#marcus arcuarius

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Routine - 8.ii

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"Work" as it turns out is not the ordeal Loiral is expecting. He sits at the table with Marcus, and answers questions about politics. They refer frequently to the map as Loiral dredges his memory for troop numbers and movements, past skirmishes, trade deals and supposed alliances, and Marcus takes copious notes in an unfamiliar script.

He thinks about lying, but it seems unwise. It's difficult to sabotage an endeavour with misinformation when you don't have the first idea what that endeavour might be. And he's acutely conscious of the consequences of being caught out. He can't start to guess what the surfacer might already know, and that's before the possibility of magic for catching lies.

Marcus' attention seems to centre on Houses Det'tar and Noquvalin and their territories and affairs. What Loiral can infer from that he's not yet sure, but if he keeps his ears open maybe he will start to understand what is going on. Not having any personal history with Det'tar or Noquvalin, he struggles to answer many of the questions in much detail. To his profound relief, Marcus doesn't press him for information he doesn't have.

"I'm not a library," he grumbles sourly, unable to come up with anything about hypothetical dealings between Houses Det'tar and Barrahel. "Don't worry," Marcus smiles, "A library visit is in our itinerary. How about House Al'Sekath?" "We've probably bought something from them, or sold to them." "Come now, you can be more specific than that." "I'm thinking," Loiral protests plaintively. "I don't think I've seen anything with their stamp on it recently..." "And can you draw that stamp for me?" "I can try..." Reluctantly he sketches, on a new page, the stylised execution scene of the Det'tar sigil. It comes out lopsided and not looking much like the original. "Just look at their front gates," he jabs a finger at the map, "it's blazoned twelve feet tall."

"Hm. So, nothing recent, you say... what about less recently?" "I think we bought some maille from Det'tar when I was younger... just a few coats, nothing to wage war over." He remembers getting to touch it -- dark links that ran over his hands like water -- but it was meant for someone more important than Loiral. His aunt made the deal, he thinks. "If not Det'tar, from whom would you normally purchase arms and armour?" "House Orlivayas," he lies easily. "And does Det'tar export a lot of metalwork?" "I don't think so. They have an excellent smith and she does piecework for the occasional client, but as far as I know they don't have extensive forges..."

And so it goes on.

Nothing about this exercise ought to be particularly strenuous, but Loiral finds he is flagging by the time he's finally dismissed. His thoughts are sluggish and a headache is building behind his eyes. "Weapons practice in an hour," Marcus tells the drow. "You may do as you will until then." "Yes, master." Best behaviour. "Thank you, master." This is tolerable. If things stay this way, he can survive this. He will mind his manners and not provoke the human and maybe he can survive this.

Do as you will. He doesn’t know what to do. There is nothing in this bright, foreign house that he wants to do. The closest thing to want is he does not want to still be in the same room as his master. So he slinks back toward the pitiful bed that is his to rest in. He’ll rest for an hour, and then they’ll let him spar, and maybe he will feel a little more like himself for it.

Except he doesn’t get all the way to his bed. He meets one of the juveniles in the hall, the one – he thinks – who hit him in the face by mistake. The same whip is coiled on her hip, the same arrogant strut marks her gait. She grins when she sees Loiral, showing off a crooked mouthful of broad, oversized teeth.

He doesn't know the word she uses as a command, but the gesture is clear enough. One hand extended in front of her, a single finger pointed at the floor and then jabbed sharply downward. It can only be "Down."

Loiral's soul aches with humiliation. His hands itch to lash out. 

When he doesn’t move fast enough, the girl sticks her hand out again and confidently grasps the front of Loiral's collar. She doesn’t have Marcus' terrible strength, but Loiral lets her force him to his knees anyway.

Even absent, the priest stands behind Loiral, controlling his every move.

He lets his head drop as the human lets go of his collar. Her hands run through his hair, invasive. Shame burns across his skin. One hand cups the back of his skull and pushes him down further. He folds like a doll.

She’s talking, jabbering in her own tongue, cooing like a woman with a favourite lover. The sheer perversity of it turns Loiral’s stomach. He could kill her, if her clumsiness with the whip is any indication of her general competence. She’s barely even bigger than him. He could kill her, and mutilate her corpse, and feed it to the lizards.

But instead he grovels at her feet, and her hands roam over his back, and he does nothing to stop her.

Even when the knife comes out, he does nothing. The edge kisses his skin. Cold – and then warm as blood wells. It’s sharp enough that it barely stings. Or she’s picked a line of scar tissue where he’s lost more sensation than he thought. Or his ordeal under the scourge has destroyed his perspective and his ability to tell what is damaging him.

She lifts his head, fingers tangled in his hair, and the tug on his scalp doesn’t really hurt either.

She speaks, the words loud and slow and drawn-out as if that could somehow breach the language barrier. Loiral watches mutely. Lack of reaction is most likely the best way to convey that he doesn’t understand.

Using his hair as a handle still, she sits him back on his heels. When her grip releases, he stays where he is put. More pointless, incomprehensible words, guttural even in her youth’s voice. She holds one hand out towards Loiral, palm up, as if pantomiming a request for something to be handed over.

Loiral has nothing, just the clothes on his back. He stares blankly at her hand. She sighs, and that at least seems to be universal. Not that it helps him to know that she is growing frustrated.

She grabs his wrist, moves his arm through the same motion, and he understands enough to present his hand, palm up. Another word. When she lets go, he holds still. Same pantomime, other arm. He offers her his other hand also. The same word again. Praise, perhaps. Or maybe she’s trying to teach him the word for hand, or for this gesture. He has no way to know.

It should, he thinks, be an effort to keep his palms out and vulnerable like this. He knows that nothing good is about to happen. But a strange calm has settled into the crevices of his soul, and he feels nothing but dull disgust for the girl.

Whatever damage she does, Marcus will fix it. He’s fixed everything he’s done so far, so it’s clear he wants his property fit and whole.

The knife is no surprise. The tip traces the lines of his palm, grazing the skin just enough that a barely-felt sting trails a few seconds in its wake. He watches, disinterested, as she presses a little firmer. It’s sharp. The tip sinks into the heel of his hand without resistance, without even exerting the pressure that might make him flinch downwards away from it.

It hurts a little. But it doesn’t matter. Less pain than biting his tongue, less than a deep bruise, less pain than the morning after a hard training session.

The knife comes away with just the barest hint of his blood still clinging to it. She’s scared to cut any deeper, Loiral surmises, more scared of the consequences than he is, somehow.

Instead she scores another shallow cut. The skin parts like paper, blood welling slowly to fill the indentation. What a nuisance. How is he to touch anything without leaving prints of blood now? Two, three, four lines, none of them deep enough to nick the sinews. One palm and then the other, and he doesn’t even lower his hands. 

Blood trickles across his skin, runs round the sides of his hands, gathers underneath and drips from his knuckles onto his knees. Is it less red than usual? Diminished, perhaps, by how much he lost, and not quite fully restored by the magic he received?

Maybe he’s imagining it. Maybe it’s just his soul that is dimmer and drained of its vitality.

The human girl is exclaiming something. Impressed or annoyed by his lack of reaction, perhaps?

There – that feeling in his chest is fear, putting in an appearance at last. Not sharp terror, nor the suffocating anxiety of the priest’s presence, but a low, dull pang as he wonders how far she’ll go to get the results she wants. Should he be faking a response? Cowering, crying, begging her for mercy?

He can do it, he thinks, if he has to. He will do it, if it starts to be too much. The throb of his sliced palms is bearable, but he doesn’t want to know if he can bear losing a finger.

But all she does is lay the blade flat against one of Loiral’s palms, and close his fingers around it. He holds on, tentatively. The sharp edges are more painful buried in the flesh and shifting with every twitch of his muscles than they were just gliding across the skin and departing. But it’s bearable.

She lets go of the hilt. The absurdity of handing Loiral a weapon very nearly makes him laugh, but he schools his features to stillness. No need to warn her, if – if he – 

His heart is pounding, thundering in his ears. He could kill her, right here, right now. He could open her throat and it would feel so good to take back that power. To take her life from her and watch the shock fade from her idiot, animal eyes.

