The sharp ache in Ethan's wrist pulsed with every beat of his racing heart. He clamped his other hand over the wound to stem the flow of blood – the blood which, Ethan was acutely aware, was drawing the hungry gazes of the three smaller women in the room.
Smaller was, of course, relative.
Ethan considered himself a tall man by most standards. Next to the towering nine-foot-and-God-knows-how-many-inches tall woman that had just released his wrist – shit, those standards he measured up to were worthless.
"Hm," The tall woman's lips pursed in consideration. They soon curled with a hint of displeasure. "Starting to go a little stale."
Of all the things that could be said, Ethan hadn't been expecting that. At the rate that this shitfest was going, Ethan supposed he should have stopped expecting things a long time ago.
Before he could rebut or voice his grievances – whether his slit wrist or his sickled legs – the woman to his left spoke up.
Her voice titillated with excitement as she suggested, "Then let us devour his man-flesh quickly, mother!"
She took long, graceful strides and handed her mother a handkerchief before turning to face him. Their gazes locking for just a moment was enough to make Ethan's stomach turn. His legs trembled, whether from fear or from the torn flesh was anyone's guess. Ethan took a breath and attempted to get a word in.
The woman to his right – the blonde one who had impaled his leg first – beat him to it with a complaint, "But I am the one who captured him!"
The accompanying side-eye she shot at the redheaded witch would have been amusing, if not for the fact they were discussing cannibalizing him. Ethan's fingers twitched nervously at his sides. The fact that they'd yet to disarm him was alarming in and of itself. His pistol was holstered at his hip. The shotgun was slung over one shoulder, probably having earned a chip or dent or two when the witches unceremoniously dragged him into the room.
Drawing his gun and shooting at the tall bitch or her daughters was just suicide with one extra step. Add that these women first appeared by materializing as a swarm of flies, well – what good were bullets against them? Ethan opted to stay still in the hopes of prolonging his survival for at least a few moments longer. Every second he stayed breathing was a second he could spend plotting his escape and finding Rose.
"Now, now, daughters," The big woman gently reproached the witches around her. She dabbed at her bloody lips with the handkerchief and informed them, "First, I must inform Mother Miranda."
The name clicked in Ethan's head. The strange, local prayer that the villagers had uttered. The murdered man in the fields. And of course, seeing her in the flesh shortly before he was sent running for his life.
Ethan watched the crumpled, bloodied handkerchief hit the floor as he mentally catalogued this Mother Miranda person. His attention snapped back to the tall woman when her predatory, almost amused gaze fell on him.
That place is full of nothing but blood and death!
Ethan blamed the blood loss for his slow deductive skills. This was Castle Dimitrescu, so the obvious matriarch here was the Lady Dimitrescu.
"But later…" The Lady folded her hands together and took a step closer, "Well, there will be enough for everyone."
A chill ran down Ethan's spine as the daughters' sadistic giggling filled the tense air.
With a wave of her hand, Lady Dimitrescu ordered, "Put him up!"
The redheaded witch to his left seized his arm. The hook in her hand glinted in the light with a crimson tint. His eyes widened and this time, his voice didn't fail him, "Hey, hey wait!"
"Mother," The blonde witch to his right began, "If we string him up here, all that fresh man-blood will go to waste."
The redhead's hook stopped an inch shy of his hand. She looked towards her mother, whose head was tilted in consideration.
"Let us take him to the dungeon," The blonde witch suggested. Ethan didn't like the way her bloody lips split into a hungry smile as she went on, "Not a drop of that warm, wet, bright red blood will go to waste."
The room was silent for a beat as all eyes went between Lady Dimitrescu and the witch to his right.
"You make a good point, darling." The Lady's affirmation earned a proud smile from her daughter. The towering woman then gestured to the doors he'd been dragged through, "Put the man-thing in a cell. Do with him as you wish, but do not bleed him dry. Mother Miranda may yet have use for him."
"Yes, mother."
