El abismo del cielo

Ellisandre

Ellisandre stood over Sevastyan. He’d stopped weeping eventually, his body too tired and drugged to carry on.

The soft whimpers had almost been worse, but then, even those had tapered off and the shivering had set in.

His shirt was still half on, and so were his pants.

He’d pulled so hard on the restraints he’d torn open the skin on his right wrist.

It was going to bruise. For now, it was were only bloody.

Letting him loose had been the only answer once it was clear he wasn’t going to harm himself.

Anton was evil. If he hadn’t been evil before, he’d fallen to that point. There were so many more to blame, but for tonight, Anton had their ire. Their hate needed a name and a face. His would serve.

For now, their boy needed them.

Ellisandre went to the bedroom and returned with a med kit.

Slipping a needle into Sevastyan’s arm and setting up an IV with saline was simple.

He’d cried so hard his body was bereft of hydration.

Bruises and blood loss required not just water but salts to heal.

They covered Sevastyan with a weighted and heated blanket and then checked each of his limbs, uncovering one at a time and keeping the rest of him wrapped for warmth.

Each cut and bruise needed cleaning and checking.

His left wrist was going to be painful for a while.

Only waking him would show if it was merely strained or also sprained.

The work was a meditation. Ellisandre fell into it and stayed there, with the failure, the grief, the reconnection. Their boy slept under their hands, soft and helpless, but not from trust. It was an empty triumph.

Had they chosen wrong? Should they have sought him out in previous years instead of waiting?

In the end, there was nothing left to tend or clean, not even the food, all of it spirited back to the kitchen and returned to its place.

Hunger had fled. Soft shapeless tops and bottoms were found and pulled on, fabric that made almost no sound when moved.

They made tea and swept the rug, then set up a legless chair beside the couch and sat, their hand under the weighted blanket against Sevastyan’s skin.

He had been abandoned before. They wouldn’t leave him now.

Their phone went off. Ash asked if they were coming back.

A simple text confirmed that they were not returning that evening.

Ash sent back pictures of his latest fashion attempt, a black button-down shirt on which he was changing out the buttons and slashing the sleeves.

He asked about the cuffs, and they reminded him to not add anything that would prohibit typing while wearing the garment.

The teenager sent a thumbs-up in return.

Alice had texted a picture of Dana sleeping on the couch with Su-jin, one of Jun’s group members, a thick blanket between them. Ellisandre texted her back as well, checking on the young woman’s mental health. Alice and Dana were still up at the estate with Jun and his group members.

Then there was nothing to do. At least nothing urgent.

Ellisandre sat in the dim light and gazed into space. They weren’t alone. The text messages, the planning just to have the evening free, the responsibilities all pointed to the fact they were not alone, but in this—this bond with their boy—they were. Secrets on top of secrets.

Out of everyone in their circle, Richard Reevesworth or his husband Émeric Moreau would be the best to ask for guidance, but again, secrets on top of secrets. They were all linking together, creating a gridlock.

Someone was going to have to lay some of the unspoken out into the open and break the dam. But which secret, and to whom?