Medieval: Countryswap AU- In which everyone is Courdonian.

[Celestial]

Just when you thought you couldn't have any more Medieval AUs...behold!

Premise: What would happen if all the canon Kythian characters were born and raised Courdonian? How would they act differently, how would their stories play out and how would their relationships differ? How awful can we make everything?

Needless to say, this being Courdon, there are a lot of awful, dark things in this AU. This is your warning, most if not all of the following fics contain some gore, blood and dark themes. This is not a pleasant AU.

So enjoy!

Unlike Bad End, which is exclusively the domain of Elcie, anybody and everybody is welcome to contribute a story, with permission of everyone involved in that story. So here is a list:

Master Index of Stories and Authors (in chronological order)

• No Matter The Consequences: Part one- Shinko
• No Matter the Consequences: Part two- Shinko
• No Matter the Consequences: Part three- Shinko
• To Whom You Belong- Shinko
• The Slave and the Street Rat- Shinko and Omni
• Stallion Killer- Celestial and Pixie
• Slayer's Remorse- Pixie
• Everything Burns- Celestial

If you wrote a story, post it and I shall add you to the Index ASAP.

[Celestial]

((This is a repost of the original post I recycled to make this thread.))

Start the beginning off with something near the end, why don't we? Features Alain and mention of Sieg(Shinko).

Warning for blood, gore and really disturbing injuries.

Everything Burns

SPOILER: Click to show

The life of Enoch, the slave responsible for scouring the old brands off any new slave that House Stallion acquired was a lonely one. Even if he had been under orders, like the rest of them, the slaves who he had burned could never disassociate him from the pain they had gone through. Those who had been bought fresh off the market, lacking such a first impression, were kinder to him but he could always detect some discomfort whenever they talked to him. Everyone knew who the slaves responsible for the branding were and due to their skills, they tended to be higher on the pecking order than ordinary slaves, just below the overseers. As a result, they tended to stick together in one group but Enoch never felt at home with them either. Unlike them, he had never learned to fully detach himself from the slaves he had hurt. It was thanks to his knowledge of chemicals that he had gotten this job but nevertheless, he could never not wince as he poured the noxious acid onto the brand. Always internally though. He did not dare show his emotions around his masters.

Isolated from the house slaves and from the branding slaves, Enoch never expected much in the way of kindness from anyone. Which is what made any incident of it stood out so much in his mind.

Such as that one. The past few days before that, he had caught some illness which made his head spin and his mind clouded. Not good for when you had a job to do, especially on somebody who had more than one brand to remove. It only took one dizzy spell and one slip of the hand to ruin the arm of the slave that his master had paid good money for. The Grand Duke was furious and even despite his sickness, Enoch knew what was going to happen to him. As far as he was concerned, he deserved it

The next morning, he had been taken out into the courtyard where an overseer and a whip awaited him. One of the advantages of being a skilled slave was that you rarely got beaten but it was all the more painful when it happened. It had only been a few strokes, he was required to continue working after all, but unlike him, the overseer knew how much pressure to apply. By the time he was done, Enoch’s back was on fire. Somehow, it did not prevent him from feeling the blood welling up in the gashes or the rawness in his throat from crying out. He was left in the courtyard alone. Overseers did not help the slaves up; they were expected to do it themselves.

He did not remember how he had ended up shifting himself up or stumbling into the shade. Through the delirium of his pain and his continuing illness, he suddenly felt pressure being applied to his wounds. Enoch moaned but gradually, the hot blood flowing down his back stopped. As the clouds lifted from his head, he could also hear somebody, a male voice, saying kind, encouraging words. He was quiet, and obviously afraid of being spotted but that made his small kindness even more apparent.

Enoch turned his head to face whoever it was who was looking after him and found himself staring into a very familiar face. They had both been much younger but there was no forgetting the amber eyes and broken nose of the half-elf that the Grand Duke had bought. Especially since it was Enoch who had scoured his skin clean of his previous brand. And yet, here he was, bothering to look after the same man who had caused him so much pain, to care for him even though he probably had his own tasks to take care of. He could not help but admire his kindness.

It was unclear to Enoch whether he had actually thanked him but he hoped he had. It did not matter whether he was a mongrel or not, he deserved something for showing him kindness. Especially because that time, only a few months ago, had been the last he ever saw of him. That is, until the Grand Duke found out that the half-elf had been spying for the rebellion known as the Shadows, at which point the latter’s lifespan was measured in days.
And despite himself, Enoch could not help but feel angry at the thought of the slave dying. He tried to suppress it but it he felt it there, gnawing away at him.

The half-elf had been hoisted up onto a pole outside the castle, nailed to it and left to die. The way the Grand Duke had decided to kill him was designed to be an example, to discourage the rebellion, and yet, it proved to be a fatal mistake. Instead of mourning his last moments, the half-elf slave began singing. Everyone in the castle, including Enoch, had heard it. He did not know the words, he did not even know what language they were in but the message behind them was clear: that their master had not won. And that simple gesture had raised Enoch’s view of the half-elf even further.

Of course, the half-elf was quickly silenced, by the Grand Duke himself, in fact. But the damage had been done and Enoch knew that. The fact that the song had called their master into action spoke volumes: even though he had taken the slave’s life, it had hardly been a victory. Everyone had heard the song and in some, it had awakened a very powerful emotion: hope.

Enoch, however, felt something a little different. He, like the others, had never thought much of the mongrel slave but his defiance coupled with his kindness had given Enoch a powerful idea of his character. And no matter who they were, people like him did not deserve to die. At the thought of the slave’s death and of the fact that it was done on his master’s orders stirred strange emotions which he had tried to suppress for so long that he did not even have a name for them. However, he soon found it: anger.

He was angry at his master for killing the half-elf who had shown him kindness.

But he knew he had to keep that anger to himself. It would not do well to show it. However, that did not mean that Enoch forgot.

A few days had elapsed since the execution when a new slave was brought to him, no doubt to replace the one that had been executed. As usual, the Grand Duke had come down personally, with his latest acquisition escorted by several guards. He was a sandy-haired young man, his body jittering at the unfamiliar surroundings and his eyes dashing back and forth in an attempt to figure out what was going on. He had the brand of House Dun seared into his shoulder, a brand which would obviously have to be scoured off.

Enoch watched as the slave was strapped down into the table, which made the poor young man shake even more. He had no clue and any attempt to glean a hint from the people around him yielded nothing. The Grand Duke’s face was as dispassionate at usual, the guards knew what was coming and were detached from it and Enoch...

His thoughts were so turbulent inside his own skull that he could have sworn other people could hear them. They had brought him another, as usual. On the surface, nothing was different, and yet everything felt different.

While he had never detached himself fully, he still was able to do it enough to perform his duties. He had never thought about the previous lives of the slaves he had burned, of their personalities, of their good qualities. The half-elf stood out in his mind, of course, but it was not just him. Along with him, he thought of other people whose brands he had cleaned off. An old man with a beard down to his chest, a young man different coloured eyes, the one whose arm he ruined with his carelessness, another one whose back was more scar than skin...and those were just the ones who he had processed. After all, Enoch only dealt with the male slaves. They were a fraction of the slaves the Grand Duke bought.

If a mongrel half-elf could show kindness and courage, what about the others? Slaves were sub-humans with the will of animals, which was as certain as the sun rising in the east, undeserving of individual thought free of their own masters. It’s why he did this, even though he did not like it. But the half-elf had shown otherwise. Surely, if he was not an animal, Enoch thought, why should he be one? Why should all of them be? Why did they have to live in fear, to suppress what they were or else be executed brutally for committing no crime?

He glanced at the poor, frightened slave, thoughts about the young man’s past and future bubbling up in his brain. Was this going to be the worst pain he ever experienced? Who was to say he was not going to end up nailed to a pole eventually too?

“Do not keep me waiting,” the Grand Duke’s voice cut through his musings like a knife. It was perfectly calm but the edge to it was clear.

Enoch lowered his gaze so that his master would not see the sudden blaze that sparked within them. No. He did not want to cause this young man pain. He should not have to! There was another way out. One that did not involve making himself into an animal in front of somebody who would kill good people- for that’s what the half-elf slave was- and order him to maim others. Who should not order him to work while he was sick and therefore hurt another person, or be punished for ruining “property”.

“Enoch,” his master said again, raising his voice just a fraction. The slave flinched reflexively. Being called by his name meant trouble. If he hesitated any longer, there was no doubt that he would be punished. Not with a beating, probably. Most likely it would be with something less physical but nonetheless, unpleasant. What gave him the right?

His anger still stewing inside him, he bowed his head and silently picked up the hoop, placing it over the young slave’s right arm. Enoch just happened to look up to notice the man’s wide eyes, begging him to explain what was going on, to tell him that he was not being punished, even though he must have known it was a vain hope. Being strapped down like that preceded some form of punishment in Courdon. He swallowed and turned away but that terrified gaze remained fixed in his mind. No doubt the young slave would hate him too, soon.

Enoch picked up the one of the two bottles on the table, the bottle of acid, and removed the glass stopper. He did not dare look up but he could feel the Grand Duke’s gaze right on him, watching the procedure as he always did, standing to Enoch’s left.

How funny, the words ‘master’ and ‘monster’ sounded so alike. And this monster, he realised, was the one who was going to really hurt the young slave. Not Enoch, but he who had given Enoch his orders.

Why should the slaves be the only ones who are sentenced die slow, lingering deaths? Why are they the only ones whipped? Why are only they forced to hurt others, or be burned with acid?

There was no reason, Enoch realised triumphantly. His master could burn just as easily as the rest for all the suffering had caused, to the half-elf and to the other slaves. A shudder ran down his spine, followed by a gasp. And he could. In fact, he should.

