Copper filled the air.
It was all Lisa could smell, before she could smell nothing at all. Her airways constricted; she coughed once, twice, and again as blood splattered from her mouth and into the air – landing right back down on her face from where she lied on the cold stone floor. She might have groaned then as the stabbing pain in her head grew unbearable – but she wasn't sure, as the only sound filling her ears was a ceaseless ringing.
Shudders rocked her lithe frame. The steady trickle of blood from her body sent waves of shivers down her trembling body – even as the warm blood pooled underneath her.
With her strength dwindling, Lisa managed to turn her head to the side. She gazed out the open door, and the slew of bodies littering the filthy, bloody snow. Dark hair intermingled with a dull, bloodstained blonde. The bodies of Vanessa and Madilyn clogged the doorway, boots steadily being buried by the unforgiving snowfall. Their pale, bloodied and lifeless faces were unceremoniously smushed together – both of them dead before they even finished crossing the threshold of the doorway.
In the cold winter, the pools of blood underneath her two dear friends had gotten cold and sticky – almost gummy in consistency; a brilliant red shocking the pristine white snow that fell from the pitch-black sky above. The weather was a small mercy in that regard. At least with the blood close to freezing, it would not steadily flow towards Lisa, until it intermingled with her own growing pool of blood.
And then, Lisa's view of her friends' unmoving bodies was obscured by a pair of legs, and a long, ragged dark dress. A wooden walking stick thunked against the floor. Darkness crowded Lisa's sight. Inky clouds coalesced into the corners of her vision as she locked onto Magda's old, hideously wart-strewn face, and the beads and trinkets dangling from her hair. She twisted her leathery skin into a stiff sneer. She tightened her grip on the walking stick in her hand, giving a macabre view of the skull mounted to its top. In a croaking voice, Magda chided Lisa, "You never listened to me, girl." A slow, laborious movement of her head – and Magda glanced at Lisa's dead friends."
"Look at that. Death visited them all, and it is your fault. I told you there would be consequences."
Lisa coughed a final –
Ethan put down onto his lap the stack of paper in his hands. From his spot on the padded sofa, he looked at Daniela, perched on her seat by the writer's desk – eyes sharp, and watching his every movement expectantly.
It had been a mostly fine day thus far. That was minus the morning, which Ethan spent painfully alone, and all too aware of just how lonely it was in the dungeons without Bela. The absence of Bela, her delivery of coffee, and the delightful company she provided – it created a challenge of not succumbing to loneliness and overthinking. This was a challenge Ethan had yet to overcome. Whenever he was alone, it was to Bela that his thoughts invariably went to.
How to make contact with Bela, now that she kept her door locked in a very clear message of keep out.
How to help Bela get through her funk, and the demons plaguing her.
How to prove to Bela he was here for her, no matter what – made all the more difficult by Bela's refusal to open up about her sordid history. Sordid appeared to be an understatement too, judging by everything Ethan had gathered up until this point.
Ethan shook his head slightly to clear the thoughts, eyes darting between Daniela and the manuscript in his hands. She raised her eyebrows by a smidge in silent question.
Visiting Daniela in her library was always a welcome distraction from his racing thoughts. Talking to the hyperactive redhead (and helping her rearrange her books, again and again) kept his mind busy, and his heart just a tad lighter. Even just recalling the last night's events, and his unlikely teatime with Cassandra had been a mood lifter.
Ethan had not been through the library door for more than five seconds before Daniela had started sniffing him. Instantly, Daniela recognized Cassandra's smell on him – and asked him about it. Ethan had to come clean after that; he explained last night's quest to borrow a bathroom.
Daniela had called him a silly man-thing, and told him her shower was always open for him. Ethan wasn't sure if he could classify it was a mood lifter when Daniela then bit her lip, ran her hands over his chest, and added that her legs were similarly open for him.
Naturally, Ethan had turned redder than a strawberry, and Daniela had burst out laughing, before remarking that she was kidding – or was she?
After surviving the teasing and even more innuendoes, Ethan got around to reviewing Daniela's latest draft. With everything going on in his life as of late, Ethan appreciated the little escape Daniela's writing provided. Her dialogue was sharp, her writing style was intoxicating, and her plot was impossible to put down once you started reading it.
Lisa's adventure was one that Ethan sought every day he showed up to Daniela's library. Each day, without fail, he would ask the redhead if her latest draft was ready, because he was dying to find out what happened next. Even if the draft wasn't ready, Daniela lit up like a lighthouse to witness Ethan's wolf-like hunger for her story.
Now, fifty or sixty thousand words later, Daniela's short novel had reached its rather dark and gruesome end. Ethan had compiled and written his suggestions for Daniela for each chapter as they went along, with the plan being that she review them all as she began her second draft of the novel. This final chapter marked the first draft's completion, and it was…
Well, it wasn't great.
Daniela's writing thus far had been excellent, and exceptional for someone with no background in writing. Yet when this final chapter rolled around, everything fell flat – if flat was an appropriate descriptor for the slaughter the last few pages turned into.
The themes of companionship, redemption, and karmic justice were swiftly abandoned when the three main characters gruesomely perished. It was a plot twist, sure, but not one that made much sense, or had much emotional payoff. Their deaths, and the success of the town's serial killer – Magda – came from far out of left field, with no foreshadowing whatsoever. It was as if Daniela had completely scrapped any original plan she had in favor of just wiping out the main cast in a single chapter. The trio had been Red Wedding'd – but without leaving any protagonists to continue the story.
It left Ethan scratching his head, because it wasn't at all in line with anything Daniela had written prior. Never before had she pulled such a strange choice in her writing for reasons beyond Ethan's understanding. All the twists and turns Daniela wrote made sense, save for this final grim sucker punch of an ending. It was almost as if someone else stepped in for Daniela to write in the last few pages on her behalf.
"Well?" Daniela smiled. "What do you think?"
Ethan's lips remained parted. "Uhh…"
Lisa, Vanessa, and Madilyn's deaths came faster than Ethan could blink. After all the momentum built – how sure it was they would catch Magda in the act, it all came to a careening halt.
That wasn't to say that Ethan felt a happy ending was the only good way for a story to end – on the contrary, he enjoyed the bittersweet and sometimes melancholic climaxes in literature and film. Sometimes, the most narratively satisfying conclusions ended in victory for the villains.
They had to make sense, was the key here. If you want to blindside your audience with an unexpected ending, it still has to make sense somehow, and the pieces should still fall into place, if only in retrospect.
As gently as possible, Ethan said, "The ending caught me off guard here. I have to admit, I'm not sure why you snuffed all three of 'em out." Ethan nodded his head to the stack of papers on Daniela's desk. "After the penultimate chapter, I thought they had Magda dead to rights, if you know what I mean."
Daniela tilted her head to the side, and the confusion furrowing her brow mirrored the bewilderment Ethan was miserably failing to temper on his own face. A stray fly or two buzzed overhead. "You're confused by my ending?"
"Basically, yeah," Ethan admitted.