"Aw, but we were just getting to know each other," The redheaded witch released Ethan's arm far more slowly than necessary. Just the same, the blood encrusted hook was removed from its former position, poised to impale his hand. Ethan felt the tiniest tinge of relief.
While being tortured in a dungeon did not sound like the brightest of prospects, it seemed better than being strung up like a stuck pig. It bought him invaluable time.
"Come along now, girls," Lady Dimitrescu motioned to the redhead and the brunette. Ethan gulped nervously as the brunette glared daggers at him while the redhead shot him a wink. The two women stood on either side of their mother, who looked to the blonde witch and added, "Take care of our guest, dear."
The relief left Ethan as quickly as it came when the witch raised her sickle to his neck. With a smile equal parts sweet towards her mother, and threatening towards him, she nodded, "With pleasure, mother."
It happened faster than Ethan could process it. One moment he was standing upright on shaky legs, watching the blonde witch from the corner of his eye. The next, he was looking up at the ceiling, and his feet abruptly left solid ground. They were moving at a disorienting speed. He felt the vibrations all the way in his skull as the beating of a thousand insectoid wings assaulted his senses. A hand, far stronger and firmer than he would imagine from the witch, gripped him by the scruff of his clothing. Through the buzzing all around him, Ethan made out the sound of maniacal giggling from the room he'd just been removed from.
As Ethan's head knocked against one corner in a sharp turn, he recovered enough of his senses to begin struggling. He kicked against the floor in the attempt to get upright – regain his balance and stability so he could do something. Anything was preferable to being dragged around like a ragdoll. Now that he was alone with just one psycho, he had a better chance. He'd been dragged around and abused by enough unhinged mutants to last him a lifetime. Being as limp as a sack of potatoes did him no favors.
They had just entered a regal dining room when Ethan grabbed hold of the doorway. The witch huffed an irate grunt at the sudden halt in momentum. Ethan turned his head just in time. Before his eyes, the witch morphed from just a hand and a vaguely human-shaped mass of flies and into her previous form. With an exasperated scowl, she swung her fist Ethan's way. He ducked with a split second to spare, causing her to smash her fist into the doorway's fine wooden molding. It splintered on impact with a sharp crack. The witch appeared more annoyed by that than any sort of damage her hand may have sustained.
Ethan backed away but failed to account for the large dining table so close by. He knocked his hip against the edge, stumbling as he unslung his shotgun. She darted across the room within the blink of an eye, transforming into a cloud of flies to close the space. She slammed into Ethan as a solid mass, knocking him against the closest wall. Her fingers wrapped around the weapon with a vise-like grip. Ethan wrestled for control over the gun in vain. Within moments, the shotgun's buttstock slammed into his face, rocking his head back against the wall.
It was ripped from his hands and harmlessly discarded on the floor. In a feat of inhuman strength, the witch picked Ethan up and held him high overhead, like he weighed no more than a balloon. In one deft motion, she sent Ethan careening over her shoulder and crashing down onto the dining table behind her. The air left his body and his back lit up with pain. He writhed for a moment, catching his breath and looking up at the ornate ceiling. His view was soon interrupted by the witch's frustrated glower.
"Crazy fucking witch," Ethan muttered out in spite of the stars dancing across his vision.
"Stupid man-thing," She snarled back, "You're only making this worse for yourself."
Ethan knew when he was outmatched, at least for the moment. With how she could zip around as a swarm of flies, he wouldn't be surprised if bullets did fuck all against her. The witch grabbed him once more, this time locking his neck in place with the crook of her elbow. It was almost reminiscent of being picked on by a bully in school. All that was missing was her knuckles rubbing a furious noogie into his skull.
He let out a strained, gagging sound when he found himself in such close proximity to her for the first time. With his face pressed up to the side of her robed torso – already half transformed into a swarm of flies – he could smell the stench of decay on her.
He could blink and be right back in the Baker household, being force-fed worms and maggots.
