A little Damian woke with a start from the nightmares of the previous night. He glanced around the room, and got from the bed, panicking. "Where am I?" he said. This room was unfamiliar to him; the brightly colored walls; the large window that let light stream in, burning his eyes. He hissed at it and hid under the bed sheets, sobbing. This place is too scary, he thought. I wanna go home.

Nevertheless, he knew, from being attacked by Zhivago the previous night that he could not go home. However, that still did not answer where he was. He remembered going to the hospital with the man who'd saved him from Zhivago, then going to meet a big, scary man who had been married to his momma and-

His eyes filled with tears. "Momma," he sobbed loudly, his whole body shaking. "Why'd momma have to die?" He heard the bed creak and felt a hand stroking his head, and almost instantly he stopped crying. The sheets were pushed back and little Damian looked up and the man from the previous night. He had brown hair and eyes, and a warm smile. "Are you up, little one?" he said.

"Who are you?" a coy Damian replied.

"I am Edmund Wesley; it's quite nice to meet you, Damian von Helson."

"How do you know my name? Where's Daddy? Where am I? How did I get here? Did Zhivago give you those scars? Are they painful? What about that big man who didn't like me? When can I-" Edmund put a finger to the little vampire's lips. "Hush, child. I'll answer all your questions, but-" he stroked his beard with his free hand and laughed-"I'm old, so you can't bombard me with so much at once."

Damian giggled and noticed that the blinds to the window had been pulled down, blocking the light. "Hey, Mister Edmund, how can you see in the dark?"

"That is my little secret. Now then, about those questions of yours. I know you because my best friend's wife was your mother, and she never stopped talking about you and your brother."

"Where's Louie Mister Edmund?" Damian said, fear in his voice.

Edmund frowned and ran his hand over Damian's head. "He got taken away by your father and Zhivago. I couldn't get him back…I'm so sorry." The little boy with black hair flung himself onto Edmund, attaching to his white shirt and sobbing deeply into it.

"Don't worry, little one. Your father won't get you, too. He's locked back into his castle with his bats and Louie…I cannot get Louie back, Damian."

"But why not?" Damian brought his head out of the warm chest and glared up at him. "You're a grown-up; you can do anything you want!"

"I wish it were that simple. But it isn't."

Damian pounded on Edmund's chest, screaming, "That's not fair, it's not fair! I want my brother back! I want my momma back! I hate you! I hate you!" The older man took the poundings without so much as a word, and when the little boy settled down he hugged him close. "I promise to take care of you, Little One. I will watch over you and raise you as my own, in hope that you may have a better life than you would with your father."

From there, the small vampire fell back asleep, cradled in Edmund's arms. He awoke a few hours later, to an unusually sweet smell. He hopped from his bed and took the stairs two at a time into the kitchen, where Edmund, apron on, hair pulled back, was leaning over the stove, pushing a pan with a spatula. He looked up at Damian and smiled. "Are you hungry?"

Ian nodded, and stood beside the man at the stove. "What are you making?"

"Oh, just some pancakes with the recipe I read in a cookbook many autumns ago."

"Pancakes?"

"You've never had pancakes before, have you?"

The boy shook his head, "Nope. Are they good?"

"I think so. Go wash your hands and sit at the table. I'll have dinner ready by then."

"Dinner, Mr. Edmund?"

"Well, look at the clock. It's almost 7 P.M.; supper time."

"Normally I haven't even had breakfast yet, sir."

"Well, Damian," here he sighed, "You're going to have to adjust to living as a normal human. That means sleeping only at night, eating human food, playing with human children, and things like that."

"B-but why?"

"I cannot raise you as a vampire, boy. It'd be impossible for me, not only because I have a pulse, but because it goes against all my morals to kill a human being."

Damian simply nodded his head in agreement, and went to prepare for dinner. When he had washed his hands at his place at the table was a small stack of pancakes, drowned in syrup. He shriveled his nose up as he got up the table. "They look gross."

Edmund stabbed a cake with his fork and held it up. "They aren't 'gross', they're sweet and delicious. If you try them, you'll like them. I never knew a kid who didn't like pancakes."

Reluctantly, Ian cut off a small piece and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. He swallowed hard, and his face stayed scrunched for a moment. Then, gradually, it softened back to its old shape. "…they're good."

