Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The sun was just cresting the treetops when the tray slipped. Adam saw it before he heard it. The tremble in Evan’s wrist, the silver tilt of the tray, the brief gleam of glass in the morning light. Then came the clatter. Porcelain shattered on the stones like a musket shot, and dark juice bled across the white linen like spilled blood.

They were in the garden, a place of fragile peace. Mistress sat beneath her silk parasol, shaded and cool, while the scent of blooming jasmine drifted on the breeze. Evan had been serving her, his hands careful and precise, his head bowed. But the weight had shifted too fast when she turned and snapped something impatient. His footing faltered on the gravel path, and then, the crash.

Everyone froze. From the hedge line where he stood on quiet, watchful guard, a rifle over his shoulder, Adam’s heart kicked hard. He knew what would come next.

Mistress stared at the broken cup as if it had personally insulted her. "Stupid little pet". Evan dropped to his knees instantly, his hands frantic, sweeping across the gravel to gather the shards. Blood beaded on his fingers where the porcelain bit back. His lips moved silently, apologies perhaps, though no one was listening.

The overseer came quickly. He came at a near-run with a whip, the sharp, awful snap of leather cutting the morning air. "You dumb bastard!" he barked, pushing past the other servants. "Can't even carry a tray without tripping over your own feet? You have no damn sense in your head!".

Adam moved. He did not think; he simply walked. Fast. Too fast. He covered the ground from the hedge line to the center of the garden in six long strides. Mistress raised a single, arched brow as Adam stepped directly between the overseer and Evan.

"Please, that is enough," Adam said. The world held its breath.

“You forget your place, slave?”

Adam stood straight. He did not look at Mistress, did not look at the others. He kept his eyes locked on the overseer. “It was a mistake. He slipped. There is no sense in punishing him when the tray was too heavy to begin with.”

 “Are you telling me I was wrong to be served my tea? Let the overseer do what he is meant to.”

Evan was still kneeling behind him. Adam could feel the tension in him, like a wire pulled tight, ready to snap. Fear crawling inside of him.

How could he defy the Mistress? But then how could he not.

The overseer scoffed. “This one is always making trouble,” he sneered. “Are you soft on him?”

Mistress took a delicate sip from her cup, utterly unbothered. "Why are you waiting?" she said, her voice a soft, amused murmur. She didn't look at Adam, but at the overseer. "You have your orders, do you not?"

The overseer's jaw tightened. "I do," he said, his voice low and tight. He flicked his gaze to Adam. He was a man who had survived by making himself a more useful kind of weapon. He had sacrificed his pride to gain a small measure of power. And he hated Adam for refusing to do the same.

He looked at Evan, trembling on the ground, then back at Adam, whose defiance was an open challenge. The Mistress had given him an order, but she had also given him a choice. He could simply punish Evan as planned, a quick, clean resolution. Or he could teach this rebellious slave a more profound lesson.

The overseer’s gaze returned to the Mistress, a silent question passing between them. She gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod and a thin smile. That was all the permission he needed. The punishment was no longer about Evan's mistake; it was about Adam's audacity.

"You want to take his place?" Mistress said, her voice laced with amusement. He pointed the whip at Adam's chest. "A bold offer. I am feeling generous today, you should be grateful."

Adam gave a single nod. "If I can, thank you Mistress."

The overseer’s smile was all teeth. "A man with a spine. A rare thing." His eyes, full of sick glee, settled on Adam. "Then a bold spirit it is. A lesson for you both. He gets to watch you suffer for his mistake. And you get to learn that a bold spirit bleeds just the same as a coward’s."

The first lash cracked across his back, white fire searing through muscle. He held fast. No sound.

The second lash came harder. His jaw locked. His fists clenched at his sides. Still, silence.

By the third lash his vision blurred. The taste of iron filled his mouth, and he staggered, but he did not give them what they wanted. No cry. No submission.

White-hot lightning tore across Adam’s back. The pain was sharp, immediate, but he locked his jaw and held it in. He did not scream. He would not. That would give them something. He would rather bleed in silence.

Behind him, Evan did not move. Adam prayed that he would not.

When it was done after a while, the overseer grunted and stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow. “Overfed and overbold,” he muttered. “One of these days, we will see how far your guts spill.”

Mistress stood then, brushed imaginary dust from her dress, and turned to walk back toward the house.

Adam stood still until they were gone.

Then Evan rushed forward, catching him as his knees buckled.

“You should not have done that,” Evan whispered, his voice shaking. “You should not have...”

“Yes, I should have,” Adam said, barely breathing.

The garden was empty now, silent except for the buzz of insects and the soft wind moving through the hedges.

Evan helped him to the side wall, where the shade fell cool and the stone was rough against his skin. Every step was a fight. The wounds pulsed with every heartbeat.

When they reached shelter, Evan knelt and lifted the shirt carefully. The breath he drew in was not surprise, it was grief.

“You are bleeding,” he said. “It is bad.”

Adam stared at the ground. “You also got injured, your skin is softer, you will get a scar across your shoulder. You need to stay pretty, you know?  Better it be me, while I can.”

“Why?”

Adam did not answer.

He did not know how to explain it, the way his stomach flipped when Evan looked at him like that. As though he were more than just a tool in the dirt. Like something worth shielding. It scared him worse than the whip ever could.

Evan touched his hand, calloused fingers brushing his. “I heard Mistress speaking. About selling one of us.”

Adam flinched. He could not help it.

“You think it will be me?”

“Do not talk like that.”

“But you thought it,” Evan said. “I can tell.”

Adam turned away, but Evan followed. He leaned in. Pressed his forehead to Adam’s shoulder, just beside the bleeding.

“I do not care if they do,” he whispered. “Even if they tear us apart, I am not ashamed of loving you.”

Adam froze.

He wanted to push him away. Wanted to shout at him. To warn him, but the words stuck. He looked at Evan, at those eyes that never lied.

“You speak it like it is safe,” Adam murmured. “Like it will not cost you.”

“And you carry it like a secret you are scared to lose,” Evan said. “But I see it.”

Adam’s chest tightened.

The shadows were longer now. 

And then the words came out before he could stop them.

“Lets run away.”

Evan blinked. “What?”

“I mean it,” Adam said, his voice low but fierce. “I know the way. There are places we can go, I have seen it behind the gates. I am strong enough to work and I will fight if I have to. There are free men out there. We only need to reach them.”

He waited. Watched Evan’s face shift from shock to fear of something quieter. Something dangerous.

But then he looked at Adam again. At the way he sat so still, so earnest. Evan had always been rational. Always cautious.

But when it came to Adam...

It didn’t take much to break him, Adam always knew how to break him.

And so, Evan nodded.

Chapter Text

They waited until the house was deep asleep.

It was nearly two in the morning when Evan crept from the east wing, barefoot and shaking, his breath shallow in the cold air. The moon hung overhead like a blade, slicing the clouds into ribbons. Shadows moved with a mind of their own, long fingers stretching across the courtyard, ready to snatch, to betray.

Adam crouched low behind a stack of hay barrels near the stables, hidden in the deeper dark. Then saw Evan, a slim silhouette slipping between patches of moonlight. When Evan reached him, their eyes locked.

Adam’s heart twisted.

“You really sure?” he asked, his voice a breath more than a whisper.

Evan hesitated. “No,” he admitted. “But I’m here.”

And that was enough.

Adam nodded once. His fingers ached from how tightly he gripped the strap of the small canvas bag at his side. *Don’t let him see how scared you are.* Inside were the stolen supplies. A flask of water, two bruised apples and a crude map drawn on the back of a bread order. Pathetic, really. But it was everything they had.

*It has to be enough.*

They moved fast, sticking close to the barn wall, then cutting across the edge of the lower fields. The plan was simple, almost insultingly so. Follow the irrigation trench, slip under the outer fence, cross the ravine. If they reach the river at the bottom, it will take them all the way to the highway.

Freedom.

Adam didn’t let himself think of it.

Freedom was a dream, and dreams got you killed.

The grass was slick beneath their feet, damp with dew and thick with the smell of mud and manure. Evan slipped once, but Adam caught him without thinking, a hand to his back, a quiet touch that lingered. He didn’t say anything. Neither did Evan.

But the way he looked at Adam, just for a second….

They passed the empty training yard. Adam’s stomach tightened. He could still see himself there, hours earlier, sparring, performing, bleeding. Always performing. Always watching Evan from the corner of his eye nex to the Mistress.

And now they were running.

“Careful,” Adam murmured, raising a hand.

Two dogs lay by the gatehouse, thick fur rising and falling in slow, peaceful breaths. Evan pressed into Adam’s side. His breath hitched.

Adam thought about reaching for his hand. He didn’t.

They moved past the dogs in silence, hearts pounding louder than their footfalls. When they reached the ravine, Adam froze.

It was worse than he remembered.

The drop was deep. A gouge in the earth choked with weeds, tangled roots, and the heavy stench of decay. The bridge was little more than rotting boards lashed together with twine and rusted nails. It swayed even in the stillness.

“I’ll go first,” Adam said. “Then I’ll help you.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He couldn’t. If he stopped to think about how fragile it all was, the bridge, the plan, Evan. He’d lose his nerve.

He crossed fast, light on his feet despite the weight in his chest. Halfway across, the wood groaned beneath him. *Don’t fall. Don’t look down.* He reached the other side and turned.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “Come on.”

Evan nodded and stepped onto the bridge. Each footstep sounded too loud. The whole thing creaked under his weight. Adam watched every movement, ready to leap if—

A horn shattered the quiet.

A single, blaring note loud enough to wake the dead.

Then shouting. Dogs barking. Lights blooming like fire across the field.

*No. No. Not now—*

“Run!” Adam yelled, heart slamming against his ribs. Evan froze mid-step, eyes wide. *Move, Evan. Please, just move.*

Then a gunshot cracked through the air.

The board near Evan’s foot exploded, splinters flying.

Adam didn’t think. He ran onto the bridge, grabbed Evan by the arm, and yanked him forward. The wood buckled under their weight, but held long enough for them to tumble off the other side and into the underbrush. They rolled hard, thorns ripping at their skin. Evan cried out, his arm scraped raw but Adam pulled him to his feet.

“We have to go!” he hissed. “Now!”

Another shot rang out. Closer.

They stumbled toward the tree line, feet slipping in the wet earth but they never made it.

Shadows moved ahead of them, fast, angry.

A boot caught Adam in the side. He went down hard, air knocked clean from his lungs. Someone grabbed Evan by the hair, dragging him back. Adam tried to rise. *Don’t touch him!* But a rifle butt smashed into his ribs.

Pain bloomed white and hot.

“Thought you’d just *walk out*?” a voice sneered.

Adam curled inward instinctively, but another kick landed in his stomach. He grunted, too winded to scream.

They were yanked to their feet and dragged through the fields like livestock. Evan stumbled beside him, his breathing shallow and panicked.

The mansion loomed like a tomb in the dark. Lights poured from the high windows. As they entered the main hall, silence fell.

She was there.

The Mistress.

Tall. Cold. Perfectly still. Her face was carved from stone, pale and unreadable.

Adam swallowed, tried to stand straighter. The pain in his ribs made it hard to breathe.

Adam swallowed, tried to stand straighter. The pain in his ribs made it hard to breathe. "It was my idea," he said, his voice barely a crack. "Evan just followed me."

She studied them both. Her eyes flicked from Adam to Evan, then back again. "So," she said slowly, "you will be the only one to bear the full price?"

Evan shook his head violently. "No - please-"

Adam turned just enough to see him. Just enough to offer a tired, broken smile. "It's okay," he said. "It's not your fault." It's mine.

The Mistress tilted her head. Her face, which had been unreadable, shifted. The faintest, most subtle lifting of her lips. A small, cruel glint in her eyes. It was satisfaction. For the first time since Adam had known her, he saw something on her face other than disdain or boredom. He saw joy. Not a passionate, furious joy, but a quiet, intellectual pleasure in the unfolding drama. In the power she held.

"I will be merciful to you one last time." Mistress said with a smile.

He thought, She's going to let him go. She knows I'll take his punishment. A wave of relief, hot and sudden, washed over him. He met her gaze, his own eyes wide with a fragile, dawning hope.

