One step at a time
Despite the whirlwind of thick, black clouds in the skies, the landscape around was barren. Deserted. As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but cracked soil of a disgusting greenish shade of brown, and bare, dried-up trees, covered in webs of old cracks. If he could turn his head right, he'd see a road, and a large junkyard - now almost devoid of anything even close to useful, and filled to the brim with rotting fabric, and metal so rusted, it dissolved into dust with every gust of wind.
Miles away from here were the farmlands - his home for many years. And miles away from the farmlands was the big city, as far and unreachable as the stars. All that beauty, and he was stranded here, hanging above ground, teased by the bubbling skies, wishing for at least a few droplets of rain. These water demons made sure their fields got tended to by gentle rains, and sunlight coming through thin veil of almost translucent clouds, keeping the soil soft, and warm, and fertile. But these were no crop fields, and thus, didn't deserve even a single drop.
He was so thirsty. They say, an average lesser can live without water for up to seven days - twice as much for a noble - and he had spent three like this, with hands and arms bound above his head, tip toeing on a small board nailed to the dead tree, barely able to breathe due to the torturous position, and the thought of spending as much like this made his heart bleed.
He knew that once became too weak to stand, he'd slip from the board, the rope will strain, and he'll hang down, shoulders slowly popping from the sockets, crows pecking on his chest, as his last day would turn into agony. There could've been some mercy from the cleaners coming over a day ago to take down his only companion - a mummified corpse of another lesser on the tree just slightly to the left, with skin peeled by the merciless winds, and eyes gouged out by the birds.
He remembered them looking at him up and down, almost evaluating him, like merchandise. He dared to hope that time, knowing well he was young and strong enough to be at least considered taken in.
"This one-" one of them stated only to be interrupted by his colleague.
"Leave him be. Must've done something absolutely terrifying for his master to leave such a specimen."
It looked like they were able, maybe even willing to do the final blow, a mercy kill if not bargain with his master to buy him off, but were unwilling to or too afraid.
His master could've easily killed him - one word; one thought was all that he needed. He could've plummeted him into the pits of agony with just the same thought, leaving him screaming, and groveling, contorting on the dirty floor for as long as the master wanted - or as long as his heart could handle before popping like a balloon. But he did not. He left him to rot, without a bliss of both excruciating pain that would clear his head, or a possibility of dying of shock. He was left here instead, alone with his thoughts, in pits of despair.
The cleaners were wrong. He hadn't done anything terrifying. He attacked his master, yes, but he didn't hurt the demon. Not really. He tackled him to the ground leaving no more than a few bruises - nothing one of his kind would even flinch about. He shouldn't have done that, but in his head, it was worth it: it's better if the master strikes him and leaves him hungry for a few days - he could handle that; but the girl he was abusing could not. Unfortunately, it seemed that the master whether was in a foul mood, or had decided to make an example out of him. That he did not expect.
As the cleaner noted, it was rare to leave someone like him behind –though the lesser wasn't much of use as a beast, he was still young, he was strong, and could do any oxen job while eating much less than one. It was nearing reaping time, when he was of the most use. He thought this made him safe. And he was very, very wrong. Now he was here. And there was nothing he could do. Already have tried the binds, he had found them so tight, he lost the feelings in his hands within just about an hour. Then came the burning, and afterwards – numbness. He couldn't look up, but imagined them bloated, black and rotting over his head, ready to burst from the pressure.
Time for screaming, and pleading, and anger was gone. Doom hung over his head, and he had found himself not hoping for a miraculous saving of someone passing by; neither he dreamt of just a few drops of water on his face, falling from the bubbling, swirling heavy clouds, brewing over his head without falling down to quench his thirst. Of all the things, he realised, he really wanted some sunshine. It was rarely too sunny in the farmlands. Thick or thin, clouds almost always covered the skies, but when awakening came, and emerging crops had to get their sun-baths, the demons moved the clouds away. That was the time when sun's bright, orange rays fell onto his skin, and he could see it turning from ashen into the deep and saturated shade of cedar wood. It made him think of young flowers, so quick to open their petals to the first blurred ray of light. He missed that. He missed the sun. He saw so little of it in his life. It was foundation now – time for rains and cold winds to tear yellow leaves off the trees, and even if he wasn't tied up here, he wouldn't probably see it for another half a year. He'll never see that bright orange light glittering on his skin again, he thought, and for some inexplicable reason, that thought tore him apart.
His master wasn't a bad man… at least, so they said. A few years ago he bought a lesser from the neighbours - a pale, weak little thing, though with a majestic shape of a red-furred horse; and when he was allowed to stay in his other form and able to speak - and he spoke a lot - he would talk about the beatings, the torture, and humiliation from his own master slowly drinking himself into oblivion, his social stance not corresponding to his ambitions. He spoke how on the second floor of the modest home there was a wing, and in that wing, bound and crucified, quartered and disembowelled, but still alive, his brothers and sisters were tortured when the master felt like it.
He said that his master would torture them to death, killing off his slaves, and buying new ones, and then again slowly destroying them, until his pockets ran dry, and he had to start selling instead. The red-furred thing said that he was born and raised there, and was surprised he lived to be sold like that instead of ending up in that wing on the second floor of a modest house. And not because he was a good worker - his master didn't punish for slacking. No, instead he just randomly picked a lesser to take a place on a rack. There was no logic, nor thought behind it – just a point of a finger, a short order – and the lesser would never be seen again. Or at least, never be seen again in one piece. And this, he said, this farm was almost heaven. Enough food and rest, no one was being executed for nothing, they didn't have to work that much, filling time for those slowly perishing in that wing on the second floor of a modest house.
