Chapter Text
The village is too silent.
It deafens him, this voidness of anything, after what seems to be years when he had been fighting every single creature that crossed his path. The empty streets, the empty houses, the empty sheds – everything is just empty, null, nothing. The vacuum of life settles, and though Ethan is relieved that there are no more lycans lingering around after he stepped out from the Stronghold, he can’t take the quietness as peace. The word itself is a dissonance here because walking pass broken windows, bloody streets, and rotting bodies, Ethan thinks the place reeks of grief and death and sadness that if not for the wind biting his nose, he would have been choked by the carnage.
The man tightens his hold around the glowing yellow flasks, pulling them close to his chest, almost as if he is truly holding Rose while he makes for the Altar. He glances down at a murky flask and caresses it softly. Rose must be having the most frazzling slumber; Ethan can imagine her little nose scrunches and cries just like whenever she doesn’t sleep well in her crib. He hurries his steps then, humming a slow lullaby and sways his daughter out of habitual reflex.
It is faint, but after collecting all Rose’s part, he can feel her through the thick glass and just… knows.
Or it could just be his waning sanity depleting further. The whole village seems to have that effect on him.
He doesn’t understand and can’t bring himself to care at this point. The last twenty-four hours have been chipping at him, Ethan tries not to mull too much over them with Rose already occupying his mind. His baby girl is the only thing that matters over the waves, he has to put her parts in the chalice, and hopefully, he is closer to healing her. He has just lost Mia; he isn’t about to have the same for his last family. Ethan misses his wife, but he needs to focus if he is to not miss Rose also.
The Duke greets him from his perch at the carriage, smiling when he sees the flasks, and gestures towards the altar. Ethan gives the merchant the most fleeting of acknowledgement before he almost runs up and inserts Rose’s flasks into the four slots. The pedestals release their hold one by one, according to the order of the insertion, and soon Ethan holds the Giant’s Chalice in his hands. The weight is heavy though manageable, he takes it as a comfort despite the jarring difference between his own daughter’s body weight and the chalice. Then, maybe it is the fatigue or maybe the silence or maybe both finally crashing into his walls because Ethan soon sits on the altar’s cold stone steps, cradling the chalice gently, and just… breathes.
The moment’s respite grants him some semblance of stillness, one that lets him halt his act and react flight, and instead allows the adrenaline and the overshot nerves to be calm for a change. The thin sheet of snow with the wind don’t make the best resting spot, yet Ethan’s eyelids are drooping, nevertheless. His vision sways, if just for a bit, and dimming. He leans his cheek on the chalice, the stone blooming pinpricks on the skin from the temperature, slowly he starts to go under. Nonchalant to his uncomfortable hunching position with the hard ground. Everything becomes surely in that murky state of tiredness and Ethan no longer knows his body anymore.
He wades on shallow mists, not knowing anything as he submerges further with slivers of white noises floating over him.
---
There is a voice, it is so tiny he can’t make out the words among the sea of whispers. He strains to hear them more clearly yet they don’t even speak. Their syllables are incorrigible and in babbles. Almost as if possessing the ability of an infant. He stirs the. An infant? Why is there a baby here?
… Of course, there is.
That voice is Rose-
Ethan opens his eyes. The first thing he notices is the somewhat soft padding he is on, there also seems to be a coarse sheet covering him. He sits his body up (since when had he been laying down?), and realizes he is on a make-shift bed. The ‘mattress’ is a pile of straws with some thin pillows while the blanket is made out of an old, knitted wool and cotton.
“Where...” He mutters as he groggily looks around.
“Ah, he’s awake,” the Duke sounds from his right. Ethan snaps to him, almost alert, but overall confused before it clicks, and he deflates. “Apologize for the scare, Mr. Winters. I suppose you are more freshened up now?” He clasps his hands. “You slept almost like the dead. No sound nor movement at all!”
Ethan completely extracts himself from the bed, and stretches his limbs when he is standing. “I didn’t expect to black out like that,” he earnestly says, “Thank you, Duke, for this.” His body and brain are still rebooting for him to even begin to question how the Duke managed to bring him near his carriage, let alone setting up the make-shift cot.