Her dark red brows came together tightly. Quite simply and unemphatically, she stated, "They all die. That's just the way it is sometimes, isn't it?" Her lips quirked in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "We can't all be heroes that go out in a blaze of glory. Sometimes, whether we like it or not… people just die."
"You're not wrong. I think I see what you're getting at, for sure. But…" Ethan's words came out slowly, and he gauged Daniela's mood second by second. "If that's the sort of statement you want to make in your writing, I'm not sure if you needed to kill all three of them to do it, right?"
"Of course, it's your story – and you know the flow best. I'll wolf down whatever you write, honestly," Ethan hurried out when several more flies began to angrily buzz above Daniela's head. "I'm just saying that if you wanna showcase how quickly and unceremoniously important people can die… you could've just done that with Vanessa or Madilyn." He licked his lips and motioned to the draft on his lap. "At least that way, Lisa can finish the job, bring Magda to justice alive or dead. That way, the sacrificed life isn't all for nothing."
The temperamental bugs settled down, but Daniela's frown remained. "I… I understand what you're saying, but… this is how it has to end, Ethan." Lithe fingers fidgeted with the sides of the typewriter. "It's the only way it can end."
Ethan shuffled a little on the sofa to get closer to Daniela. In a gentle voice, he asked, "Why's that, Dani? Why can't it end another way?"
Daniela's mouth hung open for a long moment. "I don't know, I just –" She blew out a scoff, shaking her head. She grabbed the last draft and ran her eyes along the paper over and over. "It's the only way. I know it is. Any other way doesn't make sense, because that's not how it's supposed to go."
They would begin to start going in circles if this kept up. Rather than allow that to happen, Ethan steered the conversation as best as he could. "Like I said earlier, it's your story – you know these characters best, and how the plot moves best… but I think it's worth keeping an open mind with these things."
The Duke and that headache-inducing existentialist conversation came to mind.
"Sometimes… things might seem like they're set in stone, and there's only one way to go about things – like with the ending of your story," Ethan motioned to Daniela. "But you won't really know if something has to end one way or another, until you actually try something else."
Daniela narrowed her eyes slightly, prompting Ethan to ask, "Are you following?"
A flash of uncertainty crossed Daniela's face, but she eventually nodded, "I think so?"
"What's the worst that could happen if you try and write a different ending?" Ethan asked. "You might find one that makes more sense. One that you like better than this one." A pause, and Ethan kept his voice gentle for the redhead across him, "One that better suits you, y'know?"
Daniela tilted her head. "Suits me?"
"Yeah." Ethan smiled. "Something a little happier. More hopeful. Maybe Lisa gets to fulfill her dream of traveling, once the village is safe. Something like that."
Daniela closed her eyes. "It's not that simple." She slouched in her seat, coiling into herself as if she wanted to look small and unnoticeable. "If I don't end this story how it should, then…"
Dark lips pressed together, and Daniela's closed eyes tightened as they remained shut. Wincing hard, Daniela whispered, "It'll be all wrong. That mistake will haunt me for as long as I live."
That sounded like a bit much for the first draft of a novel which may not even get published – but Ethan knew better by now than to voice such musings. If something meant a lot to Daniela, then it had to be treated with caution and reverence alike. He couldn't even for a second make light of her feelings on the matter – and it was plain to see just how much this meant to her. The posture, the sadness on her face and how drained she looked – it all told a story of just how important this novel was to her.
"It won't haunt you if it turns out this new ending fits better than you thought possible." Ethan reached across the table to place a hand on Daniela's arm. His thumb rubbed long lines along the textured fabric of her sleeve. A tactile person like Daniela responded well to gestures like this, Ethan had learned over the weeks. "There's no harm in trying, okay? Nobody says we have to commit any of these revisions you might make as the actual ending to the first draft." A gentle squeeze got Daniela's attention. She opened her eyes, and only then did Ethan conclude, "It'll be good to have a couple of possible endings before you settle on your original idea, or one of the new ones." He gave a slight shrug and assured her, "Who knows – maybe you'll like those different endings even more, hm?"
Daniela brought one hand over to land on Ethan's, rattling the makeshift bracelet around her wrist in the process. Her eyes bore into Ethan – drinking him up and clinging onto his words. "You really think so?"
Ethan flashed Daniela a grin and squeezed her hand. "I really do think so, Dani. Put some thought into it over the next couple of days. No need to rush it. How does that sound?"
After a pregnant pause, Daniela managed to return Ethan's smile. "I think that sounds good. I'll try my best. Thank you, Ethan."
A final squeeze of the arm, and Ethan gently withdrew his hand. "Atta girl. Can't wait to see what you come up with." His grin spread even wider, "Because lemme tell you – I am having a blast with this story of yours."
Daniela's fond smile persisted on her dark lips. She turned in her chair to face Ethan fully, resting her elbow on the desk, and placing her cheek in her palm. "Can I… Can I ask you a question?" Daniela's warm eyes avoided his – choosing to fix on his shoulder. "I have been meaning to ask, but I didn't want to pry…"
Ethan didn't like where this was going.
"How are things with Bela? She is increasingly distant during breakfast and dinner." Daniela looked almost guilty for bringing it up when the sadness washed over Ethan's face – mirroring Daniela's own gloom. "Mother and I can barely get a word out of her these days if we see her at all."
Daniela took a breath and continued, "You said you couldn't borrow Bela's bath last night, which was what led you to Cassie." Her eyes, warm and dejected at the same time, met Ethan's. "You didn't say why that was, but… I'm guessing things have gotten worse?"
Ethan had to take a moment to rub a hand to his tired face. Setting his arm along the backrest of the sofa, Ethan sighed and confirmed, "Yeah, you could say things got a lot worse. Before, we were still talking a little bit, but now…"
"She's completely shut you out?" Even as the words left Daniela's mouth, the empathetic frown on her face hinted that she already knew the answer to her question. She didn't need the nod that Ethan gave her only moments later. Daniela muttered more to herself than to Ethan, "It really is like the first time."
"I…" Ethan sighed, and loathed the helplessness seeping into his voice, "I don't think I can reach out to her alone anymore, Dani." Ethan frowned and fought to suppress the anxious tap of his trigger finger. "Not when she's stonewalling me like this. Not when I can't even see her anymore."
Daniela pressed her lips together into a tight, thin line. When she sucked in a breath, she was wincing as she asked, "Do you know what first broke her out of that depressive, isolating spell of hers after all those years?"
Ethan shook his head.
"You did, Ethan."
His heart may have skipped a beat or two at that.
"That is why I'm a little worried now – because if she is trying so hard to push you away, then I am not sure what will get her out of it this time." Daniela chewed on her bottom lip, eyes down as her fingers toyed with Maria's necklace around her hand. "I know you've been patient and understanding with her, but that won't do Bela any good if she just cuts herself off from everyone."
Daniela slumped into her chair further. Her voice took a defeated tone. "I know giving her space was my suggestion – and I'm sorry. I just… I thought…"
"Hey," Ethan gave her the gentlest reproach imaginable, "That's not your fault, Dani. You were just giving advice."