But then she drew a gun.

Adam's mind scrambled. He thought it was meant for him. He was ready to take the punishment, to accept his death as the price for Evan's life. He felt a moment of pure, selfless relief that Evan was safe.

Then the shot came.

And Evan dropped.

Just... dropped, as if he was nothing. Blood painted the marble. The world didn't make a sound. Adam stared. His knees gave out, and he sank to the floor. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Couldn't scream. He looked from Evan's still body to the Mistress's face. The cruel smile was still there. That cold, keen interest.

And in that moment of absolute silence, the world shattering around him, Adam finally understood. She had killed Evan not out of punishment, but because she could. She had found enjoyment in crushing Adam's hope, in destroying his sacrifice, in making his brave act completely and utterly meaningless. She showed him his place in the world, and he was a fool for ever wanting more.

The scream came anyway, ripped from some place deeper than his soul, a sound so raw it barely sounded human.

He's dead.

He's gone.

Just like that.

And the voice, her voice came again, cold and final. "You brought this upon him. His death is your fault."

The other slaves turned away. No one spoke. But Adam could feel the weight of their stares. Their fear. Their blame.

He curled forward, folding into himself. He had nothing left to protect. No one left to save.

And in that hollow space where Evan had lived, in every glance, every shared silence, every breath they took in unison... Adam finally understood what he'd refused to name.

He loved him. And now Evan was gone. Because Adam had dared to hope. Because Adam had failed. Because he had loved.

And now, he is truly the only one bearing the punishment.

Chapter Text

Two guards gripped his arms as they dragged him away, but there was no struggle left in Adam, just a heavy, unresponsive weight between them. 

They took him down, past the torchlit passages where warmth had never touched the walls. 

The door to the dungeon creaked like it hadn’t been opened in months. Maybe years. But now they were opening, just for him.

Cold hit him first. A wet, rotting kind of cold that sank straight to the bone. Stone swallowing every sound there. He didn’t lift his head. He didn’t look at the rust on the walls, or the shackles hanging from the ceiling.

He didn’t care.

They threw him into a narrow cell, barely large enough to lie down in. One of them muttered something under his breath. Adam didn’t catch it.

He was already somewhere else.

The guards didn’t wait. First kick landed in his ribs, then the second in his spine. He curled out of instinct, but that just made it worse.

The voice cold and quiet asked: “Oh high and mighty Adam. You thought you get to run away?”

The whip came next. It uncoiled behind him with a sharp hiss, then cracked across his back with a sound like tearing meat. Pain ripped through him, white-hot. He arched involuntarily, breath caught in his throat, and a scream tried to escape but he bit it down, jaw clenched so hard he felt something crack in the back of his teeth.

Again. And again. And again.

He did not notice the moment the torchlight vanished behind the door, or how darkness poured in like water.

He just sat in it.

He listened to the silence.

He tasted iron in his mouth and dirt on his tongue.

His body throbbed with pain. Ribs cracked, muscles strained, knees bruised. But pain was easy. Pain was simple. It was real, and it was earned.

---

Days passed. Guards changed. 

Torture continued.

He could still feel the heat of hands that didn’t belong. Fingers pressing into skin that had gone rigid with fear. The weight. The breath against his ear. The way the room had spun while he stayed still.

The sounds were the worst. Breathing that wasn’t his. Words he didn’t repeat, not even in thought.

And after.... 

God. The shaking. The shame. The sticky warmth on his legs, impossible to forget. Not really.

He swallowed the taste of it.

Then they chained him up, standing. Arms stretched over his head. Not for questioning. Not for confession. Just so they could watch him hang there, barely able to breathe.

One paced behind him.

The other leaned in close.

“You know,” he whispered, “we saw the way you looked at him. The way you followed him around like a dog.”

Adam said nothing.

But something in his chest twisted in a raw, ugly pain.

The guard laughed.

“You loved him. Didn’t you? That pretty little thing. That scared look in his eyes. You should’ve seen the way he looked at you. Like you were some kind of savior.”

Adam’s jaw tensed.

“That’s what makes it worse, right? That he believed in you.”

A fist slammed into Adam’s stomach.

He buckled, choking on bile, but didn’t fall.

“You told him he’d be okay,” the guard sneered. “He trusted you. And you led him to that bullet.”

Adam coughed, blood running down his chin.

“You let him die.”

He shook his head. Weak. Barely.

Wrong answer.

The younger one grabbed a handful of Adam’s hair and yanked his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes.

“Say it.”

Adam’s breath caught. He felt the weight of those words waiting just behind his teeth. Like a knife he was meant to swallow.

The guard hissed into his face.

“Say it was your fault!”

Silence.

Then—

The older one stepped in.

Without warning, he smashed his boot into Adam’s ribs. Something cracked.

Adam fell sideways, gasping, teeth clenched against the scream.

“Say it,” the older one growled.

Adam blinked up at them. His mouth opened.

Closed.

Then opened again.

Voice dry. Empty.

“I…”

He swallowed.

Felt it scraping on the way down.

“I let him die.”

The room went still.

“I let him die,” he repeated, softer now. “He… he trusted me. And I—”

His voice broke, the sentence left unfinished.

The guards stood over him like victors.

“That’s better,” one said, turning away.

Adam’s head drooped.

But that wasn't enough.

They started hitting him again.

And this time, they didn’t stop until he collapsed — suspended only by the chains. His blood dripped onto the floor like the ticking of a clock.

He’s dead because of you.

The words replayed like a rhythm.

You promised he’d be safe.

Another crack of pain.

You should’ve taken the bullet.

They left him there for days..... or maybe not. He lost track of time. His body shriveled, bruised and stiff. He stopped fighting the darkness when it pressed in.

---

They came again today. Adam had stopped reacting hours ago.

They beat him, burned him, forced him to scream but eventually, Adam just... went quiet. His body flinched when it needed to, recoiled out of instinct. 

Chains rattled softly every time he moved, but he didn’t bother to look up. There was nothing up there worth seeing.

The guards didn’t talk to him anymore.

But they talked indeed.

“Heard the little one died,” one said, casually tightening the straps binding Adam’s arms. “What was his name? Evan? Pretty thing.”

Another scoffed.

Adam’s breath caught.

They didn’t notice. Or they pretended not to.

“Shame,” the first one added. “Could’ve sold him for good coin. But I guess it was only a matter of time.”

“Probably thought the big one will save him.” A third voice sharp and amused. “Funny how that worked out.”

Adam’s vision blurred. Something sharp twisted in his gut. His fingers curled, just slightly, against the cold floor.

The guards finally glanced down.

“Oh,” one of them said, noticing. “Look who’s awake again.”

The others laughed.

Guard crouched, leaned in close to Adam’s ear. 

“You led him out. Got caught. Didn’t even make it past river.....”

Adam’s chest rose sharply. His lips parted but no sound came out. 

He stopped listening after that.

---

The days dragged on.

The guards didn’t bother mocking him anymore. Some didn’t even acknowledge him. Others only did to throw reminders at him like stones.

“This is what’s left of a traitor,” one said once, laughing as he passed. “Look at him. Nothing.”

They were right.

He was nothing now.

He’s dead because of you.

And every time the memory surfaced, it burned. Not like the whip, not like bruises - much deeper. Quieter. Like something rotting from the inside out.

There was no window. No light. Just the cold stone floor beneath his knees and the quiet creak of the old chains swaying from the ceiling.

He didn’t sleep. He couldn’t. And time didn’t pass...

Every time his head dipped, Evan’s face was there.

That last look. That confusion.

Like he didn’t understand what was happening.

Like he thought Adam would stop it.

Why didn’t I stop it?

The question didn’t leave. It settled into his spine, a splinter too deep to reach.

Eventually, the silence broke him in a new way.

He started whispering.

To the dark.

To Evan.

“I should’ve taken the shot.”

“I should’ve grabbed the gun.”

“I should’ve—”

He’d say things and then forget he’d said them. He didn’t know what day it was. Or if days still existed.

But he kept talking.

Not for answers.

Just so the silence didn’t eat him whole.

He pressed his fists into his eyes until stars bloomed.

You said you’d protect him.

You swore!

Evan’s voice or a whisper just outside the door talked.

"It’s not your fault."

But it was.

It is.

---

Evan stood in the hallway, bathed in moonlight.

Smiling.

That soft, stupid smile he only gave Adam. The one he thought no one noticed.

“You came back,” Adam whispered.

But Evan just stared.

Adam tried to move toward him, but his legs wouldn’t respond.

“Don’t go,” Adam whispered.

But Evan was already walking away, his form fading into the darkness.

And then ...

 BANG!

“Evan?”

His legs finally started to work.

“Evan!”

Louder. More desperate.

“Get up—”

Nothing.

“Get up, please—”

Still nothing.

“NO! No, no, no—”

He sat up suddenly. Hands soaked in blood. His face was blank, tears streaked down his cheeks, but his eyes were empty.

He turned behind.

The Mistress.

Her expression hadn’t changed. Cold. Mildly uninterested, like he was some broken toy she might or might not discard.

"Why did you shoot him! I was the one who caused this! Why!? I was supposed to die that day!"

But she did not respond. She never did.

Then he turned back at Evan. There was blood at his temple. A red halo behind him.

“You said I’d be okay.”

Adam reached for him—

And woke up screaming.

With grief, finally remembering how to breathe, Adam broke again.

Not loudly. No shouts, no sobs. Just a soft, ragged inhale, and the look in his eyes. A flicker of something crumbling inward.

Something vital.

And once it was gone, it wouldn't come back.

Chapter Text

They left him there.

After some time the guards grew bored, they stopped coming. No more jeers. No more touching. No more beatings.

Just silence.

The torchlight had burned low and eventually, even that gave up. The chamber sank into darkness, thick and absolute. It wrapped around Adam like wet cloth. Time blurred together. 

He didn’t move. He hardly breathed. The air tasted of stone and rot. His body was one long ache. His mind… quieter than it should’ve been.

And after so much silence...

A sound.

Metal scraping. Soft. A door easing open with a long, reluctant creak.

Adam didn’t lift his head. Not at first. Too many false hopes. Too many tricks. Too many times he’d imagined rescue, only to wake alone or to guards torturing him once again.

But the footsteps were wrong. Too light to be guards. Too soft to be cruel. Too...

“Adam?”

His name. Spoken low. Familiar.

He blinked. Dust stirred in the stale air. A shape hovered in the doorway, half-shadow, half-light.

“I... I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”

His heart clenched.

No.

No! Not again.

Not another vision, dredged up by hunger and fever and guilt.

He raised his head, slow and stiff. Neck screaming.

And there, just for a heartbeat he saw him.

A figure, just past the torchlight. Walking the edge of the corridor, framed by flame.

Slim. Dark-haired. Familiar in a way that cracked something inside his chest.

Evan.

No. It couldn’t be. Not again.

You’re dead.

I buried you in my guilt.

He tried to look away, but the image clung to him like a fever. Too sharp to be real, too soft to trust. Too kind.

His hands trembled.

The candle in the wall sconce flickered, sputtered. Shadows stretched long across the floor.

Still, the figure stepped forward.

Adam’s throat burned. “Evan,” he whispered, voice raw and thin.

The shape didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched.

His chest tightened. A pressure like being underwater. The air too thin, too hot.

“No,” he rasped, “you’re not here. You’re dead. You’re not—”

But then the figure came closer. Into the light.

A face.

A body.

Real.

Too real.

Evan. His hair longer than before. Cheeks flushed healthy pink an body stronger then ever. Just as he imagined him to look like if they would ever be free.

You are imagining this too.

Evan's eyes wide. Lips parted like he wanted to say a thousand things, but didn’t know where to begin.

Adam flinched. He scrambled back, elbows slipping on the cold stone.

“Stop! Go away. You’re not real.” His voice cracked. “You’re not him. You can’t be.”

The figure hesitated, then knelt. Not close. Just… closer.

“I came for you,” Evan said, voice quiet.

Adam shook his head violently, fingers digging into the floor. “You died. I saw the blood. I- I heard them say it.”

His thoughts spun wildly, snapping back to that night: the fire, the shouting, the stillness of Evan’s body on the ground. The cold in his own chest.

