#ephraim.

[ephawk]

the truth of the matter

ephraim wakes with a shout, cold sweat soaking his shirt, the tattered cloth sticking to him, baring his naked skin to the cold air with it’s threadbare material. he grabs his head, fingers slipping through his too-long hair and tugging at the strands. a strangled sob leaves his throat as the dream swirls in his head — blood, everywhere, all over the counter, the knives, all over him. a dead body on the floor and it wouldn’t have concerned him because he’s seen so many dead bodies now he’s lost count ( not that he was ever keeping count to start with ).

it was the face that woke him in such a state. it was the face of echolas staring up at him, bright sky blue eyes dulled, lifeless. his lips, the pretty ones that ephraim’s kissed so many times, parted as if he’d breathed out his last words and that was how he’d died, mid-sentence. he already looked pale as if he’d been dead for an hour, maybe more, all the color gone from his lips and his cheeks, those cheeks that would color the nicest shade of pink whenever ephraim doted on him.

and he was dead.

as much as he wants to, he doesn’t get a chance to cry out his misery, to hope echolas is coming soon — it’s the middle of the night, he can’t come right now, can he? — the door opens behind him. he freezes in his bed. there’s only two reasons that has opened in the past month in the dead of night — one being the night he was taken to see birdie, and the other is when viktor decided he needed to have his head dunked in ice cold water for hours for a mistake he made cooking earlier that day.

he turns slightly, just enough to peer over his shoulder. it’s too much to hope echolas has come to him as if knowing ephraim needs him. in the doorway is none other than one of viktor’s favorite underlings, a key in one hand, and a black silk bag in another. no, please. the man comes in and unlocks the shackle around ephraim’s ankle from the chain in the middle of the floor and then hands ephraim the bag.

“over your head.”

ephraim stifles the whimper, a tear sliding down his cheek as he does what he’s told to do. this man is just as vicious as viktor, never holding back in a slap to the face. ephraim has a scar just under his eye from where the man had backhanded him one day and his ring tore through flesh.

“up.” and ephraim scrambles to stand, swaying a little.

he’s jerks as the man yanks him forward, hand on ephraim’s upper arm, dragging him along. ephraim tries not to shake or whimper, biting down on his bottom lip until he feels blood, the taste metallic, but reminding him that he’s still alive — for now. he can’t fathom what viktor wants from him now, but it’s okay, ephraim will do the best he can and hope the hell he doesn’t lose another piece of himself.

the walk isn’t long at all and he isn’t taken outside. no, he’s taken down stairs, an seemingly endless amount as ephraim loses count after step fifty-eight. he can’t count too high, never has been able to, but he can get to one hundred most days at least. these stairs are much more than one hundred and they don’t stop until ephraim can smell the scent of wet earth and chemicals, the latter of which makes him cough almost violently.

he’s yanked harder but his coughing doesn’t subside until he feels his bare feet touch something strange. the texture of the floor is strange, not metal like the stairs or concrete like his cell, but something oddly fabric-y. he can’t guess what it is and doesn’t get the chance to as viktor’s voice booms all around him, echoing off walls or through speakers one — ephraim doesn’t know, he can’t see.

“it’s time,” viktor starts, “that you know a truth, ephraim. that you see why you’ve been groomed by my steady hand.” the man is full of himself to be speaking so grand in this underground place. if ephraim were half as sassy as he was when he was younger, he’d probably risk it all just to scoff at the man’s narcissism. as it is, ephraim only shudders.

what truth? what grooming?

the bag is yanked off and light fills ephraim’s vision, blinding him. he gasps and slaps his hands over his face to keep the light out. his eyes sting with involuntary tears. viktor continues.

“open your eyes, ephraim.”

he still isn’t close to ephraim so he probably couldn’t hurt him except for the man that’s probably nearby, but ephraim obeys, squinting in the direction viktor’s voice is strongest. he’s up on a podium to the side of a large circle, the circle ephraim’s in, and it’s like a giant cage. there is a tall fence around the circle, viktor’s actually in the circle, but he’s up on a stand of some kind — there’s even a chair for him to sit in should he want to.

