Chapter Text
One second he’s thrashing in mid-air, and the next he’s waking up in a bed. They must’ve knocked him out cold on the way here.
His heart is in his head, pounding against his skull. The strain to his vocal cords has left a coppery taste in his throat, and his left hand throbs with the loss of his fingers. The shackles are gone, a small mercy, but his joints ache when he pushes himself up with a groan and his eyes shut tight in an effort to make his head stop spinning.
Once his vision clears and he’s sitting up, Ethan takes stock of his body: he’s still fully dressed, shoes and all, and apart from the pounding headache, there are no new injuries to speak of.
He looks around. White walls, wooden furniture. Nothing spectacular, but that’s why this room feels out of place — it’s inviting, pristine, undisturbed, an almost surreal contrast to the shredded remains of the village. The lingering scent of old books and flowers barely registers as pleasant, his sense of smell almost numb to anything less vile than the stench of blood and death.
Creepy, dead-eyed dolls sit perched on a shelf across the door. They seem familiar. This must be the veiled woman’s house. Beneviento, he remembers, but the first name draws a blank.
Ethan slides his legs over the edge of the bed, the floorboards creaking under his feet. The brightness outside suggests he’s not been here long. Naked branches scrape like bony fingers against the window across the bed, and given his luck so far, it’s probably sealed shut. The view doesn’t spark optimism either — nothing but trees and snowy mountains and the background hum of what must be a nearby waterfall.
His thoughts are a jumble as he sits on the edge of the bed, staring down at his hands, trying to replay that strange family meeting in his mind.
His gut twists when he remembers the wedding.
His own wedding. Tonight.
Ethan drops his head into his hands and sighs into his palms.
Fuck. It’s depraved. So depraved the mere idea of it reignites the panic in his veins.
A marriage. He can’t imagine anything more insane. Considering he’s already married.
Or was.
Mia.
The memory of last night, of his wife being shot, sends a chill through his body. One second she’s there, alive and well (as well as anyone can be with their kind of life), and the next she’s gone. Forever.
The cruelty is immeasurable. What Mia went through can’t be put into words. Three years in Louisiana, then three more years trying to forget Louisiana, only for her life to end so senselessly, as if she’d never truly escaped that hell. It caught up with her after all.
His throat burns, eyes pressed shut so the tears can’t form.
Parts of him refuse to accept this new, unwanted future. The injustice alone guts him. The thought of Rose growing up without her mother — should he ever find and bring her home safe — is so devastating he prefers to push it to the back of his mind and leave it there to rot.
Feels like punishment for daring to build a normal life outside the horrors of their reality.
And they’ve tried, God knows they’ve tried, to salvage the remains of their relationship from the Bakers’ house. But no relationship can withstand such trauma. It’s like trying to reanimate a corpse — it’s just not what it used to be.
But that does nothing to erase the horror of what happened last night, of what’s going to happen tonight. Mia’s barely cold, and already they’re replacing her. With this man, this stranger, whose idea of a greeting was to skewer Ethan with metal not ten seconds after they laid eyes on each other.
Their first encounter was enough of an introduction. He doesn’t need another taste, much less an entire marriage. Not to mention his lack of experience with men, especially men like Heisenberg. God-like, bigger and stronger than Ethan, so unlike anything he knew from his relationship with Mia. Isolated and controlled by Miranda, Heisenberg must’ve spent decades honing his abilities and descending into madness, so there are no physical or moral barriers to keep him from hurting or straight up killing Ethan the moment they’re alone.
He can’t let this happen.
He needs to get out of here.
He needs to find Rose before nightfall, before this fucking wedding can take place, and leave.
Ethan wipes his face with his sleeve and pushes himself off the bed, eyes squeezed shut against another wave of dizziness. He stumbles toward the door, and predictably, it’s locked. He nearly dislocates his shoulder throwing his weight against it, but it’s useless. He would’ve jammed his knife into the keyhole or tried prying it off its hinges, but all his weapons are gone.
Fucking assholes.
This only leaves the window. The glass panes rattle in their frame when he gives the handles a firm shake, but nothing else happens.
A huff of frustration as he glances around the room, looking for something useful, something that can break this goddamn window.
A weathered wooden chair sits in the corner, and a few swift kicks are enough to send one of its legs snapping off. It breaks off uneven, creating a jagged point, and it’s heavier than it looks when he picks it up. Good.
