August of Whump Day 2: Sold Off / Bleeding Heart / Bargaining Read the full Project on AO3 - Current chapter under the cut: CW: Blood, Violence, Death
The vivid string of crimson slid from underneath the blade, falling down his chest in a perfect perpendicular line to the horizon; Where the sun, reddened by the twilight, followed the exact same trajectory.
His wrists, bound in heavy shackles, trembled over his docile, mud-smattered lap. A sound between awe and a plea leaving his lips after the impact, losing itself in the cold air of the field; where he, the prisoner, the pariah, was supposed to die.
Supposed to.
The pain arrived later, like the clash of shield against rock. It knocked his air out, and wrung the warmth right out of his limbs. But still, it let him speak.
"Please... I won't hurt you..."
"You demon, you WITCH!!" A young, fair-haired soldier, not much older than himself, dug the dagger deeper into his ribcage, churning out the heart that, by now, was supposed to be entirely stopped. Cut to bits. And yet, there he knelt, in the freezing mud, still very much in pain, but very much alive.
The prisoner wept silently. In truth, despite the faint flicker of his own survival instincts, perhaps he still longed for death, more than he longed for this strange, unknown existence; with no anchors, no allies, and no memories to fasten him to the earth. His only reverie being the very instant he'd found himself in the same shackles that now glistened with the beginnings of rain.
He sighed shakily through his tears. Dark, long hair falling in helpless waves over his shoulders, bouncing in unison with the repeated, increased violence inflicted upon his heart. A heart that, defying his own will, or any worldly explanation, still kept him alive. A work of dark magic, no doubt.
It wasn't long until the soldier gave up on the task. The increased paranoia of the situation making his steps unsteady over the mud. Breath ragged with the effort, and the fear.
The prisoner, defeated, did not look up to see him. He didn't need to. Not when the unmistakable, metallic sound of an unsheathed blade reached his ears.
The air, now dense with rainfall, weighed the cloth against his bruised shoulders. From the heavens, water fell over his head like a crown of ice.
He closed his eyes. Head raising just barely to expose the pale length of his neck; as a last gesture of servitude: He'd make it easy. One clean swing, and it would be over. Right? It would have to be. He *wanted* it to be.
He didn't witness the shadow of the blade raise. Drawn back, like a sentence. Nor the dark arrow, passing through the nearby woods, ripping clean through the air, to deprive its recipient from another breath.
A whistle and a thud, and that was it. No condemnation. No death.
The rain still hammered against his skull. But only the blood-curling gurgle of his executioner, in his last franctic moments, made him finally open his eyes again.
The vision dizzied him with horror and utter confusion: The soldier, pale and stiff, with an arrow lodged accross his throat, fell to his knees right in front of him. Blade discarded to his side, unsullied.
The prisoner waited for a second arrow. But it never came.
Instead, the ominous drum of a horse's hooves drew the prisoner's gaze from the helpless sight beneath him. A lone knight, on a large black beast, riding his way. Death itself? An omen of sorts?
Man and beast stood where the soldier once had. Carrying with them a vague scent of ash, and the stench of slaughter. By his foreboding countenance, this man could be nothing else but a warlord. Gaze dark under his brows, pensive and intense. Betraying a mind that moved a hundred paces faster than he, in his thirst and starvation, could ever possibly comprehend.
"Name?"
The rider spoke. Deep, resonant, and clear, even through the storm. He had addressed him directly, gave him a piece of dignity that, in his situation, felt entirely foreign. He had miscalculated. This man could not be a mere butcher. He was something else.
A second or two passed, before he could utter an answer, barely audible.
"...Luca..."
"Luca." The knight repeated it. The word flowing with such grace from him it nearly sounded like a different name. He did not seem fazed by the blood, still wet over his chest. Or anything else, for that matter.
"I've freed you from your enslaver. By law. You now belong to me."
The prisoner's eyes widened, taking in the sight of his new Lord. Letting the idea of a second chance at life, albeit unknown under his command, slowly sink in.
"Come." The order was simple. Spoken with a refreshing lack of cruelty. Luca's tears returned in silence. His bleeding heart, once pierced, now had finished repairing itself. Curled inside his ribcage like a newborn animal, hidden from his master's eyes.
"...I'll take you to my camp"