For his part, the heavy man nods and lights up his tobacco. “I see that you have all of your daughter’s parts,” the Duke hums as Ethan rubs his face, then immediately gravitates to the chalice some centimeters beside him. He places a hand on it before he directs his attention to the Duke again. “Will you be heading towards Lord Heisenberg, then?”
“Yes, I’m heading for his factory now,” Ethan replies.
“Well, feel free to peruse my stocks, I’m sure you’ll find something useful to help your journey,” the Duke gestures to his own shop.
There are still more than enough ammunitions and shells, though Ethan is running out of medical aid. He trades several crystals to purchase two of those along with making adjustments to his firearms. While the Duke tinkers with his shotgun and rifle, Ethan leans on the nearby table. He hasn’t removed his hand from the chalice, not that he wants to. His fingers trace each of the Lord’s coat of arms. The skilled craftsmanship is clearly apparent, Ethan can distantly appreciate the intricate works.
“There, all done,” the Duke says, giving him back the weapons in each hand. “Thank you for the wait.”
Ethan breaks his staring at House Dimitrescu’s coat of arms. He slings the rifle over his shoulder and holsters the shotgun on his back. He nods to the Duke before reloading his gun and checking his knife.
The Duke smiles, blowing out a smoke, then gestures towards the gate leading to the Ceremony Site. “I wish you good luck there, Mr. Winters,” he smiles, “and a good day.”
He takes the words for what they are and picks his daughter up. The flasks stay in place as he carries the Giant’s Chalice, fitted perfectly to their slots that they don’t even slip out after he stumbles on some stones and cants the chalice. He murmurs a soft apology to Rose as he resumes his walk. Passing on the bridge, he can hear some waters flowing under. Though despite the stream sounds, the silence of the whole place still prevails, dampening it as they do the village.
Yet it is not strong enough to completely smother the faint wisps inside Ethan’s head.
---
The four kings watch as he inserts the Giant’s Chalice into another pedestal, still and grant even after centuries have passed, the statues stand with a soft grandeur to them. They look ancient, interesting to a point, but aren’t much worth of his attention currently which is a pity. Ethan likes history, moving to Europe had not been all bad when he realized that prospect of sightseeing. Well, as much as he is allowed to, anyway. Mia bought the books about European castles for him after she noticed, and it was sweet of his wife to do just that.
Ethan rubs his left ring finger; the stump already becomes numb to the touch. The bandages are soaked with blood, and he is reaching for another roll inside his jacket when the ground shudders. He looks down to see the altar under him is lowering itself, the cogs grunting in motion as it takes him underground. The sky and the four kings are no more to be seen as four triangular pieces closes above his head. It is a bit dark because of it, but the sparse torches provide enough light for him to clean his violated left hand with a bit of the medicine juice and covers it in fresh bandages. Distantly, he regretted not looking for his missing fingers, there might be a chance he could… somehow put them together like back at Dulvey and at the castle. Though then again, that fucking lycan had already munched his fingers as appetizers.
He flexes his remaining digits, satisfied at their maintained dexterity before picking up his gun once more. Living in the South, he was used to holding firearms ever since he was a teenager. His grandfather had been a hunter in his free time, taking him along the trail with his father who didn’t share the hobby and tried to impart the distaste to his son. But still, Ethan picked up on several rifles and guns, even when he never owned more than the one given to him from his grandfather’s will while he had been a freshman at college. Reloading his Lemi, Ethan could imagine the beam on his grandfather’s face and the complete disdain on his father’s if they were to see him now.
The altar finally stops, it jostles him out of his reverie. Ethan can see the mountains and the factory from his position, he can also notice the smokes coming out of the latter. He is stepping off the altar but stops as his hands are unable to remove the chalice from the pedestal. It is locked tight, unbudging despite his effort. There is a particularly hard angled pull that makes him strains a muscle before he stops. Cursing under his breath, Ethan circles the chalice to see any weak spot, though he finds none in the stone. He could try shooting it, yet the thought of his daughter in the flasks discourages the idea.
