my lab, especially when I have patients?” She huffs without looking up.

“Sorry Esmé, but this is urgent, I’m looking for the guy I’ve been talking about, and I seriously need to find him, it’s not safe for him here, just..” he trails off, breathless.

Silas looks up to see the man talking before his eyes widen, and his jaw unclenching. He inhales softly.

“Franz?” He speaks carefully. The name comes out softer than he’d intended it to be.

The familiar face swivels the direction of his head to Silas, and he witnesses Franz's body ease, the tension in his face vaporizing as he recognizes the man on the cot.

“Silas, thank goodness,” he quickly sputters, still out of breath. With an unmatched speed, Franz rushes over to him, enveloping him. 

Despite his distaste for contact, his presence is nothing short of reassuring, Silas accepts this action without any complaints. As his face is pressed into his shoulder, he can smell faintly of the brisk air of the outdoors, a vague smokiness, and something can only be described as simply and distinctly Franz.

Franz pulls back, hands on Silas’ shoulders as he begins to ramble.

“When I checked your room this morning, you weren’t there, and I, I thought you’d left, or something happened, but I couldn’t call off work, that wouldn’t work out, and so I thought if I ditched midway through on my break, then I could look for you.” 

It’s baffling how much words and nervous laughs Franz is able to expel out of his lungs in one go. And how much he has in mind to even speak that much.

“And so, I hurried to work, so—”

“—you know this guy?” Esmé interrupts.

“I, uh, yeah?” Franz replies, not expecting to be cut off. He scans Silas, catching on the beads of blood on his cheek, his finger hovering above it, tempted to touch. “What’s wrong with that, Esmé?”

Esmé. Silas recognizes that name. The Esmé that apparently knows so much about TAR, the one that Franz mentions with ease in his voice. Her? Her??

“It’s this guy? The one infected with TAR? Silas is him?” She exclaims, jerking her head in Silas’ direction without breaking her stare into Franz. “Franz, what the name of Aurae, I thought it was like, someone from your department or whatever like last time.”

“About last time, Silas didn't need to know about that, and any of the other last times, he doesn’t need to know either. It’s not like that, okay? He’s staying at my place for a whole separate ” Franz retorts, teeth gritting uneasily. His hands leave Silas, and he stands up straight, still next to him.

“Right,” Esmé rolls her eyes. “So why’s he residing in your home? You have a new roommate thing going on?” She asks in an exasperated tone.

“Because… he doesn’t have anywhere to be since he probably arrived from Mons, and probably from somewhere like Herena,” He’s avoiding eye contact again, his words reluctantly confessed.

Esmé blinks, baffled.

“What?? Franz, I’m tempted to place a watch on you. Welcoming someone from Mons, who is presumably from Herena, who is infected, into your home is out of the question.” 

“...he has some sort of memory loss thing going on too.”

Esmé pinches the bridge of her nose. “Why are you picking up guys your age off the railroads like they’re stray dogs? ” Esmé picks her clipboard off the bed, and walks off to the other side of the room again.

“I’m still picking up corpses off of railroads for you.” Silas’ gaze momentarily jumps to the mentioned cadavers, then back to his Franz.

“Amongst others,” she replies. “Well, will your little roommate let me use him as a subject of observation?’

“Probably not.” Franz casts a concerned glance at Silas. “Also, he’s a housemate, not a roommate. He has his own room.”

“That’s not really going to stop your festering curiosity, is it?” Esmé mutters.

“Shove off.”

They talk as if Silas’ presence isn’t there. At some points, seem to forget that the fact that he doesn’t talk much doesn’t equate to him being deaf as well, but that’s easily dismissed. He doesn’t hate this though, listening in on their chats feels very casual, a sort of familiarity in each other’s presence, no venom in the quips thrown at one another.

“He might let you look at his limbs, though, anything further, I don’t advise.”

Esmé strolls up again, approaching Silas with more consideration in mind. 

“Could you pull up your sleeves for me?” She asks. “I only want to see how far the TAR has gotten.”

He looks up at Franz before he quietly complies, rolling his shirt up, and peeling back some of the bandages.

Esmé narrows her eyes.

“There were no complications, yes?” She asks Franz. 

He nods. 

She hums in reply. “That’s good, but still, it doesn’t lighten up the situation much.”

“Why do you say that?” He inquires, looking over at Silas in concern.

Esmé pauses, considering if she should release the information. “Even with no complications, from how far it’s progressed, I’d estimate that he has about a year to live.”

♥ ♥ ♥

The door to the lab opens, then shuts, revealing Esmé, and an impatient Franz inside, pacing back and forth.

“I led him to the lockers, where they have spare clothes,” she informs. “He must’ve been cold without any boots or shoes…”

There’s a beat of silence between the coworkers.

“A year?” Franz exclaims. “You’re sure? Seriously? That’s madness!” He scoffs. Esmé stands, hip leaned against the counter, arms crossed. She tucks the strand of hair behind her left ear before she begins talking. 

He can’t help but feel his sense of dread continually amplify. 

“Yes, I’m rather sure,” she replies quietly. “I’d usually give a longer prognosis to those affected to the ‘fore-limbs,’ but…” she trails off.

“What?” Franz stops in his tracks.

“...you saw his blood, Franz. It’s unusually dark for someone at that stage; it usually happens later on in the infection, when they begin coughing.” She shakes her head, exhaling in a controlled manner. “I don’t think it’s wrong to… comfort him, but do know that Silas is actively, rapidly, dying. Affection that doesn’t have anywhere to go will turn into greater grief. You know that all too well.”

“I know,” he says a little louder, angling his head down to his boots. 

It’s frustrating, no, infuriating. Infuriated at himself. He’d let himself get closer to the worst person possible, someone so clearly destined to perish too soon. And sure, Silas could remain a friend, but this isn’t drifting away, or leaving after an argument, it’s death itself, the cold talons already digging into the soft flesh of Silas’ shoulders, reading itself to depart with its vast wings. He’d been enjoying his quiet company, more than he’d like to admit. The sort of hum of life within the walls of his house that make it a home that he can’t quite get with Lianne. The comfort of a peer he can’t get at work.

He adjusts his thoughts. This should be about Silas. His final months. Franz should be there to comfort and console him, not push away. It may be at the cost of his own mental state, but perhaps it would burden him with heavier conflict if he doesn’t. Leaving him, all by himself. He doesn’t deserve that.

Franz blinks a couple times as his vision begins to blur, the trays of bodies warping in his peripheral vision.

Esmé speaks up again. “...I don’t know your limits as well as you do. Please watch yourself. I don’t want to see you how it was three years ago,” she softly warns.

He plods over to the door, hand lingering on the handle. 

“I know.”

✩ ✩ ✩

A year. A singular year left of what his body can handle before he ultimately crumbles. What does he even have to build off of? The train, the clothes, but the war messes everything up, with washed up prisoners and transported soldiers. Silas is just as easily one of the nameless soldiers left to rot in concrete blocks or nameless shores.

Disheartenment and fear dance around in his mind, washing everything else out. It swirls dizzyingly in front of his mind’s eye, further disorienting him. 

Silas feels a hand on his shoulder, making his head lift up.

“You alright?” Franz asks. 

Silas takes in his face for a moment before he responds with a nod.

Being out here, Silas realizes that this is the square-ish, concrete building he can see from his room window. It’s a bit difficult to see the house from here though, since similarly structured homes freckle the land.

They’re in a small courtyard of sorts, beneath an awning. The sky is white with the widespread of clouds, the scene having a rather equal distribution of light. Franz leans on the concrete wall behind him, and Silas stands upright beside him, pushing his weight onto his hips. Looking over, he can see that his jacket is almost the exact same as Franz's, but newer, and without the patch of a stoat on the right shoulder. He’d also received some boots from the spares they held. He’s grateful for the warmth it provides, and how it fits him. 

They currently stand outside the facility Franz and Esmé work at, Silvand Medical Research Facility. Though Esmé and Franz work at the same location, they work in different branches. 

Esmé is partially a medic, carrying on her work she had during the wartime, and rest of the time, works on trying to find more in-depth information about TAR, and how to possibly cure it. The dead bodies taken in were for her and the other researchers in the facility, using it to try and obtain data of TAR and its effects and reactions to the body.

Franz is set up in the Organized Defense and Revolt Program. They’d formed mid-war, providing security and support to those who cannot in, or will not join the military efforts directly, but were still willing to help out.

Franz was, is, one of them, but recently, he’s been more involved with the mechanics of the facility, being taken under their wing and assisting with the creation, repair, then usage of prosthetics and weapons more than fighting, due to both his age and interest in the field. The damage he’d seen during the battles cannot be undone, the best course of action they see is to not pin him near more violence. 

Now, being eighteen, and with the truce that’s given a pause in the war, he gains a decent income from his work- according to Franz himself. 

His group often interrupts the supply trains heading to annexed Seges, depleting them of the materials. Even if the cargo holds corpses, technically something that can’t be used for survival, it’s passed over to those in medical research like Esmé. Though rather unethical, desperate times call for desperate measures, and even now, a lacuna is left in the population. Until an official treaty comes along, the revolt program will continue with their efforts.

It makes more sense now, how Franz had discovered Silas.

Franz takes a small drag from the cigarette in hand, and turns away as he blows it out, watching both smoke and breath mingling midair before he turns to Silas again.

“Esmé said she found you wandering outside,” Franz begins, tapping the ash off with a thumb. “…What were your intentions?” He seems to hold an air of anxiousness.

Silas blinks, letting the words suspend in between the small distance between them. He buries his face in the wide, high collar of the coat.

“...I didn’t mean it,” he mumbles. “Nightmare.” His finger traces the inside of his empty pockets seams.

“Oh,” Franz replies in slight embarrassment. He seems to contemplate whether or not he should profess the next words. “...I was worried, y’know. I thought you left, and, well, I suppose that’s understandable, but it’s still dangerous nonetheless out here, especially with your situation. I would… help you, if you need to get somewhere, if that’s what you want.” Franz takes another drag, surveying the landscape. A light snow had begun to float down from the sky.

“I won’t leave wordlessly. If that’s what you’re worried about.” Silas speaks without directing any part of his body to Franz. 

Silas cringes at the fact that his voice doesn’t quite match his appearance; it’s rather blatant now from his increased speech. His appearance is rugged with his scars and ruffled hair, sure, but his face and frame contradict the rough image; his voice is the worst of all, it makes him feel that he’s perceived as soft. The thought itself peeves him.

“That’s…thanks,” Franz murmurs. He flicks the cigarette onto the ground, crushing it with his heel as he expels the remnants of smoke out his nose, eyes sliding over to take in the sight of Silas. 

“I’m glad I found you.” Franz murmurs. 

✩ ✩ ✩

After break, Franz has about three more hours of work left until he’s able to go home. Silas remains in Esmé’s office with great reluctance, not wanting to stay with her, but then again, she is Franz's friend, a trusted one at that, and he allowed to accompany Franz's scouting for the day.

During this period, Esmé keeps to herself, looking under microscopes, scanning damaged documents, inspecting and sampling the bodies. Her hair is released from the tight bun, and the dark, silky strands reach the middle of her back. The slight waviness and curling near the middle seems to have been caused by the slight humidity from snow that evaporated from the heat indoors.

Silas sits on a stool, about a meter away, hands pinched in between his knees. He considers going on the cot to nap, simply out of sheer boredom, caution the only thing standing in his way. He’s pulled out of his thoughts when Esmé begins speaking.

“Do you smoke?” She asks, not lifting her head from her work. Her nose slightly twitches.

“No.”

“Was it Franz?” Her brows are slightly furrowed as she lifts her head. 

He nods.

“That boy…” she sighs, rubbing her cheek. “He said that he was going to quit starting this month.”

Now his interest is piqued. This is too intriguing of an opportunity to give up learning more information on Franz. Silas considers pressing, and gives in, the urge too strong.

“...when'd he start?”

Esmé lifts her brows, pleasantly surprised that he’d spoken. “About… two years ago now, when he was just short of seventeen. He started getting harder jobs because of his age, and figured out that smoke breaks earned him a short period of rest in between fighting. It’s still continuing, from stress, I’d say. But anything else, I won’t say. I’m not in a place to get into details, that's his burden to share.”

Silas’ mind pulls apart at the fibers of the memory, still fresh in the brain, of what he’d said: “I’m glad I found you.” What did he mean, really? It was rather unspecified if Franz had meant it as in the confusing events of the nightwalking, or the way he’d found Silas from the train. 

It could be both, Silas considers. 

But even then, why would he say that? Silas has done nothing in particular for him, Esmé is the one researching, and Silas simply resides in his home, leeching on him for food, warmth, and shelter.

He sits there in silence, pondering and picking apart the situation. Franz has started to be kinder to him. A friend, possibly? 

Couldn’t be. Shouldn’t be. Silas is as dead as any of those bodies in the caskets. No good can come from this.

Esmé proceeds to work tediously, trying to read fine prints, what they may reveal for her studies. She picks up a pair of glasses, almost comedic in the several lenses they hold to be capable of magnifying the subject at hand multiple times. The light catches on them, the gleam gliding carefully over the surface. 

Silas’ mind whips out the memory— no, the memory of the dream— of the glasses he'd caught a glimpse of, when he was equipped with the dagger.

It was a dream, and no more, he tells himself, inhaling slowly.

Chapter Text

Silas walks home with Franz, head wrapped in a scarf for a low profile. The distance itself isn’t much, but the winding walkways, and needing to maneuver around blocks of homes and shops extends the path. 

It is a nice sight, though. Small numbers of people walk around quietly— though the majority huddle indoors— their peace influenced by the serenity snow is able to bring. The cobblestone path holds a hazard of slipping beneath the white blanket, and the windows of shops showcase thick clothes and tools to passersby, the warm glow of both electricity and oil lanterns cast a bust of orange onto the bluish snow. 

Silas observes the area in a discreet wonder, side by side with Franz. Some people raise a quick hand at Franz in recognition, which he returns with a similar gesture or a word of greeting. Anyone who finds Franz familiar, or really, anyone who walks by that notices the two, shifts their eyes to Silas, trying to distinguish who he is. The white hair is certainly attention-grabbing, and the scars evoke more concern and suspicion than curiosity.

Silas buries his lower face in the scarf as he continues the chilled trail back home.

As they enter the front door of their home, Franz immediately shrugs his coat off, hanging it up on a rack, and easily unties his shoelaces before he quickly goes over to a small, metal box, a fridge, and he digs through it absently. Silas watches as he churns through the articles of food, making a commotion as jars knock against each other from disruption as Silas takes off his outerwear more slowly.

Lianne’s door opens as Franz is hunched over, still searching. He wasn’t the only person who’s been alerted by the noise, it seems.

“Don’t let the cold air in too much,” she scolds, walking out to stand behind Franz. It’s nice to put a face to the voice, Silas realizes. He’s never really seen Lianne before this moment. She’s about Silas’ height, and her hair is closer to blonde than Franz's brown. Her nose has more of a slope than an arch, her lips are different; but her eye shape, it’s the same. That tightness at the bottom that creates the upturned shape.

To be honest, Silas likes them better on Franz.

Franz waves a hand to dismiss Lianne, and he stands back up as he holds what he’d been digging around for. “Yeah, got it,” he hums.

“Save some for me, yeah?” Her ponytail, midway up her head, swings slightly as she tilts her head and body around to try and see Franz face to face.  

“Mhm..” His eyes are fixed on the food product in hand.

Lianne rolls her eyes. As she turns to make her way back home, she spots Silas at the doorway. He nods in acknowledgement, hoping that she wouldn’t come over to shovel out some words from him; but instead, she nods back with a polite smile on her face. Her brown hair disappears behind the door.

As Silas turns back to Franz, he sees him staring. 

“She didn’t ask,” he grins triumphantly. “Last time I had someone over, she kept on asking and asking and asking…” he rotates his hand, signaling endlessness. “And then she asked me to boot him out way too early,” he huffs.

