Chapter Text

“But I know someday I'll make it out of here

Even if it takes all night or a hundred years

Need a place to hide, but I can't find one near

Wanna feel alive, outside I can't fight my fear”

[x]

Kenny Ackermann

832, Lower Sina, Wall Sina

The place is a dump, but that is probably to be expected of a brothel in Lower Sina.

It’s not like Kenny has never made use of prostitutes here and there himself, but the thought that his little sister has been working in such an unpleasant establishment is sickening. 

He can appreciate the irony in that, though. When he was paying hookers, he never bothered to think about that they must be someone’s child, brother, mother. Same way he never thought about that when he was slitting the throats of some MP bastards.

But empathy is too close to remorse and scruples, neither of which he could afford in his previous… ah, let’s say ‘pastime.’

But times change and so do people. Kenny the Ripper is making an honest living now by serving the crown, even if that still involves slitting throats. All for the greater good, of course. By being loyal to Uri and the rest of the Reiss family, he ensures that the Ackermann clan will no longer be hunted down and ostracized. 

There aren’t very many left of them, admittedly, but there are Kuchel and whatever brat she must have given birth to all those years ago, and that is good enough for Kenny.

He’s never been worth shit as far as big brothers go, but he hopes that this will make up for all the times he abandoned and neglected Kuchel. He could have been working a proper job instead of murdering, so she wouldn’t have had to sell herself down here in the gutter.

So this, now, is too little too late but, knowing her, she will still be grateful, look at him with those pretty gray eyes of hers, just like when they were children.

That’s something Kenny craves, he realizes. Her adoration and her trust, some last shred of innocence maintained within her, even after all that has happened.

“Kuchel?” the proprietor muses aloud as he flips through his registry, rolling a toothpick between his lips. “Ah! Could you be meaning Olympia? Sorry, mate. You’re a few weeks late. She kicked the bucket a while ago.”

Grief shoots through Kenny’s bones like lightening, unexpected and sharp. He had not even thought to expect this, and certainly not to have the news delivered to him in such careless words.

“I could recommend you some of the other ones, though,” the man tells him, oblivious. “You like them dark-haired? Daphne has some jugs on her, if that’s your thing. Or maybe Colin, for a boy?”

“I don’t want any of your disease-riddled whores!” Kenny snaps, banging his fist down on the counter, making the man jerk back in surprise. Kenny just glares him down, trying to collect his thoughts.

“A child,” he says, because that at least must be salvageable about this whole damned situation. “Kuchel had a child. Must’ve been ten years old now or so.”

“Oh, that brat?” the proprietor says, glancing off to the left. “Yeah, he also died, I’m afraid. They caught the same thing, it seemed.”

Damn it. Damn it all to hell. And yet, before Kenny can lash out again, he hears a huff from the side. 

One of the prostitutes sits perched on a divan, wearing what barely passes for a dress and some stockings. Dark hair and huge tits. Daphne, presumably. When Kenny catches her gaze, she looks away, hides the lower half of her face behind a painted fan.

“You,” Kenny growls. “What do you know?”

“Daphne,” the proprietor warns. “Keep your trap shut.”

But Daphe ignores him, brushes her hair out of her face in a practiced gesture, bats her lashes at Kenny like some temptress from an epic tale. 

“I’ll tell you,” she says. “But it’ll cost you.”

“Fucking bitch,” Kenny mutters but reaches inside his coat pocket. It’s not like he is hurting for money these days. He tosses the coins at her feet and, for a moment, she just glances down at them, as though too proud to pick them up.

In the end, though, greed wins over, and she bends down to pluck the gold up like a pigeon might pick at some corn. Her tits spill out of her dress and, when she straightens up again, Kenny catches sight of a rosy nipple, before she fixes the fabric in place once more.

With a deliberate look at the cussing proprietor, Daphne slips the coins down her cleavage.

“Kuchel died, but her boy didn’t,” she reveals primly. “The bastard sold him to some slavers, though, so you are out of luck.”

Kenny’s heart seizes. 

“Slavers,” he repeats. “What are their names? What did they look like?”

“I never saw them,” Daphne replies with a shrug. “He just bragged how much money he made, and that this should be a lesson to the rest of us to never have children.”

“Who would you sell a child to?” Kenny wants to know, even though he has a pretty good idea. “Who would buy one?”

But Daphne just lets out a shrill sarcastic laugh. 

“Who wouldn’t?” she asks. “You think this was the first time the boy was bought in some way? When Kuchel got sick, he paid for their room with his mouth. Men don’t care where they put their cocks, as long as it’s warm and wet.”

Kenny’s fists clench, helpless. If he had come here just a little while earlier... If he hadn’t been such a good-for-nothing son of a bitch...

“The boy’s name then,” he tries, hoping for some clues. Maybe he can still find the child. Save him. Reclaim what little is left of Kuchel in this world. “And what does he look like?”

“Tiny,” Daphne says. “Scrawny. They didn’t have much to eat, toward the end. Black hair, like Kuchel. He looked a lot like her, I guess. Was an omega, too. And… Levi. She named him Levi.”

“Daphne, I swear I will cut that filthy tongue out of your pretty mouth,” the proprietor threatens. He is red in the face now, his meaty cheeks jiggling with anger.

But he knows nothing of true wrath.

“Selling children, eh?” Kenny asks. This time, when he reaches inside his coat, it is not to retrieve gold but cold hard steel. “I hope it was worth the profit.”

The man doesn’t get the chance to fight back, or to shout even. Kenny extends one long arm across the counter, slashes his knife in a sideways arc and opens up his throat like a pig’s belly. 

There is a grunt, a gurgle, scarlet blood spilling from the wound like water from a mountain spring, and then the man sags down, falling to his knees.

Daphne lets out a belated squeal, as if it took a while for the scene to truly register in her brain, eyes bugging out of her skull in fear. When Kenny fully turns around toward her, she holds her fan in front of her like some feeble weapon.

“Don’t tell me the fucker didn’t deserve it,” Kenny says gruffly, idly wiping his blade off on his coat. 