It isn’t worth the price.

She’s pantomiming flipping his hand over, fist still closed. Loiral obeys, demonstrating that he’s really holding onto the blade. The metal bites a little deeper. It’s nothing more than a bravado trick. He’s seen more than one young soldier do it to themselves just for the social kudos.

The same idiots who really do lose fingers trying to catch blades barehanded once they’ve convinced themselves that it’s not so bad. 

Loiral’s never felt the need to hurt himself participating in that kind of one-upmanship, but he supposes he could now without flinching. If he survives this, will it be the dead calm that persists, or the suffocating fear, the twitching at stray footfalls? Is there anything he can do to choose one over the other?

He’s almost sliding towards reverie as he watches the blood drip from between his fingers, but he jolts back to the present the instant the girl moves. She snatches her knife back, but she’s not quick, and Loiral is able to loosen his grip enough that he doesn’t think anything important is severed as it slides from his grasp.

She wipes it on his clothes, and even the deliberate slight doesn’t really sting either, because they aren’t his clothes and because he’s been filthy enough that he doesn’t care.

She wants to see the damage, of course, before she’s willing to move on. It does burn, loosening his fingers to let her see, and reluctance starts to well up from that ache in Loiral’s chest.

Those last cuts are deep. At rest the edges don’t sit closed, and white is visible in the wound as well as red. A little grimace from the human tells him she didn’t quite mean to do so much damage.

He wonders if she’ll be in trouble with Marcus. He hopes so. He remembers her fear.

She closes his fingers again like she doesn’t want to see, and Loiral keeps the hand fisted as away to apply pressure and slow the bleeding. Not that it matters. He won’t lose enough to die before Marcus finds him again and fixes it.

Her knee knocks his shoulder as she brushes past. The drow waits until she’s gone, then picks himself up.

Back to his mat he slinks, because he doesn’t know what else to do with himself. Especially now that he’d paint anything he touched with his blood. He lies down, curls up, and closes his eyes to feign sleep. They usually leave him alone when his eyes are shut.

His hands throb. The pain is ramping up now as his body realises the damage. He keeps them balled tight, as if he could crush the pain into submission along with the blood flow. 

And then he’s crying.

One second he’s just annoyed at the indignity, the next the pain and helplessness and indignity hit him like a wall. He can’t believe he just sat there and let her do that. He can’t believe he didn’t even try to protest or pull away. And now he’s crying again, how pathetic, how spineless is he.

He rolls over to face the wall, as if it could hide his tears. He curls up tight around his hands. And, teeth gritted, telling himself over and over to just pull himself together, he sobs into his knees.

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Routine - 8.i

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Reverie is a blank room, empty and silent. The constant babble of the slum is walled out, and the mind is still. No thoughts unspool. No memories -- thankfully -- present themselves for examination. There is just nothing.

The nothing is interrupted by nearby footfalls, heavy on the flimsy floorboards. The voices that Loiral has been hearing and not hearing for some time, become near and immediate. He gets up promptly, scurrying out of the way of the two women who converge on his pallet.

One of them strips the sheet off it, adding it to the bundle under her arm, while the other replaces it with clean. It's still strange to see them doing slave's work, but it seems to be the surfacers' way. They talk continuously, laughing with each other. Their words are still meaningless to Loiral, but he is starting to be able to pick out the rhythm and the tone. They are relaxed and cheerful, and he is happy to be ignored.

Still feeling the echoes of emptiness in his skull, Loiral slinks barefoot down the narrow stairs two floors to the latrine. That at least he is allowed without asking permission. Days are settling into routine, and that fact is distantly terrifying, but it is difficult to feel anything but numb. Exhaustion dogs his heels despite hours and hours of rest.

Next in his day, Loiral goes looking for his master. He finds the man in the kitchen, poring over a map of the city. A plate of char-cooked meat is cooling by his elbow. Loiral goes to his side and kneels silently, waiting to be acknowledged. Without looking round, Marcus ruffles his hair fondly. Loiral tolerates it with numb indifference. It's not relevant. If anything, it is good. Better that the man is in a good mood.

A moment later, with just as little attention spared, he's offered a chunk of meat. He takes it carefully with his teeth. Despite the humiliation, his mouth and stomach have opinions -- the meat is good. Rich, perfectly cooked, and hopefully filling. He gulps it down hungrily, and the next. But the food intensifies his thirst. "Please, master..." he ventures nervously. "Hm?" "May I have a drink, please?"

Without further acknowledgement, the surfacer holds out a mug. Loiral puts his mouth obediently on the rim. He's got used to drinking this way and rarely chokes on it now -- but he splutters this time, as he finds that the liquid isn't water but rather some strong liquor. His master chuckles as he puts the mug back on the table.

"There is water in the jug on the side there. Drink all you like." "Thank you, master," Loiral forces out between coughs. If manners can keep the whip from his back, he'll say everything he's supposed to say. It's not worth fighting. It's not worth protesting the casual mockery.

He pours water, and drinks three full mugs, expecting permission to be rescinded at any moment. The sensations of thirst don't vanish instantly. But it's still good to have enough.

When he's done, he returns to Marcus' side, and goes quietly back to his knees. In another pleasant surprise, the man continues to feed him. Every other piece of meat goes to Loiral, and by the time the plate is empty his hunger pangs have abated. Sitting on his knees, staring at nothing, he almost slips back into reverie.

He's jolted back to alertness when the surfacer pushes his chair back. He searches the man's face anxiously, wondering what to expect now. "How are you feeling, drow?" "Obedient, master." It's become his standard response, almost a ritual. As always, it brings a faint smile to the human's lips. "And what else?" Loiral swallows. "Grateful," he adds quickly. It doesn't seem to be enough. He tries to think, pulse racing. "I... not bad," he ventures. "I feel well." It's almost a surprise as he says it. But he's not hungry, or thirsty. Barely anything hurts. He worries, once it’s too late to take the words back, that his master will take measures to correct matters. But, "Good," Marcus allows at last. "This is not so bad, then?" A lazy gesture encompasses the room, Loiral kneeling at his feet in the stinging light. "This is tolerable?" "Yes, master." Loiral cannot agree fast enough. Only -- what, ten days ago? less? -- he would have regarded this as the nadir of humiliation. But he is not being whipped within an inch of his life. So yes, this is tolerable. Shame is a crushing weight, but it's tolerable.

"Every day could be like this," Marcus suggests, voice full of that false warmth that means nothing. "I do not want to have to beat every service from you. Obey me and I will not punish you. Obey me willingly, submit to me, and I will reward you. Food and water could be the least of it. Would you not prefer to live that way?" "Yes," Loiral whispers, head bowed. "What troubles you, drow? What makes you hesitate?" "Nothing," Loiral protests, "I submit, I -- I'm your property, master." The words are still bitter in his mouth. "I'm -- scared of you, I'll obey you, whatever you say." Marcus clicks his tongue, amused. "Perhaps, but only until you are out of my sight, hm?" "I've learned," Loiral breathes. "I won't run again." It earns him a chuckle, and a pat on the head. "You've learned fear," Marcus agrees. "But fear is only half of loyalty, drow. The other half is desire. So tell me -- what do you desire?"

Loiral hesitates, searching for the right answer in the human's eyes. Surely this is another trap. But Marcus' tone is still calm and patient. "There is no wrong answer, drow. I know that you wish me harm and I do not hold that against you. Of course you hate me. It amuses me, because I know you fear me too much to act upon it." Loiral flinches, dropping his gaze sullenly. "But there must be other things you would enjoy. You have nothing to lose, and everything to gain. So tell me -- what do you want?" Refusing to answer is not an option. Lying seems pointless. "Freedom," Loiral admits. "Really? And what would you do with it if you had it?" "I could go home--" Loiral starts, but the surfacer speaks over him and he falls silent.