Dinner was relatively calm. Small clicks and clatter of utensils against plates can be heard, silas recovering much quicker than either of them had expected, eating and stomaching solid foods now. Silas chews absently, partially on purpose, because Franz, again, cannot keep his eyes off. He’s clearly deep in conflicted thoughts, but still… a little unnerving.

“...Do you want to do anything specific, Silas?” He asks.

He cocks a brow in a vague surprise.

“I… maybe… I would like to think about it.”

Something he wants to do? Sure, he’d like to do things, it would also be nice if he could remember half the things he likes to do to properly reply to Franz's inquiry.

“Fair,” he nods in response. “If you do get an idea, though, tell me, I’ll do my best to indulge in it.” He smiles, a small, soft sign of comfort. 

They’re back to silence again.

“That’s interesting,” Franz murmurs, one cheek filled with food. His hand idly holds a fork. 

Silas looks up, his mouth similarly contained with food.

“The scratch on your cheek from this morning, it’s already healing up.” 

Silas brings a finger up to feel the area the falling scalpel had cut him. Nothing on his finger; not even a texture left.

Franz's very first words to him were right. Isn’t he curious?

♥ ♥ ♥

Waking up bright and early, as the desperate warmth of sunlight blooms onto the northern land, had become a habit of Franz over the course of the past few years of obtaining his position in the organization.

But, then again, he had no work today, the thought itself making him feel more rested. 

He peeks into Silas’ room to dissipate the air of worry before he trods downstairs, his long-sleeved shirt and pants rumpled from sleep— similarly so with his hair. He barely conceals a yawn with his hand, clasping it over his face and rubbing his lips and the side of his face as his mouth shuts.

Lianne is already down there. A small spoon clicks against the side of a mug as she stirs the powder of instant coffee into hot water, her back facing Franz. She’s fully dressed; warmly for the cold weather, but nothing less than comfortable. 

He creeps up behind her, a sleepy gaze lingering on her hand.

Two mugs of instant coffee. 

She slides the mug she’d just finished stirring to the side, closer to Franz, without sparing a glance.

“Good morning,” she says. “You sleep alright?”

“Mornin’,” he mumbles. Franz takes the mug and holds it with his palms firmly planted on each side to fully capture the warmth of the drink. “Slept okay.”

She watches as he draws the drink up to his face, cautiously sipping. When he exhales, the steam parts gently.

“So,” she begins. “Was that the work friend that you brought the other day?”

“Mmh?” He hums, searching back for the lie he’d told several days ago. “Oh, yeah. Silas.”

“Right. Very unique hair and scars.”

“Don’t say it like that,” he frowns. “Sounds condescending.”

“I wasn’t!” She chuckles slightly. “He seems nice.” 

Franz sips the coffee again. “He’s quiet. But yeah, he’s nice.” 

She raises a hand, placing it on his shoulder. Franz's eyes go to her for a moment, nervously, then back into the depths of the coffee. He doesn’t want to have a weird heart-to-heart like she tried to a year ago about how it’s okay to be different, or whatever.

Lianne nods, picking up her own drink. “That’s good.”

The steam evokes a peaceful, comfortable quiet over the two, individual drinks placing a warmth in their chest the sun yet cannot provide in the earlier hours of the day. 

Lianne sets her mug down, putting her hands together in a small clap.

“Oh! I forgot to say! Esmé said a word about coming over today when I was out yesterday,” she says cheerfully. “It’s been a bit since she last came over, I’m excited to see what she’s accumulated and theorized about TAR. I mean, even then, it’s nice to have her over in general, Esmé is good company”

“...huh? Today?” Franz doesn’t quite recall Esmé mentioning anything about a visit to his home.

“Today, yes.”

“She didn’t say that,” he hums somewhat disapprovingly.

“She did to me.”

Both of their heads turn as they hear light footsteps in the stairwell, gradually revealing a drowsy Silas. Franz's posture perks up.

“Hey! Silas, you’re up, how’d you sleep?” Silas nods back, a positive response. 

Relief seeps into Franz's chest- he didn’t look tired either, he likely didn’t have a nightmare last night.

He’s mid-yawn as Franz comes up to him, a hand desperately wanting to rest against his shoulder or back, something to provide even a smidge of comfort. Instead, he stays very close to Silas, barely not touching, a similar position to how they were when they walked home yesterday. He can’t help but have a small smile fade onto his lips as he reminisces on their path home; it was certainly enjoyable, and he can’t deny that he was rather disappointed when it’d ended. He’d been trying to find conversation to make, some way to get closer through an aspect of similar interest, but the lack of Silas’ speech and Franz’s general lack of charisma made it a difficult situation.

Franz’s gaze lingers on Silas’ cheek. The cut is completely healed, a line that’s barely visible on his pale face. He’s heard of the odd properties of TAR, but never anything like this. If Esmé is coming over today, perhaps he can ask her about it. Maybe even let her observe, if Silas would allow that.

Lianne’s eyes travel to what had been more concealed the night before from the coat: Silas’ bandaged arms and hands, then his similarly bandaged legs and feet. Her eyes still in observation, but says nothing.

“Good morning to you too,” she speaks up before her mouth is back onto her drink.

Silas, like yesterday, nods once in response, practically a short bow.

Franz can no longer resist keeping his hand off, and cups Silas’ shoulder with a hand, guiding him away from the stairwell, and towards the sofa in the living room.

“...uhm, are you hungry?” He asks. “You’re up earlier than usual…”

The front door’s knob rotates, the full movement stunted as the lock in place halts it. All three of their heads turn in curiosity. Noises of keys jingling and the lock system unclasping itself is heard, a burst of cold air entering as the door swings open, revealing a tall figure who lets herself in, and shuts the door behind her abruptly. A snow hat, but with a dark veil over the face. The rest of the body is equally covered in darker-toned clothing, a long, thick skirt, gloves, a turtleneck…

“It is so unbelievably cold out,” she huffs out.

“Esmé! You’re here rather early,” Lianne comments, approaching her. Esmé lifts her hat, separate from the veil, before removing that as well. Lianne helps her shrug off the coat.

“Well look at you two,” she muses, looking at Silas and Franz on the couch. Right, Esmé still hadn’t seen him with Franz in his home.

Franz looks rather alert, some embarrassment seeping into the coloring of his ears. Silas, on the other hand, seems to be slipping back into sleep, head against Franz's shoulder, sinking into the couch.

“I kind of thought that you were joking when you said that he was living with you,” Esmé continues, hanging up her removed articles of clothing. Franz freezes, flailing a hand, gritting his teeth, widening his eyes- desperately trying to tell Esmé wordlessly to quit talking.

It’s too late.

“What do you mean?” Lianne asks, hands clasped behind her back.

Esmé’s talking ceases guiltily, realization seeping in. The absence of an answer makes her turn to Franz.

“Franz, what is she talking about?” Franz can only turn his head away awkwardly, pretending that the fabric of the couch was suddenly the most important subject matter in the world.

Lianne walks up to her cousin, hands on the stiff back of the couch, leaning over him. Silas’ head remains slumped, but his eyes slide over to watch her scold Franz. Franz shamefully turns his head up and away from the couch and Silas, and up to Lianne.

“Well?” She inhales slowly.

“Well.” Franz sighs. 

✚ ✚ ✚

Esmé watches as Silas uses the span of time Franz frantically explains the situation to Lianne to fade in and out of sleep. Seems that Silas has found the most trustworthiness in Franz as of yet.

The scolding and interrogating ends with a perplexed expression from Lianne, and Silas’ drowsiness finally toning down. Esmé had joined in on listening to the rambling from Franz midway through, and stood nearby, one leg resting on the side of the couch, watching the genuine struggle Franz faces to justify his means. Franz lets the puzzled tension in the air linger before he speaks up again.

“Lianne, please, let him stay. Anywhere else, the people would just be horrible. And… and wouldn’t he be helpful for you and Esmé’s research?”

Silas shoots Franz a glare, and he swallows uneasily, returning a knowing glance.

“You do… have a point…” Lianne says slowly. “I dunno, Esmé, what do you think?”

Esmé shrugs, still searching for a solid opinion to land on. 

Franz does have a good point, Silas has been an interesting “subject” so far, but she knows that it’s much beyond that. A boy his age. Someone that depends on Franz. Franz enjoys the feeling of being needed, the sensation of being someone reliable— and she knows that all too well. With what happened to his family, being the youngest in the entire Organized Defense and Revolt Program, if not the entire Silvand Medical Research Facility, the feeling of being needed had certainly only been amplified for Franz. After all, Esmé had been there to witness it all.

If that sudden entity of comfort disappears, which will happen, Esmé can’t determine what Franz will become afterwards. He’s likely unable to handle such loss with Silas in any healthy capacity.

“I don’t think Silas is a bad topic of observation,” she begins carefully. “But it is a different story for what Silas wants. I doubt he wants to be picked and prodded like a lab rat, nor does he desire any contact.” Esmé suppresses a sly grin at the sight of Silas comfortable against Franz. “But I completely agree with Franz's first statement. Anywhere else isn’t good for him, being from Mons, as far as we know, and on top of that, being amnesiac too.”

“Amnesiac,” Lianne repeats with a sigh.

Silas catches her amber gaze, his eyes dreary in comparison, largely influenced by the darkness below them. It would certainly help in research to know who he was before he came here. Knowing what she knows now, she does feel that she needs to be held responsible for making him so frightened with their first encounter. But then again, hearing how Franz had met Silas, it appears to be that she isn’t the only one who needs to make up for making him fear for his life.

“Then, Silas,” Franz says, turning to the figure next to him. “What do you want to do, seriously? I can… I suppose you can work with me part-time, or we can keep this weird schedule where I come home and eat with you…?”

What was Franz, the breadwinner? Esmé hides her amusement behind her hand. 

Silas sits there quietly, formulating an answer. His chest heaves up and down as visibly he builds up the correct words to properly express his desires.

“I want to find out who I am.”

Chapter Text

Silas watches as his words have a sort of delayed impact on those around him.

“I say that’s fair.” Franz is the first to speak. “I mean, it’s nice to figure out who you were before it all… yea.” The last word fades in the escape of his scarred lips. His gaze is on the fabric of the sofa once more.

“It is a respectable wish, Silas,” Esmé nods. “But surely you understand the difficulty of this, yes? None of us know anything about you.”

Silas keeps a steady gaze with Esmé as he hesitates.

“...I remember how I got to the train.”

All three others turn their gaze to him. Silas feels his confidence slightly strain under the sudden intensity of attention.

“...There were factories. I was in… confinement, medical leaning. There were tanks, with the letters…” Silas squints as he recalls the memory. “... P, L, A, U, S on it.”

“Tanks? Like a battlefield?” Franz inquires. 

He shrugs uncertainly. “No dead bodies.”

“Still military,” Esmé inserts. “And ‘PLAUS,’ is the the start of ‘Plausgound.’”

“Plausgound?” Lianne asks. “Like the country in Mons?”

“They did have involvement in war,” Esmé replies. “Not a major power, didn’t incite the war as Herena did, but they partnered up with Herena in the wartime, since they’re the closest Mons country to the Laeto continent.” She looks around, as if expecting someone to finish off her thought process. “The Mons country Plausgound is the closest Mons land to any Laeto country, which is Silvand. Us. The land masses sort of reach out to each other. Their train system runs directly across the ocean from what industrial structure that was made decades ago; Plausgound and Silvand became the bridges of war.”

“Which is exactly why Franz's Organized Defense and Revolt Program attack those trains. They’re a direct stream of rival supplies.”

“...which is why we were attacked in the war,” Franz adds grimly. Turning to Franz, Silas can see the usual glint in his eye being more subdued.

“...yes,” Esmé replies. She seems to have caught on as well. “But, even if that is where you came from, Silas, we still have some problems on hand.”

Silas turns back to Esmé to listen. 

“The first is that Plausgound, partnered with Herena, likely carries war prisoners, what remains of the survivors after Caedes, whatever that monstrosity is, attacked with TAR.”

They all take in the information quietly.

“What… is Caedes?” Silas asks.

The air becomes tense.

Esmé hums in thought. “I have seen countless speculations, theories, all that. I was a traveling battle medic, so I’ve only seen the aftermath of the destruction. All I have to say is that no human can handle that much TAR. It spews out TAR, utilizing it for damage. Soldiers say that it’s like a sort of… machine, obeying some other command beyond itself, while some describe it as more of a leader, like a general. But whatever the case, it doesn’t change that it caused so much death, so much destruction. Physically impossible to get close to it to attack to even see it well from the amount of smoke and fluid.” 

Her amber gaze lowers as her mind flickers through what Silas can only assume to be the carnage she’d had to work though, trying to find any salvageable soul through the mess. 

Franz hums. “I’ve always thought Caedes was a sort of freakish machine. TAR isn’t very effective against metal, right?” He looks up at Esmé for confirmation. “So, if it’s literally a killing machine…” he shrugs. “I think it makes sense, but I can’t say for sure. I’m only alive because I never got close enough to that thing myself.” 

“Yes,” Esmé says, “but Caedes’ appearance ceased once the truce was set.” She pivots the conversation back on track. “So, Silas, if you were in a place of… very likely imprisonment, we cannot trust that you are actually from Plausgound. We have a better shot searching in places where conflict and battles arose.”

“His clothes, they seemed to be some uniform that was not military, like of a prisoner,” Franz nods. “Even if you are from Plausgound,” he adds, “it’s impossible to get a direct train from Silvand to anywhere in Mons; we have to go further south to do so. Somewhere like… uh…” he snaps his fingers as he thinks. “Gramen! They’re the smack dab center of Laeto, they have good train lines in either direction. They have a really extensive and large train station and network down there. Central Station, I think the name was? I haven’t been down there, but I’ve always heard it being mentioned during wartime.”

“Central Station, yes…” Esmé murmurs. The comment seems to be for herself as she traces her finger alongside the fabric of her sleeve. “It certainly is an… extraordinary place.” Her gaze becomes more distant as what Silas can only describe as reminiscing.

“You can use this excuse to get back traveling maybe?” Lianne mentions. “You travelled a lot, even before the war, yeah?”

“We’re not going to Mons,” Esmé scoffs. “Too dangerous, too much time, and Plausgound isn’t very accessible to the public. I’ve been planning for an indefinite leave to try and get more information on TAR; I can’t get enough of the needed information from the scraps found on the outskirts of Silvand. But I don’t think I can go off on this on my own without having your little cousin tagging along.”

“Hey, I was the one who asked Silas if he wanted to do anything,” Franz huffs. “Can we please do this? I hardly have a chance to get out of Silvand.”

“Franz, you’re eighteen, you’re fine, a whole life ahead of you,” Lianne laughs softly. 

“Hah, yeah, but...” Silas watches as Franz shifts his eyes to him as he runs a hand through his hair. “...but still.”

Guilt is evident in his eyes.

Silas takes no offense. He’s happy for Franz, really, he’s a gentle soul, so caring, so cautious, his actions both motivated and suppressed by unspoken hurt. He deserves the years ahead of him.

“...so if we are to search for Silas’ past, we can… go to Seges, right below us, then Gramen, around its left? Then maybe shift our attention to Mons if there isn’t anything?” His gaze shifts back and forth between the two women, but primarily to Esmé, as per usual. Lianne seems to quietly ponder the situation.

“Seges and Gramen is possible, that’s in Laeto. But Mons… anywhere affected, involved in the other side of the war…”

“...whatever the case, can we go?”

“Ask Lianne, not me.”

“...Lianne, can we?”

She seems to think it over. “Only if… urgh,” she sighs. “I trust you Franz, but you are still a child in my eyes. I’d hate to push all the adult responsibility to Esmé…” She turns to the taller woman. “Only if you are willing to chaperone the two. I see this as a great chance to get close to other locations affected by TAR to obtain data.” Lianne combs her fingers through her hair that lies just above her chest. “I don’t think I can leave the house, better yet, Silvand anyways. I don’t think my work does too well with me being away…”

“I’m alright with that, Lianne,” Esmé says. “Franz is a good kid, and I presume that Silas is manageable.”