Enoch whirled around. The clear acid arced out of the bottle and impacted against the right side of the Grand Duke’s face.

His calm, emotionless mask evaporated instantly. An unrecognisable yell that sounded more animal than human flew out of Enoch's master's throat, one the slave had never even heard the like of before. At least, not from him. The same cry had emerged plenty of times from the throats of the slaves whose brands he burned off.

The Grand Duke stumbled and fell to his knee, clutching his face and arm where the acid had splashed. Enoch grinned like a maniac as he watched his master's agony. His head felt light, as though he was in a dream. He could not believe he had just done that. But even stranger, he did not feel the pain he usually did when he scoured the brands off the slaves. No, watching his master writhe in the same agony, Enoch felt...triumphant.

So his master really was no better than a slave.

Reality crashed down on him along with the pommel of a soldier's sword upon his head. Enoch dropped to the ground and immediately felt the knees of the guards pressing into his spine, making it difficult for him to breathe. His hands were grabbed and twisted painfully behind his back, rendering him helpless in front of the injured Grand Duke, to whom another guard was administering the neutralising agent that had been kept on the table. Eventually, his master's cries turned into ragged, pained breaths as he regained his self-control.

But they were not quick enough to prevent the damage from being done. Even though his vision swam from being hit and the Grand Duke's hand obscured most of the wound, Enoch suddenly felt a rush of fear as the realisation of what he had done hit him.

His master slapped away one of the guards who tried to help him up and stood on his own, approaching the fallen Enoch. His right eye amidst the injury was shut. A brief aftershock of self-satisfaction hit the slave at that but it fell away as soon as he saw the look he was being given

To say that the Grand Duke's remaining eye was full of anger would have been like saying that the ocean was deep. It blazed with a hatred that Enoch had never seen in anyone, slave or noble, a hatred that bored through his skull to tug at the primitive animal part of his brain to terrify him to his very core. As much as he wanted to look back in defiance, all Enoch could do was bury his face in the stone of the floor, wishing the earth would swallow him up just so he could avoid that gaze.

“Your grace?” one of the guards suddenly spoke. “What do you want us to do with him?”

“Imprison him. Then execute him,” the Grand Duke hissed and glanced at the terrified slave who was still strapped to a table. “And make sure his brand is taken care of as well.”

The guards nodded and with that, Enoch's master walked away with as much dignity as he could muster, no doubt to a physician. The slave was hit on the head again but he barely felt it. No pain could override the raw dread he felt at that moment.

He was not quite sure what had prompted him to do what he just did. As much as he tried to muster up any remains of happiness at what he had just did, he was unable to. The brief moment of defiance suddenly did not feel worth the price he was going to pay.

***

It was the other slaves who had told Ambrose what had happened. He had heard the poor man's screams stretched out over several days whether he had wanted to or not but it was hard to fathom that somebody had done that to Alain. Nobody dared defy his brother. And yet, with the Shadows, it seemed oddly plausible.

He was walking around the castle, something Ambrose was doing with more and more frequency now that he had been given a little more boldness by the rebellion, when he happened to notice the figure of his brother in the opposite hallway. Immediately, the Stallion hid, not wanting to risk facing Alain's wrath but he could not help but peek around at him, to confirm the rumours.

The right side of the Grand Duke's face was bandaged as was his arm. His eye in particular had a patch over it.

So it was true. First Sieg...and then one of the branding slaves. Ambrose leaned against the wall, his eyes wide as he processed this. For somebody to fight back against his brother, so violently and so radically...

If Ambrose had not been certain of it then, he was certain of it now. The future he had seen, the future without the old order of Courdon, was arriving. There was no stopping it now.

[Shinko]

Here are my two contributions so far. One of them takes place roughly thirty years before the "present" of the rebellion, essentially a dark re-imaging of Morgaine and Belial's romance, if it happened in Courdon. The second takes place when their son Sieg is about sixteen, and features Celestial's character Alain.



No Matter the Consequences: Part One

SPOILER: Click to show

It was the new moon. Not a single breath of wind stirred to cool the sweltering air of the late summer night. The landscape was painfully dry and dusty, and seemed to sap the moisture out of everything around it. No one ever ventured out here if they could help it, preferring to stick close to the spring that supported Baron Allendale’s keep and the adjacent village.

So it was the perfect place for a meeting that, should it have been discovered, would have meant certain execution for both of the parties involved.

“Belial?” came a soft female voice from behind a boulder. A short woman with black hair tied back with a blue scarf emerged, glancing around fervently. After several moments of silence she repeated the word, louder this time. Another beat of silence, and she opened her mouth a third time-

“Hush, Morgaine, please. I am here.”

The speaker was male, and when he came into view it was immediately obvious he wasn’t human. Long, ill kempt blonde hair was framed by two pointed ears that extended at least four or five inches on either side of his heat. His skin was as pale as if he’d never been touched by the anvil of the Courdonian sun, but the scars and calluses on his body made it obvious he was no stranger to hard work in all environments. If it had been daylight, his eyes would have been glittering amber.

He was an elf. And like all of the elves of Courdon, he had a scar on his upper right arm to mark him as a slave.

If anyone found out he was this far from his master’s holdings without permission, he’d be punished severely. If they found out why… Morgaine shuddered. Part of her still couldn’t believe she was doing this. She must have been crazy. Suicidal even.

And yet when she saw the odd mixture of joy and anguish in Belial’s eyes when he looked at her, she knew she could not possibly have made a different choice.

“You came,” he said softly. “I… I worried you would not.”

“I asked you to meet me out here,” she pointed out. “It would have been a bit small of me to leave you stranded in the wastes waiting for someone who wasn’t coming. Besides, I… I wanted to see you. It’s so hard for us to get a quiet moment alone, forever ducking into back alleys in the market to talk to each other.”

Slowly, timidly, he reached out a hand towards her. She put her hand out to meet his, and they let their fingers twine together. It was the closest he had been able to get to a hug, as body-shy as he was after close to two hundred years of horrific physical abuse from his masters.

It had been about eight months ago she’d met this timid, broken elf. Morgaine had always been intelligent and prankish, and at one point she’d made the ill-advised decision to put her pranking skills to the ultimate test and begin playing jokes on the local lord. She’d done a pretty decent job of it too, for a while. Allendale frequently found himself slipping, or soaked, or hearing noises from an unidentifiable source. The fact that he couldn’t figure out who was harassing him outraged the man, and his temperamental outbursts were amusing to watch.

But then, one day, while the Baron was swearing and shouting, the elf slave who always followed Allendale into town had looked directly at her. There was a warning in his eyes, a frantic desperation, and somehow she could tell that slave knew she was responsible. And he was telling her to stop.

She didn’t stop, though. He was just a slave, after all, and an elf slave at that. Of course he’d be afraid of his master. She wasn’t a slave though, she was a merchant- an apprentice locksmith, in spite of the tremendous resistance most people had put up when she took the position. She had a healthy respect for the Baron’s power but not for him and his petty cruelty. She’d do whatever she liked.

But one day she’d been in the market with her mentor selling locks when she’d seen the slave out in the crowd on his own. It was hard to miss him, since as an elf he was a good bit taller then most of the people in the crowd. The elf noticed her as well- in fact, though she did not learn this until later, he was actively scanning the crowd for her. When their eyes briefly met, dark brown to pale amber, he made a subtle beckoning gesture with one hand. She stared at him, wondering what on earth he could possibly want. Nervous- she’d always been told elves were savages, animals even- she excused herself to take a break and followed him. Indirectly, she didn’t want anyone to see who she was going towards. He seemed alright with that, presumably also knowing the danger if they appeared to be meeting each other. Finally she caught up to him in an out of the way street corner, and planted her hands on her hips.

“Alright then, elf, what do you want? I was working you know.”

He refused to meet her eyes, his expression miserable. In heavily accented Low Courdonian he replied, “I’m sorry, Mademoiselle. I will not keep you long. This unworthy only came because I wanted to give you a warning.” He flinched into himself a little, as if he expected her to hit him for what he was about to say. “What you are doing to the Baron, it must stop. He is angry, very angry.”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” she replied instantly; his master must have sent him to try and get a confession out of her. “And you’ve some nerve making accusations like that. Who do you think you are?”

“Only a slave,” he replied simply. “I have been one in service to House Allendale for two hundred years and I will die in that service. But you are not a slave. You are free, and you have a home and a life and possibilities. My master is very angry with your tricks, Madmoiselle. He does not yet know it is you, but even now he plots how he might learn your identity. And he plans to have you… to, to have you seen to if you do not stop.”

He’d shivered, sweat breaking out on his forehead then. “You have no idea what he’s capable of, Madmoiselle. His great-grandfather, grandfather, and father have spend years perfecting ways to… to make it understood by any who defy them that their power is absolute.”

Morgaine tensed. “Are you threatening me?”

He shook his head. “This is not a threat. It is a warning. No free soul of Courdon should have to suffer as I have suffered, as all of the Allendale clan’s slaves have suffered. He knows not yet who you are. Don’t give him the chance to find out. I’m begging you to stop this while you still can.”

“And how do I know,” she demanded, “That he didn’t just send you out here to trap me into saying something implicating?”

“I have no evidence of my sincerity,” he admitted. “But for what it’s worth, the Baron doesn’t know I’m out here. I left without permission, and by now I have surely been missed.”

His eyes hollow and resigned, he added, “When next you see me in the market, the marks of a fresh flogging should be evidence enough that I mean only to help you. Please do not waste this warning.”

Morgaine had tensed at those words, and when she saw the elf again in the market with his master, a few days later, she saw he had spoken nothing less than the truth. He was shirtless, as male slaves occasionally were when the heat of the day got to being too much to bear. And when he turned so that his bare back was visible, she could see fresh, bleeding marks, red weals that stood out starkly against his ghostly white skin. The skin of his back was twitching, and it was obvious from his expression and the way he seemed to barely be coherent that he was in tremendous pain. The slave never once looked her way, but the image of those marks burned themselves into her brain.