Is he going to take me to the heaven?

No. I don't deserve to go there.

You’re seeing things again. You know you are.

He dug his nails into his palms.

Don’t trust it. Don’t trust anything.

Pain surged through his chest like a knife. Sudden. Blinding.

His ribs locked. He couldn’t pull air in. Couldn’t speak.

He collapsed to his side, the cold floor biting through his skin. The shadows swam.

And dream was still not breaking apart.

Evan didn’t vanish. He stayed.

And behind him, in the doorway.

Another shape.

Small. Female. Cloaked. Watching.

Adam saw her only briefly, just a silhouette against the corridor’s flickering torchlight.

Another hallucination?

A guard?

No. She didn’t move like them. Too cautious. Too deliberate. Too still.

He wanted to ask. To scream. To beg.

But the darkness surged again, thicker this time. A tide that swallowed the light whole.

His limbs gave out.

The stone rose up to meet him.

---

Darkness didn’t lift all at once.

It peeled back in thin layers, like fog. Sound returned first, soft shuffling, the scrape of fabric, a breath too close to be his own.

Then warmth.

Not much, but enough to notice.

Something wrapped around his shoulders. A blanket maybe? Smelled of something sweet and ash. Not blood, for once.

Adam stirred.

Pain answered immediately. A deep, echoing kind, like his bones had given up on holding him together. A pain that felt old, rooted in the marrow.

He opened his eyes. Slits, nothing more. The light was too much. Even the faintest flicker stabbed behind his lids.

He blinked again.

The room was almost painfully bright.

Walls painted a soft cream-white, glowing in the morning light that spilled through sheer curtains. Delicate shadows traced the ornate molding near the ceiling, elegant but understated. A simple wooden table stood near a window, polished smooth, with a vase of pale lilies resting on it, fresh and quiet.

A blurred figure sat beside him, brushing damp hair from his face. Not Evan. Smaller hands. Careful ones. Real.

Not rough. Not angry.

Gentle.

His throat scraped as he tried to speak. “Hm…”

“Shh,” the voice whispered. Female. Calm. Strange. “You’re safe now.”

He tried to sit up. His body said no. Muscles limp. Chest tight. Still fighting phantoms.

The voice continued, quiet but certain. “You were in shock and passed out. Don’t push it.”

He could feel something soft beneath him now and a rolled cloth under his head. A canteen was pressed to his lips. He turned his face away.

Who are you? I don’t… I don’t know you.

As if she knew what he was thinking: “Evan told me to find you.”

Adam’s breath caught.

Evan.

Oh .

So he was still dreaming.

Chapter Text

The room is dimly lit.

The only light is a faint orange glow spilling through the curtains from outside. A plate of untouched food sits on the table, the steam long gone.

Adam sits on the floor against the wall, knees pulled to his chest. He is not crying. His face is blank. Not numb, exactly, but hollow, as if all the feeling was carved out long ago and nothing replaced it.

A woman kneels in front of him. He does not know her, not really. He remembers her from the dream. The angel who came to save him from the hell. The other person who helped rescue him from the dungeon with Evan.

Silence stretches between them. Adam does not move. His eyes are open but unfocused, staring past her. He blinks slowly, like it costs him something.

"You can scream. You can cry. You can hate me, if you need to. Just do something, Adam. Please."

She pleads. She has said something like this before.

She seems kind enough. Definitely kinder than his previous owner. And that is what she is, his owner. Because what else could she be?

She swallows the lump in her throat, trying to stay steady. He can see the hope fading from her eyes, like she thought she could buy him dirt cheap, fix him up, and have a perfect obedient slave. As if he was ever anything but the last part.

“Please come back. I don’t know how to help you.”

That part he does not understand. How can she be that desperate? She is a free person. She could buy someone else easily. She left him in a really nice room. If these are slave quarters, then she clearly has money to get another. So why him?

The silence stretches. Adam does not move. Does not speak. It feels like the world has stopped turning inside him, and nothing she says can start it again.

---

“I brought you a soup. You have to eat, Adam. You haven’t had anything since…”

No reaction. His gaze is fixed on the floor like it holds some answer he cannot find.

She walks over and places the plate closer to him. Careful, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt, or worse, never move again.

Adam does not look at the food. Does not look at her. He might as well not have heard her at all.

He knows he should eat. But he does not deserve to. Not when Evan is dead. All because of him.

It plays on a loop in his mind. The way they were supposed to run together, escape together. The plan was his. The risk was his. And when it went wrong, Evan paid the price. If Adam had been faster, smarter, stronger. If he had not—

The food feels like something sacred, something meant for the living. Evan is not. And Adam should not be.

He tells himself he is still here because someone decided so. Not because he deserves to be.

I don't deserve to be saved.

She kneels beside him again, her voice soft, trembling with something between hope and heartbreak.

“Tomorrow the doctor will come to look at you. He can do a better job bandaging you than I ever could.”

A long silence follows. Somewhere, a clock ticks in the distance.

Adam finally shifts. Just his eyes. They drift toward the plate, then away. He slowly turns his head to the side, away from her, and closes his eyes. Not in rest. In retreat.

She stares at him for a long moment, then quietly stands and walks out. She leaves him some space.

Behind her, Adam does not move.

---

The room smells faintly of antiseptic. The lights are brighter now. Not warm, but almost clinical. A folded medical bag sits open on the table. The woman stands aside, arms crossed tightly, her jaw clenched.

A doctor kneels beside Adam with practiced calm, peeling back the gauze from his side. The bandage sticks in one spot. A thin line of blood follows, but Adam does not flinch. He does not move. He just sits there like the pain no longer belongs to him.

"Lift your arm," the doctor says.

Adam obeys.

Automatically. Instantly. Like a puppet pulled by strings.

The woman shifts on her feet, watching closely. Watching too closely.

"He does that," she says quietly. "When you tell him something, he listens. But it’s like..."

"Breathe in," the doctor says.

Adam inhales.

"Exhale."

Adam obeys again, eyes unfocused.

She swallows. "It’s like there’s no one behind his eyes. He follows orders, but he doesn’t even look at you when he does."

The doctor nods, cleaning the wound with slow, efficient movements. "Reflex. Routine. The body remembers, long after the mind shuts down."

She hesitates. Then, in a lower voice, as if the words themselves might hurt,

"He doesn’t speak. What if he can’t talk anymore?"

That makes the doctor pause for just a second. He glances at Adam’s face, blank, detached, too still.

"There’s no physical damage to the vocal cords," he says.

"But what if he won’t?" she whispers. "What if he just... doesn’t come back?"

The doctor looks at her, not with pity, but with the quiet weight of truth.

"Then he needs time. Or something that pulls him back."

He tapes the fresh bandage down and gives Adam a small nod. "All done."

Adam slowly lowers his arm without being told. He does not react to the pressure on the wound or the air brushing his skin. He just folds his hands again and stares past them both.

The doctor stands and begins packing his kit.

"Try water again in an hour," he tells her. "Warm liquids, if he’ll take them, maybe some light food.. Keep him covered. His temperature is low."

She nods absently.

The doctor’s voice drifts back from the door.

“Take care, Misstress Bianca.”

The door closes quietly behind him.

As the doctor leaves, silence fills the room again. It is thick and unbearable.

She crouches beside Adam, her voice almost breaking.

"Can you say something? Just one word?"

Nothing.

Stillness.

She reaches out, meaning to touch him, but quickly pulls back. Her hands press against her forehead, and her breath falters.

Adam does not move.

Does not blink.

Does not speak.

That silence is louder than any scream could have ever been.

But the name floats somewhere in the stillness.

Mistress Bianca.

Chapter Text

Adam lays down, facing the wall.

He hadn't eaten in days. After doctor left Mistress Bianca started showing less. Giving him space?

Adam was not sure, maybe she had to work again. Or was getting bored by his silence. Maybe she had other slaves, more interesting than he could ever be.

He hadn’t really slept in two nights, maybe three. His body was exhausted, but his mind didn’t know how to be still. His thoughts looped the same images over and over, as relentless and cruel as waves breaking against the same broken shore.

Evan’s voice. Evan’s blood. Evan’s last breath.

It played behind his eyes every time they closed.

The silence in the room wasn’t peaceful, it was too loud. Too sharp around the edges.

Even the night air seemed to avoid him.

His eyes were open. Staring into nothing.

And at some point, the ache in his chest softened. Not vanished, but dulled, like a cold hand slowly unclenching. His breath grew slower. Shallower.

He was slipping into sleep, though it didn’t feel like sleep at all.

Then he heard it. Footsteps. Behind him.

Soft. Familiar. Real.

Adam froze.

The air shifted. The weight of the room changed. He turned slowly, heart suddenly racing.

And Evan was there.

Standing just inside the doorway. Whole. Warm. Alive.

Not pale, not lifeless. Not how Adam had last seen him. His eyes were bright again, shining with that familiar, quiet light. His dark hair was a little messy, like he’d just rolled out of bed. And he was smiling softly. The way he used to when he’d catch Adam staring.

It hit Adam like a punch to the gut.

His body locked up. His throat closed. All the air left the room.

Evan.

The version of him that lived in memory. The version Adam had memorized in tiny, sacred pieces: the tilt of his mouth when he was thinking, the sound of his voice saying “I love you” like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Adam’s voice caught.

“I-” His lips moved, barely. “You’re…”

Evan nodded once, gently. “Yeah. I know.”

Adam blinked hard. His vision swam, but Evan didn’t vanish. He stayed.

“I didn’t mean to-” Adam’s breath hitched. “I didn’t save you.”

His hands curled into fists beneath the blankets.

“I was supposed to keep you safe.”

“Adam.” Evan’s voice didn’t waver. “Stop.”

The firmness of it didn’t hurt, it held him steady.

But Adam trembled all over. He shook his head, eyes wide and wet. “If I had just been faster, or made a different choice-”

“Adam.” Evan stepped closer.

“I let you down,” Adam whispered, barely audible. “You were everything.”

“I don’t blame you,” Evan said. “I never did.”

Adam’s legs folded under him as he sat up, hunched and broken.

All the pressure in his chest poured out at once. Guilt so old and familiar it had become a second skin.

“I can’t do this without you.”

Evan crossed the distance. Slowly. Carefully.

Then he reached out and placed his hand on Adam’s cheek.

Warm. Steady. Like it had always been.

“You can,” he said. “And you will.”

Adam shook his head again. “I don’t want to live in a world where you’re not in it.”

Evan smiled, soft and impossibly sad. “I’m not really gone, you know.”

Adam looked up, desperate.

Evan’s thumb brushed along his cheekbone.

“I’m part of you. The best parts. The stubborn ones. The parts that loved. The parts that laughed at bad jokes, and stayed up too late. All of it.”

Adam laughed. A choked, broken sound that barely made it past his lips.

Tears fell. Fast now. But he didn’t hide them.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Evan repeated. “I need you to stop carrying it like it is.”

Adam’s voice broke. “I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to know...... You just have to start.”

Adam’s hands came up, gripping Evan’s wrists like an anchor. “I don’t know who I am without you.”

“You’re still you,” Evan whispered. “And you’re not alone.”

He pulled back slightly. “Bianca’s good. She’s stronger than she looks.”

Adam’s breath caught.

“She’s already helping you, even if you can’t feel it yet,” Evan said, his voice steady and true. “Let her.”

Adam closed his eyes. “I don’t want to let go of you.”

“You’re not letting go of me,” Evan says gently. “You’re letting go of the pain. There’s a difference.”

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to Adam’s. A quiet, aching gesture full of love. Their breath mingles. Time slows.

“I forgive you,” Evan whispers. “You need to forgive yourself.”

Adam trembles. His hands are still gripping Evan’s wrists, trying to hold him here, in this dream, in this moment, in this fading space where love still feels real and warm.

But something in him softens.

Not in defeat. In acceptance.

Adam swallows hard. His lashes flutter.

Slowly… he closes his eyes.

Tightly at first, afraid that when he opens them again, Evan will be gone. But then-  he loosens. Breathes. Lets go of the tension in his chest.

He just feels.

The warmth of Evan’s touch. The weight of his presence. The echo of his voice.