“Thank you, really,” Lianne sighs. “Even with you watching over him at his job…”

“We work in different sectors,” he retorts. “I just go to her on breaks.”

“She’s still looking after you; you’re the youngest person in the entire sector. I’m still going to have my concerns.”

“I’m not that incompetent,” Franz mutters.

“You’re young,” Lianne reiterates. “That’s all that has to do with it.”

Franz's expression still remains bitter, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth where the scar splits it open ever so slightly, but he doesn’t comment on the same subject again.

“I’ll send letters on any findings and updates, Lianne, don’t worry about that, you won’t have to sacrifice your research for either yours or our sake.”

“You’ve never had to sacrifice much,” Franz mutters under his breath, just out of earshot of Lianne, resulting in a quick pinch to his ear. Silas watches Franz's sour mood.

“Silas, are you okay with that? I’m unsure on how your health is with TAR, so this trip won’t happen… right this moment, though, it should be relatively soon. It also does give us time to prepare,” Esmé adds, “So it’s nothing burdening.”

Silas nods, looking up at her. 

“...thank you.”

Chapter Text

“Why in Orcus did you pinch me?” Franz groans. “A nasty game you’re playing, Esmé.”

“Franz, I’m keeping you in line,” she sighs. “Don’t badmouth Lianne like that, Franz. She says those things because she cares about you.”

“Yeah, well, she still thinks I’m incompetent.”

“She never said that.”

“It was insinuated,” he huffs.

They’re both in Franz's room: Franz on the edge of his own bed, and Esmé on the workshop side of his room, looking at the assortment of weapons that he’d put up again only several minutes ago. It’s been a couple hours after the planning of the rather sudden trip, but Franz, he’s fired up nonetheless.

“She did not insinuate that you were incompetent, Franz, no need to be so bitter towards her. She said those things because she worries for you.” 

“Why would she worry?” He scoffs. “I’m capable of doing things myself. I have a job, I’ve participated in a war, for Aurae’s sake.” His breathing is heavier, his hands move around irritably, defending himself.

“Franz.” Esmé walks across the room, and sits a small distance away from Franz on the bed. “Do not take this in any… imperious way. But the last time she ever got to see you vulnerable and open was… was only days after you were left by yourself, just a kid left stranded in the world,” she says softly. “As far as she knows, that’s how you still are, even if you don’t show it, even if you aren’t.”

Franz awkwardly shifts his eyes. “I wasn’t that small. I was sixteen.”

“She’s letting you on this trip because she trusts that you’re capable, but she still worries. You guys are still family.” Esmé reassures Franz. She scoots closer before lifting her hand, rubbing the back of his head, near the ear she’d pinched earlier, a silent apology. 

“You’re right Franz, you do a whole lot yourself. A whole lot stronger than me, getting back up by yourself at sixteen.”

“I…” Franz swallows, blinking. “No, I wasn’t by myself. You were with me, Esmé.”

Esmé can’t help but be touched. Franz had and still does see her as a prominent adult figure in his life. She’s a little less than twice his age, being a rather peculiar situation, having a coworker-aka-friend… but had he really seen Esmé as a replacement of Lianne, a replacement of a mother?

“Lianne doesn’t get it,” Franz says, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “She’s just been up here in Silvand all her life, and her parents are happily retired out… wherever in Orcus’ name they are. She hasn’t lost anyone like how I did. You’ve at least seen how these people die so easily from stupid conflicts, seen how it affects people up close.” 

Esmé continues to stroke his hair, listening.

“It’s… it’s stupid.” He stammers. “Lianne and I never even met before my parents were gone, and why does she just so happen to be the only available family member around? It’d be the same situation if I had an adoptive family; maybe at least they’d be willing. I want my poppa. I want my momma. Not this.”

Esmé lifts her free hand up and places it on Franz's cheek further from her, and uses the one on the back of his head to gently turn his face, so they can see eye to eye.

“Don’t say that, Franz, she does care. She had to agree to take you in, this is voluntary.” 

She watches his green irises distort slightly from the tears welling up in his eyes. His mouth parts slightly as he struggles to properly formulate words.

“...I care too,” he confesses. “But I’m not gonna get close to her,” Franz continues, breathless. His lower lip slightly quivers, his chin beginning to wrinkle. “I was just thrust into her responsibilities. And then at some point… she’s going to leave, too, Esmé. I don’t want her to die.”

“...Franz,” Esmé softly scolds. “You’re no curse of sorts.”

“—Even then,” his tone becomes a little harsher, “even then, I don’t want to bear the same pain, Esmé, I really don’t want to. I want to avoid that at all costs. This.. whole ordeal is so.. idiotic. I don’t want to have to feel like that again.” His breathing is a bit more erratic, and she lowers one hand to rub his shoulder, watching his eyes dart as he takes a moment. “I knew that, and I got close to you. You’re— you’re a nice pick to prevent that sort of ache though, you're Cruorian, you guys live rather long. But Silas. I got close to him. I can’t even…” 

He buries his eyes in his lower palms, pushing it into his eyes, as if it’d re-contain the burning sensation that his tears bring.

“Why does he have to die, Esmé?” He whispers, voice cracking. “...I don’t want any more people to leave me.”

“...I don’t know, Franz.”

She carefully pushes his hands off of his eyes, and uses her finger to brush off any tears off of his lower lashes, now clinging to one another from the moisture. Both hands then cradle his face, cupping his cheeks, a thumb on the scar on his lip, moving back and forth. Franz's face had become rather flushed from the surge of emotions, almost feverish under her hands. 

She has no words to soften the blow of death, nor does she have anything to deny Silas’ inevitable end. No treatment to lengthen out the time until his death day, no cure to give him a fulfilling life.

Esmé can’t help but see the same boy from just short of three years ago, just a teenager, grimy and wounded from removing himself from the remnants of an explosion however many days prior to Esmé’s arrival at the scene. Alongside his temple, his lips had been split open gruesomely from shrapnel, bleeding freely onto his face and neck, and the deficiency of support in the muscle from being cut open had made it difficult to even speak properly.

With nothing more than a name and grief to give, he’d followed Esmé up to Silvand from Seges, clinging desperately on her travel robes with a clammy hand as he breathed with spasms from the amount he’d weeped. 

She had fully expected to adopt Franz, even considering their short span of knowing one another, but surprisingly, there’d been a distant family member in this northern land. Being pulled away from Franz in such a manner certainly toyed with his trust and affection more than she’d realized. He knew only Esmé for a short while too, but he knew Lianne even less.

He’d grown so much during then, but he still harbors the same grief, the same affliction that he hides. It remains, just as his scar does.

“Let’s give Silas what he wants, yes?”

Esmé brushes his hair out of his face, watching his sullen expression remain when he nods, tears streaking his cheeks where Esmé had failed to wipe them away.

“Of course you will, Franz. You care dearly.”

With a small hiccup, the gates that had barely suppressed the floodgates crumble, and hot tears roll down his face. Franz clutches onto the loose fabric of her skirt, wordlessly begging her to stay with him. Esmé tucks him under her chin, arms around him and pulling him closer. 

She doesn’t urge him to stop crying. He needs this. Franz, so young, despite being an “adult,” still doesn’t have to see that he doesn’t have to work by himself, especially when he pitifully longs for any connection and affection.

He is still the same boy.

Chapter Text

“Let's go out to town.”

Those are the first words Franz announces to Silas the very next day during breakfast. Lianne had left for her work— turns out, she’s also working for a “research facility” of sorts, though hers tends to be more towards laboratory work than the physical work Franz does.

Franz marches up to Silas, who’s slowly processing a simple meal (one egg, half a toast) with a sense of determination, putting a hand on the edge of the table. 

“For what?” Silas asks after swallowing his mouthful.

“For you,” Franz says. “You’re going to need more than the few sets of clothing I’ve given you so far. Plus, I feel a little bad that you’re getting my hand-me-downs. They work, but it’s not what you deserve. Going on this little adventure of ours is another reason,” he hums.

Silas blinks. It’s rather odd, still, how willing Franz is to care for him. It’s unsettling how kind he is sometimes. But he’s not going to ask him to stop by any means. It blooms a foreign warm on the inside.

“I do not like the town,” Silas mumbles distastefully in reply, after a small consideration. He hadn’t forgotten the uneasy and prying stares he’d gotten from the people around town. “They do not like me either.”

Franz lifts his brows, taking Silas’ words into consideration. “...you can…wear a respirator. It is not unusual in these times, some people are cautious, some people are more susceptible to poorer air. And the coat you nabbed from my work the other day, the collar is tall enough to conceal your neck.”

Silas chews his next mouthful carefully. “...my hair?”

“Oh, yeah. You can wear the scarf from yesterday.” Franz slightly runs a hand through his own hair. “I don’t think it’s too weird or anything, though. I like it.” 

Silas is caught off-guard at his comment. Franz liking the unusual coloring of his hair did give him a sense of relief, though it doesn’t quite mean that everyone else likes it.

Franz outstretches a hand, holding a strand of Silas’ light-colored hair in between his fingers. He slightly twirls it, watching the strands spin around. Silas catches the unusual puffiness and pink coloration where the tear bags are on Franz's face accompanied by a flush around his cheeks, but he doesn’t comment on it. 

“How does it get to be this color, anyways? Your hair is black at the roots.” 

Silas shrugs. He’d like some answers, for once. At least this trip was going to be soon.

“It’s cool anyways,” he adds with amusement. He releases the hair from his hand, and stands up straight, exhaling. “Uh… alright. We can go to clothing stores, that’s our main objective. I can’t come up with anything else off the top of my head right now. I have other bags, weapons, all that from what I have in the house, and I can ‘borrow’ some from my work too.” Franz points to the general direction of the stairwell. “And if you like it or not, you’re going to need a weapon of sorts. And you’re definitely not against weapons.” 

Silas thinks momentarily about what Franz is implying. Likewise, he realizes as well: the revolver he’d pulled on Franz. Rather rocky for a first encounter. 

“Do you want that revolver for the trip?” Franz asks. Silas nods before he speaks. 

“I want a knife too.” 

A dagger, to be specific. In all its silver glory.

“Knife?” Franz reiterates. “Not very common, but sure. I should have some hunting and pocket knives in the house.”

Silas picks up the last bites of his toast and crams it into his mouth, swallowing with mild struggle. Franz watches out of the side of his eye, containing his enjoyment of this scene. Not very well, in Silas’ opinion, his expression reveals enough, even without him speaking out loud. 

“You’re eating a lot better now,” he hums. “I’ve seen you get queasy over soup like, a week ago.” 

Silas’ cheeks are inflated with the contents inside as he munches. 

Franz narrows his eyes. “You really are getting better at a surprising pace.”

Silas shivers, directly looking up at Franz. He isn’t wrong. It is suspicious, to a degree. Recovering from malnutrition at a rapid pace, healing at a tempo too unnatural. They can only pin it on TAR for the time being.

Franz tugs his eyes off of him. “I will be asking Esmé to observe you more… properly, by the way, sometime shortly, before we travel. She’s a safe choice, and the traveling is more of a rough search than a vacation. I’d rather not take any risks with your… situation.” 

Silas can’t object. Having a thorough medical observation before the trip is something he’d take over collapsing, getting sick, whatever misfortune of health may strike him down. After all the prognosis has been lingering over them as a heavy storm cloud the moment the information was released by Esmé.

Silas sighs, and nods.

✚ ✚ ✚

There was no snowfall in the witching hours, which meant walking left muddy patches of slush on the sidewalk that squelch and slip, dangerous for the typical oblivious person. Feeble sunlight creep behind the clouds Esmé is grateful for the veil covering her face, as it certainly helps with the glare from the store windows and unlit lamps. 

To call this place in southern Silvand, Rima, a city is an overstatement. A rural, impoverished place to begin with, the majority of the population is close-minded to any new people and hardened by conflicts at the border. She likes the warmer weather back in Vorago, and they’re more tolerable of other. Then again, the sun there is harsher, more painful. 

Pick your poison, she supposes.

Esmé walks by the stores, window shopping, tucking her hands into the pockets of her trench coat. She walks by dresses, but she’s more into skirts; then weapons, she still has her spear; then gas masks, she already has her own… well, she should buy new filters.

She steps into the store, slightly ducking her head as she enters.  The walls are covered in displays, and below, the actual purchasable products, the warmth of the lighting varying from the selection of lamps and lanterns. There are a small number of people inside, chattering amongst the generally quiet, compact store.

“...I can give you fifteen for that if you…”

“...so when you replace this part…”

“...the stupid respirator is nothing good enough to properly deal with any TAR smoke...”

Esmé shifts her eyes behind the veil, turning her head slightly as she partially listens to the conversations around her. The voice sounded familiar for a moment.

She picks up a filter, then realizes her gas mask type, and sets it down.

“...wait, Silas, does this fit your face?”

She turns her head carefully to the voice. Her suspicions are confirmed by the sight of Franz somewhat fretting over Silas one aisle over, who’s standing still as Franz's hand flicks and hover around him.   

“Uhm, okay, use the buckle on the back to adjust the side,” he instructs. Silas’ hand goes up, fumbling for a moment before he finds it, and fixes it.

Franz takes a step back, narrowing his eyes as he takes in Silas with the gas mask. It’s a dark-colored mask, and like Franz's, it has two lenses for the eyes, though its shape is more rounded. 

“Yeah, that fits well,” Franz nods.

“I think so too,” Esmé butts in. 

The two lift their heads, and Franz turns around to see Esmé leaning over to see them well enough.

“Fancy seeing you two here. Preparing?” She asks. Silas takes a moment to recognize her, as his furrowed brows take several moments to release the tension. Esmé steps closer to them, more out into the open.

“Esmé!” Franz exclaims. A slightly apologetic look falls onto his face before reverting back to his usual pleased expression. “Yeah, Silas doesn’t have his own. And it’s best if he has his own. What’re you doing here, anyways? Just following us?” He titters.

Esmé moves her head slightly, her veil rippling as she does so. “I need new filters. I advise you to get some as well; I’m unsure how the air quality is down there.”

“Yes, right, that…” he mumbles. “Thanks, Esmé.”

She nods curtly in response. “Where are you guys heading afterwards?”

“Clothing stores. I dunno which ones are the best, though, I just get the same things from Anderson’s.”

“Of course you do,” she chuckles. “That should work fine, but I have a couple places in mind that are close by. They should have your size, Silas.”

Silas had been removing the mask when Esmé had spoken to him, leaving his hair ruffled and in his face as he nods.

The three are able to make their way around the town, dropping by a couple places.

She happily bathes in the youthful conversations that Franz is the main a participant in, with a few small comments from Silas, filling in gaps in the chatter from Franz. A shimmer and glow of passion only found in genuine words that he spews ever so often. 

Esmé interjects in their conversation a small handful of times, but being able to witness this friendly, same-age dynamic that she’d never be able to recreate with Franz is rather refreshing. Someone his age that pairs well with him is difficult to come by in small towns like these; most have been taken away from the despair that war always brings in its wake. 

As they proceed on their shopping endeavors, Silas visibly dodges any close calls he has with other people walking by in the streets, or browsing through the stores with a deft movement, usually being a turn of a shoulder, or a small step away. 

Despite these very unmistakable actions that reject contact, Silas doesn’t quite object to anything from Franz. Perhaps a flinch or a sharp turn of his head, but never removing himself from the warmth of the other’s body.

Esmé lingers on these instances any time they occur. Trust is the only word she’s able to use.

They’re able to obtain a few sets of clothes for Silas that are durable, and fit him just right.  Esmé can see the voiceless delight that simmers in Silas, one that isn’t quite expressed in his faint ‘thank yous.’