"See?" Edmund said, matter-of-factly, pointing his fork at Damian, "I told you you'd like them; I am one of the best chefs around here, even if I went to college to be a scientist. But enough about me, what do you plan on doing after dinner?"

"Hmm," Damian looked up at him, his mouth full of cakes, "aff nahf sur." He swallowed, "Why?"

Edmund rested his chin in his palms, his elbows on the table, and smiled gently at the boy. "I think you should go out and try to make some friends. There are boys around your age on this block; you should try to play with them. So when you start school-"

"School?" the boy choked, "I've never been to a school!"

"Well, you're only six Damian, which makes sense. Yes, school starts next week, and I've already enrolled you under a different name."

"What name?"

"Ian Wesley. You like that?"

"…What do I do if they ask about momma?"

"Say your mother left us a long time ago."

"What if I don't make any friends?"

"You'll make plenty of friends, Damian. Just try, alright?"

The week, though boring and uneventful, passed surprisingly quickly. The most interesting event occurred the day before school started, when little Damian went out to play. He ran out, eager to play stickball with a few other boys, and stopped just outside off the steps of Edmund's apartment. Across the street, he saw a little boy, with grey eyes and dust-colored hair. He waved to the little boy, who retreated into the house. Damian heard shouting, glass breaking, and whimpered, watching as the little boy was flung through the front door and unto the grass. He got up and ran down the sidewalk, barefoot, blood and tears running down his face.

"It's such a shame." Damian looked up at Edmund, who had his arms crossed, shaking his head. "That poor child. He's never caused any mischief in his whole life; he doesn't deserve the treatment he gets."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"…It's nothing for you to worry about Damian. This is a grown-up matter. Now go play with your little friends." Edmund gave him a gentle, reassuring push on the back, and Damian headed out to play. By the time it was dark he was called back home, bathed, and put to bed. He still had trouble sleeping at night, but his newly appointed guardian would read to him and, had, once, cradled him in his arms, humming lullabies. He was glad to be cared for by such a nice person.

"Mr. Edmund?" asked the curious Damian, snuggled underneath the covers the night before school began.

"Yes, little one?"

"Do you have a wife?"

Edmund shook his head and smiled. "I suppose I'm like a wife, though."

"What does that mean?"

"I'll tell you later little one. Rest now, alright?"

"Okay. G'night, papa." Edmund couldn't help but chuckle when he heard that word. He turned off the lights and the little vampire nodded to sleep.

He had a pleasant school day the next morning, but he did not make a friend to introduce to his papa, who came to pick him up after class. He had a little boy clinging to his leg, a little boy with short blonde hair and huge violet eyes. At the sight of Damian, he gasped and hid behind Edmund, who nudged him back out. "Now, Gino, don't be scared. Ian won't hurt you, I promise."

Gino blushed and held out his hand to Damian politely, "H-hi." Damian looked up and Edmund and asked, "Papa, who is this? Is he your son?"

"Heaven forbid, child! No! He's Johnny's son."

"Johnny?"

"The big, scary man."

"Oh," Damian let his eyes drop to the ground, and he pretended to be unusually interested in his shoes. "Why isn't he here with Gino then?"

"He's at his home little one. We're going to drop Gino off there so that Johnny and I can talk, and you can play with Gino, okay?" Damian simply nodded, seeing as he had no choice. He trudged behind his Papa and little Gino, who stayed attached to Edmund like an unwanted fungus.

When they found themselves at the Gambino mansion, Damian could not help but gawk at it. This was the first time he had seen it during the day, and it was much larger than it was at night. His momentary awe caused him to fall behind from the other two, so he had to run on his thin, tiny legs to catch up.

The mansion was even larger on the inside, with a seemingly unnecessary amount of halls and rooms. He was led up the stairs into a two-way corridor, from which they took the left passage. At the end of said hall, Edmund pushed Gino and Damian into the playroom, but not without resistance.

"Papa," Damian whined, taking in small fistfuls of his pants' leg, "where are you going? Don't leave me behind!"

"I'll just be down this hall, in that room over there. See it? Good boy. Now go play with Gino in his playroom."

Damian fussed, discontent, with a doll in the corner closest to the window. Whenever Gino looked at him, he glared back, saying with his eyes "How dare you take my Papa away?" The room was tense-- as tense as it can be between a six and three-year-old. "I'm sorry, Mister Ian," Gino said, snuggling desperately onto a different doll near the door. Damian relaxed a little; Gino was too cute to stay mad at. "Why does your daddy need my papa's help?"

