homecoming (the long way around) - masterpost
on the edge of oblivion (1/?)
New guy! This is set several decades before the “main era.”
Introducing Nolopoldo, who’s having a great time.
TW: Forced nudity, humiliation, implied threats of noncon, slave auction.
Nolopoldo can barely breathe as he’s led onto the stage. He has to force himself to take small gasps of air, because the last thing he wants to do is pass out. Be anymore vulnerable here than he already is.
His strawberry hair hangs long, down to his hips, and it’s the only protection he has against the air and the prying eyes of the humans in the audience. It’s colder in here than the warm late summer air outside, but at least he doesn’t feel it too much. He’d pull his hands around his chest to cover up, if they weren’t held behind his back, chained to the metal collar around his neck.
He’s the last item of the day and just as Sarah had promised, most of the crowd’s gone by now. He’d heard the hundreds of different voices, bidding obscene amounts of human coin on the various slaves, but he counts only five humans now. He was far from the only elf he’d seen in the cells bellow, but the others are all “leftovers” from the fall of Ausnia. Second hand goods, already broken in— apparently. All sold now. They’d fetched good price, if what he’d heard could be trusted, but he’s the only one worth leaving for this more special audience.
The ones with a more refined palette. He feels his hairs standing on end.
He glances towards the center of the stage, where Sarah stands, about to start speaking again.
Sarah, the auctioneer, is a human woman, with dusty blonde hair that’s braided in a simple style and a smile that’s sharp enough to cut. It’s been hours since she came through the hallway of cells downstairs, passing by everyone to stop by Nolopoldo’s cell in particular, but he can’t help feeling a fresh wave of terror to see her.
Only hours ago, she’d come into his cell— the first he’d seen of anyone that worked for the auction house that wasn’t a guard since one of their “acquisition specialists” had purchased him from the bandits. He’d been able to muster up the courage to ask if there was anything he could do to increase the chances of going to a good home, to maybe work in some human forge, and she’d just laughed. She’d put a cold hand on his cheek, and he’d felt frozen, unable to shy away from the intrusive touch.
”Born free? Even with the brand, you’re a liability. You’ll go last, for when everyone who doesn’t want trouble’s already gone,” she’d said, her voice honey sweet. “Feel free to fight your chains when you get there, if you want. Some of them like to break the feisty ones. Others just like the virgin fear. Either way, someone here is going to pay well for the opportunity to take you to pieces.”
He’d swallowed, the horror rising in him all over again, but she’d continued. ”You’ll be lucky if your master lets you out of the bedroom, let alone anywhere near a forge.”
Now, one of those guards gently pushes him forward, and he doesn’t take the hint. His throat is dry, and he can’t breathe.
“Do you need me to drag you?” the guard says, and Nolopoldo looks at him blankly. Sarah is saying something, introducing Nolopoldo, but he doesn’t hear anything other than the blood in his ears. The guard shrugs, then grabs Nolopoldo by his shoulder.
Nolopoldo lets out a slight noise, almost a shriek, as the guard pulls him forward, completely heedless of his bad leg. The human isn’t strong enough to drag him if he really fights but he’s not present enough to do that, and besides, does he really want whoever here is going to like a fighter?
Does he really want someone that just likes to see him scared either? There’s no good options here. He half lets it happen, only offering token resistance, as he’s pulled into the spotlight. He scans the crowd, seeing mostly men, with two women. He sees a pack of wolves, all with equally hungry smiles, and he’s too caught up trying to study faces to realize he’s been shoved.
He lets out another noise as he crashes to the ground, completely unable to brace himself with his hands pulled behind him. Sarah’s hands are on him again, this time in his hair pulling his head back so he’s unable to just stare at the ground.
“He’s one hundred and twenty years of age and unwed,” Sarah says. “Six feet, two inches tall, so on the shorter end, about one hundred and eighty pounds. Seven inch cock, and he freezes up like a charm. Hasn’t shown any signs of being a fighter, but the Shodehim told us he killed three of their men and wounded more, even injured. Already branded, untouched.”
Untouched? he thinks, confused for a moment considering how much manhandling he’s experienced over the past weeks, before he realizes what she means. He can’t keep himself from flushing, and he clenches his fists tight behind his back.
Sarah had been cruel, overly personal earlier, but now she’s all business. He wonders which one is closer to her true self, if either are anywhere near it.
One of the woman has fiery hair, so bright it makes him think of a fire or a fox. Her lazy gaze had gone right to between his legs, as if verifying Sarah’s telling the truth about his length. She’s on her own. Nolopoldo pointedly doesn’t look at her.