Esmé recommends that Franz and Silas get different jackets, in case any conflict arises from any Mons troops stationed nearby the areas they plan to visit. Franz adamantly declines her advice.

“I like my jacket though, and it’s something that shows that I’m with the people of Laeto,” Franz complains. “Those troops can suck it.”

“Franz, your colors are almost identical to that of the Laeto military, I’d rather you and Silas not get sent to some military camp. Or get into tussles with Mons military like before.”

“Come on…” Franz groans. Of course he has to add several more complaints. “Esmé, this is brown.”

“Mhm.”

“Mons is brown.”

“Mons is tan or beige,” she corrects. “This is a dark brown. You see people everywhere wear this color. It is a nice, fit color, it still camouflages; and most importantly, it’s warm.”

“...brown,” Franz mumbles.

“It’s pretty much the same length as your work ones are. And this place actually had Silas’ size, the ones we had left in the work lockers were too big,” she adds, looking over to the white-haired boy. “Look at him, he’s thankful,” she says motioning to Silas. 

Franz turns to him. Silas is still beaming with gratitude with his ever-so neutral expression.

“Thank you,” he says meekly.

“You are very welcome, Silas,” Esmé replies, moving her veil aside to allow him to see her better.

They end up getting two new coats, both dark brown.

✚ ✚ ✚

Esmé tags along as the two make their way back home.

It being wintertime, the furnace of reds and oranges in the sky only have a minimal amount of time to radiate its ease from the bitter winds before the dark hues of night take over. Long shadows merge into full darkness, the rings of light now being the contrast to its surroundings. Lamps are lit, lights flick on; dinners are starting to be made, the scent of a prepped meal wafting out from the cracks and crevices in the structure of the houses and complexes.

“Esmé, your place is in the opposite direction of ours,” Franz points out. “We’re fine by ourselves, y’know.”

“I am well aware,” she replies. “Can’t a lady simply accompany you guys?”

“I mean, you can. I thought it would just be a bother for you to walk all the way back. It’s freezing out here.” 

Fixing her sight on Franz, she can see how his nose, cheeks, and ears have become flushed. They probably sting from the cold. Silas, on the other hand, doesn’t seem too bothered. His paleness should reveal more of the red or pink coloration, remarkably so in these temperatures. Odd.

“It isn’t that big of a deal, I promise you,” Esmé reassures.

“...will you stay for dinner?” He asks.

“I stayed yesterday, I’m quite alright,” she chuckles. “I should fix something for myself at home anyways, I should finish up what food I have at home I leave.”

“Oh, yeah,” Franz mumbles. His tone shifts when he apparently remembers something. “Tomorrow is technically our ‘last day’ of work, right? We’re not quitting, but like… a leave, right? I’ve never put one in before.”

“Yes, yes,” she confirms. “Like a leave.”

She walks them up to the front door as Franz unlocks it, and steps in.

“G’night Esmé,” Franz says. “See you at work.” He throws a close-lipped smile.

“Goodnight Franz,” she says. She slightly rocks on her heels. “And you as well, Silas.”

Silas turns his head around when Esmé mentions him, as if he hadn’t expected her to regard him; he gives her a small wave before the door shuts.

Esmé stares at the door after it's closed, a sense of desire swirling within her chest, invisible hands touching the doorknob, knocking gently. She lowers her gaze, exhaling. She should go home. 

At least there, she can be warmed up by a fireplace, even if she’d prefer if she had the warmth of companionship.

Now, outside, she has neither.

Inside of the Hagshaw residence, she would have both.

Chapter Text

Franz arrives home at about the same time as per usual, opening the door to the toasty warmth that provides relief on his frosty face.

“Silas,” he calls out as he easily runs up the stairs. He opens the door to his room hastily, revealing a somewhat startled Silas on his bed, a book in his lap. 

“D’you wanna go out drinking with me?” he asks. “The people at my worked asked if I wanted to, since I’m ‘leaving.’” He makes small quotation marks with his fingers before he unzips his jacket, shedding it. Franz watches Silas for an answer. “Can you drink?” He retraces. “You don’t have to drink, though. Get some sort of carbonated drink, maybe,” he offers.

“...I’ll come with,” Silas says, shutting the book.

“Cool, cool.” Franz watches as he puts the book away on the shelf. “...Are you wearing the clothes we got yesterday?”

“Mhm.” 

“They look nice. I’m glad they fit well.”

Silas looks up, clearly not missing how Franz's gaze rakes over him. Silas tilts his head as Franz's scope comes back up, and he flashes a small, apologetic smile. 

“It should be in… like two hours? Oh, and Esmé will be there too.”

Silas hums halfheartedly. Esmé had started to redeem herself in Silas’ eyes. Being aware of the fact that she’d been motivated by the passion of her research, it did explain why she acted the way she did at their first encounter. Yet more importantly, the rather serene setting that yesterday had exhibited had played a major role in her restructured as someone new in his eyes. She’s clearly very easygoing with Franz, to the point where quarreling like siblings is very obviously a common occurrence. Not only her age, but their dynamic had lifted any questions Silas had lingering about with their relationship. Is she friend, or more of a parent?

Whatever the case may be, if Franz liked something, she did as well. It wasn’t anything mindless as a lamb led to slaughter, yet it’s clear that she takes Franz's opinions into through consideration, caring deeply for him. 

But on the subject matter of behavior, what about Silas? Where was that fear incited from? He doesn’t think that the disdain of contact isn’t something too uncommon, especially with strangers, but why exactly is he so fearful? There has to be a reason why it was a response of panic, not distaste. The physical reaction of nausea and distress that runs deep inside of Silas’ spine that’s reactivated any time some stranger gets a little too close, when somebody touches him without any mental preparation beforehand. The amount of people Silas is surrounded by now is very minimal, and even then, it is tiresome to constantly be on alert to try and avoid skin. A break, a reprise from the struggle would be nice.

Silas’ eyes refocus, and adjust to the peer in front of him.  

…perhaps, perhaps Franz is alright. His presence is becoming familiar enough to sense before he makes contact, where he is to rest his hand, how he is to move around Silas. He is predictable enough to be nearby without harboring any fear.

This is manageable.

✩ ✩ ✩

This is not manageable.

Silas sits next to Franz on a booth seat in a circular seat that sits on the perimeter of a round table. 

Esmé resides on the very outer side, then Silas, then Franz, then… about four other people Silas does not know at all. Two girls, two guys. They chatter excitedly, somehow exchanging sentimental words and banter in the same sentence, the two in front of him batting each other and doing a very poor job at keeping their voices unnoticed to any others residing in the pub. 

It is a little early for most of the crowds to gather, but the population inside of the building has increased in the past thirty minutes spent simply making noise; no ordering, nothing, just conversation that he both lacks the skill and interest to join in.

“I haven’t seen Adrian in the past couple weeks,” Franz comments. “Did he transfer his position or something?”

“Got shot,” one of his acquaintances replies. “Couple of times at that too. He was a straggler in our last run, so he’s technically on a sort of break. He should be glad that he didn’t get blown up by his own explosives how Harley did.”

“Ah,” Franz replies deftly, eyes flicking down.

The onslaught of defectively filtered questions and comments has already rubbed Silas the wrong way too, like how a cat reacts when his fur is stroked in the opposite direction. It’s a bit mystifying to think that Franz is the one friends with these people. Maybe he’s here just for the drinks.

“You don’t talk much, do you, ‘Mister Silas’?” One of the girls comments playfully. Her words don’t hold any malice, but they’re still intrusive. “Are you really a ‘friend from the South?’ Like Esmé? I haven’t really heard anything about you before.”

“Well yeah, of course you wouldn’t Anne, your head is far up your ass half of the time,” one of the guys replies. “You’re better off keeping up with the physical work than to do any of the thinking Esmé does all the time,” he snickers. She shoves him, making him protest in faux pain.

Again, with the hitting. Is this flirting?

Silas narrows his eyes, sliding his gaze over to Franz. He seems to be engaging in a conversation with the other guy— a couple years older, it seems. Seems pretty awkward for either party.

“...’s been a while since we went out to drink like this,” the blonde man muses to Franz.

“Of course it has been, Luke.” A rare sigh from him. Silas turns away as Esmé places her hands on the table, alerting the rowdy bunch.

“Drinks. What do you guys want?” She asks, her vision sweeping over them.

“Pint of the usual beer.”

“Oh, me too.”

“A sort of cocktail, any.”

“Scotch, if you can.”

“Can I get whiskey?”

Esmé slightly nudges Silas with an elbow as she begins to go atop stand up.

“Do you want to go get the drinks for the table with me?” She inquires. She probably doesn’t need help. But Silas is willing to use this chance to get away from the table, even for just a minute. 

He follows Esmé’s lead, and scoots out of the seat, leaving the rowdy bunch behind.

She orders the five drinks for those still at the table asked for, and one of her own.

“Silas, what would you like? I’d recommend something that’s not alcohol, in the case that it doesn’t sit well with you.”

Silas nods, recalling what Franz had mentioned to him earlier. “…carbonated?”

Esmé slightly hums as she recognizes what Silas means. “Yeah, they have some of that here. They sell about anything they can, really. It was a good place to gather during the war conflicts.”

She’s able to obtain the soda Silas had asked for, and they carefully make their way back to the table. The work friends hoot lightly in celebration.

“‘ey, thanks for letting us use your tab, Luke,” the guy says. “Franz and Esmé wouldn’t be here if you weren’t paying,” he chortles. “D’you want a few sieves to cover some?”

The man supposedly named Luke tilts his chin up in reply to his friend, gratefully accepting his drink handed by Silas. 

“No need, Hans.”

Silas sits himself down before Esmé is seated. Everyone with their drinks in front of them, sharing gossip and anecdotes easily, a mutual understanding of how to react to these stories from the amount of time they’ve spent together.

The bottle of soda that had been opened for Silas before it’d been handed over is now in his hand, and he carefully takes a sip.

Bitter texture. But a sweet flavor blooms afterwards.

His hands carefully cups most of the circumference of the bottle, the bandages seeping in the beads of sweat from the cool drink.

The girl— Anne, someone said her name was— leans somewhat closer to Silas, sitting across the table from him.

“You are really an unfamiliar sight here,” she hums. The same teasing manner is there from earlier. “It’s not everyday that someone new comes into Silvand out of all places, especially nowadays.”

The guy next to her butts into the conversation. “Mhm, mhm, and never someone who’s as… distinct as you are. What’s your name again? Simon?”

“Silas.”

“Hans,” he replies, with a half-grin. 

Anne comes back into the chat. “Hans is right, never someone who’s as distinct as you, Silas. Esmé was probably the previous attention-catcher.”

He turns to the woman next to him, and Esmé lightheartedly lifts her brows, sipping on her drink. She’s quietly conversing with the other woman in front of her. (“Anyways, Nat, as I was saying…”)

Silas turns back to the two sitting in front of him.

“Not many people come up to from the South. It’s too cold,” Anne muses.

“I thought it was because the South has more strict guidelines on what and where they want their kids to be?”

“I dunno, I’ve never been,” she replies.

Silas sips his beverage again, watching the bubbles rise and disappear in his drink. Franz, as well as the guy who sits where the booth seer curves, have drinks that also fizz, though theirs are more of a dark amber color, whereas Silas’ has more of a clear color.

A faint form of tension is still between Franz and the guy called… Luke. They don’t seem quite rivalrous, yet not completely comfortable either. Franz seems conflicted to either engage head-on or completely brush him off, and his gaze remains noncommittal.

“D’you like your drink Silas?” Franz asks, making Silas’ head lift slightly, pulled out of observation.

Silas nods faintly.

“That’s good, that’s good…” 

Franz takes a deep drink of his beverage, head tilting away from the scarred half of his lips, exhaling as he sets it down.

“So, why’d you invite me and offer to pay for tonight, Luke?” Franz inquires. He looks at the blonde man without completely lifting his head, mostly through his brows and lashes.

“You're leaving. I know not be a permanent, but you do good work—“

“—you know what I mean,” Franz huffs. “You’re the one who claimed that we should put more space in between us, why is it now that you want to get close?”

“I… Franz,” Luke sighs, finger tracing the rim of the glass. “I want to see you off on good terms, yeah? I know it’s not like before, but I still do care for you, to a degree. You’re a good guy to work with.”

Silas feels extremely intrusive about listening in on this discussion— this confrontation. He does his best to listen to Esmé and “Nat” chat quietly. These two appear to have the least tension, after all.

“…whatever,” Franz grumbles, taking a drink again. “You know how weird this is, yeah?”

“I do, Franz.”

“No you don’t,” he snaps. “You were never very invested to begin with. You were just humoring me, and you could’ve told me from the start to buzz off.”

“Franz, we hang out at work.”

“This isn’t work.”

Silas’ eyes slide over to Franz, feeling an unusually irritated presence rise out of him, something similar to when he’d gotten worked up over Lianne’s comment. 

Spite mixed in with hurt. 

Maybe it’s best if he doesn’t hang out with Luke for the rest of the night, like he did with his cousin?

Silas takes a drink himself, rubbing his tongue against the flesh of his cheek as he feels the sparking of carbonation seep in. He can’t seem to get used to the sensation, gradually working away at the amount of fluid in the bottle. 

A couple others ask for more drinks, some food to go with it. Silas is still halfway through his own drink.

✩ ✩ ✩

Everyone has had a good number of drinks–- all except Silas, who’d contently finished his soda, and Esmé, who’s happily done with two gin and tonics, still immersed in conversation. Hans and Anne are making jokes that don’t quite make sense, and Franz and Lucas are in this weird push and pull of conversation, often joining in on stories of others before going back to each other's difficult tango. They should just sit away from each other if it’s so difficult to get along.

He feels a hand glide on his upper back, making him shiver unexpectedly, jerking his head to be face-to-face with a rather intoxicated Franz. He pulls Silas’ frame closer, his hand now having a firm anchor on the shoulder further from him.

“See, this guy here? He’s… he’s…” he points at Silas in a wobbly manner. “At least he’s blunt, I don’t have to play his little games, like I had to do with you. And he doesn’t even talk much. Hah! That's saying somethin’, don’t you think?”

How many drinks has he had? Six? Eight? The cluttered glasses on the table surface make it difficult to tell, but the musk of alcohol in his breath paired with the light flush on his cheeks clearly proves his inebriation. Silas himself feels a bit more high-strung from the soda, as if the carbonation bubbles were now animated inside of him.

“I’ll tell you what, Franz, good for you,” Lucas slurs back. “Jus’ don’t get too ahead of yourself.” A hiccup. “But you don’t have to be… going after people all the time to be happy, yea?”

“Don’t make it sound like I sleep around the entire town, just because you—” he quarrels, moving his finger to Lucas. 

“—Wouldn’t you like to?” A few others at the table swiftly shift their eyes to Lucas, the chatter subsiding.

“Dickhead,” Franz hisses, kicking Lucas under the table. From the grimace on his face, Franz had clearly landed the hit with his boot. Somehow, Franz's expression shows more of a wounded expression than on Lucas’ face.

With the gradually rising conflict, Esmé’s eyes jump to the bickering. 

“...we better get going,” she says quickly. “After all, you all have work tomorrow.”

“Don’t say that, Esmé,” Hans groans, rubbing his forehead. “You don’t have to, quit boastin’.”

“Wish you all the best,” she chuckles. She stretches her hand beyond Silas, tapping Franz on the back of his head. “C’mon, let’s go.”

“I haven’t beat up Lucas enough yet, hold on,” he mutters. 

“I said we’re going,” she repeats in a firmer tone, starting to get up, taking her veil in hand.

Silas, caught in this scolding, begins to pull Franz away from Luke, utilizing Franz's arm already over his shoulder. He’s able to slide him over the booth seats, and heaves him up onto his feet, most of his weight slung over on Silas’ shoulders and side.

“...good night,” he says politely to the remaining four at the table. Some wave, some return the farewell through words. 