That was what he kept repeating to himself: this was good, it all could've been much worse. Much worse. The red-furred thing said so. The red-furred thing knew better.
This was good.
It could've been so much worse.
This was good.
There was soft rustling to his right that he didn't notice until it was close enough to see a blurred shadow on the ground and smell the aroma of burnt sugar and motor oil. He tried to open his right eye, but it was swollen shut after hours of harsh wind hitting the side of his face. He then tried to turn his head to see, but found it cramped and unable to move. So he stayed as he was, breathing slowly, enjoying at least something, at least some change: a shadow he hadn't seen every day since he ended up here, a sweet smell of something sugary, like how master's children smelled after visiting fairs, and a tart oily one of a long road. In his head, he imagined two options: cleaners came back to check if he had died already to throw his body into furnace; or a wild lesser coming to snatch him up into their tribe. But neither thought gave him much hope. He was too tired to hope.
Following a short pause, the steps continued, circling him, moving around the dead tree, under his shoulder, then behind his back. He was being circled, as if by a hungry wolf, trying to seize its prey. As the movement continued, he realised he had lost almost all hearing in his right ear when at some point the steps muffled, while the movement continued. He waited patiently, closing and opening his good eye, focusing his vision on the cracks until the blurred veil fell. A few seconds later, he noticed a monochrome black-and-white person step into his sight, almost finishing his circle, and standing in front of him with a gaunt face full of malicious thought. It must've been one of the wild ones, he thought, seeing the tattered clothes, the sickly paleness of the stranger; his skin peppered with bruises and what looked like old blood stains smeared across dark-grey clothes.
But, no, he realised too quickly to feel relief. This wasn't one of his kind.
Despite his small size and rugged appearance, the man stood holding his back straight, his chin up, with the pride and confidence of those demons. In the dim light he noticed a small, sickly blush of someone drunk, and could only hope it was not the red-furred thing's master, coming here to have his fun. At least, he should've hoped, but after three days of nothing he would just take it. It was at least something besides barren wastes and grey clouds.
His eyes almost glowed - of such a light grey they were against the dark sclera, drunken haze mixing with something deeply evil, that made the dried-out heart skip a beat. In his eyes some sort of wicked insanity crawled, that scared the lesser, making him look away, lowering his gaze onto the stranger's narrow chest and hoping the unmasked noble wouldn't notice through the pitch blackness of his eyes that he wasn't looking up as he was supposed to.
The stranger cocked his head curiously, before speaking in a weird, unknown, barely understandable accent, all curt, and rough, and rolling like a small avalanche:
"Noo whit did ye do tae end up lik' this, huh?" His voice was high, hoarse, but menacing, that of a cruel teenager entering puberty, even though he looked long over that age. The lesser did not like listening to it, yet, had no choice. "Did ye, whit, foock yer master's daughter or something? Wouldn't she fookin' tear ye apart?" In response, he wanted to sigh - it seems like the man wanted to subdue him to some moral torture before the implied physical one – however, he couldn't take a breath long enough to try.
The stranger took a step closer, a big one, glaring into the lesser's face with a mix of curiosity and challenge.
"What's th' maiter, ye hang ‘ere, pruning yerself tae death, n' cannae even tell what ye did tae be pumpin' crucified lik' that bearded faggit th' mirror world?"
He was a small, skinny man, standing on the ground as opposed to the plank nailed onto the tree, and his face was on the level of the lesser's stomach, but still he somehow looked - or felt - bigger. More powerful. And not just because he actually had all the power in the situation. There was something else, something the lesser couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Sighing - a freedom the noble could allow himself on the contrary to the other man - the stranger stepped back, leaving the lesser with a mental sigh of relief. He looked around once more, somehow managing to do it sarcastically, punched the ground with his foot, allowing clouds of brownish dust lift in the air to be immediately carried away by the cold wind the lesser didn't even notice any longer, and then looked around again, as if trying to wordlessly say something the other man didn't understand.
The noble started patting himself on the old grey coat that barely reached his hip, checking his pockets. Looking for something. A bottle of pills - it went back into the pocket; brass knuckles - they were hidden as well; a large key on a chain - hidden into another pocket; a bottle - not the thing he needed; a pack of cigarettes and a lighter - this one he held on, but continued searching. Going seemingly through every nook of his clothes, and searching every hidden pocket there was, he finally ended up holding a small, claw-shaped knife of some material both black, and reflecting all the colours imaginable, as if it was coated with gasoline, or burned just enough to keep the gleam trapped.
The lesser would've been in awe was the situation different. The noble oni flicked the lighter to light up a cigarette that smelled almost pleasant. Like mint and other peppery herbs the lesser didn't know the name of. He puffed, looking him over, but the man was too tired to be whether afraid of death, or happy to welcome it. "Ah'm Kix." The stranger introduced himself. "Th' torturer." He specified matter-of-factly, making the lesser think whether or not his master paid someone to actually torture him here? As if this wasn't enough? Although, if he bleeds to death, this would be more merciful. But no, his master was too stingy to pay someone for what dry air and cold wind could do.
