he wakes one morning to the sunlight streaming in on his face, the warmth of it seeping into his skin, settling within his very bones, and his features relax automatically, corners of his lips curling upwards into a content smile. he almost turns over, a hand already reaching for the phantom shape of someone who has never been next to him, but catches himself right before moving, freezing in place instead.
when he opens his eyes, his expression shifts to something more normal, his eyes taking in his surroundings - his own bedroom in viktor’s mansion - before coming to a rest on the door. it’s still locked. no one has been in here. that’s good.
he gets out of bed and gets dressed for the day. from the second he steps outside of his room, he barks orders at the servants, sending them off to get punished for even the smallest of mistakes.
he stands in front viktor’s desk, hands clasped behind his back, eyes fixed on the older man. the orders are being given left and right, until eventually those dark pools of horror land on him and the lips form words that indicate what he is to do. the sound of horrors to be executed is immediate and he very nearly flinches as he imagines what is to come for the poor souls.
the tremble of his lips is quickly turned into a smirk of amusement, none of his shock at his own reaction visible on his features, nothing put out there for viktor to notice because that would be as much as signing his own death certificate. it’s only when he’s outside of the room with no one nearby to watch that the tremor starts in his hand, lasting all the way until he’s back in his hiding space and changes into the tatters of the street urchin.
he doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know what it signifies, and so he clenches his hands into fists until the tremor subsides. by the time he makes it to the city on foot - unseen by any of those in the mansion - he seems to have regained control, keen eyes catching every flicker of movement around himself, and the usual urge to wreak some havoc sitting comfortably in the pit of his stomach.
the smell of roasting meat wafts over to him from a nearby restaurant, causing him to be instantly reminded of ephraim. his eyes wander over to the specific place, expression slowly shifting to a fond smile. it takes him the better part of a minute to realise he’s standing in the middle of the street staring at a restaurant while smiling like a fool. even though he puts himself back into motion, the smile is hard to wipe from his features.
he doesn’t understand why.
he catches the boy’s shirt in his fingers as he tries to run off. dirty blond hair shifts with the movement, revealing dark brown eyes that look up at him with something akin to fear in them. his grip falters suddenly, strength leaving his hand and thereby allowing the boy to pull free. he stands motionless as the child scurries off, disappearing into this or the other of his secret pathways.
his heart aches suddenly with a sadness he doesn’t feel, a sympathy for the young boy that he has never learned to cultivate. in his stomach, something coils itself up into a ball and lays heavily where it lands. he stands forlornly in the middle of the alley for a moment, hands still curled around the air where the boy used to be.
suddenly there’s a wet feeling on his cheek, a drop of moisture having landed there. he tilts his head upwards, confused at the blue sky, then quickly shakes himself awake again. his gaze flickers over the spot the boy disappeared through, eyes narrowing lightly as his enhanced eyes take in the scene.
two minutes later he intercepts the boy halfway to freedom, fingers curling into the dirty blond hair this time and tugging hard. the shout of fear and anguish makes him smirk lightly, an expression that doesn’t leave his face all the way back to viktor’s mansion, where he lets said man come up with a good punishment.
there’s a small alcove near the room where the punishments are dealt. he stands there often, listening to the cries and shouts of those tortured. there’s a lot one can learn about a person by knowing how they scream, he thinks. a lot to be understood by seeing the way these human creatures are dragged back out, often unconscious or almost gone.
these days he doesn’t visit often anymore, though. these days the cries always seem to sound familiar. these days the heaviness in his chest grows bigger than he can bear and he finds himself walking a step faster as he walks through those hallways.
he wakes one morning from a good dream. one of those dreams that instantly make his day better and make sure that there is nothing he can’t handle, no matter how boring it gets. he stretches his body, sore from laying curled up on the straw bed he’s made for himself in the city streets, and contently stays there a little bit longer.
as always, his mind tries to grasp for the memories of the dream. usually there is one of those people he can’t stand being tortured, or one of viktor’s plans working out perfectly. sometimes he is rewarded with the opportunity to take a whip to one of the captives’ backs. very occasionally he is even allowed to take someone out. he likes dreams about those moments, likes the way they make him feel in the morning, the peace that comes after.
this time, he sees none of that, however. this time all he can remember is a certain captive’s face, a warm smile gracing the features, and a hand reaching out to touch his cheek with gentle fingers. a gesture of warmth, of kindness, of care.
he lays in his makeshift bed for a long time, staring up at nothing, lost in the memories of the dream.
when he finally rolls over and gets up, he spits at the floor in disgust, pulling his dagger out from its hiding place and setting out to find a target to use it on, just so he can forget about the pitiful state he seems to find himself in so much more often.
just so he can pretend that part of him does not exist.