"Daddy hasn't been eatin' and he cries a lot. I don' get't. I miss mama."

"I miss my momma too."

Gino bolted upward, locking eyes with Damian, "You lost your momma too?" Damian nodded, sniffled, "lil' while ago. My papa hurt her."

Gino glanced at the door and then back at Damian, "Mister Edmun'?"

"No, no! I meant my real papa. Mister Edmund is my, umm, adoptive papa; my real papa didn't want me anymore." He looked up from the floor and started when he saw Gino mere inches from his face, which suddenly became very warm. Gino gave him a peck on the cheek and stood. "I'm bowed; let's go see daddy and papa!"

"But they said they wanted to be alone, Gino, we shouldn't peek on them!" the flushed of the duo stood as well, rubbing his wet cheek.

"Don't be a chicken, c'mon!" Gino snuck out of the room and down the hall with a shocking ease and Damian cautiously followed suite. Gino jarred the door to his father's room and both heard faint sobs. They spied, one atop the other, in the door, both wide-eyed.

On the bed, Edmund was stripped to his boxers, and Johnny completely naked, on his stomach, under the blankets. "Rosalie, Rosalie, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to, I'm so sorry." He sounded ashamed, and kept his head in the pillow. Edmund lay down next to him and rubbed his back. "I'm sorry, old friend. I did not mean to force myself upon you."

"You couldn't wait could you? I bet you wanted her dead, so you could have me!"

"I did not interfere! I knew how much Rosalie meant to you!"

"Did you even try to save her?" he lifted his head from the pillow, glaring accusingly at Edmund. "I'd bet my life you let her die! You let my Rosalie die! You selfish bastard! Why, so you could fuck me? Was her life worth a fuck?"

"I love you, Jonathon K. Gambino! Do you not understand what that means?"

"Wanna know what sucks, Edmund? Do you honestly?"

"Johnny, please stop this! I had no intent on letting her die! Your happiness means the entire world to me! If it was Rosalie that made you happy I would not have purposely let her die!"

"Edmund..."

"Now Johnny I…"

"The saddest part is, well, I think I love you too." He grabbed Edmund by the waist and tugged him down, kissing him deeply. Saliva was swapped and Damian tugged Gino away as he saw Edmund tug at the blankets covering Johnny's abdomen.

"Why was daddy crying, Ian?"

"I don't know, Gino. Leave me alone." Both boys had gone back to the playroom, and sat silently in their own corners. It took another hour and a half for Edmund to come back to retrieve Damian, at which point his hair was messy, his clothes were wrinkled, and bite marks could be seen on his upper neck. "Ian, did you hear anything odd?" he asked, panting. "Like what papa?" the little boy replied, faking his obliviousness.

"It was nothing, nothing at all. Don't worry about it. We can leave now."

"But papa, what about Mister Gambino? Is he okay now?"

"He will be just fine, but he is still a bit sad. I'll visit him again while you're in school tomorrow, alright?"

"It doesn't matter papa."

They waved goodbye to Gino and an exhausted-looking, robe-clad Johnny at the front door and went back to their apartment. Both felt disenchanted after leaving the luxurious Gambino mansion on the other side of Durem to this run-down old apartment. "I promise you Damian, I'll find us a better home than this disgusting shack!" he punched a cracked wall, denting it further. He took Damian upstairs and sat him on his bed, pointing out the window. "Damian, see the clock tower over there? I have wanted to live there since I was your age. I have a good job now, and I have been saving for years and years. By the time you're in high school, we might be able to lease it."

"It's really big papa, how much is it?"

"My dear sweet child, I did ask once. At the time the owner wanted 85,000,000 gold for it, but that was a few years ago. I don't know if the price has gone up or down in that period of time."

"How much do you have papa?"

"Not even half. Not yet, anyway. Since I've started working for Mister Gambino my salary is five times what it was before. He's an honest man who pays a man good for a hard day of work."

"What do you do papa?"

"I can't tell you. Do not ask why—I just cannot. Say, isn't it time for you to go to bed?"

"Umm, no?"

"I thought so! Come along now, a bath and bed for you!"

"Children? Oh goodness, you poor baby, I'm sorry."