Ethan did his best to block out the rank smell, focusing instead on the path ahead as she took flight once more.
They zoomed on forward, and Ethan allowed his feet to limply drag along the floor like the very image of defeat. As humiliating as it may have been to be captured like this, he needed to conserve his strength. He was alone here and about to be thrown into a goddamn dungeon. God knows how badly and for how long the torture would last until he found his opportunity to escape.
Ethan gritted his teeth. The time he spent shackled up as a prisoner needed to be kept at a minimum. There was no telling where Rose was, or what condition she was even in to begin with. He needed to haul ass to make sure she was safe. The moment these damn witches let their guard down, he needed to make a break for it.
"Stand aside!" The witch commanded in a sharp hiss.
Ethan craned his neck a fraction up to see who she was ordering. To his surprise, the kitchen they'd just entered was bustling with several women in dark robes, with veils concealing their features. The only way he could tell the servants were human was the fact that they took a wide berth as they passed. They pressed their trembling bodies to the walls as if hoping to merge with the stone and tile – anything to get away from the witch and her latest prey. Ethan would have called for help if it weren't for the powerful grip the witch had on his neck.
The only other door in the kitchen flung open as they passed. Ethan's stomach turned at the sight before him. The stairwell descended into complete darkness, concealing untold horrors in the castle's underbelly. The temperature began to drop as the witch half-dragged, half-flew them down the steps. The dank smell of mold mixed with the metallic whiff of rust and general disuse. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairwell, Ethan's sight had given out. He looked around with wide eyes, straining to get his pupils to adjust and make sense of the pitch blackness surrounding him.
The panic rose as bile in his throat. His heart pounded up into his ears, blocking out the sound of the witch's fluttering swarm of flies. His breaths grew shallow and he wriggled faintly against her iron grip on his neck. His trusty flashlight was clipped to his hoodie's pocket. Switching it on was a fool's errand while he was being dragged around this decrepit dungeon at high speed.
Ethan had lost count of the turns they'd taken by the time they arrived. They stopped sharply enough for his shoes to skid on the dirt-laced stone floor. He wasn't sure if it was the panic or if the dungeon was just fucking cursed, but his eyes had barely adjusted to the darkness. He saw the vaguest shapes and silhouettes, but nothing beyond that. He heard more than saw the cell door creak open. He swallowed the lump in his throat just as the witch abruptly righted him.
"Be still."
She blended in with the darkness around them. All Ethan could feel were her hands on his body – frisking him, he realized belatedly. His pistol hit the floor with a clatter, followed by the two magazines of ammunition from his pocket. The shells of buckshot were next, carelessly dropping to the rough-hewn stone below. Before long, the rest of his miscellaneous armaments and first-aid implements were confiscated and discarded on the floor.
Finally, the flashlight was unclipped from his hoodie. With a click, a beam of light shone on the grubby floor. It reflected off the stray pieces of ammunition littering the area. She pointed it this way and that in an almost experimental manner. It stung Ethan's eyes when she brought it up to his face. Instinctively, he recoiled and shielded his eyes. The reaction earned an amused giggle from the witch.
"I thought you preferred the light, man-thing."
"Fucking," Ethan grunted as he protected his sensitive pupils, "Psycho."
Disoriented yet again, Ethan was powerless to stop her from reaching into his second hoodie pocket. His heart sank when she drew his family photo free in one swift yank.
"Hey, give that back!" Ethan lunged forward, only to be stopped with a single hand on his chest, shoving him into the cell. His foot snagged on an old chain, and he hit the ground ass-first.
The witch paid him no mind, simply leaning against the wall opposite his cell. With the flashlight in hand, she illuminated the photo. Ethan glared at her for several long seconds. His pulse pounded powerfully in his veins. He was steeling himself to spring back to his feet. Wrestle the photo from the crazy bitch, even if it got him stabbed again.
"Is this your Rosemary?"