Daphne trembles, her mouth opening, and for a moment it looks like she might scream again. But then she collects herself, her shoulder’s squaring a little. Her lower lip still trembles.

“No,” she says, her voice hard. “He did.”

Kenny leaves without another word.

♜

The Earl of Warstein

832, Warstein Estate, Wall Maria

The boy is... exquisite. There’s no other word for it. Well worth the price, and he hadn’t even been that expensive. A good deal, certainly, for a first purchase of this nature.

He looks younger than even his age suggests, very small and diminutive, with a round puerile face. He was thin when the Earl acquired him, too bony, with no suppleness of flesh. Malnourished probably, considering he apparently originated from Lower Sina. By now, though, some rosiness has returned to his cheeks, some tender flush to his skin wherever the Earl bites at him. 

So is it not a blessing, really, that the Earl so graciously lifted him from squalor and deprivation?

Already, there is nothing about the boy that the Earl does not love. His skin so pale it is almost translucent, never exposed to sunlight, the lilac veins in his eyelids and his wrists giving him the appearance of a blue-blooded prince from a fairy tale, locked away in a marble tower. 

His hair, in contrast, is black like spilled ink, thick and a bit unruly. It would look beautiful grown a little longer and tied back with silk ribbons, perhaps.

He would dress him in velvet and in soft leather slippers for his small feet, feed him only the best of food. The boy would want for nothing, and he would never have to work a day in his life. The Earl would arrange for private tutors to teach him how to read and write, and how to conduct himself in polite company. 

He would be like any other boy of noble birth, well-mannered and well-spoken.

“You will call me sir, both in front of others and when we are alone,” he had told him when he brought him into his household. “Do you understand, Valentin?”

Valentin. The name he had picked upon first meeting him, dulcet and willowy as the boy himself, and the boy had nodded meekly and lowered his gaze.

He is so demure, seems grateful to be fed and clothed, to have a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in. Even if he may have to share that bed with someone else sometimes.

The Earl had only taken him a handful of times so far, and the boy had bravely endured it. He had whimpered a little and turned his face away, but not fought in earnest. Perhaps he just accepted this as the inevitable price he has to pay for all the new-found luxuries in his life. Or perhaps he had not been quite as virginal as had been suggested to the Earl.

His sweet little quim at least had been untouched, and the Earl had taken great pleasure to be his first, to both defile and educate him. The boy had bled, yes, and he had pushed his small fists against the Earl’s chest, but that was to be expected, his body just barely yielding to accept the Earl’s girth inside. 

There was barely a hair on his body, and his first heat was likely some years away still. But the anticipation of it just made each touch that should come before all the more tantalizing. 

The only time Valentin had truly cried was when the Earl had personally put his crest on him, branding the coat of arms of Warstein into the pale flesh of his buttocks. The skin is still bright red and raised there, and the boy hisses whenever the Earl digs his fingers into the mark: a curled thistle that denotes both strength and nobility. 

In general, though, the Earl is gentle with him, does not want to damage his frail body.

Valentin is so delicate, his every limb like the neck of a swan. When the Earl splays his fingers on his sides, he can almost span the entire circumference of his waist. His hips, still boyishly narrow, would widen with time, his body preparing itself for its true purpose. 

So he traipses his fingers over the boy’s belly, around his navel, up to his sternum, his ribs jittering with agitated breaths.

“You will bear my children, won’t you?” the Earl murmurs in Valentin’s ear. He hadn’t told him that yet, though he assumes the boy is not ignorant of the ways of the world in this. “You’ll be my sweet pet and, when the time comes, you will gift me a son. You understand that, don’t you, Valentin?”

Valentin nods slowly, but his eyes are closed and his rib cage flutters like the wings of a bird. 

It’s just as well. Before long, the boy would be used to all of this. Before long, he would be tame.

♜

Levi

833, Warstein Estate, Wall Maria

He calls for Levi, as he does so often, when he has grown bored with paperwork and other unpleasant activities and wishes to be distracted. Levi brushes his hair and washes his face and goes without complaint. 

Complaining doesn’t really help, and neither does hiding. He’ll just have dinner taken away or get locked up in his room, and the Earl will be quite cross with him for the next few days.

So Levi goes, knocks on the door to the Earl’s study, has to lean his weight against it to open it and slip in.

“You wanted to see me, sir,” Levi says, keeping his gaze down. He’s long since figured out that the Earl takes it as something of a challenge when Levi looks him in the eye, looks at him a little too long. 

Levi doesn’t want to anyway. He knows what the Earl looks like, his long lean body and the weak chin, the brown hair graying at the temples and the unpleasantly spindly fingers, like the legs of a spider.

“Join me, Valentin,” the Earl says, beckoning him over with a casual gesture. He’s sitting at his desk, and there is nowhere to sit but his lap or the desk itself. That wouldn’t be a first, though.

The other day, he had made Levi lie down on the left side of the desk as he worked. Levi had had to hitch up his legs the whole time, wearing only his shirt and nothing else. The Earl idly fingered him throughout it all but, intermittently, his hand withdrew only to return with random objects from the desk. He’d stuffed a fountain pen into Levi and the blunt end of a letter opener and, finally, he took a ruler and pushed that in, too, as if to measure the depths of him. The sharp edges had cut Levi’s insides, and he tried to stay relaxed instead of clenching down. 

But that is not what the Earl seems to have in mind today.

“Come, stand here,” he says, tugging Levi over so he is standing between the Earl’s knees. 

“How was your day?” the Earl asks, as he begins to unfasten the buttons of Levi’s doublet, one by one. He does this sometimes, making casual conversation, as though he were actually interested to hear Levi talk about his life. As though there was much to talk about beside this.

“Long,” Levi replies, trying not to shudder as the Earl’s cool fingers slip underneath his shirt. “I didn’t do much.”

“Did you finish reading the Epic of Isegrim?” 

“Yes, yesterday.” That, too, had been rather long but not quite as boring. Levi liked it well enough, but he wasn’t looking forward to having to discuss it with his tutor. The tutor never agreed with Levi’s thoughts on the readings.