The three make their way outside, buttoning up their coats once more. The inside had gotten heated from alcohol and conflict, differing from the solitude the outdoors provide. Most shops have closed up, and all are attempting to retreat to the safety of their homes if they hadn’t yet, walking stiffly.

Silas adjusts the weight on him, Franz shuffling more than walking. He wasn’t awfully heavy, but his long limbs that kept dangling in his way is making this task more difficult than it’s supposed to be. Silas holds an arm tight against his chest, using the other hand to support Franz's waist.

“Silas…” He mumbles. “I can walk by m’self.” He stops moving his feet, staggering for a moment, despite Silas’ support, as he stands still. Silas stops, not trusting Franz's words.

“Look, I’m drunk, but not that drunk, ‘kay? I can walk by myself.”

“…right,” Silas replies.

“You’re not walking by yourself when the streets are cold and icy,” Esmé retorts. 

“Fine, then I’ll lean on him. Silas is okay like this,” he says, patting near Silas collarbone. Franz's breath comes out in hot, thin wisps near Silas’ ear as he tucks his face into his shoulder for warmth.

“I don’t like the idea of him hunched over under your weight out here. He can do that at home.”

Franz breathes out in frustration, but he can’t help but agree with her statement. He allows Silas to move out of his reach, and Esmé to take his place. She more efficiently picks him up onto her back.

“Didn’t you drink too, Esmé?” Franz mumbles.

“Two drinks. My tolerance is good, anyways.”

Franz hums in reply.

The walk home consists of a straightforward path, but the dark cobblestone path, occasionally illuminated by lamplight, is cold and unforgiving if anyone was to slip and take a hit. They keep the goal of a warm bed in mind while the stiffness begins to set into their joints. As they approach the Hagshaw residence, Esmé carefully sets down Franz, allowing him to lean against Silas again.

“Sorry about him,” Esmé says on his behalf. “He’s not a lightweight, but he gets more easily riled up when he’s.. under the influence.”

Silas glances over at Esmé, whose expression is impossible to tell from the veil in the way.

“It’s alright,” Silas says shortly. “Goonight, Esmé.”

“Goodnight. Sleep well, you two.”

Silas fishes the house key out of Franz's pocket, and unlocks it, stepping into the dark room. The warm, stagnant air inside is pleasant, softening the crystallized sensation in the back of his throat and nostrils. Esmé stands there for a moment longer before she too, turns, and makes her way back home. Silas kicks his shoes off, and shakes Franz to do the same.

He adjusts Franz who is happily slung over on his back and carefully makes his way upstairs, using both the wall and handrails to assist himself. This would be so much easier if Franz would tuck his limbs closer to his torso, but no, he has to be all sprawled out, mumbling gibberish to the side of Silas’ face.

Reaching Franz's room, Silas manages to partially throw, partially drop Franz onto his bed, who flops into the blankets. He manages to cling on an arm of Silas’.

“Wooow… thank you Silas,” he drawls out. “Are you going to bed too..?”

“Mhm.” What else was there to do? Silas thinks. It’s cold, dark, and the sudden amplification in socialization has drained his energy. He’s ready for sleep to swallow him.

“...what? Y’mean you’re gonna leave me? Come onnn,” he giggles. This time, Franz is the one who’s doing the pulling, and tugs Silas onto the bed, sloppily yanking the covers out from underneath their body weight, and over himself and Silas, who is taking off both sweater and jacket.

“Take your jacket off too,” he says to Franz, tugging at his sleeve. He complies, throwing the jacket onto the floor, and engulfs them both in the blanket.

Franz is warm. Too warm, perhaps, the influence mostly from the alcohol. A hand curls around a shoulder, then his waist, mirroring how Silas had held him earlier.

“You’re much colder than I’d expected,” Franz mumbles. “Don’t you ever get cold?”

“Sometimes.” Silas blinks up into the dark ceiling as he processes the situation. 

“Wear that jacket well, mm?”

“Okay.”

He’s too happy to use Silas as a body pillow, freely pushing and pulling him into a place and position Franz desires at any time, the tendency for Silas to dislike touch completely out of the question now. He could move away to defend his own, wriggle free from his grasp to his own bedroom. 

But Silas is… afraid to do so. Not of Franz, but what the disappointment of the familiar cold may be. This is new. This is not unwelcome.

A hand manages to find its way to Silas’ bare back, by going under his lying figure, two of Franz fingers placed against his back as Silas lies in a fetal position. Another on his waist, mirroring how Silas had held him earlier. Each breath he takes is returned by Franz, who subconsciously moves his thumb in small, back and forth movements, slightly humming as he drunkenly slips into blissful unconsciousness. It’s an undeniably reassuring presence, yet it borders in between restrictive heat and comfortable warmth. He feels the urge to bolt at the unfamiliarity despite the lack of a real threat.

It’s Franz, though. Franz. In the short time he’s known him, he’s constantly shown care and concern over Silas, going beyond what’s needed or ever expected, showing such a soft character that Silas would’ve never expected out of an “enemy,” if he can even call him that anymore. He’s a friend. This is maybe what friends are supposed to do.

As he lies still he can smell the sweet, almost acidic scent of alcohol in the small space between the two. Franz’s eyes are shut, hair mussed up. Carefully, Silas allows himself to untense his shoulders and settle in Franz's arms, enclosed by a sense of safety he’s still familiarizing himself with.

Chapter Text

Franz kicks the cover off of half of his own body. It’s too damn hot, for once, in the dead of winter. He slides his head around for some sort of contrasting temperature, and wraps himself more fully against it.

A pillow— no— a blanket? 

He blearily opens his eyes, his vision hazy. 

White. 

Silas’ hair?

Franz lifts his head, blinking for focus. 

Silas. Here?

He has his own room, so what in Orcus is he doing here, curled up in his arms compliantly? 

Not that he’s complaining, but a mystery that he’d like an answer to, nonetheless.

It’s early morning, his surroundings visible by a blue glow, anticipating day. Beams of light don’t shine though, not yet, rather a luminosity that manages to radiate from the sky in its own peculiar manner.

He’s still too warm, even with the cooler skin pressed against him. He’s still wearing his sweater, the sleeves rolled up and the hem pulled up from sleep. Of course he’s warm. Though, he has one issue: Silas is sleeping on his arm. He’s glad that his sleeve hadn’t hitched up.

Looking at his sleeping face, pressed into the mattress and Franz's arm alike, Silas is in a similar state of which he’d had when Franz first held him in his arms, drugged to be made unconscious. 

It’s not like this right now, though, He’s sleeping, out of his own accord, out of his own will and want, not anything that Franz had forced him to do; at least, he hopes. He knows that he can get clingy when drunk, but really, never has he acted too roughly.

Had Silas really gotten comfortable? He’s watched him dodge and avoid touch constantly from other people, barely accepting those of Franz- this is rather surprising. A little questionable, for sure.

Franz carefully removes a hand that rests atop of Silas’ side, and moves it up to his head, carefully stroking the hair that falls into his face. The hair ends in the natural shape, as the end of a calligraphy brush would, but the varying lengths implies that the hair was cut hastily and rather choppily to begin with, especially around the “middles” of his head.

He hesitates before fully threatening his fingers and palm into the hair near the temple, the strands that fall into his face. Silas really could be a lifelike doll or something made of marble or porcelain, cracking around the mouth that forms the scars.

Impulsively, and now too comfortable with touching Silas, he drops his finger to his mouth, grazing the scar that drags across his cheek.

Silas’ eyes flutter open, his gaze instantly adjusting to the close proximity of Franz. They’re the same dark blue coloring around the irises that affects the nearby grey, making them appear as a cooler tone. Franz's movements freeze as he’s caught in this very self-indulgent act.

Silas sits up abruptly, his movements a little delayed, despite his acute expression. He looks around the room, at himself, then Franz- who’s removing his sweater- and lies back down, slowly.

“G’morning,” Franz says carefully. He still feels warm; though, from embarrassment, remaining heat from the clothing, or from some stupid fever from drinking, he can’t tell. Silas flicks his gaze to him.

“...were you trying to touch me?” Silas asks immediately. Franz grimaces. He shouldn’t have done that. Maybe there is some saving grace with an excuse. The accusation did not sound very pleasant either.

“We are right now…?” Franz tries. Silas lies still, thinking. He is, in fact, resting his head on Franz's arm, legs tangled in one another’s and remains in the curve of Franz's torso. 

Silas hums, recognizing his point, tension visibly leaving his body.

“…how’d you like last night?” Franz inquires curiously. “I do get that my friends could be very… pushy, but I hope they didn’t press you too much.” Franz, despite being enamored in the conversation of his friend Lucas, for the lack of a better term, he’d still noticed that Anne and Hans were being overly nosy.

“It was okay. I liked the soda.” 

“You liked the soda?” Franz chuckles.

“It was kind of spicy.”

“Spicy? What, you’ve never had a carbonated drink?”

“…no.” Silas shivers slightly, and scoots a little closer to Franz, pulling the sheets properly over his shoulders. Franz allows Silas to come closer, adjusting himself to a more appropriate position for the better of the both of them.

“Do you want to sleep a little more?” He asks slowly, eyes resting on Silas’ cheeks again.

Silas’ eyes glance over to Franz’s face, lingering.

 “Yes.”

✚ ✚ ✚

Esmé sits on the floor, next to the low table, looking over papers, maps, and documents with great focus, eyes shifting to and fro, her hair swaying any time she leans over to take a sip of her tea. All of the money for any food to purchase, transport to ride, or places to stay at should be set. Maps with a thinly drawn line of their course is already there, making sure to hit areas for Silas’ convenience…making sure it goes through areas that could help Esmé with finding more about the origins of TAR without needing to traverse into the still-dangerous lands of Mons. 

Sure, she’s Cruorian, historically an attempted neutral presence, but Esmé is still an outsider to the people of Mons, especially in the places such as Herena she wants to investigate. She’s going to have to settle for the locations where conflict had occurred and spread in Laeto for now.

She stretches her shoulders for a moment, tilting her head sharply left to right with her lips slightly parted as she cracks her neck. Sitting still like this for hours is something she’d gotten used to in the past year, undoubtedly making her sore. 

Esmé picks up a document to the side, carefully placed in a thin plastic sheet for preservation. A letter from a soldier, to someone with familial relations. She’d written this description for her analysis: 

Found on the southern border of Silvand, likely written after the Northern land of Seges had been conquered by the Herena military. The letter was found in a small train wreck, carrying both minimal cargo and passengers.

Though it’s an impressive find for a train accident from several months back in a state of the cold elements, it still doesn’t give her much leads on what TAR exactly is. After all, Esmé, or anyone else that she’s ever even heard of in this field, can’t quite decipher the exact components of the actual substance. 

For Aurae’s sake, the name of “TAR” itself is based on appearance and a speculation of the component: “Toxic ammonia residue.” Ammonia because all possible samples result from the dead. Unthought out. Not really confirmed. Only perk being that it’s catchy.

If even one piece of this formula can be figured out, it’s a huge step to getting closer to discovering what it’s made out of, and perhaps even treatment. A cure.

The doorbell rings, alongside some polite knocking on the door, making Esmé’s head lift up, pushing herself off of the floor. 

Opening it stands Silas and Franz, well-bundled against the cold, faces pink. 

“Morning, Esmé,” Franz chirps, waving despite the proximity. “Can we come in?”

He’s unusually lighthearted for it being a few days after drinking, especially after something like that from Lucas. He used to mope for about a week, though, understandably.

The only differing factor is…Silas. Esmé narrows her eyes in intrigue. He looks unbothered.

“Of course.” 

✩ ✩ ✩

They step in, stamping the snow off the boots before removing them, and trails after Esmé.

Her house isn’t something huge: it’s a thin, two-storied structure. The first floor consists of a small kitchen, living room, bathroom, and the “upstairs” is technically a loft, with her bedroom and a study there. Though it isn’t a large space, the high ceilings and large windows compensate, making it feel more spacious than it really is. Cozy, lit comfortably.

Esmé lives on the side of town with higher elevation, the opposite direction of where Franz, Lianne, and currently Silas resides, making her closer to work and shops, but further from major transport.

On the small, singular couch, Silas stiffly settles on one side, whereas Franz lounges, completely at ease, hands somewhat on the backboard of the furniture, lingering behind Silas.

“So, so,” Franz clasps his hands together, clapping noise emerging from this action, “what plans do you have set, Esmé?”

“All that you haven’t done,” she chuckles.

“You said you’d deal with them,” Franz feigns a complaint.

“I did say that,” she hums, nodding. Esmé takes a map into her hands, placing it more directly in front of the two, onto the table. Circles and small notes litter the thick paper, labeling certain areas. “Here’s the route I set up.”

There are four major circles on the map, a thin, red line going through it. Two locations in Seges, two in Gramen.

“The circles are our major stops,” Esmé explains. “They’re all safe areas to settle and look around, last time I checked.”

Silas leans in closer, observing the map himself. Only two countries would be visited- they’re large, of course, but Sails hopes that he can find an answer for himself in those areas, someone that may recognize him, someplace that might jog his memory. There’s not much else they can do to help him find himself, without any wide network of identification.

“Seges, it’s been awhile” Franz comments.

“Maybe you’ll give us a tour?” Esmé adds playfully. 

Silas shoots a confused look at Franz. A little secretive.

“Oh yeah, you wouldn’t know, but I’m from Seges,” he chuckles. “The war brought on… unforeseen events,” Franz hums awkwardly. “I was last there three years ago.”

Silas nods, not pressing for more information. If they’re going there, then the time to ask will come.

“Silas,” Esmé redirects his attention. She tucks her hair more firmly behind her ear. “Before we can…go on this trip with full confidence, we really do need to monitor your situation.” 

Silas turns his head, listening.

“Since you are affected by TAR, you have…an extremely high possibility of getting something that is called TAR Mania. I assume that you don’t know what it is.”

Silas shakes his head, confirming her suspicions. She proceeds.

“As far as the minimal research has determined on TAR,  an individual affected with TAR, usually something more late-stage, can undergo periods of time of…of violent, a sort of maddened behavior.” She pauses for a moment, gauging both Silas’ and Franz's reactions.

“The first signs are often unusually dark blood- which you already have- then the further blackening of the limbs; after that, coughing up TAR as it builds up, then finally, TAR Mania. On top of the aggressive behavior, the coughing continues through the stage of the Mania too. The TAR emitted from the body is still as dangerous as anything that was used in battle…So it’s best we get moving when we can, but by no means do I want to rush this trip.”

Silas sits there, brows furrowed. He already has the dark blood, and the TAR is already at his knees and elbows. Esmé had given him the declaration of a year to work with, but at this rate, how much time did he really have? She herself said that the research and knowledge of TAR was still very limited.

“What do I do if I start…coughing?” He asks slowly.

“...we will deal with that matter to the best of our capabilities. We will worry about it when time comes,” Esmé says politely. “And generally speaking, you need to be careful where that TAR goes if it leaks. It can chemically burn the skin.”

The room sinks into a grim mood, the general excitement of the trip dissipating.

Discussing the matter of his nearing end feels too somber. He doesn’t want to face the full truth of it yet; he wants to simmer in the sensation and delusion of simple delight.

Esmé clears her throat.

“You will travel around under the label of my ‘patient,’ since you don’t hold any form of identification. It’s the best way to go through borders if there are any issues that may come by,” she explains. “It gives you…less independence than if you were to travel under your own documents, but the limitations of the patient are better than being stuck.”

Esmé shuffles through the papers, skimming the file. 

“Here’s what I have for your information now. Fill the rest out on your own to the best of your ability.” She hands it over, Silas reaching out to take it.

Franz leans in as Silas reads through the information.

“...I don’t have a last name,” he mumbles.

Esmé lets out a small exhale. “You’re right, it’s better off if you have a last name. We can make one up, if you’d like.”

“He can use mine,” Franz pipes up, too eager. “Familiar, better than trying to remember one we came up with on the spot.”