"An' let me tell ye something: whin fowk hire me tae torture other fowk, tis fur a good reason. Reason bein' information most th' time. Sometimes kicks. Both require for the employer tae be there. Tae watch 'n' listen. Ah cannae see an'body 'ere.", he theatrically looked around. "Soo how come ye 'ere, stripped aff nae just claes, but what wee dignity ye have left?", he cocked his head.
This was almost funny. What dignity can a slave have? He did not respond, however. Even if he would've understood everything the man said - which he didn't - and even if he wanted to start a conversation - which he did not - he couldn't speak with a throat this dry and lungs this empty. He could barely breathe in the position he was in, after all.
The noble waited, and waited, and then shook his head.
"Don't wannae speak aboot yer crimes? Fine. Maybe ah dinnae wantae know." His brows furrowed, and eyes narrowed. "But ah know that even th' mob back home prefers tae off their victim after they get whit they want out o' it. Nae leave it die lik' a dog in a fookin' wasteland." He bit on his cigarette, stepping closer, to the right of the lesser, where his bad eye couldn't see the man.
He felt slight change in weight, soft cracking of the wood, and for a moment became scared he'll lose his footing, fall down, breaking both his shoulders. Quiet, rumbling curses peppered from under his side, as the noble tried to reach high enough, but lacked the size. And then he stepped down again, lips pursed in almost childish offence.
"A'richt. New plan." The demon that called himself Kix spat out the cigarette, letting it roll down into the crack, placing his hand on the lesser's stomach - it almost glowing so sickly pale it was; then - pushed his other shoulder, pressing his side to him. He stood like this for a few seconds, before lifting his gaze up, brow arched.
"Well!?" He almost yelled. The strong smell of sugar mixed with herbs almost woke the bound man up from his half-conscious state. "You're a fookin' slave - ah know ther's some muscle there. Fookin' uise it!" Those words made the man understand what the "new plan" was.
He didn't have enough strength to do anything, but tried his best nonetheless, straining his abdomen, and when the oni felt there being something but soft and squishy tissues, he pressed onto him, leaning all his weight on the man - however little there was - pushing as hard as he could, the heels of his boots digging into the ground. He didn't have enough strength to break the tree, but he tried his best with incredible persistence of someone too stubborn to give up.
Soon, instead of just pushing, he started almost shouldering the other man, punching him into the bark every few seconds, loosening the dry roots out of the ground like one would loosen a baby tooth. It didn't seem to work - not at first - but some minutes in, and the lesser felt how the tree wobbled, finally giving up under constant rhythmic pressure, slowly shattering, probably weakened by his own attempts to set himself free, which made him wonder: if he didn't give up, if he tried for just another hour, would he have escaped? The lesser should've felt happy about it, but he found that he wasn't. Exhaustion left him with no ability to feel any emotion - good or bad.
The release was sudden and swift. That old black tree gave up without a warning - it leaned back a little, hang in that position for just a moment, and then came crashing down, dragging both of them down with it. The noble emitted a loud yelp, as splinters came flying out, the lesser shut his eye tight before feeling a merciless crash on the ground that forced all the air out of his lungs, but when he tried to breath in again, he found out there was nothing but dust around, hurled up from the ground in a giant cloud.
He gasped, trying to take a breath, his lungs refusing dry dirt, forcing it out, as he felt growing pain in his leg. Opening his eye, he saw that greenish-brown dust around, and just a few shaped of a broken tree and said noble, slowly sliding from his stomach onto his thighs with a groan.
"Shit…" The pale man murmured as he lifted himself out, leaning on his elbows. Lesser's fall was of a hard variety, crushing the tree underneath his weight, but the noble rolled right onto the soft and squishy flesh, like an airbag. He looked right at where the lesser's leg was aching, noticing the weird knife he didn't put back stuck in it. The demon reached over, and a burst of pain struck the other man, as the noble forced the knife from the lesser's flesh, tearing a large, crooked hole that exploded with heat as blood burst out. He didn't apologise - and neither did the lesser expect him to - and just crawled up on the ground towards the lesser, devoid of any dignity of his kind. He didn't mind the dirt, it seemed, as he reached over to the binds to cut the lesser loose from what was left of the tree, before putting the blade away.
The lesser didn't feel the release - he had to be told about it. He didn't know he had the strength to roll over, but nonetheless he did. And as he fell to the side, forcefully bending his shoulders to loosen the strain on his chest, he finally managed to breathe. And this taste of cold, dry air was so sweet and overwhelming, he almost got drunk. The noble said something, but he didn't listen, enjoying the freedom of not standing straight, with arms forced up, and needing to tiptoe on a narrow plank. His body screamed in pain - but a pleasant one, like pulling out a rotten tooth.
But as much as he enjoyed breathing, when his lungs became satiated, he felt how dry they were, and a series of long, hungry gasps turned into a coughing fit. His eye watered, and he rolled on his stomach, trying to stand on his elbows and knees, bending over and seemingly forcing all the air he swallowed out. Nausea hit him, and every inhale and exhale slashed through his throat like rusted ice-cold blades. He should've been happy he had an empty stomach, but he wasn't - maybe if he'd spew anything out, he'd feel better.