No deranged taunting. No giggling like a madwoman. It was a simple, curious inquiry.
His tense muscles relaxed a fraction. Slowly, watching the witch for any sudden movements, Ethan stood up. He nodded in response.
"And this woman?" The witch turned the photo to him, pointing at Mia with her gloved index finger.
Sorry, Ethan.
The five succeeding gunshots that echoed in Ethan's mind were enough to make him flinch. The lump in his throat grew tighter and he found himself unable to answer the witch. With her head tilted, she watched him grapple with the heartache.
The hours had blurred by in the time it had taken him to reach the lycan-infested village and this godforsaken castle. Chris goddamn Redfield emptying his magazine into Mia's chest wasn't even a day ago.
There hadn't been any time to process it.
After all the shit he'd been through to find her. Getting his hand chainsaw'd off, and Jack Baker putting a sharpened shovel through his leg didn't make the half of it. The house of horrors he endured, all the excruciating pain and psychological trauma he'd had to live with these past couple of years – Ethan had always known that it was worth it, in the end. He'd gotten Mia back, and that was reason enough to endure that shitshow.
Tangled up in the warmth of their bedsheets, with his lips to her skin, and her fingertips ghosting over the countless scars he'd earned in the trials to get her back – he'd told her more than once: he would do it all again if he had to.
A part of Ethan had a feeling it would all blow up in their faces. That a nice house in the Romanian countryside while under Chris' protection was too good to be true. He just hadn't expected it to all go to hell so soon. He never expected Chris to take a gun to Mia and send him back down on this cursed path of pain and blood and horror. All mere years after he'd fought through hell and high water to get her back.
And this time there was no getting her back.
All he had left was Rose.
Rose, who was God knows where by now after Chris took her. The decision to go to Castle Dimitrescu was just based on a hunch. But considering it was the most tall and imposing figure in the skyline, it stood to reason that whoever was there may know something. When the witches taunted him earlier, it just confirmed his suspicions. Even if Rose wasn't here, they knew about her, and may just know where she is right now.
Fuck – even the witch in front of him knew Rose's full first name.
Yet Ethan's voice still failed him. The lump in his throat had grown like a tumor now. Any and all words that hoped to form fell dead on his tongue.
The witch pushed off the wall, taking a step closer to the open cell door. She raised the family photo and the flashlight up, not unlike one would present a pet with treats.
"Do you want these back, man-thing?"
The grief tugged at Ethan more powerfully than he was prepared for. He nodded meekly as his bleary eyes were locked onto Mia's delicate features.
"Do me a favor." The witch took another step closer. "I need you to relax."
For just a moment, Ethan found his voice. The perplexing request was enough to shock him out of his sorrow for the moment. Incredulously, he repeated, "Relax?"
The witch kept her gaze on him as she lowered the still-lit flashlight to the floor. Her movements were slow and deliberate. It reminded him of a lion stalking its prey – in that she moved so cautiously as to not spook him into fleeing. He was acutely aware of the fact that if she wanted to, she could gut him before he could even blink. It was reason enough to stay still.
The photo was extended towards him. Ethan stared at it as his blood continued to pump all the way up to his ears.
"You are not relaxing," The witch observed.
Ethan's eyes trailed from the photo to the witch's gloved hand, all the way up to her blood smeared face. Gone was the taunting, maniacal smile. The frustrated snarl was just as absent. Instead, she wore a neutral expression on her face. There was a crease by her tattooed forehead, as if worried he wasn't relaxing fast enough.
"If I give you this," She waved the photo slightly, "Will you relax?"
"Why?" Ethan's face scrunched up in confusion.
She took another step closer – close enough for her to grab him. She held his family photo in both hands. "I could smell your man-blood the moment you stepped into this castle."
In the darkness, Ethan could just barely make out her amber eyes settling on his neck. Right by his jugular.
"When you squeeze the blood out while a human is alive, it's much sweeter."
Ethan gulped.
