They call it a house to correct the young, Wolf calls it a prison.

He is ushered out of the carriage with three other men that were picked up along their journey. The old man was right, none of them had come quietly, like he had.

There’s a guard nearby, who’s throwing Wolf strange looks. He’s wearing a full set of armor from head to toe, which is a bit excessive, in Wolf’s opinion. “What?” Wolf eventually asks him, behind gritted teeth.

The guard steps forth. He shows Wolf a smile that is worth ten of Aston’s hypocritical smirks. “Just trying to figure out with whom we were going to put you,” he tells Wolf.

“Huh?”

“You know…” He peers down, and stares at Wolf’s chest. “I wasn’t sure. But it’s fine now.” The guard’s gaze meets Wolf’s again. “Your voice was enough of an indication.”

It takes all Wolf has not to tackle the guard right then and there as the asshole leaves for his post again. Although Wolf swore this wouldn’t be an issue, he hadn’t realized at what point these people weren’t right in their minds.

By the time night falls, Wolf finds himself in a cell with three young women. His body is barely covered by a prisoner’s garb. His cellmates gawk at his scars, and when they notice that Wolf has noticed them, too, they immediately look away.

It’s likely they think he’s done something terrible which warrants getting pieces of his body ripped from his skin; Wolf cannot tell whether this is a bad or a good thing. The only certitude he has is that his presence makes them uncomfortable. They retreat in the corner furthest from him and keep to themselves, whispering hushed secrets cut apart by the sounds of passersby laughing in the streets below.

Wolf muscles ache from his rough travels. He sighs. The carriage’s seats were less than ideal, and he’d give anything for a warm bath right now, though he doubts that’s a possible option—it probably won’t be for a while.

He crouches, then lies down on the floor. The stone is cold. Somewhere past steel that has barred him from the outside world, droplets of water fall into a puddle and resonate throughout the hallway lined up with cell after cell.

A guard unlocks the door that keeps the prisoners in place. He marches into the corridor. With two of his fingers, he extinguishes the withering flame of a nearby candle—the only hope, and glow, that had existed within the cells.

Then, he leaves, without even saying goodbye, or good night.

The sound of a child crying follows once the guard disappears. Wolf shuts his eyes. He isn’t trying to kid himself by doing so; it’s obvious he won’t be getting any sleep tonight. But he finds it nicer this way, for if he concentrates hard enough, Wolf can pretend he is in the past. In his bedroom next to Lir, a week before this mess started, kissing him softly, as they both fall prey to slumber.