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The face of the Avox—Aries had seen it before.
It haunted him, pulled straight from the memory of last year's forest, where he had shown the boy being held down by a Peacekeeper, this exact boy, while he had watched. Back then, he had done nothing to help. And now here he was, stripped of his voice, a red-marked slave with his tongue cut out, reduced to cleaning up the mess from a tantrum that wasn't even his.
Aries gritted his teeth, the shame blooming in his chest like poison. "I..." he started, but the words died before they even formed. What was there to say? The Avox didn't speak—he couldn't. Instead, he simply dipped a napkin into a bowl of water and gently placed it on Aries's hand.
Only now did Aries notice the shallow cuts on his palm, probably from when he'd smashed the dishes earlier. He watched, stunned and silent, as the Avox carefully cleaned the wound with a tenderness that made Aries feel even worse. This kindness, coming from someone who had every right to hate him, cut deeper than any shard of porcelain ever could.
"I'm sorry," Aries said in a quiet voice, his gaze avoiding the boy's. "I should have saved you." Of course, there was no reply—just a faint look in those eyes, soft and unexpectedly kind. There was no resentment in the Avox's expression, only a strange peace as he picked up the tray and quietly exited the room. He passed Estella on the way out; she greeted him with a soft whisper of thanks, her tone gentle, almost sisterly.
"Can't sleep?" Estella asked, stepping into the room. Aries forced a smirk, trying to mask the storm inside him with a flash of his usual bravado. "What, me? Nah," he replied, but she wasn't buying it.
Her steps were measured, unhurried, as she approached. He had already begun to rise, a slow, deliberate movement, and settled himself on the edge of the bed. She watched him, her gaze soft and knowing. Without uttering a single syllable, she joined him, sliding gracefully into the small space beside him. Her arms moved with a certainty born of deep affection, encircling his body in a strong, silent embrace. She understood, intuitively, the depth of his pain. She always understood.
That cold, heartless Capitol official had inflicted a terrible wound. He had broken something essential within Aries, tearing into a carefully guarded part of himself, a sanctuary he had painstakingly protected for years. Estella held him tighter, her embrace unwavering, even as Aries finally succumbed to the overwhelming weight of his emotions, allowing himself to crumble in her arms.
His broad shoulders shook with the force of his suppressed sobs as he clutched desperately at her waist, his grip viselike, tight enough to leave bruises on her delicate skin, but she didn't so much as flinch. She simply held on, offering silent comfort and unwavering support. She allowed him to bury his face in the soft curve of her neck, his muffled sobs a heartbreaking sound, soft and broken, yet the tears flowed freely, a heavy, constant stream of anguish.
For the first time in his young life, Aries wasn't condemned to suffer in solitude.
This boy, who had endured years of silent survival, alone in the dark, lonely shadows of his own pain, finally had someone again, someone who refused to abandon him, someone who chose to stay, to share his burden.