And then, his gaze fell onto his hands, and it was almost as he imagined. In those few days, now lacking sensation and control, they were swollen so much that his skin glittered, ready to pop. It looked like he had two blueish-black rubber gloves on the ends of his arms, blown out of proportion. The tips of his fingers cracked, dried blood flaking off them, and the slave bracelet dug into his wrist, making skin pop a few places. He tried to move his fingers, but couldn't - and he had no idea if he ever would be able to. That, however, didn't matter. He was not on the tree any longer, and not bound, and that was all that mattered.
"Ye thirsty?" He heard the voice over him. The oni managed to stand up, wipe the knife - judging by two new stains on his pants, and even shake some dust off his matted black hair. Dry earth was still falling from his shoulders as he moved, like small waterfalls over the body of an awoken giant, but he didn't seem to care. The lesser finally made his first social contact with the talkative man: he nodded.
In response, Kix shrugged, and got into his coat's pocket - it was then when the lesser noticed a large wet spot around it - something spilled when he fell.
"I have na watah," he explained, looking closely at the bottle in his hand, "but ah have beer." A few drops landed on the ground so dry it was unable to absorb it, like a person so starved his body refused food. They were floating and bubbling on top of the dust. He bent down, arm outstretched, almost as if he was trying to feed a dangerous animal while staying far away… or give something to a small, fearful beast, showing his gift was a distance long enough not to get frightened. Both assumptions were not incorrect.
He looked at the lesser, and the lesser looked at him, both not knowing what to expect. After a minute, Kix shrugged.
"Well," he said, standing on his heels, and turning away rapidly, burying them into the ground, as he gave the other man a half-hearted salute with two almost black fingers, "gaun yerself!" He moved across the waste towards the cracked asphalt of an old, destroyed road, near which something that looked like a dropped backpack lay.
The lesser waited for a few seconds, as if making sure the man wasn't coming back, before gathering what strength he had, darting towards the bottle. Alcohol or not, this thing was as close as it got to water. In fact, the only thing he needed to know, pressing his numb, unmoving hands clumsily to the bottle, was that it was a liquid. And what exactly it was, he didn't care.
The bottle wobbled, and slipped out, and with fingers of no use the lesser barely managed to lean down to the bottleneck, squeezing it between swollen nub-like hands, and rolling onto his back to let the gravity do its thing and help him. The taste was foul and bitter, and it burned his tongue, but it was - at the moment - the closest thing to heaven.
No more than a minute later, he dropped the bottle, lying in the dust, and looking up into the bubbling skies, arms spread, his whole body in blissful agony - cramping, burning, contorting – but alive. The bottle rolled in a wide arch, stopping with a dull thunk! over the fallen tree. That sound, like a signal, like a button being switched, made him dart up, looking around, and not seeing the stranger. Caring not for the dark, glittering powder of dust over his skin, he hurried to the road, limping, and dragging his sore feet that would twist at the joints almost sending him falling. His soles ached when stepping on small, sharp stones of the destroyed pavement, and froze moments after as he stepped on the cold surface of the road.
The thin figure was far gone by now - just a small, smudged spot somewhere further, heading… he didn't really know where. Neither did he care. The lesser didn't know where exactly he was, or what he should do, not ever allowed to decide for himself; he had no idea what happens now, or where he should go, but that one noble looked confident enough to follow. So he did. Slowly, painfully dragging his feet, seeing the figure getting smaller, and smaller, but still stubbornly following the same path. He knew nothing else than to follow a noble.
He didn't know how much time had passed, and couldn't tell by looking at the skies, covered with a thick, dark layer of clouds. His heart was beating so hard, he was afraid it would give up and pop right inside his chest. His hands were starting to burn terribly. As he walked somewhere - he didn't really know where - he imagined how the flow of the blood forced itself - rammed even - into the clogged veins at his wrists, trying to make way inside and sate the sore muscles, unable from all the swelling. And how with every beat these imaginary gates gave way just a little more, splinters flying, and dust falling, old nails popping off, rolling down on the ground, not ready to break yet, but also doomed to have no other choice. A slow siege of a fated castle.
He didn't get enough water, he didn't get any sleep, he was exhausted and in pain, but this relative freedom was enough of a change for him to start feeling… fear of all things. The growing, terrifying sensation. What should he do now? He never could decide for himself, never was allowed to. He was executed. His last order was, basically, to stay there and die. But he couldn't, nor did he want to. However rarely he disobeyed, he was usually forgiven.
When the master was angry, he would hit the lesser, starve him of food that evening, or use his thin, but heavy whip to leave another narrow scar on his skin. But other than that, the next day it was all forgotten. The lesser looked back at the road. He didn't know what to do, he didn't know what to decide now, his automated brain refused to comprehend his predicament. He should come back. Crawl back if he had to. Not only because that was his master, but because it was also his home, however unwelcome he'll be there.
Some of the older or injured slaves were driven somewhere in the wilds and left there, and a few managed to come back. They usually stayed for one reason or another. He remembered a girl he befriended who was rendered useless by not being able to carry a child, and not being fit for work. The master drove her off, and left somewhere far away from home. Maybe he didn't like killing his property directly. He remembered her coming back one rainy morning - gaunt, wounded by the wild beasts, all covered in dirt and scratches, but still alive. She was just limping in, and sitting patiently near her quarters, waiting for orders.