"I know enough of your culture to know that your defeat at my hands will not be viewed with sympathy. If you return to your House you will be a laughing stock at the very best. Or would you not tell them where you have been while you have not been at your post?" "I'd cope," Loiral snaps, then flinches as he hears his own tone. Anxiously he turns his eyes up to search for anger, but he finds only calm, cruel mockery. "Would you, now? I am told your peers are quick to take advantage of weakness. You could find your life very difficult... if they accept you back at all." "I'd be fine," Loiral insists, "Or -- I'd go elsewhere. If you hadn't robbed me." A cold sweat is gathering on his skin. "Go elsewhere and do what? If I set you loose with the money I took from you, where would you go? Would you live as a common mercenary? A merchant trader, perhaps?" "Yes," Loiral insists, despite the pit in his stomach. "I could do that. I could do lots of things." "Your savings will not last long. As a commoner alone, without House or allies... it would be hard work. You might not make it. And every step of the way you will be deferring to those more important and more powerful than yourself, ducking and scraping to avoid their wrath. Is that the life you want?" Loiral's eyes are burning. He fights the impending tears. He deserves better, he thinks petulantly. He had better, before this creature took it from him. "Rather that than a slave," he says.

"Hmm. Very well. I'm sure that determination will serve you well when I set you free." A chuckle. "Don't look so shocked, I have not forgotten the terms of our agreement. When your ninety days are up, you will have your freedom and you will have your money and possessions back too. You can forge your own way in the world. But to what end?" Loiral blinks up at him blankly. "What is it that you want from life? Power? Glory? Fame? The favour of your goddess?" That last makes Loiral's gut twist. Lolth's favour does not fall upon the weak and the cowardly. The best he can hope for is to be beneath Her notice.

Into the silence, Marcus remarks, "Now, there's a thought." The chill humour in his voice puts Loiral's hackles up instantly. "Which do you fear more, I wonder? Your Spider Queen, or me?" Loiral is a rat caught in a basilisk's gaze. Lolth, of course. The human is no god. But... he fears him a great deal. "If I ordered you to blaspheme against your goddess, would you obey me still?" The man smirks, studying the drow for a moment, then laughs. "No wonder you fear death so much. I hear She has little patience for weakness." He shakes his head. "It must amuse Her no end, the predicament it creates for unfortunates like yourself. Regardless, I interrupted. You were thinking on what it is that you want from life." Loiral nods, swallowing his heart.

He's given time to gather his scattered thoughts. He doesn't understand the point of this conversation. Doesn't understand what Marcus is looking for, and so doesn't understand what to hide. But conversation is better than torture. "Power, I guess," he ventures at length. "Wealth. Normal things." "You want to live well." "Yes," he agrees sourly. "And you want safety?" A skeptical stare. "There's no such thing." “There are degrees, and the powerful surely have more ability to defend themselves than the weak." "I suppose..." "It's power over others that you want, then? Control?" With a smirk, the man reaches out to cup the side of Loiral's face, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. The helplessness wrenches in his chest like a physical pain. "Yes," he breathes, forcing himself to hold still. "Yes, I want that." As soon as his master lets go, he flinches away and lets himself shudder. "I see what you're at," he accuses bitterly. "You've taken everything from me to make me, make me need things. I see what you're doing." "I should hope so," Marcus responds mildly, "It is disappointing when my handiwork goes unappreciated." A tiny sob of despair wells up, catching Loiral by surprise. He bites down on his tongue to cut off the sound.

"You are mine." Marcus' voice is low, but it is heavy with confidence and power. "I have claimed you by the oldest right, the right of conquest. Everything you experience is mine to give or withhold. You know this is in your heart. It is not a foreign concept to your kind. The strong take from the weak, and all are slaves to those who hold the power. "So yes, I have taken from you. It is my right. Do you deny that?" "No, master." Loiral's voice is a whisper. "Truthfully? I am not looking for blind acquiescence." Loiral turns the question over in his head. Every part of him screams no, the human has no right, this is wrong, this is not how it works, Loiral is better than this... But he fought, and he lost, and -- and his mind shies away from the thoughts but he still has to answer the question. His skin crawls. "I can't deny it," he whispers. "Good."

"Now, I will ask you again. What do you want? No more philosophy, no more on the purpose of life. Here and now, what do you want? I will not grant your freedom, not yet. But there are many other privileges I could grant. What would make your servitude bearable?" For a long moment Loiral sits dumb, unable to think. His chest is tight and his skin is clammy. He doesn't know how to answer. Then a flood of wants and needs hit him, all at once so that he's almost overwhelmed by the deprivation. "I want shoes," he blurts out. "And clothes that fit, and I want to bathe. I want time to, to exercise and train with the sword. I want a--" A weapon. But he stumbles on the words, caught off guard by the sick thought of what the punishment might be if that is not allowed. "Done, done, and done," Marcus declares across his hesitation. "Would you like me to teach you?" "I, what?" "Swordplay. You have had some formal training, but there is more that I could teach you." Loiral is frozen, eyes flickering across the surfacer's face in confusion. "I... don't want to learn by getting stabbed." A rich, deep laugh. "I assure you that training will not involve unnecessary injury, although I cannot rule out the occasional accident, or a few nicks and bruises. It will not be at all like when we first crossed blades." "Then... yes. Yes, master." Loiral belatedly forces himself to show respect. "I would like that." "You want to learn to best me," Marcus observes with a chuckle. He grins at the flash of guilt in his prisoner's eyes. "A few short weeks will not be enough, I fear, but you are welcome to try. What else?" "Food. I want enough to eat, when I want it, and water when I'm thirsty." "Hm. No. I am enjoying our current arrangement. You will continue to ask my permission to eat and drink. But, barring exceptional circumstances, when you ask I will provide." Loiral nods reluctant acquiescence. It sounds like a lie, but he's in no position to argue. "I want... time to myself." "Space is not a luxury I have in abundance," Marcus points out. It's true. The narrow building has more occupants than rooms, by Loiral's best guess. He can hear them always, even now, moving about and talking on the floors above and below. "Provided that I do not require your services, however, I won't stop you from seeking privacy. Perhaps when the others are out you will find it. Is that all?"

Is it? Loiral wonders for a second. Such simple things. His world has narrowed so much. But of course it isn't. He wants out of here. He wants his life back, he wants to be treated with respect, he doesn't want to bow and scrape and kneel and especially he doesn't want to get whipped within an inch of his life-- He takes a shuddering breath, and tries to think only of things that the human might grant.

"Money?" he dares. "I want--" "No. Money is freedom, is it not? What would you spend it on? Perhaps I will grant that instead." "... a weapon." He almost cringes just asking. But his master's good humour holds. "No again. If you want to cut my throat, you will have to try a little harder than that." "I wouldn't dare, master," Loiral mumbles weakly. "I am glad to hear it." A heavy hand rests on his head again, crushing his thoughts into silence, leaving him shivering and dead-eyed.

"There are some practical concerns, of course. Water, soap and time to bathe you will have daily, circumstances allowing. Clothes you will have, and yes, shoes, but given the behaviour I expect of you, you may find that you prefer to dress as a slave when we go out in the city. Weapons practice happens daily, at around the third hour. I advise you to practise whatever stretches you prefer beforehand, as the others do. "Our relationship remains unchanged, I trust you understand. You will address me as master, you will obey me without question or hesitation, and you will show proper deference as you do now. Your new privileges are contingent on your continued good behaviour, and upon my whim. Do you understand?" Loiral nods carefully, feeling the hand shift against his scalp. "Yes, master. I understand." "Good. I imagine you are eager to get clean. Do that now, and attend on me again when you are done. It is about time we got to work."

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[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.v

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Unexpectedly, inspiration has struck to write some more of this! Happy holidays, folks.

---

The door opens, and blinding light washes across Loiral where he lies. Marcus is just a dark and blurred silhouette, but Loiral knows him by his heavy footfalls, and by the easy confidence of his posture, and by the threatening shape of the scourge on his hip. His captor, his torturer. His master.

Loiral's first impulse is to curl up and hide his face, like a useless child. His second is to beg for mercy.