Back at the window, Ethan grips the chair leg with both hands as he turns his face away to protect his eyes, and swings it at the glass. The window shatters, the shards pouring out of the frame. Cold wind whistles through the opening into the room, the roar of the waterfall louder now, closer.
Ethan uses his elbow to make the opening bigger, big enough to lean his upper body out into the cold. He realizes several things at once: the house is located on the edge of a cliff, the waterfall is right next to it, and there’s woods stretching as far as he can see in either direction.
He tries to gauge whether a fall from this height would kill him as he looks for water to jump into, but it’s hard to tell what awaits him at the bottom because of the thick fog swallowing the entirety of the ground.
Jumping is not an option. He’ll have to climb down the wall somehow. It might be a stupid idea, but it’s the only one he’s got.
Ethan takes a deep breath to brace himself, and gets one foot on the window sill to pull himself up.
As soon as he’s ready to climb out, he’s interrupted.
“Don’t,” a deep, female voice warns. “You won’t get far.”
So startled he almost falls out of the window, Ethan stumbles backward into the room and whirls around to face the veiled woman standing in the doorway.
His first instinct is to hold the pointy end of the chair leg out in front of him, anticipating violence, but the woman just stands there with her hands folded in front of her, watching him.
“Jesus…,” he breathes, heart still rabbiting from the initial shock. It takes him a few moments to realize there’s nothing to fend off, so he lowers the makeshift weapon and straightens up, running a hand across his face. “What a warm welcome.”
She tilts her head at him like a curious cat at a toy, studying him through the veil. Ethan returns the gaze, but looking at her is like looking into a puddle of ink, the complete lack of eye contact almost unsettling.
And still, there’s something disarming about her. He doesn’t feel threatened. Not yet, anyway. Maybe because her doll isn’t here right now. Or maybe because compared to the other lords, she almost seems ordinary, human. She’s smaller than Ethan, unlike her siblings, which is probably why the thought of hurting her makes him feel bad.
He’s probably underestimating her. He’s made that mistake before and he sure as hell won’t make it again. He tightens his grip around the chair leg — better to stay vigilant.
The silence stretches on for a little too long before she says, “There’s someone outside who wants to speak to you.”
Ethan frowns. “Who?” His chest clenches when he verbalizes the first thought that comes to mind, “Heisenberg?”
No answer. Instead, the woman steps to the side, and the hallway behind her comes into view.
Confused, Ethan doesn’t move. Neither does the woman as she waits with her head lowered.
He hesitates, then takes a cautious step forward, half expecting her to stop him. She doesn’t, and when he realizes she’s letting him leave the room, he walks past her into the hallway.
It leads into a foyer, with multiple doors, a staircase, and a double-door entrance.
When he stops and looks back over his shoulder, the woman has disappeared.
Ethan frowns — another peculiarity he’ll have to get used to.
So she’s just letting him go outside, right through the front door. Maybe he should feel more threatened by someone who doesn’t even need to accompany him to make sure he doesn’t escape.
He sweeps the foyer with another glance before he pushes the front doors open and steps out into the cold.
First thing he sees is a bunch of snow-covered trees and a massive valley cutting through the mountains to his right. The waterfall is particularly loud out here. Before him, a well-walked path leads up to the wraparound porch.
Slowly, he walks down the steps to the front yard. The path leads him past the edge of the cliff, giving him a view of the waterfall that flows into the valley.
He doesn’t even know who he’s supposed to be meeting out here. He was expecting Heisenberg, but, to his relief, the man’s not here.
What he finds instead is a horse-drawn caravan, waiting just around a copse of trees further down the path.
Ethan approaches it, careful and already suspicious.
He doesn’t know what he expected, but it’s not what happens next. The caravan’s rear doors swing open to reveal a large, friendly-faced man surrounded by an almost overwhelming array of items — various trinkets, jewelry, all sorts of foods, and even weapons. The stranger greets Ethan with a smile, his arms spread wide in welcome.
“Mr. Winters, what a pleasure to see you!” He says cheerfully. “Congratulations on your engagement.”
Ethan frowns up at him. “Who’re you?”
“Oh, forgive my manners, I believe we haven’t had the pleasure yet. Call me Duke. I deal in fine goods, and, well, other commodities,” he chuckles to himself, motioning to the items around him. Then he folds his hands on his stomach, leans forward almost conspiratorially, and says, “I’m here because I have a message for you from Lord Heisenberg.”