Why? Why should he invoke the wrath of his master? What good did it do him to help one stupid young woman? To think an elf of all things, a subhuman savage, would have such compassion, it went against everything she’d known about how life in Courdon worked.

It was another month before his master trusted him out in the market alone, but the first time she was able to Morgaine isolated him and confronted him about it. She’d not played any more pranks on Allendale since, not wanting to waste the elf’s warning, but she still wanted to know why he’d bothered giving her one. His answer, simple and sincere, had surprised her.

“Sometimes I have to remind myself that there is yet part of the old me that my master has not crushed. I was born in freedom, Mademoiselle. You may not believe this but I was a knight once, a long time ago. I willingly put my life on the line for the sake of defending my people. Since my capture I have been conditioned so that holding any implements that might feasibly be used as a weapon makes my hands feel as if they are on fire, and I have long since weakened in both body and constitution. But I have not forgotten the code of chivalry. If I am to suffer regardless, and live the life of a slave, I should rather the suffering of the entire world fall upon my shoulders then upon a single undeserving soul.”

“But,” she’d protested, “You don’t know me…”

“That doesn’t matter. You’re a person, and every person deserves to live happily. I can’t help many, but even if I can help just one… that is worth it. Please, Mademoiselle, I must return to the manor quickly, or I will be punished again.”

“Right, of course,” she said hurriedly. “I’m sorry, please don’t get yourself punished again on my account. But for the record, my name isn’t Mad-muscle or whatever you’re calling me. It’s Morgaine.”

He bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I’ll try to remember, though I doubt we’ll meet again. And since you are giving me your name, I suppose you may as well know mine; I am Belial.”

The elf hadn’t thought they would meet again, and reasonably neither had Morgaine. Yet fate seemed to have other plans for the two of them, because she kept seeing him around the market. The other vendors were suspicious of him; as an elf savage he was under constant suspicion of theft and trickery. More than once she saw someone drive him along with a punch or a swat when he paused in the crowd. She tried her best to ignore it, it wasn’t her business after all. But when one day she saw him fall to his knees after someone struck him in the back, she couldn’t just watch anymore. Ignoring the jeers and catcalls of bystanders, she helped him back up and out of the crowd, and put a cold, wet rag to the bruise on his back. He shuddered with relief as the cool water touched his skin- did such a light blow really hurt him that much?

“You have my thanks, but please,” he’d said to her, “Do not trouble yourself with this unworthy. Your kindness would be better spent anywhere else.”

“You saved my life,” she retorted. “And got yourself hurt in the process. I owe you a debt.”

“You owe me nothing. I did only what my heart compelled me to do. What I knew to be right.”

“Well I’m doing what I know to be right,” she snapped. “And the fact that people are doing this to you isn’t right. You’re not just a savage like they think you are, if you can put yourself under the lash for a perfect stranger!”

Morgaine had never really considered herself a protective person, but seeing the way that this man was treated by people had kindled a simmering fire of anger in her heart that she could not ignore. Though her future attempts to help him were more subtle, she made a point to drop a kind word or gentle encouragement every time she saw him, and when he was injured she guided him aside and saw to his wounds. It was the least she could do.

For his part, though initially he insisted he wasn’t worth her help and she should just ignore him, Belial slowly, falteringly opened up to her kindness. As his self-sacrifice on her behalf had implied, he was a remarkably sweet person, self-sacrificing to a fault, and over time she realized he was also desperately lonely. He eventually stopped turning away her help simply because she was the first person in decades, if not centuries, to show him a bit of honest compassion. He was a shattered, hollowed out shell of the man he must have been in his long ago knighthood, but slavery had not robbed him of all of his redeeming qualities- not quite.

Their exchanges were always short; he could not linger for fear of invoking his master’s wrath. But over time she started meeting him in those side allies for stolen moments of conversation even when he wasn’t hurt. Just because it gave her happiness to make his lot just a little better, to tease out of him that small, shy upward turn of his mouth that passed for a smile. She’d always had a lively sense of humor, and her nature was to approach life with a joke or twelve- something she imagined someone as miserable as a slave might appreciate. Though it was hard to tell if he actually found any of her jokes funny, at the very least he seemed to be grateful for the effort.

He was still cautious with her, at least at first. His life in Courdon had been one of endless misery and disappointment, leaving little room for trust. But despite his obvious misgivings, he couldn’t bring himself to turn away her company when it was so willingly given. Despite her condescending snark on first meeting him, after realizing his sincerity she made a point never to speak to him cruelly. Belial began to tentatively open up to her, confessing to his unhappiness and longing to be home with his people again. Before long he given his trust to her so completely that he started telling her stories of his life before slavery- stories that could have gotten him severely punished for rebellion if anyone found out he was sharing them.

Belial was good, decent, kind… he treated her with courtesy and respect, not just because he was a slave and she a merchant but also because she was a person and so was he. Not, Morgaine quickly decided, the animal she’d always been led to believe elves were. And what was more, unlike most of her contemporaries he didn’t seem bothered at all by her apprenticeship as a locksmith. Women in general were discouraged from positions of authority in Courdon, even the pithing amount of prominence a member of the merchant class possessed. Yet Belial was nothing be encouraging, insisting that if she had the freedom to pursue a dream she should pursue it, regardless of what anyone else thought.

But as the months passed, she found an entirely different dream supplanting her desire to become a locksmith. She only saw Belial once a week at best, when he came to the market for supplies, and she missed him terribly between those meetings. She had no idea what sort of torment he endured in the time between, but she could guess. And it haunted her, that he was in so much agony and there was so very little she could do.

One day, however, she saw for herself just how much pain he endured on a daily basis, and it chilled her to the bone.

It had started off as a normal day in the markets, and when she caught sight of him through the crowd she initially hadn’t noticed anything concerning. After a moment, however, she realized that he was wearing some sort of leather collar around his neck, and his face was tight with agony such as she had never seen. When at last she was able to draw him aside, and coaxingly convince him to remove his shirt, the full extent of what the collar was became apparent. It was attached to a leather belt around his waist, and strung between the two under his clothing was a long leather cord covered in needles and razors. The bladed monstrosity was positioned directly over his spine- a strip of skin he’d once told Morgaine was extremely vulnerable to pain for elves, and consequently was a favorite place for masters to exact punishment.

“Why…” she asked, looking at the hateful torture device with horror. “Why does he do these things to you?”

“Because he is my master, and I am his property,” the elf replied, his eyes empty and his voice hollow. “He has every right to do with me as he wishes.”

“No he doesn’t,” Morgaine retorted hoarsely, trying to fight back tears of frustration and helplessness. “You’re a thousand times the man Baron Allendale is, Belial. It kills me that I can’t do more to help you. You deserve so much better.”

He smiled wanly, though it was an expression absent of any real joy. “You are full of compassion, Morgaine. And that you share your kindness with this unworthy means more than you can ever imagine. Weep not for me, but for those poor souls who do not have a Morgaine to soothe their battered hearts.”

She shook her head, tears spilling over despite her attempts to stem them. She reached out a hand to his, and though he flinched a little he let her twine his fingers in hers. “I… Belial I… I just wish you never had to go back to that awful lord. I wish I could take this thing off of you, and bandage your wounds and give you real food and-”

“But you cannot,” he pointed out softly. “For he would punish us both if you did.”

“I know, but I can’t help wanting it all the same,” she said, her voice a scarcely audible whisper. “Belial I… I think I’m in love with you.”

His carefully neutral expression vanished, replaced by one of blank shock. His fingers, still knitted with Morgaine’s, clenched over her hand. “You… Morgaine you can’t mean that…”

“I do,” she said forcefully. She squeezed his hand even as he was squeezing hers. “You’re a wonderful person, kind and generous and patient, and you don’t laugh at me for wanting to be a merchant even though I’m a woman. When you’re away, up in that awful manor, I just want to go and save you. It kills me that I can’t spend as much time with you as I want, instead of having to steal a few minutes when you’re sent to the market for supplies.”

His expression twisted with fear, and his entire body quivered with absolute terror. “You… this is… if anyone knew…”

“Knew what?” she asked softly, dejectedly. “That I was in love with a slave? They’d mock me and ridicule me, but I don’t care for their opinions or judgements. I know you probably don’t return my feelings Belial, and that’s okay. But… but I still want to help you. I want so badly to do whatever I can for you, to make up for how badly the world has wronged you.”

“Morgaine, you, you don’t understand,” he said, his voice now as thick with emotion as hers. “I… I also… you have shown me such kindness, and go out of your way to keep me company whenever our paths cross. I had forgotten the world was capable of such, and yet you came along and gave me so much of yourself without reservation. I… had not said anything, because you are a merchant, and I am a slave, but… I think that it is not only you who have fallen in love.”

She stared at him, her heart thudding hard against her chest. He looked right back at her, meeting her eyes as he very rarely did, his face still tight with pain from the crude monstrosity on his back. But now that hollow, beaten emptiness was gone, and in it’s place was a tenderness such as she had never seen in her life, and an agony that had nothing to do with razors on his spine. And she knew exactly why, and that knowing only started the tears flowing down her face anew.

She loved Belial, and he loved her. And both of them knew that it could never be.

If they’d been smarter, they would have stopped meeting then and there. But for the first time in centuries Belial had found something that made him unreservedly happy, someone who treated him as a real person and gave him all the love in her heart. And Morgaine had found in that broken elven slave a man whose compassion and nobility existed nowhere else in the miserable dictatorship that was Courdon. Neither of them was willing to relinquish that.