He doesn’t want to leave Rose here. Miranda is still around somewhere, and he doesn’t know if he can easily return to this cave after entering Heisenberg’s factory – that is if he even manages to come out unscathed. Ethan already has his daughter; he abhors the idea of not having them together everywhere since. He changes his tactic from trying to remove the whole chalice, and instead, focuses on the flasks. Slowly, he tries to pull a flask, yet it won’t budge as if it is welded into the slot. He pulls out his knife, then presses the tip between the tiny gaps, careful not to break his knife. Still, no give and Ethan soon hisses when its sharp edge nicks his hand instead.
Blood runs down his palm, staining his already dirtied sleeve further. He sucks on the laceration and decides against using his medical fluid. It can heal on its own, it’s a small wound, a bandage will do just fine. Ethan directs his sight back on the chalice, where he wipes away the blood drops on the flasks. Rose is a bit disturbed by his previous actions, and Ethan hums an apologetic tune.
Soon, she seems to be calmer, happier even. There is a soft giggle, a slight squeal, and he smiles at that. Rose tends to be excited when he is there with her, Mia would sigh fondly as she placed the toys and even the monkey ones away before commenting how Rose never became interested in those any longer while their daughter had Ethan’s full attention. It sometimes made working a bit difficult as she split his concentration, but who could refuse her? He spoiled her too much, he could admit that, especially to Mia. He gives the flask containing Rose’s head a soft tap, a shuddering chuckle escaping from him, and he then leans his forehead on it.
“Don’t worry, Rose,” he whispers. “Daddy will do his very best to fix you, okay? I promise. Just stay here for little bit longer, alright? Be a good girl for me.”
He is still busy hovering over the Giant’s Chalice talking to his daughter that he belatedly hears some cogs moving heavily behind him. Grabbing his gun, Ethan whirs around only to point at an opening chasm that was never there before. It yawns wider, the darkness beyond making it much more menacing and intriguing simultaneously. There is a complete nothingness as far as he can see despite the brand-new alertness Ethan has, his time at House Beneviento doesn’t help in his deep-seated paranoia on somewhere that heads down under. He strains to hear any moaning or growling, yet even after a minute or two passes, there is no lycan or dried up corpses crawling out.
Ethan lowers his gun, if only for a fraction, and moves closer to the hole. He makes sure to stand in such a way that he blocks Rose out of sight. Some of the rock dusts were disturbed from the old mechanisms coming to life, the particles sprinkling down and foretell the long, long time this specific part of the wall had never been moved. Ethan skirts the edge where the altar floor borders the ground, noticing the weird, slightly disgusting dirt covering the stones. He tries to shine a light, yet the dark swallows it up, and he can’t force himself to look better without stepping into the hole.
Despite logic advising him against entering, his daughter is behind him and Ethan can’t just leave it be without making sure there is truly nothing there. Glancing over his shoulder at Rose, he gives her one last long smile as his feet start to walk further. His nose scrunches when an apparent squelch comes from his shoes making contact with the slimy dirt, and it doesn’t take long for Ethan to pick up the sharp ethanol-like smell. He can almost taste it on his tongue, the unpleasant waft of pure, undiluted alcohol. He coughs but keeps on going. His arm makes a poor mask with both of his hands preoccupied with holding the gun and the flashlight that he gives up covering his nose and mouth. He elects to just speed up his pace to escape the smell which makes him stumble on what seems to be roots in his haste.
As gravity dictates, he falls. Hard. The next steps have turned out to be steeper than the previous ones and he almost plummets head-first to the bottom if the thick swirling roots didn’t snag his foot. His hand scrambles for purchase, ignoring the weird mushiness as he grabs on another root.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he curses.
His cut is reopened, the flimsy bandage doing nothing to absorb the blood, already turning darker by the seconds. He ignores all the shudder he unwittingly makes from having his jeans and jacket now covered with the god-awful gooey earth, and instead focuses on cleaning the wound as best as possible. A stupid infection is the least thing he would like to die from. The medical fluid stings when he applies it directly, the feeling should have been familiar, but Ethan has the short stick in having awful nociceptors.