He lets it soak in like sunlight.

Even if it’s only a dream.

Even if it’s goodbye.

“I want you to live,” Evan says, voice low and full of conviction. “Please. Let yourself live.”

Adam nods, eyes still closed, tears still falling.

There’s silence. A pause that feels sacred.

Then... like the last breath of a summer wind, Evan brushed a kiss to Adam’s forehead. Light as breath, but it burned into memory like fire.

“I have to go now.”

And as the warmth fades away: “I love you,” Adam whispers. “I always will.”

When Adam finally opens his eyes....

He’s alone.

---

When Adam woke up the room was gray-blue with early morning. The kind of light that blurred everything into softness.

His chest rose and fell. Faster than it had in days.

His skin was damp with tears. But something in his breath was different.

He breathed deeply. Not just to survive.

But because he wanted to.

He turned his head slightly. The air in the room felt… changed. As if something heavy had lifted just a few inches.

He was still tired. Still grieving.

Still broken.

But maybe, just maybe, there was a crack now.

A small one. Where the light could start to get in.

Chapter Text

The light in the kitchen was soft blue-gray, that only comes before the sun fully wakes. The mansion was still. Like it was holding its breath with him.

Adam sat at the table. A slice of toast sat on the plate in front of him. Buttered, golden, perfectly average.

And terrifying.

It felt like a trap.

Not in the logical sense. Not in the way you'd explain to someone else. But somewhere deep inside, it rang false. Like something bad was waiting on the other side of the bite.

If he didn’t eat, he was failing. Weak. Stuck. The kind of person people gave up on. Maybe even someone Bianca would start pulling away from, one gentle inch at a time.

But if he did eat, it felt like he was crossing some invisible line. Like he was pretending to be fine when he wasn’t. Like there was punishment waiting on him. Or like he was betraying something. Someone.

What if eating meant Evan really was gone?

What if not eating kept him close, in some kind of twisted way.

The toast looked harmless, but it felt like a test. Like if he took a bite, something inside him would break open. Or worse, nothing would happen at all. And then he’d be stuck with that truth: that even trying didn’t fix it. That even eating didn’t make him okay.

What if he chewed and tasted nothing?

What if he swallowed and still felt hollow?

What if just one bite could prove that Evan was gone and wouldn’t be coming back, not even in his dream?

The chair beneath him felt distant. The air around him too sharp. His shoulders were tight, and his breath kept catching like it didn’t know whether to stay or leave.

He stared at the plate. He wanted to eat. He really did.

But now that it was here… it felt impossible.

His stomach turned at the thought of swallowing anything. It wasn’t hunger. It was like his body had quietly shut the door on food entirely. Like eating was something that belonged to a version of him that had existed before.

His hands shook. The silence pressed down on him like water.

Bianca sat across from him, eyes still soft with sleep but sharp, the way they always were when she saw him like this. Her gaze moved from his face to the untouched toast.

She didn’t scold. Didn’t ask.

Bianca looked at him for a long, quiet moment.

Then she slid over to sit beside him. Quiet. Warm. Steady. Like gravity, but gentler. 

“What’s it feel like right now?” she asked softly.

He swallowed hard. His voice was thin, scratchy. And for the first time in a while he talked to someone else. Someone who wasn't his halucination.

“Like it’s a trick, Mistress.”

Bianca didn’t flinch. She didn’t smile either. Not the performative kind of smile or the cruel one which tells him he fell right into a trap. She just nodded.

“That makes sense..... but it's not.”

That was all she said.

Adam stared at the toast.

His heart beat fast. His mouth was dry. His body was screaming not to move.

Don’t eat. Don’t speak. Don’t move too fast or everything might fall apart again.

Still, there was something that wanted to. But now that it was here, he couldn’t touch it.

It looked like a dare.

Like a lie.

His fingers twitched, but he didn’t move.

“You don’t have to eat it,” she said, her voice low and even.

Adam blinked. The relief of hearing those words made his shoulders sag just slightly.

Bianca reached for his hand. Her fingers were warm. “You’re allowed to not be ready.”

He didn’t answer.

Then she added, quiter like she was speaking to something just beneath his pain: “But… Evan would’ve wanted you to eat.”

The words landed like a breath held too long.

Adam flinched. Just barely. Then swallowed.

Bianca didn’t push. She just let the silence stretch. Safe, steady, still holding his hand.

Adam looked back down at the toast.

His throat tightened.

He remembered the dream. Evan’s voice. The way he smiled.

' I want you to live.'

'Let yourself live.'

Adam closed his eyes. For a moment, the kitchen faded. He could still feel Evan’s forehead resting against his. Still hear him saying:

'You’re not letting go of me. Just the pain.'

But it still hurts and pain is still there.

“I didn’t think I can,” he whispered.

“I do,” Bianca replied, her voice low, steady.

He opened his eyes again.

And reached for the toast with determination.

Bianca move. Just watched him like witnessing something holy.

His hand trembled slightly as he picked it up.

He brought it to his mouth.

Hesitated.

Then he took one bite.

Tiny. Barely a mouthful.

But it was a choice.

A declaration.

A whisper back to the world that he was still here.

He chewed slowly. Swallowed.

Didn’t cry.

Didn’t speak.

But when he looked at Bianca, his eyes were full with something gentle. Something like light.

Bianca squeezed his hand. Her voice was steady, certain, almost fierce in its quiet pride: “I’m proud of you.”

There was something warm behind those words he didn’t want to admit.

They curled into him quietly, like heat finding its way into cold skin. He wanted to brush them off, pretend they didn’t matter, pretend he hadn’t needed to hear them. But they were doing something to him.

Unknotting something. Softening the edges.

Making him feel a little less like a burden.
A little less unwanted.

He looked down, afraid to meet her eyes again. Not because he didn’t believe her, but because some part of him did.

All he really did was give a slow nod.

He didn’t take another bite. Not yet.

But he had taken one.

And for now, that was enough.

Chapter Text

Since Adam had started trying to eat again (trying to live again) he was beginning to notice just how strange everything around him truly was.

He opened his eyes to pale light brushing across the sheets. Sheets. Real ones. Clean. The fabric smelled like lavender and something warm he couldn’t name. A bed. He was in a bed.

His first instinct was to flinch. Brace for the slap. The voice. The yank of a collar.

Nothing came.

Just quiet.

His breath caught—shallow, sharp. Something felt wrong. No… not wrong. But unfamiliar. And that might as well have been the same.

Then he remembered.

He was Mistress Bianca’s now.

There was a tray beside him. Toast again. Tea. Slices of apple arranged in a soft, curved line. She’d even peeled them.

He stared at the food like it might snap its teeth at him.

Why?

Why would she do that?

He sat up slowly, stiff and cautious. The blanket fell into his lap. The room was empty. No locks on the door. No chains. No cold floor beneath him.

This had to be a trick.

He’d seen kindness before—performative kindness. A smile before the punishment. A hand on the shoulder before being dragged back down. False warmth to keep him pliant. Hope used like a leash.

Bianca hadn’t hit him.

Hadn’t threatened him.

Hadn’t even raised her voice.

That didn’t make him feel safe.

It made him feel off-balance.

He remembered how she’d sat beside him the day before, not speaking. Not touching, unless he let her. Her voice had stayed soft when his breath was breaking apart. And then she’d said, ' I’m proud of you, ' like it meant something.

Like he meant something.

So… why him?

He stared at the untouched plate, his fingers curling tightly around the blanket like it might anchor him.

Why had she chosen him?

There were others. Better ones. Stronger. Fewer scars. Fewer cracks.

He knew what he looked like, what he was.
A worn-down thing. Quiet. Cautious. Trained into stillness.

A mess no one wanted to clean up.

He wasn’t graceful. Wasn’t clever. Didn’t wait.
He flinched too easily. Slept too little. Fell apart too fast. And now he didn't eat, speak and was almost dead inside.

So why had she looked at him and said yes?

Was it pity? Curiosity? Some need to fix what was already ruined?

Or was it something worse? A long game? A soft mask worn over the same cruelty?

Was she just waiting until he trusted her enough to fall?

He couldn’t believe she wanted him. Not really.
Not when she could’ve chosen someone untouched. Someone whole. Someone who didn’t freeze when kindness entered the room like it was something dangerous.

She let him sleep in real bed.

Let him eat real food.

Let him really breathe.

No leash. No threat.

Just steady hands and gentle voice.

It terrified him.

She could’ve hurt him.

She still might.

That thought never left him, not even now. Sitting in the stillness of her room with warm food at his side and a blanket still tucked around his legs.

It was her right.

She owned him. That truth was carved into the deepest parts of him. Bones that remembered the whip, nerves that twitched at the sound of keys, breath that stuttered when footsteps grew too close.

She had the right to punish. To strike. To kill, if she wanted.

And yet… she hadn’t.

Not once.

Not even when he froze. Not when he couldn’t speak. Not when he failed to obey something as simple as eat.

She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t make him beg. Didn’t remind him what he was.

She just stayed.

Quiet. Present. Kind.

She even pleaded.

And that was worse.

Because he didn’t know how to survive kindness.

Pain was simple. Pain made sense. You knew where you stood when you were on your knees.

But this?

This waiting silence?

This unbearable mercy?

It made his skin crawl with something colder than fear — doubt.

Why hadn’t she hurt him?

Was she waiting until he trusted her more?

Was this a performance? A long, careful lie?
Trying to make him forget who he was before breaking him in a way that would really last?

Or was it something else?

Did she see something in him?

And if she did… what?

He wasn’t good. Wasn’t strong. Wasn’t beautiful or obedient or even functional. He was just a shell that had learned to sit still. A cracked thing. A body that knew how to survive but not how to live.

So why was he still breathing?

Why was he still safe?

Either she was real…

Or she was just better at hiding the trap.

And if she was real, if this was truly care, truly choice, then he had no idea what to do with that.

He didn’t know how to be chosen, if it was not Evan.

Not without it costing him something.

His chest ached in a way that felt almost worse than fear.

He reached for the toast, then stopped. Hand hovering.

He could still back away. Pretend he hadn’t thought about it. Pretend he hadn’t wanted to believe her.

But he had.

And that’s what scared him most.

Because what if she was different?

And what if she wasn’t, and he’d just let himself fall for the lie?

He looked at the apple slices.

She’d cut away the bruises.

None of his Mistresses would have ever do that before.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t eat.

He just sat there, still and trembling, feeling everything and nothing all at once.

If he let this in, if he let her in, and it turned out to be a trick…

He didn’t know if he’d survive it.

But if it wasn’t-

God, if it wasn’t-

Then maybe… he wasn’t just some old plaything meant to be broken.

Maybe he was someone still worth keeping.

Chapter Text

The room had grown too small.

Not in size, but in silence. In stillness. In the heaviness of his own thoughts.

The blanket still clung to his legs. The toast had gone cold.

Adam hadn’t touched it.

The tea, too. Untouched, though its scent stirred something warm and ghostlike in his chest. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe too deeply. As if drawing attention to himself might change the air again. Might snap the strange balance that had settled around him like fog.

Then he heard her footsteps.

Soft. Unhurried.

She entered the room without speaking.

No commands.
No whip in her hands.
Just her.

She walked to the window and opened it.

The scent of summer drifted in. Grass warmed by sun, earth still damp from morning rain, and something sweeter. Wild berries, maybe. Or flowers?

Adam didn’t move.

But she saw it, the flicker of his eyes toward the breeze.

He lowered his gaze out of habit. His stomach tightened. For a moment, he thought: This is it. The quiet was ending. She would remind him what he was. She would scold him. 

But she said nothing.

She walked slowly to his side, then paused.

Waiting.

He could feel her looking at him, but she didn’t reach for him. Didn’t pull him up by the arm. Didn’t sigh or say his name like it was a mistake.

Instead, she extended a hand.

Not to take.

To offer.

Adam stared at it.

It didn’t make sense. Nothing about her made sense. He’d seen hands like that before, and they never meant anything kind. Even when they started soft, they always closed into fists.

But hers stayed open.

He looked up. Just once.

Her eyes met his. Calm, maybe tired, but not cold.

No words. No pressure.

Just that hand, waiting.