But he has a better option. He knows what behaviour has been rewarded in the past. What the human – his master – wants to see. He desperately, desperately needs to avoid provoking further punishment. In the harsh light of all that it is possible to suffer, grovelling is not so great a hardship.

He expects agony as he asks his so-recently-shattered body to move. But the movement is smooth and easy. His limbs don't fail or falter, only tremble with his fear. The gulf between expectation and reality leaves him disoriented and confused. Still, he rolls sideways off the edge of the low pallet and up onto his knees, the sheet sliding off his body and gathering around his hips. He lets his head hang low enough that his hair – matted and heavy with his blood – rests on the back of his hands where they are braced against the floor.

"How are you healing, drow?" Loiral hesitates, uncertain how to answer. He is interrupted before terror can nudge him into blurting something out. "Come here, let me have a look at you." He crawls obediently across the floorboards to cringe at his master's feet. Fuck humiliation, he will do anything not to be whipped like that again.

Marcus stoops to take one of Loiral's arms, lifting and letting his hand slide down the forearm until his grip tightens at the wrist and he pulls Loiral to his feet. The tug on his aching body makes Loiral gasp, and he expects to be lifted into the air once again. But after a couple of seconds with his feet still in contact with the floor, he remembers to take his own weight. He's tipped one way, then the other, then spun with a hand on his shoulder as Marcus examines his handiwork.

"Very good," the man declares, "That's all looking very healthy." Loiral finds himself at least a little relieved. It would be worse, he supposes, to end up a cripple as well as a coward and a slave. “How about the pain?" "It, uh, there's not much, master," Loiral answers shakily. Not enough, he wonders? Having admitted it, will he be given more? His desperation escapes his throat as a tiny whine before he catches it. "Ah, and you have not lost the power of speech after all. That's good." The humour at his expense ought to sting, but Loiral is too exhausted to care. When the tension on his wrist is lessened, he lets his knees buckle and is lowered back to the floor.

"What do you think, will you remember that lesson?" "Yes master," he all but squeaks, cringing lower against the floorboards. "Yes, I swear, I swear." "I believe you." Loiral daren't raise his head, but he can hear the lazy smile in the warm, low tone of his master's voice. "Thank you master," he half-sobs, hoping that it means the 'lesson' won't be further reinforced.

"Things can be better, going forward. Behave yourself, and I will not have to punish you. You want that, don't you?" "Yes, master. I'll behave, I swear." "Excellent. Now, I can see that you still need some time to recover, so I won't put you to work immediately. Let's see to your needs, and then perhaps you may accompany me for a little while. What do you think of that?" "I, uh, I'm grateful," Loiral flounders. "Whatever you want, master, I just, I only want to please you, master." Marcus chuckles, and it is hard-edged. He goes to one knee, and his strong fingers tangle in Loiral's hair and lift the drow's head. Loiral meets his master's eyes with breathless fear, searching for a cue. "Hmm." The surfacer's lip curls as he studies his victim. "No, I think not."

Loiral has no words to defend himself with, he doesn't even know what he said wrong. He whimpers and his master laughs again. But more softly. "Panic not. I am not accusing you of lying to me. I simply think you are confused. You have little interest in pleasing me yet. What you want is merely to avoid angering me, wouldn't you agree?" "I'm sorry master," Loiral apologises desperately. He's torn between the desire to press himself lower against the floor, and the knowledge that he shouldn't pull away from the hand in his hair. "I'm sorry, I, I can try harder, uhm, I'll, uhm..." "Hush," Marcus smiles, and Loiral is glad to obey. "You may relax, drow. I am not angry, and I am not intending to hurt you today." "Thank you master," Loiral breathes. "I have taught you with fear, it is no surprise to me that it is fear that motivates you. ... But perhaps you are still too shaken for philosophy, poor thing."

The grip on his hair is released, and Loiral remains frozen in place, paralysed by eye contact and the acute awareness of how easily those hands can inflict agony. "Never mind it. Simply come downstairs and follow my orders, and you need worry about nothing else for now.

There is a terrible comfort in that.

Downstairs, Loiral drops back to his knees without needing to be told. "Stay there," Marcus confirms. He fills a pewter mug from a pitcher, and brings it to Loiral. It feels unnatural for Loiral to lift his head while so scared and so wretched. He hesitates, and Marcus does it for him with two fingers under his chin. "Drink," comes the order. The water is cool and clean. When the mug is empty Marcus turns away again, and returns with a square of dense fungus cake. "Eat." He breaks off small pieces, and brings them directly to Loiral's mouth. Loiral eats, and barely spares a thought for the humiliation. He is so very hungry, and the food goes down easily. After the food there is more water. It is good.

And then, "How are you feeling, drow?" "I don't know, master," Loiral answers honestly. He has no words for the shivering emptiness in his head. "Hmm."

Silence stretches, and Loiral aches with fear. 'I don't know' isn't good enough. The nightmare is unending and there is no way out. His chest heaves. Uncontrolled shudders race through his body.

"If you do as I command, I will not need to hurt you like that again," Marcus tells him softly. "I'll do everything you command," Loiral promises. "I'm sorry I disobeyed you, I'm so sorry." "That punishment is over. Do you understand? Look at me, I want to see your eyes." Loiral lifts his gaze. His breath keeps catching in his throat. What is he expected to say? "It is done. Paid for in full. I am not angry any more. It is like I said – though I cannot blame you if you do not recall the details of that conversation – I understand why you had to try and run from me. I have caused you a lot of suffering, of course you want to escape me. "And you understand that I had to punish you harshly, so that when the thought next occurs to you, you will remember that it is not worth the consequences. But the lesson is taught, and there is no need for me to hurt you further. It is behind us now. Do you understand?"

There is a logic to it, and Loiral wants to believe. He is so, so helpless against Marcus deciding on a whim to indulge his cruelty. He would far prefer to believe that it won't happen for no reason. But he doesn't. "Yes master," he nods anyway. "I understand, master." "Punishment means nothing without mercy to contrast it against."

Loiral simply watches his master woodenly, and after a few moments Marcus smiles again. "Can I trust you to wash yourself?" "Master?" "If I leave you unsupervised with a tub of hot water and so forth, are you able to get yourself clean without assistance?" "Yes, master." Loiral is wary. What's the catch? "Good. This way then -- you may walk."

[Next]

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.iii

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[Caution: gore.]

Loiral whines as he feels the chains on his ankles shift, stammers another useless “no no no please-!” as his legs are lifted, then screams as his body comes off the floor, forcing the broken limbs to bear his weight. He loses all other awareness as he swings from his ankles. Each break is alight with agony, stretched to the point of rupture. The already-torn-and-swollen tissues cannot bear the strain, he is almost certain that his legs are going to come off. The agony makes him jerk and writhe helplessly, and the motion redoubles the agony in turn. His throat is already raw but he screams and screams, panicked and shameless with desperation.

Suddenly fresh pain slams into his side from hip to armpit, stinging and bruising at the same time. The force knocks him sideways, jolting the strained breaks yet further. The cuffs on his wrists jerk him back, stopping him from swinging freely, yanking hard on the breaks in his arms.

Again, and this time the swathe of pain falls across his back. Again the impact slams him sideways, pulling his body taut between his ankles and wrists. Again, across the belly. Loiral’s arms are chained to the floor with little slack and he cannot lift his arms to defend his exposed body. His hands twitch and spasm frantically, catching at the chain and tangling in the links. He’s oblivious to the force of the metal on his fragile fingers, utterly consumed by the greater agony in his limbs.

The blows keep falling. Loiral can’t even tell what kind of injury is being done to his skin. Each time it’s a broad tract of stinging heat across his body, littered with sharper stabs of pain. It pales at first beside the effects of the sheer force, each impact translated by the chains into a blindingly hard tug on each and every break. He can’t think, can’t breathe past his own screaming. In scattered, fragmented thoughts he longs to black out. But it goes on and on and on without respite.

