#Tw: prisoner of war

[loopstagirl]

Fractured Reflection

TW: torture, POW

Rough hands grabbed him, hauling him up.

“Captain!”

“I’m fine.”

He was. He was fine. He could do this. He had to do this. Keep their attention on him and he could protect his team. Give in, pass out, and who knew where their focus would end up.

He stayed conscious as they pulled him out. Their biting grip was the only thing that kept him upright, his body too weak and exhausted to support its own weight. He was vaguely aware they hadn’t bound his hands this time. That didn’t mean anything good.

He tripped and stumbled, but didn’t fall. The route was familiar now, but there was no comfort in that. They entered a large room, the cold temperature making him shiver in his half-dressed state. That would mean nothing in a few moments, though.

He didn’t have any fight left in him as they forced him down. Leather straps bit into his wrists and ankles, then one across his chest to stop him from being able to turn away. He tried to keep his breathing even. Couldn’t. Tried to calm his mind. The sound of running water made him squeeze his eyes shut instead.

He kept them closed as the rough cloth was shoved over his face. As the water started to pour, mocking laughter in his ears, he took himself far away.

“There.” His mother’s smiling face appeared as she dropped the wash cloth. “All clean.”

Scott giggled, cross-eyed as he tried to inspect his own face.

“Missed some,” he said.

“Oh?” She knew what was coming. She always did. But she dutifully handed him the cloth. He took it, reached out, and wiped the wet flannel on his mother’s nose, his giggles increasing as she pretended to be surprised at his action. Even at 3, he knew she was pretending, but he delighted in making his mother laugh.

“All clean,” Scott announced.

“Why thank you, my little trooper,” she said. She took the cloth back and bopped him on the nose with it before moving away.

Coughing. Gasping for breath. He couldn’t breathe. There was water in his lungs; they’d gone too far this time. He twisted to the side best he could, retching as he tried to clear his airways. Water dripped from his hair into his eyes; ice-cold rivulets running down his bare chest.

Air. He could feel air again. He could breathe.

“Still with us then?” a voice jeered. Scott forced his eyes open, looking into the face of one of his captors. The man almost looked disappointed. He relished in his prisoners fighting back but they’d been here too long now. The only fight they had left in them was the one to stay alive.

Scott didn’t speak. That was what the man wanted. An excuse to punish him. To have a reason to do something worse. He just stared defiantly at the man, hoping he didn’t see through the mask to the defeated man that lay beneath.

The man sneered. He gestured, and the cloth appeared again. Scott’s eyes closed. He tried to take a few deep breaths, but his throat was already too raw. His hands tensed in their restraints. He couldn’t let go too quickly, or they’d noticed. He had to wait until… there.

The first drop, soon becoming a trickle and then a torrent. He couldn’t breathe! He wanted to scream but didn’t have the strength.

And then he wasn’t in that room anymore.

-x-

He wasn’t conscious when they returned him to his cell. He didn’t know how long he was out for. The anxious voices calling his name, calling him by his rank, suggested it had been some time as he forced his eyes to open.

“Thank god,” a voice breathed. “Still with us, Captain?”

Scott grunted. He sat, the fire in his throat almost drowning out the violent shivers that wracked his body. He forced his eyes open, looked around.

Three people stared back at him. There should’ve been six. Two weren’t coming back.

“How long?” he croaked. He didn’t mean how long was he out for. He wanted to know when they’d taken one of his pilots.

“An hour,” his co-pilot said, her voice shaking.

Scott nodded. Over an hour was when they started to worry. They used to hold out for longer than that at the beginning, but not anymore. He lent back against the rough wall.

His co-pilot, Jenny, was sitting by his side. Her gaze reflected the same look he knew was in his own eyes. Haunted, despairing, broken. He took her hand, wincing at the stiffness in his once broken fingers. They didn’t need to speak; there were no words anymore.

Their two team-mates were sitting opposite them. Gary and Sienna mirrored their position, leaning on each other for strength.

They waited. It was all they could do. All they did every day. Wait to see if food would come. Wait to be given water. Wait to be collected for whatever their captors had in store for them this time. Wait for their friends to come back.

But an hour turned into two. Jenny’s tears were silent, but Scott felt her shoulders shake. It was too long. Far too long. Mike wasn’t coming back this time.

Scott wasn’t sure when Jenny fell asleep against him. He couldn’t sleep. Someone had to watch over his team, although he was painfully aware there was nothing he could do. He’d tried. At the start, every time they’d come, they had to go through him to take one of his team. It hadn’t worked. They’d just beaten him and taken someone once he was down anyway.

They were left for hours this time. It meant the others got the chance to rest. Scott’s nerves were frayed. He jumped at every small noise, flinched every time Jenny moved, and cursed himself every time his eyes closed.

There was no natural light here. He had no idea if it was day or night. Hadn’t for a long time. Meals and water were irregular, if they came at all.

But the sound of the bolt was more effective than any alarm. He shook Jenny awake, calling to the others. It made things worse if they caught them sleeping.

Scott pushed himself to his feet. He had to stop, halfway, gasping in pain, but he was upright by the time their tormentors walked in.

They came for him again. They tied his hands this time, ignoring the others as they tried to bargain. It never worked. They’d figured out early on that Scott was the captain, the leader. Break him, and they’d break the entire team.

Scott felt broken. He offered no protest as they dragged him out. But for some reason, they still saw something in him that made them want to keep trying.

They took him to the same room before. Scott struggled. He couldn’t do it. Not again. But they didn’t force him flat this time, just pushed him to his knees. A hand gripped his hair, a voice snarling something he couldn’t understand. He didn’t have time to brace himself before he was shoved forward, head pushed underwater…

Scott spluttered, brushing the wet hair from his face. Three identical grins looked back at him. Alan was clinging onto Virgil, proud to only be wearing his armbands.

“What was that for?”

“You were being boring,” Gordon announced, surfacing behind Scott and making him jump. Make that four identical grins.

“I was not.”

He glanced over. The girls he’d been watching hadn’t even glanced their way. Scott had been watching them all morning, floating on a lilo, hoping they’d glance over. At 14, he wanted to appear older, appear cool in a way his younger brothers certainly didn’t help with.

They clearly didn’t agree. He didn’t know if it had taken all four of them to dunk him, but it was clear they were in it. He glanced to the other side of the pool. Their dad looked like he was snoozing but he knew their mother was watching from behind her sunglasses. She was always watching. He saw her twitch and knew what expression she was pulling: don’t let them down.

14 was a weird age, Scott decided. Yes, he wanted to spend the morning of their vacation eyeing up the much older girls who didn’t glance at him. But as he looked at his brothers’ smiling faces, he also wasn’t ready to let go of childish fun.

“You really were,” John said, sounding almost apologetic.

Scott gave them the look. All four of them, one at a time. Gordon dove back underwater, swimming away as fast as he could.