Daniela eventually settled her evasive eyes back on Ethan. She reached for his hand, and Ethan let her – now quite accustomed to Daniela's physical displays of support. She entwined their fingers before setting her other hand atop his as well. Her voice carried such certainty in it, even if it was as soft as it was. "You have been such a good friend to me, Ethan. I'll forever be thankful for it. I can't promise any miracles with Bela, especially when she's like this, but…"
The redhead drew in a deep breath, like it gave her the resolve to commit, "For my sister's sake, and your sake, I will talk to her. I'll try to get Cassie in on it too, but if not," she shrugged, "I'll talk to her. If not tonight, then tomorrow." She glanced to the side for just a beat, and added, "Bela did not show up for breakfast today, so it's possible she will skip dinner as well." Daniela squeezed Ethan's hand in an attempt at reassurance. "But don't worry. I'll talk to her whether she likes it or not – even if I have to kick her door down." She gave Ethan a brief wink. "I'll let you know how it goes."
Ethan chuckled at Daniela's enthusiasm and squeezed back. "Thank you, Dani. It really means a lot to me that you have my back."
"You're good for my sister, Ethan," Daniela smiled brightly. "I would be a terrible sibling if I did not at least try and help. I think I understand at least part of what plagues Bela. If I can get through to her tonight or tomorrow…" A thoughtful look crossed Daniela's features – far more analytical and calculating than he'd ever seen on the redhead's face. It was a look that more suited Bela, or even Cassandra. "I think I see what is going on here." A quick, sympathetic frown creased Daniela's tattooed forehead. "Could you tell me exactly what happened between you and Bela when things got worse? Did anything she say stick out in particular?" Nothing but focus glinted in Daniela's clear eyes. "Maybe… something about who she was?"
Ethan's own brows bobbed up in recognition.
Poison. Corrupting people. Strigo-something.
A lot of things stood out in that hurtful conversation.
"Yeah. It all started after I borrowed her shower two nights ago…"
Of all the things to be awaiting Ethan in Cassandra's armory, he didn't expect all the crates and boxes – or for the brunette in question to be completely absent. The logical next step for Ethan had been to knock on her bedroom door. However, that only proved useless when he was met with silence.
The large wooden packaging crates took up the entire stretch of the armory where Ethan and Cassandra normally sparred; their blue judo mats were turned on their sides and propped up on the closest walls, giving the crates all the space they needed. As of Ethan's arrival – right on time, as he was never one for tardiness – all the crates were still nailed shut, with no evidence of prior tampering.
To make matters worse, Ethan's now burning curiosity had no way of being sated, as the crates were void of all markings. No sender or address of origin – not even a courier (though Ethan could guess this was delivered via the Duke).
All Ethan had to go on was that the crates were wooden, huge, and shut tight. By his estimates – or his foot nudging – the crates were also inexplicably heavy.
If Ethan got really desperate, he could probably use the knife in his pocket to try and pry a crate open. Maybe he could even repurpose a nearby sword or axe to use as a crowbar – though that would more likely result in a broken blade and a very pissed off Cassandra. And even if Ethan did get tempted to resort to that, he respected Cassandra's privacy too much to just begin cracking her delivery open (which was technically illegal, if he thought about it.).
The minutes ticked by, with nothing but the blazing, crackling fireplace keeping Ethan company. He rapped his knuckles against the sturdy wooden crates from time to time – even thumping his shoe against their sides for good measure – as if this would give him a hint as to the packages' contents.
It must have been fifteen minutes in isolation by the time Ethan started tugging on the lid of the closest crate – just to check if perhaps the nails weren't securely locked into place. Maybe they were a little loose, and he could get the tiniest peek before shutting the lid back down.
In reality, tugging on the lids with his bare hands proved to be no more effective than chewing on the damn crates to free their contents – as they were sealed tighter than a prison cell. (A normal prison cell, of course; his own cell was nowhere nearly this secure).
What on earth did Cassandra order? What needed to take up this much space, with crating this hardy and secure? How important was it that she was pushing aside her precious sparring time and clearing up the mats to make room for the delivery?
And where was Cassandra? Was she carrying another crate in this very moment – the last part of this delivery?
Boredom, Ethan realized, bred this sort of vicious, single-minded curiosity. No wonder rats were so good at solving puzzles. If left alone for a long enough stretch of time, Ethan felt that he too may be able to fixate on and solve anything, if he had nothing better to do. Lock him up long enough and he may just uncover the secrets of the universe.
If only his mind were just as good at solving the problems that plagued Bela.
And then, through the monotony of his staring daggers at the massive crates, Ethan heard it – a sharp sound, akin to metallic whirring.
Ethan's eyes scanned the room, snapping from one inky blotch to another in the different long shadows of the armory. If Chris was watching from another damned drone, then Ethan needed to grab his attention while he had the chance. It had been weeks since the last time he'd made contact with Chris and Hound Wolf Squad. He owed a situation report that would hopefully turn the tide of the upcoming battle.
The bastard had killed his wife, and owed him many, many answers – but Ethan knew that at the core, Chris and the squad were still his best bet of leaving the country with Rose in one piece. Ethan could manage nabbing Rose and slipping out well enough on his own – he was quite confident of this by now. He had a solid grip of the castle's layout, and a rough recollection of the servants' shifts and schedules.
It was everything that followed his escape of the castle that would prove problematic. He couldn't fight off a horde of wolfmen and flying ghouls on his own, with Rose tucked to his chest. Ethan needed the backup, and so he had to bite the bullet, if only for the moment.
Since Ethan now knew what to look for, he clocked the glossy shine of a camera lens underneath the bench by the entrance. The drone stared back at him, almost expectantly.
Ethan raised a hand up in gesture to wait, and his mouth nearly followed suit with the words, but he shut his trap in time.
There was no way of knowing how far away Cassandra was at this point. The sisters all had superior hearing, and Ethan wasn't about to get caught communicating with anyone outside the castle. While Bela may be privy to the contact with his former team, the same could not be said for Cassandra. For now, Ethan felt it was better to keep it that way.
The brunette took her role and duty to the castle seriously. She would not take Ethan's communication with Chris kindly. If anything, it would likely be seen akin to betrayal of her trust.
Ethan resorted to Morse code, for lack of better mode of communication; his journal was back in his cell, so that crossed off the idea of writing messages for the drone. He drummed his fingers against the crate to his side – alternating between pointed taps and long dashes of his nails over the wood. Ethan glared at the drone the entire time, eyes narrowed.
Miranda HQ under this village.
In half a minute, Ethan's message was transmitted. The drone stared back at Ethan for a long moment, and he could already imagine Chris barking orders at the Hound Wolves, before returning his attention to whoever was piloting the drone in that moment.
The drone finally began its dance, spinning its wheel this way and that to generate soft whirrs. Ethan closed his eyes, focusing on the quiet mechanical sounds – breaking them down into dots and dashes, and translating them in his head.
Copy. Out.