The fire across his skin gets worse with every impact. Lacerations layer across lacerations, leaving him raw and burning. There is no warning as to where the blows will fall next. Back, chest, back again. Sides, thighs, shoulders, arms. Blood drips across his skin and forms rivulets down his arms. Sometimes the agony stabs hard into particularly sensitive points and rivals even the breaks. Occasionally his face is struck and the weapon leaves deep burning gashes across cheek, chin, scalp. He twists and struggles helplessly, driven by raw instinct.

His voice gives out long before the punishment ends. His thrashing grows weaker. He is all agony. All awful, over-extended breaks and shredded, searing skin. There’s no thought left, no hope, no reason, no understanding, no sense of self. There is only pain layered over pain, and the torment gets worse and worse and worse without end.

---

Marcus loves the way his prisoner’s strength fails. He loves the helpless tremor, and the way the back-arching tension gives way into feeble limpness. He loves the wet sound of the scourge against bloodied flesh, and the near-silent straining gasps. The drow’s mouth is stretched wide, lips peeled back from the teeth as he tries to scream, but his voice has cracked and splintered and faded and now there is only the quiet whistle of air forced through his tight throat.

Marcus loves the opportunity to let loose, to abandon careful restraint and break his fragile little toy.  He works the whip up and down across that narrow, frail-boned body until the skin hangs in ragged scraps and strips from the lacerated flesh and the drow is coated evenly in crimson, seeping blood from his knees down to the tips of his fingers where they just barely brush the floor. There was more than a handspan of clearance when Marcus started. The breaks in the long bones of the drow’s legs are horribly elongated, the soft tissues stretched grotesquely by his body weight and the constant jolt of the whip.

Eventually Marcus stands back to simply watch Loiral tremble. There’s no visible reaction to the respite from the whipping. Only the frantic, irregular pace of his breath gives away that he is still conscious, though Marcus knows that he will be. It is difficult to pass out while suspended head-down. 

Unhurriedly he kneels down in front of his victim. He traces his fingers along the edge of the blindfold to the back of the head, and unpicks the knots with gentle, precise care. The cloth is sodden with blood as it peels away from the skin.The drow’s pupils constrict to pin-pricks at the sudden onslaught of light. But the eyes remain wide and glazed, unseeing. Loiral is lost in the agony, rendered all but insensible. Just the way Marcus wants him. 

He pauses to stroke the drow’s cheek, unable to resist pressing firmly enough to pull wide the gash left there by a stray hook. Blood flows freely over and around his fingers. Loiral reacts not at all. Marcus did not mean to tear up his face, but all in all he is quite pleased with how few strikes landed off target. The new scourge is not yet familiar, and placing all nine tails precisely is not trivial.

Still smiling to himself, he stands and unlatches the chain that suspends his prisoner from the ceiling. He lowers Loiral to the floor slowly, relishing every feeble twitch and agonised gasp. The drow’s chest heaves, sucking in air. Marcus can see the broken ribs shifting beneath the patchwork of shredded skin and exposed muscle. It is beautiful. He could just watch his prisoner shudder and struggle to breathe for hours.

But he only waits until the frantic gasping slows a little. He cannot be sure how conscious Loiral is, and he doesn’t want to leave him too long to recover. “How are you feeling, drow?” he asks, smirking fractionally at his own humour. “Are you still in there, or have I driven you out of your mind altogether?” There is no answer – not unexpected – so he puts a little more edge into his tone. “Do you hear me, drow? I asked you a question, I expect an answer.” Loiral’s mouth twitches, but no sound emerges. His eyes slide sideways, searching, but fail to settle and focus. Marcus crouches beside him and gently turns his face to help him make eye contact. His gaze wavers, eyes still dull. “Do you hear me, drow?” Marcus repeats patiently. “—hhhh—” whistles Loiral’s breath as his abused voicebox fails to engage. “Words, drow. The answer you are looking for is ‘yes, master’.” “—ss—” he manages faintly “—ss — mmhh—sr—” “Good,” Marcus purrs, amused. “Have you learned your lesson yet?” Another near-silent whistle of a whimper. “—mmhh — plhhh — sss — plea—hsss—” Marcus chuckles.

But amusing as the incoherent attempts at pleading are, there is little evidence of understanding. Marcus wants to speak to his prisoner. He anticipated this. After all, he deliberately took Loiral past the point of reason, it is no surprise that he is not recovering fast. So Marcus incants a spell-prayer. Just a small thing, a little expenditure of power. He touches his fingers to Loiral’s forehead. To his irritation, the magic fizzles out against the drow’s skin. Marcus frowns. He casts again, and this time delivers the spellcharge into the exposed muscle at the base of the neck. The enchantment will find the mind regardless, it does not need to be delivered directly to the cranium. A minor nuisance.

As the magic takes effect, Loiral’s eyes clear and find focus. He does not look happy to be forced into lucidity. His mouth works uselessly. The utter terror written across his face is gratifying. He will learn from this experience. Now he just needs reminding what lesson it is that he is meant to be learning. “Are you hearing me now, drow?” “… yes, master…” Loiral whispers. A shudder ripples through his flesh and makes his eyes roll back for a moment despite the magical aid. “Good. Do you remember why you are suffering like this?” “… yes, mmh– master.” Marcus waits, wondering idly if his silence will be cue enough, or if the drow will need more explicit prompting. “… tried … to run …” comes the confession at last, “ss-- I’m-- I’m sorry, master… so sorry, please, ple-ease…” Satisfaction is warm in Marcus’ chest. He has picked his victim well, this time. Loiral breaks so beautifully into shards of panic and servility.

“I do so enjoy your submission, drow,” he tells him fondly. “Show me more of this in future and less defiance, and I will not have to keep breaking you so.” Silent sobs break Loiral’s breath up into shuddering gasps. “…please,” he mouths, “please, please…” “Make no mistake, though. Your screams bring me just as much pleasure. Do you think that you are at the limits of your endurance? You know nothing of the limits of pain, not yet.”

“Listen very closely.” Loiral’s breath is very fast again, shallow and irregular with terror. But his eyes are still focused. “If this were solely for joy,” Marcus tells him, speaking slowly, clearly and with unconcealed relish, “I would next finish breaking your limbs. Six or seven breaks for each of the long bones. Or perhaps I would take a hammer and reduce them to shards, as I did your feet. “Once shattered like that, a prisoner can be restrained by weaving the limbs through cage bars or the spokes of a wheel. Can you imagine how that would feel? I doubt your imagination captures the full intensity. “I might crack your teeth next, or finish the flaying that I have started with the whip. Or perhaps I would just leave you alone with your pain for a few hours. I wonder if you would beg for death, in the end? I would grant it to you eventually, of course. I have a busy schedule, after all, and my goddess loves sacrifice just as yours does.” It is a shame that his prisoner has no voice left. Marcus considers healing his throat so as to hear his whimpers. He is a perfect picture of terror and suffering.

Tragically, though, it is time to lift him back out of despair and offer him some mercy to cling to. Loiral is not merely a sacrifice, despite his recent transgression. “But,” and he touches the drow’s face gently again as he lets his tone warm. “This is not an exercise in self-indulgence, and I do not mean to kill you. This is a lesson for you. And if you learn it well, this will be the end of it. What do you think of that, hmm?” “—please—!” Loiral begs urgently, “please, please—!” Marcus laughs softly. “Very good. I want you to remember this, drow. I want you to remember this point that we have reached. How bad it is, and how it can still get worse. Will you remember?” “—yes,” he sobs, “yes, master, yes—!” “Good. Remember this also: if I must bring you to this point again, I will show a little less restraint. I will take you a little further down the path of agony. You will learn new depths of misery and desperation. Do you understand?” “—yes, master, yes, I— I understand—” “Very good.”

Marcus smiles as he invokes his divine patron again, channeling her healing power. He wants his prisoner witless a little longer, so he crafts a variant spell-prayer that will deliver the required energy over perhaps an hour. The pain will be less intense than a single burst, but it should be more than enough to keep the exhausted drow insensate, especially once the artificial clarity wears off. This time he remembers to deliver the magic to the exposed flesh, bypassing the properties of drow skin.