The other woman is a dusty blonde like Sarah and she sits with a man that Nolopoldo can only assume is her husband, though he can’t see an engagement necklace. The man’s hair is similar, but slightly darker and curlier. They sit a few rows behind the red headed women and to the left. The wife whispers to her husband, and Nolopoldo doesn’t know whether to be glad he can’t tell what they’re saying. They’re both dressed on the simple side, but he can tell that the materials their outfits are made of are as first class as they come.
“How about we start the bidding at one hundred?” Sarah asks, and Nolopoldo notes that’s definitely on the high end in comparison to what she was starting at earlier in the day with something like horror, though he’s not sure whether lower would’ve been better.
A man sitting on the far left of the auditorium with medium brown hair and paler skin leans back in his seat and raises a hand. His gaze isn’t on Nolopoldo at all, he’s looking more at the other bidders. Studious.
“We’ve got one hundred, how about one twenty five?” Sarah asks.
The woman with the orange hair practically shoots her hand up, before the man on the left can, and Nolopoldo glances between them. He feels like he should have some preference, like he should at least have something to hope for here, but he has no idea. He can’t tell anything about the bidders from this. Sarah asks for one fifty and two hands shoot up at the same time, the woman with the orange hair and the husband.
Nolopoldo finds the last man in one of the furthest back seats as the bids start going up. He catches Nolopoldo looking and smiles coldly, no warmth in his eyes. He ignores the number going up faster and faster, ignores the other bidders, and doesn’t explore Nolopoldo’s body with his eyes like the woman with orange hair.
He’s relaxed in his position like the man on the left, but there’s an intensity in his gaze that’s absent in that one. The look isn’t hungry like the woman with the orange hair, and maybe that should be reassuring, but it’s not. The longer the eye contact goes on, the more Nolopoldo feels dread building— like he’s looking at death itself.
Everyone here, especially Sarah, is a predator but him— there’s something special about him.
He realizes he’s breathing again only as it becomes hyperventilation. He twists his eyes away from the man in the back, and he knows in that moment who he doesn’t want. He’d take the woman with the orange hair over him. The man in the back doesn’t bet, even as the numbers raise higher and higher, but he doesn’t seem remotely concerned.
The husband and the woman with the orange hair are quick to raise their paddles, while the pale man seems more content to take it slow but he still gets a few bids in here and there as they hit three hundred, three hundred and twenty five, five hundred, six hundred—
The woman with the orange hair goes fast, but she’s out of steam at the six hundred. Maybe trying to intimidate the others. She sits back in her chair dramatically, practically pouting as she crosses her arms. The husband keeps sticking his paddle up as fast as he can, but the pale man responds with a more relaxed approach.
They’re at eight hundred when the pale man adjusts his position, seeming to get more serious. The bids are coming in closer together increments now, and Nolopoldo looks between the couple and the pale man. None of the three are remotely studying him, unlike the man in back, and that somehow makes them — not safe, but something.
“Can I get eight hundred and twenty?”
The husband doesn’t stick his paddle up this time, and at first, Nolopoldo thinks he’ll be going with the pale man, but the wife raises hers this time, and the pale man raises an eyebrow. They know each other, Nolopoldo decides. Maybe all of them do. He wishes he could’ve heard what the wife said before.
Sarah says their names at some point, but they don’t stick in Nolopoldo’s head. All he can keep track of is their faces, their varying levels of carelessness and cruelty. He glances back towards the man in back, as if to make sure he’s still there, still looking at Nolopoldo. The man gives him a faint smile, and Nolopoldo swallows.
“Eight hundred and twenty, I’m looking for an eight hundred and twenty?”
The pale man takes a turn, and the woman looks to her husband. Sarah asks for eight hundred and thirty, and they discuss. Nolopoldo looks to the pale man, trying to keep hope from entering his eyes because he knows this one won’t be any less of a monster. He still feels almost relieved at the man’s seeming disinterest in him.
“Eight hundred and thirty from Avishai,” Sarah says, and Nolopoldo tries to look up at her. Her hand’s still on his hair, but it’s looser, more a formality than anything else. “Eight hundred and forty, anyone?”
The husband shakes his head and the wife nods. They sit back, an unspoken surrender. Nolopoldo twists his head free of the grip, and Sarah lets him go. He thinks about her freeing him from the previous order to not fight, thinks about trying to make a break for it, but— run where? He swallows.
“Going once,” she starts, leaving a solid pause, and a smirk starts to spread across Avishai’s face. “Going twice.”