“Daddy, help!” Alan shouted as Virgil tried to backtrack. But they couldn’t go fast enough to escape the enormous tidal wave Scott sent their way…

He came up, coughing and spluttering. It was at least the third time. This was old now. They were bringing him up just before he lost consciousness each time. It was predictable though: Scott had known they wouldn’t let him pass out as soon as he saw the bucket. So predictable, in fact, he even managed to stop his body from panicking.

Daddy, help!

It rang through his mind. Please, Dad, please… help… Scott tried to squash the thought. His father couldn’t help him this time. The man probably didn’t know he was even alive and if he did, where would anyone suggest looking for the missing squad? They’d been caught far into enemy territory: no one back at home would even admit they were here, let alone try and get them out.

Exhaustion had its claws in him by the time they stopped. He couldn’t keep doing this. If only they’d ask him something, give him some way to stop the pain… But they didn’t. They hadn’t asked them anything for weeks.

They took him back. But they went too far. Scott knew how many steps it was from this room to his cell. This time, they took an extra five, unlocked a door and threw him in. Cold laughter echoed through the small space as they slammed the door shut behind him.

“Jenny?”

“Scott?” Her voice was muffled but thank god, he could hear her. “Where are you?”

“They’re separating us,” he called back.

Silence met his words. He could picture the panicked look on her face. It was one thing to have to sit waiting to see if a friend returned, but to not know, to be stuck on his own having no idea if the rest of his team were alive, to not be able to step in front of them.

“It’ll be okay,” he lied. “Just stay strong.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Scott didn’t believe his own words; there was no way he was going to make someone else believe him.

It was harder to stay awake without his team around him. He had to: they’d love it if he fell asleep, let his defences down…

He drew his knees up to his chest. Who was he kidding? He had no defences left. He let them do whatever they wanted and never fought back anymore. He’d have let them hold him under for too long just a few moments ago and hadn’t offered the slightest struggle.

He fell asleep.

Screams kept waking him, although he could never tell if they were just in his head or in reality. Every time he woke, he hurt worse than before. Eventually, his parched mouth stopped him from drifting off. The irony wasn’t lost on him. It wouldn’t be lost on the guards either. They’d be all too happy to supply him with water.

Minutes drifted into hours, into days, into weeks for all he knew. They beat him. They fed him. They burnt him. They gave him water. They drowned him again and again.

Sometimes there were long periods of time between each session. Sometimes, there wasn’t. He didn’t hear anything from the cell next to his. He didn’t try and reach out, either. The guards had told him that if he did, his teammates would pay the price. By the sneer on the man’s face as he said it, it wouldn’t be Gary who was made to suffer the consequences.

They didn’t call to him either, and Scott could only imagine they’d heard a similar threat. They’d all been fighting for too long to stay alive to break the rules now. They needed to pick their fights, chose only ones they could win.

They couldn’t win any of them anymore.

He’d lost track of time since they’ve first been captured but this was different. Hours on his own meant it lost all meaning to him. He didn’t try and keep up. The guards didn’t help: there was no consistency to when they brought him food and water. Sometimes it had to last him for over a day; other times, just a few hours. He never knew which one it was going to be.

They came for him again. Only this time, they turned in the opposite direction.

“No.”

There was no defiance in his tone. It was a whimper; a plea; a beg.

“No. No, please, no.” He struggled, desperately trying to pull free from their iron grip. There were too many of them; he was too weak. But he knew where this corridor went. He’d been down here twice before. He wasn’t sure he could survive a third.

“Don’t,” he begged as they came to a stop. It looked like an ordinary stretch of corridor.

“Hmm, now where’s that door?” one said in a mocking voice. He made a show of pretending before opening an entrance concealed in the wall. They’d tormented him with this the first time: how this room was so hidden that even they couldn’t always remember where the door was. He hadn’t understood then.

Now he did.

It took four of them to force him in. The door slammed shut behind him.

Pitch blackness.

He couldn’t see a thing. Couldn’t hear anything. Hands reaching out blindly, Scott found the far wall all too quickly. He figured the room was around 5ft by 5ft.

He was over 6ft.

Couldn’t stand up properly. Couldn’t straighten when he was lying down. The only thing he could hear was his own heart thudding painfully loudly.

A sob tore from him, but he stifled the second. He couldn’t lose control. There was no way of lashing out. Couldn’t afford to lose the energy or the hydration through tears. If the meals had been irregular in his cell, it was nothing compared to in here.

He’d sworn to his team they couldn’t be broken. His first time in solitude had severely tested that. The guards had told him it had only been three days. That he was weak and pathetic to be reduced to such a mess after three days. His team had later told him it had been three weeks. It had taken almost that length of time before he’d been able to stand up straight without pain.

If the first time had tested him, the second time had broken him.

Scott had no idea what the third time would do.

He tried to lose himself in the darkness…

“Where are you, Scotty?” Virgil’s voice was high and frantic. They’d been playing hide and seek for hours. Scott had been getting bored of the game, but his four year old brother insisted again and again, and he couldn’t say no to Virgil.

This was a hiding place to end all hiding places, though. He’d wriggled into the storage compartment under his parents’ bed, managing to pull the mattress back into position. At first, there had been a clink of light showing, but as the mattress had settled, that had vanished.

Scott didn’t mind. He didn’t care about the dark and figured even if Virgil couldn’t find him, John would.

But they didn’t. It had been hours. He’d heard Virgil crying about it, John sounding annoyed that Scott wasn’t playing fairly. He’d tried to get to them, then. But he couldn’t put the force behind the opening from his position. He was trapped!

“Dad! DAD!” He didn’t know how long he yelled for, straining against the underneath of the bed. But eventually, the top sprang free and his father’s strong arms were pulling him out, holding him close as Scott shook in his arms. He’d made the man promise not to tell his brothers how scared he’d been and his dad had agreed.

“Dad…” Scott murmured into the darkness. But there were no loving arms pulling him from this hiding place, no relieved brothers piling on top of him when he reappeared.

Once again, time disappeared. On occasion, the door would open a crack. Just enough for someone to shove some food and water in and change the bucket. Scott’s body screamed at him in a way none of their other torture had managed. His hands couldn’t stop shaking, spilling the precious water every time he took a sip.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there when that second sob finally broke free.

“Let me out!” He screamed, his voice cracking with the lack of use and force of his shout. Every time he moved, he touched the wall, the ceiling… he couldn’t breathe in here! They had meant it this time: they’d forgotten about him, left him walled up alive…

When they came for him, they had to drag him out. He couldn’t stand, hunched over, arms locked tight around his stomach, rocking as they forced him upright, crying out as they marched him back to his cell. The light was too bright, too painful. He kept his eyes screwed up against it, hanging limp in their arms as he was pulled back to his cell.

The room had seemed small before. Now it felt like heaven. But Scott still couldn’t bring himself to straighten up: it hurt too much. Instead, he curled into a corner, shaking, arms wrapped around his knees as he made himself as small as possible. He wasn’t sure there was anything in him left to fight back. Not this time.

