Archive of Our Own

That time. That first time he heard it was just an ordinary afternoon. Kieran had just come home from school. He hadn’t made a sound entering, he moved like a shadow through the hallways, his backpack still hanging from his shoulder. Then he stopped in front of the dining room door.

Voices came from inside. They weren’t shouting. They didn’t need to be, their words were sharp knives wrapped in velvet. In his family, contempt never raised its voice, contempt, it was known, could dress in silk if taught from cradle.

—The Kane family offers more than we ever dreamed.—

His mother said.

She wasn’t sure if her tone was enthusiasm or resignation. To Kieran, it sounded... hollow.

—They’ve done it before. No one will judge them.—

His father replied, his voice like a rock falling into a bottomless pit.

—Kieran is quiet... He’ll adapt.—

His mother spoke, like a piece of furniture, another object in the room.

That was the first cut, but not the last.

—This can’t end like Cedric. It can’t, there’s too much at stake this time.—

His father’s voice rose just a little, as if even desperation was trained to speak with dignity.

—I know. Cedric didn’t accept his fate. Kieran has no choice.—

His mother said with the calmness of a sentence already passed.

And then, silence. Thick, dark silence. The kind of silence that precedes a collapse.

Then, the words Kieran would never forget, as if they had been burned into his chest.

—Children are for that, to pay the price of the future.—

His father said.

Like someone mentioning the weather, like closing a deal.

Kieran walked past to his room. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t yell, didn’t cry, he pretended not to have heard anything.

Days passed. The sound of knives in the kitchen, the smell of boiled rice. His mother’s laughter, tense, almost metallic. All that continued, but Kieran no longer heard anything clearly. The house remained the same… and yet, it was not.

Then came the night of the signing.

It wasn’t a family dinner. It was a spectacle.

In front of him, on the table, lay a ceremonial parchment with black ink still fresh. His parents had signed it hours before, as if selling a part of the house.

But it wasn’t that, they had sold him.

—You’re going to marry the heir of the Kane family.—

His father said, not looking him in the eyes.

—They’ll give us money. They’ll treat you well, after all... he’s a noble.—

His mother whispered, with that smile of hers that seemed like a silk thread about to break.

—Don’t make that face, Kieran. You’re so lucky, I envy you. What I would have given for something like this...—

She added, as if consoling him.

But Kieran struggled to breathe. Not from sadness, not from anger. But from that still wet ink that smelled like rotten flowers.

Then he remembered.

Cedric.

His older brother. Strong, proud. But with eyes always sad. He too had been “arranged” with another family. Also sold, they also said it was for the good of all.

In this town, children were currency. Boys and girls traded for lands, favors, titles, or silence. A cruel, ancient cycle. And traumas were inherited like surnames.

Cedric refused.

Kieran was still a child when it all happened. The woman they had betrothed his brother to was ruthless, yes. But also a victim, he saw it in her eyes: she didn’t want to weave, or cook, or fake smiles, she wanted to run, be free, scream. But she was chained to Cedric, as he was to her.

She didn’t love Cedric. 

And Cedric didn’t love her.

They were just pieces on an old board. Moves in a game they never asked to play.

Her parents tried to save their prestige. Cedric’s parents wanted land. Cedric was the price.

Did no one love their children in this town?

Maybe not. Because when Cedric, his face marred by pain, took a knife and stabbed his wife in the middle of the ceremony, no one thought of her. Or him. Everyone ran.

His parents ran. Her parents too, all left the temple amid screams, some didn’t make it out. The sharp knife struck several.

Kieran didn’t run. He stood still, watching, feeling the heat of his soul breaking.

Cedric approached him, bloodied, and tried to wipe his tears with a trembling hand.

—Don’t let them disfigure you from the inside, brother...—

He whispered with a broken but sweet voice.

—Remember who you are... even if they take everything from you.—

Kieran hugged him. Without fear, without reservations.

—No… Please, don’t go.—

—If one day they want to lock you up... run. Even if you don’t know where. Run.—

And with those words, Cedric ended his story with the same knife in his hands.