It had been Morgaine who eventually suggested meeting in the desert at night. No one would be out here, and after dark the overseers would be sleeping rather than keeping track of the slaves. Instead of ten or fifteen minutes together, they could have hours if they so wished. It had taken every ounce of Belial’s fragile trust for him to agree to the idea, but the promise of spending more time in the company of the only person in the world who didn't’ make him feel like he was less than an animal was too much to resist.

They didn’t meet every night, or they wouldn’t have been able to function for lack of sleep. But at least twice a week they would sneak out into the desert, and for a few fleeting hours pretend that the rest of the world didn't’ exist, and it was only the two of them. Sometimes they talked, she about her work and he about the long gone days of his freedom and the culture of the elves before enslavement. Other times, however, they simply sat in silence, quietly enjoying each other’s company.

One night, a little over a year after they’d met, Belial actually relaxed his guard enough to fall asleep next to her, so that he was slumped against her shoulder. From the elf who couldn’t stand for her to touch anything but his fingers, this was a tremendous gesture of subconscious trust, and she stayed with him like that as long as she dared, stroking that sensitive skin on his back to sooth him further.

The first time he dared to pull her close to him, and put his arms around her shoulders, she thought she would have been happy to stay like that forever.

It had been a year and a half since they’d met, with both of them managing through either miracle or divine provenance not to alert anyone who might object, when they were reminded rather forcefully of the consequences that awaited them of their relationship were discovered.

The day started out like any other- Morgaine’s locksmithing mentor sent her to fetch some odds and ends they needed to finish up some lock components. Dutifully she went after the parts, ignoring the scornful looks she received from the bystanders who even now still didn’t really accept a woman as a merchant.

As she was passing the main road through town that led up to the baron’s manor, however, she noticed an unusually thick knot of people. Glancing in their direction, she saw that they were huddled around… a person? Tied to a pole?

A few seconds later Morgaine registered the fact that the person up on the pole was saturated in blood, and that they didn’t appear to be moving. Her heart leapt up into her throat, and she looked down to see that a mark had been burned into the dead man’s chest- the brand of House Allendale. Though it was hard to see the man’s shoulder with the way his arms were strung above his head, the mark on his chest left no doubt in her mind that he was a slave.

It wasn’t Belial- the victim was human, and his hair was brown not blonde. But it still shook the old woman to the core, this brutal reminder of what the elf’s master was capable of when he was crossed. What had the poor slave even done, to deserve a death like this, to be put on display like a hunting trophy?

Three days later, when she saw Belial in the desert, she asked about it. And her beloved only sighed, shaking his head.

“The dead man you saw was a born free, born in a country far away. At least that is what I was told,” the elf replied. “He never really resigned himself to his capture. The poor man was certain that if he was stubborn enough, clever enough, he could change the slave system from the inside.”

“What?” Morgaine said. “How… how could he have done that?”

“Nonviolent resistance, he called it. He covertly broke tools so that they were unusable, encouraged the others to pretend to be sick, and organized mass slowdowns in the mine so that everyone started working at a painfully slow pace. The idea being that if enough slaves were unproductive all at once, if they were all stubborn enough and kept at it, they could convince the Baron to improve our conditions. Nothing radical at first, just more time off, for example, and better food to eat.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed, and his lips tightened. “I tried to warn him. I told him ‘two hundred years I have served this family, and I know. The Allendales do not make concessions. They make examples.’ He laughed, saying that if enough of us tried they could not all possibly be made an example. And he was right, of course. But that’s the thing about examples- you only really need one to get your point across.”

Morgaine swallowed hard; it felt as if there were something caught in her throat. “But to just… to just execute him like that and, and the people were walking past like it didn’t matter, like, like it wasn’t a life that had been snuffed out and stuck on a pike for all to see.”

The elf sighed, leaning forwards so that his long blonde hair concealed his face. “I do not think you would have reacted much differently a few years ago. The man was a slave; why should anyone care about the destruction of property? Through me your perspective has changed, my love, but to most the slaves are just that; slaves. Inferiors fit only to be worked unto the edge of death. What becomes of them is no more the business of the common people then what the Baron does with an old table when the leg begins to wobble.”

Morgaine wanted to object to Belial’s assessment of how she might have taken the execution of the rebel slave before meeting him, but… she couldn’t, not really. Two years ago she wouldn't have batted an eye at it, and if she thought about it she'd only have been critical towards the slave for thinking he could accomplish anything. Belial was absolutely right, and that thought disgusted her.

“This place is sick,” she said hoarsely, her eyes stinging. “The whole country. It’s horrible, and it taints everything it touches. The only way to survive is to go numb, or break.”

Belial actually smiled at that. “So where does that leave you, with all your fire and spirit?”

“Probably with one foot in the grave and the other in a chain,” she said bitterly. At the elf’s horrified expression, she winced. That was a foolish thing to say to him and she knew it, but… but there was only so comforting and supportive she could be when she was as terrified as he about what would eventually come of this.

“Perhaps I… perhaps I should go,” Belial said, staggering to his feet. “We shouldn’t be-”

“Don’t say it Belial,” Morgaine interrupted. “Don’t say we shouldn’t be doing this, because I don’t care. You’re the only other person I’ve met who isn’t… who isn’t a numb, heartsick monster. You saved me from being that, and showed me how to really be human. Without you I’ll just be alone again. Without you I might… I...”

A sob wrenched it’s way out of her throat, and the elf instinctively reached out towards her, but she could see he was still hesitating.

“Belial… p-please. Please stay,” she begged, putting a hand out to him falteringly. “I… I’m scared. I don’t want to be that again. I don’t want to forget how to care about people. Please.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he sat down next to the human woman. Putting his arms out, he drew her unresisting against his chest. For the first time in his memory, she was quivering while he was calm. The part of him that still remembered when he was a knight stirred, and he stroked her head protectively.

“I’ll stay with you forever, my love.”

With tears in her eyes, she lifted her head, gently nuzzling his neck with her nose. He shuddered, but didn’t pull away.

* * * * *

It was five months later, that Morgaine realized something was wrong. That something had happened which neither of them could undo. A blessing, and a disaster.

“Belial,” she said to him, absolute terror evident in her voice. “Belial I… I’m pregnant.”

For a moment he stared at her without comprehension. Then, panic suffused his features. “But… that’s…”

“It’s ours,” she went on insistently. “Yours and mine. I’ve seen no one else. Belial I… what are we going to do? The child will be half-elf. I can’t possibly hide that. You’re the only elf anywhere nearby and I haven’t left the city in years. If… if anyone sees the child, they’ll know. It’ll be over for us.”

He sat down, his eyes wide and fearful. “I don’t know. I just don’t know, love. It’s an impossible situation.”

“Belial… I want to keep this baby,” she said softly. “It’s ours. It’s proof of what we are. I want to be together with you, and raise the child, and be a family.”

The elf shook his head. “Dwelling on impossible fantasies serves neither of us, Morgaine. The world is as it is; we cannot change it.”

“The whole world isn’t like this, though,” she objected. “Belial, I’ve… I’ve heard stories. There’s another country, north of here. It’s called Kyth. They don’t have slaves there. You could be free. We could be together, and raise our child in peace.”

“Morgaine, we can’t run away,” he said, his voice tight. “We would never make it. I’m a house slave- I work directly in Allendale’s manor. He would notice I was gone within an hour, and have slave hunters after me. Professional slave hunters who could track me to the end of the world. Then you would be caught and killed, and I would be shackled with chains so heavy I would not be able to breath without permission.”

She bit her lip, looking away. He was right, of course. The chances of them escaping were a billion to one. The locksmith apprentice had no idea how far it was to the Kythian border, nor did she know if they’d even be welcomed in Kyth if they fled to it. And yet…

“If we go, we’ll almost certainly be caught,” she said softly. “But if we stay, once the child is born we will be caught. That is a guarantee. We’re trapped between a rock and a hard place, Belial. But if I’m going to go down, I’d rather go down fighting. I can’t ask you to take that risk for my sake, but…”

“You go,” the elf insisted. “You are a merchant, you are not chained to this place. No one has any reason to pursue you if you leave. You can find this place of freedom, and raise our child there.”

Morgaine’s jaw tightened, and her eyes stung. It was a tantalizing suggestion. One that made sense, and probably had the highest likelihood to succeed. “No,” she said regardless. “I’m not leaving here without you. I want our baby to know their father. I want you to be free, like you were before. Belial, come with me. We can b-be together.”

He shook his head, standing up and backing away. He was trembling again, harder this time, and there were tears in his eyes. “Morgaine, I can’t…”

“Yes you can. You were a knight once, weren’t you? Willing to risk your life for your people, strong and courageous and bending your knee to no one except your sworn liege. I know that knight still exists inside of you, I’ve seen flashes of him. Please Belial… meet me here again tomorrow night. Run away with me.”

He looked down, unable to meet the pleading look in her eyes. The pain of being separated from Morgaine, the first person in centuries to truly care for him as a person, was like a knife in his chest. But… but there was no way. This was impossible, they couldn’t do it. Courdon was too strong, in the end.

“I love you, Morgaine,” he said gently, walking up to her and pulling the young woman tight to his chest. “And I would follow you to the ends of the earth. So we shall go- but promise me something, my dearest.”

“Anything,” Morgaine replied. The elf gently knelt and kissed her behind the ear.

“If Allendale’s slave hunters find us, don’t let them take me again. Whatever happens, whatever you must do, you can’t let them have me.”

To Whom You Belong

SPOILER: Click to show

Baron Regan Allendale’s mark had been burned into the flesh of Sieg’s right shoulder when he was about six years old. While he didn’t have very many conscious memories from that far back, the day of his branding was burned into his mind as thoroughly as the scar the episode had left him with. It was a simple mark, but a distinctive one- a circle with a dot on the right and left sides, and an upwards pointing arrow inside of it. It told anyone who saw it that the young man who carried it was not his own master, that he was the rightful property of the lord of eastern mountains in Bern.