They left him alone for a while. He couldn’t work out why the quiet was unnerving: any sound was better than where he had been. Then he realised. He couldn’t hear anything from the cell next to his. There was no shuffling movement from his teammates, no sound of the guards going to get them for whatever they had in store this time.

He’d learnt from the beginning not to ask questions. It might have taken a while for the message to sink in, but the guards had made their displeasure known as soon as any of them opened their mouths, even if it was to ask where they were being taken. But he had to know.

The next time a guard shoved food in, Scott uncurled from his corner.

“Wait.”

The guard looked at him, suspicious. Scott stayed back, both hands in clear view. He stayed on his knees, trying to appear unthreatening while desperately trying not to think what they had reduced him to.

“The others, my friends… where are they?”

He didn’t expect an answer, but the guard’s smirk made his blood run cold.

“Gone.”

Gone? How could they be gone? They’d held out for so long; they all had. Had he been in solitary for that long? Shouldn’t he have known, somehow, that the rest of his team…

“You rich. You, we keep.”

His heart slammed back into his chest, pounding double-time. Gone, not dead. By the sound of his words, maybe even rescued? He didn’t think anyone would be coming for them, but maybe they’d held out for just long enough for someone in some high up office to have something that was worth trading.

But then he truly realised what the man had said. They’d kept him behind. Kept him hidden away. Solitary hadn’t been because of anything he’d done, but because they wanted to make sure no one could find him. They’d probably even told the rest of the team he was dead, not locked away further in the building.

If they thought that, then no one was coming for him…

No.

There was no point keeping him if they didn’t want him for something. Scott had no idea when they’d figured out who his father was. He’d given them his name and rank automatically, robotically, for hours on end to start with. It wasn’t like his identity was a secret. But when had they connected the dots?

Scott looked up, only to find the guard was gone. He dove for the food, forcing himself to eat slowly. They didn’t give him enough to risk making himself sick. He had to keep his strength up…

That was easier said than done when he had no strength.

His captors continued to come for him. Day after day, so Scott told himself. But this time, when they forced him flat on that bench, strapped him down, placed the cloth over his face, his mother’s smiling face wasn’t there.

He saw John, disgusted that his strong brother was reduced to this.

Virgil: heartbroken that Scott had broken his promise to come back to him.

Gordon: disappointed that Scott had given up, that he didn’t keep fighting.

Alan: devastated that his hero was reduced to this when he’d always believed Scott to be so much more.

“I tried,” he mumbled, half delirious as they pulled his hands above his head.

“I tried,” he whispered as he was doused in freezing cold water, time and time again.

“I tried,” he breathed, before a scream tore from him as the cattle prod jabbed against broken ribs.

“I tried,” he sobbed as the door was open yet again.

“I know.” It was a calm, reassuring voice. A voice he knew. A voice he’d begged to help him time and time again over however long it was he’d been missing.

He couldn’t look up. If he kept his eyes squeezed shut, then the figure could be real. He shrank back into his corner, making himself as small as possible. Once, it had been to make it hard on the guards trying to pull him out. Now, it was a desperate hope that they might overlook him.

Footsteps sounded. It had never worked before: why should this time be any different?

He waited for the hands to grab him, for the beating to start. But the only touch was a feather-light one to the top of his head. He whimpered, drawing in further, not knowing what this meant. He knew every touch, knew what it signalled was coming next, but this one? This one he didn’t understand.

“Scott?”

He shook his head. It wasn’t real. He’d lost his mind for good this time. They weren’t doing anything to him: there was no reason for him to be imagining this.

“Scotty?”

His eyes opened but he didn’t look up. His breathing was coming in short, panting gasps; he was losing control.

“Scotty, it’s okay,” the voice continued. “It’s over. I’m here to bring you home.”

He didn’t care if he was hallucinating now. Even if it was all a dream, it would be worth it to see his dad’s face. He slowly lifted his head, trying to focus in the dim light.

But it didn’t make sense.

In all his daydreams, the only thing that kept him sane throughout everything, his family had been happy. Laughing, joyful, giving him something to cling to. The man in front of him looked haunted, heart-broken and as if he was about to burn the world down to get what he wanted.

It was that, more than anything, that made Scott wonder if, perhaps, just perhaps, this one wasn’t his mind fleeing reality, but reality catching up to him.

“Dad?” he whispered, in a voice so broken it was barely audible.

[intersectionalpraxis]

Israel went to Jenin today, in the West Bank, and kidnapped this 7 year old girl from her family. They do these things often but we rarely catch them on film [@/Carl0s_Vela on X.]:

[sayruq]

TW: Rape

[mandareeboo]

THE COMPOSITION ON THIS SHOT IS KILLING ME.

[tacticianpigeon]

tw: eyestrain

silly femme, you shot for the stars and landed in the sun!

[existennialmemes]

How to celebrate 4/20

Like the Cool Kids

End the War on Drugs

Release and Reparate its Victims

Don't Tell Your Friends Who Don't Like Weed to Smoke Weed

[panimoonchild]

Russians are obsessed with raping culture, especially if there are Ukrainians

Russians have no sacred things and never had.

It's impossible to comprehend the level of their hatred for us. In addition to wanting to exterminate us, they want to inflict even more pain - to traumatize us and break us completely. Is it possible to heal from this experience? I hate Russians.

I hope that as few Ukrainians as possible will experience such horrors. To achieve this, we need to remind the world of Ukraine and our prisoners of war. Some of them have been in captivity for over 2 years. Including about 700 Azov soldiers. Do not be silent. Be their voices.

[ohsalome]

"They put a lighted match into the anus": neurosurgeon released from captivity about torture and attitude of Russians to prisoners of war

34-year-old neurosurgeon Dmytro Kubriak saved the lives of the wounded in the bunker of the Ilyich Iron and Steel Works in Mariupol. In April 2022, he was taken prisoner by Russia, where he spent five and a half months in the notorious colony in Olenivka. There he witnessed horrific torture by the Russian military and a terrorist attack that killed 53 prisoners.

Dmytro Kubryak was part of a group of medics who volunteered to get to the besieged Mariupol by helicopter to reinforce hospital units. Thus, in the morning of March 31 he got to Mariupol. He was assigned to the Ilyich Combine, where a part of the Mariupol hospital worked and the 36th Marine Brigade was based

He said that on April 12 he received an order to go up to the surface from the bunker together with the wounded and surrender. First, the prisoners spent four days in a filtration camp in Sartana near Mariupol. On April 16, they were taken to the colony in Olenivka. According to Dmytro's estimates, 1600-1700 Ukrainian prisoners of war were taken from Ilyich Iron and Steel Works to Olenivka. Medics and wounded were placed in a separate prison barracks, where there were about 200 people. 

"At first we slept on the concrete floor, then on some mattresses. They fed us like the others, that is to say, barely anything… They brought us into the room, sat us at the table, gave us hot porridge and three minutes to eat. Of course, it is impossible to eat hot food during this time. Therefore, everyone was half-starved, and a significant part of the prisoners lost a lot of weight," said Dmytro Kubryak.