"But when they wriggle," The witch slid the photo back into Ethan's hoodie pocket. "When they struggle…"
Ethan found himself transfixed by the witch's amber eyes. He blamed whatever cannibalistic and/or bug-based magic was at work.
"When they know they are not long for this world…" She closed her eyes and let out a sigh. Ethan could practically see the vivid images running through the witch's mind – of the countless lives she had drunk dry. Her eyes fluttered open, and she concluded. "They don't taste as good."
Ethan bit down on his tongue. It was all he could do to stop from sputtering out his knee-jerk reaction to learning of the finer tastes in cannibalism. His breath hitched when she set either of her gloved hands on his shoulders.
"The adrenaline that gets pumped into your blood," She explained, "It tastes sour. Ruins the experience, really."
She cast a vague sideways glance at no one in particular when she added, "Daniela is indifferent to it. Cassandra loves it. I am not sure if she enjoys the taste more, or the screaming that comes with it."
"I gave your photo back, man-thing. Will you relax now?" Her lips parted into a smile, revealing surprisingly un-bloody, bright teeth. "Please?"
"Why man-thing?" The words stumbled out of his mouth before he could quite reel them in. His nerves were shot. Maybe it was his subconscious way of delaying the inevitable.
Relax.
Does livestock relax when it knows it's about to be slaughtered? How the fuck was he supposed to relax and get his blood drank as if it were any other Thursday?
When the witch's brows furrowed in question, he rambled on, "You and your – your mother keep using that term. Man-thing, man-blood, man-flesh – why not – why not just man? Or I dunno – fuck, what about my name? I have a name and it isn't man-thing!"
Ethan's breathing was heavy by the time he released his pent-up anxiety in the short outburst. The witch only levelled him with an unimpressed look.
"Are you finished?"
Ethan licked his lips and shrugged. He felt uncharacteristically breathless. "Yeah."
"I have a name as well, and it is not Crazy fucking witch, or fucking psycho." The witch frowned at him. With a disgusted curl of her lip, she remarked, "So crass."
"Yeah? Well, what's your name?"
It was the witch's turn to be silent for a beat. She blinked once or twice; her bloodstained lips parted as though she hadn't expected the question. "My name?"
"You're about to drink my blood and lock me in," Ethan gestured to the dark cell around them with a defeated wave of the hand, "In a dungeon. Least you could do is tell me your name."
In the dim light of the cell, amber eyes averted his gaze. There was a pregnant pause before she spoke, "Bela."
Ethan was well aware that establishing a human connection with your captor was a slippery slope to sympathizing with them. But he also knew it was likely his best shot at staying alive long enough to learn Rose's whereabouts.
(The irony of establishing a human connection with someone or something that was decidedly more than human was not lost on Ethan either.)
"Bela," Ethan repeated. "I'm Ethan. Ethan Winters."
He watched the bob of Bela's throat as she appeared to gulp. Within moments, she regained her composure and asked once more, "Will you relax for me…" Her bloody lips remained parted for a second. Then his name came out slowly, almost experimentally, "Ethan?"
With his proverbial and literal back to the wall now, Ethan had no choice but to comply.
"Yeah. Fine."
Bela's gloved thumbs drew idle strokes against the fabric of his hoodie. She took half a step closer. "Take deep breaths."
Ethan shut his eyes and took in a deep breath through his nose as instructed. He had expected to be assaulted once more by the smell of decay radiating off of Bela. Instead, all he could smell was the dank dungeon all around him. The exhale was drawn out and unhurried.
His heart skipped a beat when Bela's shapely (and not bug swarm-like) figure pressed against him. His wide eyes shot open to look at her. Bela either didn't notice or didn't care for his reaction. In the darkness, he could see her eyes glued to his neck. Her gloved right hand inched from his shoulder and closer to the bare skin of his neck until her thumb made contact. Her touch was light but purposeful against his pulse.
"Relax," Bela whispered, "You won't feel a thing."