There was just one problem- he wasn’t Baron Allendale’s property. Not anymore.

When the baron had discovered the secret affair his elven slave Belial was having with a free human merchant, he’d been absolutely livid. And not only had one of his slaves been romantically involved with a peasant, he’d gone and gotten her with child!

It was an outrage. It was a scandal. No one could ever know.

At first he was of a mind to have them both executed quietly, but rebellious or not Belial was still an elf. He represented a significant investment for Allendale’s grandfather, and had been a family heirloom ever since. So instead, he took a far more insidious route to solving the problem. The woman was sold into slavery elsewhere; their mongrel son, the boy who would be called Sieg, remained with Allendale. The baron gave the child to his father to care for as soon as Sieg was old enough to wean. Then, once he was sure the elf had become thoroughly besotted with his little abomination, Allendale presented Belial with an ultimatum- either he was on his absolute best behavior from now on, or his son would pay the price in blood.

This ploy had worked beautifully. Never again did the elf put a toe out of line, though Allendale frequently subjected the half-breed to horrific tortures anyway, just to remind his father of their agreement. Sometimes he would invent misdeeds that Belial had done, or deliberately misconstrue something into a punishable offense- by the time Sieg was ten, his entire body was a patchwork of horrific scars.

Things held at this stalemate for a while, and Allendale’s shame remained undiscovered. However, he had underestimated the love Belial had for his son, and the lengths the elf was willing to go to for Sieg’s sake. One day, with the boy was sixteen years old, Belial finally decided that he couldn’t allow his child to suffer for the mistakes of his father any longer. The elf killed himself, and left his master down one valuable slave and with a substantial liability of a half-breed that was no longer worth keeping.

Fortunately, for Allendale, the ruler of the region had eyes and ears everywhere. When the Grand Duke learned of the issue, and offered to take Sieg off the baron’s hands- all the evidence of his embarrassment would just go away, and all it would cost Allendale was one mongrel slave and a favor to be called upon at some later date. The baron had grasped at the offer with both hands.

For the entire trip to his new master’s castle, Sieg had been largely turned inwards on himself. Belial was the only person in the world who he cared about- the only person who had shown him affection and love. Now he was dead, and why? For the sake of the son who never should have existed in the first place. Sieg hadn’t even noticed when Allendale beat him to vent his frustration over the whole episode, nor when the baron had thrashed him again for openly weeping. It was only when he’d had a hot clamp applied to the tender web of skin between his fingers that the young slave had reasserted control over himself and throttled down his emotions.

Now, the man who had been his master and tormentor since birth was gone- likely never to be seen again. This new noble had taken his place.

Sieg had seen slaves before who had passed through the ownership of multiple masters. They were easy to identify, because they had more than one brand. The new owner simply stamped his mark under the old one. So when Sieg’s arm was bound to a wooden table so that he could not instinctively thrash away in pain and ruin the mark, this was what he had thought was going to happen.

He was rather surprised then, when the hot iron that was glowing white-hot in the fire was completely ignored. Instead he was approached by a slave carrying a vial of a clear liquid and a small iron hoop.

With the half-elf’s arm pinioned, the other slave placed the metal hoop around Lord Allendale’s brand. Sieg couldn’t even begin to guess what they were doing, but he looked the other way and braced for something painful- most things to do with direct interaction with nobles were painful, and he’d discovered that it hurt more to watch.

He felt something wet being poured onto the flesh inside the metal hoop- presumably the clear liquid from the vial. For a few seconds he was completely baffled as to what was going on. Then- pure agony.

Every muscle in his body tensed, and his eyes bulged with pain, but he clamped his teeth down hard against the cry of agony that was trying to escape him. His skin was melting, it was burning! Oh gods, it hurt, it hurt!

As was his habit when he was abused physically, he kept as silent as he was able. He’d learned the hard way that it just annoyed his master when he screamed, and it never brought any relief. And he succeeded in quelling his voice, though his ragged breathing and the glitter of stubbornly suppressed tears in his eyes betrayed just how much pain he was in.

The procedure was repeated at least twice more, with Sieg holding his entire body taunt against the pain. Finally, the human slave removed the metal hoop and the burning liquid was soaked up with a rag. The slave stood back, allowing the noble to come forwards and inspect the results. The half-elf risked a fleeting glance at his arm, and saw that every speck of skin that had been inside the metal hoop had been seared clean off- there was no longer any sign of his old brand.

“You are no longer Allendale’s,” the noble said with a smirk. “You are mine.”

The noble started to turn Sieg so that he could see the half-elf’s left arm, but he stopped when he noticed how badly crisscrossed with scars it was. “Sloppy,” he remarked coldly, and turned back to the right arm.

This time, he did go for the branding iron. And this time, Sieg did cry out- but only once, and he cut the sound off sharply. The branding hurt every bit as much as he remembered, and the tears he’d been holding back broke loose to stream down his face. Once the noble was satisfied that he’d burned Sieg deeply enough, the iron was removed, and the half-elf slumped in his restraints. Another quick glance confirmed the presence of a fresh new brand just above the round, bleeding welt that had once been Allendale’s mark. It was the outline of a horse’s head, the symbol of a slave in service to House Stallion.

This was far from the worst pain Sieg had ever been in, but it ranked high for sheer creativity and malice. The half-elf wasn’t being punished for any sort of infraction- all of this was for the sole purpose of the noble marking his possession.

Thin fingers gripped Sieg’s chin, and his head was jerked upwards so that he was looking into the noble’s brilliant blue eyes. He immediately averted his gaze, not wanting to evoke the man’s wrath by seeming impudent.

“Good- you already know your place.”

The restraints were removed, and Sieg slid down to the floor, genuflecting at the nobleman’s feet.

“I am Grand Duke Alain Stallion, the ruler of the Courdonian region of Bern- but you, boy, will know me as Master.”

His voice high and shaky with pain, Sieg whimpered, “Y-yes, Master. I live to do your will.”

“Good; I am not a master you wish to anger. Stand up,” Alain ordered, and though he was still shaking, and his arm throbbed terribly, Sieg obeyed. So this was who he was to serve from now on. He was certainly nothing like Allendale. While the cruelty was the same, the methods were completely different. Allendale applied pain and psychological cruelty in equal measure, talking to his slaves to reaffirm verbally as well as physically that he was far higher in stature than they were.

This man, this Alain, accomplished the same thing with a few terse sentences and sheer force of personality. Sieg swallowed hard. With so many differences established already, there was no telling what may or may not make this man angry and incur a punishment. He was almost afraid to even breathe in the noble’s general direction.

Papa, why… why did you have to die and leave me alone? I can’t do this!

“Enoch!” Alain called sharply. The slave who had poured the burning liquid on Sieg’s arm hurried forwards again, bowing low to the grand duke as he drew near.

“Yes, Master?”

“Take care of his wound, then see to it that my newest acquisition is made acquainted with the layout of the castle. He cannot properly serve if he doesn’t know his way around.” To Sieg the grand duke added, “You had best endeavor to memorize where everything is now, boy. I won’t tolerate incompetence and I won’t spare good workers to be forever fetching you if you get lost.”

The half-elf bowed deeply- the unspoken message there was clear. Either he learned his way around Destrier Castle promptly, or the lesson would be enforced by more painful means.

Satisfied with his work, the slave lord turned away and left, presumably to do whatever it was nobles did when they weren’t exerting their authority over their slaves. Sieg turned to Enoch, keeping his eyes turned carefully downwards.

“So you’re the new one; the half-breed?” Enoch asked, glancing towards the teenage boy’s ears. Sieg was used to getting such looks. After all, an elf in Courdon was no better than an animal- lesser than one, in some ways. And his human bloodline meant that he didn’t even have the promise of longevity that made true elves desirable slaves. It was why Master Allendale had been willing to put himself in Alain’s debt to be rid of the stain of embarrassment Sieg represented; otherwise the teenage hybrid would have been very hard to sell quietly. He was a novelty at best, a freak at worst. And that was all he’d ever be.

“Aye,” Sieg replied softly. “I’m the half-breed.”

[Celestial]

First part of Ilaria's story, done as a collab with Pixie. ^^ In which Ilaria's tale begins...

Stallion Killer

SPOILER: Click to show

Alain stepped out of the carriage and onto the dusty street, smiling a little at the looks he was getting. It was certainly not an ordinary thing, to see a noble of House Stallion just casually visiting a Tailor’s Guild, let alone the Grand Duke himself. Normally, if he wanted to make an order from them, they would have sent a slave with the request and later, the payment. But Alain was not here for mere clothing. No, he was after something a lot more interesting. Or rather, someone.

“Wait for me. I will be back shortly,” he said to the coachman and to the attendant slave who had come with him. He was not going to need them inside with him, nor did he want witnesses to his activities inside. That is, if his investigations were correct. But why should they not be? As improbable as the conclusion was, it was also the only one he could come to.

Alain pushed open the door and went in, scanning the milling crowd with his eyes, looking for the girl who matched the description that he had been given. She would have had a distinct enough look so he quickly abandoned that pursuit when he could not spot her. No matter. He stopped in the hall and reached out to one of the people passing by him, carefully touching them on the shoulder to stop them in their tracks.

“I am looking for an Ilaria Braide, I was told she would be here,” he told the tailor in a calm tone, as if a Courdonian noble talking to a commoner was the most normal thing in the world. “Could you tell me where she is?”

The tailor jolted to attention, nearly spilling a stack of fabric onto the floor of the Guildhall. The Grand Duke’s appearance had fully taken him by surprise. He often was involved indirectly with the nobility because of the demand for the Guild’s fine work, but he had never been face to face with someone of such rank. Beyond that, someone searching for Ilaria was unusual in the first place. She rarely dared to venture out under the Courdonian sun with her albinism, so while the Guild was well-known throughout Bern, her involvement was more clandestine.