Contrary to popular belief, ever since Louisiana, his nerves are, in the simplest word, screwed. There were times when he felt abnormal pains just from bumping his hips or hitting his toes, he would jolt from paper cuts and had his eyes watered even from detangling his hair. Yet on the same time, he could shower in boiling water (Mia’s words, not his) and didn’t flinch, when the trainer accidentally hit him unaware, it took Chris’ immediate halt that he noticed the tender bruise on his stomach, and that had been one particular freak-out as Mia tightened the tourniquet around his left leg after he accidentally stepped on a bear trap which he had only said ‘ow’ before calling for her help. He tried hard not to let those ‘anomalies’ affected him too much, and by god, Mia was a patient saint during those months. A small, gnawing worry had been in his mind when they started to settle down into normal life again about his… condition, but over the years it became scarce and had disappeared completely when they had Rose. Their doctor had been thoroughly puzzled and even the neurologist didn’t have a clue, each explanation always came up lacking. At the end, both him and Mia agreed to move on from it, not wanting to twist their heads with Rose taking up most of their attention, and they left it at that.
Ethan wraps his hand in fresh bandage after dousing it with the medical liquid, and finishing tying the bandage when he finally notices the black substance seems to… move. He shoots up from his crouch, and readies his gun. The earth, the dirt, the… whatever the hell this slimy thing is, it pulses and, as Ethan turns his flashlight’s brightness higher, slithers. They don’t move in uniformity, disorienting him while making the cave feels stuffed.
He doesn’t want to be here any longer.
With careful steps this time, Ethan threads through the moving masses, stepping over the hidden roots and avoiding touching anything. He relies on his light like a life line. The way back is already disappearing, he has no choice but to go forward. To where, he has no fucking clue. He walks and walks and walks, all the while the pulsing and slithering are happening around him. A lone, lone mouse amongst piles of snakes. Time blurs, a concept forgotten, as Ethan scans the place with his limited vision. Nothing is nowhere and somewhere is everywhere. Directions are useless and all he can do is just move. He has a feeling if he ever stops, these living mass will swallow him whole, choking him and feeds off him. Liquefying him before they suck the nourishment like a fucking soup.
Ethan almost wishes he is back at that creepy ass house, instead of this… eldritch wet dream.
The sounds. Fuck, the sounds are a menace. Litany of crushed worms and mortared slugs, the squelch isn’t even a squelch anymore, it’s not something that can be explained by the human sense. The pitch blank only serves to heighten the orchestra, a primitive speaker that works all too well. His lamp is but a mere candle, eaten alive by the shadows it makes. He can’t see anything aside from the goo, the tainted earth, and he is lost. Well and truly lost. He is close to hyperventilating when the walls seem to curve down on him, the space becoming smaller and filled with the substance until he realizes that is the least of his worry.
It happens fast, silver quick that he can only blink as hand-like roots grab his legs and pulls. He closes his mouth and holds his breath in reflex, his body now completely submerged in the slimy pool. The roots weren’t just dead tree roots, they are just as alive as the substance, and Ethan struggles. He flails, hands raking for purchase and find none. The whole place turns into a mouth which is eager to have him, and he doesn’t have second to scream before the ground dips.
The last thing he sees is his poor flashlight trying to shine bright. Futilely.
---
He is somewhere below thick layers, and soon he feels suspended in motion. There is silence enveloping him, yet again, it fails to smother the whispers in his head.
They are no longer faint, no longer mere breezes of incorrigible syllables. They have tones, volumes, and words that Ethan can’t focus on one. It’s confusing. With great effort he peels his eyelids open, ignoring the cool stickiness that latches itself on his face, and his whole body screaming to avoid it. At first, there is only the usual darkness, then in what feels like a millennium, Ethan starts to see.
Vast land of ice and rivers greet him with the mountains just shy over the horizon, the sky is stagnant with the sun being in a perpetual state of dusk. He can’t find other living beings beside himself. Ethan is alone here, standing and rubbing his hands together as the breeze brings forth icicles.
“Where…” He begins walking (or floating?), head going left and right. “Where am I?”