“If you two are okay with that,” Esmé says, looking back and forth, surprised by the sudden offer.

Silas sits there for a moment, and hums. “I’ll use Hagshaw.”

Using the hand still perched on the back of the couch, he pats the back of Silas’ head playfully, to which Silas flinches at the first, then accepts.

✚ ✚ ✚

Pouring in a self-indulgent glass of wine for herself, Esmé sinks into the couch, now in solidation. The moon had taken the chance to bathe the town in its silver glory of its light, the beams shining through the panes of the windows. 

It would likely be a little while before she can curl up by the hearth full of embers, feeling the pleasant effects of the alcohol wash over her senses. 

She can’t help but sigh, imagining what’s to come from this. Conflict? Answers? Perhaps dead ends, leaving them all with unanswered mysteries. Whatever the circumstance may be, she must find a cure. She must.

After leaving home like that, as if she didn’t have responsibilities or a reputation to uphold. Being a Laurent. 

She cannot face them like that as her current self, no. She must do something great, something impactful in their eyes, as well as the public opinion. 

Esmé knows all too well that this seems overly self-absorbed, yet it’s the main purpose of her drive. Acception. She needs it, despite it being sealed away deep within herself, the ache has only remained for the past 6 years. 

Esmé takes a long sip from her glass, shutting her eyes. Long roads awaits for all three of them.

Chapter Text

“Dr. Mainler, the current status of the search…” The young liaison shifts on her feet, urgently reporting the information. 

Her cropped hair is neat, short, springy strands that stick out tucked behind her ear, and her brown uniform— one of a high-ranking secretary— not of a soldier. Her wide, tawny eyes are the most striking features out of her tanned skin, but otherwise, the darkness of her uniform and the smaller stature make her easy to brush over. Unassuming.

“I know,” he cuts in. “Nowhere to be found.” He rubs his own shoulder, then pushes up his glasses. “That child kills a loyal subordinate, then runs off, certainly no way to act to a superior,” he muses.

The messenger stiffly stands behind him.

He paces quietly next to his desk, fingers hovering over the computer screen.

“If we have not found our target in what we’ve searched locally of Mons, there is also another plausible explanation,” he starts. He lifts his head to the liaison, square-lens glasses reflecting the superficial light from the surrounding technology, and the rest of his stiff figure silhouetted. “The train lines. We have a train leaving and arriving nearly every day. Spread the messages to those deployed in Seges, and possibly to the unclaimed cities nearby through posters.”

“What should I tell Mr. Doyle and the others of the Herena Military headquarters, sir?”

“Why not? I need authorization, regardless of what I do.” His fingers tap from index to pinky rhythmically before he speaks again. “I want the messages spread to the public by posters. ‘Unstable patient on the loose. Must be returned to Mons for his and the public’s safety. Report to authorities if seen.’ And maybe a little… illustration or picture to top it off.” Mainler waves a finger around as he conducts the words out of his mouth, imagining what can be made from his very sentence. “Tell Mr. Doyle and the others to relay that information in such a manner to the public, it has more power that way. They should be on board too.”

“Yes, sir, certainly.”

“And please say that I recommend him to not send out any trackers, anyone specific until the patient until his location is confirmed, since it is overseas. I want to be very sure before we act on it.”

She quickly scribbles down the information onto a notepad, the sticky ink from the tip of the pen being a small addition of noise over the layers of buzz and hum of technology.

“I will relay this information. If any troubles arise, I will be here again.”

As the liaison bows again and leaves the room, the man leans over the files of information on his desk. Pictures, information, data, medical information thickly pile within the folders, related information kept together by paper clips. 

Papers labeled with dates from 3009 up to 3017 are filled, scribbles of writing and smears of ink. The current year, 3018, is scarce, only several medical observation records within, and lacks the pages and pages of practically incomprehensible writing.

Coffee cups, the rings of the caffeinated fluids litter both his desk and drawers nearby, some already staining the surface or papers.

He pushes his glasses up again, sighing into the palm of his hand, and drops his fingers down to his left cheek, to the eroded scar tissue around and above his cheekbones felt under the small dips of his fingerprints.

He speaks again, slowly, his words hoarse. 

“Where did you go, Five? You must follow your fated path.”

Chapter Text

The past week or so had been spent getting out of Silvand, traversing mainly by foot through the skin blankets of snow. 

Getting into Seges itself was somewhat prickly: difficulties with the soldiers at checkpoints being nitpicky with Silas, and general suspicion if they were a part of the Seges military, especially towards Franz. Apparently he “had the face for it.” Suppose they get bored without anything to do with days, weeks, months on end with no war to confront them with the horrifying reality of boredom. 

Yet, despite those issues, the documents Esmé had deliberately prepared came to firmly officialize their status, and properly onto their way. Equipped with weapons, they let the three through, with threats of violence if they acted rashly.

“Silas! You can see more of the hills from here!” Franz exclaims, waving a hand around.

The cold weather had a heavier in Silvand more than Silas had realized, as its fog and mist had caused an obstructive layer over the vast scenery of Seges that he can now see only a few days into the journey. Now travelling southbound, snow is scarce in the vaguely warmer temperatures and the lack of rain from its dry winters.

The rolling hills of Seges’ Collis region is what apparently defines the land, with swaying seas of yellows and browns as the tall grass complies to the wind, rustling, whispering. The wind whistles in its high tones when the breeze picks up, making Silas’ white hair whip like ribbons in his face, and occasionally out behind him, contrasting against the grey sky. Seges is clearly larger than Silvand, the hills providing an open view to the horizon, lacking the abundance of trees and mountains in the northern country— the trees that do stand, however, are in a composition of if forest clearings and woodlands swapped places, only standing in clusters and small stretches. 

However, it’s apparent that many places that they’ve passed through did contain more forestry than it does now, just that they’re now stumps, fallen over, charred; some intervention that removed their stature.

“It would be much more vibrant in the springtime. The grass is a bold green,” Franz says, looking almost proud of the scenery. “We should try to visit here when it’s warmer.”

Silas nods. He hopes to be alive, at least until the warmth of the sun can grace him.

Esmé walks steadily out in front of them, her dark hair peeking out from under her attire. She’d equipped herself with a mail coif below her veil, pressing down any dark strands of hair, as well as the longer segments of the veil that could get in the way of her vision.

She’d also equipped herself with a large staff, for a lack of a better term. Slightly taller than her, the staff has coverings of thick cloth on both the bottom and the top, the lower half flaring out into a large triangular shape. The staff itself is made of firm material. Esmé clearly doesn’t need it for support, but she seems to use it, nonetheless.

All three of them hold proper equipment too, with Franz and Esmé carrying the most of the weight. An easily collapsed tent, canteens, and dry clothes… how they managed to prep so much is out of Silas’ knowledge.

Weapon-wise, Esmé holds her staff, he assumes, and Franz his shotgun. For Silas, he’d been bestowed by Franz a simple yet efficient hunting knife, collapsible, currently handily tucked into the front pocket of his coat, alongside the handgun he met Franz with in the other. The hunting knife, handily, has a long strap on it, working as a possible accessible accessory on his neck if he needs it to be so.

The grass is about knee-high, and somewhat brittle, and desire paths litter and stray from the general trail of dirt. The distance shows signs of structure and life; where they currently walk, in the outskirts, small shacks of now discontinued stations and sheds stand alone with some shabby trees, and that’s about it.  Though the wind clears the air, easily presenting any sights to see, but the Seges territory closer to the sea is murky, the air clouded with danger.

Silas shuffles closer to Franz as they walk.

“What is that?” He murmurs, lifting his face closer to Franz's ear.

He turns his head to Silas first, then the direction he’s facing.

“TAR. It smokes when it’s left out for a while. Death and injury caused by TAR create more within the body, resulting in more and more of the substance… it’s why so many affected by TAR would be taken out almost immediately because of this. So many were.” Franz halts his speech, then slowly proceeds. “Even then, the sheer amount of casualties from two years ago is still smoking.”

“…I thought TAR was only used for two years in the war.”

“You’re right,” Franz affirms grimly.

Silas creates a small distance between them, but remains closer than he was before, shoulders bumping.

✩ ✩ ✩

The three are able to reach an area where small clusters of camps rest, and set up their own rest nearby, the knowledge that there are others being more unnerving than reassuring.

The camps, to say, are deployed soldiers to watch the new border of the Seges territory that had been annexed by Herena— Mons soldiers, to be exact. Under occupation. They’re some ways away from the border itself, but still, this on the closer side of the sea, closer to the enemy, and the tension in the air still remains.

Esmé had set up the large, singular tent for the three of them, firmly planting the stakes into the ground. And now placing their baggage inside. With her gas mask on, she’s rather intimidating, more so than usual.

“Can you two inform someone of our presence, in case they may be hostile to us?” She requests. “I wouldn’t enjoy a confrontation in the dead of night.”

“Let’s go look around, Silas,” Franz beckons. Silas sets down his bag inside the tent, apologetically glancing at Esmé, and quickly follows after the taller man.

The edge is much closer than Silas had expected. 

And more brutal than Silas could ever imagine.

Standing atop a hill, more elevated than the grounds where the claimed land resides, it’s easy to look down and spectate the remnants of where violence had occurred, and where its poltergeist still lingers.

The exact location of the border is undecided, simply somewhere the no man’s land was, where the remnants of the discarded corpses lie in messy black splatters, smoking quietly, creating the titan wall of polluted air, currently blowing towards the sea, away from where Silas’ camp is set. 

Unretrievable from the damage to the body, and the danger of where it decomposes. Weapons, uniforms, flesh, machine- it all doesn’t matter on the dead land they’d fought so fiercely for. There is a wide radius of emptiness of life from the tainted soil, the no man’s land for both safety, and to remove oneself from the sense of moral ill that comes from being nearby the man that you killed a couple months ago, decomposing at a rate that’s certainly too slow for sanity.

The smell of death is overwhelming, too. It’s a mix of smoke from burnt wood, clothes, bodies, and hints of TAR, constantly fluctuating its intensity; every influx the scent feels more profuse than before. Silas’ breathing hitches several times when the air flow eases its push to the sea and leans closer to him.

Slowly walking closer to the general clusters of military, they shoot them with quizzical glances, but they don’t quite vocalize their questions.

“Looks as grim as I remember,” Franz mutters. The grass here has been trampled, the dark soil visible in patches from underneath.

One general, strolling up with his beige coat and his gas mask with a hiss, heads directly to Franz and Silas.

“You two,” he gruffly calls out. “This is rather close to the general border; even if there is no fight, this is the new border.” His tone is authoritative, ringing with stern concern. 

“We were looking for someone higher up to make our presence known. We’re traveling, sir, we want no trouble, just staying the night roughly nearby,” Franz replies. Silas watches as Franz looks more directly at the general. He observes the dark, neutrally colored coats that the two young men wear with his hands behind his back.

The general narrows his eyes, shifting his weight. “This is still close to the border,” he continues in the authoritative tone. “And you two have no military presence that bestows you the right to come through here.” He steps close to Franz, slightly towering over him. “Dangerous place here, yes? It’d be rather shameful if some kids went missing near the damn border, but alas, it’s tough times.”

“Sir, please, we want no trouble,” Franz urges.

“Should’ve taken another route,” he shakes his head firmly.

Silas’ eyes dart back and forth between the two men, trying to strip away the layers of careful poise that the general has. 

Two concealed firearms. One knife. Height and experience. Entire troops under his control. Silas only has one knife. Shorter, and lacking memories. Franz, his shotgun; taller and broader than Silas, but no better than this general.

The general’s hand, smooth in his movements, rests near his hip, where one of his gun holsters— not empty— sits. It looks like he’s simply shifting position, but his previously hostile words make that hard to believe.

Silas, or Franz, for that manner, has no chance to fight. And to fight a general in such vicinity of the rest of the troops is an idiotic move.

“Get off of the land, kid, it’s ours now.”

“Not here for the land,” Franz continues, his tone rising to frustration.  “We’re seriously just passing through. Also, where we’re camped isn’t even where you annexed the accursed territory.”

“Watch it; I don’t want any of your excuses. Shove it, and out of Seges. Maybe towards the southeast, where the war prisoners are in Herena would be better off for you lot.” His grapple on the weapon is more certain now, fingers sliding into the grip and the curl of the trigger.

“I’m ill,” Silas sputters out.

The general’s eyes flick to Silas, who stares back up at him with his usual wide, dark eyes. The general’s gaze hitches on his white hair, and what he can see of the bandaged hands. 

Silas does his best, feeble cough, making himself shrink next to Franz's stature before he continues.

“They won’t let me on any transportation. I’ve got TAR.” Half-truths. “We need to pass through here to get to place we need to get to.”

“Where?”

“Antrum,” Franz cuts in.

The expression of the Mons man transforms from stern irritation, to something more of pity, then something grim.

“How generous; certainly looks you he could use some of the great help they have over there.” He states sarcastically, still looking at Silas. This guy.

“The place we’re camping out,” Franz keeps on informing. “Is slightly more north from here, with one other. We won’t stay very long, but we need to stay on this route to reach our destination quickly.”

The general stares at Silas for a little too long. Not the kind of gaze that Franz holds on him, the one fueled by what Silas can only assume it to be some form of keen curiosity. The general has a sense of condescending energy, an intimidating analysis and breakdown of Silas’ identity. 

He swivels his head away to look at his men, curtly, with a sense of irritation.

“Watch yourselves. Steer away from our main encampments.”

“Thank you sir,” Franz replies, victorious of being spared. “Let’s go, Silas.”

The general slightly tilts his head as he observes the two travel away, and Silas feels the sharp glint of the lens on his back.

Franz walks slightly behind Silas, gently guiding him with a hand hovering near his upper back. Again, they pass by soldiers who give them curious glances, and glances only.

“That was a… nice point to worm our way out. Thanks, Silas, I’m not too good with lying,” he chuckles to himself. The words are only acknowledged by a nod from Silas.

Franz ponders for a moment, the dead blades of grass crunching filling the gap in conversation.

“Why don’t you talk much? I’m not saying that you need to or anything, I’m just curious. You don’t talk to Esmé much, you didn’t talk to Lianne or at the pub at all. I don’t mean to...paint myself as someone superior or anything, but I feel like you talk to me the most.”

Silas lets his eyes linger on each others’ boots before replying. “I do talk to you the most,” he confirms. “I don’t enjoy it, talking. I do not know people enough to trust.”

“Antisocial much?” Franz laughs slightly. “Does this mean that you like me enough?” He teases.

“Yes.” Silas pauses. “Well, more on trust.”

“Trust?” Franz chuckles lightheartedly. “Don’t expect you to be one trusty guy after, like, a month.”

“We have spent time together, and I spent that time mostly with you. And…and you have been looking after me.” Franz moves to walk beside Silas. “We have had numerous occasions where we could have harmed each other. It has not happened. And we have given one another no reason to either.”

Franz stares at Silas for a second. “That’s like, the most you’ve ever talked at once.” He breathes out a laugh.

“It… you deserve an explanation. You definitely count as something more than what Esmé is to me..”

“What do I count as, then?”

Silas halts his speech.

What is Franz to him? The first form of any nonviolence, kindness, even, that had been shown to him ever since he woke up. He eats with him, has shopped with him, slept alongside him- but what doesn’t quite determine what title or familiarity should be bestowed upon Franz, what appropriately describes their relationship.

“…a friend?” He asks quietly, unsure. He watches as Franz's eyes brighten, delight seeping into the apples of his cheeks, failing to be hidden even with the cover of the mask.

“Of course, Silas.”

✩ ✩ ✩

The three sit around a small fire made to cook a warm meal by Esmé, a form of warm porridge that works well to keep the stomach full.

“That general, by how you explained him seems… peculiar,” Esmé says, stirring the food with a utensil, arm posed to carefully keep it out of reach of the scalding heat.

“I don’t know enough generals to gauge how peculiar he is,” Franz groans. “All I care about is that he’s leaving us be for the time being.”