He attempted to affect the most unperturbed presence as possible, while he was actually uncertain how to respond. He knew however, that he had no choice in rejecting the lord’s request, with the distance in social standing, despite the strange nature of it. One did not casually disobey a Courdonian lord. “Your High Grace.” The man responded, “ If you are seeking my daughter, ah, Miss Braide, she is here. I- I believe she is currently in the room over.” He gestured at a shut door in the far corner of the hall.

“Thank you,” Alain smiled, his voice smooth and relaxed despite noting the effect he had on the tailor. Ilaria Braide’s father too, how convenient. Without any more hesitation, however, he turned on his heel and strode through the crowd towards the door that had been pointed out to him. He put his hand against it and pushed before entering into the room beyond.

Sure enough, the girl was there, albino, as was described. She was quite young, which he had to admit was a surprise, but he was hardly going to underestimate her. There was another, older woman with her, also an albino. Most likely they were related. Either way, it did not matter. Alain wanted to speak with Ilaria alone, whatever the other woman’s relationship with her was, she did not need to hear what they were going to discuss.

“Excuse me,” he stepped into the room, looming over the two. “Would you mind giving me some time alone with her? I’m sure you have plenty of other things you need to be doing.”

His tone made it very clear that refusing was not an option.

Ilaria and her mother had been engrossed in a project they were in the process of, but the sound of the nobleman’s voice brought the both of them out of their heads. Casandra lifted herself from the hunched position she had been in, set the dress she was working on down on the table and attempted to meet the face of the Grand Duke. His request was very clear. In addition to having been on an important and elusive train of thought before he had burst in, she did not particularly wish to leave her thirteen-year old daughter alone with him, but she knew she had no choice on the matter.

The girl herself was confused. A very high ranking nobleman, whose face she did not recognize, but whose standing she could discern from his clothing, had suddenly turned up asking for her. Although confusion was not an uncommon state of mind for her, it was mixed with vague feelings of guilt. Over the past few weeks, she had been sneaking away from her family more often than she had previously been. Ilaria feared that maybe he had learned of that and didn’t want people thinking there was a vampire in the streets, and trying to stop her on such a false premise. She clutched her needle and looked at him with wide eyes, not moving from her seat.

Casandra spoke, blending caution and deference.. “Your Grace. If you must speak to Ilaria alone, you may.” She curtsied, and went to exit the room. Her pace slowed in spite of herself, and she shut the door a little more carefully than was necessary, taking one last look at the two she was leaving there.

Alain waited patiently as the woman exited, noting her nervousness. No doubt she did not want to leave such a young girl alone with a much older nobleman. Though if she thought the girl so defenceless, it meant that she had no idea about her...activities. This was convenient. The fewer people who knew, the better.

Once they were alone, he approached Ilaria, regarding her for the very first time. This was her, judging by the description that he had been given. Girls with white hair and an albino complexion were rare. At first glance, she did not look like much but, Alain thought as he looked down at the sword belt on her hip, appearances could be deceiving. Nevertheless, he was going to make sure. There were ways to pry out relevant information from somebody without laying even a finger on them.

“Ilaria Braide, is it?” he asked, giving her a smile. “I’ve been looking for you. I hear you have been very busy with certain things.”

Alain walked around, stopping in a spot where he could clearly see her face.

“A few days ago, one of my overseers, a man by the name of Jerome, was found dead. I was wondering if you knew anything about it?” he asked, smiling down at her and watching for a reaction, any reaction. Though if he was correct, he knew exactly what reaction he was going to get.

It took her a moment to realize exactly what he was saying. It was definitely not about any special commission as she had been hoping. At first, it seemed thoroughly unrelated to her, but then he mentioned that the stranger he was talking about was dead. Maybe it was related to her, after all. She felt a jolt of distress like lightning swirl through her. She had been looking at him with an innocent smile and wide blue eyes, which normally had a disarming effect on people.With her realization, Ilaria then found maintaining eye contact was becoming difficult, and her smile twisted grimly for a spell. So that had been his name…Jerome. She didn’t know anything about him at the time, other than his bad intentions. She hadn’t expected the evil man would have been working for a high ranking noble. The noble would probably be upset. This was bad.

“M’lord, I apologize, but I don’t know who people are,” Ilaria squeaked, her fingers shifting about the sewing needle protectively “I don’t know any overseers or anyone by that name.”

Alain’s eyes glittered with amusement as he watched the girl desperately fumble with her words and her expression. She was trying to throw him off by looking innocent but in truth he could read her like an open book. Her tone of voice, her lack of eye contact, the false smile, all betrayed her to him.

“Don’t lie to me, Ilaria Braide, you don’t want to do that,” the Grand Duke said in a calm, measured tone, though he made sure to insert a little edge into his voice. “Several people saw you follow him out of the inn before he turned up dead. Others at the inn report that you were glaring at him. So far, you’re the only suspect.”

His smile grew wider. “And you are doing a very poor job of lying to me. You’re hiding something. So tell me again, Ilaria Braide, looking me in the eye this time,” Alain leaned closer to her, watching the needle she was holding out of the corner of his eye, “Did you kill Jerome?”

The needle fell to the workbench with a small metallic ting, as the girl’s hands shifted their grip onto the hilt of her sword. His accusations had been irrefutable, and most traces confusion had fled. Only passion and terror remained, and she squirmed and quivered like a threatened animal. The family heirloom she grasped securely, an accomplice to her deeds, provided a slight reassurance, but she had been right... the stranger he was alluding to had been the last bad man she had slain. In that case, the nobleman knew she had taken one of his men’s lives. She rose from her seat, trying to find a way to feel less cornered as he met her eyes. This was bad. This was very bad. His smile made her nervous with how it conflicted with the words he was saying. All she knew was that it was time for damage control, and acting harmless seemed to be failing.

Ilaria stood like a soldier and lifted her head upwards, only then realizing that she had bowed it. The fear morphed and interlaced into a heroic pulsing through her heart. When the young seamstress finally spoke again, her voice was low and firm. All he she could do was tell the truth and hope the man could understand. She was aware trying to skewer him for impairing justice, while tempting, would have landed her in a bigger mess. She returned his gaze purposefully and squeezed the sword’s hilt until her pale fingers turned sheet-white at the knuckles.

“Yes. I killed him- if you refer to who I think,” Ilaria confessed, throwing her shoulders back and speaking very deliberately, “ And I did what was right, M’lord. Now he can’t menace women ever again. I saved her. I saved every other lady he would have gone after when he finished with her. It’s not wrongdoing, it’s making right.”

Alain tilted his head a little, noting her lack of deference and the way she looked him in the eye. He could easily have struck her or had her punished for not showing proper respect for a noble but that was not really something he wanted to do at the moment. Besides, it would be counter-productive and an unnecessary waste of effort on his part. She had told him exactly what he wanted to hear, whether spoken or through her body language.

But what she said had been so interesting. If the Grand Duke had less self-control, he would have laughed out loud. The naivety of it! She had killed his overseer in the name of what was right, just because he was menacing some woman in a tavern. While it was true, he had a nasty habit of doing that, why did it matter? He did his job. To kill a man for that was so...single-minded. Yet she was so convinced that she was right! And judging by the way she clung on to her sword, she was willing to defend that accusation to the death. To attack a high noble, the Grand Duke himself, all because of her sense of justice! How ridiculous this girl was. He wondered how she had not been caught yet, given how easily she broke under his very simple interrogation. And yet, for a child, she was remarkable.

Alain stood back, letting a few moments pass in silence. He stroked his chin, pondering what to do with her. It would be so easy to just take her and execute her for murder. But he felt like that would be such a waste. Not every girl could easily overpower a grown man.

Perhaps he could use her. After all, there were plenty of men he wanted to see dead.

“That’s very admirable, Ilaria Braide. You are quite an amazing girl,” he grinned. “You know, it’s such a shame. The law of Courdon says that for murder, you must be executed.”

He took a few steps forward towards her. “But...I understand you did what you thought was right. My overseer was a bad man, as you say, and he should have been punished. I regret I didn’t do it sooner. You have a remarkable sense of justice. It would be such a shame to let that go to waste on the executioner’s block.”

Alain smiled widely. “But I know plenty of bad people you could- no, should- hunt down. Perhaps I can save you, Ilaria Braide. I have the power to flout even the law.”

After an mildly torturous period of waiting, It came as a very pleasant surprise to Ilaria that he seemed to be on her side, even proud of her. Her base reaction was to be elated that he agreed with her sense of justice. She had suspected the smile to be like her own misleading one, but his words seemed to correspond this time with the meaning. It had never fully settled in her mind that her vigilante spree could end with an agonizing execution, but his words, of a vague choice that was not truly a choice, clung to her and struck beneath her skin. It was in his power to shape her fate.

Standing more submissively, now knowing he was not a certain threat to her life, Ilaria exclaimed, “Please, M’lord! Save me! I can make justice for you if you want me to… I don’t want to die. I couldn’t fight if I was dead. I couldn’t save people that way...How can you save me?”

The smile remained on Alain’s face as he leaned closer to her. “I can take you under the protection of my House. You will be free to kill with impunity. Of course, that does involve certain...rules you should follow and certain things you shall do. You will kill the unjust in my service,” he chuckled. “But you will not be a slave, no. You will be my ward, Ilaria Braide, and my...hand of justice, I suppose you could say.”

It was so easy. All he had to do was tell her what she wanted to hear and she would gladly obey him. Pathetic, but useful.