Ethan’s frown deepens. “A message?”
The merchant nods and leans forward even more, his seat creaking with the movement. “He kindly asks you to not do anything stupid.”
Ethan blinks. “That’s it?”
The merchant chuckles, leaning back. “Well, I believe his exact words were, and I quote, ‘Tell that blond dumbass to stop playing hero and do as he’s told’.”
Ethan huffs and shakes his head. Of course that’s what Heisenberg said. Fucking jerk.
What offends him even more is how Heisenberg’s absence prevents him from throwing an insult right back at him.
He folds his arms across his chest and lifts his chin, sounding braver than he feels when he says, “Why doesn’t he come out here and tell that to my face?”
“Ah, well, I’m afraid Lord Heisenberg is quite busy with the wedding preparations himself. He’s at Castle Dimitrescu as we speak, getting spruced up for the ceremony by his nieces. Much to his chagrin, might I add.” The Duke follows that up with a bark of laughter.
Nieces? Lady Dimitrescu has daughters?
Maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t end up meeting them.
Ethan has seen the castle from afar and has stood at its gates (right before being impaled with fucking rebar and dragged off), but now, part of him is glad that’s as far as he got.
A place full of nothing but blood and death.
He pictures Heisenberg over there, grudgingly being made presentable for the wedding, and it’s an almost humanizing thought. At least he’s not having a better time than Ethan.
Serves him right. He’s the last person who has any business giving Ethan orders.
“Okay, well, thanks for the message,” he deadpans and turns around, motioning in a vague wave over his shoulder as he begins to walk back down the path. “You can tell Heisenberg to go fuck himself.”
Ethan hopes the initial silence marks the end of the conversation, but Duke’s voice stops him after he’s only taken a few steps.
“Lord Heisenberg is right, you know,” there’s no humor in the merchant’s tone this time, and when Ethan turns his head to look at him, he elaborates, “This is no time for rash decisions. Don’t forget, Mr. Winters, there will be a second ceremony in the morning, where your daughter is to be sacrificed. If you want to save Rose, your best course of action is to play along.”
Play along?
A surge of anger makes Ethan whip around fully, arms spread in indignation.
“Are you serious? So, what, you’re telling me to literally do nothing?” He snaps, taking a few angry steps toward the caravan as he points in the general direction of the village. “I could be out there looking for my daughter right now, but instead I’m supposed to just let them marry me off to this asshole?”
“It’s the smart thing to do.”
Ethan shakes his head and looks away, running a hand through his hair. “Un-fucking-believable.”
“Mother Miranda does not tolerate resistance. She will kill you if you don’t cooperate. But as long as you behave and go through with the wedding, you’ll be part of the family, and she will let you attend the second ceremony. That’s how you get to Rose. Lord Heisenberg knows this, so he’s advising you to play it safe.”
Ethan narrows his eyes in suspicion. How fucking considerate of Heisenberg.
“Why would he help me?”
The Duke gives a small, amused huff. “Put a little faith in him, my friend. You two are on the same page.”
“What do you mean by that?”
With a knowing smile and a shrug, the merchant spreads his arms. “Marry him, and you’ll see.”
Ethan sighs at the vague answer. Why does everyone in this village have to be so goddamn cryptic?
He gives the Duke a long, searching look.
“While we’re at it, why are you helping me? You don’t even know me.”
“Anyone who’s anyone has heard of the likes of you. A hero searching for his daughter — why wouldn’t I want to be part of such a noble cause?”
Annoyance flares at the remark, so saccharine it almost feels back-handed. Ethan is done with this conversation — with a roll of his eyes, he turns on his heel toward the path and starts to head back to the house.
“Mr. Winters, one more thing.”
Ethan stops and looks back at him, his impatience evident.
The Duke nods in the direction of the house and says, “You should be nice to your host.“
“Who, Beneviento?”
“Donna. Her name is Donna. She’s quite a lovely lady and means you no harm. Well, as long as you don’t antagonize her and remain a good guest. Same goes for little Miss Angie, her precious doll.”
With that, the Duke motions toward Ethan’s right hand. That’s when Ethan realizes he’s still holding on to that damn chair leg. He meets the merchant’s eyes and understands the implication, but he doesn’t like it. Jaw clenched, he drops the makeshift weapon into the snow — being a good guest apparently means walking around the house bare-handed and without the means to defend himself. Great.