His heart beat hard. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

Maybe this was a trick. A test. A trap to see if he’d flinch, or fail, or trust when he shouldn’t.

But some part of him, small and shaking, wanted to go anyway.

He moved.

Carefully. Slowly. As if any sudden motion might shatter whatever this was.

When his fingers brushed hers, she closed her hand around his. Gently. Like he might disappear if she held on too tight.

She led him toward the door.

Still no words.

No leash.

Just her hand.

And his.

The hallway was quiet. The floor cool beneath his bare feet. He felt like a ghost, trailing behind her through a world he didn’t belong to.

But she didn’t look back. Didn’t check if he was following.

She just walked and held on.

The door opened.

Light spilled in.

Fresh air.

It hit him like a wave. Soft, warm, real. The scent of leaves, sun-warmed brick, distant water. Things he hadn’t touched in what felt like lifetimes.

He blinked into it. Not because it hurt. But because it felt impossible.

She stepped outside first.

Still no words. Still no pull.

Then she turned, patient as ever.

Waiting.

And he stepped out after her.

Not because he was ordered.

But because… he wanted to.

---

They walked mostly in silence, occasionally interupted by description of blooming flowers.

The path curved through a small garden behind the house, half-shaded by trees and bordered with ivy. Nothing grand. Just soil and sun and space to breathe.

Birdsong filled the air, soft but persistent. A breeze stirred the leaves, brushing against his skin. It wasn’t cold.

It was... gentle.

Adam kept his eyes low at first, trained to scan the ground for danger. But eventually, they lifted.

He caught the color of the sky. The soft gold of sunlight through branches. The way Bianca’s hair moved slightly in the wind.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t look at him.

She just walked beside him, hand still loosely holding his. Not pulling, not pushing. Just there.

And that was what undid him.

Not the silence.

Not the air.

Not even the kindness.

But the absence of force.

No mistress had ever given him space without asking for something in return.

They walked the length of the garden once. Then again. Each step a little less stiff than the last. His body didn’t trust it. Not yet.

But it was remembering.

And somewhere in that, beneath all the fear and noise, came something quiet.

Something small.

A thought he hadn’t felt in so long it almost didn’t make sense to him:

I’d like to do this again.

He didn’t say it. Didn’t let it fully rise to the surface.

But it was there.

A flicker of want.

Not fear. Not obedience.

Want.

He looked up toward the trees again.

Then down at their hands.

---

They walked into something that resembled forest behind the mansion.

The clearing was small, overgrown with moss and dappled sunlight. A patch of berry bushes curled along a stone, dark fruit gleaming in the light.

Bianca sat on a flat rock and plucked one casually.

“They’re not poisoned,” she said.

Adam stood a few steps away, barefoot, arms loose at his sides. His expression unreadable.

She popped the berry in her mouth. “They’re sour. But good."

He watched her.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

He reached for a berry.

Held it between his fingers as if he was searching for something. Maybe his unanswered thoughts.

I wouldn’t mind even if it was.

He ate it.

It burst on his tongue. Sharp and bitter, with sweetness beneath. His throat tightened, not from the fruit, but from something else.

Something old.

Something alive, trying to return.

Bianca didn’t say anything.

Just smiled.

He ate another.

Then another.

---

When they returned, the staff noticed the red stains on Adam’s fingertips.

Bianca said nothing.

But later, when she passed through the kitchen, someone had left a plate on the counter — berries, gently rinsed, beside a small piece of soft bread.

That evening, she brought the plate into his room and set it near the window.

She didn’t expect him to touch it.

But the next morning it was gone.

Chapter Text

Later in the day, after the sun had dipped low and the breeze had cooled, Bianca called his name.

Soft, but steady.

“Adam.”

He turned toward her, alert in that quiet way he’d trained into his bones, ready to be summoned, corrected, controlled.

But her tone didn’t carry threat. Just intent.

“We need to talk,” she said.

His stomach tightened. A familiar tension gripped his spine, the old reflex to kneel or apologize before he even knew what he’d done wrong.

She must’ve seen it in him. How his shoulders stiffened, how his breath shallowed.

“No,” she said quickly, gently. “Not like that.”

He blinked.

She gestured for him to sit. On the couch. Not on the floor. Not at her feet. Beside her.

His legs didn’t want to move. But he obeyed.

Because that’s what he did. Obey.

Even when everything felt wrong.

Even when the rules made no sense.

She folded her hands in her lap. Took a breath.

“I’ve been thinking about how to say this,” she said quietly. “And I still don’t know if I’ll get it right. But I need to try.”

Adam sat stiff beside her, spine rigid, hands folded too tightly in his lap. He kept his eyes low, not out of defiance (Never that!) but because looking at her might unravel something he couldn’t afford to lose.

“I know this... place, this situation? It doesn’t make sense to you,” she continued. “And I don’t blame you for that. Nothing about it feels safe or fair or real.”

He didn’t flinch, but inside, something winced. She wasn’t wrong. It didn’t feel real. It felt like a trap too cleverly built to escape. A trick. A calm before the inevitable.

She paused. Gave him room.

“It seems to me you are waiting,” she said, her voice quieter now. “For me to change. For the mask to slip. For the moment I stop pretending...”

He didn’t need to nod. The silence between them said it for him.

His throat tightened. His chest felt too small to hold his breath, and yet he did, unconsciously. Bracing.

“You think I’m just... delaying the hurt,” she said. “Keeping you calm until I decide what to do with you.”

That one landed deep. His jaw tensed. Not in anger. Just restraint.

She noticed.

Bianca shook her head slowly. “I need you to know that’s not what this is. That’s not who I am.”

Adam looked down again. His eyes burned, and there was a heat rising in his cheeks from shame.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

Because he didn’t disagree.

Because he ached to believe her… and didn’t know how.

Not really.

“You’re not here to be punished,” she said. “You’re not here because you failed to escape or broke the rules or need to earn anything.”

His eyes stung. He kept his face still.

She let the words settle. Then, with more strength in her voice:

“I bought you, I am your Mistress and I am telling you, you don’t have to prove you’re human. You already are.”

He felt something in his chest twist painfully. A kind of yearning he didn’t know how to name. His throat closed, tight and hot. He wanted to believe her. God, he wanted to. But belief felt like a risk, like putting down his only shield.

“There are rules,” she added, softer now. “But not the kind you’re used to.”

He tensed again, the instinctive fear flickering back into his shoulders. Rules meant traps. Rules meant consequences. He knew that script.

But she didn’t flinch at his reaction. She didn’t rush to explain. She just waited a beat before continuing.

“They’re here to protect you. To help you feel safe.”

He didn’t understand. His mind kept circling it. Rules for him? To protect him? It wasn’t computing. It wasn’t built into the world he knew.

“Safe?” he repeated silently, the word tasting foreign.

She shifted slightly toward him. Her posture stayed open, but not invasive.

“I want you to follow them,” she said.

He didn’t nod, but he didn’t stop her either.

“You don’t have to ask permission to eat or drink,” she began. “But I want you to let me know if you’re not feeling well. So I can help.”

Help? Not fix. Not correct. Not punish.

“You can tell me when you need space,” she went on. “Or touch. Or silence. And I’ll listen.”

The words lodged in his chest, hard to process. Needs were... dangerous. Needs were weapons turned inward. You didn’t speak them out loud unless you were ready for pain.

“You will sleep in a bed,” she said. “Not on the floor. Not at the door. Not anywhere that makes you feel like less than human.”

His eyes widened. He hadn’t meant to react, but the shock was too big, too fast. He didn't expect to keep sleeping on the bed, rather it was temporary until he got better. That rule felt like it belonged in a dream someone else was having.

She noticed his expression but didn’t press.

“You will speak,” she said gently, “when you want to. You will be silent when you need to. Either way, I will not punish you for it.”

He swallowed, hard. Silence had always been double-edged for slaves. Too much of it, and they filled it in with assumptions. Too little, and he was accused of overstepping. There had never been a safe amount. 

Not like I cared a lot about that lately.

“You are allowed to go on a walk or even interact with others and if you are scared,” she added, “or angry, or confused... you can say so. That is allowed and I will try and explain it to you.”

The finality in her voice was quiet, but it rang in his ears like a bell. Not loud, but clear. Absolute.

She let the words hang there, suspended in the room like something sacred.

Adam sat still, every muscle coiled. His body had long ago learned to stay ready, to stay smaller. Still, his mind spun, racing through every version of this conversation that might have ended differently. Might have ended with punishment. Or silence. Or worse.

None of this made sense.

None of it fit the world he knew.

Rules that didn’t hurt?

Boundaries that held, instead of cut?

He didn’t understand it. Couldn’t. It was like trying to breathe air on a different planet.

And yet… something inside him moved.

Not trust. Not yet.

But the flicker of hope, wrapped in disbelief.

Still… he nodded.

Slow. Careful.

He would follow her.

Not because he believed the world had changed. Not because he thought he deserved any of it.

But because she looked at him like he wasn’t a thing.

Because something in her voice didn’t want to break him.

Chapter Text

Adam ventured outside. Not far. Just to the edge of the gardens, where the sun warmed the stone path and the air smelled of crushed grass and ripening fruit.

It had taken everything in him to leave the guest room. But now that he had, it didn’t feel as hard as he’d feared. The quiet hum of bees, the rustle of branches, it wasn’t the silence of fear. It was just life, going on without him.

He stood near a row of blackberry bushes, still unsure what to do with his hands, when he heard footsteps behind him.

“Morning,” came a voice. Deep. Calm.

Adam turned.

The gardener stood a few paces away, wiping his palms on his trousers. He was older than Adam, with sun-worn skin and kind eyes. Adam had seen him once or twice but had never spoken to him.

The man tilted his head slightly. “You look better on your feet than you did in the window.”

Adam stiffened. “I—I’m sorry. Mistress didn’t say I could come outside.”

The gardener blinked, then gave a low, amused snort. “You don’t need permission to take air, lad.”

Adam hesitated. “You... work here?”

The man nodded. “Yeah, I’m the gardener. Been here near twenty years.”

Adam’s voice dropped. “You’re... her slave too?”

The man’s smile faded slightly. His gaze sharpened. Not unkind, but measured.

“No,” he said.

So then gardener belonged to someone else, but in a mansion this big it was no surprise. There will always be need for new hands.

The gardener knelt beside a row of clay pots, pruning something with long shears. A quiet whistle drifted from his lips.

Adam hovered, uncertain, then stepped closer.

“Can I help?” he asked.

The gardener glanced up. “Help?”

Adam nodded quickly. “If that’s alright. If it’s allowed.”

“I’ve got hands and legs that still work,” the man said. “I don’t need help. But if you want to, I won’t stop you.”

Adam blinked at the difference. Wanting was such a dangerous word. He wasn’t sure he remembered how to use it.

“I do want to. I think...”

The gardener handed him a small knife. “Then here. Trim the dead leaves. If they’re dry and crackly, cut them close to the stem. Don’t worry, the plant won’t cry about it.”

Adam took the knife carefully and knelt beside the other pot. The sun warmed his back, and for a while they worked in silence. Not the fearful kind, just the kind that settled gently between people.

After a few minutes, the gardener said, “You’re more precise than most.”

Adam glanced up. “I was punished for being careless.”

The man gave a thoughtful grunt. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”

They worked a little longer.

Adam spoke again. “What’s this one called?”

“Lavender,” the man replied. “Good for calming. Smells better than half the nobility I’ve met.”

Adam gave a breath of a laugh. Short, but real.

“They let you say things like that?”

“They don’t listen,” the gardener said dryly. “And I’ve earned the right to grumble in my own dirt.”

Adam smiled faintly.

The sun rose higher. His fingers were stained with soil. There was something comforting in the rhythm. Digging, trimming, patting the earth down. His breath came easier here.

But the questions pressed at his ribs, heavy and sharp.

Finally, he set the trowel down and asked quietly, “What kind of mistress is she? Mistress Bianca.”

The gardener didn’t answer right away. He adjusted a pot near the greenhouse and brushed the dirt from his knees.

When he spoke, his voice was careful.

“She’s not really my mistress.”

Adam looked up, confused. “I understand, but you live here. You work here. I thought you might know.”