According to him, Russians interrogated captured tankers, snipers, scouts, artillerymen with "particular passion". They tried to get any valuable information from them and to obtain confessions in the murder of civilians.

"These guys were tortured to force them to sign absurd charges. I was involved in providing assistance to these prisoners of war, I saw the consequences of torture… They were severely beaten, tortured with electric current. For example, one soldier had a lighted match inserted into his anus. The guy had burns of the crotch, scrotum", - Dmytro Kubryak recalls.

He also recalled the case when a seriously wounded soldier who survived an air strike in a bunker was beaten to death by guards of the colony in Olenivka.

Explosion in Olenivka

According to Dmytro Kubryak, ten days before the tragedy, the repair of the barracks, in which no one lived, began. Then 200 prisoners of war, mostly from "Azov", were selected and moved to this repaired barracks on July 28. On the night of July 29, there was an explosion.

"Our building was three hundred meters away, but we clearly heard loud terrible screams. I've never heard such sounds before or after… The heartbreaking screams of agonizing people were heard all over the colony… It's indescribable! The explosion occurred at about 23:30, and only after 30-40 minutes we, Ukrainian medics, were involved to provide assistance. We ran to the scene of the tragedy - what we saw was shocking. Fifty people died at once - burned alive. The rest crawled out of the barracks as best they could… A huge number of wounded! They were writhing in pain and screaming: "Help!". And in this chaos, in the darkness, we had to decide: who to help in the first place, who not to help, who can wait," the military doctor said.

For almost six hours Ukrainian prisoners of war, who received deep burns, shrapnel wounds, traumatic amputations of limbs, damage to internal organs, just lay on the ground. During this time, five people died. The first KamAZ truck with the wounded left Olenivka at five in the morning - eighty people were taken to the hospital in Donetsk. About thirty more prisoners of war were slightly wounded, so they were left in Olenivka.

Dmytro Kubryak was in captivity for five and a half months. His group was taken from the colony in Olenivka on September 20. On September 22, he returned to Ukraine as part of the prisoner exchange.

[loopstagirl]

Fractured Reflection, Chapter 2

Anyone who has not read @scribbles97 version here needs to go and read it right now. Pure perfection.

Ch 1

Same warnings as before: TW: POW, TW: torture

--

There was something in his throat.

He couldn’t breathe.

God, he couldn’t breathe!

He rasped, gagged, trying to thrash his head, anything to get away from it. What were they doing to him now? This was new; he couldn’t handle new.

“Easy, Scott. Lie still.”

He’d heard that voice. He’d heard it time and time again lately. Reassuring, soothing, calm. He figured he must’ve either given in to the delirium that had been dogging his footsteps since that last time in solitary, or he was falling asleep more and more, losing himself to dreams.

“Son, listen to me. You’re safe. It’s helping you breathe.”

Scott forced himself to open his eyes. He didn’t want to. If he faced it, then it became a reality, and he couldn’t deal with a new form of torment. But he had to know… that voice.

Three attempts.

That’s how many times he fought to get his eyes open but found they were sticky and heavy, not wanting him to look around. Finally, though, he forced them open, and almost immediately had to screw them shut again.

He had never thought his cell had been in darkness. Not compared to solitary. But this, wherever he was now, was flooded with light. Warm, inviting, bright light that made some small part of him relax.

“Try again,” the same voice prompted.

Scott managed it on the first go this time. There was no denying it. That was his dad looking back at him. Scott frowned, trying to bring the man into more focus, trying to make sure it wasn’t his eyes playing tricks on him.

“I’m here,” his dad said softly. “I’m right here. You’re okay. It’s a tube, Scott. It’s helping you breathe.”

He tried to say something, but he couldn’t.

“The doctor is on his way. Just lie still for me. It’s going to be okay.”

Scott didn’t know how much time passed. People bustled around him. He recoiled when the doctors tried to remove the tube. He knew, he knew, they were there to help, but as soon as he felt their hands on him, he just couldn’t. Eventually, it was his father gripping his own hand that made him relax enough for them to be able to get it out.

They fitted a small oxygen tube to his nose; adjusted something going into the crook of his arm; spoke words he didn’t fully understand. Medically induced coma. Multiple surgeries. Extended recovery time. Just rest…

No. That last one was his dad again. When the room was blissfully empty, silent of all but that reassuring voice soothing to his ears.

He was so tired. He had no choice but to drift away again.

But sleep wasn’t a respite anymore. It didn’t transport him away from his nightmare, it took him straight back there. No sooner had his breathing started to even out when he jolted away again, gasping, sweating.

“I’m here. I’m here, son.”

Time had lost all meaning to him while he was in that place. But it wasn’t any better now. In this white room with strangers coming and going, drifting in and out of consciousness, hands on him whether he wanted them or not.

And through it all, a hand gripped his own, a voice murmured softly in his ear that it was going to be okay.

Eventually, though, Scott opened his eyes, and kept them open. Something had changed. He didn’t feel the darkness immediately encroaching; didn’t feel the usual surge of panic rush through him.

The pressure on his hand was still there, but there wasn’t an immediate voice. Scott blinked slowly and for what felt like the first time, rolled his head to the side.

He was there. His father. Just as he promised he would be.

The man looked as haggard as when Scott had last seen him, just as drawn and whey. He was sitting in a chair by the bed, hand gripping his son’s, but snoozing.

Scott swallowed, a dry tongue attempting to moisten dry lips. He slowly, carefully, continued to look around the room.

He was in the hospital, that much he’d figured out. They were the only ones in the room, so no doubt a private ward. Soft and rhythmic beeping echoed around him and some distant part of his mind knew it was coming from him, that he was being monitored.

He didn’t hurt as much as he thought he would. As his vision focused better, he saw a line going into his arm and figured that was the reason why. His fingers were splintered, their immobility making him wonder if he’d rebroken them at some point.

He looked down at himself. A cool, white sheet covered his body. He didn’t know what the damage was. Didn’t think he wanted to know.

“You’re awake.” The pressure on his hand shifted as his dad sat up, leaning forward. The concern in his gaze made Scott want to look away. But he couldn’t as a hand gently cupped his cheek.

“You’re awake.” His dad repeated. For a second, Scott wasn’t sure if maybe he was dreaming after all because he was certain there were tears filling the man’s eyes. He’d never seen his dad cry before. But then he blinked and Scott thought maybe it was his blurry vision that had tricked him into thinking that.

“How-,” Scott began, then coughed. “How long?”

“Three weeks,” his dad said. “They thought it best to put you into a coma, carry out as many of the surgeries as they could and give your body a chance to heal before you woke up.”

Scott thought if he felt fuzzy now, it must be nothing compared to how he’d have felt if he remained conscious for the last three weeks. But that hadn’t been what he wanted to know. He shook his head, mutely trying to tell his dad what he really wanted to know.

His father dropped his gaze, staring at the hand clasping Scott’s.

“Six months,” he whispered.

Scott went rigid. Six months he’d spent in that hell. He couldn’t work out if it felt like forever, or only yesterday that they were caught. His hand shifted, aiming towards his throat, wanting to ask. But he didn’t have the strength to complete the movement.