The master just rolled his eyes, and never gave her another job. Neither any space or food, but the girl stayed there, with them, fed by others' generosity, tending to the sick when they needed tending and helping with overwhelming tasks. At some point, one of master's daughters gave her a purpose in entertaining other slaves to put her infertility to at least some use, and more often than not they jumped to the opportunity, starved for attention. He didn't like thinking about that. He had enough experience in such things to know they are much better when done by own free will rather than an order. Still, however compassionate he was to the girl, that proved that the master had some mercy. So, maybe if he'd return, he'd be taken back.
Surely, surely now when wheat is golden, and pumpkins are ready to burst with thick juice, his help would be needed. And even if not, even he'd be the one ordered to entertain the rest the same way, that was his home. That was his purpose. He had neither of those outside those farms.
"Och, ye got tae be kidding me," the hoarse voice snapped him out of it, and the lesser turned his head from the horizon, surprised he didn't trip or fall. The demon stood there, in the middle of the road, large backpack stuffed with Void know what thrown over his shoulder, making him crane his body to one side. "Go away!" He flicked his wrist, shooing the lesser, making him flinch in his lack of comprehension of whether or not some of their weird power would be unleashed upon him or not. It wasn't.
Not noticing the startle, Kix turned his back to the lesser, and started marching again, with renewed vigour. And the lesser followed. He couldn't go back, he realised that moment. He didn't know what would happen. But he could follow this one. This one didn't seem much worse than the master, he seemed to know what to do.
The landscape changed slowly. Wastelands to the right of them became more and more littered with old metal parts of ancient machines, and the dump to the left became larger, piles of old tech towering over them, casting deep, scattered shadows beneath them. Sometimes some animal would climb the pile, scattering a few screws and bolts around that landed in front of them like caltrops. The noble marched over them, crushing rust beneath his heavy boots. The lesser almost tiptoed around them, knowing full well how nasty such a cut could be.
Air around them smelled fresher and thicker, and in the corner of almost every fence pole, the lesser noticed a small deep-green cluster of fluffy moss. With the old road feeling cooler, he suddenly realised the air was wet. There must have been rains in these parts! But what for? Why would anyone make it rain in places covered in rust and grime? Unless they wanted these things destroyed, but then, why not melt them and put them to good use? What was the purpose of this place?
His hands felt heavier and heavier, and he was forced to drop them, carrying them like two metal blocks. Kix darted a few glares behind now and again and continued trying to shoo him away. "Git lost!", he yelled at him. "Go home!", he scoffed, as if the lesser could do that. After a while of such quips, he grumbly decided to just ignore the lesser in hopes he'd disappear on his own. And for a little while, it helped.
The lesser felt weaker, and weaker, and his speed slowed down, until the other man became nothing but a dot on the road, disappearing as a blurred shape on the horizon. He wanted to run, but his muscles wouldn't let him. So, all he was left to do was walk further and hope to catch on.
He had never been here before - he had never been anywhere but the farm and that wasteland, so the lesser looked around, taking in the scenery, until his eyes landed on something silver on the horizon. He couldn't quite make it out at first, until his eyes noticed the smooth oval edges, like a grey ring around the silver pool, and he realised it was a water reservoir. The thought alone made him straighten his back, and get a little bounce in his step. Perhaps, he thought, he could run over to it, finally get a drink, and not lose the noble on his way back!
Was he allowed to do that? Of course, he wasn't technically allowed to even follow, but if he'd just stay there at the broken tree… His thought was interrupted by a quiet pat-pat-pat around. So recognisable, and so longed for. A sudden smell of cracked stone pierced through him, as he looked up, and at the same moment dark, almost black clouds above collapsed down in a sudden wall of cold water, showering down in an almost unnatural stream.
The lesser smiled, feeling the bruises on his lips pop open, warm blood oozing out. The rainstorm - heavy and sudden, and obviously unnatural - brought immediate joy to his sore, dehydrated self. The cold he stopped noticing days ago ran through his body in a heavy shiver, while his hands burned under each drop so much, it almost felt like he was peppered by tiny specks of molten metal. He almost heard them hissing as they scorched his skin, but the joy of finally getting some water was so strong, so overwhelming, he decided to ignore it, stopping, and lifting his head up, catching the raindrops, and wishing he could bend his fingers to drink more.
Though he wasn't a proud man at all - he was alone, dirty, and naked, in the middle of nowhere, thrown out to rot by his own master, and not knowing what to do next, able to be killed any second by the use of the bracelet still stuck to his wrist… even though little pride was left in his system, he scolded himself for knowing that as soon as he sees a puddle deep enough to drink from, he'll do just that.
Rhythmic crackling of thunder, and a constant noise of the rain dulled down the sniffs and the howls in the night. He lesser tried to hold back - he was trained to hold back from making noise, was taught to stay quiet at all times - but he couldn't, writhing in pain in a dirt beneath the small bothy-looking cabin that was once a gatehouse of sorts into the landfill.
He was repeatedly hitting his head over the stilt-looking foundation, trying to distract himself from pain. The feeling in his hands was getting back to him, and it was unbearable. Numb after days of being devoid of blood, his fingers now felt like they were rotting alive; as if all the liquids inside were switched with salt and fat, and slimy maggots were eating their way through the flesh to gnaw at the bones. He was biting his lips until they bled again; and his tongue until he nearly gnawed it off. By now he looked around for anything sharp, as cutting his limbs off at the wrist felt like a better option than to endure all of this further.
