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You haven’t slept. You won’t for several more hours. The fact that you haven’t yet broken down is a bit of a miracle, but you make no promises for the rest of the day. With numb efficiency, you follow your brother through the dimly-lit halls of the manor, all the way down to a door in the kitchen. The cellar is the only place you haven’t been shown. You can only imagine what is down there. Hopefully not another angel. You can’t remember getting to the mausoleum, nor can you remember returning to the manor, but the afterimage of the angel’s eyes boring into yours will never leave you.
Fredrick-Gilbert unlocks the cellar door with a wave of his hand, opening it and leading you in. You’re too exhausted and hurt to do much of anything but follow and make sure the door shuts behind you.
The short, narrow flight of stairs opens into another dim room, cold stone walls and floors fitted with even colder metal bars separating the front from the back. Against the far wall is another short set of stairs and a door slanting up. You catch a hint of fresh air, but the flesh construct sitting in front of it dampens any hope it could have given you.
Your companions are in the cells.
Adora and Aerin are in one, Filavandrel in the other. Aerin’s hands are manacled, Adora’s boots are sitting just outside the cell, and Filavandrel’s scabbard belt is missing. You don’t see either Bag of Holding, nor do you see Dandelion. They all look just as exhausted and beaten as you must; massive swaths of bruising cover the visible parts of Aerin’s arms, Filavadrel’s dusk-purple face looks desaturated and grey, and there is still a mess of dried blood, now an awful red-black, at Adora’s neck. They’re all as disheveled and wary as you, and the fact that Adora doesn’t immediately jump up tells you enough as-is.
“What,” she drawls, dark circles making her eyes look sunken, “didn’t feel like sending your wife to gloat some more?”
“She’s not woken yet, and the wedding isn’t until the new year,” Fredrick-Gilbert responds primly, taking a ring of keys from his coat pocket. “Do play nice, now. I’m letting you leave.”
“What about him?” Aerin says, jerking their chin towards you. You haven’t moved from the foot of the stairs, frozen in place as your mind stalls out. The panic you’d felt upon waking is nothing compared to the dread that fills you now. Their gazes flit from from Fredrick-Gilbert, to you, to each other, and back to Fredrick-Gilbert, who has finished sorting through his keys. “The fuck did you do to him?”
“Him?” Your brother’s voice is mild, disinterested. “Nothing that wasn’t routine. Gave him a tour, cut him an awfully good deal– hell, I even let him help in the lab. Nothing out of the ordinary.” He glances over his shoulder at you. “Isn’t that right, Teddy?”
Your inner elbow, left side, ulnar artery, aches. So does your neck. There is no blood left on you, but the sticky sensation of it sliding down your arm makes your stomach turn. Just once, short and curt, you nod.
Fredrick-Gilbert smiles. “He’ll let you know the rest – I’m afraid it’s time for me to retire.” He unlocks the cell door, leaving it wide open for your companions, but does not move to unlock Filavandrel’s. Aerin squints at your brother warily, nodding towards the other cell.
“...What about him?”
“Oh, he’s staying. Collateral, you see. I have to make sure you have incentive to complete my errands. Do them, and you’ll get him back. If you don’t…” Fredrick-Gilbert shrugs. “Either I’ll kill him, or turn him into a vampire and let him kill you, I suppose. I haven’t yet decided.”
“Don’t worry about me, Aerin,” Filavandrel says quickly. “I’ll take care of myself.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” your brother sniffs. “Alright. Out with you all. You first.” When he beckons, Aerin stands, and he unlocks their cuffs. They exit the cell as directed, stepping off to the side; the flesh construct has moved out of the way, for the time being. Adora opens her mouth to say something, but shuts her mouth at whatever look Fredrick-Gilbert gives her. “Don’t you start,” he says. “I’ll let you stay here, too. Double your dosage again, if I must.”
She meets your eyes from across the room. You shake your head.
Dramatically, Fredrick-Gilbert sighs, stepping back out of the cell when Adora doesn’t move. “Brother” – again, over his shoulder to you – “if she doesn’t move herself, I’ll make the construct do it. Get her up?”
That jolts you into action in a way you can’t explain. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you cross to the cell and enter. Fredrick-Gilbert is far enough away that he won’t be able to close the door and lock you both inside – it would be counterproductive to his goals, besides. You help Adora up quickly, giving her a quick once-over as she searches your face for any answers.
“I’ll explain in a moment,” you say, low and rushed, not meeting her eyes. “Outside. Please, just–”
“Okay,” she breathes, nodding. “Okay.”
An arm at her back for her own safety, you usher Adora out of the cell, your arm behind her back. She shoves her boots back on, glaring at your brother; he smiles back as placid and cold as every other elite back in Adriel. With another wave of his hand, the door leading outside opens. Cool, pre-dawn air floods into the room, sending shivers down your back. You hope the two of them don’t realize he’s already broken something in you. Not yet, at least.
“Behave yourselves out there. I’ll be sending instructions once I’ve everything ready,” Fredrick-Gilbert says, as you push your friends towards the door. Both Adora and Aerin shoot him dirty looks – you refuse to look back. “Enjoy the trip.”
Up the stairs. Filavandrel left behind. Your tools and valuables missing. Your energy dangerously low. Your friends pale and wan. Some seventeen percent of your blood no longer in your body. Poison, though currently blocked, circulating through not just your veins, but Adora’s as well. Dawn light peeking over the horizon. Eye contact attempted and avoided.
The cellar hatch closes heavily behind you.
“Tell me you’re alright.”
“Teo, what–”
“Please,” you force out, the words threatening to choke you, “tell me he didn’t hurt you.”
“He didn’t,” Aerin says. Adora hums in agreement. Relief floods through you faster than the mid-October air; your shoulders slump, your chin dropping to your chest, and you nod. When Adora touches your arm, you flinch. “Did he–”
“I’m fine.” You don’t have to look at them to know neither of them believe you. You hardly believe yourself. You take a step forward, stumble, and shake your head. “We need to go.” And, then, when you can’t find any other words, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Aerin summons their sword. Adora takes your hand and pulls you along. The three of you begin walking off the manor grounds.
“Can you Send?” Aerin says. You shake your head. They grimace, but nod, grip tightening on their sword. “Then I’ll call. The others need to know you’re alive.”
You feel the psychic connection take hold, almost cut it off as Hyssop and Verne’s voices cut through the night’s quiet, and walk with the rest of your party back to the Institute, just as numb as you’d been when you’d awoken.