His dad understood though.

“You’ve had several surgeries, Scott.” His voice was steady. “You had a collapsed lung by the time we got you to hospital. After that, they thought it best to help you as much as they could.”

His voice might have been steady, but the grip on his hand betrayed how the man was truly feeling.

Scott could only stare. After the number of times he’d coughed up water, fighting for air in the past… god, the past six months… it was now, once he’d been removed from that place, that his lungs had finally decided enough was enough. But he also wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t sure his ribs had ever fully healed from the first time one had fractured: they’d never been given the chance.

“I called for you,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse, whether through lack of use, misuse, or the fact that he’d had a tube down his throat an hour before, he didn’t know. “I called, and you didn’t come.”

He knew it was irrational. It was nothing short of miraculous his father was here now. How had they found him? What about the rest of his team? Were they safe? Were they alive? He’d clung on to ‘gone’ meaning rescued, but in the indefinite time that had passed between then and now, he was finding it hard to believe.

“I’m sorry.” His dad’s voice was nothing more than a whisper. “I did everything, Scott. Everything I could to find you, and it wasn’t enough. Not until…”

He trailed off. Scott didn’t have the strength to ask. He just blinked slowly, staring around him, trying to take in that it was a hospital. Not some trick; not some figment of his desperate imagination. He was actually in a hospital.

“I wasn’t-,” his voice broke. Hot tears leaked from the corners of his eyes but he didn’t have the strength to brush them away. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to. But a warm, calloused hand was there, cupping his cheek, a gentle thumb wiping at his eyes. Just the way the man had when he was a little boy and had fallen off his bike, trying not to cry in front of the babies, trying to be strong for his father.

“I wasn’t strong enough,” he finally bit out. Maybe his father hadn’t wanted to find him? Scott had been weak. He’d broken. Screamed and begged. Two things that he swore he’d never do. Discussions and practice drills were nothing like hearing a bolt drawn back and knowing they were coming for you again.

“No.” The grip on his face shifted. It wasn’t tight, but commanding. The bed dipped under the weight of another as his dad shifted so that he was sitting next to him, leaning over to look him in the eye without Scott having to move.

“You’ve been so strong. You held on, Scott. You fought-,”

“I didn’t.” How long had it been since he offered even a token resistance when they’d come for him?

But his dad was shaking his head, still maintaining eye contact.

“You fought to stay alive. You fought to protect your team. There are other ways of fighting than just with your fists, son. You’ve been so strong: I’m so proud of you.”

Lips brushed against his forehead, a gesture he couldn’t remember happening for years. Not since before their mother had gone. Maybe once, when his dad had promised him he would step up, allow Scott to become the teenager he was supposed to be and not a parent to four grieving brothers. There was a promise in that kiss. That, more than anything, made Scott believe his dad meant what he was saying.

But how could he know that Scott had fought to protect his team? Unless he was just guessing because the man knew what his son was like? But maybe…

“Jen?” he whispered. He couldn’t bear to say any more. His dad shifted back, creating space between them, but making sure he stayed in his son’s eyeline.

“Is fine,” he said warmly. “So are the other two. Gary and Sienna are safe as well. They’re alive, Scott. They’re okay. And they didn’t give up on their Captain.”

He hadn’t failed. Not completely, anyway. After all of this time, half of his team had managed to make it home.

“How-?”

“Later, Scotty.” His dad smiled at him. “You need to rest now. We’ll talk more when you wake up.”

Scott shook his head. At least, he tried to. But it made the pounding in his skull turning into a crescendo and it was all he could do to stop himself from crying out. He couldn’t face sleep. He couldn’t face going back there, but he also couldn’t stand the idea that this was the dream. If he closed his eyes, what was he going to wake up to?

“It’s okay.” A gentle hand was running through his hair. He used to love the feeling of his parents combing their fingers through his hair. But there was nothing there now, just a coarse stubble.

That confused him. It hadn’t been cut in the prison. It was better for them long: gave them more to grip onto as they forced his head underwater. It was only then that he became aware that he was clean shaven as well. Six months of growth had been cut away. He felt weird without it now: as if that had been some sort of barrier between the man he’d been before being captured, and who he’d become in that hell hole.

“I can’t,” he whispered. The tears were running again. “I can’t, don’t make me, please, don’t make me go back there…”

“Easy.”

An incessant beeping drowned out his father’s words. Deep down, Scott knew that it was something to do with him, and that it would draw attention of whoever else was nearby. He wasn’t supposed to be drawing attention. That’s what he’d told the others: keep their heads down, don’t make the guards look twice.

“I-,”

He couldn’t breathe. Again.

The room started to disappear as he fought for breath, darkness clouding his vision. He scrabbled at the sheets covering him, needing to get away, needing a wall against his back.

He didn’t hear the door open, didn’t hear hurried conversations or see the movement as something was inserted into the IV running into his arm.

All he knew was that the darkness was taking over everything. But it stopped being so cold and frightening. Instead, he focused on the firm grip on his hand, his father’s low, rumbling voice as he spoke words Scott couldn’t make out to someone he couldn’t see.

He wasn’t choking the next time he woke up. But there was no grip on his hand, either. Scott couldn’t bear to open his eyes. He still felt he was lying on something soft, but he couldn’t risk it being a trick.

After a long moment, though, he had to know. If this was some new form of torture, he’d learnt that hiding away from it made no difference. It still found him: it always found him.

He looked around. It was the same room as before. The same lighting. The same medical paraphernalia surrounding him. The same reassuring beeping of monitors that told him he wasn’t alone.

But he was.

There was no one else here with him. The chair by his bed was empty. His father had gone.

Scott bit back the sob that threatened to rise up. He knew it. Knew the man couldn’t face looking at him, knew that he’d let him down…

The door opened.

“Scotty?”

Scott gave a soft gasp, half breath, half sob.

“You weren’t there,” he muttered. A hand covered his own again.

“I’m here,” the voice promised. “I’m right here. I’ll never leave you, Scott. If I’m not in this room, I promise you that I haven’t gone far.”

“I needed you, and you weren’t there.”

He vaguely wondered what noise a monitor made at the sound of his heart breaking. But nothing changed, only a minor hitch in the rhythmic tone as a pair of arms wrapped around him.

For months now, Scott had been letting himself remember happier times with his family. It was the only thing that had kept him sane, although he hadn’t realised that at the time.

But feeling his dad’s strong grip holding onto him, he didn’t just remember.

He let himself be that little boy. His arms were trembling with the effort, but he forced them to rise so he could return the grip, needing to know that his dad had him and he was safe. How long they stayed like that, he had no idea, but was aware of the beeping settling into a steady rhythm. His eyes fluttered shut, safe in his dad’s hold.

Sleep took him again.

No one was touching him when he woke. But he could sense the presence in the room, knew that his dad was sitting right by his side, just like he promised. Then he became aware of a one-sided whispered conversation.

