Sabir’s new life as a servant started off hecticly, but eventually he settled into a routine, the first few days disorientated him, with all the endless hallways and unfamiliar faces that littered the Voltaire estate. On top of it all he had to stay vigilant, making sure he wasn’t seen by any of Warren’s immediate family members. After a couple of stressful days, he became used to it all.
Warren was kind enough to give him a small room, tucked away in a quiet corner of the servants' quarters, which became a sanctuary for him. The single bed with its thin, worn blanket was far from luxurious from Warren’s bed, but it was comfortable enough. Much comfier than what he was used to. A small wooden dresser and a mirror hung on the wall completed the sparse furnishings. It wasn’t much, but it was his own, a private space where he could breathe.
But most importantly, a place he could plot. Plot his escape.
He had gained the respect of the other maids and butler’s who he essentially lived with. There were so many servants that worked at the estate, Sabir would often wonder why they needed so many, considering their family was rather small. At first Sabir was treated with curiosity, having not been informed of a new servant's arrival, let alone a personal manservant for Warren Voltaire. Surprisingly, even the servants, who had been with the Voltaires for years, didn’t question his “employment”.
Sabir’s inability to do chores in the beginning however earnt him suspicious glances but upon seeing his hardworking nature and his eagerness to be accepted by them, the servants all eventually began to respect him.
Sabir’s duties as a manservant were straightforward. His primary responsibility was to maintain Warren’s quarters, a task that had proven to be less demanding than he had anticipated. Warren rarely left his room, and when he did, it was only for brief moments. The young Voltaire insisted on dressing himself, much to Sabir’s quiet relief, leaving the manservant with little more to do than dust the shelves, sweep the floor, and ensure that everything was in its proper place.
The pattern was the same every day. Sabir would rise early, fetching breakfast from the family chef, a quiet, wiry man who cooked with vigorous passion, citing that it was his duty to create strong and healthy nobles. Ignoring the chefs' never-ending lectures about his craft, Sabir would bring the tray up to Warren’s room, knocking softly before entering to find the young man already awake and dressed, often sitting by the window with a book in hand. Their exchanges were brief, a few words of thanks from Warren and a nod from Sabir before he retreated to continue his duties, yet Sabir found it always odd, how whenever he opened the door Warren would scramble to cover himself with a blanket, even though he was dressed. Sabir just took it as one of his quirks.
But that routine soon fell apart. It was like any other day for Sabir, he brought Warren’s food and as he left after handing the tray to him. A voice trailed after him.
“So where are you from?”
The question that broke all the tension between them was replaced with embarrassment. Sabir didn’t ever really like talking about himself. He made it his mission to keep people from finding out about his life, out of fear of not being accepted by his peers living in Havana. However, with the situation he was in, perhaps he’d feel better telling someone about his shitty life. So that’s what he did, he answered his question. He told Warren where he was from.
To Sabir’s shock he wasn’t disgusted or scared, in fact it seemed to increase Warren’s interest in Sabir. So much so every single day after that point, Warren would ask more questions. Questions about Sabir’s past, about the life he had lived before finding himself in the Voltaire estate. Sabir quickly saw that Warren's insatiable curiosity wasn't just idle chit-chat or a poor effort at being kind. Warren was genuinely interested, almost fascinated by the stories Sabir would reluctantly share.
“What was it like?” Warren had asked one morning as Sabir set down his breakfast. “Living in The Limbo?”
Sabir hesitated, unsure of how to answer. Life in The Limbo was difficult to describe to someone like Warren, someone who had only known the sheltered existence of the estate. “It was… different,” Sabir replied carefully. “Every day I had to fight to survive, y'know. The Limbo was dangerous, but it was also alive in a way. I don't know how to explain it.”
Warren’s eyes lit up with interest, as he closed the book he was reading and placed it on his lap. “Alive how? Was it exciting?”
Sabir had to suppress a bitter smile. “Exciting? Hell no. It was unpredictable. You never knew what was going to happen next. One minute you’d be bargaining for food, the next you’d be running for your life. It was like hell.”
“And that didn’t scare you?” Warren’s voice was soft, almost reverent.
“Of course it did,” Sabir admitted, feeling a strange vulnerability in the admission. “But you get used to it. You learn how to navigate it, how to find safety in the middle of the storm. It’s not a life I’d wish on anyone, but it was my life.
Warren listened intently, his expression a mixture of awe and Sabir dared to say envy. It was clear that the world Sabir came from was as foreign to Warren as the Voltaire estate was to Sabir. But whereas Sabir had been thrust into the suffocating order and luxury of the estate, Warren seemed to long for the wild unpredictability of Limbo.
It was odd.
To Sabir it seemed like the both of them were the same. They were both in search of freedom, the ability to do what you pleased, when you wanted. Sabir began to realize he was the most free when he was outside the walls of Havana.
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Over the weeks, these conversations became a regular part of their interactions. Warren would ask about the different people Sabir had known, the places he had seen, the dangers he had faced. He seemed particularly interested in the details of survival, the ways Sabir had learned to fend for himself and navigate the treacherous landscape of Limbo.
“It sounds terrifying,” Warren had said one afternoon as Sabir narrated his fight against bandits that wanted to steal his home. “But also… exhilarating.”