And he would have. He could swear he would have done that, but he just didn't see anything sharp enough… anything sharp at all. He didn't even think about his usefulness - or lack thereof - without his fingers and palms. He just wanted it to stop. He cried, and snivelled, and violently threw up all the water he drank, not being able to control himself. The invisible maggots wriggled, searching for another nerve to bite on, his fingers contorting uncontrollably, and making it worse. They needled their tiny imaginary teeth with a resonating crunch into his flesh with every heartbeat.
This pain brought darkness, while his own howling was forcing his eyes open. He was grinding his teeth so hard they almost cracked, twisting his body in the mud, bellowing for someone - anyone - to have mercy on him. He suspected this would be bad, but didn't realise it would be this bad. Lulling his hands, pressing them tight to his chest, he fell to his side, and impact almost made his fingers explode, sending a massive shock wave through his entire body. Darkness rushed around, ready to swallow him whole, but spitting him out again.
Screaming… he was screaming. He felt the heat so intense, he thought he'd melt; he thought that should he look down at his fingers, he'd see his skin bubbling with boils, dissolving, popping; flesh falling off, leaving nothing but shiny white bones instead. He clenched his teeth harder and tried to stay quiet. There was no one to hear him scream, no one to punish him for it - the sounds of the storm were much louder than him anyway, but he still, as a force of habit, as the way he was trained to be for almost a quarter of a decade, he did his best to keep quiet.
Through the grinding of his own teeth, he heard a ruckus inside, and some loud - though dulled by the sounds of rushing water and the rolling of thunder - swearing, and the next moment the black in front of his eyes changed for a bright, saturated yellow. This alone made him forget, albeit for a moment, his own pain, before a loud, screeching voice pierced the air, almost as loud as thunder:
"What's wrong with ye? A' ye deaf or just stupid?" Now with no coat or old sweater on, the demon looked even smaller, discoloured shirt soaking wet, and clinging to the body so thin it looked sickly. Like he was going to break under the raindrops. His greyish, pale skin looked ill, corpse-like, and now when the rain stuck his jet-black hair to the skull, two small white horns on the darker patches were visible.
"Ah told ye tae go home!" He screamed, irritation in his eyes changing for real anger. The lesser sat up fast, as if trying to keep his resilient image intact, albeit by now it was the furthest from his priorities. "Ah'm ain't yer master, ah don't need a slave! Git out!" Though short, and skinny, he approached the much larger man with confidence unfitting for his looks, grabbing the lesser by the shoulder, and pushing him away, back on the decrepit old road with unexpected force.
His hands were hot, as if his fingeres were blackened by an open flame, and not natural colouration.. They scorched the darker skin, but at the same time, this heat was welcomed. It's been a while since the last physical contact the lesser had, and he welcomed no matter what it was.
"Want me tae take care o' ye - ah can barely take care o' myself!" He yelled, gesturing profoundly like an actor. "Go back! Or go intae th' woods! Start a revolution! Ah don't care - just leave me alone, ah don' want'cha!" The lesser stared, his agony forgotten.
He didn't know what to do or reply. How could he leave - he had no idea how to exist on his own. But this man did. He has been travelling alone with such confidence and gall over the decrepit landscape, through the metal jungles of rusted giants, finding his way into a relatively dry abandoned house just as the rain started, as if he knew where to look. This was a skill the lesser needed, but lacked. He wanted to please, to be grateful, to show he can be of use - any use - but didn't know how. He could be a good slave - he knew it. He just needed one single chance to prove it.
"Ah don't. Need. A. Slave." The man repeated, cutting every word, as if he read the lesser's mind. His speech was odd, obviously not of the local sort, and barely decipherable, but was starting to get clearer.
What did it even mean - he didn't need a slave? It was a valuable property. Everyone wanted one. Especially this young and this strong, especially so eager to follow instead of escaping. He'd only be of a greater value if he was a female of his species, but even then, this noble didn't look like a breeder. There were only benefits to having a servant like him – then why didn't he want one?
It looked like Kix didn't even want to hear it – even if the lesser could manage a word out of his mouth. Contented with his outburst, the noble turned around, marching back into the small house, slamming the door shut again, leaving the lesser outside with the clear instructions he wasn't going to follow. Still clutching his hands to his chest, the man approached the house again, relieved rain washed away the tears of pain, and knelt, looking for any gap in a palisade of the foundation, looking for any place dry enough to stay in.
Water rushed under the house - all old cobwebs and flaking wood under there, but at least none was falling from above. He squeezed inside, miraculously managing to keep his wounded hands safe, and crawled beneath the house, rolling into a ball on the driest patch of ground. He heard the steps above him, so light they didn't even make the cobwebs fall. This was awful, worse than home, he thought, but what other choice did he have?
It was like a changing shot in an old film he saw while helping at the master's house: a momentary black nothingness, and then a blurred brown, speckled yellow, slowly taking a sharper, crispier form of a striped palisade pattern. Constant humming of running water was gone, now changed for rare cricket chirps, and the sound of wind, arching the trees somewhere far away from here, making metal towers of unknown purpose moan.