He slowly opened his eyes, rolling his head to one side. His father had a communicator open, talking quickly, albeit quietly. Scott took the chance to just look at the man.

He looked as drawn and haggard as Scott felt. Somehow, he knew the bags under the man’s eyes, his ashen complexion, went back more than a few months. Scott knew how the military worked: they’d have been missing for a while before it was reported to their families, just to make sure they hadn’t simply fallen off the radar and turned back up a week later. He knew his father’s nightmares had started long before Scott had been reported missing.

Had they reported him missing? Or had they told his family he was dead?

Jeff was staring with an unseeing gaze at the wall on the other side of the room. Scott forced himself to listen in to what was being said.

“-soon. He’s not ready.” The man listened to a moment. “Just… talk to them. Say whatever you have to, John. I don’t care how you explain it, just..”

His gaze shifted, and Scott managed a weak smile as his dad looked at him.

“Handle it. He’s awake.”

He snapped his communicator shut and lent forward.

“Scott.” There was so much warmth, so much love, in that one word. Scott could only blink back, his emotions too strong to form proper words. That was not the tone of a man who’d be disappointed in him.

He nodded at the communicator without a word. His dad smiled, albeit a stressed one.

“Your brothers,” he said in a fond, exasperated way. “They…”

He trailed off, shaking his head. “It’s okay. You don’t need to worry about them.”

“Not here?” Scott muttered. Maybe it wasn’t his dad he needed to worry about? All too clearly he could remember the images his mind had shown him: the betrayal and disappointment in his siblings’ expression as he didn’t fight back against the guards coming for him.

“If they could organise themselves, they would be,” his dad said with an eyeroll. “But they all have different ideas of how to get here and-,”

“You said no?”

“Do you know where you are, Scott?”

“Hospital?”

“A military hospital,” his father confirmed. “There’s people here, when you’re ready, who want to speak to you.”

For the first time since awakening in this bed, Scott realised he could once again understand what his father wasn’t saying. Command wanted a debrief, and right now, Jeff Tracy was the only reason they weren’t already in this room.

“They didn’t ask anything,” he muttered. “Not by the end.”

“Scott, it’s okay…”

But it wasn’t. He had to tell someone.

“I don’t know what they wanted,” he murmured. “I don’t know what I did, why they came for me.”

It must’ve been something he’d done that made them keep him behind. If what his father said was true and the rest of his team was safe, why hadn’t they let him go as well? He didn’t remember any ransom note, no video as they tortured him…

“It was me,” his father said heavily. “They kept you because of me. Because they wanted money. Like they could put a price on your life.”

“You… paid?” Scott shook his head. “You shouldn’t have! I’m not worth…”

It didn’t matter what sum they’d asked for. Money gave them the resources to do this to more people, and it’d all be his fault!

“No.” His father’s voice was low, but calm. “I didn’t. If I thought it would have got you back, if I thought it would end this nightmare for you, then yes, I would’ve given them whatever they wanted. Never doubt that. But there were other ways.”

Scott stared at him. “How did you find me?” he asked quietly.

Jeff just smiled at him, repeating his earlier action of cupping his cheek gently.

“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I did. And, Scott? I’d never stop looking. No matter what I had to do, where I had to go… I’d never stop looking, never stop trying to bring you home.”

Scott held his eye. There was nothing but the truth there. He believed it. His dad wasn’t disappointed in him and didn’t think he was weak. He wanted him back.

“I don’t remember,” Scott said. “I’m assuming you demanded proof of life, but I don’t remember…” He trailed off, shaking his head. He didn’t recall them ever taking a picture, filming him, even recording him.

“It doesn’t matter,” his dad said quickly. “All that matters is that you are alive, and you’re back.”

They sat in silence for a while. Talking was exhausting him. Scott couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a conversation this long.

Just as he felt his eyes drifting shut, another thought occurred to him.

“The boys?”

This entire conversation had started because John had been in touch.

“This isn’t the sort of place I want them,” his dad said, a hint of steel in his voice. “They don’t need to be exposed to the sort of people in charge here.”

Whatever had happened with that ransom, or even how the rest of his team had been saved, Scott had a feeling his father wasn’t exactly happy with the way things had been handled.

“You won’t keep them away,” Scott murmured. “Not if John’s on the case…”

He liked that idea. All of them working together to thwart their dad’s plan of keeping them away.

“Do you want me to keep them away?”

It wasn’t the question he’d expected. More than anything, he wanted to see his family. But like this? Unable to sit up by himself, to see the horror and pity in their eyes, not being able to reassure them that he was okay when he truthfully had no idea what state he was in?

“I-,” he needed them desperately but that didn’t mean he wanted them right now.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to decide that now. They’re still trying to persuade Gordon it’s too far to swim.”

Scott smiled, but it was a shadow of his previous grin. He was just so tired. He didn’t realise he’d drifted until he heard his father whisper for him to get some sleep.

But he’d had enough sleep. Unconsciousness didn’t claim him in the same way, which let his subconsciousness take over…

Screaming.

That was all he could hear. It was all around him. Why wasn’t someone doing something to help, couldn’t they hear that someone was in trouble…

“Scott!” It wasn’t the first time his name had been called. Not captain. Not a number. His name.

The screaming stopped and his thrashing calmed. But his heart was racing, sweat cooling on his skin and making him shiver. He’d been back there: they’d been dragging him to that room again and he couldn’t! He couldn’t do it again, he couldn’t survive this…

“Scotty, look at me. You’re awake. It’s over. You’re okay. You’re in the hospital, remember?”

Scott obeyed. That was all he knew right now. Look. Look at the man calling his name. His dad. His dad was here. Scott remembered: he’d come for him; saved him; got him to safety; promised to not leave his side.

But even as his breathing started to even out, Scott couldn’t say anything.

“Scott?”

He mutely shook his head. It was too much. Talking, even thinking about it, was bringing it back too much. He couldn’t do it.

He drew away, huddling in on himself the best he could given his body didn’t want to obey him. He’d spoken before. They’d had entire conversations. But as part of him started to accept that maybe he was safe, the strict compartments he’d forced his mind into over the last six months started to dissolve.

He hurt from the torture but his dad was here. He was in a safe space but he still couldn’t move. His body craved rest but his mind refused to let go of his new reality.

As the walls he’d built over the last six months started coming down, Scott didn’t dare open his mouth.

He wasn’t sure if he’d just start screaming again.

[intersectionalpraxis]

The family of doctor Muhammad Abu Salmiya said that he is being severely tortured because he refused to appear in a video accusing the resistance of using Al Shifa Hospital as a military site.

Another doctor, who was kidnapped with Abu Salmiya, stated that the latter was forced to walk on all fours and eat from a bowl on the floor like an animal and even they put a leash on him. He added that Israeli soldiers broke both his arms.

[sayruq]

[roughroadhaley]

remember when Hopper was tortured and starved in a Russian labor camp for months on end and half the commentary about him after he escaped was ab how cool it is that he’s not fat anymore

that was sort of crazy

[rizzoto-whump]

In the end, the new nation emerged and was recognized by the former occupier. But Colonel James Zhang still had not returned.