“I was a slave,” the man said gently. “For longer than I like to remember. But I’m not anymore. Haven’t been for years."

Adam blinked at him, stunned. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He looked the man over, as if seeing him properly for the first time. His rough hands, sun-dark skin, the way he moved like he belonged to the soil and not to anyone else.

Adam stared at him. Still stunned. Still not quite believing.

“You’re paid for work? Like… for real?”

“I am.”

Adam’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re really free.”

“I am,” the gardener said again, this time fishing out the sealing necklace underneath his shirt. Green emerald embedded in the centre with gold branches wrapping around it. The light caught the stone and scattered it across the leaves; Adam couldn’t look away.

He had heard of them in tales circulating among slabves. The tokens given at a freedom trial, imbeded with magic protecting you. Proof you’d earned a life that was yours again.

He caught himself staring, then looked down quickly, shame burning through him. But a moment later his gaze crept back, drawn as if by gravity. Each time the necklace shifted, it felt like watching sunlight on water, impossible not to follow.

Adam nodded slowly, as if still trying to believe it. “I didn’t think that could really happen. I wanted to...”

“It doesn’t always. But it can.”

Adam hesitated. “And she lets you stay?”

“She doesn’t let me,” the man said. “I stay because I choose to. I’ve got hands that know the earth, a name that’s mine, and peace that isn’t borrowed or owed.”

“You alright?”

Adam’s throat felt tight. So this man is free. Not slave, not like him. What is he doing? He needs to answer. The words came out before he could stop them.

“Yes, sir.”

The gardener blinked. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“I just thought…” Adam’s gaze dropped. “You’re free, unlike me.”

His eyes flickered once more toward the green pendant, that small impossible thing, and his chest ached with something he couldn’t name.

The man gave a quiet sigh. “Son, I belong to no one. And neither do you. Not really.”

Adam didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure how. The lie felt safer than the hope.

The gardener continued pruning, his whistle picking up again. Adam looked at the plant in his hand, then back at the man beside him.

“Do you trust her?” he asked, quietly.

The gardener looked at him, really looked, then said, “I don’t trust anyone right away. But I don’t fear her. And that’s something.”

Adam nodded faintly.

His voice was almost too soft to hear. “I don’t know how to stop being afraid.”

The gardener’s voice came back, calm and steady. “You don’t stop. Not all at once. But one day, it gets quieter. Like a shadow that doesn’t chase you so close.”

Adam glanced at him, unsure if he believed it. His eyes drifted once more to the necklace as Greg bent toward the soil. The emerald flashed like a heartbeat.

The man studied him for a moment longer, then softened. “We picked berries for you last week,” he said. “Did you like them?”

Adam blinked. “That was… for me?”

The gardener chuckled. “You think fruit just shows up in bowls by accident?”

“I thought…” Adam faltered. “Maybe they were for her or I don't know...”

“No. She just said you hadn’t been eating much and we noticed you like berries quite a bit.”

Adam looked down at his hands. The air felt different now. Warmer. Stranger.

“The berries were good,” he said finally. “Thank you, sir.”

The gardener exhaled, amused. “I will show you just the spot, but you need to be careful of what you eat. Not all are edible, and some may mess with your head. And stop calling me ‘sir.’ I’m not your officer.”

“Sorry. It just feels… right.”

“Well, I won’t bite your head off,” the man muttered. “But names work just as fine. Call me Greg.”

Adam said nothing. They trimmed in silence for a while longer, until the gardener stood and dusted off his knees.

“You hungry?” he asked casually.

Adam blinked. “A little, Greg.”

“There’s bread cooling on the windowsill. And honey from the hives, unless miss Bianca’s finished it off.”

“You can just… take it?”

“Of course. It’s not stealing if they leave it out like bait.” He gave Adam a sidelong glance. “Come on. We’ll split it.”

 As they walked, Adam’s gaze flicked one last time to the gleam of green and gold at Greg’s throat before he tucked it back under the shirt. The sight left a hollow ache, equal parts envy and wonder. 

Adam followed him toward the kitchen, knife still in hand, dirt on his fingers and something like lightness in his chest for the first time in a long while.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was quiet, but not the kind of quiet that held its breath.

Adam had been in the other kitchen before. The big one near the front of the house. All polished marble and delicate glass, where Mistress Bianca took her tea and everything smelled faintly of rosewater. That space hadn’t felt like a kitchen at all. It was quiet there too, but it was not a quiet that watched you. That pressed against your ribs and made you walk slower, smaller.

This was different.

It was smaller, older. Tucked near the back of the house. A place meant for workers, for servants, for hands that carried and chopped and stirred. (Adam would say a place for slaves but Greg informed him Black family did not approve of owning slaves. When he looked closer, all workers had a necklace chain around the neck. Which would actually explain a lot. But then he really didn't understand what he was doing here.) The floor was uneven stone, scuffed with old boot marks. A towel hung crooked over the oven handle. There was a dent in the table where someone had clearly dropped something heavy, and no one had bothered to fix it.

There were no silver trays. No lace napkins.

But there was warmth. It was lived in. It was honest.

It smelled of food, real food. Warm bread, woodsmoke, rosemary. Someone had been cutting onions and left them half-finished by the sink. A pot clattered faintly from a room nearby, out of sight.

It felt… alive.

Late afternoon sun spilled across the stone floor in soft gold, catching the edge of the worn wooden table. A cooling rack sat on the counter, half-covered by a cloth. Beneath it, two small loaves of bread, still warm from the oven. Beside them, a jar of thick, amber honey.

The gardener moved like he belonged here. Not hurried. Not cautious. Just at home. He pulled a loaf free, tore it in half, and handed one piece to Adam.

“No one’s gonna bite,” he said, catching the flicker of hesitation in Adam’s eyes.

Adam took the bread carefully.

The crust was still crisp. The warmth soaked into his fingers.

The gardener scooped a bit of honey with a spoon and drizzled it across the torn edge of his own half. “Try it. S’good.”

Adam did. Cautiously at first, as if expecting to be stopped.

But no voice barked his name. No hand reached to snatch it away.

Just stillness.

He chewed slowly, then blinked. “It’s sweet,” he murmured, surprised. “I’ve never had— I mean, not like this.”

“Better than plain toast, huh?” the gardener said with a grin.

Adam nodded. A small smile followed. Quiet, but real.

They sat at the table. No one questioned them. No one glared.

The window was open, letting in the scent of rosemary from the garden and the distant clatter of pots from the far end of the house.

Adam found himself watching the honey catch the light, golden and thick, trailing across his thumb. He licked it without thinking, then froze, embarrassed.

But the gardener wasn’t looking at him. He was sipping tea from a chipped mug, content.

Adam let out a small breath.

“This place,” he said softly, “it doesn’t feel like…”

“A cage?” the gardener offered.

Adam nodded.

The man leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs. “It’s not. Not for me, not for anyone.”

Adam lowered his voice. “But… what if I break something? Or disrespect Mistresses orders? Or—”

“Then you’ll learn,” the gardener said. “Or someone’ll laugh and tell you different. Nobody’s got a whip here, Adam.”

The name startled him.

He looked up quickly. “You know my name, sir?”

The gardener smiled faintly. “Of course I do. I asked.”

Adam blinked.

It didn’t sound like a command. Just a kindness.

He looked around the room again. The soft light. The hum of summer. The smell of baking.

He took another bite of bread.

No one stopped him.

No one cared.

And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he didn’t feel like he had to earn it.

---

They lingered in the kitchen.

Adam’s second piece of bread was smaller than the first, but he let himself enjoy it. He didn’t eat quickly. He didn’t brace for the sound of footsteps, or a sudden voice snapping his name.

He just… ate. Warm bread. Sweet honey. Real silence.

The gardener had started talking about the tomatoes. Something about how Bianca insisted on the heirloom kind even though they attracted insects. Adam didn’t understand all of it, but he nodded anyway, lips sticky with honey.

He was almost smiling again when he felt it.

A presence.

Not sharp, like he was used to. Not the cold weight of someone looming over him. Something quieter. Like a ripple in the air.

He looked toward the open kitchen door.

A hallway stretched beyond it, washed in late sunlight. For just a second, he saw her.

Mistress Bianca.

She hadn’t stepped in. Just paused at the edge of the doorway. Noticed them.

Her eyes met his.

She was holding something in her hands, a book, maybe. She didn’t speak.

Adam froze.

The old fear coiled fast in his chest. Every muscle braced for the snap of a word, a warning, an order.

But then she smiled. Soft. Almost fond.

And she turned away without a word.

She left.

The sound of her footsteps faded down the hall.

Adam stared at the door, confused.

The gardener didn’t miss a beat. He reached across the table and plucked a crumb from Adam’s sleeve.

“She’s not watching,” he said, voice low but amused. “You can stop holding your breath.”

Adam blinked. “She saw us.”

“Sure did. Thought maybe she’d want some bread, but maybe she liked the look of you better than the snack.”

“…She didn’t say anything.”

“Didn’t need to.”

Adam looked down at the table. The sun caught in the empty honey jar. His fingers twitched slightly, like he didn’t know what they were supposed to do now.

“She looked happy,” he said, almost to himself.

“Sure did,” the gardener agreed.

Chapter Text

It was late morning. The garden buzzed with bees, and the last of the dew still clung to the edges of the grass. Sunlight filtered through the curling vines along the trellis, warm and dappled against the stone.

Adam sat across from Mistress Bianca at the little stone table in the back courtyard. There was tea, lukewarm now, and a plate of bread with honey, mostly untouched. He hadn’t eaten much. He didn’t feel he should, though no one had said he couldn’t. It kind of felt like joke.

But he had sat down. With her. That part still felt strange or even dangerous. Every movement felt borrowed, like he was playing at being something he wasn’t allowed to be. Free.

He didn’t know if she was mocking him. The tea, the quiet garden, the way she looked at him like he mattered. He half-expected her to laugh, or maybe to grow cold. To remind him what he really was.

Mistress Bianca looked up from her book, eyebrows lifting. “You’re quiet again. Are you okay, Adam?”

He tensed at the sound of his name. It struck him like a whip crack, even though her voice was gentle. Just his name. Not 'slave'. Not 'thing'. Not 'it'. That unsettled him more than anything.

“I’m… thinking,” he said. His eyes dropped to the table, searching for the pattern in the stone as if it could anchor him. Then, quieter: “I guess I want to ask, Mistress.”

Mistress, the word left his lips automatically, a reflex built into the deepest layers of him. Like breathing, but edged in fear. His voice didn’t shake, not exactly but inside, it felt like it should have. Speaking felt like trespassing.

He braced himself for a correction, for a slap, for her to look at him like all the others had but she didn’t. Mistress just looked at him, that same calm, maddeningly open expression. Like she wasn’t waiting to punish him at all.

She tilted her head slightly, and smiled. “Alright. Ask anything you want, and I’ll answer it to the best of my ability.”

Anything?

That word twisted in his gut. It couldn’t be real. It never was. He studied her face again, unsure whether this was bait, or some kind of elaborate test. He looked for the lie, the cruel gleam in her eye. But there was nothing like that there. That, somehow, made it worse.

He almost stayed silent. Silence had kept him alive before. But something (Desperation, maybe?) made him speak.

“Mistress…Do you always wear white?”

She blinked, visibly confused. “What?”

“Your dress. Your shoes.” He gestured vaguely, not really meeting her eyes. “You wear white every day.”

He immediately regretted it. Stupid question. Pointless. Why that? But it was too late now.

Bianca looked down at herself, amused. “I… guess I do. But sometimes I wear black.”

“You just look like a walking bedsheet.”

He tried to smile. A thin, brittle thing that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He wasn’t even sure why he said it. Maybe it was a test of his own, to see if she’d strike him for daring to tease her. To see if she was real.

Heat rose in his cheeks. His heart picked up, not out of mischief, but panic. He kept his hands in his lap so she wouldn’t see them tremble.

Bianca narrowed her eyes, mock-offended. “You finally talk and decide to insult me?”

“I’m making conversation…” he said, his voice barely audible now. “…Mistress.”

“Cruel conversation.”

Adam shrugged, but even that motion was small, tentative. Like he was trying on the gesture, unsure it would fit. Testing.