“today you’ll be pitted against men and you must kill them or be killed. at the end of it, if you survive, there’s a special present waiting for you.” and that’s all ephraim gets before a dagger is thrown towards him, landing at his feet, and a gate is opened on the opposite end of the arena, right across from ephraim. men pour into the arena, at least ten, and then head right for ephraim, but they look as scared of him as he is of them, of this situation.

but ephraim doesn’t want to die here. he wants to see echolas again, see serenity again. he wants to know what it’s like to ride a horse after so long, if he can pick it right up or if he’ll need to relearn it. he wants to plant things and cook things he never got to before. he wants to know what it’s like to live life without fear again. he wants to live.

so he fights and he cries, he tells the men he’s killed that he’s sorry, that he wishes it were different. they fall too easily and ephraim knows, without a doubt, these men weren’t hardened criminals — they probably had families, had a life, and ephraim decided his own life was worth more when it’s the exact opposite. who is he compared to these men? a lonely orphan always in search of happiness, who breathes stardust and inhales the love of cooking, who smiles even when his heart’s half a crack away from failing. that’s it, that’s all.

when the last man falls, ephraim is cut up and bleeding, but there’s other blood that’s not him covering his hands and his chest and face. he spits out someone else’s blood, maybe he vomits it up instead. either way, viktor looked pleased, hands clasped together, one leg crossed over the other with a smirk on his lips. ephraim cries softly, tear trails dragging the blood on his face down his chin and neck, staining more of his skin in red.

“good job, ephraim. now — your present…” he turns to the side and waves at the gate where the men came from. it opens again and another person steps through it, a knife already thrown down for the person to grab whenever they please. ephraim’s eyes widen, his own knife dropping to the ground at his feet.

“echo—” he gasps at the same time viktor says, “hawk.”

[ephawk]

two weeks

time is something ephraim’s never been able to read without help of some kind. it took him months to properly read a clock with hands, rejoicing when he found digital clocks after shadow. everything seems easier with a clock, he can allot time to activities, to things he has to do, and things he likes to do. but in viktor’s mansion, time doesn’t seem to exist.

the sun sets, the sun rises, it grows hotter and cooler, and then the moon is out. this is all he knows of every day. there’s no clock, nothing electronic in the little room he’s shoved into after activities are done. viktor doesn’t keep wall clocks anywhere in the house either. the only form of time to be seen are calendars, someone ( probably a maid ) meticulously ticking off days.

according to the one in the kitchen area, it’s been almost two weeks since the last he went out. the day he killed someone and echolas witnessed it.

he’s been so out of it the past two weeks that he’s received more punishments than ever before. first it was a slap, then welts from a thick piece of leather across his thighs, and finally, lashings. the tattoo he’d gotten to cover his old lashings torn to shreds on his back, no longer the pretty leaf-like wings as before. it’s almost a sleight against henry, and when he thinks of it like that, he can’t look at his back in the mirror, can’t tend to his wounds, without wanting to sob.

he drops a plate for the third time this week and a guard alerts viktor who agrees to another lashing. this time, it’s the guard that does it as viktor is too busy to dole it out himself. which could be nice, since viktor has no sympathy for him, but this guard has thick arms and a mean attitude. there’s no way ephraim’s walking away without his entire back being coated in blood.

later, after being shoved back into his room, the guard intentionally pushing right against his new lashing, ephraim sits on the floor of his room. there’s supplies in his hands to doctor his back with ( the one good thing about the maids ), but he has no will to bother with it. he can’t reach it properly, so he can’t clean it and can’t cover it.

he wishes he had more tears to cry, more sobs he could pull from the bottom of his lungs, but there’s none. he feels like he’s used them all up. so he sits in the floor, on the dirty ground, blood still seeping from his lashing, thighs still bruised from the belts. he wishes he could feel the pain, feel anything, but he can’t.

he’s not sure if it’s a blessing, or a curse to be so numb.

[ephawk]

return

they drive past the docks, past all the ships sitting there waiting to take off, maybe on passengers, or the crew – it doesn’t matter. they don’t matter, none of them are serenity, so he doesn’t care about them. he’s already turned back around in his seat, fingers fidgeting with his shirt, his earrings, worried they’ll be taken from him. he doesn’t want to be without the few things he packed – viktor can allow him this surely, it’s not like he’ll run away again. he’ll relent to anything viktor wants – as long as the man lets birdie live and lets him keep the few precious items he keeps from serenity and the family he left behind. he’ll become that monster viktor’s tried to make him into.

but even monsters have a few humanities, however abstract they may be.

before he knows it, the car’s coming to a stop, easing down onto the ground like it should before it’s being turned off. the driver doesn’t even get out, it’s another that opens the door and pulls him out ( yanks, more like ) and guides him to the large mansion. it’s just like the one on persephone, but there’s no big corporate buildings around it – it’s more like some sort of beach house or vacation home, looking out over one of the many oceans ariel has to offer. it’s a change of pace, but it’s nothing to be glad or pleased about – this is still viktor.

the large man leads him towards the back door, going around the side of the house, to the back. it’s a large place, but light in color and nothing like anything ephraim would imagine viktor would own. but the man is an enigma, so ephraim doesn’t know his tastes or how he ticks – he just knows what he puts people through, what he’s put ephraim through.

his train of thought, the trembling he feels as he gets closer to the door takes a pause when another figure approaches the door at the same time. “kid, you sure you’re here at the right time?” the man asks the other boy, who looks about the same age as ephraim, but much dirtier. his clothes are tattered, shoes looking rough from what might be years of use with no replacement. ephraim bows his head down, to prevent himself from staring so openly at this boy, this street rat, who looks just like he did the day he left viktor the last time.

the door is opened by another man and all three of them are ushered right in. several maids and guards step out of the way for them. the two guards with ephraim and the other boy don’t stop until they’re upstairs in the biggest room facing down viktor who sits behind his desk like a king would sit on his throne, fingers pressed together and a smug smile on his lips.