Sharp pain burst through his body, and he twitched, seeing a skinny grey rat startle and run away into the darkness, leaving a few drops of thick blood along it's way. His blood. It oozed through the wound on his hand, a surprisingly deep bite on darkened, callous skin. His fingers twitched, and with some effort, as if through sand, he managed to clench his wrists, and unclench them back again. He felt sore. Tired. Every muscle burned. But he was still alive, and despite the day before, he didn't feel like it's going to change any time soon.
The land around was covered in light. Few puddles that were left glittered as they reflected the gold of the sun, looking like shattered mirrors, spurned across the asphalt. In the morning haze, when none of the worries creeped up on him yet, he sighed, enjoying a small morning bliss. Though cold and alone, the lesser found himself enjoying the lack of the usual rumblings on the fields, his master's screams and orders. He closed his eye again, thinking about lying some more and letting his sore muscles get some rest, before the realisation of said silence hit him, and he darted up, slamming his head over the dirty, web-clad wooden surface above him, and falling back down only to grab the ground with what little strength he had, and drag himself from beneath the house.
The sun blinded him for a moment, and he wobbled, standing up, feeling his joints crack and refuse to work, not unlike the rust-covered hinges of ancient machines on the landfill they left behind. He turned around to a dirt-clad window of a small house, almost throwing himself at it to discover a single room with nothing but a few old tables and a rusty cot to be completely empty. The sun was high up, and it's been a while, the demon must have left hours ago. He spun around, his black eye darting, looking down at the ground, searching for any tracks to follow. It has been raining here throughout the night - there must've been some!
And the man was right to assume so. The demon wore heavy boots, it seemed, leaving a deep trail on the dirt as he walked out of the house, and onto the soft ground. The lesser tracked the movement, and found a few footprints on the road, heading further down it.
Hungry, tired, and confused, the lesser immediately darted forward, his legs barely keeping up with his body, almost falling, crashing down on the road. Another storm brewed in front of him, over the horizon - the next batch of rains, brought forth by a union of air and water nobles, forming the clouds to keep filling in the reservoir - so close to the rusted metal dump.
He was running forward, looking left and right as he zig-zagged around to see if there were any prints to signify the man went off the road. His lungs burned, and he panted hard, every inhale and exhale gashing through his chest like an ice-cold jagged blade. He was tired, and his brain refused to work well, being able to concentrate on one task at the time, and this task right now was searching for any footprints.
He wasn't sure how much time it took for him to find what he was looking for, but he realised both the scenery, and the shadows changed. He was now surrounded by trees on one side, and a tall hill on the other. It was held up from crashing onto the road by a metal net and old rusted beams so old, burgundy smears snaked down from them along the road, as they deteriorated, almost like a surreal painting. Over the sour aroma or rust that made his mouth salivate, it smelled like fresh grass here, and he allowed himself a moment to lean on a crooked yew, and catch his breath, inhaling deeply the sweet scent of freshly watered greenery.
And then once more – he forced himself up, pushing his body away from the tree, and got back to running, his feet digging into the dirt, wet slurping filling the air, and changing for soft cackling of ruined asphalt as he darted to the other side of the road to get his feet buried into the mud once more. He stopped quickly, rapidly, sliding over the wet grass as he saw the familiar prints of heavy boots on the ground, turning right, towards the small, oni-made grove of mixed trees; some red and half-naked, others - most certainly brought from a mirror world - tall and evergreen.
As he followed the direction, and started waking up properly, panic was sneaking up on the lesser, its predatory eyes burrowing into the back of his head, and now not only did he try to go forward to find the demon, but also escape the fear gathering behind his shoulders.
And then, he stopped dead in his tracks, exhaling loudly, and almost falling on all fours. He almost reached a thick cement ring surrounding the reservoir he saw the other day from far away. It looked like a giant mortar filled with water. It echoed as small waves broke on the other side of it, small animals living their lives, rustling in the grass, displacing pebbles. It was alive. And the demon… the noble… was there, squatting in front of the silver surface, reaching his hand down for a drink. And he heard the new sound too – lesser's heavy steps, his breathing, and turned around, squinting.
A quiet "Fur fuck's sake…" spread through the air, and over the water, seemingly reaching the other side as a blurred mumble. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but changed his mind pretty quickly, standing up, and taking a few steps towards the lesser. The lesser took a few steps back in response. He was keeping his distance just in case, though realising that, whilst having plenty an opportunity to harm, the noble never did thus fat. However, the man just reached the nearest tree, and leaned over it, impatience in his eyes. He was waiting. For what?
The lesser's gaze, stuck at the other man's gaunt face, was being lured to the water surface. It was close, it smelled sweet, but for some reason he didn't quite dare to approach it. As if scared to whether come near the demon, or lose the sight of him again. But he shifted his attention first just noticing the glimmer in his peripheral, then – darting a look or two towards the silver surface. And ultimately, his thirst won. He made a few careful steps to the side, looking at the noble with a silent question in his eyes, but never getting an answer. So, he made another step, and another, and stopped again, and got no reply.
Cautiously, like a scared animal, he soon reached the small embankment - all cracked, moss growing in peculiar patterns on it – such a vivid green colour with arrows of turquoise and teal, like cat whiskers. He gave the surface a curious look, before almost crashing into it, knees emitting a disgusting crack as he landed on the cold grey concrete block, and slipped forward tearing moss down, forcing his hands into the water. Small clouds of brown dirt formed in this surprisingly clean liquid, but the cleanliness of water was the last thing he was thinking now. The lesser gorged himself on it. Not that half-empty bottle of alcohol, neither the rain brought him as much relief as this. Few sips in, and he forgot about caution, squeezing the cement surface with his still barely moving fingers, and submerging his head into the reservoir, all the sounds - how little of them were - disappearing, and changing for the slurping and bubbling of pipes somewhere on the other side.