—Don’t leave me! Take me with you, please!—

Kieran cried. Begged.

But his brother was no longer there. And no one ever spoke of him again.

Now, years later, Kieran stood before his parents, seeing the same thing. The same pattern, the same betrayal disguised as opportunity.

He kept silent. His stone face did not break, but inside, something shattered, like broken glass inside his chest.

His father looked at him as if he could read his soul. And smiled arrogantly.

—Your duty is to obey, remember that.—

He didn’t shout. But his inside did.

His mother didn’t look at him, not even that.

—It will be a comfortable life. You’re lucky.—

His father added, as if rewarding him.

Yes. Luck.

That night, Kieran sat on the edge of his bed, in his room. He wasn’t crying, just stayed there, still. His hands trembled slightly, as if his soul sought to escape through his fingers. His gaze slid toward the window, where the wind shook the already withered cherry trees.

Outside, the world seemed the same.

Inside, there was nothing left.

He looked at his own hands. White, soft. Useless. Stained with red paint. He used them to create, to imagine... but they had never been able to hold his life. And now, maybe, it was too late.

He remembered Cedric.

Every word, every gesture. He relived him like scenes projected in his mind, over and over. And with the memory, that buried question returned:

What if that was his destiny too?

But he didn’t leave immediately. He stayed a few more minutes. Silent, as was expected of him.

Until something inside said enough.

Then he stood up.

He gathered some of his sketches, drawings of flowers in nature, and a gray scarf that still smelled like Marcella, a gift she gave him when he was twelve. He slipped quietly to Cedric’s abandoned room. It still held the atmosphere of a place frozen in time, as if his shadow had never left.

There, he searched the wooden floor, in an exact corner. A board was loose, he carefully lifted it.

Underneath, a heavy, dusty wooden box. Full of bills, coins, and some small jewels.

A promise never kept, the promise to escape. To run away together. A childhood dream... that Cedric had tried to fulfill alone.

Kieran didn’t cry. He just put it in his bag, like someone carrying a legacy that wasn’t his, but that he was forced to honor.

He left that very night. Crossed dark fields, forgotten ruins. Each step seemed to take him further from the world he knew. Everything looked more abandoned than he remembered. The paths were full of altars, burnt out candles, and dolls hanging from dry trees.

He stopped to pray at one of those altars. Not out of faith. But out of habit, desperation. Or maybe for Cedric.

He ignored the dead birds on the ground. Ignored the metallic smell in the air, kept walking.

His destination: the old town where he had grown up. Where his friends still remained.

There they were. The town was still standing, though something had changed, it seemed... emptier, stranger.

But there, in his heart, was the only place where some part of him still existed.

Marcella saw him first. She was sitting on a bench, holding a book. When she saw him, her eyes opened wide as if waking from a bad dream.

—Kieran...—

He was surprised too. He had thought to go to her house, but there she was, as if she had been waiting for him all this time.

Julia was a few meters away, quietly embroidering. When she saw him, she dropped the needle, her lips tightened. She said nothing.

Jasmyn appeared later. She said no words, only approached and hugged him. As if she knew it would be the last time.

And maybe she did, maybe they all did.

—Why didn’t you tell me...?—

Kieran asked, his voice wasn’t angry, only surprised. A sadness barely contained.

—We tried to stop it... But we couldn’t.—

Marcella said.

—We’re sorry.—

And they meant it. Because they had tried everything they could, they knew it. All of them knew. And yet...

—We were going to go with you.—

Cella added.

—I stole money from my parents.—

Kieran looked up.

—You stole...?—

Marcella nodded.

—They talked about trading me too. Said it would be like my sister Deborah.—

Her voice trembled.

—I was always obedient. Always did what was expected of me. But... I got tired, I saw where they hid the money. I knew they thought I didn’t know, but I always knew.—

Her eyes shone, but not with tears.

—Fuck them.—

She said that. And there was no guilt in her words.

Julia pulled out some wrinkled tickets from her bag.

—It’s not much, but I bought three train tickets. To the city, maybe we can get there before it leaves.—

—You sold your bracelet...?—

Jasmyn asked, seeing her bare wrist.