“Lift your foot,” the Earl says, and Levi gingerly leans back against the desk to not lose his balance as the Earl slips first one shoe and then the other off Levi’s feet. 

“It’s important that you stay on top of your studies,” the Earl reminds him, as he always does, as though he has plans for Levi to inherit the estate in the future. As though Levi will one day be running the books and govern the people of Warstein, instead of just being the Earl’s plaything. 

The Earl is undoing the laces of Levi’s trousers now, pulling them down Levi’s hips along with his drawers, until Levi is all naked except for his long white socks. 

“Beautiful,” the Earl decides, drawing his cold hands along Levi’s flanks, coming to rest on his waist and then lifting Levi up onto the desk. 

The Earl always keeps his desk very neat. He doesn’t like chaos and clutter. The wood is cool and smooth underneath Levi’s behind. He lies down on his back as the Earl undoes his own breeches, spreads his legs so the Earl can get some oil on him which he doesn’t always remember to do. 

It’s spring now and the sky is a nice blue, almost cloudless, the window standing open to let in some fresh air. The curtains gently move in the breeze as the Earl fucks him. Maybe, if he behaves, Levi will be allowed to go outside later. He likes seeing how many different kinds of butterflies there are in the gardens.

There are swallows nesting underneath the ledge of the roof, Levi knows. He can see some birds flitting around, can hear the chirps of their little chicks, not ready to fly yet.

With a groan, the Earl comes inside of him. He’s never careful with that, has said that he wants Levi to have his children. Levi isn’t old enough for that because he hasn’t had a heat yet, but he knows it can’t be long now. Maybe, a year from now, he’ll already be all big and round. 

Levi doesn’t know how to feel about that. He can’t really imagine what it would be like to have a child. Would he get to keep it, or would the Earl hand it off to a nanny? Perhaps that would be better. Levi doesn’t know anything about children, so he is afraid that he might do something wrong.

But it might be nice, maybe, to have someone. Levi’s mother had always told him that he was the best thing that ever happened to her. So maybe it would be like that for Levi, too. A baby that he could love and cuddle and play with. 

There’s no one else around Levi’s age on the estate, just some stable boys a little older than him, and they never want anything to do with him, even if he just wants to pet the horses. 

There’s one horse that Levi gets to take his riding lessons on, a kind old gelding named Misha, gray like dust and with a soft pink nose. Sometimes he sniffs Levi’s hair and shoulders, as if looking for hidden sugar cubes, and it always makes Levi giggle.

The Earl wetly mouths at his neck, his softening cock still inside of Levi. He hasn’t given Levi the bite yet, and maybe he never will. The branding seems to be enough for him.

There’s a cat living in the stables too, a big tabby. She doesn’t like to play either, because she is already rather old, but she sometimes lets Levi pet her. He always has to sit very still for it to happen; she won’t come if you chase her and Levi respects that. He doesn’t like it either when someone touches him without permission. 

Finally, the Earl pulls out; that doesn’t mean he is done yet. The fucking is usually over quickly, but he likes to keep Levi around afterwards, play with him some more, finger him, lick him. He puts things in Levi’s ass, too, sometimes, toys made from wood and polished to perfection, likes having each of Levi’s holes filled in some way. 

Now, though, he just uses his fingers to scoop the seed out of Levi and feed it to him, pushing his digits deep into Levi’s mouth. Levi obediently licks it all up, swallowing, even though he would rather puke.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the taste. He hated when he had to do it back at the brothel, but it had been the only thing he could do to make sure he and his mother wouldn’t get kicked out of their room. But his mother had died anyway, and Levi often wonders whether it wouldn’t have been better if he had just peacefully starved to death.

At least the Earl is always clean so, whenever he puts his cock in Levi’s mouth, Levi doesn’t mind so much, just closes his eyes and pretends he’s somewhere else. The men at the brothel had often been dirty and smelled bad, sweaty and musky and not easy to stomach.  

He wonders what’s for dinner. The groundskeeper had brought in two pheasants this morning. Levi would get to have some if the Earl wished to dine with him. There’d be treacle tart, too, Marla had said. Levi had never eaten treacle tart before coming to Warstein, or many sweets at all really, but now he has them all the time.

Marla had told him that too much sugar is bad for his teeth, though, and that he shouldn’t be eating too much of it. 

"Overindulgence of anything rots your character," Marla had warned, but Levi doesn't think she just meant that for him. 

"My pretty boy," the Earl tells him, kissing Levi’s eyelid. "I'll never let you go." 

Afterwards, when Levi has dressed himself again and been sent on his way, he wanders down into the kitchens. Apart from the gardens and maybe the library, the kitchens are his favorite place on the estate. It’s always warm down here and it smells good.

The people are nicer, too.

“Marla, can I take a bath, please?” Levi asks, awkwardly clinging on to the door handle. If she’s busy, he’ll just leave again. He doesn’t want to get her into trouble just because he is making her late.

Marla is standing by the counter, her big bottom wiggling as she moves back and forth.

“Now?” she asks, sounding a little hassled. “I will have to start dinner soon, child.”

But then she turns around and takes a good look at him. He hadn’t bothered to properly button up his doublet again, and he thinks there must still be some stuff on his face. 

Marla sighs, dries her hands on her apron. 

“Of course, child,” she says. “Come and sit. It will be a while until the water is heated.”

“It doesn’t need to be hot,” Levi tells her because he doesn’t mind cold baths so much. It’s not about being warm, but about being clean.

“Nonsense,” she tells him. “You’ll catch a cold, and then what?”

So he sits by the table, pulls his feet up on the chair so he can rest his cheek on his knees, watching as she goes about heating the water. 

Idly, he picks at the crusted mess that has dried in the corners of his mouth and on his chin. His fingertips come away a little flaky. There’s a sour taste in his mouth, like bile rising in his throat before vomiting. 

“Can I have something to drink, too?” he asks Marla, probably sounding a little desperate because he can feel the saliva collecting in his mouth, and he doesn’t want to throw up all over her floor.

She hands him a cup of water that he drinks down in little sips. It helps, if only a bit.

“You want some tea?” she asks. “Might settle your stomach.”

“Yes, please.”