Content, the merchant smiles at him, but doesn’t say anything else. Ethan ends the conversation with a tight nod before he turns around and heads back inside.
Only when he finds himself standing in the foyer of Beneviento’s house again does Ethan realize that he, in fact, has come back.
Voluntarily. He didn’t even try to escape.
He was just outside, and instead of making a run for it, he came back.
It’s quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood and the wind creeping through tiny gaps in the old structure. He’s alone. No sign of Donna or Angie. So many opportunities for him to escape, but Duke’s advice has given him more to think about than he’d like to admit.
Is he really gonna start listening to these people after everything he’s been through? Instead of doing the sane thing and ignoring them like he usually would?
Why trust them? Wouldn’t they want to manipulate him into obedience?
Don’t trust anyone — that rule of thumb has served him well enough so far. Trust always backfires. As soon as he engages with someone and gives them the benefit of the doubt, they either betray him, die on him, or abandon him.
But at a certain point it’s hard to ignore this utter child in him, this helpless thing eager to trust, especially when hopelessness and fear become so unbearable he abandons his principles and starts taking risks. This is what he hates about himself the most. The naive faith in the good in people, even the worst ones.
Fact is, Heisenberg and the Duke know things he doesn’t know. They know how powerful Miranda is, what she can and cannot do. They seem to know how to outsmart her. Their knowledge of her is an advantage he can’t ignore.
Miranda is keeping Rose somewhere, that much he knows. And maybe brute force won’t get him as far as he’d hoped.
Play along. It’s the smart thing to do.
Maybe, just maybe, they’re right.
It’s a risk, but he’s desperate for a solution. For a way to get to his daughter in time.
Ethan shakes his head at himself, dragging his hands down his face. What happened today really must’ve screwed with his head, made him believe he’s desperate enough to make compromises.
So much so that, yes, he’s probably gonna have to take that risk and play along. Let the wedding happen.
He doesn’t have to trust them. Not fully. If anything goes wrong, he’ll bail and do his own thing. It’s a bad plan, but it’s better than no plan.
He drops his hands to his sides, shoulders slumping. Slowly, he begins to walk.
He doesn’t meet a soul on his way back to the only room he knows, save for a few blank-faced dolls propped up on furniture. When he reaches his room, it’s also vacant, but something else has changed — there’s clothes laid out on the bed now.
Frowning, he walks over to the bed, then for a moment just stands there staring at the clothes. They look traditional. A white linen blouse that seems a little too big for him, with a generous amount of red stitching along its collar and cuffs. A pair of white trousers, a wide embroidered belt, and leather boots.
It’s his wedding attire.
He picks up the blouse and lifts it to his face for a closer look at the embroidery. Flowers, trees and celestial bodies intertwine in complex, endless patterns — maybe a story told through thread to the knowing eye.
His fingers glide over the fabric. It’s soft, it’s pretty. And it’s wrong. This attire makes things real, turns this fever dream into an actuality. This wedding will happen. It’s real, and it will happen.
A sigh leaves him when he places the blouse back down. His throat burns with a familiar salty tang as his vision goes blurry again.
Ethan wipes at his eyes, then begins to shrug off his jacket.
“You should bathe first,” a familiar voice says next to him. His nervous system seems to be attuned to her already, because Donna doesn’t startle him this time.
Not nearly as much as her creepy doll does.
“Yeah, you stink!”
He flinches when Angie appears next to his face, grabbing his arm. “Come on, stinky, the tub’s ready! Time to make you pretty!”
He was really hoping he wouldn’t see her again. The house was so blissfully quiet until now.
Angie shoves him toward the door, Donna leading the way.
“Come on! Down the hall you go!” The doll chirps, her tiny, bony hands pushing at his shoulder.
Ethan rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest as he follows Donna through the foyer, past the staircase, and down an unfamiliar hallway on the other side of the house.
Donna stops in front of a door which already stands ajar, and steps to the side. Angie settles in the crook of her arm, giggling to herself when Ethan walks past them into what seems to be a bathroom.
Steam rises from an already filled bathtub, a stark contrast to the chill of the space. Ethan hesitates, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, then slowly approaches the tub and peers down into the milky water, an herbal scent reaching him.
He lets out a small breath and starts taking off his jacket.
Thankfully, when he glances back over his shoulder, Donna and Angie are gone.