Julia nodded.

—I didn’t think twice. I thought it was necessary.—

Jasmyn had no jewelry. Nor tickets, only a small bag.

—I... brought food. It’s not much, but it’ll help on the way. Bread, nuts, water...—

Kieran felt a lump in his throat.

They wanted to leave with him. Even with fear, even with everything against them.

—Then... let’s go.—

Kieran said, with a soft smile.

—Maybe we’ll find Blake on the way.—

—I hope so...—

Marcella replied.

And with that, they set off.

But the town… was no longer the same. The fog came with them. And never left.

They walked for hours. The direction was clear: the train, the exit, the last chance.

But with every step, something changed.

The village streets began to twist. The paths they once knew no longer led anywhere, and the signs disappeared. And the fog… The fog grew thicker with every corner. Denser, more alive.

—This... What the hell is happening?!—

Cella shouted, stopping abruptly. Her shoes were already soaked.

Julia looked at her wristwatch. The second hand spun backwards, then froze; that watch had been a gift from her grandmother. It had always worked, always. Why now...?

—How much time has passed...?—

She murmured.

—This isn’t normal. At this rate, we’ll never catch the train.—

Jasmyn stood still, scanning the surroundings with empty eyes.

—This doesn’t seem like the village...—

She said barely audible.

—It feels like a rotten version of it. Like something is copying it wrong.—

And then the flowers started to appear.

From the cracks in the cobblestones, from the cracked walls. Red flowers, too red.

They had no scent. They smelled like rust, like wet flesh.

Touching them burned.

—Watch out! Don’t step on them...—

Jasmyn shouted, pulling her foot away from some red roots crawling along the ground. A petal had touched her ankle, leaving her skin red, almost raw, like a wound.

The houses were no longer the same. Some were open, others sealed shut with chains made of flowers. There were windows in places that hadn’t existed before. Doors that whispered when approached, roofs that seemed to breathe.

—Let’s go inside a house. It’s not safe out here...—

Kieran suggested.

Not because he trusted what was inside, but because outside was worse.

They chose a two story house, with broken windows and a curtain that moved even though there was no wind.

They locked themselves in. Barricaded the door, and for today, there was peace.

But the fog did not stop.

It descended like a thick, almost solid blanket. Like a membrane, as if the village had been sealed from within.

They couldn’t get out anymore.

The streets shifted places. The clocks ticked backward. And the flowers... the flowers grew faster, from animal corpses, from cracks, from shadows. From the air itself.

And inside the house, they began to change too.

Julia started talking to her reflection. Long conversations with a voice no one else could hear. Sometimes she laughed, sometimes she cried, sometimes she said her mother’s name as if she were right there. But no one answered.

Marcella said she heard voices beneath the floorboards. She would sit for hours on the wooden planks, ear pressed against the wood. Sometimes she whispered: “They’re calling me.” And smiled as if it wasn’t something terrifying.

Jasmyn no longer slept. Nor ate, she just knitted. Took Julia’s gear, knitted a sweater… then unraveled it. Again and again. Like an impossible cycle.

And Kieran…

Kieran painted.

At first, blue flowers. Then black. And finally, only red.

Impossible flowers, twisted petals, stems with closed eyes. Tiny mouths in the center, he painted as if it was his only way to stay whole.

The house walls started bleeding roots, the voices were constant. They came from the well in the yard, from the mirrors, from under the bed.

And the fog… The fog embraced them tighter every day.

Then he appeared.

The front door opened effortlessly. The same door they had sealed shut with nails and furniture. It opened by itself.

And there he was.

—Mason...?—

Kieran whispered, trembling.

He didn’t know if it was real, a memory, or an hallucination born from the fog.

Mason stood there, dressed elegantly in black clothes embroidered with silver thread, a fox mask hanging from his neck.

He smiled as if everything was fine.

—I promised I’d always be with you—

He said softly.

—What are you doing here...? How...?—

This wasn’t real... It was impossible.

—Now I can do what I always wanted. I have power, I have status. I only lack you.—

His tone was happy. Too happy, madly happy.