“Looking forward to that treacle tart later?” Marla asks when she hands him another cup a few minutes later. The tea is hot, and the warm porcelain feels good in Levi’s hands. 

“I don’t think I’m very hungry,” he says. He can see the two pheasants sitting on the counter, already plucked and gutted, but any appetite he might have had is gone. 

“You’re a growing boy, you need to eat,” Marla tuts, but nothing more than that. She never makes him do anything he doesn’t want to do.

So Levi just sits and drinks his tea, staring into the fire of the hearth until there are spots dancing in front of his vision. When the water is finally heated, he watches Marla pour it into the old tin tub, and then he takes off his clothes and neatly hangs them over the chair. 

Marla turns away. She always does this, at least since she had first seen the branding on his behind, but he appreciates having a tiny bit of privacy as he climbs into the tub.

The tin tub is meant for washing other things, but big enough that Levi can take a bath in it. Or rather, Levi himself is small enough that he easily fits in, even if he cannot stretch out his legs and has to hunch over a little 

“Temperature alright?” Marla asks him and Levi nods. His hair is so long now that the tips of it touch the surface of the water.

Marla has handed him a clean cloth and the good soap, the one that smells of roses and makes his skin all soft, and he washes his face and neck first, anywhere where the Earl’s seed and saliva have touched him. 

But the Earl himself had touched him everywhere else, so Levi scrubs and scrubs until he is pink all over. 

“Don’t scrub so harshly, child,” Marla warns him with a concerned frown. “You’ll only irritate your skin.”

“But I’m dirty,” he says, only scrubbing harder. He can feel tears budding in the corner of his eyes, but he thinks Marla won’t notice. “I don’t want to be dirty.”

If he could, he’d strip off his skin and throw it into the hearth. Cut off all his hair and burn it. Tear his tongue from his mouth and watch it sizzle in the flames. 

But he can’t do any of that. All he has is hot water and the faint hope that, for a short while, he’ll feel a little cleaner. 

♜

Esther Schwarz

834, Warstein Estate, Wall Maria

“Will that be all, my Lord?” Esther asks politely, keeping her gaze fixed somewhere on a spot between her toes and the armchair by the window. 

“Yes, yes,” the Earl waves her away, not even sparing her a glance. “I will ring for you if I need anything else.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Esther says, curtsies, and scurries from the library, tightly closing the door behind herself, as if to shut away the evil. 

“What was he doing this time?” Marla wants to know, once Esther has made it back down into the kitchen.

“Marla!” Bernadette admonishes, craning her long neck and nervously peering toward the door as though expecting someone to be eavesdropping on them. 

“What?” Marla scoffs. She is angrily scrubbing at the breakfast dishes, her strong meaty arms bulging with the effort. Perhaps she is imagining to be dunking the Earl underwater instead of just the saucepan. “Not like it’s a secret to anyone around here. Not like it can be anymore, considering.”

“He wasn’t doing much,” Esther says carefully. “Had him on his lap.”

“With his hand down the boy’s pants, I reckon,” Marla says and spits into the murky water. Esther has seen her spit into the Earl’s dinner before, though, so this is probably not a rare occurrence. “He’s been insatiable ever since he knocked him up.”

Esther bites her lower lip. She hasn’t been working at the estate for long, just a little over two months. The boy - Valentin - had already been pregnant then, though he only started showing recently. Then again, Esther generally tries not to look too closely. 

“How long… has he had him?” she asks tentatively. She thought perhaps to say ‘How long has he been here?’ but that implies a potential willingness on the boy’s part. Instead, she says it how it is: The Earl owns the boy, like a thing to be possessed, like a doll bought from a toy maker, or a filly at an auction. The merchandise gets no say on whether it wants to be purchased.

“Since he was eleven,” Marla says and, while Esther had expected an answer like that, it still makes her guts twist unpleasantly. “And now he got him pregnant on his first heat. He’s too young and too small. The poor boy will die in childbirth, mark my words. And even if he doesn’t, the babe most likely will.”

From what Esther knows, the Earl had lost children before. Two stillborn, and one little girl died in infancy. His wife, inconsolable after too many tragedies, had taken her own life. And here the Earl is, abusing a child in such a manner.

“Talking about it won’t make it any better,” Bernadette claims, anxiously wringing her hands. “What can we do but make it as bearable for Valentin as possible?”

“Pah!” Marla says, making a rude gesture. The dishwater sloshes over and onto the floor. “Valentin. That’s not even what he is really called, did you know that, Esther? He just gave him some new fancy name, like some stray dog the noble Earl of Warstein has graciously taken in.”

It’s a crude comparison, but an apt one. Valentin is only allowed to move freely in a handful of rooms in the entire estate, and sometimes he is let out into the gardens, when the weather is neither too hot nor too cold. His hair gets brushed and decorated with ribbons, and most of the time he has to sit by the Earl’s feet or on his lap. 

When the Earl calls for him, he expects Valentin to be there without question. He expects him to obey. He expects him to behave. Most importantly, though, a dog does not talk back. When it barks and growls, you scold it. You beat it. 

But Esther is a dog, too. She does not dare bite the hand that feeds her. 

“What of the Military Police?” she suggests nevertheless. “If they knew… If the king knew...”

“Military Police, my ass,” Marla huffs. “Those bastards know full well what goes on behind closed doors. You think our dear Earl is the only one who abuses his power like this? That there aren't slavers who snatch orphans off the streets from here to the Inner City? Oh no, they know well enough. They are just too lazy or too greedy. They’d rather get bribed to look the other way than endanger their next promotion.”

“I had a friend when I was younger,” Bernadette says, staring off into the distance. There is something deeply unsettling in her pale eyes. “She was raped one morning, on her way to work. She tried to report it, to get some justice. She’d seen the man’s face and that he was wearing the insignia of the MP. She thought it would be easy to identify him. But… they just laughed in her face and turned her away.”

“There’s no justice for people like us,” Marla surmises grimly. “Not when one of their own is the criminal.”

It’s a sobering thought, but the truth. Esther is not naive. She has heard of cases like those before. She knows the Military Police is corrupt. But she cannot think of anything else to help Valentin.