Loiral convulses as the reddish energy envelops him. His strength is already spent and he can barely lift his back from the floor, but the tortured motions still convey the depth of his agony beautifully. “—mercy—!” he gasps voicelessly, hopelessly “—please please — I’ve learned — please—!” Marcus watches impassively until the attempts at speech stop and the light vanishes from his eyes again. 

Then he kneels down to set the broken bones back into place and to lay the limbs out straight. Without proper care, injuries like this are at risk of leaving debilitating scars, even with magical healing. The slow delivery will reduce the risk. Still, he’ll have one of the initiates come and tend to Loiral as he heals. 

It will be interesting to see how he takes that, as he starts to return to lucidity.

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.ii

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Through the pain and the hysterical panic, Loiral isn't certain when the cuffs are clipped round his wrists. He certainly notices when a hood is shoved over his head, the rope pulled tight around his throat.

In the suffocating dark, he cannot decipher the impacts any more. The gauntleted hands are all over him – gripping and pulling and snapping and driving home blow after punishing blow. Pain flares over and over until he has no idea which way is up.

Broken bones grind across each other in his arm, his legs. The flesh tears and he is spinning, swinging, falling. The pain is so bad that he thinks the arm must be ripping off but it doesn’t end, the tearing keeps going and going and he is screaming but he can’t even feel his voice in his throat.

Then, suddenly, he is waking.

No time has passed but he is cold and the floor is hard under his back and the bright fresh pain has ripened into a complex, sickening cocktail. The piercing agony of unset breaks is intermingled with the swollen, feverish throb of wounds left too long, and his skull is full to bursting with heavy, molten hurt.

He whines. The sound is low and wavering and broken, desperate with pain and terror.

“Are you awake yet, drow?” drawls the familiar voice of his captor, lazy with boredom and satisfaction. Loiral’s voice pitches up in a terrified squeak. It’s going to get worse. It’s going to get so much worse, Marcus is going to make him scream and suffer for hours or days or more, Loiral defied him – he tried to escape and he failed. His breath comes only as shallow, rapid sobs. He’s not hooded any more – small mercy – but his eyes are still covered and he can’t see.

“I asked you a question,” his master reminds him. “Yes,” Loiral gasps, “master. Master please – please, please –” “I am disappointed, Loiral,” Marcus speaks over him. “I thought you understood our arrangement.” "I do," he swears breathlessly. "I do, I'm sorry, I’m sorry, I’m –” "No. You're not sorry. Not yet." Loiral can only whimper. Chains rattle faintly with the helpless shaking of his limbs, and every shudder wracks him head to toe with pain. The blows could start falling again at any moment and he can’t even see it coming.

"You tried to run from me. Did you really think you could get away?" Yes. No. “I, I, I- please I know better now, I’ve learned, you showed me master please I won’t run again-!” "You defied me, drow." "Never again. Never, I swear, please, master-!" A low chuckle brings Loiral no comfort. "Never again?” The tone is mocking. “And why would I believe that?"

“I’ve learned,” Loiral insists desperately. “Please, I know now, I know I can’t, I just – I wouldn’t try again, please I swear never-!” “You knew the consequences when you ran from me.” “I had to try,” he sobs hopelessly, “Just once, never again, I’m so sorry master, please…”

“I understand.” Loiral isn’t naive enough to mistake the calm amusement for genuine mercy. “Of course you had to try. Just so, you understand why I must now make sure you never try again, do you not?” Loiral sobs harder. The cloth over his eyes is well-saturated with his tears. “Please I won’t, master. I’ve learned, I’ve already learned--” “Be silent.” There is another warm laugh when the command is followed instantly, Loiral’s chest heaving erratically as he holds his breath to suppress his crying.

"Good. You may be afraid now, my little escapee, but what will happen if I do not punish you? That fear will dim. And when you next have a chance to run, you will remember mercy and think perhaps it is worth trying. When you next think of running,” He crouches beside Loiral, voice suddenly very close. “I want you to remember punishment."

Warm, callused fingers touch the side of Loiral’s face, almost gentle. “Do you understand?” The pressure on the swollen bruises barely registers as pain over the cacophony of his broken body. Loiral lets his face be turned towards his master. He’s a servile, trembling mess. Stuttering whimpers escape with every tight breath. He doesn’t know what response is expected of him. "Do you understand," Marcus repeats softly, "Why I am doing this?" “Should I, master?” Loiral asks miserably. He can’t see what difference it makes, but he’ll say whatever he’s meant to. Unsurprisingly, he is laughed at again for his effort. “It’s a genuine question. Do you understand my reasoning?” Loiral takes a shuddering breath, then another. And another. “Yes,” he admits. Yes he understands why unruly slaves are punished. “Yes what?” “Yes master-!” “Better. And do you disagree?” Loiral can’t think straight. Pain and panic have chased all the thoughts out of his head. “I, what, master?” “I hold,” Marcus’ tone is patient, “That if I do not punish you now, you will not fear as you should, and you may dare to run again. Do you disagree?” “I won’t,” Loiral swears hopelessly, “I won’t, I won’t, I wouldn’t hope for mercy twice, please master…” “And you won’t receive it once. There is no use in begging. Not today.”

Loiral lets the broken, despondent sobs well up and overtake him. The motion hurts, but not as much as he is about to hurt. He had his one chance to get away from this and he blew it and there will likely never be another one. The nightmare is reality, and he can’t handle it.

"Take heart," Marcus smirks. "You will live, and the pain will end. I believe that you will learn from this experience."

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Recapture - 7.i

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Loiral runs at the breakneck pace that only outright terror permits. He is acutely aware of the gravel giving under his imperfectly-fitted boots, stealing his momentum. His hand moves to the sword on his hip. Not fast enough. He’s sure it won’t be fast enough. 

Several paces in, he realises he has to decide where he’s going. Away is not good enough. He can hear the human’s deep voice ringing out in sonorous incantation behind him. 

The next wagon down -- some of the mercenaries are still in there. They made a pact. Technically for outside the city -- but maybe they’ll help him fight. He can’t face Marcus alone, he knows that much.

His skin tingles with the distinctive touch of magic against his back. He doesn’t have time to wonder what the spell might be or whether it’s taken hold. He flings himself up onto the back of the wagon and dives through the unlaced doorflap -- breaking line of sight -- before the surfacer priest can cast anything worse.

“Enemy!” he yells, “Incoming!” “Oi!” one of the duergar snaps, standing up, “Your feuds are no business of ours.” “No feud,” Loiral half-lies, jumping up onto the table and eyeballing his chances of making it through and out the front without anyone grabbing him for bolting past them. “What other kind--” the duergar starts. But they are interrupted as the wagon shakes under the human’s considerable armoured weight.

The door is torn open hard enough that the canvas rips. The towering man has to stoop to enter. His broad frame seems to fill the entire space. Loiral skips backwards, heels knocking plates aside, as a single stride brings Marcus within striking range.

The mercenaries are on their feet, hollering and drawing blades. They might not want any part of Loiral’s trouble, but he’s brought it to them and they’ll definitely fight to save their own skins. Marcus shows no hesitation in coming at them with steel.

There are goblins on the table with Loiral. He doesn’t know if he can flee, so he lunges forwards instead. These are the best odds he’ll get. A duergar axe has caught the rapier in a parry, and in the brief moment of stillness Loiral hopes to land a solid strike on Marcus’ extended arm. His aim is true, but the armour turns the blade away.

He’s saved from a counter-attack by one of the goblins charging in. The creature brushes recklessly close across Loiral’s side, barking a guttural battle-cry. Marcus blocks its sword with one armoured forearm, knocks it off balance, and follows through with a gauntleted fist to the face.

Fueled by desperation, Loiral lunges again, hoping that the goblin doesn’t try to come up between his legs as he steps over it. He can’t afford to give ground. Fighting here at the edge of the table negates a little of the human’s height advantage - though not his reach. Their swords meet with the same bone-shaking force Loiral remembers. He already has a knife in his off-hand, aiming for the underarm. But his momentum isn’t enough. His strike lands short and screeches across the breastplate instead.

