August hadn't moved in hours.
He was kneeling beside the bed, knees brushing against the edge of the thick rug, one hand firmly holding Elias's—pale fingers wrapped around the warmth that had not stirred in three long days. His other hand cradled his own chest, as if to keep his heart from spilling out. His head rested near Elias's arm, silver hair tangled across the coverlet like strands of winter light.
The fire had burned to nothing. The candles were melted down to wax stubs. The air was tight with waiting.
And August had not slept.
Even when he closed his eyes, the dreams clawed at him, whispering half-burned memories and warnings that tasted like ash. So he remained. Silent. Still. Guarding him. As if his presence could tether Elias to this world.
And then—
A twitch.
The faintest movement. A flutter of fingers. Like the stirring of a leaf in spring wind.
August's eyes flew open.
He lifted his head, slow as a breath held too long. He stared at the hand he was holding—and saw it again. The movement. Small. Trembling. Alive.
"Elias," August breathed, not daring to raise his voice.
The fingers twitched again, then curled faintly against his palm.
His breath caught like a sob. His throat tightened, his heart slammed against his ribs. He clutched Elias's hand harder and leaned in, eyes wide with hope and dread.
And then—
Elias's eyes began to open.
Slowly. Blinking. As if the light hurt.
August leaned closer, voice trembling. "Elias…"
But the man said nothing.
He winced. Pain flickered across his face—the raw ache of ribs still mending beneath tight bandages. His brows furrowed. His lips parted, cracked and pale.
Then his gaze lifted.
Met August's.
Confused. Blank.
August's breath stopped.
The silence between them cracked like ice.
And Elias—eyes dazed, flickering between shadow and light—whispered his first words.
Three words.
"Who are you?"
August didn't breathe. Couldn't. The words hit him like a stone to the chest, sharp and sudden and disbelieving.
"What…?" he said, voice almost a gasp. "What did you just say?"
Elias blinked again, as if the question had been meant for someone else. His hand moved to his bandaged ribs, and he winced, struggling to sit up—but the pain anchored him back down.
His eyes found August again, searching, lost.
"What is this place?" Elias asked softly, hoarsely. "Who… are you?"
It felt like the floor beneath August gave way.
He let go of Elias's hand. Slowly. As if it burned now. His fingers trembled as they slipped away, and for a moment he looked down—anywhere but Elias's face—because looking hurt more than any blade.
His lips parted. His voice didn't come. Then finally, in a whisper that sounded like it had been torn from his lungs:
"Do you… remember your name?"
Elias closed his eyes. Pressed his fingers to his temple. His brow furrowed, his jaw clenched. He was trying. Reaching. Digging through a fog that held no roots.
But nothing came.
Not a flicker. Not a name. Not even a feeling.
August watched the silence stretch between them, and the ache in his chest twisted deeper, crueler. He had faced so much—loss, violence, dreams full of fire and forgotten faces—but this... this was something else. The one person he had allowed to touch the part of him left untouched by the world... now stared at him as a stranger.
His voice broke as he whispered, "You don't remember anything?"
Elias turned to him again, eyes soft with apology, with bewilderment.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I don't… I don't know you."
August nodded slowly. The motion felt mechanical. He didn't trust his voice anymore.
So he stood.
His movements were quiet. Measured. A phantom rising in the cold. He crossed the room and stood near the tall window, where a sliver of light was beginning to bloom at the horizon. His reflection in the glass was pale, ghostlike. A boy carved from sorrow.
Behind him, Elias lay silent.
August didn't cry.
But his fingers, clenched at his sides, shook with something deeper than grief.
Something like heartbreak. Something like history.
And yet—
Even now, even in this moment, he whispered into the light, almost prayer-like:
"I said I'd stay."
And he would.
Even if Elias had forgotten him.
Even if the past returned with flames and faceless children.
August would not leave him.
Not now.
Not ever.
August stood at the threshold for a moment longer than necessary. His hand lingered on the doorknob, the echo of Elias's voice still ringing in his ears.
Who are you?
The words settled into his bones like frost.
He inhaled once—shallow and quiet—and when he exhaled, the warmth left him. The soft pain that had flickered in his eyes vanished, buried beneath something colder. Sharper. The mask slid into place—not one of deceit, but of defense.
August turned his head slightly, just enough to see Elias's face one last time. His expression was blank, confused. August's voice came then, low and toneless:
"You need rest."
And with that, he stepped back and closed the door behind him.
The latch clicked with finality.