Sabir looked at him, studying the way Warren’s eyes gleamed with fear and excitement. “It was both,” Sabir replied carefully. “But it’s not the kind of thrill you seek out. It’s the kind of thrill you were forced into and then had to claw your way out.”
Warren nodded, but there was a lingering look in his eyes, a yearning for something more than the confined world he knew. Sabir recognized it, it was the same look he had seen in people who had been trapped too long in one place, people who dreamed of escape even if they didn’t know where they would go.
A look he also once had.
These discussions brought them closer together despite the peculiarity of their situation, forging an unanticipated bond between master and servant. Sabir found himself revealing more than he had planned because of Warren's genuine curiosity and the way he appeared to cling on to everything he said. Warren's questions were relentless but never intrusive.
And yet, as the days passed and the routine of serving Warren became almost second nature, Sabir couldn’t shake the feeling that these questions were more than just idle curiosity. Warren’s fascination with Limbo was intense, almost desperate, as if he were trying to grasp something beyond his reach, something that Sabir knew all too well but had spent his life trying to escape.
But that feeling of peace was broken one day when Sabir gave Warren his lunch.
As usual Sabir knocked on his door. Entering with his tray of food, Sabir saw Warren once again sitting by the window, as he often did, with a thick book resting on his lap. As Sabir walked over and placed the tray on the little table by the window, Warren glanced down at him.
“Thank you,” Warren said, his voice soft. But instead of reaching for the food, he hesitated, his eyes lingering on Sabir. There was something different in his gaze today, a tension that made the hair on the back of Sabir’s neck stand up. “I think it’s time I asked. Something that’s been gnawing at my mind ever since I met you.”
Sabir paused, a frown creasing his brow. “Go ahead.”
Warren took a breath, as if steeling himself. “Cynthia Quinn-
The name hit Sabir like a physical blow, freezing him in place. His hand clenched at his side, the blood roaring in his ears. He stared at Warren, his mind racing, trying to process how this man, this Voltaire, knew that name.
“What did you say?” Sabir’s voice was low, dangerously controlled.
Warren’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t flinch. “Cynthia Quinn,” he repeated, his voice steady. “How is she related to you?”
In a flash, Sabir moved, his hand shooting out to grab Warren by the collar, yanking him forward. The book tumbled from Warren’s lap, forgotten as their faces were now inches apart. Sabir’s grip tightened, fury boiling just beneath the surface.
“How do you know that name?” Sabir hissed, his voice laced with a venom that surprised even him.
Warren’s calm facade cracked, panic flickering in his eyes. But he forced himself to remain composed, his voice trembling only slightly. “I gave you time,” he said, his tone pleading but firm. “I gave you time to settle before I asked.”
Sabir’s grip tightened further, his knuckles white. Warren winced but didn’t pull away, his gaze never leaving Sabir’s.
“I knew a Cynthia Quinn,” Warren continued, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “She was one of the only people who was kind to me.”
Sabir's vision narrowed as his heart thumped in his chest. He wanted to lash out, to demand answers, but something in Warren’s tone gave him pause. His words were genuine and honest, which caused Sabir's rage to falter.
“Cynthia Quinn is my sister,” Sabir said, his voice breaking slightly.
Warren nodded slowly, his eyes filling with an emotion Sabir couldn’t quite place. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
Sabir released him, the strength draining from his body as he staggered back. “That’s right,” he said, his voice hollow. He turned away, struggling to regain his composure. Cynthia. The name had been a wound that never fully healed, and hearing it now, from Warren of all people, reopened it in a way that made him feel like he was bleeding out all over again.
Silence hung between them. Sabir forced himself to think, to piece together the fragments of information that had been thrown at him.
“The Voltaires,” Sabir said, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and desperation. “They were involved in her life, weren’t they?”
Warren hesitated, his gaze distant as if he was trying to recall a memory long buried. “Yes,” he said finally. “She was brought into our estate by my brother.”
“Noah?” Sabir’s brow furrowed in confusion. “How did Noah know my sister?”
Warren shook his head slowly. “No, not Noah, my other brother Vincent. I don’t know much about the situation. I was just a kid at the time, and no one ever talked to me. I was always left in the dark, kept out of things.” There was a bitterness to his tone, a resentment that hinted at old wounds. “All I knew was that Cynthia was brought into the family by Vincent. He was… different back then.”
Sabir’s mind raced, trying to connect the dots, but the picture remained frustratingly incomplete. “I need to talk to Vincent,” he said, his voice firm with resolve.
Warren’s expression turned grim. “I don’t know where he is,” he admitted. “He hasn’t shown up at the estate in weeks. But I’ll figure out a way for you to meet him.”
Sabir stared at him, searching Warren’s eyes for any sign of deceit, but all he saw was a man who was as lost in this mess as he was. Slowly, he nodded, the anger in his chest cooling to a simmering determination.
“Good,” Sabir said, his voice steady. “Because I need answers.”
Warren met his gaze, his expression solemn. “We both do.”
As Sabir left Warren’s room that day, his mind was in turmoil. The monotonous routine that had lulled him into a false sense of security was gone, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose, and a deep, gnawing fear of what the truth might reveal. But no matter the cost, he needed to find out what happened to his sister. He needed the truth.