“What will happen, then?” she asks. “Does… Does the Earl plan on legitimizing the child?”

“If it’s an alpha, maybe,” Marla guesses. “But if it’s an omega, I wouldn’t be surprised if that bastard was rotten enough to put his hands on his own flesh and blood.”

Esther hadn’t thought it possible, but that idea is even more stomach-turning. For once in her life, she is grateful that she was born a beta. She would never quite hold the same appeal to men like the Earl.

Marla eyes her, as if sizing her up. She has a kind face, really; it’s easy to forget with how much fretting and frowning she does.

“I wouldn’t blame you,” she tells Esther, “If you want to quit, I mean.”

Esther opens her mouth, stills. 

It’s not like she hadn’t considered it. Before she found out what went down in the estate, she had thought that working for the Earl of Warstein would be a prestigious position. Now she has been taught better, and there are other jobs she could take. 

“But what about Valentin?” she asks. “If… If we leave… then he won’t have anyone looking after him.”

At that, Marla and Bernadette exchange a meaningful look. When Marla turns back to Esther, she is smiling.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says. “After all, there is safety in numbers.”  

♜

Grisha Jaeger

834, Warstein Estate, Wall Maria

It’s not often that Grisha Jaeger gets called in for a birth because, generally, that doesn’t fall into his area of expertise. He is familiar enough, of course, and just last week he had helped his neighbor’s goat give birth to some darling little kids, but in most cases he would always recommend a midwife be brought in instead, especially if there is travel involved. 

But it is the Earl of Warstein who is calling, and Grisha cannot pass up the chance to get into the good graces of another noble, to become his personal physician even and hopefully gain access to his papers and his secrets.

So Grisha does not object when he gets the message, just grabs all the equipment he thinks he might need, leaves his own pregnant wife behind and gets on the horse.

Warstein Mansion is luckily not far from Shiganshina, just beyond Wall Maria and a little to the East, but it is times like this when Grisha wishes that the Eldians of Paradis would at least have developed cars of their own. He hadn’t been given much information on the patient yet, but anything could happen during childbirth, and any minute wasted on travel could spell disaster.

It’s in the middle of winter, the air bitingly cold, but the ground is frozen hard and the skies clear, no snow or storm to slow him down.

It still takes him the better part of two hours to get to the estate and, when he does, he hands his sweaty horse over to the stable boy who is already awaiting him, before taking the steps to the mansion two at a time. 

The large oaken door opens before he even has time to knock.

“Doctor Jaeger?” the servant girl confirms. “Please follow me.”

She leads him up a grand staircase, their footfalls cushioned by some faded but plush carpet, and then along a corridor, into one of the wings of the building which surprises Grisha.

From what he knows, the Lady Warstein died shortly before Grisha had arrived in Paradis, so he had been under the impression that he was to assist with the birth of some member of staff. But instead of into the servants’ quarters, he is being shown to what must surely be the wing containing private chambers reserved for the noble family.

“Who exactly is my patient?” he asks the servant girl, hurrying his steps a little so he can catch up with her. She doesn’t look at him.

“Just a page boy,” she says plainly, but there is something odd in her voice that Grisha cannot pinpoint. “Got himself in with some stable hand.”

“Very gracious of Earl Warstein to keep him around,” Grisha muses aloud. Many would have dismissed a boy like that from their service.

“Yes,” the girl agrees, blandly. “Very.”

Finally, they reach the room where the patient is waiting. The girl knocks once, but then immediately opens the door and steps inside.

“Esther, there you are,” someone says. “Has the good doctor finally arrived?”

“I’m here,” Grisha says, following the girl - Esther - inside and taking his hat off, before quickly surveying the situation.

The room is big, with tall windows and floor length curtains pulled aside to let in the late morning light. There are two women, both middle-aged, one short and round, the other tall and mannish, crowded around a large bed. On the bed itself, dressed in a flowy white nightgown, lies a boy.

It takes Grisha a moment to fully appreciate this fact. His eyesight is getting worse by the year and, even with his glasses on, it’s only until he has stepped up to the bed that he gets a closer look.

The page boy, he realizes, is truly just that: a boy.

He looks much too young to be the patient Grisha was called in for, and yet his large belly suggests otherwise, not at all disguised underneath the fabric of the nightgown. He’s lying curled up on his side, a pillow between his knees, another underneath his belly for support. On his small frame, the size of the bump looks almost grotesque, like something that was never meant to happen.

His long black hair is poorly tied back with a ribbon; most of the strands have come loose, plastered to his damp forehead or flowing down his shoulders in messy waves. The look on the boy’s face is one of trepidation and pain.

“Hello,” Grisha greets him warmly. “My name is Grisha Jaeger. I’m here to help you give birth to your child. What’s your name, if I may ask?”

The boy does not answer right away, nervously glancing toward the women and, when it becomes apparent that he won’t answer at all, it is the tall woman who replies in his stead.

“Valentin,” she says. “His name is Valentin.”

“Good,” Grisha says calmly, even though he cannot shake the feeling that something here is off. “When did labor start?”

“Seven hours ago,” the fat one says. “For active labor, that is. But there hasn’t been much progress. We sent for you because… Well. We thought it was likely to be a difficult birth. Better safe than sorry.”

“And you were right to do so,” Grisha praises. “Now, before I can examine our dear Valentin, I will need to wash my hands. Please bring me water that has been heated to boiling and some fresh towels.”

“I’ll go get the water,” the fat woman announces. “Bernadette, you get the towels. Esther, help the Doctor with anything else he might need.”

“Yes, Marla,” Esther says, watching Marla and Bernadette leave.

“This is a nice room,” Grisha comments idly, as though just making conversation. “Nice bed, too. The Earl won’t mind if it gets sullied?”

“Ah, no,” Esther says, avoiding his gaze. “He made it quite clear that Valentin should be as comfortable as possible.”

“How kind of him,” Grisha says. “And where’s the Earl himself today? Important business?”

“Out hunting,” she replies. “He has a penchant for falconry and the weather is nice.”