The whirrs ceased, and Ethan opened his eyes, already feeling a twitch at the corner of his face.
The drone met Ethan's stare, and the man felt nearly taunted by the device.
That's it? He offered information that could potentially shift the entire battlefield, and all he was getting was 'copy, out'? Ethan knew brevity was essential in clandestine communication, but honestly – a simple thanks from the asshole who shot his wife and kidnapped his daughter would not be amiss.
Bitterly (perhaps Ethan was projecting his frustrations onto the poor drone operator just doing his job), and a little immaturely (he never could help himself sometimes), he began spelling out his next message in Morse code.
You're welcome, assh-
Hurried footsteps grew audible from the armory stairwell, and Ethan immediately ceased his taps and dashes. He substituted them for a more rhythmic tapping – pretending that's what he'd been doing this entire time. The drone remained in place, hidden in the shadows of the bench, and Ethan could almost feel its amusement at his momentary panic. If Cassandra hadn't been coming in hot at any moment now, he would have flipped it the bird.
Within seconds, Cassandra appeared in her dark dress. Her hood was down, and the usual choker and the necklace of trinkets jingled from her slender neck. In her arms, she carried a small wooden box, along with a crowbar. She smiled at Ethan as she arrived at the top of the stairs. "Good evening, man-thing."
"Hey," Ethan nodded in greeting, "I see your Amazon shipment's here." He tapped the crate to his side for good measure.
Cassandra quirked a brow and stepped closer. "I don't know what a rainforest has to do with this delivery…" She set the hefty box down with a thud. As quickly as her confusion came, it disappeared. Cassandra looked to be in such high spirits that even his snarky commentary couldn't break her stride. "But yes – it's all here!" She paused only long enough to bring her hands together in barely contained joy. "Finally!"
Looking over Cassandra's shoulder, Ethan noted the drone had made its exit, perfectly timed. The moment Cassandra had set her box down on the crate, it moved – whirring motors eclipsed by the thunk of wood on wood.
"Not gonna lie," Ethan chuckled, giving the crate a hearty pat before leaning an elbow on it. "I've been staring at these big-ass boxes for like half an hour, and the curiosity's killing me."
Cassandra bit her lip, suppressing an amused grin.
"C'mon, spill – whatcha got here?"
"Tell me, Mr. Winters," Cassandra thumbed the head of her crowbar as she gave Ethan a sly smile. "What do you know of the Thirteen Years' War?"
Ethan blanked. Any vague memories of the history classes he slept through chose that moment to elude him.
"… it lasted thirteen years."
His highly knowledgeable response wiped all the enthusiasm clean off Cassandra's face. She crinkled her nose in displeasure, asking, "That's it?"
Ethan inhaled, held his breath for a few seconds, then added, "It… was a war."
Cassandra had to take a moment to rub her hand against her face. Ethan could just barely make out a grumbled, "Idiotic man-thing," under Cassandra's breath. When her hand came free, she began moving the smaller box over to her desk, before turning her attention back to Ethan, "I'm not sure why I even expected you to know your history."
"It wasn't my favorite subject back in school. You should be glad I managed to even put those two answers together." Ethan shrugged at Cassandra, who appeared as unimpressed as ever. He waved a hand to shoo the topic away, and instead asked again, "What's in the boxes?" He nodded his head at Cassandra. "Something from that war?"
"Good to see you aren't a complete dullard." Cassandra ignored Ethan's protest of "Hey!" in favor of approaching the largest crate. "Stand aside now."
As instructed, Ethan stepped back and let Cassandra do the work. Without a crowbar of his own, he wasn't going to be of any help. The best he could do was not get in her way.
Cassandra wedged the tip of her crowbar in place. With signature unnatural strength, she tugged down, effortlessly popping off half the lid in a single movement. The process was repeated on the other side, and within half a minute, the lid was completely divorced from the crate; the lid hit the ground with a loud clatter, revealing the crate's contents.
Peering inside, Ethan found the crate to be filled to the brim with balled up newspapers and wood wool, and the musty old smell hit him just as quickly. Nose twitching, Ethan continued surveying the box's contents, and made out several odd shapes wrapped up in newspaper.
Before he could voice his questions, Cassandra dipped a hand into the crate, carefully pulling out a small newspaper-wrapped object. She unraveled the rough packaging and explained, "This was a Polish soldier's barbute."
The paper gave way to reveal a rusty, dented steel helmet, easily protecting the top half of the wearer's head from swords and arrows alike. But rather than try and recall what video game he had seen such helmets in before, Ethan was distracted by Cassandra's grin – and the utter pride and nearly childish joy with which she held the helmet.
Then the helmet was set down on the closest surface, rivaling the level of care he'd use when putting Rose to bed. Cassandra reached back into the crate, and out came a long polearm, the old wood exposed, while the metallic weapon-head was still wrapped. From the shape, Ethan could surmise it was some sort of axe head mounted to the tip of the pole.
Cassandra placed the base of the weapon on the ground. She unwrapped the newspaper and exposed the worn and chipped blade, which towered a foot higher than her already-tall stature. With the same upbeat and nearly uncharacteristic enthusiasm, Cassandra lectured, "This was a Pole's halberd. If these didn't reshape medieval warfare when they first hit the field, I don't know what did. One of the finest weapons to come out of the Middle Ages, if you ask me."
Cassandra admired the massive polearm for a moment longer, before setting it down on her table. She took extra care to ensure the rusted blade wasn't poking out the side, before turning her attention back to the crate.
The next object Cassandra retrieved was one even Ethan could name at a glance.
"Oh hey – that's a longsword, right?" Ethan remarked as Cassandra unwrapped the blade.
The sword was of simple design, with an old (peeling) leather-wrapped hilt, and a cross guard. From a safe distance away, Cassandra gave the sword a few experimental swings, then pointed the tip of the blade towards Ethan. "Close, but not quite!" She beamed and began to explain, sounding like a passionate teacher lecturing her class – or perhaps a nerd finally getting the chance to properly nerd out.
"This is more of a hand-and-a-half sword – or a bastard sword, if you will." Cassandra held the sword at hip level with a relaxed hand, and Ethan noted how the tip of the blade just barely avoided contact with the stone floor – as if this was the litmus test of what made a sword a longsword. "Naming conventions for weaponry were rather nonstandard back then, but that's the type of sword this is."
Ethan eyed the sword's handle, which Cassandra then wrapped her second hand around – though it was a tight fit, with the bottom of her hand partially closed around the teardrop-shaped pommel.
"And it's named that because you can use it with one hand or two?" Ethan asked, for certainty's sake.
"Correct, clever man-thing." The sarcasm was not lost on Ethan, but Cassandra was grinning so brightly that he hardly paid it any mind. Her sharp eyes spared his fingers a glance before she chimed, "Considering you only have a hand and a half yourself, this weapon would suit you perfectly."
Ethan guffawed and scoffed – covering up his amusement at the jab with a curt, "Hey – fuck you." His grin made the retort unconvincing, evidenced by how widely Cassandra was smiling at him.