New chapter for Raja!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/45897037?view_full_work=true

[jaysen-vor-hee-hees]

{#} If All Is Fair In Love And War {#}

A little thingy about the second war between the upperworld and the underworld cause by a break of the peace treaty :3 (note “The Boy” ™ is a reference to an rp concept with the sona of @v-3-ll-1-ch-0-r!!)

WARNING!!: The following my contain themes referencing to war, religion(?), POW practices, starvation, dehydration, and similar related themes. Reader discretion is advised, and I will not be taking responsibility for ignorance of this message.

=====================================

Malthine breathed a heavy sigh as he slumped back against the wall, the metal crucifix necklace feeling cold against his bare chest.

He hated this. He wished to see the sun again, even if it was a blinding crimson that painted the earth in a red haze. Even if it was a warzone out there.

Originally, the young prince been captured by the enemy to draw information out of, but now, they weren’t letting him go until a truce was drawn between the Upperworld and the Underworld.

It had been three years. And the war was still escalating, showing no sign of stopping.

It’d like he’d almost been completely forgotten. Kept in this cell day and night without any sort of interaction. His feeding had gone from twice a day, to whenever they remembered to, and now to never at all.

His stomach was growling at him, and his throat felt dry. What he’d give for even a sip of water, or at least a half decent meal. It’s not like it’d kill him, no, you can’t kill something that’s already dead.

But he still felt so sick. He just wanted this to be over. He’d never look at angels the same again, not after this. He almost wished he’d taken up the offer to leave before the war begun from that kind, albeit strange, boy he’d met all those years ago.

He’d never admit it, but he could help but feel he’d been developing feelings for that boy, that had just grown stronger the longer he was here. How he just yearned for someone to care for him. He felt so lost…

Malthine was snapped from his long stream of thoughts by a sharp knock on the door of his cell.

=====================================

[starsallalight]

Featuring muses by @amantesmultorum @encntada @familyxxdutyxxhonor . If there's interest in a part 2, feel free to let me know, and I'll gladly continue~

Trigger warnings: Death, War, Prisoner of war, Grief, & Fainting

Dum dum, dum dum.

Kit’s heart thundered in his chest, filling his ears with nothing but a sound he could only liken to war drums. It was a sound he’d prayed to never experience again. Not after what the last one had cost him and those he held dearest. Not after how those darkest moments haunted his dreams at night, leaving him waking in a cold sweat, clinging to his sweet, innocent bride for some level of comfort and assurance. 

Dum dum, dum dum.

He’d been all but racing through the palace for at least twenty minutes, the letter Lord Marois had brought him clutched in his hand. The letter that would change everything. For him, for Frederick and Ella. For Camila and Rosamund… Cami… Her heart would be shattered all over again. Would the resentment resurface? Would she turn it, this time, to their lifelong friend? And Rosamund… Kit had to find her. She needed to hear this from him, only from him.

Reeling as he was from the shock, and bound by his determination to do the right thing for everyone he loved, the king nearly didn’t see the figure before him. And it was only when they reached out to catch him that he seemed to briefly find a bit of lucidity. 

“Kit,” Frederick’s deep voice called out, concern written plainly all over his face. “What is it? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

A ghost… It was aptly appropriate, in an absurdly macabre manner. 

“Where’s Rosamund?”

“Rosamund?” The Grand Duke repeated, furrowing his brow for a moment. “I believe she’s in the garden with Ella. Why? Kit, what’s going on?”

Swallowing thickly, he held the letter out to his friend. Frederick took it and gave his king one last look before scanning it over himself. Slowly, his face fell. Looking at Kit with a haunted look of his own, he handed it back. “Does her father know?”

“He brought me the letter, but I don’t believe he read it.”

Frederick nodded and licked his lips for a moment. A quick glance was all it took for him to settle his own raging emotions. He’d always been the more logical of the two; he was the mind where Kit was the heart. “You go talk to her. I’ll explain everything to Lord and Lady Marois, and Camila when she returns.”

“Thank you, Frederick.” Kit nodded, trying to pull the lead from his legs. But just seconds after the Grand Duke was making his way in one direction down the corridor, the King was going down the other.

The gardens… Likely in the plot he’d gifted Ella. She had mentioned wanting to get her flowers planted as soon as possible, in order to give them their best chance against the winter’s frosty chill. 

And in that secluded little corner the queen and her lady in fact were. Surrounded by little trays of bulbs, trowels, watering cans, and little mounds of unearthed soil, the two women were laughing and brushing curls from their eyes. They both were dressed simply, in what could be considered peasants’ or servants’ dresses, with their hair half wrapped in a bun and held off their necks with scarves. Both had dirt on their hands, under their nails, and perhaps smudged on their noses and cheeks. But neither minded. They just sat beside each other, the sun shining down on their bowed heads; one golden and one chestnut. As Kit and Frederick had their encounter, the ladies were having a discussion of their own.

“There! That’s the last. Now we’ve just got to cover them all and water the area.” The queen beamed proudly. “See, I told you gardening wasn’t hard.”

“Speak for yourself.” Rosamund laughed, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead. “As much as I love plants, I kill everything I touch. Some people have the talent for it, and I’m not one of them.” 

“Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.” Ella graciously offered. 

Flashing her mistress- her friend- a smile, Rosamund laid aside her tools and flopped onto her back, looking up at the wide blue sky above. Soon enough, the autumn would come. The time of year she most dreaded. “I wish the summer would last longer.” She found herself confessing. 

Ella didn’t answer for a moment, instead looking the other woman over with a saddened gaze. “Kit told me that it’s a hard time of year for you all.” 

“Did he tell you why?”

“Sort of. He told me that it was autumn when you and Camila lost the men you loved.” 

The words left a lump in the lady’s throat that she had to force down before she pulled herself back up. “Yes. Gabriel and Marcel went to war with Kit and Frederick. They were both lost the same day.” 

“Oh… Oh, that’s awful…” Ella stammered. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“It’s alright. Maybe it would do me some good to talk about it. I… I haven’t ever really.” 

Not that she’d wanted to, at the time. There was too much to do. Too much emotion she’d forced herself to bury. It was only now that she could even think of him without feeling that empty pit in her stomach grow more cavernous. 

“It must have been so hard for you both. Being alone, and having to face that.” 

“In a way.” Rosamund confessed with a little nod. “We both turned inward. Camila wouldn’t really let anyone try to console her. Not that anyone could, really. As for me, I… I tried to focus on her. Then on Kit and Frederick when they returned. Trust me, there were- there are- some people here who would have given Lady Tremaine a run for her money. Courtiers in a palace are among the most underhanded and wicked people when they choose to be. And a grieving widow wouldn’t be spared their machinations, if it served a better purpose to them to abuse that grief and find some selfish benefit in it.”

A heaviness passed over the queen’s face, remembering well how she and her brother hadn’t been given a chance to process their grief for their father because of their stepmother. She knew well what Rosamund meant. “What were they like?” She finally asked.