Kieran felt nauseous. Mason was no longer the dirty, abused kid from before. Now he shone with power and arrogance.

But his eyes were still sad, for some reason.

—I remember you, Kieran. That day when I fell. Everyone looked at me like I was a plague, but you... you touched my face without fear. You spoke to me, you healed me, you were kind.—

—Because I didn’t care who you were—

Kieran answered, low but firm.

—I believed everyone deserved humanity.—

—Exactly! That’s why I love you. That’s why I chose you.—

His voice trembled with excitement, but something was deeply broken in it.

Kieran couldn’t bear it.

Not anymore.

He ran.

He left the house. Left his friends behind, didn’t think, didn’t look back.

He just ran.

And that day he got lost.

The village stopped obeying rules. The streets twisted like open veins, the houses floated, others cried. Or cracked by themselves. His mother’s portrait appeared on walls that hadn’t existed before, covered in worms. His father’s voice came from broken, bloody vases.

And Mason…

Mason was everywhere.

Dressed for a ceremony. With red flowers pinned to his neck. With his mask hanging, always smiling.

—I still remember your voice, your words of support...—

He whispered from behind a tree.

—You told me not to hide. You were so sweet… it hurt to leave the village, but it was worth it. I’m here, I’ve come back. And now I can have you.—

—I didn’t do that for this, I wasn’t your friend to get this, I wanted nothing of this—

Kieran answered without turning around.

—But you did. And now you’re mine.—

The village bled, the statues wept, flowers grew from increasingly deformed, grotesque bodies.

And every time Mason spoke, something twisted even more.

And then, Kieran came back.

It was stupid, but he came back.

He found Jasmyn sitting under a crumbling staircase.

—You came too late—

She said.

Her voice was a whisper, her eyes, two bleeding clouds.

—Where are the others...?—

Kieran asked, a knot in his throat.

Jasmyn didn’t answer. She only lifted something.

Marcella’s scarf, the one matching hers.

—Where is Marcella?—

He insisted, his voice breaking.

—Downstairs. Where the bodies bloom.—

That was all.

And with that, something inside him broke forever.

Julia appeared the next day. She was in the abandoned church.

She wore a dress made of dry petals and thorns, with worms. She didn’t speak, just embroidered names on red handkerchiefs.

One read: “Kieran.”

Kieran approached, his steps trembling. Julia didn’t look at him, her hands moved with precision, as if embroidery was the only thing keeping her alive. Or sane, or both.

—Julia… can you hear me? Are you... are you okay?—

She slowly turned her face. Her eyes were dry, glassy, she smiled, but it was no human smile.

—We were meant for this, Kieran. You know? The village demands it, it needs it. It’s... a garden. And we are the flowers that feed its roots.—

Her voice was soft, like a mother rocking a baby. Or a doll that believes itself alive.

Kieran stepped back. And ran again.

He found Marcella. Or what was left of her.

She sat in a chair in the old schoolroom, her head tilted toward the window. As if waiting to see a group of carefree children running through the fields, as if she still saw a world that no longer existed.

The scarf that had been in Jasmyn’s hands, now back on her. He gently tied it again around Marcella’s neck. A small, human gesture. The thing that kept him standing.

—Forgive me, Cella... Forgive me for not protecting you.—

And for the first time since it all began, he cried silently.

He sat beside her.

Said no more.

He just let the pain flow, drop by drop, through his fingers, his chest, his eyes.

After who knows how long, because time no longer existed, Kieran found Jasmyn again.

She walked alone down a street covered with dark petals, each step crunching like broken bones.

She looked at him as if she already knew he would come back.

—Did he tell you he loved you?—

She asked, without emotion.

Kieran nodded slowly, his feet seeming rooted to the ground.

—He says I’m the only good thing he’s ever touched.—

She whispered.

Jasmyn looked down. A black tear ran down her cheek, and she didn’t wipe it away.

—There are things that must not be touched—

She murmured.

—Even if they are beautiful.—

And the village... kept blooming, but not with life. With memories, with trauma, with bodies crying roots, with names repeated among the petals like prayers.