Outside, in the dim hallway of Blackwood Manor, two figures stood waiting. Giles, ever-steady in posture but not in breath, stepped forward the moment the door shut. His eyes searched August's face, worry written in every line of his brow.
"Is he awake?" Giles asked, voice low, reverent.
August didn't answer right away. He stared at the floor—at nothing. Then Lirael, his long hair. whispering softly as he approached, placed a hand near his arm, his voice gentler.
" is he awake?"
This time, August lifted his head.
"He didn't remember anything," he said simply.
The words were stripped bare, like bones without flesh. His voice held no tremble, no rise—but it hollowed out the hallway just the same.
Giles's breath caught.
Lirael's expression faltered.
The two exchanged a glance over August's shoulder, their worry no longer hidden.
Without a word, they pushed the door open and stepped inside—quiet, cautious.
But August did not follow.
He remained in the hallway, rigid as stone. Because watching Elias look at him like a stranger… was worse than fire.
Inside the room, Elias blinked against the soft light filtering in. His ribs throbbed, bandages tight around his torso. He felt the warmth of the blankets and the cool breath of the chamber, but none of it felt like his. The room was unfamiliar. The bed. The air. Even his body, somehow.
What is this place?
The two strangers entered with caution—the old man, with sharp-eyes and the other one is a pale man with slender body. Elias tensed. His fingers clutched the blanket.
First that sick boy—no, not a boy—he had looked like a fragile girl at first glance, but his voice had been firm, his presence too still to mistake. And now these two?
What the hell is going on?
He sat up with effort, biting back the ache that coiled through his side. The old man—Giles—was first to speak.
"Elias," he said gently, though his voice had the weight of command beneath it, "do you remember anything about yourself?"
Elias blinked. "No," he said plainly. "I don't know anything. I woke up, and I was in this bed. There was… someone beside me." His eyes flicked to the empty spot where August had just been. "Now there's you. And Him."
His voice rose slightly, frustration tightening each word.
"You keep asking me who I am, but no one's telling me "who I was". I don't remember my name. I don't remember this place. What are you expecting from me?"
Giles stepped forward, mouth parting as if to explain—but there was no easy answer. Only silence thick enough to drown in.
Lirael looked back toward the door, where August still lingered on the other side, unmoving.
And Elias—tired, broken, and lost—pressed a hand to his chest, not knowing that the boy who loved him stood just a wall away, holding in everything he couldn't afford to let fall.
Giles stepped closer to the bed, his eyes soft despite the weight he carried behind them. He studied Elias's face—searching for recognition that wouldn't come. Still, he spoke gently, as one might speak to a son lost at sea.
"Your name is Elias."
The words landed in the silence like stones breaking still water.
Elias's mouth twitched—barely a reaction, but something shifted behind his eyes. The name hung there in the air, unfamiliar and strange, yet not… entirely foreign. He didn't speak. Not yet.
Lirael moved next, his presence quieter than Giles's, but no less steady. His long coat whispered as he crossed the room, the polished heels of his boots tapping softly on the wooden floor. He stood beside the bed and looked down at Elias, his blonde lashes casting shadows over his flamingo eyes.
"You were brave," Lirael said, voice low and smooth, like twilight woven into syllables. "When he was in danger, you didn't hesitate. You wanted to save him."
Elias looked up sharply, confusion flickering in his brow. Save… but who?
The thought scraped through him like sand across stone.
His lips parted, uncertain. "I… don't remember that," he admitted, voice rasped by weariness and the sharp ache of not knowing who he was.
Lirael nodded once, slowly. "That's alright. You don't need to remember everything now." His hand lifted and rested lightly on the edge of the bedframe, his tone softening even more. "You've been through something terrible. Give your body time to heal. The rest will follow."
He paused, then added with quiet resolve, "We'll help you remember. We'll stay until you know who you were. Who you are."
Elias stared at him, trying to read the emotion in the words. Lirael's face was calm, but there was something behind his gaze—grief, perhaps. Or something older.
Giles stepped forward once more and gave a slow, respectful bow of his head, the gesture deliberate, solemn.
"I agree," he said. "Rest, Elias. Let your body mend. You are not alone in this."
The words wrapped around the room like a promise.
Elias didn't reply. He simply leaned his head back against the pillows, eyes half-lidded now, exhaustion tugging at him again. The pain in his ribs was real. The confusion in his chest, deeper.
Outside the room, behind the heavy door, August still hadn't moved.
He had heard none of it.
But somehow, he felt everything.