“Of course, it means you have to come with me. You cannot stay a mere tailor and be House Stallion’s ward. But the way I see it, it is either that or the gallows for you. Do you understand now, Ilaria Braide, how I can save you and what you must do?”

Now she understood. She could leave behind her family, her career, and her home, and take her slayer duties as her new life… or perish, and lose her life in addition to all the rest. For what he was offering her, he seemed like a kind man. It pained her to realize that all paths lead away from her home, but the life she had chosen was now catching up to her. Childishly, she had clung to the ideal of having both lives at once, but death hung over her head now. Stallion. She had not realized he was the famed Grand Duke of House Stallion, but it clicked to her in that moment when he revealed to her which house he was the head of. This man was very, very powerful indeed.

Ilaria drew her sword from her sheath, keeping the bare blade close to her, and fell to one knee. She held out the sword to the Grand Duke, and vowed,“I- I pledge my services to House Stallion.”

If the gesture surprised Alain, he did not show it. Instead, his smile broke into a grin and he took her blade by the hilt. Assassins were not given the same honor as knights but if that was how she wanted to do it, he would humor her. Might as well.

“And I, Grand Duke Alain Stallion, accept your services,” he touched her shoulders with the sword and took it by the blade again, holding its hilt out to her. It was a fine sword and he could not help wonder where she had come across it. The weathering on it and the style suggested that it was not new, so most likely an heirloom. Oh well, it did not matter. It clearly did its job. “Now, Ilaria Braide gather your things, you’re coming with me. Though...perhaps we should tell your parents about our arrangement, first, wouldn’t you say? I’m sure you don’t want to worry them. “

Alain folded his hands behind his back, turning on his heel. “Of course, they probably shouldn’t know the true reason why I am taking you with me. So let me do the talking, Ilaria. I’ll explain everything, if you lead me to them.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Ilaria replied softly, “I don’t think they left the Guildhall. Mother was just in here.”

The Grand Duke smiled, nodded and turned on his heel, exiting the room and leaving Ilaria alone. She was glad to let him be the one to talk- she wouldn’t have to untangle a cover story in her head anymore. Only a lack of suspicion had saved her over the past eight months. She waited for him to make to leave before she risked moving, mentally recollecting everything she could take with her. Her heirloom sword would have great purpose where she was going now. The pretty dresses she adored, which displayed her merchant standing and kept her a little safer from distrustful passersbys, and her storybooks, were not strictly necessary, but she hoped they would be able to come nonetheless. She couldn’t claim the the same about the people.

Meanwhile, Alain strode down the hallway, a satisfied smile playing on his face. He had just come here to sort out the issue with the girl and his overseer but now, he was getting the unexpected windfall of his own personal assassin. They were normally so messy and untrustworthy, plus the other nobles tended to... object to their rivals having one on their payrolls. But Ilaria Braide was perfect. Sweet, innocent and yet deadly, nobody would suspect her. Best of all, with all this talk of justice, he could play the naive little girl like a puppet.

The Grand Duke dismissed his thoughts as he saw the woman who had been with Ilaria, who by now he had guessed had been her mother. He stopped in front of her, folding his hands behind his back.

“Mrs Braide, I presume?” he asked.

“Yes, Your High Grace. Was your meeting satisfactory?” she replied, facing Alain as he initiated conversation with her again. She attempted to extend the question to Ilaria to gauge her own daughter’s opinions, but she wasn’t certain the girl would be smart enough to pick up on her inquiry. Ilaria appeared fine- a little solemn but not quaking or sobbing. As Casandra projected, she did not respond in any way to her questioning.

“I have spoken with your daughter. She’s coming with me,” the Grand Duke lifted up his hand before she could object. “Don’t worry, she is not going to be enslaved. Rather, I’m taking her as a ward of my House. Her tailoring skills are most impressive and my daughter needs a lady-in-waiting. Ilaria would be perfect for the position, I feel.”

He tilted his head. “I’m sure you have questions you wish to ask. But I must warn you against trying to challenge my decision too much.”

It was a struggle for her to hide her distress, and the emotion slipped into her expression despite the fact Ilaria was not being outright enslaved. This noble had come into their Guildhall very suddenly, and was now going to take away her only child from her. Yes, there was slight pride to the fact her daughter’s talents were being sought after, but the price was going to be losing her to nobles she was in no position to deny. Well, at least the noble had bothered an explanation before deciding to cart her off. To mere merchants, it was a mercy Ilaria didn’t seem happy about it either, but she didn’t seem so stricken as she felt. She could only hope her daughter’s optimism could get her painlessly through whatever was to come for her.

“I respect your judgment to take my daughter for such an honor,” Casandra replied solemnly “I only must ask- will we ever get to see her again?’

The Grand Duke smiled. “That can be arranged, I’m sure. I am glad that you respect my decision,” he said with utmost calmness, looking her squarely in the eye. It was easy to see how distressed she was and why would she not be? After all, Alain was taking her daughter from her. But nevertheless, he had more use for her than this woman. Oh yes, Ilaria’s talents would be very useful indeed.

"She's in your hands now. Please, take care of her-” there was a pleading element to her tone, but as the words left her mouth she instantly regretted them, “Sorry Your High Grace. I fret for her always."

Whatever surprise Alain felt at her boldness, he did not show it. Instead, the Grand Duke simply nodded. “Of course,” he turned on his heel. “Tell Ilaria I will be waiting in my carriage for her. Though she should not keep me waiting long.”

With that, Alain walked away from her and out of the Guildhall, striding towards his carriage with the air of a conqueror on a triumphal procession. Once he got inside, he sat down, folded his hands and waited for his new little assassin to join him. Already, his mind was working through the list of those men whose unfortunate demises would be very fortunate for him.

[Pixie]

The second part of Ilaria's story, which I wrote with Celestial's guidance. In which her tale takes a very sharp turn for the worst...

Warning for themes of suicide.

Slayer's Remorse

SPOILER: Click to show

Ilaria came to Grand Duke Alain with her head bowed and her pale face streaked with tears. The young swordswoman carried herself purposefully and solemnly, her fatal blade outstretched to him. No matter her reason for approaching him, it was apparent to him the exchange would not end well. There was a certain frenzy burning from within her silver-blue eyes, a different kind than the one elicited when she had dealt justice to his enemies.

"Your Grace" she choked, "I know it's a lot to ask for all you've done for me, but I need..." her voice trailed off, burdened by shame and words which wouldn't come together for her. Her lips moved silently, parodying the lost words. She lifted her pleading eyes after a spell, and spoke with an urgency and finality.

"I ask of you- one last favor. Kill me. Please," Ilaria’s voice fell again to a whisper, "I'm a monster."

Of all the reasons for her confrontation, this one was not unexpected but had not seemed as probable. The situation would be salvageable. It was more expected she had come to cause his own death, then her own. The girl had always been far too dense to realize the inconsistencies in her foolish moral code, which made her easy to bend to his will. Convinced she was doing what was right, she was the perfect pawn. However, her crusade had turned against herself- and his mechanism to control her had broken. This would not do at all. Action would have to be taken to fix her. The first step was to take away the girl's blade. She was handing him both her weapon and her power against him.

Feigning compliance to his servant's wishes, he accepted the blade from her with a grim nod. The blade had taken many lives before, both at his command and on her own accord.

She didn't flinch as he raised the blade. The scene had been tried through her head a dozen times since his treachery was revealed. Whether he was to impale or cleave her, or end her life in any other way she had used against her victims, she was prepared for the agony of the wound. It was the price for what was to follow. Her suffering would be for the sake of justice, and the notion that the resolution justified the methods was still firmly lodged into her head.

He smacked her down hard to the floor, with the flat of the blade.

As the metal made its impact, consuming pain flared like a flame through her head, and her spectacles went soaring across the room. She collapsed onto her side with a shrill cry of surprise and pain. Time seemed to have halted its course, and for the moment all she could recognize was her injury, by its overwhelming sensation. It hurt, it really did, but not enough that she would be dying. Acute betrayal played across her face.

She hadn't told him why she thought herself a monster now, but it hadn't saved her. He had used her, and the awakening to it, once she accepted it, had put her on list of the wicked who needed to die. She wasn't just a murder weapon. She had been the one to kill the good people too, and not reluctantly. Trusting his just judgment had been a major mistake, but she had never had much choice in the matter. He was the Grand Duke of Bern, and her his servant. Ilaria had seen him as a kind man, never realizing any of his malice. Her blindness, her lack of resistance, had been her own choice.

She pulled herself to her hands and knees the split second she has recovered enough to manage, uncertain of how to react to the fact she was still alive. The greater concern was that she seemed to have lost the protection of her standing. He hadn't ever hit her before. Now, he could continue to beat her if he so pleased, without the mercy of death and it would be hard to stop him without a sword… In a split second, he had knelt beside her and had taken a secure grasp on her long white hair, the sword discarded far behind him. He held her locks firm and yanked her staggering back to her feet, sending another surge of sharp pain through her head.

Hurting strongly, disorientated and fearing continued punishment, Ilaria acted on visceral impulse. Powering through it all was all she could do. The dizziness and the radiating pain had to be shut out, or she’d be helpless. Ilaria made it through by her strong will. She tried to struggle out of Alain’s steady grip, prying at his arms and kicking sharply at his legs with all the strength left in her. There had to be some way she could get him to let go of her, she just had to find it...

Ilaria was tall and strong, but so was Alain by a greater margin. She wasn’t in any danger of escaping or greatly harming him, but it would be less bothersome to cut her struggling short and not risk any of that. He used his grapple and her squirming against her to lead her into a more prone position, and then struck her in the gut with a hard kick aimed to her solar plexus. The breath remaining in her lungs could not supply her cry of pain. She hung limply in Alain’s grasp, struggling for air.

Seeing his opponent in defeat, he shifted his grip on Ilaria again so that held he held the girl by her face.