The sun is lower in the sky, casting long shadows, the wind has died down; the time is scarcely nighttime, but they’ve been spacing out their meals to a late breakfast and an early dinner to spare their “rations,” and to keep up on their pace of travel. Franz converses with Esmé comfortably about the circumstances, while Silas is merely an observer. He doesn’t hate her, or anything along those lines, he simply has nothing to talk about.

Silas, halfheartedly listening to the conversation, gradually fades out of his focus, still gazing out towards the opposing side. 

An automobile, something Silas hadn’t before, rolls past with its grumble of the engine and the crackle of grit beneath the tires, carrying several soldiers on the road about 50 yards away at a slow pace, with no hurry. He can somewhat make out the masked heads of the Mons soldiers. A uniform color strikingly similar to the real Silas that he’d stolen both name and life from. A twitch of guilt moves inside his gut.

A head from the gatherings of tans turns to look at Silas, the lens on their mask glinting. Silas stares back silently. It’s unclear if that soldier is looking at him, or just in his general direction. His white hair lashes against the gas mask as the wind picks up despite the scarf on his head, continuing this odd string of eye contact with the enemy. They tap another nearby, and they too, turn their head to Silas’ direction.

Silas steers his attention away, not wanting to indulge in their curiosities. The general had looked at him with a vague recognition too. What was he, a celebrity, or an outlaw? Either way, he’s noticed, something beyond his white hair or his scars, something more than how the people of Silvand looked at him.

“We need to get away from the border as soon as possible,” Esmé states. “It was seemingly a good idea to go near the border to try and accumulate some evidence or artifacts, but my judgement was wrong. Most items that’s been coated with TAR have been relocated, probably to the no man’s land, to allow for better safety for their encampments. I was able to find some, though, parts of uniforms.” Esme hesitates. “They’re not as hostile as I’d expected, though. But I don’t want to gamble my luck.” 

Franz hands her a bowl, which she serves porridge into, and hands it to Silas.

“On top of that, the wind has been very lovely and pushing the smoke away from us, but it’s never quite predictable. I would not like to be so close by when the winds turn on us; it’s not fun walking through a wall of thick smoke, even with protection.”

Another bowl, this time, for Franz.

“Are we better off asking the locals of Seges?” Franz inquires, taking the food.

“I’d say so. Information-wise, that is. I doubt they’ve been holding onto any of the tainted items though,” she hums. “Then again, we might have better luck finding the items ourselves than trying to find residents friendly enough to talk to.”

Silas takes a spoon, stirring the food carefully, feeling the hot wash of steam envelop the face, and softens the skin on his face briefly. He opens his mouth to eat, feeling the skin on his lips crack as the muscle stretches. These bitter winds keep hardening his skin.

“How soon do you say we can get there?” Franz continues. “I’m a bit uncomfortable with that general’s threat.”

“A week and a half? Two weeks?” Esmé estimates. “I know that the train lines that run to our city are closed. But the ones that go from that city to Gramen are open.”

She serves herself a bowl, settling down. Franz masticates his mouthful, before swallowing.

Silas shuts his eyes against the vibrant heat gracing his face.

Chapter Text

A bell tolls nearby, its rings reaching much further out into the outside air, despite there being no wind to push out the noise into the stagnant summer air. Midday, but beneath the willow tree, the heat is suppressed. 

It’s a small courtyard of sorts, the area of the wispy greens of grass and soil encircled by elegant concrete pathways, slim pillars, and low walls that open up to allow easier access into the vegetation. 

The season is young. This body is young. 

Silas inhales slowly, feeling the hot air enter his lungs, just short of being the same temperature as the inside of his body.

He feels movement at his ankles, making him look down. Rabbits, nibbling away at the plants, and skittishly hopping a small distance away. 

Silas wears white robes- a gown, almost, delicate in nature, the fabric easily manipulated by movement. Intricate, and darker colored lace design the robes that hang around his ankles. A similar situation with his sleeves, having a wide opening that is certainly too wide for the size of his arms. On his chest and over the gown in a deep red mozzetta of sorts with the very front elongated into a triangular point, ending right before the aforementioned dark lace.

He squats down, the shift in stance allowing him to feel the soil beneath his bare feet. The rabbits carefully edge closer, allowing themselves to sniff, take a precautionary bite at his finger, before he’s able to pet them properly. So soft, that it’s almost difficult to render that he’s touching their fur, especially that on their face.

And, a hand on his face, too, on his cheek, from behind. 

“The Ceremony is soon. Your first. Excited?” The same, low voice again.

Silas stays squatted, not daring to turn around. With the hand on his face, it’s now brought to his attention that he has none of his facial scars.

Silas nods out of caution. 

“Good. You’ve got an audience, you know. You should familiarize yourself with these people, they come to the church often.”

Silas blinks, feeling his blood pressure rise, the throb of his carotid artery’s amplification making him lightheaded for a split second.

“Do you want to see your own ceremonial tool?”

Without waiting for an answer, a silver dagger is brought into his vision, its sheath concealing the dangerous edge. The handle has a carefully carved hole in it, allowing for a thin leather rope to be fed through, and to be worn as a necklace. 

“Pretty, isn’t it? It’s yours now.” It’s dropped over his head, the leather and weight of the weapon now resting on his frame. “Know its significance."

Silas stands up slowly, and carefully holds the handle of the blade in hand. The coolness is a stark difference to the summer air, yet the superficial layer of his skin somehow resembles the temperature of the metal more than the warmth of the weather. Too cold for it to be natural.

A hand, from behind again, holds the handle and Silas smaller hand, the hand of a child, enveloping it within his palm. He then guides his other hand to the sheath, and together, they reveal the glistening blade of it.

A cool rush runs through Silas, and he can’t quite determine if it’s excitement or fear.

He watches the dapples of sunlight that stream through the network of branches and leaves of the tree overhead catch and play with the material of the dagger.

A white light, a pure reflection that's almost blinding.

It makes him feel oddly cold, as the light gets in his eyes.

The rush of excitement pools in his gut, transformed into dread.

The rabbits flee.

Silas lets out a small gasp as he watches his fingertips blacken rapidly, and travel up steadily over his arms. Same with his lower limbs, from his toes, and up his legs. He cannot see the entire process of this happening, but he can feel it. 

It’s cold. It’s unnatural. It takes over the comfort of warm flesh and blood with the darkness that leaves him feeling hollow.

He breathes more erratically, feeling a pain in his cheeks, and down the line of his throat, his sternum, and to his navel. Tears prick his eyes before a hot burst of pain greets him, splitting the soft skin of his open.

The hands release his, and he staggers to the ground, the dagger and sheath falling into the soft grass. He pants, small noises of pain leaving his throat as his vision goes in and out of focus. His state of mind exists on something that borders normalcy and what he can only label as delirious insanity, teetering back and forth.

It’s hard to breathe; feels like he’s choking, even drowning.

He coughs, first feebly, then something more of a wet edge to the noise. Spatters of black fluid leave his mouth, dark flecks easily dirtying the skin, the clothes, the soil.

Silas can only catch his breath for a short moment before a coughing fit seizes him again, this time with more force, more of the fluid. More TAR.

It’s painful, his throat feels raw with each push, and his breathing is something that of a struggling wheeze than proper intake of oxygen.

“It’s time, clearly,” says the man’s voice again. “Come along now, you’ll be fine.” A hand rests itself on his shoulder, making him shudder. “We don’t want you, want the Chosen, being late.”

Silas whips his head around, trying to see this enabler, this bystander who’s leading him to suffer. A blur of square-lens glasses enters his view, the sunlight catching the clear material of it, just as it did with the blade.

And that’s all he sees.

✩ ✩ ✩

Silas gasps, intaking air with great mouthfuls as he sits up. A grey light dimly reveals the inside of this tent, from the early, early hours of day; the intense dilation of his eyes are unneeded to see in this light. 

He places a hand on his face, feeling the scars’ ridges under his bandaged fingers. In turn, his face feels the dampness under the wrappings that’s accumulating. 

His limbs hurt. His hands and feet hurt. He can’t tell if it’s from the excessive walking or from TAR buildup.

Silas blinks, getting his bearings together. He’s in a tent, in Seges, with Franz next to him, and Esmé a little further off. 

It’s fine. It’s okay, he tells himself, rubbing his chest, feeling his ribcage swell with every inhalation. It doesn’t help that he can feel his fingertips tremble. It feels too cold, he realizes. Too similar to his dreams. His vision unconsciously darts to Franz, who sleeps unknowing next to Silas.

Lying down slowly, he presses himself closer into the figure who rests chest-up, feeling the heat radiate off of him. Silas tucks his face into Franz's shoulder, a cold face into the crook of his neck. Perhaps it was his cold skin, or maybe it was instinct, but either way, Franz stirs very slightly, moving to allow Silas closer, and raises the blankets briefly to tuck it around themselves before he settles into rest.

Even in his sleep, Franz welcomes Silas.

Chapter Text

She knocks with a few, short raps with a knuckle on the door with a firm nameplate, glimmering with the name ROWAN DOYLE on it, polished not too long before she’d arrived.

The liaison enters an office. Simple, with small ramps; not too cramped or large, while containing necessary information, finding privacy in locked drawers and cabinets. 

“Mr. Doyle, there is a request for your authorization from Dr. Mainler.” She makes her way over to the desk, untucking a file out from under her arm and into her hands. “There are the points for the next course of action from the doctor, but these are purely advisory.”

The desk is clean, too tidy even, as if he’s had nothing better to do, or some sort of a neat freak. Papers sit tightly, all corners aligned, pens ordered carefully, and a half-consumed glass of some sort of clear, greenish fluid.

The man sitting behind his desk, who looks out towards the dry scenery of the Herena, stares in an unsatisfactory manner. Bleak. Beige. Not even snow, just grey, some sifts of dust-fine sand flying though and against small dips and miniature canyons, and into the hidden faces of scarce crowds.

He uses a hand to hold on to one wheel of his seat— a wheelchair— and pushes off the other to allow himself to face his messenger.

“Thank you, Anais,” he murmurs, taking the files in hand. He flips through them, carefully scanning over the finer details with his pale blue eyes with a small, singular mole underneath the left. Despite being in a wheelchair, with firm braces clamped down onto his ankles, calves, and knees, Mr. Rowan Doyle is a young man, only a year short of being in his thirties. The creases in his face and fingers are from either fatigue or repeated motions from his work, and the color of his auburn, practically ginger hair is still in its vibrancy, slicked back on the right side to maintain appearances.

Brushing a pen from the surface of his desk and into his hand, he quickly creates notes on the requested administrative work, and pulls out his own copies of the document onto his desk to edit into action.

“Dr. Mainler wants these… notices out, I say that the best form of awareness to not only our soldiers, but to the people of Laeto, even, is through media, and posters,” she advises.

“Mmh, yes, I do agree with that…” he muses. “Is he alright with me pressing on with these matters based on my, or rather our judgement?”

“All the power to you, Mr. Doyle,” she replies politely. “Dr. Mainler would also like a meeting soon. He says that he can come over here, if that’s easier for you.”

“Noted. I would prefer that.” He goes back to reading the files again, trying to determine the next course of action.

Anais watches his reactions carefully, wanting some to place in input, wanting to receive some input from her boss. His eyes move slightly, barely disrupting his lower lashes.

“I’ll adjust these so that they’ll suit the doctor’s requests. I’ll wait on sending out someone specifically.” His eyes purposefully rest on Anais. “I’ll send a simple telephone message, send out some soldiers for the search, and we’ll have to see how it goes from here. Right now, we can only wait.”

He sets out the papers onto his desk, and prepares the official writing to carry out the orders. 

“I’ll call for you later when this is completed, Anais, for now, I have nothing for you.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies curtly, nodding.

He’s fully immersed in the finalization of the work as she leaves the room quietly, shutting the door behind her.

Chapter Text

Esmé’s estimation for the next destination being about a week and a half was absolutely correct. Franz is rather unused to walking such far distances for extended periods of time, but as the week had dragged on, he’s been feeling his joints and rhythm of his body acquaint itself with the composition of the ground beneath him, how to hold his posture to not exhaust himself too quickly, and not to drink too much water to not pain his stomach.

Silas, on the other hand, has a surprising capacity of stamina, easily catching up and keeping within arm’s length of either Esmé or Franz. But because Silas has the ability to keep up with the two, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t hard for him. 

Ever since one the earlier nights of travel, when Silas had burst into consciousness with such panicked mannerisms, it only continued. Less dramatic every other time, like last night, where he’d flinched awake, inched near Franz, and went to sleep again. He’s always covered in a thin sheen of cold, clammy sweat, shaking, and seeking a heat source. 

Franz hasn’t brought this up with either Esmé or Silas, trying to not seem too intrusive about his apparent nightmares, but his concern only inflates further every dark dawn, the time in between night-and-day when everyone should be resting. Silas only finds himself disrupted by his inner turmoil. 

Silas is being woken up by nightmares, that information is clear, but what is he so conflicted by? Does he remember more, now, and was time all that he needed?

He should ask, before it’s too awkward, perhaps even too late.

Franz casts his glance to his friend walking next to him. He looks more tired now, and he hopes it’s only from the lack of sleep, not because of the progression of TAR. He’s already a mysterious case of rapid TAR infection, so the estimate of it progressing isn’t too far-fetched. Franz can only cross his fingers, shut his eyes, and call out to Aurae of the church he attended every weekend only because his parents told him to, as well as those like Esmé, pouring time and resources into researching this condition.

Silas lifts his head up from the growing view of the city to Franz, whose eyes have somewhat unfocused in deep thought. Silas too, keeps a gaze on the other, at least, until Franz snaps out of his daze, and back to their current plane of attention.

“Tired?” Silas prods gently.

“Somewhat. I’m getting used to this sort of trudging now,” he grins. “This weight on my back is making me work out constantly; I don’t know if it’s doing me any good from its relentlessness, though.” Franz shrugs the load to have its straps be more secure on his shoulders. “Are you tired?”

“Sore. I’m okay.” Brief, as per usual. 

Franz sucks in the air through his teeth deftly, the small tooth gaps around his canines making this action much more efficient. This is an opportunity he can use to pivot the conversation to his current priority in concerns.

“I mean, are you sleeping okay, is what I mean. You’ve been waking up.”

There’s no answer for about five paces.

“Have I been waking you up?”

“That wasn’t my question or concern,” he gives a half-suppressed laugh. “I’m asking because I have a great deal of worry for you. If you can’t sleep well, you’re more susceptible to falling ill.”

“...I have been waking up,” Silas confirms. “The sleep afterwards is restful.”

“Nightmares?” 

Silas nods. “I can’t make much… sense of it though.” He rubs his own cheek to satisfy a dull itch with the coarse material of the bandages. “Is the worry you have for me pity?”

“Pity?” Franz repeats. “Pity, huh? I… suppose there’s some pity and compassion.” He stares up into the pale sky, littered with streaks of fast-moving clouds as he grapples for the right words. “But more of an anxiety than anything. I don’t see you as anything lesser than me. I just wish I could do more for you.”

“You do enough for me already,” Silas hums.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t give me that.”

“You do,” Silas continues, deadpan, “I do not know why, though, I’m still a bit mystified as to why you insist on helping me.”

Franz blinks before he regains his composure. “Can’t I be generous out of the goodness from my heart?” He replies.

Silas smiles slightly. “So willing to trust a stranger that has given you nothing. I would say that is more curious than me.”

Franz is, again, plunged into contemplation about the nature of his keen, continuing pulse of trust and care he’s giving to Silas. 

Is it affection? Intrigue? No, he’s had intrigue and affection before, and it’s not sufficient enough to define their bond; matter of the fact, any other word. There’s something more to it that certainly draws him in, and with strong, dragging motions, and Franz gives no resistance. 

Franz watches Silas again. 