Sparing him the teasing, Cassandra instead asked, "Have you ever wielded a sword before?"
Ethan blinked.
"No, I haven't." With a wry, lopsided smile, Ethan added, "Got some experience dueling with chainsaws though. Ethan – one, Jack Baker – zero."
Cassandra's brows pitched high, and she said, "You'll have to tell me about that sometime." She quickly shook her head before getting them back on track. "Though I can guarantee swinging a sword is different from wielding a chainsaw. If you'd like to learn a new thing or two, I have some old HEMA manuals, and," she laughed to herself – a surprisingly light, carefree sound, "Sometimes I go through them and try to replicate the movements within them."
"Like this is the pflug." Cassandra kept her right foot forward, holding the sword low, at hip level, with the blade crossing from her left to her right – tip angled forward towards the opposition. "This is vom Tag." Cassandra cast the sword over her head – cocking it over her right shoulder, ready to swing down and chop someone in half. "This is ochs." And finally, Cassandra turned, crossed her arms, and extended the sword forward. It remained in-line with her body, and parallel to the floor. High overhead, with the tip of the blade forward, it was ready to catch any strikes swinging down at her.
"You know, you could have just made those words up and I wouldn't be able to tell," Ethan said with a perfectly straight face, earning an eyeroll from Cassandra.
Cassandra brought the bastard sword back in, allowing the flat of the blade to rest against her shoulder. "Honestly, one of these days we should requisition some sparring gear and training swords from the Duke."
The brunette before him was a completely different person when enthusing over her interests. The spark in her eye as she spoke was almost enough to banish the dark bags etched beneath her irises.
Ethan rolled with it. "Well, if you think it'll be a good idea, why not? Just promise me you won't turn my hand and a half to a hand and a quarter," Ethan spared a grimace. "I kinda need these hands, y'know?"
"It will be safe and fun, I'm sure," Cassandra offered a bright, toothy grin. "Since all I have to go on are the manuals, it'll be a learning experience for us both." Recognition flashed through her face, and it looked as though Cassandra had to consciously not bounce off the balls of her feet. "Maybe we can ask the Duke if he has some discs or video tapes to guide us along. It's been a while since we brought out the projector. That would be as good a reason as any to dust it off." Cassandra paused long enough to frown slightly. "We only need to find where we put the damn thing." Then, realizing she'd bordered on rambling, Cassandra's eyes darted to meet Ethan's, gauging his reaction. She tilted her head down a fraction and asked, almost shyly, "What do you think?"
All Ethan could think was how the woman before him seemed worlds apart from the Dimitrescu House's scowling middle sister he'd first met. No bloodied dress, or face caked in her last victim's blood. No sadistic glee or wicked delight to see him suffering. No pent-up anger, bubbling just below the surface. No hatred to spit out at him in venom-laced words and curses.
Cassandra could pass off as any other beautiful, physically active woman when she was like this – one with a fascination for medieval weapons and armor, anyway. That wasn't too uncommon in this day and age, either, with the advent of roleplaying games and fantasy media helping bring in a newfound interest in the distant time period. The cosplayers and chainmail-bikini afficionados didn't hold a candle to Cassandra though. They could only wish to rock a vibe like hers.
Ethan settled on giving Cassandra a smile. There was a certain warmth in his chest – something that stirred at the thought he'd been trusted with this side of Cassandra – this perfectly normal side of her.
"That sounds great," Ethan finally answered. "Knowing the Duke, he's got just what you need." A pause, and Ethan sought confirmation when he asked, "I take it you're a bit of a weapons collector?"
"Weapons and armor," Cassandra nodded to the rusted barbute. "War shapes the very world we live in. These are more than just tools for maiming or protection." Her thumb ran along her bastard sword's cross guard as she spoke, "These are bits of history. Relics from a completely different time, each carrying their own stories, and each having a role in their wielder's fate. They're a reminder of how far we've come, and how much we've fought to get here." Cassandra let slip a breath – a light sigh. Her eyes stared aimlessly at a nondescript point on Ethan's chest when she added in a mutter, "It's important to remember where we came from, no matter how painful it can be. Really helps you appreciate where we are now."
Much like toasting to good fights, and enjoying being alive in the moment – these were not sentiments Ethan really expected from Cassandra. She was continually proving herself to be full of surprises – and if not, then at least a receptacle for bits of wisdom that someone had once told her, long, long ago.
That someone must have been important, judging by how often Cassandra quoted them. For now, though, Ethan could only guess, and wait patiently for Cassandra to continue.
Cassandra's trigger finger began its gentle dance against the sword's guard. She turned her eyes to the walls – adorned with weapons. Just as Ethan had been observing from Cassandra for a while now, she liked talking about other things – anything – to steer her mind away from its ruminations.
"That longbow there," Cassandra pointed with her free hand, and Ethan followed the tip of her finger to an old wooden bow, "was used by a Wallachian archer at the Battle of Rovine. According to the Duke, it supposedly loosed the arrow that felled Constantine Dragaš – but chances are that bow belonged to any one of those archers present at the battle."
Her gaze traveled further along the wall, and Cassandra nodded at a simple wooden round shield, with faded paint, and a chipped iron rim. "That was a Wallachian footman's shield, said to have caught an axe meant for Vlad the Impaler." She smiled a little, and added, "Again – the line between ancient history and legend can be thin. Who knows what the owner of that shield truly went through."
"Wait," Ethan had to raise a hand, "Vlad the Impaler – like… Dracula? Bram Stoker Dracula?" When Cassandra gave nothing but a simple nod and hum in confirmation, he shook his head. Leave it to Cassandra to collect relics connected to the man that became the inspiration for literature's most famous vampire. Still though, such a collection, and such rich history stored within the armory, was impressive.
Ethan let out a low whistle. "I didn't take you for a history buff. You've got enough in here to open a museum."
Cassandra's smile widened. She shrugged, eyes avoiding Ethan's for a moment. "What can I say? Warfare of the Middle Ages is a highly interesting affair."
Curiously, Ethan motioned to the small box Cassandra had been carrying when she first entered the room. "What about that? More relics from Transylvania?" He gave a lopsided smile, and asked, "Silver bullets? Wooden stake? Holy cross, maybe?"
Like flipping a light switch, Cassandra's expression visibly brightened. She grinned wide, setting her sword down so she could approach the small box. "You're an idiot, but yes – you could call it a relic, I suppose – but it's much younger than the rest of the weapons in this room." Cassandra beckoned Ethan closer before setting her hands on either side of the box.
Ethan stopped by Cassandra's right and leaned against the wall just to the side of the table. "How young are we talking?"
"See for yourself." A sly grin, and Cassandra popped the wooden lid open.
A sleek revolver of black steel was nestled within the red satin lining of the box. Intricate silver engravings ran along the barrel's length, turning into golden etchings all the way to the cylinder and the frame. The handle was pearl white, with a golden lion emblazoned onto it. Seven large bullets rested within the casing, ready to be loaded.
"Hot damn," Ethan managed out, once he found his voice. "Where was this when I needed firepower in the village?"