It is the easiest question with the hardest answer. Still, Ethan keeps moving, there is nothing else he can do aside from it anyway. He hopes Rose is safe (well, as safe as she can be in her state). The Chalice is a sturdy thing, and with the flasks tightly placed, Ethan has to contend in that notion. He can’t allow his mind to delve down in concern of Miranda and Heisenberg, he just can’t at the moment. Not when he doesn’t know how to get out or even getting a single clue on his goddamn position. Everything is stained with that weird glow filter, as if he isn’t actually looking, but rather trying to make out what the sight is through iced windows.
“I don’t have time for this…” He clicks his tongue and rubs his eyes.
He thinks he has spent too much time here, regardless of the constant gold sunlight. He needs out. Now. He is a man on a mission, being trapped by a fucking mold is something he can’t afford. He-
Wait.
Ethan blinks.
Mold?
He frowns.
Where did that thought come from?
A laugh cuts his staring at his feet. It is shrill enough that he winces from the echo.
“Who is there?” Ethan calls out. Unsure, but also with a dash of hopefulness of another person existing.
A giggle precedes a reply. “Awe, I thought you would remember me,” another giggle, “daddy.”
Oh, fuck me.
“Eveline?” He says and his hand goes to his waist only to find empty air. He doesn’t have his guns. “How are you here?”
The girl (the little bitch) appears in his peripheral. Just as small and unassuming as ever, aside from the hair curtaining down her face which makes her awful instead, in his humblest opinion. She smiles, rows of baby teeth still in perfect order, and puts her hands behind her. A parody of cute innocence.
“Ugh, you’re so dumb,” she sighs. “You don’t even know that?”
Her tone is so goddamn condescending. Ethan narrows his eyes at her. “Know what?” He asks, but Eveline already twirls around and isn’t interested in answering him. “Hey! You hear me? Hey!” No matter how he much he closes their distance, she always seems to be farther than she looks. “Eveline!”
She giggles again, hopscotching on the little stream ahead and splashes her skirt before she turns to him. “Shh,” she shushes. “You don’t have to yell, you know.” The little girl huffs, then cups a hand over her mouth and tilts her head left. “He’s really, really rude, see?” She whispers to the empty spot beside her, “Very loud too, don’t you think? Are you sure?”
Ethan raises his brow and gestures annoyedly. “Look, can you please just tell me what is going on here?” He puts a hand on his hip, “and also, who are you talking to? Your imaginary friend?” He sneers.
Eveline rolls her eyes, “They’re real, okay?” She mimics his stance. “You are just too dumb to not realize they are.”
“Get creative with the insult,” he says. “If they are so real, then why are you talking to nothing? I don’t see shit.”
“But you can hear them,” she wiggles her finger at him.
Ethan makes an incredulous face. “What?”
“The whispers!” She slaps a hand on her face. “You hear those, even now.”
They are still there, alright. The hushes and mutters and murmurs. Still, they don’t help him to guess and that must have shown because Eveline sighs an uppish one.
She shakes her head, then opens her arms. “The Root!” She says, “The Root.”
“What?” Ethan deadpans.
“They really like you, you know,” she shrugs. “I told them that you’re so not worth it, but they still like you. I guess, Miranda is getting old and weak and all, so you seem good enough.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Ethan hisses.
Eveline sniffs. “It’s too bad, they don’t care about my saying, even when you were totally not nice during playtime and also cheated with killing me despite that you were…” She stops for moment, her head nodding to the left before she straightens up. “Oh, wow, they are really not patient,” she taps her cheek. “Okay then, whatever, I don’t want to be here too long anyway,” the girl stretches her arms and gives Ethan a smile with too many sharp edges. “Have fun with him!”
As if on cue, as if waiting for those specific words, something slams into the blonde. He chokes, hearing his ribs crack and snap, while his skin feels bloated all of a sudden. The whispers in his head turns into a choir, soaring louder and louder, accompanying the lashing sensation of being filled that he can’t even sure if his somatosensation is still there or thoroughly destroyed by the seconds. There is so much happening and felt, Ethan doesn’t know which one to focus on. The swelling, the ringing, the trembling. They are a cocktail of limbo that it takes too long for him to notice that his face is dripping. No, fuck, no, it’s not just his face, his hands, feet, and chest. They feel viscous, soft and wet – they are melting.
He is melting.
“Ew,” Eveline hides her smile and waves. “You look gross.”