A moment passed. The air between them shifted again.

“…Actually,” he said more quietly, “I wanted to clear something up. That day with Greg… I mean, the gardener. I wasn’t snooping around or asking stupid questions. I wasn’t trying to sneak food. Or run away again.”

Bianca smiled. “Don’t worry, Adam. I wasn’t worried. I was actually glad you started to talk to other people. I’m grateful and very proud that you’re talking to me now.”

The words were simple. But they landed like stones in his chest.

“And… they’re all free? The workers…”

“Yes. My family doesn’t approve of slavery. We’ve always supported freed men. Lately, we’ve shifted our perspective little and we’re trying to rehabilitate slaves. Help them become free men.”

He traced the edge of his teacup with one finger, over and over. He wasn’t sure he understood her. Or maybe he did understand and couldn’t believe it.

This place, this woman, this kindness... it didn’t make sense. He was waiting for the catch. The trap.

The question inside him had been festering. It came out before he could stop it.

"Do you think someone like me is worthy of all of this?”

He couldn’t look at her when he said it. His eyes stayed fixed on the tea, the line of light playing off the cup’s rim. He was bracing again, not for violence, this time, but for something worse: pity.

Her voice, when it came, was steady and kind. “I think you’ve been trough a lot. And there’s no doubt in my mind that you are worthy.”

His throat ached. His jaw locked tight. He wanted to say something, anything, but the words curled into silence.

“I’m not sure I deserve it.”

“Well,” she said, the softness turning playful, “I happen to think you’re wrong.”

He couldn’t speak. He could barely breathe. He just blushed, panicked, and pivoted. He needed to change the topic and quickly.

“What… what do you really do, Mistress? I mean, for work. Or your family. You seem… important.”

She perked up slightly, her whole posture changing. Her voice lifted into something grand and exaggerated.

“Oh, the pristine family of Blacks,” she announced with a theatrical wave. “For generations, champions of the Empire, one of the most devoted founding families of the empire, protecting the sacred balance of power…”

Adam blinked. Was she… joking?

Then she rolled her eyes and smirked, dropping the pretense.

“That’s how they’d say it at a banquet. Usually over dry wine and too many speeches.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

Still, he tread carefully. “I didn’t mean to offend, Mistress.”

“You didn’t,” she said more gently now. “I think it’s all a bit much, honestly.”

She leaned back, arms loose over her chest.

“My family is old. And rich. And full of power and expectations and history and secrets. They like to say all founding families have been gifted. Blessed by blood and legacy.”

Adam’s brow furrowed. “Gifted… how, Mistress?”

Bianca met his eyes. There was something different in her gaze now. Still kind but serious. Grounded.

“My familie and therefore I can see the final memories of the dead.”

Adam stopped breathing.

“When someone dies and I touch them,” she said quietly, “I see what they saw last, what they felt. It's just a few seconds for me. But clear. Like stepping inside their mind. Just once. Just long enough.”

It wasn’t her voice that startled him. It was the truth in it.

His spine stiffened. A shiver crept over his skin like ice on stone.

“…Mistress?”

She was watching him carefully.

He stood up.

Like the ground beneath him had shifted and he wasn’t sure it would hold.

“I need to go… Mistress. Thank you for the tea.”

“Adam—”

But he was already walking away, steps too fast, too light, like he wanted to disappear. She didn’t follow.

Chapter Text

Adam sat beneath the tree near the old shed, the one that curved its boughs like a crooked shelter over the far end of the courtyard. No one ever came back here. The stones were uneven, weeds crawling through the cracks, bushes untrimmed, moss bleeding up the walls like a slow infection. It felt… forgotten. Which suited him fine.

His back was against the wall. Knees drawn up. Hands clasped loosely in front of him, trying to stay still.

He stared at nothing.

He didn't want to be seen like this, curled up against a cold wall like some half-feral creature, but he couldn’t make himself stand either. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else.

His heart wouldn’t stop pounding. 

He should’ve said something, anything, other than a quiet 'thank you' before bolting like a coward.

He’d walked away too fast. Too obviously. But he couldn’t help it. The moment she said those words. 'I see the final memories of the dead' It was like the air in his lungs turned to mud. 

Heavy. Slow. Suffocating.

Was it fear?

No. Not exactly.

Not fear of her.

Fear of what that meant.

Adam hadn't moved.

Because if she had that kind of power…

Then maybe buying him hadn’t been random.

Maybe she hadn’t found him out of chance.

Maybe she found him because of Evan.

His breath caught like a knife between his ribs. The thought alone hurt more than it should’ve.

He hadn’t spoken Evan’s name in months. Not even in his own mind, not really. He’d buried it. Buried him. The only way to keep breathing was to pretend Evan was already gone long before the day he was taken. Long before the blood. Long before the silence.

But now?

Now the name wouldn’t stop echoing in his head.

**Evan.**

Evan, who used to hum when he cleaned. Evan, who could make a joke out of anything, even hunger, even fear.

He remembered him.

That was the problem.

And now Mistress Bianca did too.

Or at least she saw the end of him.

That’s what her gift meant, didn’t it? She saw what he saw last.

Which meant…

Evan had died thinking of Adam.

His hands clenched into fists. The knot in his chest doubled.

That wasn’t love. That was punishment.

That meant Evan’s last thoughts were of him. Adam had just… kept surviving. Like a coward. Like a snake.

A sob built in his throat, but he crushed it down with his teeth.

No. No crying. Not here.

What had Mistress seen, exactly?

Did she see the worst parts of him?

Is that why she found him?

Not out of kindness, but because he was the last loose thread in someone else’s life?

Maybe she pitied him.

Maybe she thought she could fix him.

Or maybe… she saw something worth saving.

That idea was worse.

Because if she saw something good in him, something Evan died remembering, and he couldn’t live up to it…

Then what was left?

He swallowed hard. His chest ached.

And the Trial still loomed. Waiting. Silent. Unavoidable.

He’d have to speak Evan’s name, eventually.

He didn’t know if he could.

He pressed his forehead to his knees again and whispered it, just once, like a prayer, like a betrayal.

“…Evan.”

The wind moved through the garden like a breath. No answer came. 

He looked beside him, where Evan would have sat. There was a bush. He wasn't sure if it was there before, or it was Evan giving him signs. A few berries still clung to the branches, dark blue, nearly black in the fading light. Was this supposed to be mercy? Or maybe to put him down.

He stared at them for a moment, unsure.

Then, slowly, he reached out and plucked one.

The skin was soft under his fingers. Fragile. It reminded him of Evan, they would always sneak around at the night and eat berries at the old mistress's manor.

He put the berry in his mouth.

It was sweet. A little sharp. Real.

He chewed. Swallowed.

He plucked another. Ate it too.

No one had told him to do this. No one would know. No one would even care.

He started picking berries slowly, one by one, until his fingertips were stained purple. He didn’t cry. Didn’t pray. Didn’t think too much.

He just existed.

He leaned back against the tree, closing his eyes, listening to the soft hum of the wind.

And then—

"You're getting comfortable."

The voice was soft. Familiar but not kind like it used to be.

Adam’s breath caught in his chest.

He didn’t open his eyes.

“You know you don’t deserve this,” the voice continued. “This house. Her kindness. Food. Safety.”

Adam turned his face away from the sound.

He knew.

But still… it hurt.

“You let me die.”

Adam’s eyes snapped open.

Evan stood in front of him, barefoot, dripping from the rain, eyes dark and sunken.

His skin was pale. Too pale. Lips almost blue.

Adam scrambled backward, his back hitting the tree. “You’re not real,” he whispered.

Evan tilted his head, expression twisted into something cruel.

“No,” he said. “But neither are you. Not anymore.”

Adam shook his head violently, fists clenching in the dirt. “You’re not real.”

“You watched them take me. Did nothing.”

“I tried—”

“You tried nothing,” the hallucination spat. “You gave up. Let them rip us apart. And now you’re eating berries like you haven’t got blood on your hands.”

Adam’s breath came faster, uneven.He felt sick.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I—”

“Sorry doesn’t bring me back.”

He shut his eyes, but the voice didn’t stop.

“You killed me, Adam.”

A pause.

Then quieter.

“And the worst part is… I trusted you. You don't even deserve enough mercy from these berries to kill you.”

Adam fell forward, hands gripping his skull.

“Stop it.”

“I’m gone because of you.”

“STOP!”

The air snapped back to silence.

When Adam looked up the garden was empty.

No Evan.

Just the tree.

Just the cold.

Just the berries, now spilled across the ground like blood.

Chapter Text

The garden stayed quiet for days.

Adam didn’t go outside.

He barely left his bed.

Bianca left things near the window now. Sweet tea he somewhat forced himself to drink, but soft bread went stale — untouched.

The soup went cold every time.

He hated the silence.

Because it was never really silent.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw him.

Not the real Evan.

The other one.

The version that told him he was a murderer.

That he was the reason Evan died.

That he should’ve died too.

The voice wasn’t even loud anymore. Just... present. Like fog. Like guilt. Like chains that never fully rusted away.

Some nights, he heard Bianca talking downstairs.

Soft voice. Careful. Like she didn’t want him to hear.

Sometimes she said his name.

Other times, she didn’t.

 “He asked about Adam again. Said he feels like he broke him just by showing up.”

The floor creaked and then silence.

That stuck.

Long after the voices faded. Long after the moon climbed and fell again.

Adam sat up in bed, hands tangled in the blanket.

He asked about me again.

Who? Greg? Or some other servant?

It could be anyone but Evan. No, not him, and that hurt the most.

He shook his head, pulling his knees to his chest, arms wrapping around himself like scaffolding keeping the structure from collapsing.

He sat like that until morning.

Still. Quiet.

Eyes wide open.

Staring at the place on the wall where he’d once seen a ghost.

Hours passed. He hadn’t eaten.

Hadn’t spoken.

The weight in his chest was back again, that low, dull ache. Like a bruise too deep to touch, like something rotting just beneath the surface.

A part of him wondered if he deserved it. If that ache was the price of surviving.

Bianca stood just inside the door, watching him.

Her heart clenched at the sight.

He was getting better. Now, it felt like they were back at the beginning.

Back when he barely moved, barely breathed beneath the weight of everything.

She swallowed her fear and stepped forward, her voice soft, careful.

“Adam?”

No response.

But he heard her.

He always did.

Something in him flinched (Not from fear, not anymore.) but from the guilt of making her worry again.

She moved closer, sitting beside him on the bed.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but please… Don't do this again.”

His eyes flickered up, dark and empty.

Why does she keep trying?

Why does she care?

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t trust it. But somewhere deep beneath the numbness, the part of him that still remembered being human.

She reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

“You were doing so well. I don't know what you’re battling with, but you’re not alone. I’m sorry,” she whispered, “but I won’t give up on you. Not now.”

Adam’s breath hitched.

He wanted to speak. Wanted to explain that it wasn’t about giving up. It was about not knowing how to begin again.

Bianca sat quietly beside him, letting the silence stretch.

After a long pause, she spoke softly, “Do you remember the first time we went on a walk?”

Adam’s eyes flickered but stayed on the floor.

Of course he remembered. He’d hated every step but not at the same time. Hated the way his legs shook. The way the light felt too sharp. But she had smiled at the flowers. Let the wind talk when he couldn’t.

And somehow, that day stayed with him.

She smiled faintly, “I like to think that made you come out of your shell, and I think it was so brave to keep living despite everything...”

His chest tightened.

The walls he’d built around himself began to crumble.

Hot tears welled up and spilled over.

He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

Bianca didn’t say a word.

She simply moved closer, wrapping her arms gently around him.

“No shame in crying,” she whispered.

“You’re not alone.”

Adam’s breath hitched against her side.

He hadn’t cried like this in months. Not since the last time he’d dreamed of Evan’s hand slipping from his own, blood and ash and screams rising like smoke behind his eyes.

He’d tried so hard to be still. To be good. To be what Mistress usually wanted, obedient, quiet, useful.

But she didn’t ask for that.

Bianca just sat with him.

After a moment, she pulled back just enough to look into his eyes.

“You’re so brave,” she said softly. “It takes strength to face the pain instead of hiding from it.”