"Isn't she a beauty?"
"She sure is," Ethan remarked, watching with no shortage of awe as Cassandra retrieved the revolver from the box. "Is this a new delivery too? What battle did it serve in?" He narrowed his eyes by a degree – taking in the details as he muttered, more to himself, "And what model is that?"
With swift, practiced hands, Cassandra kept her finger on the trigger guard, and rotated the cylinder one click at a time – revealing the weapon was unloaded. Ethan counted the clicks, noting the revolver's seven-round capacity.
"This isn't part of today's delivery, actually," Cassandra answered. She fiddled with the cylinder and continued, "I just figured that I could keep this here with me in my room. With the new delivery here, it felt like the right time to do a little sorting."
Ethan only hoped the sorting wasn't as neurotic as Daniela's.
"As for your other questions, I'm not sure." Cassandra gave a soft huff, voicing her disbelief, "Even the Duke said he wasn't sure what battle this revolver may have served in."
Ethan mulled it over for a moment. As far as he was concerned, the Duke knew everything about everything. If he claimed to be unsure as to the revolver's origins, then he was being purposely enigmatic. Guessing the Duke's motivations wasn't going to get him anywhere for now, so Ethan turned his attention to the present – and the very impressive revolver in Cassandra's hands.
"It's really something else, Cass," Ethan said, eyes running along the dark metal of the revolver. "If this wasn't part of the delivery, then where'd you find this?"
"A long time ago, actually." Before Ethan knew it, the weapon was extended towards him – pearl handle facing him. Ethan's eyes went up – checking if Cassandra was serious. When she nodded, and the revolver inched closer, Ethan accepted it.
Cassandra went on, "After…" a tired breath was sucked in before the words followed, "after Bela left me in the dark all those years ago, I didn't have much to do in my downtime." The bitterness was surprisingly mostly absent from her voice; Ethan suspected last night's talk may have helped with that. "I was poking around the storage rooms all the way down in the dungeons. I was hoping to find an old suit of armor to restore, or something – anything… I thought maybe we missed something in the initial pass of the storage chambers."
"This was just lying around down there?" Ethan asked as he turned the weapon over in his hands, admiring the engraving's subtle glint in the light.
A soft hum, and Cassandra clarified, "I found it in that very box, tucked away at the bottom of a shelf, underneath some old, bloodied rags." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, then settled on leaning her hip against the desk. "It was… an eye-opener."
Ethan had just finished double-checking the cylinder when he looked up to meet Cassandra's amber eyes. "How so?"
"It's like…" Cassandra's eyes narrowed, darting this way and that as her lips parted – struggling to find the words. She let out a breath, shrugged, and said, "I knew how to hold a gun, the moment I picked this one up."
Ethan's brows ticked up in recognition. "For real? Like – instinctively, you knew how to shoot?"
The slightest wave of sheepishness crossed her expression, and she admitted, "I may have put a few of the Moroaice down, for lack of a better target. Loading and shooting the gun was easy. Like it was second nature to me."
So Cassandra's first targets had been hostile, moving targets, and not a stationary sheet of paper or steel.
"I ordered some firearms from the Duke not long after, and…" Cassandra's eyes – flighty as ever – met Ethan's, but only briefly. She shrugged, and said, "I knew how to handle and shoot all those guns as well. I knew how to dismantle them, repair them, maintain them, put them back together – the works… I hired the Duke to construct the firing range in that same week."
The gun – a beautiful, deadly relic of the past – had awoken repressed memories from Cassandra's past life.
That had to be it. There was no other explanation. Contrary to videogame logic, guns didn't just magically teach you how to shoot – let alone to shoot properly, like Cassandra did. Even if revolvers were fairly idiot-proof (load, hammer back, pull the trigger, empty the cylinder – repeat) – Ethan would argue this Navy revolver wasn't that simple. Loading and firing a semi-auto was simpler than this archaic rear-loading cylinder. In the age of break open and swing out cylinders, this revolver comparatively took ages to load – understandable, given it predated the 1900s.
Not to mention that these models were typically built with front-loading cylinders. That meant this revolver was some sort of custom order, especially when factoring in what looked like cartridge conversion, judging by those giant fuck-off bullets in the case.
It only reinforced the thought in Ethan's head. If Cassandra had gone her entire bug-woman life without holding a gun, then found this one, and managed to load it and effectively shoot it in one sitting – then the gun had unblocked her latent memories. There was no other way.
Had Bela regained her memories in a similar fashion? Some thing that had brought all the repressed memories of her first life rushing back to her mind?
Ethan cleared his throat – now itchy and dry – as he asked, "That's a helluva coincidence, don't you think? That holding a gun brings back the instincts of how to use one?"
"I know it is," Cassandra sighed, crossing her arms. The frustration manifested as roughness in her voice. "But if you're wondering if I remembered anything else, then you're out of luck. Guns are the only thing I remembered."
Ethan looked away from Cassandra, giving her the moment to regain her composure while he studied the revolver. More to himself, Ethan observed out loud. "Custom made M1851 Navy Revolver. Cylinder's been modified to take seven rounds." His study of the gun also gave Cassandra the change in topic she needed – shifting the focus to the weapon, and away from her spotty memories. "Cartridge conversion. Judging by that beefed out barrel, it probably takes .38 magnum rounds on the regular."
The longer Ethan's eyes lingered on the silver and gold etchings, the more his willpower dwindled. What he said next was an attempt to fully steer Cassandra away from the frustration over her memories. It was also said because he was always a chucklefuck that could never help himself.
Ethan slapped his American accent on thicker than usual, and recited in a gruff voice, "It's a nice gun, I'll give you that. But the engraving gives you no tactical advantage whatsoever."
When Ethan looked Cassandra's way, he found a confused brow quirked up, and her lips parted slightly. When she licked her lips and found her voice again, it was to say, "I never claimed they would – but judging by that dumb voice of yours, you're trying to be funny." She leaned a few inches closer, scoffing out, "I'm not laughing. You're not funny, man-thing – you were never funny."
On the contrary, Ethan was softly cackling to himself at the bewilderment on Cassandra's face – and the way she had to bite down on her own smile, now that he was laughing freely.
Ethan pulled back on the Metal Gear, but instead felt Mia's love for old Westerns taking over. Rather than getting serious, he turned, and struck a pose – as though he'd just drawn the revolver from his hip.
He was no Arizona Ranger, but Texas Red would have a hole the size of a football in his chest if Ethan caught him with this monster of a gun. Hell, even that giant lycan would have thought twice if it saw Ethan twirling this bad boy around.
"I'm sorry," Ethan laughed out, "revolvers weren't too common back with my team, and my wife used to be a sucker for movies of the old West."
Sarcasm dripped free as Cassandra remarked, "No please, go on – I love babysitting for man-children like you." She crossed her arms and put on a poor imitation of a sneer on her face. Cassandra dryly remarked, "At least one of us is enjoying themselves."