Damian glanced up from his homework—which he and his papa scurried to finish late last night after Damian had remembered it—which was laid neatly on his desk. He was going over his math problems again to make sure they were all good and neat. Papa said they were all right but his little vampire was still careful. Whom he saw by his teacher made him gasp. It was the muddy boy from before! The one his papa said was "sad". He had grey hair and eyes, which matched the tattered tunic-esque garment he wore. The only things that stood out were the purple ring around his eye and the red-pink scars on his arms and legs. "Children, say hello to your new classmate, umm…what's your name sweetie?" The teacher checked the attendance sheet on her clipboard, to make sure the new boy did not think she had forgotten him. She had.

"Rufus," the boy had a mouse's voice, and his fellow classmates—save for Damian with his vampire-level hearing—could not hear him.

"My papa says the only boys who wear dresses are faggots!" one boy leapt up and commented; forcing giggles and snickers from the closed lips of his peers.

"Christopher! Apologize!"

"I don't wanna!"

"Rufus, why don't you go sit by Ian over there? The little boy with black hair, see him?"

"Yes, ma'am," the grey boy sat by the vampire who would become his best friend. And the teacher took Christopher outside into the hall, who came back in crying.

"Hey Christopher, my papa says the only boys who cry are faggots," Damian whispered as Christopher ran back to his seat. Granted, that wasn't true, but Damian didn't like boys being rude—he was raised better. He smiled sweetly at Rufus, who said nothing as he sat down. He looked intently (but hazily) at the desk, a 20x24 stained wood thing heavy with scratches and pencil marks. It was more than he had at home, and he couldn't handle it. Great big tears welled up in his eyes, and he sobbed loudly, drawing attention to him and Damian.

"Ian! What did you to that poor baby?" the teacher asked, kneeling by Rufus and hugging him tight.

"I didn't do anything at all!" Damian threw his hands up in the arm like a man proclaiming the gods' glory. "Honest, honest!"

"Now, now baby, are you okay?"

"T-thank you," Rufus sobbed into the woman's bosom, "Thank you so much."

"Oh sweetie, baby, honey, what for?"

"M-my desk." Again, the room burst into a laughing fit, quelled only by the harsh booming of the teacher. She lifted Rufus up, and he seemed so pale compared to her deep chocolate skin. "Rufus, I'm going to take you to the nurse so she can look at that eye of yours, okay?" Rufus started and tried to tug away. "No, no, no, please don't make me go there, ma'am! I'm just fine, see? I stopped crying! I'll be good, I promise I will! I'll be quiet, I promise, just please don't-!" she touched his cheek, "You poor baby," and they left.

An hour later Damian found himself clung to. Clung to by Rufus as Gino had clung to his papa. With his swollen eye shut and his fragile little arms on Damian's shirt it was hard to concentrate, and even harder to attempt shaking him off when his papa came. His papa looked a bit startled when he saw a dusty boy clinging to his almost-son. But he simply leaned over and gave Rufus a small pat on the head.

Today, however, Edmund was a little late picking Damian up (the evidence obvious in the blue-black bruise on his neck and his rippled clothing), so all the other children had been picked up or taken home on buses. But only two boys, a man, and the teacher were left in the quietly barren schoolroom.

"Come home with us?" Edmund suggested, holding out his hand to Rufus. "Can't," Rufus returned, "Momma'll get mad't me."

"Child, you live not fifty feet away from our house." Edmund took his cell phone from his pocket and held it to the little boy. "Call your momma, and ask her if you can come over for dinner tonight. I'd be charmed to meet my son's little friend." Rufus scurried out into the hall and Damian looked up at his papa's cold – but loving – face. "Where's your coat papa?"

"Hmm, what is it?"

"Your coat, papa; where is it?"

"I left it with Mister Gambino back at his home."

"Why?"

"I felt he needed to borrow it for a while. But just until he gets better."

"Is he still sad?"

"Yes Damian. Very much so…"

"He has quite the appetite, Damian, does he not?" Edmund whispered to his son at dinner. Across the table Rufus was inhaling food like a starving man. The simple meat-and-potato banquet turned into an awkward dinner with the only sounds being Rufus's lack of manners.

"I think he's hungry, papa. He didn't eat at lunch time."

"Why not?"

"He says he doesn't have money for lunch."

"From the looks of things, he doesn't have much of anything at all."