“I see…” 

On the bed, Valentin silently shudders through a contraction, his eyes clenched shut.

“Oh,” Grisha says. “I almost forgot. I will need rubbing alcohol as well to disinfect my instruments. Do you keep some around?”

It’s a ruse, of course, but he doesn’t think she’ll notice. What kind of doctor would not carry rubbing alcohol with him? 

“Yes, of course,” Esther says, jerking to attention like a Garrison soldier who was caught slacking. “I will get it at once.”

“Thank you,” Grisha says. He waits until she is gone before turning toward Valentin.

“Are you excited to meet your baby?” he asks, in a pleasant tone. The boy looks unsettled enough as it is.

“I- I guess,” Valentin says. His eyes are open now, but he is looking at Grisha like a skittish horse, ready to bolt. Too much white around his irises and too glassy as well.

“How old are you, Valentin?” Grisha keeps prodding. He wants to reach out and soothe the boy, take his hand perhaps, but he doesn’t think the gesture would do much good.

“F-Fourteen,” Valentin answers haltingly. His voice his high and reedy, as is to be expected of someone his age. “I think…”

“Fourteen,” Grisha hums. Not fully unbelievable that he might have had a tryst with a stable hand then, but also not fully convincing. He waits as Levi seizes up again. The contractions are close together; it probably wouldn’t take long now. “Have you always lived at the estate?”

“No,” Valentin says, catching his breath. “Just for a few years. I’m not… I’m not from around here.”

“What about your family, then? Will they help you with the child?” 

“I don’t… have a family.” Valentin’s hitches, half burying his face in his pillow. “Just- Just the baby.”

“I see,” Grisha says, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “And Earl Warstein took you in?”

“Yes.”

“How much did he pay for you?”

Valentin startles, stares at him, wide-eyed. 

“I- I don’t understand,” he stammers, even though he clearly does.

“He did pay, didn’t he?” Grisha prods because beating around the bush won’t do any good here, not with the women coming back soon. “I don’t reckon he just kidnapped you himself. Or did he lure you in with sweet promises?”

“I don’t- I… Please,” Valentin says, shuffling on the bed as if to scoot away from him and escape the interrogation. “I’m not allowed to talk about this.”

Of course he isn’t, Grisha thinks darkly, clenching his fists in the painful realization of just why he was called instead of an actual midwife: Because he is popular among the nobles, known not just for his competence but for his discretion as well.

The Earl of Warstein must think that Doctor Jaeger’s discretion does not just extend to keeping mum about embarrassing rashes or crippling afflictions, but to perverted predilections as well. As though some extra coins were enough to buy his silence. 

But Grisha refrains from asking any more questions. The boy is already visibly shaken,and it wouldn’t do to upset him more. So they just wait in relative silence, only interrupted by Valentin’s gasps and groans, until the women return with the things Grisha requested.

Once Grisha has thoroughly washed his hands, he takes his place between the boy’s legs. Valentin’s thighs are trembling, clearing uncomfortable, and Grisha doesn’t think it’s only be because of the pain.

“I am going to touch you now, alright?” Grisha warns.

“Y-yes,” Valentin confirms, though it doesn’t sound very convincing. He doesn’t have much of a choice, though. The baby probably wouldn’t want to wait much longer.

“The dilation is looking good,” Grisha observes, out loud for everyone’s benefit. “Appropriate for this stage. The water hasn’t broken yet, has it?”

“No,” Marla tells him. “Should it have?”

“No, no,” Grisha assures her. “If need be, I can puncture the amniotic sack myself. Makes no difference. We’ll just wait for the crowning.”

Luckily, that happens sooner than expected. Grisha tells Valentin to just breathe with the contractions, to bear down if he feels like he has to, but that he shouldn’t just needlessly push. Valentin doesn’t say much at all, just groans in pain, wipes his tears on his sleeves, timidly asks Esther to give him some water to drink.

“There we go,” Grisha says soothingly, when the head of the child comes into view. “I might be wrong, but it looks like your baby has dark hair like you.”

“Rea- Really?” Levi asks. His heels keep losing traction on the bed, hips bucking helplessly. Grisha wishes someone had though to install a rope on the ceiling, for Valentin to hold on to during contractions. 

“I’m going to open the amniotic sac now,” Grisha informs him. “It’s not going to hurt either of you.”

He reaches forward, plucks the thin slimy film covering the child’s head between two fingers and gives it a sharp twist. Immediately, the water breaks, gushing down and most likely ruining the good down mattress. Valentin yelps in surprise, jerks away, and Esther discreetly covers her nose at the unpleasant smell.

Grisha waits a little more for the crowning to progress, intermittently telling Valentin what a good job he is doing. Then, however, he notices something else.

Just barely, Grisha manages to refrain from cursing, as not to alarm the boy, but some of his worry must still show on his face.

“What is it?” Marla asks and, as though Grisha hadn’t already announced the child’s hair color: “Is it in breech?”

“No,” Grisha says. “But it’s facing upward.”

“Is that… Is that bad?” Valentin asks, sounding panicked. 

“It means it’s skull is pressing against your spine,” Grisha explains. “You must be in considerable pain, Valentin.”

Valentin neither confirms nor denies this assumption, but his hands are clenched in the bedding, knuckles white with tension. 

“Is there nothing you can do?” Marla urges.

Grisha purses his lips. He could, technically, reach inside and try to turn the child by the shoulders. But that would also be painful and invasive. He’d rather avoid traumatizing the boy any further. 

“Help him turn on his hands and knees,” he instructs the women instead. “It will take some of the pressure off your spine, Valentin, and lessen the pain a little.”

This, at least, really seems to help. Levi’s strength, that had previously seemed so focused on not falling apart, now redirects itself toward the task at hand, knees steadily planted on the bed, his narrow shoulders squaring.

“You can get ready to push now, Valentin,” Grisha tells him. “Deep breaths, and then push when you feel the urge.”

“Levi,” the boy gasps, even as another contraction wracks him, and it takes another long moment before he can continue speaking. “Can you… Can you please call me Levi?”

So Valentin is not his real name then. Grisha had suspected as much.