It’s too late to open his mouth to scream, his vocal cord is but a mere glob of mush in his throat. His eyes are heavy, the mucus rupturing behind them, and in a blink, everything is gone.
---
He finds himself sitting up on a boat with a fishing rod in his hands. The reservoir isn’t fully built yet, the lake still more of a river than one, and the huts at the shore are well-taken care of. Neither moss nor any sort of rot is visible anywhere. All is clean, pristine with fresh paint coloring the windmill and the small buildings. From his position on the boat, he can make out the tiled roof of his clinic, recognizable by the chimney’s smoke. He is waiting for the place to turn warm before he is opening his door for his patients. Winter is around the corner and the chills can sneak their way from his drafty windows.
A pull at his rod changes his attention back to the new fish. The water is murky though he can make out the outline of a big one biting the bait. He reels the line, standing up to gain more leverage. Unfortunately, in his excitement for a promise of full lunch, he forgets the oil spill on his boat, and he slips on it. The fish escapes when he loses his hold, swimming fast away as he plunges to the water.
-
The tub he emerges from is spilling, making quite a puddle that almost makes him slips. A maid, just entering after three knocks, gasps and quickly drapes him in soft towels. He hums in approval at the clean, spotless hands of the young girl, finally satisfied that she has the mind to keep them that way when attending the owner of the castle after previously having her hands whipped when she didn’t. He walks across the marble floor, then to the carpeted one of his chamber; ignoring the damp spots he leaves in his way.
The hearth heats the room well, not too hot, not too small. He also hums at this, eliciting a stifled sigh from the maid behind him. Her poorly concealed little serenity shatters though as he waves and orders her to grab the silver adorned wine, and it is decided then that maybe he should consider a new brew as he studies her paling face. A spice up to the recipe will do wonders for his latest endeavor in creating a different aftertaste. The maid minutely trembles as she opens and pours the wine, her discreetness almost laughably entertaining. He decides to drink soon after, enjoying the warmth entering his stomach, and the shudder reverberating through the air from the girl.
-
A hand sternly yet also softly steers the glass away from him. His mother shakes her head exasperatedly at him, but then chuckles. It isn’t juice, she says and pats his head. That only makes him more curious to the taste, wondering why his mother loves it so much that she drinks it day and night. Being shooed away from the kitchen, he huffs and makes for the workshop, wondering if he can glimpse a bit at what his father is doing. With his wooden toy in hand, he pushes open the door, almost sneezing at the dust clouds. The sound of metal hitting stone fills his ear, and he stays near the corner so he has the better angle to watch.
It only lasts for a few minutes before his father notices him. The tall man clicks his tongue, dropping his chisel, then grabs him by the shoulder, and pushes him out. He is disturbing his concentration, he mutters, while simultaneously promising that they will play later. That does the trick, and he obediently busies himself with counting how many holes on the walls of their house. He traces them with his fingers until he is bored and sleepy.
-
A tickle rouses him from his warm bed. He playfully swats at his parents’ arms, and immediately zones in on the box peeking out from behind them. It is a bit heavy which makes him more excited because he knows what is inside. The tulle and cotton sheets make the doll look comfortable in the box. Her face is rosy tinted, and she has shiny black eyes. He lifts her up, marveling at the pretty dress she wears, in the color of his favorite white. Already, he loves her – she is beautiful! And she matches with Angie. They can have tea party in their flowy white dresses together later.
His parents smile at him and are all too happy to take his hands to the garden when he tells them he is hungry. Spring has arrived, making the grass soft while the flowers bursting. The birds’ chirps melded along the waterfall’s roar liven up breakfast. He eats so much that he almost forgets to prepare food for his dolls – not a very good parent now is he! Some of the bowls are just the right size for them which he scoops in his arms before hurrying inside.
-
His house is dark. He can’t help it, the sickness is ravaging the village and even opening the curtain just a tiny bit feeds his paranoia. The only windows he truly open are the ones at the top, away from the streets where coughing and sounds of dying are always there as music of death. He walks to the second floor, a lantern in one hand, and the soup bowl in the other. Not many live stocks are fit to eat and there aren’t enough hands to plow the field which makes this soup feels hardly won. Winter allows him to sneak to the other houses, the early night provides a cover as he picks off some vegetables and dried meat from tired families. They don’t have enough energy to keep watch and he uses that advantage. Stealing can spell a disaster in these times, yet he doesn’t care. His child needs to eat, he will be damned to let her sleep hungry in the cold.