Amid all that growing horror, Mason remained.

Watching everything.

Smiling.

Waiting.

Because he didn’t want to destroy Kieran. He wanted him to stay, to accept it, to bloom with him.

One night, while he slept, or thought he slept, Kieran dreamed he was going home. That his mother cooked rice, his father read the newspaper, Cella laughed out loud, and Julia embroidered silently, with no thorns in her fingers. That Jasmyn shared school gossip while they were all together.

And in the center of the dining table, a single red flower.

Its petals slowly opening, revealing an eye in its center. An eye looking at him. And blinking.

He woke up screaming.

The flowers had come inside. And the fog... the fog was no longer outside.

It was inside, along with shadows that seemed to come for him. He shouldn’t have let his guard down, but it was already too late to regret it.

The day arrived unannounced, since the shadows appeared. It was already too late.

No one said it, no one marked it on a calendar.

The fog knew. The village knew.

The clocks stopped at the same hour, the red flowers, which once bloomed at random, now blossomed in rows, like guests at a sacred event. Bodies vanished from the streets, or turned into statues of dry petals.

And Kieran…

Kieran was taken to the broken temple, as an offering. Dragged by force, weak… but still fighting, though he didn’t know if there was a way out, because hope overflowed like water: inevitable, stubborn, useless.

Mason was there, at the end.

Standing on the moss covered stone altar. Dressed in formal clothes, black garments embroidered with crimson threads, with the same smile as always. That smile that once was a refuge… and now was a sentence.

—I promised I would take care of you—

He said, watching him arrive.

Kieran wore a white robe he hadn’t chosen. It was beautiful, but stained with red; on the fabric, flowers drawn with blood. In his hair, flowers fastened like fire.

—No one will force you to do anything from now on—

Mason whispered.

—I promise. This is for your own good, you just have to follow my voice… obey it.—

The words were soft but hollow. “Ironic,” thought Kieran. “No one will force you to do anything,” yet they were forcing him. “You just have to obey my voice,” like a master.

Kieran looked at him with dry eyes.

—Who do you think you are to do this? To force me!—

His voice sounded hoarse, broken.

Mason smiled.

—Who do I think I am? I am the one who will fulfill what your brother couldn’t.—

He stepped closer and placed a red flower behind his ear. Another to accompany the others.

—I took you out of your parents’ claws, Kieran. Isn’t that what you wanted? A better place. Comfort, freedom.—

But that wasn’t freedom. It was another cage, only with silk cushions and the smell of incense.

It was slow. The ceremony was like a parody.

There was no cure, no sacred words. Only shadows with masks, voices that were not human, and petals falling like ashes.

As the flowers climbed the columns, the altar bled.

Kieran was forced to kneel for the first ritual. The shadows held his arms with feigned delicacy.

The ceremonial knife appeared: small, black, polished.

The mark he had to bear on his back was a flower. Not just any flower, one that didn’t exist in the real world.

And while they carved it with surgical precision, while blood ran down his back and the shadows clapped without hands, Kieran screamed.

But no one stopped.

Mason only murmured soft words, like comfort.

That was the first ritual. The second was worse.

The shadows handed Mason needles and thread. He took them with an apologetic look.

—Don’t do it… please…—

Kieran begged.

—I promise to do it quickly. And as painless as possible—

Mason said, before driving the needle into his lips.

The ring was the final part of the ritual: a piece of dark metal with a stone that reflected neither light nor life.

Mason slid it onto his finger with tenderness.

—Now you are safe.—

The ring fused with his skin, like a second blood. When Kieran tried to remove it, it no longer had shape. It was part of him, an internal root.

The temple closed. Literally. The doors vanished, the windows sealed.

The village swallowed the exit.

On the third night, when he was alone, staring into nothingness, Jasmyn came for him. She had faked obedience, she had entered the temple as just another flower, with the little sanity she had left.

—We don’t have much time—

She whispered, cutting the petal bond that tied him to the bed.

They ran through hallways that hadn’t existed before, everything smelling of rotten incense.