“They were good. So very good.” Rosamund replied, her eyes misting over, despite the little smile that tugged at her lips. Reaching up to wipe them away with her apron, she sighed heavily. “Camila loved Gabriel so much. They brought out the best in each other, rather like you and Kit. If I had to pin down the one of the men closest to Kit besides Frederick, it was him… He promised his sister that he’d look after him. And I know that it filled Kit with such guilt that he came back and Gabriel didn’t. He told me once that if he could have switched places with them, he would have in a heartbeat. Of course I told him not to speak like that, but grief… Grief manifests in us all differently. And I guess he felt her anger at the situation more than anyone. After all, he was the prince, the leader. In his mind, it was up to him and him alone to protect all of those men. He never could accept that it was out of his hands. That he did the best that he could, but he couldn’t have saved everyone.” 

Biting her lip, Ella’s hazel eyes turned away. She didn’t want to think about Kit and Frederick on a battlefield, trying desperately to save their friends. It wasn’t their fault. But she knew that Camila’s reaction wasn’t her fault either. For the princess, it was a no win situation. And she knew that it would have wounded Camila just as deeply if her husband had returned safe and sound, but her elder brother hadn’t. Ella herself couldn’t imagine losing Edward like that. It would have destroyed her. 

“And… Marcel?”

Now hesitating herself, Rosamund reached up to clench the pouch she always wore around her neck, tucked safely into her clothes where no one could ever use it against her, where the evils of the world couldn’t corrupt it. “He made me laugh.” She answered, the words feeling utterly underwhelming and failing to properly convey the depths of her feelings for the man. “He brought me a sense of peace and joy that I haven’t found since. That I’ll never find again. He was unlike anyone I’ve ever known, or will ever know.” 

“You loved him.”

“With all of my heart.” 

Ella’s slender, calloused hands reached out to gently grasp hers, offering a compassionate and understanding squeeze. Rosamund returned the gesture and stared off into the distance. “I always thought that we’d be just as happy as Camila and Gabriel, someday… Heh, I’ve never told all this to anyone. Not Frederick, nor Kit and Camila. Not even my parents. It was just… It was too personal. And I didn’t want to be a burden on anyone. Not when everyone was grieving something.” 

“You don’t have to talk about it if you’ve no wish to.” 

“No, I want to.” Rosamund reassured her. “I’m finally at a point where I think I’ve come to terms with it. Acceptance is one thing. But one can accept that the person they love most in the world is dead without really processing that they’ll never return again. You know?”

Ella nodded. “My father was like that. When my mother died.” 

“How long did it take him?” The lady-in-waiting questioned, tucking a loose yellow curl behind her ear. 

“To feel ready to start a new chapter? Almost a decade. I was 10 when my mother died, and 18 when he married Lady Tremaine.” The queen explained before cautiously weighing her next words. “If the time ever came for you, would you?”

“If my father ordered me. I wouldn’t like it, I’d hate it even, but if it would be of some help to him and my mother, I would. I suppose if it was to someone like Frederick or Edward, someone who’d treat me with respect and kindness, I could manage better. But my heart would never be in it. I’d be respectful and kind back, but… The love would never be there.” 

Rosamund stopped for a moment to gather her thoughts. A deep furrow appeared in her brow. “For as long as I can remember, my deepest fear has been a marriage where I have no say. I’ve seen too many instances at court where it ended in disaster. There was a girl who lived here once. Her father was on Kit’s father’s council, along with mine. She was in an arranged marriage with the son of the former Grand Duke’s cousin. And her life, Ella, it was miserable. He was unfaithful, and he laid his hands on her whenever he had the chance. She suffered every day until she laid in her childbed. Neither of them survived. I was, I am, petrified to my core about living that life myself. Of having any semblance of choice taken from me. Marcel… He swore he’d do anything in his power to protect me from that.” 

“Your father loves you too much to condemn you to that fate.” Ella vehemently assured. 

“I know. It’s an irrational fear, but a fear nevertheless. I think of that poor girl, and then I look at you and Kit, and I remember Camila and Gabriel, and it… It just reminds me of what Marcel and I could have had, if we’d been given a chance. If we’d had more time.”

A mournful silence fell between the women. And still, Rosamund clung to the pouch containing the portrait and the ring that were her only links to him. She could remember well the day that Master Phineas had taken her and Camila each in hand and brought them to his studio, only to find Gabriel and Marcel waiting. The painter had first sketched, then painted four portraits and presented them to the two couples just days before the men all left for war. One each for Camila and Gabriel. One each for her and Marcel. Rosamund had cried, and tenderly kissed the painter’s cheek, thanking him with everything in her. 

“We should finish up. Prudence will be furious if I bring you to lessons with the both of us covered in dirt.” She said through a choking lump, with as much composure as she could manage. And Ella, knowing that Rosamund needed to end the discussion, simply offered another squeeze of her hands before they turned to the flowers once more. 

It was while Kit was headed to the garden that they were gathering their tools and dropping them off before heading back toward the palace. Ella and Rosamund walked silently, their arms linked together, when the queen suddenly stopped. “Who’s that?”

Rosamund lifted her head and gazed down the path, where a figure was walking in their direction. But they didn’t have the uniform of the palace gardeners. Nor did they dress like a servant. She came to a stop, Ella frozen beside her, while she tried to size up the situation; just in case she needed to try and defend them both in order to give Ella a chance to run and raise the alarm. But the longer she watched, the more confused she became. She knew that silhouette. She knew that gait. 

“It can’t be. It’s impossible!” 

“Rosamund?” Ella’s shaky voice called, trying to stop her. But the lady pulled her arm free and took a few steps forward. 

All sound seemed to vanish. She couldn’t hear Ella calling her name. She couldn’t hear the racing footsteps in the distance, nor the voice calling their names. It was like she’d walked into a dream, or a memory. And reality had faded into the background. Nothing else existed except the ever shortening distance between her and the figure before her. 

She had to know. Even if it would destroy her all over again. 

What felt like ages, but couldn’t have been more than seconds later, she was there, standing before the figure. Her blue eyes nearly started out of her head. Her mouth hung open in silent disbelief. That face seemed to have walked right out of her mind, right out of the grave, to her side. She’d gone mad… It was the only explanation. Bringing it all up to Ella had made her delusional. She was hallucinating. She had to be…

Ever so slowly, almost against her will, a hand rose from her side and reached out toward him. But it hesitated, drew back slightly, as if in fear of the oncoming heartbreak when the vision faded. The urge to know, to be sure, however, was too strong. Despite the hesitation, Rosamund watched as her hand continued forward. It reached the face, cradled that familiar cheek, and felt real and true flesh beneath it. Just as quickly, Rosamund’s arm dropped, and she could finally hear Kit’s voice calling her name.

She looked from the figure, over her shoulder to Kit, with Ella looking almost frightened at his side. Then, seeing the shock on his face, knowing he saw what she did, Rosamund looked back to Marcel. And at that same instant, everything slowly went black.