The look on her face as he brings the warm food is more than enough to appease his own twisting stomach. He fixes her pillows so that she can be spoon-fed, saving her the energy aside from chewing. Her pallor recedes today, a hopeful sign that she is getting better. As he encourages her to take more bites, he also tells her a story. His voice distracting her from the fever, the headache, and the outside world. The fairy tale is of his own making, a bit too bland though his child is always eager to listen.
They lay together on the bed after, his arm cushioning her with him carding his fingers through her sweat-matted hair. The motion lulls her into rest, despite the pulsing in her head and the chills, her breath turns quieter by the minute. He worries his lips when she changes positions, no doubt being sore all over. He wishes he can do more, but his knowledge is inadequate. Practicing what the doctor does is the one thing he tries hard to replicate and there are promising results. His child can, at least, sleep uninterrupted by vomiting or going to the bathroom every two seconds. He hears from some villagers how torturous those are, ripping you away from proper sleep and peace.
The cemetery is overflowing with bodies nowadays. He witnesses coffins upon coffins being lowered underground, never stopping in the repetition. The gravestones stand as if in a reminder, of that possibility that it will be his child’s turn, and he always has cold sweat whenever the thought passes. He hates himself for even imagining it, he truly does, yet there is nothing stopping him. Not with how fast the number of the living dwindles by the day. It keeps him up and plagues him incessantly.
Death is picking them off one by one while he is powerless in stopping its scythe from swinging. That doesn’t mean he will just stand there willingly though. Death must go through him first if it so wishes in having his daughter. She is everything to him, his light and life. He still remembers the jubilation, the sheer joy when he first held her. In awe at the reality granted to him to be able to birth such a sweet being. All the blood, sweat, and tears were mere feathers in the scale.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find a way to heal you,” he whispers. “I promise. I swear…”
“Rose.”
“Eva.”
Wait. No. She is-
A beat. Then he looks down, at the dark hair instead of the soft golden head.
This isn’t his daughter.
He pushes himself on his elbow, rapidly squinting his eyes, and wobbles when the room blurs.
This isn’t right.
Rose (¿Eva?) dissolves into smokes and ashes, slipping through his fingers so lightly that he doesn’t feel her. It burns something great in him, something blood curling, that his heart is ripping. A scream resounds around him, so broken and lost and desperate. Scrambled octaves that wail terribly. Tears rains his cheeks, wet with the tangy saltiness that smears his lips.
No, this is…
He shakes himself as he also bangs his head.
This isn’t me. I am not me.
He wrestles for control.
I need to go back being me. I need to return. I need to.
Because Rose is-
Something snaps and his head turns blank.
---
His factory is in flames and Karl doesn’t know whether he should be happy or not that, for once, his impatience has saved him. Usually, it earns him Miranda’s reprimands or Alcina’s claws, but this time, he stands in the rain as the blast rattles his bones. He is far enough for the debris to never reach him, and his positions grants him a view of his life’s work destroyed by strategically placed bombs that somehow, somehow went right under his nose.
Oh, that fucking boulder-punching asshole.
All those experiments, all those productions, all those years pouring over his plan again and again. They don’t even see a bud of fruition before they are ruined. Dying sounds way tempting at the moment with only his want to kill that bitch overruling the suggestion. He still wants to live, even if it is just to wring Miranda’s neck and gain a semblance of freedom. Karl has revolved the whole decades for this, damn it. His teeth dig into his cigar, filling his mouth with the bitter tobacco, and he is in dire need of a smoke. The thing has been between his lips ever since he strode out of his factory to find Ethan Winters. A whole day and a half are passing without so much of his hair visible anywhere. It is ridiculous, he can’t be hiding for this long, the endeavor won’t change his situation. The kid is still in parts and surely Winters understands that Karl is the last good lead he can go to.
The lord throws the cigar to the ground.