Kieran didn’t know if it was real, but he chose to believe. To believe he would get out. Because when they escaped the temple, through a window, the fog was still there. The flowers too. The village, that twisted other village, still awaited them.

They ran south, the same south where they used to escape as children.

The fog followed them. The trees bled when touched, the roots tried to cling to their legs.

Each step left petals.

Jasmyn screamed. A stem with living thorns caught her ankle.

—Run!—

She shouted, while her body dissolved into the earth.

Kieran tried to reach her, but only got petals in his hands.

Julia was the only one to reach the edge. In fact, she was already there when he appeared.

The place where the train station once stood was now only fog. The tracks looked abandoned for years, covered in roots that grew like veins. She felt something in her heart, something breaking more and more, this was the place of destiny; if things had gone differently, they could have boarded that train, if they hadn’t ended up here.

—We can cross—

She whispered.

Kieran wanted to ask, Why don’t you go?, but Julia understood his look.

She touched the face of a broken statue, made of stone and withered flowers. The statue was crying.

—Beauty hurts, Kieran—

She said.

—It hurts so much that sometimes you don’t know how to let it go.—

She didn’t cross. She only sat down to wait, to embroider something that would never come.

And Kieran moved on. He crossed the tracks and walked south.

It was all trees and fog. For some reason, there were no living roots there; the place was full of stone paths, wooden bridges, and poorly built stairs. He walked slowly through the ruins of an old house, where he stopped to rest. Then he saw him.

Cedric.

Or what he once was. His face was covered with red flowers that burned his skin; the vines moved like tentacles, still, he looked blurry, like an old memory.

—Sorry—

Cedric said.

Kieran wanted to ask Are you real? but Cedric didn’t answer. He just extended a hand.

Kieran took it without hesitation. Despite everything, he wanted to feel the touch of his brother.

And upon touching him…

He woke up.

He didn’t remember how many days had passed.

In that crystal and silk room, where everything smelled of expensive perfume and confinement, time wasn’t measured in hours, but in brushstrokes.

A flower, a face, a name, a silence.

Kieran painted, but no longer normal flowers.

His paintings were impossible landscapes: eyes, flesh, fire, roots. Abandoned villages, worms sprouting from shadows.

They were sad and horrible paintings, mirrors of his broken mind.

At the base of the easel was a flower that seemed to breathe with him. Red as an open wound, its stem twisted slowly, as if it listened to his sighs.

That day, a new bracelet rested on his wrist: heavy, cold, red. Another gift, another chain.

Then the door opened, as always, without knocking. Mason entered, dressed in black and gold. His smile, impeccable.

—You know? I’ve been thinking about remodeling the garden—

He said, approaching with soft steps.

—We could fill it with those flowers of yours. I still keep the drawings you gave me when we were kids… There were so many colorful flowers. They’re so unique… just like you.—

Kieran didn’t answer. His lips, though no longer sewn shut, remained sealed inside; his words were paintings: red, mute. Screams no one heard.

Mason stroked his hair with gloved fingers.

—Today I saw your father in the nobles’ court. He wanted to speak with me, he begged, actually.—

His smile didn’t move.

—I reminded him he no longer has any rights over you. After all, the money has already been paid, I’m beginning to believe he doesn’t understand.—

He sighed.

—But that no longer matters.—

Kieran shuddered. His father? He looked away.

Mason sat beside him.

—Why do you hate me, if I love you?—

He asked softly.

Kieran closed his eyes.

—It’s okay—

Mason said.

—You don’t have to tell me. I know you’ll understand in time. I’m patient… like you always were with me.—

And he smiled again.

Mason believed he had done well. He believed Kieran was safe. And he loved him. In his own way.

But Kieran did not bloom. He died a little more every day.

Not all dark tales have monsters.

Some have love, a sick love, one that creeps like a root. That imposes silk cages, that transforms beauty into prison.

Kieran was loved. But not as he should have been.

And now, in a palace full of luxury and flowers... he blooms in solitude.

With clean hands. With empty eyes. And with red flowers that will never stop growing.