Ethan crossed his arms, an imaginary second revolver pointed up in the air, while the M1851 was pointing to the side. With a thick, probably terribly acted Western drawl, Ethan remarked, "Dyin' ain't much of a living, Cass."
When Ethan turned to face Cassandra, she was biting down on her bottom lip now – as if doing everything in her power not to laugh at the ludicrous curl on Ethan's mouth – the invisible cigar he clamped between his lips.
"You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?'" A dramatic pause, and Ethan insisted in his thick, terrible accent, "Well, do ya, Cass?"
"No, I really, really, don't," Cassandra groaned, putting her face in her hands. In between a few loose, suppressed giggles, she complained through her fingers, "I couldn't be unluckier than I am now – stuck with you."
It was Ethan biting down his grin now when Cassandra freed her face. As her words said one thing, her unaffable smile said another thing, "Ridiculous. You're absolutely ridiculous, Ethan."
Momentary lightheartedness like this had to be cherished. For someone like Cassandra, who'd been in nothing but the dark for so long, these moments could be formative. Impactful enough to leave a lasting impression. Enough of these moments together could shine brighter than any lighthouse. Her guide out of the darkness, if she sank back into it.
Hopefully, that would be the case. That was enough in Ethan's book.
Ethan still ceased his tomfoolery before it got out of hand – and before Cassandra took his tongue out for his terrible Texan accent.
A little more seriously now, he remarked, "It really is a gorgeous revolver, Cass. One hell of a find."
"I know naming a weapon sounds strange, but," Cassandra sucked in a breath. After a beat, she released it, and admitted, "This one strikes me as a Wolfsbane." She shrugged, preempting Ethan's question when she continued, "It just feels right. A name like that is more at home than an M1851 Navy Revolver."
Ethan hummed, his thumb and forefinger stroking the revolver's extended barrel. He repeated it, getting a feel of the name in his mouth, "Wolfsbane."
Considering the rounds this thing chambered, it certainly would put any wolf down for the count.
"I like it," Ethan said, shifting his grip to hold the revolver by the barrel. He extended it back for Cassandra to take, as he said, "It'll take any wolf down easy. Hell – any lycan would be sorry they crossed you if you were packing that."
Cassandra took the revolver in her hands, holding it delicately, as if it were made of porcelain and not hardy steel.
Curiously, Ethan asked, "You ever test that out on a lycan, by any chance?"
"Afraid not." Cassandra shook her head, eyes fixed to the gun. "We don't get any lycans in the castle, and like I said before, I've not brought any guns outside of the castle on hunts."
"Shame. Those fuckers would make for perfect target practice," Ethan muttered. When Cassandra's fingers ghosted over the gold engraving on the barrel, Ethan pointed it out, asking, "What about that inscription there? What's that say?"
Without so much as a glance at the revolver, Cassandra recited, "Fiat Voluntas Tua."
The blankness must have shone on Ethan's face, because Cassandra gave a soft, amused huff. Without a prompt explanation, Ethan asked, "Is that Latin?"
"It is," Cassandra nodded, "It means 'Thy will be done.'"
Well. Ethan supposed it was as fitting a thing as any to carve onto a giant revolver like that. The Almighty's will was certainly going to be very fucking done with each lycan that got its head blown off by .38 magnum.
"You speak Latin?" Ethan asked, then added rhetorically, "History and Latin. Aren't you just a nerd full of surprises?"
"I don't," Cassandra chuckled, pointing a finger at Ethan in protest. "And if anyone in this family is a nerd, it is Bela." Then she shook her hand in the air – getting them back on track. "I took it to the Duke once, and he translated it for me."
Ethan should have seen it coming. If anyone in this valley was fluent in Latin – or had a handy English-Latin dictionary on hand – then it would be the Duke. But with how much more Ethan learned about Cassandra as each day passed – her love of medieval warfare and desire to learn swords(wo)manship being the latest discoveries – her knowledge of Latin felt like a reasonable thing to assume.
Cassandra tinkered with the revolver, admiring it in the same way Ethan had been. Her fingers carried a certain familiarity to their movements when she rotated the cylinder with slow, measured clicks.
"You know, you'd make a pretty formidable werewolf hunter with a gun like that," Ethan chimed. It elicited a small quirk at the corner of Cassandra's mouth as she met his gaze. Revolver of dark steel and gold, dark dress – that was a whole aesthetic or mood, or whatever people said these days. Some women Ethan knew aspired to have the sort of vibe Cassandra effortlessly emanated in this moment.
Ethan followed up, "You know what you're missing?"
Cassandra's smirk was replaced by a befuddled frown. "What?"
"Wooden stakes, holy water, and maybe a bible for good measure."
If Cassandra's eyes rolled into the back of her head any harder, Ethan was going to worry she may be having a seizure.
The brunette scoffed. "Again with this fascination of yours with Dracula? You're aware vampires are not real, right?" She shook her head, eyes narrowed with incredulity. "And even if they were – I'm sure it would take more than some stale water and bits of wood to stop a vampire."
Ethan offered a slight concession, even as he countered, "Well – maybe – but still, with that gun of yours no vampire or werewolf would be able to stand in your way. You gotta admit, that thing just screams 'monster hunter.'"
Cassandra's unimpressed, impassive face stared at Ethan, and he only took that as his sign to keep going.
"We could give you a swanky black hat, and you'd be set." Ethan brought his hands up to frame an imaginary movie poster. "Look out, lycans – here comes Cassandra Dimitrescu!"
Except that didn't quite roll off the tongue, so Ethan then shook his head and declared, "Nah, we can do better than that."
"Better than my actual name?"
"C'mon, werewolf and vampire hunters gotta have an alias or something. Like – like…" Ethan trailed off as his creative juices felt decidedly dried up by this point.
"Impress me, man-thing." Cassandra crossed her arms. "I'm waiting."
Ethan snapped his fingers, turning to nudge his side into Cassandra – framing his hands in the air for her to see, "Cass Van Helsing!"
Save for Cassandra's eyes widening by a degree, it got little reaction – and so Ethan knew he had to workshop it further.
"Since we keep talking Dracula, might as well go all the way, right? How about…"
Gender-bending ye olde Mr. Helsing's name seemed way more suiting. "Maybe Victoria Van Helsing rolls off the tongue better." Ethan grinned at that, and repeated, "Look out, lycans – here comes Victoria Van Helsing!"
Putting on his best Gabriel Van Helsing voice, Ethan asked, "What do you say, Victoria? Ready to hunt?"
All wrapped up in his theatrics, Ethan didn't notice the way Cassandra had frozen in place at his side.
For several endlessly long seconds, Cassandra didn't move a muscle – not even breathing. When Ethan opened his mouth to ask what was wrong – she spoke first. Her voice came out soft and shaky, "W-what was that?" She took an audible gulp, blinking several times in quick succession. "What did you call me?"
A gentle frown set into Ethan's brow. He turned to face her properly as he recounted, "Y'know like in Dracula, it's Victor Van Helsing. I just… made it a woman's name. Victoria Van Helsing."