This whole thing is a mess. He loses everything in less than forty-eight hours ever since Miranda arrived back at the village and he doesn’t even get anything in return. The rain makes his seething mind more miserable. Karl decides that if he is going to wallow for the dramatic moment, he might as well. The stone bridge leads to the cave below the altar, a perfect spot where he can curl and screams to his heart’s content. A place where he can breathe before he picks himself back up for a round two of his personal revolution.
He is nearing the cave’s mouth when the lightning flashes intensely that a small heap gains his attention. Another flash makes Karl moves towards it, nudging the… thing with his foot as he studies it. One more lightning gives him adequate illumination to finally make out what it is, and the revelation brings a grin that mars his face.
“Well, well, well,” he says. “You seem to pick a bad spot for a nap, papa. Where have you been? It’s bad manners to make someone waits too long, don’t you know that?”
The blond hair with the cream jacket are unmistakable, the shades uncommon and bright against the drabby backdrop of the village. It’s a shame how dirty they are, Karl raises his brow at the flecks of dark ichor sticking to Winters. He pushes his foot on the man, kicking him when he doesn’t stir.
“Don’t tell me you are dead,” Karl sighs, but there is a slight rise and dips of his back. “Oh, come on, Ethan, are you really kicking the bucket? Your kid is going to be very disappointed.”
He is about to fully digs a heel on his leg when Winters finally twitches.
-
Is he himself again?
He groans and lifts his head. He is not at the reservoir, the castle, the garden nor the house, he is somewhere hard and wet and cold. Pethicor clogs his nostrils when he sharply fills his lungs. The disjointed feeling hasn’t receded still which he pushes away in favor of making out the lines in his sight. It doesn’t help that the zinging in his ears worsen his effort. Its source is somewhere above him, but he can’t clearly know who since his body won’t cooperate with him.
“…. You seem to pick a bad spot for a nap, papa. Where have you been?”
The living being is talking and is quite annoying for someone in his predicament. He is stuck with atrophying sensation while they keep on talking. Both with their mouth and foot. The act starts to become rude than hurting.
“Oh, come on…. are you really kicking the bucket? ….. is going to be very disappointed.”
He feels something hovering his limb, then it is enough. His body whines yet he keeps turning. Rain pelt his face and it takes several seconds blinking the droplets away when a familiar visage appears.
“Wakey, wakey, Ethan. We have some business to talk about. Really, what took you so long? You’re a no-show kind of person, eh? I’m quite surprised, one would assume you were going to sprint down for your family’s sake to my humble abode...”
He is too chatty, too much uppity. He just needs some good quietness to recollect himself which won’t be arriving anytime soon with how much he talks and talks and talks. On wobbly legs, he hunches over, his eyes glaring at him.
With a hiss, he beseeched him.
“Silence, boy.”
That must have taken a lot from him because he gives out right after then and there.
-
Karl recoils.
He lets the man plops hard onto the ground, out like a light once more. He is too shocked to consider propping him up, reeling from the lash of a memory embedded deep within. A memory from an old past, one that is intimately familial. Karl knows that gaze by heart – he had not been a perfect child by any stretch and sometimes, when he spewed too many things, he became a noisy lad. His parents could only possess much patience before they told him to shut up. But they no longer did that after Miranda took him away, them already dead six feet under just mere days before.
So, how?
How, in that one moment, did he see his mother behind Winters’ eyes?
“What the hell…” Karl murmurs as he crouches down.
Winters is out cold, not even moving when his face is mushed on the ground, and the streaks of mud, root, and mold smearing his whole form. The color of his skin is a sickly yellowish grey, the veins prominent under it in deep black. They caress every inch of the blonde, swirling and twisting in what Karl can only say eagerness. He pokes on a bulging one, feeling it pliant under the pressure, and his sharp nose can smell something there.
It takes away his awareness of his surrounding until there is the sound of a weapon drawn to his head. The thunder and winds must have muffled the approaching soldier, Karl frowns and almost curses. He doesn’t have many metals on him. Glancing over his shoulder Karl sees Chris Redfield, his narrowed eyes make the crossbow with its point fixed towards the lord a billion times sharper.
“Get your hands off him.”