Her words were steady, a lifeline to Adam.

“You’ve come so far, Adam, and will go so much further.”

He sniffled, a shaky smile breaking through the tears.

She really believes that.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“You’ll get through this.”

She brushed a tear from his cheek.

“But strength alone isn’t enough. You have to fight. Fight for yourself. Fight for the life you deserve.”

Adam’s eyes searched hers, hesitant but curious.

A life I deserve?

What would that even look like?

“One day,” she continued, “you won’t just be surviving. You’ll be free to choose, to live on your own terms.”

Her words were gentle but firm, like a promise whispered in the dark, a gleam of the sealing necklace around a neck.

“I believe in you. Even when you don’t believe in yourself.”

Adam’s chest rose and fell, slow and steady now.

The fight was far from over.

But he wasn’t afraid of trying again.

His voice was low, tinged with vulnerability.

“What if, when I’m free, I don’t have anywhere to go? I don't have anyone, what if I’m alone again?”

He looked at her, eyes searching for the truth behind her kindness.

Bianca smirked, a playful sparkle lighting her eyes.

“Honestly, Adam, how could I ever make someone walk away, especially if that someone is this handsome?”

She reached out, brushing his cheek stained with salty streaks with a teasing grin.

“I really like you. You think freedom changes that?”

She leaned in just a little, voice soft but mischievous.

“Besides,” she said with a wink, “someone this handsome needs a good patron. Can’t just let you wander off and charm anyone else.”

Adam tried to hide the smile tugging at his lips, but failed miserably.

The warmth in his chest startled him. Bianca laughed softly, leaning back on the bed.

“You know, you having freedom sounds really nice and all, but between you and me? I kind of like having you around.”

She gave him a mock-serious look.

“So don’t get any ideas about running off. You must at least say goodbye.”

Adam shook his head, warmth blooming in his chest despite everything.

“Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?” he murmured.

Bianca smiled wide, playful and real.

“Lucky you.”

Chapter Text

The dusk hung heavy over the estate, the sky bruised with muted shades of purple and gray, the faint scent of smoke from the kitchens drifting through the corridors.

Adam sat on the edge of the cold stone floor in a small, unused chamber, his back pressed against the wall, legs drawn close.

In his hands he held nothing but the memory of a life that had been stolen from him, the ghost of Evan lingering like a shadow at the corner of his mind.

He let himself sink into it. For so long he had carried the weight of blame, folding it around himself like a shroud.

Evan’s face haunted him, not in the flash of smiles or shared warmth, but in the sharp, cruel echo of his final moments. Adam had believed he could protect him, believed he could bend the world, and yet… Evan had died. And the blame was all his.

Adam had failed.

That memory was bitter and bright at once, a wound that never fully healed. He closed his eyes and let the tears come, slow at first, then with the weight of months, of years. In the dark, there was only Evan, only what had been lost, only the chain of his own guilt.

The room was silent, save for the distant clatter of dishes and the murmuring voices of servants. For once, Adam allowed himself to feel the full depth of sorrow.

He let it wash over him, and it was exhausting, but necessary. He had been running from it for so long, with the smallest sparks of kindness offered by Mistress Bianca that he did not yet feel worthy of accepting.

But here, in the quiet, he faced it. He faced the truth that Evan’s death was not his fault in the way he had believed. It had been cruel, but it had also been beyond his control.

This realization rose like a tide within him, hesitant and strange, leaving him gasping in its unexpected release.

He pictured Evan’s face one last time, not twisted in pain, but softened by memory, by the fleeting warmth of a shared moment in the sun or beneath the hidden cover of a barn loft.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, though there was no one to hear. “I am so sorry. I am so… sorry.”

The room answered only with the hum of the evening. For months, his guilt had been a chain, softer than iron, but no less binding.

Evan had died because Adam hesitated, because he’d believed there was still time.

 “I thought I was keeping you alive by remembering,” he said. “But maybe I was just keeping myself from living.”

And then, quietly, with a gentleness he had not thought he could ever allow himself, he added: “But I will live. For me. Not for you. Not because I owe you. But because I want, for myself.”

It was a strange thought, one that made him dizzy in its novelty. To live for himself. To allow himself the simple, almost heretical idea that his life could have meaning beyond guilt.

That perhaps, in some distant future, he could breathe without the constant pressure of blame pressing against his ribs.

He remembered moments in the past week, small flashes of kindness from Mistress Bianca.

A warm word, a hand offered without expectation, a glance that acknowledged him as more than property.

He had not allowed himself to dwell on these moments, afraid that to do so would dishonor Evan, as if happiness itself were a betrayal.

But now, the thought felt different. Perhaps Evan would have wanted this for him. Perhaps Evan would have begged him to feel the sunlight without looking over his shoulder.

Adam rose slowly, uncertainly, his knees aching from long hours of sitting, his shoulders heavy. He walked to the small window, the glass streaked with dust and rain.

Outside, the garden spread in muted greens and browns, the wind whispering through the hedges. A bird stirred in the fading light, and Adam watched it hop from branch to branch, free in ways he could not yet claim.

He clenched his fists once, then relaxed them, letting the sensation of control slip through his fingers like water.

The chains of his past did not vanish in a moment, nor did the reality of his current bondage. But the tight coil of guilt loosened.

A memory came unbidden, of Evan laughing quietly in the corner of the kitchen, the firelight catching the sharp edge of his grin.

It was fleeting, and yet it lingered longer than any grief, longer than any punishment Adam had imagined he deserved.

“I am alive,” Adam whispered to the empty room. “And I will be, even if it is just this. Just me, breathing, remembering, feeling.”

He ran his fingers along the cold sill, feeling the texture of stone beneath his palms, grounding himself in the tangible.

This was real. He was real.

And somewhere in the quiet, amid shadows and the last blush of evening, he felt something like peace. Not triumph, not joy, not the easy comfort of innocence, but the small, steady pulse of acceptance.

For hours he sat by that window, letting the dark deepen around him. He thought of the cruel words ringing in his ears, rough hands that had once gripped him, the faces of mistresses who had treated him as property, the invisible walls that had confined him all his life. He let himself feel the rage, the humiliation, the exhaustion. 

Maybe Evan wasn't the only thing holding me back.

By the time the stars began to appear, pale and stubborn in the night sky, Adam had begun to understand something new.

He would remember Evan always, but the memory need not be a chain. It could be a quiet companion, a witness to his past, but not a jailer of his future.

And perhaps one day, when the world allowed it, he could act on that quiet understanding, take steps toward freedom, claim his life in ways he had never dared before.

For now, he simply breathed. He felt the rise and fall of his chest, the pulse of life in his hands and feet.

Adam leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes, and let himself simply exist. The night was cool against his skin, the shadows long, the world quiet.

Somewhere beyond the walls of the estate, life went on in ways he could not yet imagine. 

“I’ll carry you in my heart,” he murmured, “but I won’t follow you into the dark.”

Adam remained at the window until the first light of dawn crept across the horizon, pale and hesitant. He did not rise immediately. He did not speak. He simply watched the world begin again.
 

Chapter Text

Adam rose before the sun, the weight of sleep still heavy, but his heart was just a little lighter.

Bianca found him in the garden, standing stiffly among the flowers, fingers brushing the soft petals. His eyes held a fragile spark, a breath of life returning.

“You’re up early,” she said, smiling gently.

Adam nodded, swallowing past the lingering ache inside him. “I… want to try. To get better.”

Bianca stepped closer, warmth in her gaze. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

He let out a shaky breath. “I know. I need to start somewhere. Just don’t know where.”

Bianca helped Adam to his feet, steadying him with a gentle hand on his back and led him. The hall was quiet now, only the soft scrape of their movements against the wooden floor.

They stopped at the small dining room near her kitchen, where a simple tray was laid out: warm broth, soft bread, and a few slices of ripe fruit, as always. Adam’s stomach churned nervously.

Bianca’s voice was patient and soothing. “Try a little. Just a spoonful of broth. I’ll be right here.”

Adam nodded, swallowing hard. He lifted the spoon with trembling fingers, the warm liquid trembling inside. His mind raced.

What if it upset him? What if he choked? What if she grew disappointed?

He brought the spoon to his lips, letting the broth slide down slowly. The warmth spread through his chest, calming some of the icy dread.

Bianca smiled softly. “Good. That’s a start.”

He looked up, surprised at the encouragement. “I’m scared,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure why, he just knew he was.

“It’s okay to be scared,” she said. “Healing takes time.”

Adam took another spoonful, then a small piece of bread. Each bite felt like a victory, but the shadow of his past loomed just behind his eyes.

After a moment, he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I deserve all of this.”

Bianca reached out and gently squeezed his hand. “You deserve so much more. Kindness, patience, healing. You deserve love.”

Adam’s breath caught. His movements stilled. The word felt foreign and heavy. Could he believe it? Could he believe her?

Bianca swallowed, not wanting to push too hard. “You don’t have to eat it all at once.”

Adam’s jaw twitched, a flicker of frustration or shame, or maybe both, passing across his face. The silence stretched between them, heavy.

Did she really think so little of him? That he couldn’t finish one stupid bowl of soup?

After a few moments, he finally lifted his hand, trembling slightly, and took the spoon. His movements were hesitant, as though he was testing the water before diving in. The broth was warm and mild, the taste unfamiliar but not unpleasant.

“That’s good,” Bianca encouraged with a small smile, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “You’re doing great.”

He swallowed hard and looked at her, stomach full with guilt.

“I... I don’t know if I can finish this,” he admitted quietly.

Will she mock him now? How could he be so useless? Why did he think-

“That’s okay,” Bianca said gently. “You don’t have to finish it all today. We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Adam nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. He wasn’t surprised by her reaction,but mostly by his own.

Where did this anger come from? When he didn't have enough food to eat he wasn't mad, he didn't work hard enough. When he was tortured he wasn't mad, he deserved it. But now, when she was always kind, how could he have such vile thoughts? Then still, why did she care? I’m just a thing. Not worth kindness. Not worth anything.

Still, he couldn’t pull away. Her voice was soft, patient, like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man. She didn’t rush him, didn’t expect anything. That alone felt like a kindness he wasn’t used to.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered. “Just breathe. I’ll be here.”

Her words felt like a balm. For a moment, the sharp edge of his fear dulled, replaced by a fragile thread of trust.

His hands shook as he held the bowl, but for once, he let himself focus on the slow rhythm of eating. The rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the way the food warmed his insides. It was a small thing, but it felt like reclaiming a piece of himself.

Then, unexpectedly, she reached out and gently took his hand. His heart hammered in his chest—he wasn’t sure if it was fear or something else. His fingers twined awkwardly with hers, hesitant but not pulling away.

I’m scared. Scared to be seen like this. Scared to hope.

“You’re stronger than you know,” she said softly. “More than you believe.”

He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat heavy with memories he didn’t want to face.

“I’m... afraid,” he admitted quietly. “That I’m broken. That I’m not worth this.”

Her thumb brushed gently over his knuckles, a simple touch that spoke volumes. “You’re not broken. You’re healing.”

His eyes closed, letting the words settle deep inside him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice trembling.

Bianca squeezed his hand gently. “Anytime.”

A moment passed. The air between them softened, no longer heavy, just quiet and full.

Then Bianca’s expression shifted, thoughtful. “You know,” she said softly, “my family will be arriving in a few days. They’ll be bringing their own... people. If you wanted to talk to them.”

Adam’s chest tightened at the thought. He wasn't sure if he really wanted to meet them, but the idea of more strangers filled him with both curiosity and apprehension. Strangers like him.

“They’ll stay at the mansion for a little while,” Bianca continued, “to oversee some political matters we’ve been working toward together. You won’t meet my parents yet, they’d be too much for you right now, but I wanted you to know.”

Adam nodded slowly, letting the idea settle. He was actually relieved he wouldn’t have to face her family right away. The thought of it scared him. The risk of mistakes, of judgment.

He hesitated, then asked, almost whispering, “Do you think they’ll... like me? If they saw me?”

Bianca laughed softly, a warm, musical sound that filled the room. “They’d love you. Because I do. And mostly because you’re you. That’s what matters.”

Adam blinked, uncertain what to say.