“welcome back to you both.” viktor doesn’t stand from his chair, he doesn’t say anything more to either ephraim or the other boy. instead, he looks at the guard by ephraim’s side. “take him to the room i said would be his… let him get reacquainted with his usual day.” ephraim squeezes his eyes shut at that, already knowing what’s in store for him – that fucking metal shackle with the chain attached to the middle of the floor.

he waves both ephraim and the guard out of the door and then he turns to hawk, piercing blue eyes staring right into hawk’s. “news?”

[ephawk]

kitchen duty

one whole week and so much has already happened. the first day ephraim was left alone, beyond echolas, there were no visitors save for late evening when someone slid a pathetic excuse for a meal through the slot at the bottom of the door. it hadn’t been much, but ephraim ate what he could and then pushed it back under the door after. admittedly he got a little satisfaction from hearing one of the guards cursing when he stepped right into it, probably ruining his expensive shoes. it was short lived, however, not because the guard came into the room and messed with him, but because it’s hard to find any hope or joy when all alone.

he hadn’t appreciated getting dragged out of bed two days later by his chain, pulled across the ground like some feral animal. he hadn’t even fought it really, except for pushing himself up from the floor, or attempting to, but that only caused his palms to be scraped across the rough floor. he’d been taken for the usual scrubbing, clothes stripped off of him by cruel hands, ripping fabric he’d hoped to keep. the water pressure was high enough to strip skin too, or it felt like it anyway, and he’d been scrubbed with that soap, disinfectant and sterile smelling.

after his ‘bath,’ he’d been taken to viktor, much like when he first signed his contract. he’d spoken out of turn, of course, the first question being ‘where’s birdie,’ and viktor backhanded him, almost a perfect reacting of the first time he’d been in viktor’s office. he doesn’t get any help for the cut on his cheek, blood dripping down his face as viktor told him what he expects of him. ephraim had only nodded his head, giving in and hoping birdie is somewhere alive and safe… or safer.

since then ephraim’s been out of his room a total of seven times and all seven of them have been to ‘entertain’ guests — sometimes sex, sometimes cooking — nothing more and nothing less than that. by the end of the first week, ephraim’s already curling on his bed and holding himself as he cries. he still has no news of birdie, and there’s nothing from viktor about serenity either. no confirmation that he kept his word, and ephraim feels so goddamn helpless. in the dead of night, he wonders if he made the best decision, if maybe he should’ve just told jaewon or hinted to someone about what’s going on.

but he didn’t. and now he’s locked up.

in truth, he doesn’t know how long he’s been in the room, under viktor’s ‘care’ once more. he counts the mornings as best he can and it’s come up to eight days, but he’s sure he’s missed a morning or two. it could be almost two weeks now — in this little room with the barest of necessities, time melds together. so he stops bothering with telling time. it does no good, not anymore.

he’s pulled from a decent sleep ( decent only due to passing out from exhaustion ) when the door is jerked open and his chain is yanked on. “comin’...” he mumbles, moving before they’re given the chance to pull him across the concrete-esque floor ( he thinks he misses the sand from before ). his hands are still scabbing over from the last time he was yanked by the chain. he’s sure there’s still bruises on his skin from the night before, but he presents himself at the door of the room and bows his head down.

“you’re on kitchen duty. boss has a specific menu, you’re to cook everything on that menu and nothing else, got it?” the guard says as he bends down and undoes the chain from ephraim’s shackle, leaving the piece of metal attached to his foot.

ephraim starts to nod but thinks better of it. “yes, sir,” he responds instead. he doesn’t want to be hit or pushed right now, so the best thing is to do exactly as he’s told. the guard straightens back up and prompts ephraim to follow behind him, so he does, right to the kitchen.

this area is one ephraim knows well, even if it’s different than the ones he’s worked in before, it’s got all the same equipment. he can breathe easy in here because it’s his domain — cooking utensils, pots and pans of various sizes, and so many seasonings. he actually smiles as he walks further in and begins looking over the menu. these are all items he knows to do, but he also knows viktor likes flair so he makes a mental note to dress the dishes up like the man prefers.

the door to the kitchen opens again when he’s reaching for a pot on the rack, and he starts to say something but stops. his eyes widen and a small smile lifts his lips upwards. echolas. “you’re here!” he greets only to frowns and look at the door closing behind him. “you’re here.” he repeats, this time fear rising within him. the pot is placed on the counter and he rushes over to echolas, pulling him away from the door and into a tight hug. “are you okay? you didn’t get seen did’ya?”