Coming from the woman that had sickled his leg and slammed him onto a dining table, that was doubtful. Ethan refrained from pointing this out. He felt too stunned to try even if he wanted to. He was like a goddamn deer in the headlights, and he couldn't pinpoint why.
Bela's other arm began to wrap around his neck, and her hand snaked its way to the base of his skull. He tensed, fearing this was the part she forcefully exposed his jugular and ripped it open with her teeth.
Instead, fingers eased into his short hair. Her thumb drew languid strokes against his scalp. Bela tilted her head to look up at Ethan, as if only now noticing that he was staring. Her bloody lips were opened, revealing a pair of gleaming fangs that he swore weren't there before.
Ethan expected another command to relax. Bela continued to defy expectations by gently pulling him closer until his face pressed against her cheek. His nose was buried in a few stray blonde locks of her hair. Once more – no scent of decay and death. Being this close to her now, he could smell the metallic tang of blood – possibly her last meal – mixed in with the earthy smell of grass coated with fresh morning dew.
It was almost relaxing.
Not that he would admit it to Bela.
Ethan failed to suppress the shiver that ran down his spine as Bela's warm breath fanned his neck. He waited for the stinging, the tearing, the blood spurting.
All that came was the slightest prick, not unlike a needle – or more accurately, a pair of needles. Ethan kept his eyes closed as Bela's lips clamped onto his skin. It was reminiscent of Lady Dimitrescu sampling blood from his wrist just moments earlier. They clearly didn't like letting a single drop go to waste. The difference here though was in their reaction. Whereas the tall woman had seemed to be put off by his taste, Bela on the other hand –
There was a muffled moan against Ethan's neck, followed by Bela's fingers tightening in his hair for just a second. She pressed her body against him – enough to make him take a step back to keep balance. She followed along, clinging to him like a baby to a bottle.
It made one wonder what it was that the Lady of the castle had tasted that Bela didn't. Bitterly, Ethan realized he would have all the time in the world to ponder this over until he figured out a means of escape.
There was a part of him tempted to just shove Bela off and make a break for it. She was clearly preoccupied, and he would have a few seconds to break line of sight and escape. Of course, that only raised a plethora of problems.
The woman could turn into a swarm of flies for Christ's sake. She'd be on him in moments. Add to that was the fact that he'd be stumbling in the dark since there would be no time to snatch his flashlight from the floor. Even if he successfully retraced his steps to the kitchen, who was to say the servants of the castle wouldn't slam the door shut at the sight of him? They clearly had more reason to fear the Dimitrescu daughters than him. They'd never put their necks on the line for some shmuck like him.
And this was all, of course, if he could even shove the inhumanly strong woman away to begin with. Hell, if he did, he may inadvertently cause her to rip his jugular open in the process. What Bela was doing now was admittedly painless. There was a surgical precision to it. It was even relaxing, to an extent.
No, no – not relaxing. That was the blood loss making him feel woozy.
Ethan forced his sluggish eyes open, seeing nothing but the haze of Bela's blonde hair in his face. His hands, previously hanging limp by his sides, trailed up. He took hold of Bela's arms, allowing his fingers to dig in against the fabric of her dress.
"Bela." His voice rumbled out groggier than he liked.
With her mouth still firmly pressed to his neck, Bela managed out a questioning hum.
"C'mon. Get off me."
Ethan's knees grew weak when Bela's body tensed further. She held onto his hair in a tight grip and took what felt like a particularly large sip.
Like he was a fucking cup of ice and she was trying to get the last drops of Coke at the bottom.
Then, it was over.
Bela's fangs came free with an audible pop. Ethan's alarmingly weak heart jumped in his chest when he felt her slick tongue run over the wound.
"Jesus," Ethan muttered as he pulled away. Bela released him with no argument. She had a dreamy smile on her blood-red lips. She watched him stumble back without a care in the world. He was forced to press an arm to the closest wall for support.