Marcus’ fist clips the side of his head as he jumps back, making his eyes water and his ears ring. He narrowly avoids colliding with the second goblin. Distracted, the creature botches a parry, and the rapier takes it in the throat.

The duergar are faring a little better. Marcus treats their axes as more of a threat than the swords. A particularly vicious swing makes him step back, buying Loiral enough time to find his footing and blink his vision clear.

Gods and devils, he hasn’t even left a scratch on the armour.

How is he supposed to fight this? 

Again he thinks of running. But with an ally on either side, is he ever likely to get better odds? He levels his sword, and looks for an opening.

Marcus towers over the squat duergar, and in the cramped space they don’t have enough room to flank him properly. Loiral recognises the tactics duergar always use against larger creatures - they’re aiming predominantly for the knees, hoping to drop him to their level. The best thing Loiral can do to help is to keep that sword high. So he aims for the face. Maybe he can even manage to get between helmet and gorget or through the face-plate. At the very least, he can play distracton.

Swipe, lunge, void, lunge, parry, riposte. He can’t spare much attention to monitor his allies’ swings. Three against one and Marcus is on the defensive, but he’s still a threat. Loiral lands a couple of hits but none of them with the strength he’d like, and none of them get past the plate steel. Three against one and they still haven’t drawn blood. The human moves like a master. Loiral is beginning to despair.

Then at last Marcus grunts and staggers. Loiral’s heart leaps. There’s an axe buried in the surfacer’s calf. Loiral presses the attack eagerly.

But Marcus catches his sword in one hand, and throws it to the side violently enough that Loiral is pulled with it, losing his balance and staggering off the table into the way of one duergar.

Anticipating a lethal follow-up, Loiral dives forwards, rolls, and comes up clumsily against the canvas. He finds his feet just in time to see Marcus boot one of the duergar squarely in the face. And then blood sprays as the rapier is driven through the unfortunate mercenary’s chest.

They aren’t going to win this fight.

So Loiral bolts.

Back out through the torn-open doorway and he hits the ground running. Maybe the surviving stranger will buy him precious seconds.

He runs for the line of stables, hoping to lose himself amongst the buildings and the noise. But there’s at least a hundred metres of open ground between him and the uncertain safety of that cover.

Behind him he hears another death-scream, and then heavy footfalls in pursuit.

He sprints flat out, but the human is faster. The footfalls get louder and nearer with every step, closing his narrow lead.

He’s not going to make it. He can almost feel the razor-sharp blade slipping between his ribs. Or a heavy hand closing on the back of his maille, yanking him off his feet yet again.

He’s not going to make it.

Loiral jumps left and spins, hoping to catch the man off-guard with a desperate swipe. His options are running out and the tide of panic is rising, choking rational thought into silence.

His judgement is poor, and his slash is easily avoided. He back-pedals, sword pointed at the human’s face, desperate to defend himself. “I won’t!” he shouts breathlessly, “I’ll fight and I’ll die!” Panic panic panic pounds his pulse in his chest.

Marcus’ response is in no language Loiral speaks. He recognises the cadence of prayer and leaps forwards again, hoping to break the priest’s concentration. But he’s not quite close enough. His skin stings as the magic slams through his defences and into his core. He jumps back --

-- but --

-- he doesn’t.

Nothing happens.

He’s frozen.

Panic has him trying to thrash like an animal caught in a snare but he doesn’t move. His muscles are unresponsive. He’s stopped stock still in an unsteady stance, limbs trembling. His lungs suck in quick, automatic breaths but he can’t even control that, can’t will himself to breathe more deeply. All he can move is his eyes, staring in stark terror as Marcus closes the remaining distance in a single stride.

One enormous hand grabs his wrist with painful force, while the other takes his sword by the blade and twists, effortlessly ripping it from Loiral’s unresponsive fingers. The sword is tossed aside and his other wrist is pulled forwards. One hand is sufficient to encircle both and yank them above his head.

Loiral isn’t sure if the magic releases him then, or if sheer terror gives him the will to break out of its grip. Either way it’s much too late.

He twists and struggles, trying every trick he knows but he can’t break free. The human is impossibly strong and his wrists are held too high. It’s like tugging against steel cuffs. He screams obscenities and kicks wildly.

“You are mine, drow,” Marcus snarls. “Did you think you could escape me?” His grip tightens until Loiral is keening in pain, feeling the bones grind against each other. He’s yanked roughly off his feet, swinging from his wrists. His legs come up reflexively, kicking out against his captor, but his boots find only polished metal and he finds himself scrabbling ineffectually for purchase.

Marcus’ fist strikes him solidly in the gut. The maille links provide no defence against the impact. The second blow drives up beneath his sternum and knocks the breath from his lungs. Loiral’s struggles become more frantic and less coordinated. He can’t breathe to shout insults. He can’t break the vice-like grip.

The world lurches as he’s swung sideways and then down. Impact is a jolt through his bones, a flare of pain along the left side of his body. While vision is still snapping back into place, a massive hand grabs his face with crushing force and slams his head back against the stone. The world is white, then black, then blurred and swimming. He still can’t breathe and the animal terror of suffocation only compounds the splitting pain in his skull.

Another full-body impact, and all he feels is the white-black flash of redoubled pain in his skull. Then the grip on his wrists releases and for a moment he is falling before the world reorients and he’s on the ground, twisting wildly in panic. His arms come up to try and cover his head, but there’s a sharp, tearing pain in his abdomen and he curls up around it. Was he kicked or stabbed? And the pain keeps coming.

“Last time.”  -- the words are distant and distorted, punctuated by pain -- “I gave you a choice. You. Chose. To. Submit. This time.” -- Loiral can’t tell which way is up, can’t shield his face or gut --  “I will show you.” -- pain and terror and the taste of blood --  “That choice. Is. A. Luxury. You cannot run from me.” -- ribs crack, breath is a distorted whine --  “You cannot hide from me.” -- hot bright unbearable pain in knee and skull and knee again --  “You cannot stand against me.” -- pain fear pain --  “You. Are. Mine.”

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - Flight - 6.iii

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[Content includes: fantasy racism, mention of slavery.]

"It's not that simple," Aeliira explains, voice edged with frustration. Loiral feels it too. Panic still beats a steady rhythm in the back of his head, despite the comforting weight of new arms and armour, despite the distance he's put between himself and the source of the terror. He's been making tough decisions one after another for hours. He knows that implacable monster is out there somewhere, perhaps already on his trail. And even his supposed ally is as likely to gut and rob him as to help.

"Yes we need to leave with the next caravan," she continues, "But we can't just attach ourselves to any wagon. Take the duergar - they'd sign us up as mercenaries, no question. But you can bet your eye teeth we'd find ourselves in slave irons before the journey's out." Again, Loiral appends glumly in his head. "Any group strong enough to take us down without major risk - they'll do it."

Loiral has to consciously keep his shoulders from slumping. She’s right, and he hates it. Strip away his House's political clout, and what does he have? His own fighting strength: one single soldier, a second-rate sword and third-rate maille. And Aeliira. Who's neither a fighter nor trustworthy. He's still not even sure he should have armed her. But she'll need at least a chance to defend herself out there if she's going to be any use at all. 

And he doesn’t like admitting it, but she is useful. She knows much more about this kind of situation than he does, for a start. "What do we do?" he asks resignedly. "We need to make allies," she tells him. She sounds confident, at least. "We won't be the only loners in the caravan. And everyone vulnerable will be banding together. There'll be some kind of compact, just you wait and see. We just need to talk to the right people and get in on it." "You've done this before?" Loiral asks, surprised. He wouldn't have guessed that she'd ever been outside city limits. "Oh divinity no." She half-laughs, and Loiral glowers at her, feeling mocked. "Then how can you be so certain?" "This is how freelancers survive everywhere, noble master." Her smile takes a little of the sting out of the teasing. Just a little. "This world belongs to the Houses, guilds, cartels and sects. The rest of us get by through safety in numbers."