“Of course, Levi,” he promises warmly. “You are doing a good job. This is going to be the hardest part now, but then it will be over.”

And truly, after this, everything goes well. Another hour and a lot of stress and pain and groaning later, Grisha announces the birth of a healthy little omega boy. And after clearing the child’s airways and a cursory examination, he gently places the squalling bundle on Levi’s trembling chest.

“He’s so tiny,” Levi says, somewhere between scared and awed. His hands tentatively settle on the baby’s back. “Is that normal?”

“It’s perfectly normal,” Grisha reassures him. “He’s got all his limbs, he is breathing correctly, and there is nothing to worry about right now.” 

Grisha would wait for the placenta to be delivered before he cuts the umbilical cord. At least, despite his concerns, Levi had only torn a little and would not require stitches.

For now, though, both parent and child are alright, and Grisha would get to catch his breath a little. And then, in three months or so, he would call a midwife to deliver his own child, because he cannot imagine going through this level of stress when it comes to Carla.

He feels a lump forming in his throat, remembering how brave Dina had been when she gave birth to Zeke. He had held her hand throughout it all, but she had been the one to calm him down, really. 

There is not a day he doesn’t think of her and their son, of the early days when life had still been good, or as good as it could be in Liberio’s internment zone. Sometimes, he feels bad for being with Carla while still thinking about his first family so much. But the alternative - denial, forgetting, regret - would be so much worse.

Once the placenta is delivered, Grisha makes sure to clean and treat Levi, though Levi himself doesn’t even seem to notice any of it.

Instead, Levi is just gazing down at the tiny baby in his arms, pink and wrinkly and wrapped up in a big cloth. There are tear tracks on his face, but he doesn’t seem to be aware that he is crying, too enraptured by his little miracle.

“Have you thought of a name yet?” Grisha asks him, watching as Levi slowly shakes his head.

“Sir said he would pick a name,” Levi explains, perhaps forgetting that - just an hour ago - he was still trying to deny the Earl’s involvement. “He said… He said if it’s a boy, he’ll name him after his grandfather. I was hoping it’d be a girl, maybe. I wanted to… My mother’s name was Kuchel.”

“What would you name him, if you could?” Grisha prompts gently, and Levi is silent for so long that he thinks there won’t be an answer forthcoming.

“Elias,” Levi says, quietly. The tip of his nose nuzzles the dark matted tuft of hair on the child’s head. “I like the name Elias.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” Grisha muses. Maybe, since the child is an omega, the Earl wouldn’t care enough to pick the name after all. It’d be a small mercy, but better than nothing.

Levi lets out a big shuddering breath.

“I’m really very tired,” he says and, all of a sudden, his voice sounds drenched in tears. 

“Then sleep,” Grisha says. “Your baby won’t be far, and your friends here will take care of you.”

They help Levi settle down, turn on his side once more so he can lie facing his child. For a few moments, it seems like he is trying to still stay awake, blinking hard, but then the exhaustion wins out and he finally relaxes.

Grisha takes the time to wash his hands once more, before carefully cleaning his glasses. 

“Tell Earl Warstein not to put him to work too soon,” he instructs the three women. “He will need some time to recover. A month, at the very least.”

He doesn’t have to clarify what he means. They all know that he knows. A terrible secret shared between them all.

“He won’t like it,” Bernadette says, swallowing. “But we’ll try.”

A strange position these three women are in. Should they be considered complicit in this crime happening right in front of their eyes? Or should they be lauded for not quitting their jobs and leaving Levi without anyone who might care for him?

“Keep an eye on the two,” Grisha continues. “If Levi develops a fever or anything like that, call for me. I will leave you some medicine and some ointments to speed up his recovery. Keep the umbilical cord dry as well, and clean the bandages twice a day. The stump will fall off soon. Make sure Levi eats and drinks enough, and keep a list of how often the child is fed. You should also weigh him regularly.” 

The women all nod dutifully and then start cleaning up while Grisha gathers his equipment. When he is ready, Esther offers to lead him outside once more.

“Please wait here for a moment,” she says when they reach the foyer and then disappears down a narrow servant’s hallway. When she returns, she is holding a bulging coin pouch.

“I trust you will not tell anyone what you have seen here, Doctor,” Esther says pointedly, handing him the pouch. “Earl Warstein is paying you handsomely.”

“Of course…,” Grisha murmurs. “Although I’m sure you’ll agree… loyalty cannot be bought.”

For a long moment, Esther just looks at him, searching, without saying a word. Finally, she swallows.

“We have no means of getting him to safety,” she tells him. “If he is seen anywhere close to Warstein, someone might rat him out. The Earl is not overly influential, but he is obsessed with the boy. He’ll go looking for him, at least for a while.”

“Let me think of something,” Grisha says, already contemplating how he would explain the situation to Carla. “I will send you a message, soon.”

“Yes,” Esther says. “Thank you, Doctor. I didn’t… We didn’t think we’d ever stand a chance.”

“A rebellion always starts with the individual,” Grisha knows. This would not make a difference, to Marley, to Paradis, to the Eldians but, before could truly set his plan into action, he might as well try to help in whatever little ways he could.  

For now, he would just have to free Levi and his child.

♜

Marla de Witt

835, Warstein Estate, Wall Maria

Marla had thought perhaps that, once the child was born, Levi would be overwhelmed by the duties that came with it, the near constant attention that a newborn needed. Many a parent was in for a rude awakening when they had to realize that child-rearing is no walk in the park. Marla herself had to make that experience some thirty years ago now, when her own children were born.

As it turns out, though, she need not have worried. Levi is absolutely enamored with his baby. 

When he is not carrying it around with him wherever he goes, he is sitting quietly and watching it sleep, sometimes reaching out to brush a careful finger over the pink skin, as though to make sure it were real.

He is eager to learn how to swaddle it properly, how to feed it, soothe it to sleep. Once, Marla had even come across him singing some sort of lullaby to the babe, though he didn’t seem to remember all the words and puttered off a little helplessly when the melody got away from him.

Had his own mother sung to him before she passed? Was he trying to emulate what little love he had experienced in his life?