The woman was a busty carrot-top, who smoked and wore clothes much too tight for her. She gave Rufus a rough head-pat, and pushed him inside. "Thank you kindly for feeding him. We're on the poor side, and can't give him everything he needs."

"It's no trouble. Perhaps he could come over to stay a night once in a while?"

"Of course, of course! It's…it's good for him to make friends. Gods know he needs 'em."

"What was that, ma'am?" Edmund asked, courteous but not impressed by her caring illusion. The way she held herself, her bruised arms, her blood-shot eyes; she showed classic junkie symptoms. No doubt she couldn't feed Rufus because of her own despicable habits.

"Nothing, nothing at all, sir. Rufus, baby, it's bed time."

"Is father here tonight, mama?"

"Yes, he is. Why do you ask?"

"Can I share a bed with you tonight mommy?"

"You can share a bed with your father just fine!" She pushed a lock of hair from her face. "I'm really sorry Mister..."

"Edmund Wesley. It's a pleasure, I'm sure."

"Yes, but, be careful. Sometimes Rufus gets a little, jumpy. He has a crazy imagination like kids do, you know?"

"Yes, I know very well."

In less than a measly twenty-four hours the delicious scent of his perfect friend was dead. Johnny held the trench coat like a pile of worthless snake shedding, knowing his only remedy was gone. "Why do I need you so much?" he mumbled, pushing his face once again into the already damp cloth. Their friendship seemed like an eternity, even if eternity was only eight or so years. He had to admit, he was so scared to give that up; to be more than "just friends". He'd loved Rosalie with all his heart, all his being. After all, she married him didn't she? And did she not also bear him a child, an heir? Wasn't that love? He was scared to think otherwise. It made him feel so pathetic; he could conquer science, dominate business, create monopolies, buy large parts of land, yet he was intimidated by history's oldest emotion?

That was low, even for him.

His alarm clock told him it was 9:38. He'd heard Edmund take Gino to day-care and Damian to elementary school an hour ago, so why wasn't he back?

Johnny hoisted himself up out of bed, then managed to get dressed and go downstairs. In the bathroom connected to his bedroom he saw the wear-and-tear of years and grief obvious on his face. Downstairs he made some coffee and sat at the kitchen table until he heard the front door unlock. He'd given Edmund a spare set of keys.

"Johnny!" he called, glancing about. "Johnny are you upstairs?"

"I'm in the kitchen!" It shocked him a bit how hoarse his voice was. When his best friend had entered the kitchen, poured himself a mug, and sat next to him, the room was silent. Edmund laid his hand atop Johnny's and casually caressed it, feeling the cold skin. "Are you getting better? I mean, how are you feeling right now?"

"I didn't want you to look down on me anymore. You must have pitied me, staying in bed all day, and that's why you visit every day."

"Pity? Oh Johnny, did we not talk about this a week or so ago, when we made love?" Edmund squeezed the much larger hand tightly. "I do not pity you, I love you. I love you like, maybe, the father or brother I never had."

"Not as an actual lover then, right? I'm not your boyfriend?"

"Do you want to be my boyfriend?"

"I-I don't know! I guess I do. No, I do want that."

"If that is what you want—me, myself, and the love I can give—you first have to learn to deal with your emotions and move on. It's been a little over a month since Rosalie's death; do you need more time to cope with the pain? I will not force a relationship on you if you are still grieving."

"I do but, I need you."

"You assume I will not be there for you every step of the way."

"Edmund, please don't…tell anyone. If the public finds out, about us, who knows what could happen?"

"To the public I am nothing more than a supportive friend. And to the public I shall become no more, until you are ready to come out and say what need be said."

"Why are you so perfect?" he leaned in for a kiss, and it was happily received. Their tongues greeted each other cheerfully, as if saying 'hello, how are you? Let me give you a hug!' Johnny pulled open Edmund's silk shirt and rubbed his calloused hands against his other's tight abs and biceps. Then he dropped to his knees on the floor, and licked the edges of Edmund's chest scar. Gambino's chief of research threw his head back, groaning and gripping his boss's hair. "J-Johnny, you'll re-open the wound. I-it hasn't fully healed yet-ahhh!" He removed his hand from Gambino's hair and pushed him away. He re-buttoned his shirt and held out his hand. "I'm sorry to do that. Here, take my hand."