Through the dirty veil he saw long, fluffy algae swaying gently towards the fake current he produced, and a small school of silverfish escaping his intrusion into the depths. Something plopped into the water to his right, and he noticed the jerky swim of a large frog. This was so different from the wasteland.
When the burning in his chest signalled for him to get back for some air, he immediately straightened his back, letting water run down his chest from his cut hair, breathing loudly, and deeply; and feeling as close to being happy as he could, all things considered. Scared, he turned his head to where the other oni was, and found him still standing there, staring somewhere into the trees, and trying his best to ignore the lesser. He didn't mind being ignored - as long as he wasn't alone.
When his thirst was quenched, and he caught his breath, the lesser darted his eyes back, almost hoping for any instructions, but found the other man quietly looking around, his eyes drawn into the trees. No, beneath them. To the barely distinguishable trail leading somewhere. Between the trees, he had noticed a dark geometrical shape of what was probably a long-abandoned watchman hut. Everything around here was long-abandoned and deteriorating. People didn't live outside large cities or vast farmlands anymore. Or so he had heard.
Not seeing the other man attempting to escape again, the lesser started slowly washing off the dirt. It was almost ice-cold, but he clenched his teeth, and endured, not wanting to be covered in a thick layer of mud and clay. He still didn't have any clothes to wear, so his cleanliness - however basic - was a short-lived thing, but it was better than nothing.
Soon, the other man idly approached the reservoir bank, and then slowly started moving along it. Nothing that needed too much attention. The lesser continued washing off dirt and grime, occasionally turning his head to see how far the noble was. And just as soon as he forgot about him altogether, the air was pierced by a loud crash. A few birds flew off the branches, and a number of frogs - almost like artistic swimmers - dove into the reservoir one by one.
The lesser startled, looked to his left, and found the man in front of that hut, getting broken glass out of the window. His fingers bled, but he ignored it. Almost as if not feeling it at all. The lesser cocked his head curiously, sharp pain striking through him as he did so, as he looked how the narrow figure almost dove inside, ripping his sweater over a few leftover shards.
"Perfect." He heard a dull voice, before something clacked, and the door opened just for a moment, to allow the pale man grab his backpack from the thick, unkempt grass, and slam it again.
Now fully awoken, and not dying neither of pain nor thirst, the lesser took his time to think what would happen now. He needed that demon - he wouldn't survive alone. Not like this. He needed help, and this noble - Kix - was the only one thus far, giving at least some of it. He didn't know where to go, he never knew anything but the farmlands he grew up on, and the more he thought about it, the surer he became there was no going back there. But where could he go? What could he do?
He didn't know any place where escaped slaves could go, and even if he did, he would have no idea how to reach it other than on foot. He needed at least some idea, some instructions on how to live, where to go, what to do. He wanted to voice everything, but couldn't put it into words. He shouldn't speak to masters.
Feeling that he must voice his concerns, and realising how weird that must've been - being followed by someone like him all this time, the lesser stood up, carefully approaching the boxy hut, trying to make as little sound as possible. It smelled of burning, and something sweet; and as soon as he reached closer to peek in, a pale bony hand darted out, large open tin can with something steaming in it. He looked obliviously at it, then, through the broken window - at a disinterested, irritated noble.
Kix found a burner inside, and was quick to use it, having seemingly packed some food for the road. Another similar can bubbled on the fire, and the man tried clumsily to get his cigarettes out with one hand. More out of desire to help than hunger, the lesser took the hot can in his hands, looking inside meekly. He couldn't make out the contents, though in his current condition he wouldn't care. Thing was, he wasn't allowed to eat with masters too.
"Seriously, though, this innt cute." With the cigarette lit up, the oni crossed his arms, and leaned over the windowsill, nodding at the other man. He looked up, and shivered under the glare once more. One of the man's pupils was thin like a needle, and another one - dilated and black. However calm he spoke, this oddity made him look wild, crazy even. Was that normal? Could he see? "Ah don't like bein' followed by a giant, rotting, scary naked man. What dae ah have tae say for ye tae leave me alone?" His voice was different. Not angry anymore. Matter-of-factly.
The lesser didn't know what to say, but for some reason, maybe out of desperation, or not having anything else on his mind, he slowly lifted his left hand up. He still had the bracelet on. Dark metal sitting tightly around his wrist, adorned with a flat, polished jade. The oni inhaled, starting to say something in protest, but stopped, realising something obvious, and chuckled, shaking his head. Seemed like they developed a contract.
"Ha. Easier said than done." He flicked his wrist, and got back inside, into the dark, leaving the lesser alone.
He didn't know why it was easier said than done, but wasn't brave enough to ask. The lesser fumbled on the grass, waiting for the man to come to the window again, hoping for it, but nothing followed. He looked down at the sloppy food, liquid black like tar, with chunks of something hard floating in it, and furrowed his brow in thought. He then stepped to the side with unease, reached to the door handle, but didn't dare to touch it. Instead, he sat on the wooden stairs leading to it, gazing at the door crack. Small steps, he thought. And one at a time.