Reluctantly he lets her take the lead. This is her field of expertise, apparently. Especially when it comes to dealing with the lesser races. Falling in at her heels isn't exactly comfortable, but it is at least a familiar dynamic. She can do the talking, and he'll guard her back.

---

It takes an interminably long stretch of haggling and negotiating before Aeliira is satisfied. She speaks with all kinds of ruffians and scum, from fellow drow to hairy, stinking goblinoids. The mercenary compact - she was right - has more than a dozen members including themselves.

Finally - finally - they have a place at a campfire and they can rest and eat.

The food is rough fare - crudely prepared and barely seasoned - but it's hearty and most importantly there is plenty of it. Slices of dripping red meat seared over the fire, and a thick stew of sidarelle and rockchafer and an unidentifiable leaf. It's one of the best things Loiral has ever tasted. He eats until the ache in his belly is thoroughly silenced.

He gives his new sword some much-needed care. He listens to the mercenaries swap stories. He drinks from the flask of strong something that is passed round from hand to hand, and shares a cautious smile with Aeliira.

And he still can't relax.

Tomorrow is not soon enough to get gone. He just needs to hang on until they're outside the walls. And that’s a crazy thought. He'll feel safer outside the walls? But no mission in the beast-haunted wilds has ever felt as tense and perilous as his own city does now. He’s absolutely sick of being terrified.

Still, the sword on his hip gives him enough confidence to walk with his head up.  He can pass the anxious paranoia he feels off as an air of professional caution. The untidy cluster of wagons and corralled animals is not yet familiar. But it's not threatening either. The merchants and caravaneers are already beginning to acknowledge him with nods as he picks his way between the stacks of half-loaded cargo. They'll be in each other's company for weeks, it will pay to be on amicable terms.

Tentatively, he begins to hope that this could be home for a little while.

Until he rounds the corner of a wagon and fear hits him like a wall of ice. Right there --  not ten paces away -- enormous and intimidating in his armour and his long cloak -- is the enemy that he is running from.

Base instinct grabs the reins, and Loiral is running before he's even processed the shock.

[just-horrible-things]

Loiral and Marcus - What Slaves Do - 5.vi

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“Were you good while I was away, drow?”

Pretend it never happened, he said to Aeliira. To his best hope of escape. That shared conspiracy feels like a tentative promise that she might help him...

But on his knees before the human that he calls master, all thoughts of lying shrivel and die in Loiral’s mouth. There’s too much evidence. His healed back. The witnesses - hells, how many saw, if you count the slaves? Too many.

She attacked me, he wants to say, I didn’t do anything, she attacked me.

But he feels as transparent and as helpless as an unschooled child. Pinned by the monster’s gaze as surely as it will pin him with his weight or a blade at his throat or hells a blade through his body...

“Well?” The human’s hand runs through his hair. Gentle at first, sickeningly possessive. Then gripping firmly and using that grip to tilt his head back. “Look at me.” Loiral’s guilt is writ large across his features. He knows it is, and he still can’t find a shred of composure. “I,” he fumbles. Lying at this juncture will only make it worse. “I... defied the female you left me with.” The admission is difficult to spit out. “But I’ve learned my lesson,” he adds urgently, “I swear! She punished me, it won’t happen again!”

Anger sweeps across Marcus’ face like a shadow. Loiral cringes, but he has nowhere to go, not with strong fingers tangled in his hair. Without warning, the man turns on his heel and starts walking, dragging Loiral behind. He yelps in surprise and scrambles after his master. Practically crawling, scrabbling at an awkward angle with no dignity, he can still only relieve some of the pressure. But better that than being dragged limply across the floor.

They stop, of course, at the too-familiar cell. Loiral is tossed to the floor, and there he sprawls, unwilling to even try and get up. He’d only be kicked back down, he’s sure. “Tell me what happened.” The tone is clipped. “I -- She wasn’t satisfied with, she thought I was disrespectful. I, I was tired and I didn’t--” “Don’t make excuses for yourself.” Loiral flinches, but there’s no blow. He swallows and presses on. “My tone made her angry. I apologised. But, she came at me with a knife. I thought she was going to kill me. So I... defended myself.” With his eyes locked firmly on the floor, he can’t see the surfacer’s expression. But he thinks he can feel that frown intensify. “I’m no use to you if I’m dead,” he protests, “I only--” But that’s an excuse, he realises, fractionally before the surfacer’s boot collides with his ribs.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, gasping for breath. “Facts, drow. Tell me what happened.” “I... I got the knife off her. Then I didn’t know what to do. She called her guards and had me beaten. And. She put me on the rack.” He shivers with the memory, hanging his head so that his forehead brushes the floor. “I deserved it. I should never have resisted her.” Even to his own ears the words sound pathetic, bitter, and insincere. Marcus doesn’t comment, so he keeps talking. “I think she might have killed me, but Aeliira stopped her. Because, because I’m your property. And she gave me healing potions so that I could get back to work.” He’s so acutely conscious of the things he isn’t saying. The words shared. The intent to deceive. It’s so loud in his head that he thinks his master must surely be able to just reach out and pluck them from his mind... and that’s a chilling thought if ever he had one. Lolth grants her favourite priestesses the power to read thoughts, or so they always claim. What’s to say that the surfacer gods might not give similar gifts to their favourites? Another involuntary shudder ripples across his body. He cowers against the floor, feeling utterly wretched.

“Look at me,” his master orders. So Loiral obeys. He’s hesitant, expecting a glower and maybe to be struck as soon as he lifts his face. Instead, the human just looks faintly amused. It’s almost as worrying. “Better,” he praises, smirking. “I have decided that I will allow you to look at me whenever you wish.” Loiral goggles, baffled. Does this have anything to do with whether he is about to be punished or not? “No need to look so shocked, drow. I like to see that you fear me. So do go ahead, show me your eyes.” Loiral nods fractionally, still confused. He’s not at all surprised when Marcus returns to the topic at hand, though the cruel smile makes him cringe. Is a few hours without pain too much to ask? “You have chosen wisely in telling me the truth. I had quite the appropriate punishment devised for if you tried to lie to me...” Loiral shudders. He believes that whole-heartedly. “Please master,” he begs tiredly, “Please, I’ve learned my lesson, I won’t do it again. Please don’t punish me more.” “On the contrary,” Marcus declares, and Loiral swallows back a sob of despair. “You did the right thing.” Wait, what? “You are of no use to me dead.” Loiral blinks stupidly up at him, trying to process that statement. He did the right thing? He’s not going to be punished? He went through all that, got tortured, for doing what the human wanted him to do? “If you think your life is at risk, of course you may defend yourself. Though I will expect you to submit as befits your lowly station if your betters are merely trying to discipline you. You have done well today.” He smiles down at Loiral’s bewilderment. “We still have a long way to go, but you have done well.”

He’s not going to be punished. And Loiral hates how much that surge of hope lifts his spirits. It’s not a victory, he knows it isn’t. The surfacer is just playing with his emotions. He looks down, eyes still wet. “What have I told you about good behaviour?” Marcus asks. “It’s rewarded,” Loiral answers warily, almost asking. “Indeed. How would you like, let us say, to have your revenge?” Revenge. It’s the first time he’s been offered anything more than simple, animal necessities. A part of him wants nothing more than to put that gutter-born dross back in her place. But does it really count, if it’s handed to him on a plate by the surface scum that holds his leash? And is it worth jeopardising his relationship with Aeliira - his only plausible escape route? Definitely not. “Of course,” Marcus continues, “It would not be immediate. I still have use for this place, and it would not do to kill our hosts prematurely. But when the time comes, I could give her to you, and you could take your vengeance as you please. What do you think of that?” “I’d like that, master,” Loiral acknowledges warily. He’s rewarded with a smile. “For now: food, water, and rest. Does that sound good?” “Yes master,” Loiral agrees. And he tries not to feel too grateful.

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