Sharp pain erupted from his knees when he hit the ground despite his best efforts. Ethan gritted his teeth as his consciousness flickered.
He couldn't pass out. Not now.
Ethan forced himself forward and up, only to limply crash down onto his arms with a grunt. He knocked the flashlight to the side in the process. It went rolling a few feet to the side, coming to a stop pointing at Bela just as she exited the cell. She shut the door with an ear-grating creak. An almost comically sized key was produced from her pockets, and she slid it into the door's lock.
"No, wait." Ethan's protest fell on deaf ears, and the lock clicked into place.
Bela wiped a finger across her lips and observed Ethan's unsteady form. She cleaned the remaining blood off her fingertip with a satisfied hum. "I think this is the start of a beautiful relationship."
Ethan grimaced as Bela twiddled her fingers in a dainty wave. He forced himself up right and off his arms and knees. His ebbing strength had him leaning his shoulder on the wall to his side for support. He tried once more, "Wait. Don't go."
She knew about Rose.
She couldn't leave just yet.
Bela paused before she could round the corner, "Thank you for the drink, man-th-" She cut herself off and smiled. Not threatening, leering, or maniacal. Just a smile. "Ethan."
"Bela, please."
Flies had already begun to buzz around the witch – taking form and preparing to fly away. Her tattooed forehead creased with a frown as she asked, a little sharply, "What?"
He opened his mouth to speak, only for Bela to follow up with a quirked brow, "And how have you not fainted yet? All the man-things I have fed from go down in seconds."
Ethan ignored her bewilderment, instead answering her question with one of his own. With the little strength he had, as darkness encroached on his vision, he got the words out.
"Where's Rose?"
Bela's lips pressed together in a thin line. The bugs swirled around her head as she looked to one side, beyond the corner. Then she craned her head the other way. Evidently, the coast was clear. The dungeon was deathly still, save for the swarm of flies and their maddening flutter of wings.
Her amber eyes fell back to Ethan. There was a long pause as she observed him. As the silence drew on, Ethan cursed himself internally. Truly, he wasn't so sure why he bothered asking. In his blood loss induced stupor, it just seemed worth a shot. This was the same insane witch that taunted him over his daughter, sickled his leg, slammed him onto a table, and played good cop so she could drink his blood. It was useless –
"She is not in any danger."
Bela's form dissipated before her swarm rounded the corner and vanished from sight. The sound of thousands of beating wings echoed across the stone walls, bouncing from corner to corner. The sound softened with each second that passed, just as Ethan's vision continued to fail him.
Ethan rolled against the wall to prop his back against it fully.
As the unforgiving tendrils of unconsciousness reeled him into the inky darkness around him, he couldn't help but take Bela's word for it.
Day one of captivity and he was already losing his goddamn mind.
A/N: Thanks so much for checking out the first chapter of this story! This was originally posted to my alt. on AO3, but I'm now posting it here as well for a little more reach. If you like what you've read, do take the time to write me a review! Fave, follow, all that good stuff!
Ever since the trailers came out, I was a little more enamored by Bela than I was by Lady D, unlike most of the internet at large. After finishing the game, I wound up with this concept of exploring the idea of Ethan as a captive in the dungeon and slowly forming a relationship with the daughters and Lady D, but particularly Bela. It's a little Stockholm Syndrome-y, and in a way Lima Syndrome-y as well, since the captor starts feeling things for her captive, as opposed to just the other way around.
As you can see, I'm trying to paint Bela here as enjoying the finer taste of things. She's pickier with her blood and meat compared to her sisters. It just so happens that her preferred taste lines up with the least stressful method of blood extraction. From Ethan's point of view, you can quickly see how he'd gravitate towards the lesser evil. We'll see where it goes from there.
If you're still reading this note, you'll notice the next four chapters are also up and ready for reading. So, much like a Netflix series, you can binge those all in one go and then start the (not so) long wait for the next chapters. I'll catch you fellas later.