Cassandra's breaths went from uneven to downright ragged – almost wheezing for air. Anxious eyelashes fluttered up and down – blinking over glazy eyes. Cassandra stumbled a step backwards, catching her balance with a hand to her desk – hard enough for the wood to creak.
"Cass, what –"
"Victoria," Cassandra repeated in a whisper. She dumped the revolver into its original box with a heavy hand. On uneven, clumsy feet, Cassandra staggered in place – like simply staying upright was a momentous task. Again, she whispered, "Victoria." Her trigger finger thudded against the table – the force rattling the desk's contents. When she stilled, it was only so she could grip the table to keep balance – hard enough to elicit a sharp crack from the wood. "Victoria Van Helsing."
It all clicked into place so swiftly that it left Ethan winded.
But no – that couldn't actually be her name. Van Helsing was a fucking fictional character.
A title? A nickname?
A real name mixed with a title or a nickname?
Ethan stared up at Cassandra, his mouth agape and his eyes wide in wonder.
Victoria.
The brunette woman in front of him, who now looked like a fish out of water, was named Victoria.
A goddamn joke – a dumb joke, perfectly timed – unleashed some core memory locked away in Cassandra's psyche.
Cassandra released the desk, sending wooden chips clacking to the floor. She took a step away – shambling on drunken legs. One trembling hand came up to clasp over her eyes, while another shot up to balance herself against a support pillar. Yet that proved to be futile when her hand slid over the stone, and she turned to give her back to the pillar.
In moments, Cassandra had slid down to the stone floor. Her heels dug into the ground, pushing her against the pillar – as if she wanted to be absorbed into the rough stonework. When that didn't work, and she continued gasping for air, her hand went to her neck – fingers seeking any form of relief. In a blur of motion and with a sharp snap, Cassandra ripped her necklace and choker off, allowing the trinkets to scatter on the floor as she massaged her neck, as if it would clear her airways.
She shook her head in sharp movements, sending her dark brown hair swaying side to side. In under a whisper, Cassandra said, "I think you should go."
"Cass," Ethan tried again, and walked closer. He carefully reached for Cassandra's shoulder, only for her to bat his hand away with a quick swipe – forceful enough to rattle his bones and bruise the back of his hand.
When her hand dropped, Ethan was met with dark, fat droplets streaming down Cassandra's eyes. Her ruined makeup mingled with the salty tears as they tumbled down her sharp cheekbones, drawing grey streaks on her face – a shade paler than usual.
"Ethan," Cassandra pleaded through gritted teeth and pained eyes. Her voice picked up in volume, shifting to face Ethan, "I don't want to hurt you!" Cassandra's arm shot up to grip Ethan's shirt, shoving him towards the door. She followed up with a gesture – a motion sharp and fast enough to audibly cut through the air between them. "Get out! Now!"
"Okay," Ethan, stumbling back, and eyes still wide, and mouth still defaulting to hanging loose in the shock of it all – began to back up further. "I'm going, Cass. Just…" He kept his hands by his sides, but raised slightly, for whatever little they could do to placate the newly awoken storm in Cassandra. "I'm here for you, okay?" He licked his dry lips and ducked his head to try and meet her teary eyes. "You know that, right?"
Remembering her name in life had to bring some good with it. For all he knew, it could carry the forgotten triumphs. The second wind she'd gotten to continue living life. All the buried and neglected joy of her past life could be tied to that name.
But.
But it couldn't be all good, even if there may have been some good there. Because if Cassandra's current state was anything to go by –
A sob rocked Cassandra's form as she pressed her hand tighter into her face.
In truth, there was no telling what else Ethan had dragged to the light. This could be the most recent in his list of fuck ups – causing far more harm than good. Maybe that name was associated with more pain and suffering than he could fathom. Maybe it tied her to the worst moments of that life – memories that even she'd forgotten, up until this moment.
There was no way of knowing for sure by just speculating. The only person who could shed light on these hypotheses was sitting on the ground, surrounded by the remains of her necklace, and in the middle of a breakdown.
It was why Ethan was taking his sweet time backing out of the room until the very last moment – in case Cassandra changed her mind. He would have loved to close the distance between them – just like how it pained him to have not done so with Bela days ago – to remind Cassandra that he was here for her, truly. Against all odds, they'd forged an unlikely friendship, and Ethan despised leaving a friend behind, especially when she was this distraught.
But Cassandra was in a highly volatile state. When Cassandra was volatile, she was potentially physical, even if she didn't mean for it to be so. A portion of her desk had been reduced to wood chippings in her grip. One wrong move, and it was Ethan who'd be snapped in half, and his innards would be as scattered on the floor as the trinkets of her necklace. Not a lot of good he could do for the Dimitrescu family if Cassandra accidentally broke his spine in a fit of tumultuous, misplaced rage.
Bela was different – and that was one thing Ethan had been beating himself up over the past few days. Bela didn't have a track record of losing control of her strength when lost and spiraling out. Maybe he should have just stayed with her. Maybe he should have held Bela until she stopped asking him to leave. Maybe giving her space like she'd asked had been the wrong move, and it had been naïve to think she would find her way back to him.
Ethan truly didn't know what was best. Dealing with sisters as psychologically and emotionally distressed as the Dimitrescu sisters was unfamiliar ground. Each decision – even if they felt like educated guesses – grasped at straws. Each step he took, no matter how cautious, risked setting off a landmine.
By the time Ethan reached the doorway, Cassandra had still not moved. She had one hand planted on the floor – fingers beginning to crack the stone – and another over her face. Her shoulders trembled, rocked by suppressed sobs – suppressed as powerfully as she repressed those memories, and her own name.
In parting, Ethan spoke softly, "You come see me if you need anything, Cass. Anything at all."
Ethan waited. Casting a lonely silhouette in the doorway of the armory, Ethan waited. A minute came and went, passing them by like a ghost in the night. When Cassandra still did not budge, he extracted himself from the top of the stairway, and departed.
A/N: Hey hey, thanks so much for reading this chapter. As usual, be sure to hit those fave and follow buttons on the way out so you don't miss any updates.
Running late again, I know - but as I always say, have a little faith in me, as these updates will always come along eventually, unless I say otherwise. Just got a lot on my plate this time of year. Hoping that the beefiness of this chapter makes up for my punctuality, at least.
So - a lot going on here. Another glimpse into Daniela's not at all insignificant writing, and all the weight it carries, even if Daniela herself can't quite express it so clearly. Then of course, things with Cassandra are finally all coming to a head. Ethan's cracked the dam rather serendipitously. The train's going full speed now, and the brakes have been disabled, so I hope y'all are strapped in for what is to come.
Next chapter should be going up on the weekend of November 6th. Super, super busy these days and I'm trying to keep a regular posting schedule as best as I can. Let's see if I can fire these next chapters out on time.
As always, be sure to peep at the socials on the way out. linktr . ee / sylvesterm I'll be posting the October Q&A Podcast in a couple days, which is going to be a lot of fun to record. Until then, thanks again so much for taking the time to read, and support this story. Stay safe out there, and I'll catch y'all around soon.