Maybe it’s because, well, Franz is no better than the common man, and Silas is pretty, to put simply. The slopes of his nose to the curvature of the scars over his cheeks, his entire presence is alluring to him. He wants to know more, he wants to do more. Be more? Maybe. If he had more time with him, then perhaps the prospect something more would be more enticing. In the fragmented edges of his imagination, he can see late sleepless nights in the warm, welcoming summer, the celebration of holidays within the company of each other. It would be mutual. It would mean to love and be loved.

Franz’s boot snags on a rock and he nearly trips, shoving him into reality. Right. He should focus on that, trying to help. 

Silas is physically weakened from the TAR infections, that’s for one. Franz should help him, protect him, even from this rather taxing travel. Though, to be fair, Silas has covered him with the incident with the general (he owes him now), Franz needs to step up his assertion. 

Regardless, Franz feels a growing need to assist Silas with whatever he may have issues with. Franz is taller, stronger; he can speak for Silas when he doesn’t want to, he can carry him if he’s ever to need it from being too sore. 

He should be more capable, he is more capable than Silas.

Franz pauses his train of thought. Too assertive and condescending, he berates himself.  

But, being the same age, or close enough to it, if not so- is something Franz has not had for the first time in years. He’s been yearning, at times consciously, at times subconsciously, the connections strengthened, the ability to scoot closer from the simple fact of being close in age. 

Franz wants to take advantage of it. Silas is an unusual case, but no matter. 

With the time he has with Silas, he should firmly establish a sense of belonging, for Silas’ sake. Franz watches his boots trample on the edges of the grass blades. 

…It’s not like he needs it, he’s come along this far without the companionship of those close in age with him, without Silas. His situation seems rather grim, to say, but breakthroughs have been close. Esmé is in constant pursuit. The city of Antrum is close. 

Silas can’t die. He shouldn’t.

“Franz, are you alright?” 

Esmé’s face- or rather, where her face should be behind the veil- focuses into his view, her figure, nearby, now a clear outline against the early morning sky. Tawny eyes are concentrated on him.

“Yeah, I, I’m just a bit tired,” he replies, his mind still elsewhere.

Esmé gives him a scrutinizing look, flicking up and down to pick him apart.

“If you’re feeling unwell, we can stop for a bit?”
“No, it’s fine, really, Antrum is rather close now, anyways.”

“If you say so, Franz.” 

Esmé looks out towards the city, the wind softly blowing through her veil, the coif continuing to anchor the fabric around her head down.

✚ ✚ ✚

No documentation is needed to enter through the general territorial entrance of Antrum. Not even a checkup to see if someone is ill, contagious, only some sharp, accusatory glances, and the adjusting of the bayonets on rifles, as if daring the three to try something out of line.

Guards, all in Mons uniforms, stand stiffly, but do nothing to stop the three from entering, only interfering when small conflict arises from other straggling travellers, easily drowned out with intimidation.

Some who, presumably, dared to step out of line, were forcibly shoved around by the butt of their bayonets. Any and all passerby kept their line of sight a large radius away from the brutality, not wanting to attract the same violence, including Esmé, Silas, and Franz.

“I know a committee of some Cruorians,” Esmé says, pushing onwards as per usual. “I should be able to get a good place to spend our nights in this city.” 

The two boys behind her have been holding up rather well, despite being well-acquainted with the trudge and push of simply traveling from point A to point B by foot. Esmé had the train lines during the wartime, and someone to pull the strings for her during the wartime, so she can’t blame the two for being worn out; she’s rather impressed with them.

She pulls out a small map from the depths of her pocket, tracing the route they need to take.

“Follow closely. Not very busy, but I’d prefer if you two didn’t drift off.”

The city of Antrum has kept its humble origins throughout its transformation into urban life and modernizing technology. It keeps its large, triangular roofs that stoop lower than the typical style, neutral-toned walls from decades and decades ago, using dense wood for its structural support. The ground is cobbled with clone blocks of stone, rounded and smoothed over time.

Those aspects remain unchanged but the newest additions of the remnants of war still remain. The walls are still smeared with ash, sections of the city are fenced off for safety precautions, and many of its citizens wear respirators and masks to filter out the air, despite the winds as of right now are pushing away any TAR smoke.

Every other corner has Mons soldiers at post, staring intently at any passerby. Thin frames for the eyes on their masks, the almost cleat-like soles of their boots, the dusty brown coloration of their coats, the dark belts around their waist, the deep pockets on their back and sides. Their uniforms are clearly, and definitely better-suited for the drier, and more sandy climates in Mons. But it doesn’t quite matter in this circumstance; standing out as a more powerful threat is enough to make the majority cower under any potential damage then can cause.

This place was in a less dire situation than when she had found Franz. But not free from the grasp of conflict either.

Esmé quickly walks by several guards, making sure her two companions are still behind her.

✩ ✩ ✩

After a couple flights of stairs up and down made to accommodate the hills this city was built atop of, Esmé stops in front of a building. Placed in the dead end of a wide alley, deep shadows cover most of the edifice in the late afternoon light. Several stories tall, with sleek windows, its secrecy kept with curtains and blinds. A sign overhead, swaying subtly, with the words Cruorian Blood Donation engraved within it.

Silas blinks, the crinkles created from any squinch of his face feeling too stiff and irritating, as if his skin had been transformed into cardboard that’d been folded and creased several times over. The compression on his arms and legs aren’t helping with the sensation of feeling grubby either. He wants to wash up, and go to sleep somewhere warm. These winds still chase and whistle after him, even being out of the plains. 

Franz seems to try to resist resting his weight on something, or someone, for that matter. He stopped his usual rambling about a day or two ago. He keeps on shuffling his feet, shifting his weight to keep himself standing upright. 

Esmé double-checks the location on the map before folding it back into her pocket, and pushes the door open, making a small bell ring, ducking the covered head of her staff as she enters.

The indoors is dim, but not gloomy. Lit with lamps and lanterns, the place has a feeling of serenity, a reprise from the tense glares of the guards who seem keen on Silas’ appearance. There are a flight of wooden stairs to his right

A young woman, a receptionist, sits behind a desk. Esmé walks up to her carefully, moving her veil to properly show her face.

“I’m here to see Madame Acosta, please,” Esmé requests, slightly leaning over to see eye-to-eye with the receptionist. 

The young woman lifts her head up.

“She’s not open for walk-in visitors.”

“Yes, I know that.” Esmé seems to restrain herself from snapping, and her hand grips her staff slightly. She, too, is tired from the trudge. “I sent her a letter several weeks ago, and she replied, confirming my request.”

The receptionist blinks, turning her head to the small board with levers on it, and flicks one up with a clear click.

“She should be with you soon,” the receptionist mutters.

Minutes later, an older woman, with a dark, stern complexion walks down the flight of stairs, and through the open door frame of the room they all stand in. 

She’s dressed somewhat like Esmé, with the modesty of long sleeves and skirts, though in lighter colors, more acquainted with the local fabrics of Seges. Her hair is in thick strands, carefully and neatly clipped and tucked into a hairstyle that is half-up. White hairs have started to consume the original black of the hair right on her hairline, also carefully plaited over to one side to stay out of her face. She also has those amber eyes, striking in the low light of the room.

She stops when she's about an arm’s length away from Esmé, before her face lifts into something more pleased.

“Medic Mercy,” she starts, tone amused, “I’m glad you made it safely here.”

“Please, Esmé is fine, Madame,” she replies, nodding politely. Her actions aren’t driven by fear, but respect. 

Interesting name, though, Silas hasn’t heard anyone call Esmé that, not even Franz.

“It’s been some time since I last saw you, goodness, you seem to be doing well,” she proceeds. “You mother is doing well, last time I checked. She’ll be keen to figure out what her rebellious Laurent daughter is doing. She says you haven’t been writing to her much.” 

The Madame is high-status for sure, given her title and Esmé’s politeness. But that doesn’t seem to change the general nature of older women and the joy they find in socializing about, and sharing those stories of their friends’ children.

“That is… good to hear,” Esmé smiles slightly. “And yes, it has been some time; two years to be exact.”

“Two years, my, does time fly by,” she hums. “Well, and isn’t this the one you picked up? He has surely grown up well,” Madame Acosta comments, looking over at Franz. Then Silas. “And you picked up another, it seems.”

“Franz did.”

“Parenting at its finest; he gained that trait from you, as it appears to be.” Her gaze lingers on Silas, analyzing his white hair and scars.

Silas rotates his gaze from Madame Acosta, Esmé, then Franz. Franz seems mildly uncomfortable as well. There’s more going on behind the Madame’s eyes that she's not spewing out.

“You’re here for the request I’ve confirmed from the letter, yes?” Madame Acosta inquires.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Good, good. I’ve anticipated your arrival, Esmé, it really is good to see you. I have the room for the boys, then for you upstairs.”

Wordlessly, Madame Acosta turns on her heel and back out the room, and towards the stairs once more. Esmé follows, beckoning Silas and Franz to come as well. The two practically trudge after the two women.

Upstairs, a series of doors cracked open, and a small number of people- all Cruorian with their amber gaze, in these rooms. Not quite a hotel, rather more of a place of service; many customers easily walk by with brown paper bags that slightly slosh around. She continues leading them down a narrow hallway, small windows pushing out slanted slices of dying light.

“Blood donation,” Madame Acosta suddenly says, “is a good way to give our people the best nutrition in the most ethical way.” She smiles over at Silas, definitely with the intention to flash her sharp teeth. Her peripheral must've caught more than Silas had realized, as he meekly pulls his curious eyes away from the other inhabitants nearby.

She leads them up another flight of stairs, the three guests now on the third floor of the building. Up here, there are no people, the small bodies of dust quiet and inert.

“I have two rooms for you,” she says as she stands in between the empty hall of two doors. “One for you, Ms. Laurent, and one for you boys. I have a key for each of you. Stay as long as you need, and any questions, ask me or the receptionist.” She digs in her pocket, and presents three keys, handing them over.

“I want to talk to Esmé for a moment, but you two are free to go.”

Esmé nods in confirmation at Silas and Franz, willing that they wind their night to a close.

“You wanted to talk to me, Madame Acosta?” Esmé inquires, watching the door shut behind Silas and Franz. She removes her veil and coif completely to see the Madame in a more proper manner. 

“Yes, I did say that. This topic isn’t exactly confidential, but it does involve you more than the two boys.” She fondles the thin, golden bracelets that adorn her wrist, exhaling slowly before she begins. “Ever since the truce with this whole ordeal between Seges here and whatever issue Herena has wanting this land, Cruorians have gotten more… scarce.”

“Scarce?” Esmé inquires. “As in… moving away, immigrating elsewhere?” She rests her weight slightly on her staff.

“Perhaps, yes, but I do not think that is the root cause. The war had already driven people out in its earlier years. Leaving when there is a cease in the fight is a bit contradicting if you’ve stayed here the entire time! Gramen had its borders closed, but Silvand, and even Imber, its neighbors, had their doors open. And not many Cruorians that were here before we're not from Gramen.”

Esmé furrows her brows hearing this. “Are you saying that there is… another hand at play in the decreasing numbers of Cruorians here in Seges?”

“I am, and in fact, and I do have suspects,” she says. Acosta shifts her eyes over to the stairwell they had emerged from only several minutes prior. “The occupation we are under has been…interesting. They monitor us through patrols and react violently, but it’s only spontaneous. No further punishment, no mandated products and rules. Our military has little people and funding because the war sucked them dry,” she says, widening her eyes for emphasis. “It’s just extremely tense, and we’re too poor after the fighting to do much more. I say that’s suspicious on Herena’s end. Their focus is not on us, despite the fact that we were victims to all the fighting for six years, and Caedes, for Aurae’s sake, for the last two. Why aren’t they focusing on us?”

Esmé narrows her eyes. Acosta is making major points that have a certain, dense weight attached to them, and she does back them up. But in this age of weakened economy and fear, this sort of “conspiracy,” to say, isn’t unusual, and isn’t always true.

“Have you ever seen any Cruorian receive some sort of…” Esmé moves her hand in a small, circular motion to try and find the right words. “A sort of especially harsh treatment or brutality from these Mons soldiers?”

“No,” Acosta sighs. “I have no direct proof of these Cruorian disappearances. Only that several of the Cruorians that worked here at the blood bank, here, have just been gone. Without a word, really, and I checked their homes, too.”

“Which were…?”

“Empty, and all their belongings left behind.”

Esmé shivers at that thought.  “We’ve faced discrimination over the decades from our nature to consume blood,” Esmé contemplates, “but it’s been changed over time by incorporating and ingratiating medicinal aspects and healthcare into our very culture. This discrimination isn’t unheard of, but I’ve never heard of cases where it was… so…”

“Discreet.”

“Discreet, yes. Usually, it’s made into a brutal spectacle to send a message out to the public, and not these sort of quiet absences,” Esmé adds on. “I haven’t heard wind about any speculation like yours up in Silvand.”

“Well, you’re up North in Silvand out of all places, of course you wouldn’t hear much news pertaining Cruorians. Then again, you being the only Cruorian that you’ve seen or met in your time there also circles back to my suspicions. Madame Acosta sighs again. “I know that this is another layer of trouble and worries to pile onto your current travel, and the kids, and just everything else going on in this day and age. But please, stay safe out there, Mons soldiers or not, I’d like to have Medic Mercy alive as she is now.”

Esmé laughs softly at the usage of the name “Medic Mercy.” An old name to her now, really, despite it only being about two years ago when she was last recognized with that title. Clad in white, traditional Cruorian clothing, the blood and TAR staining and tattering the ends of the white skirt. Her large spear, currently covering the sharp edges with thick cloth to be used as a makeshift staff, almost stained from using it as a way to push and cut through the impossibly concentrated numbers of bodies and to use it as a last resort if things got violent. 

A white veil over her head with a large, red circle and cross at the center to be easily sighted beacon of hope, sparing all and being a symbol of mercy. A name given by desperate, fading soldiers, the name learned by word and carried on by sight. 

An interesting time that was, trying to prove herself to a family that wasn’t even there to witness her acts, but really, this fulfilled the hole she had in her chest then that craved and weeped for some form of affirmation that she had made it on her own.

When she had set her sights on trying to help those with TAR, and before she had met Franz.

“Seriously, no need to call me that, Madame, I doubt that I am able to pull that sheer amount of endurance that I did, dealing with so many injured and witnessing so much death.”

“Nonsense, I still see that determination in you, young lady,” Acosta brushes off. “Now, please do rest up, I’ve left several bags of blood in the ice chest in your room, and reenergize yourself. I sense that you’ve set yourself up for a taxing journey.”

✩ ✩ ✩

“Finally,” Franz sighs, dropping his bag on the wooden floor, “I am going to shower immediately, and sleep. I somewhat do not care if I get fed tonight because I am damn exhausted.” 

Silas sets down his things next to Franz's bag, next to the front door. “Mhm.”

Blood. Sure, Esmé has sharp teeth, but for blood, really? Now that Silas thinks of it, he hadn’t seen Esmé drink any blood, only simple food and drinks. If Acosta isn’t just toying with him, he supposes it could be true. He thought it was for a more carnivorous diet, and apparently, that was off the dot by some degree. He’d rather be polite with this Acosta lady. She’s giving them shelter, after all. And she’s scary.

The room is small, but contains the necessary room and furniture. Two beds, slightly separated, a small desk on one end, a dresser, a window with curtains, a bathroom straight to the left of the entrance. 

Franz busily sheds the outer layers of his clothes, rustling through his rucksack for fresh clothes and eagerly shutting the bathroom door behind himself as the shower knobs squeak, calling the comfort of water.

Silas removes his boots, then unzips his jacket slowly as he walks to the window, peering outside. The glass is chilled from the windy outdoors, pressing up against the panels to be let in, and the sun had set completely, the sky sinking into deep indigos. Small lights of small shops and homes blink back up at Silas, and flickering and faltering lanterns from Mons guards litter the streets as they patrol with sharp struts. Like little beetles, people quietly inch their way in the night.