"But I thought you wanted me."

"I do want you. I want you more than anyone, but I thought you weren't ready."

"But you said-!"

"I said that we would become lovers when you were ready. You told me that you aren't ready just yet." He stood, yanked Gambino to his feet, kissed him again. "Tomorrow after I drop off the children I'm taking you to a grief counselor, understand? Then I'm taking you to a psychologist and your physician. I want you to get better, and I want to help you get better."

"Taking me to a psychologist and a counselor? You mean shrinks? I am not going to see any shrink, Edmund! I do not need my head shrunk!"

"No one is going to shrink your head, alright? The counselor is a friend of a friend and I've already met her in person. She's a little younger than you but she's been through just as much as you. She lost her husband last year to cancer, so you both know what it's like.

"The psychologist and your doctor are just there to confirm your depression and give you someone to talk to."

"But I have you, Edmund."

"Obviously you need more than just me or else we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Johnny sat down in his lap, hugging Edmund's head to his body. "I don't want you to leave me again, Edmund. Come live with me."

"I can't do that. You're the one who said no one could find out about us! And I agree; this is no one's business but ours."

"Screw what I fucking said Edmund! Screw it, screw it all!" He got off of his lap, pacing about, glancing at locked-away knives and pills. "I need- I need to end this, end this all!"

"Stop talking crazy, Johnny! Your son needs you to stay alive, and so do I!" He delivered a harsh slap to the other's head. He stood and, grabbing their coffee mugs, poured them some warm Joe. "Now have a drink and we'll talk about this rationally."

Zhivago clenched his muscles, feeling the long trail of a whip cut diagonally cross his back. He had been punished like this, on and off every day, since he'd let that brat slip through his fingers. He had never been more thankful to be dead—the pain was half of what it would be if he were alive. One last lashing and Vladimir hung the bullwhip upon a hook on the wall. He ran one long, slender finger down Zhivago's spine, and stuck several into the fresh wounds. He watched his impudent servant squirm, biting down hard on his lip to keep from making any ego-damaging pleads. A thin string of blood ran down his chin, only to be lapped up by Vlad. "Tell me Zhivago, have you found my son yet?"

Mustering up some defiant courage, Zhivago said (almost proudly), "No my master. I have not found your bastard son." The latter comment earned him sharp talons pushed further into his wounds.

"Tell me then, almighty one, have you a clue as to where he is?"

"I-in Durem, milord! I know that much!"

"Not good enough!" The dug-in talons were then forced down his back, extending the already quite long marks farther down his back.

Grabbing the shackles that held Zhivago's arms high above his head, Vladimir spun Zhivago round till his back was to the wall, his hard chest bare before his master. He then pushed Zhivago against the wall, strapped his stomach down. This exposed Zhivago's open wounds to the dirty brick and crusted blood from previous nights.

Vladimir fed from Zhivago's neck, and played with his nipples a bit, arousing him. "If you are good tonight Zhivago, and at least develop a speculation as to the whereabouts of my son, I may reward you upon your return. Do you understand?"

"I understand, milord."

"That is very good, Zhivago. I will leave you until it is your time to disembark. Get some rest."

As hard as it may seem to sleep with such physical pain flowing through him, Zhivago nodded off in no time at all. As was the case of late, he dreamt of his wife, whom was killed by Vladimir over a century ago. He shivered out of his sleep, away from her cold, faceless grasp. He breathed her name, a forbidden word in his master's presence, and was rewarded with deep claw marks imbedded in his stomach. "Did I not warn you to not breathe that whore's name in my face?"

"I'm sorry my master!"

"Sorry is not good enough, Zhivago! You pledged loyalty to me those many years ago!"

"Only after you killed her, you beast!"

Vladimir took the straps off of Zhivago's stomach, the shackles off his arms, and pointed the arched stone window over the dungeon. "Then leave! Leave of your own free will and never return to me again!"

Zhivago rolled his wrists to get the numbness out of them. He took a sharp look at his master, his eyes never leaving that cold face as he dressed his upper body. He knew, for a fact, his master would never truly release him, unless, of course, he were dead. But with that earlier defiant courage in his belly, Zhivago easily leapt the twenty feet to the window. When he landed on the ground outside, he looked back for a moment, touching the wall. The only thing that separated him from his master. The man who tortured, sexualized and tormented him for years.

He was free.