Nolopoldo takes a deep breath. There’s no good options here but— anyone other than the man in the back. Anyone but that. He can’t put into words why, he just knows. Maybe it’s whatever instinct let his grandparents know to flee Minyas, even when it seemed like the war was going in their favor. Maybe it’s something more animal. Not that one, he thinks like a prayer.
“Going three times,” Sarah says, and Nolopoldo feels something shift before breaking entirely as the man in back tilts his head, raising his hand. “Eight hundred and forty from Ze’ev. Can we get eight hundred and fifty?”
Avishai’s face turns dark as he looks back, as if he’s surprised to realize the man — Ze’ev — is there. Nolopoldo’s heart sinks, and he instinctively does his best to shuffle back, only to find himself looking up into the face of the guard. Avishai’s hand is back up in an instant, and the two are bidding back and forth before Nolopoldo can catch his breath.
“Can I get a thousand?” Sarah asks, and Avishai’s glare at Ze’ev is murderous. Ze’ev doesn’t even acknowledge the other man, just studying Nolopoldo.
“N-no,” Nolopoldo says. The audience is far enough away that none of them can possibly hear his word— but at the same time, he’s sure Ze’ev can. “No—“
“Going once,” Sarah says, and Nolopoldo looks to her, his eyes wide. She doesn’t even look down to him as she hits the gavel. “Twice. Three times.”
She gives it a good long final second, or maybe Nolopoldo’s heart is just racing so fast that it feels like an eternity. No, please. Anyone but him.
“Sold,” Sarah says, and Nolopoldo feels the floor fall out from beneath him. He looks at all the other would be owners, trying to catch their eyes, as if it’s not already too late. As if the guard isn’t grabbing him, pulling him to his feet.
He tries to resist, tearing his shoulder out of the grip without much strength, but the guard leans over and whispers, “Stop fighting,” in his ears. The shock of pain that rolls through him leaves him limp, easy to maneuver.
“Please, don’t,” he says to the guard, who doesn’t even look at Nolopoldo as he maneuvers Nolopoldo backstage again. Nolopoldo hears Sarah saying something about how Ze’ev’s new property will be available for pickup in a half hour, and Nolopoldo thinks distantly that’s how long he has left as a free nér.
It’s a ridiculous thought, he’s been under human thumb since the ambush, but it still feels true somehow.
That painting in the back is 'Slave Auction' by Jean-Michel Basquiat.
And even if it's symbolic of episode 6's theme (abuse/slave-type entanglement) and it serves as a background to Louis's story... this painting is there for another reason.
Armand is a specialist at interior decoration and this apartment screams Armand more than it does Louis. And you know what else screams Armand? That painting. Because it is his story in color and lines.
And in case you're wondering, yes, I am crying. Thank you so much for asking.
ooo!! Slave Auction by Basquiat was also in IWTV, what do you think of that!
I just got this one today and I'm pulling it ahead of the queue to talk about it.
Jean Michel Basquiat was a brilliant artist. Much of his work centered on his experiences as a black man in America.
His pieces are heavy, they are deeply cultural. He covered subjects like segregation (Jim Crow), and the relationship between black Americans and the police (The Irony of Negro Policemen and La Hara).
Genuinely and honestly, I'd like you to look inside yourself and ask, why do you want me to review the eroticism of a piece about slavery? I try to keep any personal details on here sparse, but I will say, it isn't my place to do that.
Instead, I'm giving some discussion questions. You don't have to answer these, but I'd like you to consider them in your head, maybe do some looking into this piece and others by Basquiat.
What is Basquiat saying about slavery here?
What do you think the style of this piece says about the artist's view of the history of slavery? How does it enhance the themes of this piece?
Pick a single element of this piece and consider: what does it mean? What is it representing?
Since you brought up the show: What do you think the significance of this painting is for Louis de Pointe du Lac? What do you think the importance is narratively and for the character?
I'd also like to genuinely recommend some work by black artists and about black artists. I encourage my followers to add anything they recommend in the replies or reblogs.
The works of Nick Cave (Forothermore is a good starting point for looking at his work)
Black Art: In the Absence of Light, a 2021 documentary on black artists in America
The work of Kenhinde Wiley (who you can see more about in the documentary An Economy of Grace)
Instead of constantly being abandoned the old fashion way- I wish my ‘owners’ would realize they can make a quick buck off my pretty face and just sell me off.
I’d be so used to the process by now… Getting auctioned off, I notice my price drastically dwindling every time… My owner joking about how they might need to pay someone to take me off their hands. Afterwards- getting packaged up and shipped out. Knowing the process will keep continuing. Maybe I don’t deserve a forever home.