For all the terrible things he has endured, he is so incredibly gentle with his boy, always asking Marla for advice for how to do better, whether he should be reading bedtime stories or how to help when the baby is gassy.

Yet the hardest thing by far is when Levi is called to the Earl’s chambers and has to hand his baby off to Marla or Esther. Always reluctant to go. Always as if afraid this would be the last time he saw his son. 

Officially, the Earl had named his newborn son Archibald, but none of them used that atrocity, just like they never called Levi Valentin if they could help it.

Instead, they had all accepted the name Levi chose: Elias.

Not of Warstein. Not of noble blood. Just Elias.

And that in itself is precious, watching Levi take to his new role as a parent so well. But it is impossible to forget the real reason why he is here, who put him in this situation.

Despite Doctor Jaeger’s instructions, the Earl had given Levi barely time for recovery, sending for him only a few weeks after the birth, with Levi’s belly still a little swollen. After being informed that the child was an omega, the Earl had shown not much interest in his son, clearly somewhat disappointed that he hadn’t been blessed with a proper heir to his name.

Instead, his attention had immediately refocused on Levi. Given the chance, he’d probably try to get him pregnant again upon his next heat.

But he will not be given the chance. 

It’s been six weeks since the birth now, and ten days ago Doctor Jaeger had finally sent word. Marla had been close to giving up, believing that - despite what Esther had said - the doctor would not want to risk getting involved. 

Initially, Marla had decided against telling Levi that they were planning his escape. She didn’t want to get his hopes up in case the doctor disappointed them after all. But when the message finally arrived, it had been time to let Levi know after all. 

The boy had been confused. Scared even. For three years, life at the estate was all he had known. An idyll interspersed with little horrors. And here Marla was, saying she wanted to send him away into the unknown. 

But he had listened. 

If he stayed here, he would have more children. And who knows what the Earl might do to them. That’s finally what seemed to sway Levi, the knowledge that his offspring would never truly be safe here. 

So little regard for himself, Marla thought sadly. So used to having his freedom taken and his body used.

The plan Doctor Jaeger proposed was simple:

Twice a month, coal is delivered to the estate via horse cart. Levi and his babe would hide away in the back, and then get out at the next stop at the Southern Chapel to Maria where Doctor Jaeger would be waiting to collect him.

Simple, yes, but fraught with many dangers.

If the coal man notices the unauthorized cargo, he might report it to the Earl. If Levi misses his stop, he might end up in the middle of nowhere with no money and no clue where to ask for help. If Doctor Jaeger is held up somewhere, Levi will be stuck at the chapel, and who knows what could happen then.

Marla also knows that she is putting not just herself but Esther and Bernadette at risk as well. It was likely they would all be punished for their negligence. Worse, even, if the Earl found out that they had actively helped the boy escape. But they can no longer just stand by and watch. 

At least it seems like luck is in their favor. The coal man is young, the weather terrible, and Esther pretty. When she invites him in for a quick cup of tea with rum, he doesn’t say no. The cart remains standing by the entrance of the coal room, unsupervised. 

Thanks to the servants’ hallways, it’s an easy thing for Levi and Marla to slip into the room unnoticed. Levi has no luggage with him, no personal belongings, just an old coat with a hood. Nothing to give away that he had grown up in a fine household. 

Elias is equally swaddled up, held warm by blankets and barely recognizable as a living thing. Marla had given him some milk infused with rum to make sure he would sleep through the journey.

“Here,” she tells Levi, tying her kerchief around his neck and then puling it up to cover his nose. “So you don’t breathe in the coal dust and cough.”

“Thank you, Marla,” he says and then doesn’t move, just standing rooted to the spot and staring up at her.

“Come now,” she urges him. “We don’t have much time.”

This will be Levi’s only chance at escape, and still he looks hesitant to climb onto the cart.

Marla sighs, finally relents and pulls him into her arms for a last warm hug. He clings to her quite desperately. 

“Take care of yourself and your child,” she tells him. “The doctor will meet you soon, but it’s all in your hands now.”

“I know,” Levi says, snuffling a little, and she gently pushes him away. 

“Go on. Don’t waste your tears on me.”

She watches him clamber up onto the back of the cart, his palms immediately covered in soot, and then she hands him the baby. 

“Hold him close,” she instructs him. “The roads are rough, and the ride will be bumpy. You have to cushion him.”

He nods, waits for her to pull the tarp covering the coals into back into place.

“Goodbye, little Levi,” she tells him affectionately and gives him one last smile, before his face disappears under the tarp, and she fastens the strings in place so it won’t be blown away by the late winter winds.

After that, she doesn’t linger. The driver might be back any moment and he might question why she was tampering with his cart or his cargo. So she leaves the room as quietly as she had come, making a bit of a detour before returning to the kitchens.

“Esther is seeing him off,” Bernadette informs her, standing by the window and peering outside. “He’s already on the cart. I don’t think he will notice now.”

“Good,” Marla says decisively, washing the soot of her hands so no one would question her on it once Levi’s disappearance was brought to the Earl’s attention. There are some black smudges on her apron too, so she would have to change that as well.

“There he goes,” Bernadette says, still watching. “The rain has let up at least, so they should be at the chapel in half an hour.”

“Let’s hope the roads aren’t too muddy,” Marla huffs. If a wheel got stuck, Levi would be found out for sure, and then the Earl would likely never let him out of his sight again, or at least lock him away in his room for good.

Finally, Bernadette steps away from the window, joins Marla by the counter as though they had been working together all along, no secret ploy to free Levi from captivity. She picks up a potato, rolls it in her hand, before beginning to peel it with a knife.

She sighs. “Why don’t I feel much better?”

“Because he is not safe yet,” Marla knows. “And because we should have done something the moment the Earl brought him into the house, instead of just watching like two dumb sheep.” 

“Yes,” Bernadette agrees sadly. “There’s little to be proud of, I guess.”

“But we made a difference,” Marla says anyway, though perhaps she is just trying to convince herself. “It may have been too little too late. But we made a difference.”

If everything goes well, they will never see Levi again. They won’t know what might become of him and little Elias. And that will be for the best. 

♜