[ephawk]

target

days later ephraim is led along a long hallway, one that he doesn’t recognize. he doesn’t know where it came from and he wonders, for a moment, if they’ve somehow transported him somewhere else while he slept. but then the hallway ends in the dining hall. it’s a secret corridor, one for slaves most likely given that it opens from the side where no one would notice someone slipping in and out.

viktor sits at the head of the table. a feast not cooked by ephraim, is spread out in front of him, and there are two plates. his stomach twists in a knot, hunger and fear battling it out to decide which one wins. he knows what this arrangement means for him — a target. and viktor seems all too happy to tell him about it.

despite wanting to turn back and run towards his room, there’s no escaping and it’ll only piss viktor off. so he sits down and gets served like a king, plate piled up with so much food he’s not sure he can finish it all. a heavy sigh leaves him as he eats, listening to viktor as he goes over the target — someone who owes him money apparently, someone who hasn’t paid for the services given. the typical kind of target.

everything happens as usual after that. he’s shown the picture, told where to go, and given *one* weapon. this time it’s a simple pistol, one of the few things ephraim knows how to work properly. and then, he’s sent out of the room to be dropped off at a random location in town to walk on foot from there.

//

viktor turns in his chair and beckons for the door to open. “did you get all that, hawk? follow him. make sure he gets the job done properly.” he smirks at his little spy behind one of the many dining hall doors. “go now.”

[atticusbriggs]

Valentine's Day Scrapbook: Atticus & Ephraim

"Crying only because I'm happy Hold me across every state line" - "Western Nights", Ethel Cain @ephraimbriggs

[atticusbriggs]

Atticus & Ephraim Aesthetic: ‘To the Ranch”

‘Where everything was fiction, future, and prediction, now where was I?” - Fourth of July, Sufjan Stevens  @ephraimbriggs​

[ephawk]

change

things shift and change yet remain the same, like the ever moving gears of an old clock. it’s all routine most days — ephraim being yanked out of bed, being told where to go, what to do. there’s a party held that ephraim has to entertain guests with more than his food and he comes back to his room stiff and sore and numb all at once. he bears it all, shelves all this pain into the corner of his head for later use.

pain and anger will give him enough to do what needs to be done eventually. he’s determined to kill viktor, and it isn’t about his escape anymore. the men deserves death, he did before, but now even more so. there was nothing to trust, ephraim knew this, but he hoped his sacrifice was enough to warrant birdie’s release, or at least her life, as horrible as it may sound to ephraim’s own ears as he whispers these things to himself in the night.

the specters of loved ones haunt him in sleeping and in waking, just as before. he doesn’t see sol in the corner of his room anymore, doesn’t feel that longing for him though he still wears the silver earring as the friendship token it is.

no, he sees his parents, what he remembers of them. he sees the crew of serenity in varying degrees — jaewon with that scowl, kafka with his smirk, harper with her teasing grin, even henry with that smile he’d get when it was dinner time. he sees them all and he talks to them as if they’re there, but he knows they aren’t.

he doesn’t know if it’s with relief or agony that he sees birdie only in his dreams. her body bruised and bloody, swollen with death. sometimes she talks, other times all she does is stare accusingly at him. when she talks, it’s soft and gentle, her words trying to soothe him though her eyes tell a different story. he’s woken sweaty with fear, with guilt, so many nights now.

his comfort throughout what he feels is him losing his mind is echolas. the younger male, the one he’s become so attached to, keeps him company as often as he can. it’s more often now since the night echolas came to him after he left to see birdie. he blames himself for the risk echolas puts up with to see him. if he hadn’t begged him to stay, the other would be none the wiser and would be safer outside, than inside these walls where viktor could so easily do to him what he did to birdie.

despite his own fears, the worry that echolas is in too much danger to continue coming to see him, ephraim still accepts the other’s visits. he opens his arms for him to come into a hug and they often stay like that for a time before echolas presents food he’d snuck in.

like today.

it’s late in the evening, ephraim’s put away in his room for the night, his chores done. echolas has already snuck in and ephraim instantly pulls him into his arms and presses a light kiss to his lips. this is a change ephraim hadn’t expected, but it’s welcome. the kisses, the soft exploring touches, these break his routine in the best way. they keep him out of his head, thinking of everything terrible, and let him focus on the one thing that’s good.