"Ilaria, answer me," the Grand Duke asked in an all too calm tone, as he forced her chin upwards so that she had no choice but to meet his eyes, "Why do you wish to die?"

Ilaria choked, punctuated by desperate gasps for the air she lost when the Grand Duke winded her, "You made me kill good people. You aren't a bad person... I think at your heart is good- but your sense of justice isn’t. I've been making injustice all along, though I bet you didn't mean for it. And I've done the things I've been killing people for, for justice. I must die. It's what's right."

"Sometimes people have to die. Sacrifices must be made for the greater good. There are some things in this world beyond your understanding," Alain insisted.

"They don't have to die,” Ilaria countered weakly “That's what justice is about. "

"I know what I am talking about,” Alain smirked, adding a slight tilt to his head. She was speaking out against him in defense of her code. Clearly, her loyalties were misplaced. “Tell me, why did you claim you killed good people?"

"I talked to someone. Then I realized...." Ilaria’s voice cut off, and she squeezed her eyes shut as the conversation that provoked her had flooded back into her head.

"Who did you talk to?” Alain’s eyes acquired a hard glare.

"Somebody close to one whose life I stole. They were children, and I had saved them…” Ilaria opened her eyes again, realizing secret-keeping wasn’t a viable option. She didn’t want to give away who she had spoken with in case he wanted to harm them for being involved in a revelation he clearly was against. Still, even if she didn’t want him to know, it would hurt less to tell him now. He always found out somehow. “They called her Briar... A sister and not a villain."

So his attempts to restrict her outside interactions had failed. It had been inevitable, but he had been counting on her stupidly and idealism to whitewash all hints at the faults in her morality. Likewise, her loyalty to him seemed to have weakened, if a stranger's words would have more significance and truth in her mind. The swordswoman had been previously been blindly obedient to his orders and trusting of his outrageous claims about his enemies. There had been no previous indication of her rebelling against his orders. This confirmed it to him. He had a broken weapon which had to be smelted and reforge.

Alain stated firmly "Stallion requires your services, and as a ward, you have absolutely no power to deny us."

"I know... I know...Please, just let me die!" Ilaria shrieked, in a desperate crescendo which rung through the castle halls.

He ignored the wench's hysterics. Distressed shouting was not foreign to the castle, and he was already making arrangements for her to be taken care of. Alain called several slaves to restrain the murderess. They shackled her on his orders, to pacify her for relocation, and only then did Alain release his grip on her.

“Ilaria,” he declared coldly and smiled, “I am not going to kill you- but I will kill this sudden rebellious streak of yours,” he turned to the slaves holding Ilaria, “Find her a cell in the dungeon and prepare her for conditioning.”

Bound securely and weeping, Ilaria Braide was dragged into the dungeons below Stallion's castle.

[Omni]

Collab with Shinko. Prepare yourself as the alternate-world is turned upside-down and Countryswap gets cute!

The Slave and the Street Rat

SPOILER: Click to show

The market.  The central place of trade of any major city.  Where items are pawned off, currencies are exchanged, and merchants get to chase their dreams of wealth.  Often a highlight of the community, drawing to it those that had money to spend.

Of course, it also had a tendency to attract thieves.

Seen as less-savory by society, they often lurked in the shadows, taking what others worked so hard for to sustain their own lifestyles.  They knew how to avoid public attention - they had to if they didn’t want to be caught and punished.  They knew how to stay out of sight, or to use sleight-of-hand, or to use distraction and misdirection.  They knew how to be inconspicuous if in a crowd, or difficult to spot if outside of it.  Their mindsets typically deviated from the norm, often being deft and cunning, swift and silent…

And for one particular thief, having extra grasping power helped, too.

The young, six-limbed thief had been a street rat as long as he had lived in Courdon.  He personally prefered the hiding places that were higher than everyone else, especially since people usually didn’t look up very often.  Once in place, stealing something was often a matter of waiting for a distraction, then dropping down just enough to grab something with his foot.  He would often work together with other thieves, and they were often glad to provide a distraction.

It wasn’t the most glamorous life, but at least he had a life.  The people of Courdon were often cruel, and were quick to despise him just as soon as they looked at him.  He had to count his blessings just for surviving.

And of course, there were those that were even worse off.  Namely, the slaves.  A few of the thieves were escaped slaves, looking to find a better life - or any other life - and they often told of the terrible way they were treated before they escaped.  Slaves could often be spotted in the marketplace, retrieving purchases for their masters.  They were often beaten, skittish, terribly submissive, and sometimes even traded like any other ware.  The six-limbed thief couldn’t help but pity them sometimes.  As much as he wanted to help, somehow, it was difficult to do so without making things worse.  He hated standing by, but what could he do?

There was one slave in particular that caught his attention.  He had started to appear in the marketplace a few months ago.  He wore the colors of Stallion, a major house, and had the brand to match.  But it was what was unusual about him that really caught the thief’s notice: he had somewhat elongated, pointed ears.

When he returned to the thieves’ hideout and asked about it, the other thieves were quick to explain.  “That would be an elf,” said one.

“Elf?”

“They’re a race that lives a really, really long time,” he clarified.  There aren’t an awful lot of them around.”

“Elves are prized by slavelords,” explained one of the former slaves, quaking a bit as she did so.  “They are so rare, and live such long lives, that they are very valuable.”

“I’m guessing you ran into one at the market?” asked the first.

The young thief nodded.  “From Stallion.”

“Oh!” the first thief interjected.  “I’ve heard of him.  He’s actually a half-elf.”

His eyes widened.  “Half?”

“Yeah.  The Stallion Lord bought him about a year ago.  Not sure why.  I mean, half-elves are even rarer than elves - pretty much unheard of - but there’s no way to know if he’s going to have the long life that makes them useful.”

This new information fed the young thief’s curiosity.  Since then, he found himself watching the half-elf every time he spotted him in the market.  He wanted to meet this slave, but he
wasn’t sure how to do so safely, for either of them.  So instead, he just watched.  Watching to see what he did, where he usually went, and how often he came.  He had hoped to learn enough to meet him safely, but he was also hesitant.  What if they were caught?  How would he catch the slave’s attention without drawing anyone elses?  What if the slave was too afraid when they met?

One day, the half-elf came into the market looking different from usual. He was holding himself with even more fear and submission then normal, and when he turned his head to look around the market it became clear why. He had a huge, purple and red welt on his cheekbone just under his right eye, and the eye in question was puffy and red, swollen almost shut at the bottom. There was some lighter bruising along his opposite arm, as if he’d fallen on that arm when whatever had been done to his eye happened.

Seeing that injury, worry began to rise within the thief.  Had something happened?  Why was he hurt?  What if he needed help?  This could be the most dangerous time to approach the slave, or at least when he’d be more likely to run off.  But if the half-elf needed help…

After some deliberation, the thief decided to try talking to the slave.  He watched the slave’s path, and once he determined where the half-elf was going, he snuck ahead and hid in a alley that the slave would pass by, out of sight even to anyone who would look into said alley.  He watched and waited, and once he saw the slave, he tried to subtly catch his attention.  “Psst!”

The half-elf heard the soft hiss, and his shoulders hitched up with alarm as he spun around to face whoever had made the noise. Trembling a little, he looked for the source, but didn’t see anyone readily in sight. “H-hello?” He said softly. “Who’s th-there?”

“I here,” called a young, male voice, barely more than a whisper.  “You come?  I no hurt you.”

The half-elf took a hesitant step forward, torn between a lifetime of conditioning to be absolutely obedient and the certainty in his head that this was some sort of trick. Who would be hiding in an alleyway except someone with ill intentions?

Except his father had often told him that he and the half-elf’s human mother had met in alleyways in the market, during their illicit affair. Not exactly a reassuring thought, given how poorly that had panned out in the long run, but the slave swallowed hard, grasping his package tight to his chest as a precaution against thieves, and walked into the shadows.

“I-I’m here? Did you n-need something of me?”

The slave had walked right past the thief, who quietly crept out behind him - where he could be seen - and spoke softly.  “No.  But maybe I help you?”

The half-elf jumped with a squeak of surprise, spinning around so quickly he lost his  balance and toppled over, landing on his already bruised arm. He stared in shock at the stranger who had just trapped him in the alleyway- some sort of monkey-like thing with four arms, covered in bright red hair. The slave was shaking hard now, but over the years of his servitude under first Baron Allendale and then Grand Duke Alain he’d learned to be fairly good at reading faces and body language- though he still couldn’t read Alain all that well, this creature wasn’t nearly as guarded as the half-elf’s master. His face was gentle, concerned, and his posture, hunched over so that he was walking on four of his six limbs, was cautious but didn’t seem aggressive. While the slave was still guarded he managed to restrain his terror somewhat.

“Wh-who are you?” he asked. “Wh-what do you mean h-help me?”

The creature gestured to himself with one of his upper hands.  “Orrin.  What you name?”

The slave pushed himself up so that he was sitting up, putting his eyes more or less on level with Orrin’s, though he kept his gaze averted submissively. “I’m called many things. Usually half-breed, half-blood, or half-elf. My masters don’t use my name much. But, but it’s Sieg.”

Orrin gave a friendly smile to the half-elf.  “Hallo Sieg.  I also half-blood.  Mama dwarf.”

He carefully approached the slave, trying to look as unimposing as possible. The half-elf flinched into himself, his shoulders coming up and his muscles tensing, but he didn’t try to move away. He looked a little curious now, his undamaged eye having widened with surprise at Orrin’s declaration of being half-dwarf.  Orrin slowly walked over to Sieg’s right side, reaching toward the damaged eye before remembering slaves didn’t like touch.  His hand halted, but he still gestured at the injury.  “What happen?”

Sieg was surprised to realize that Orrin was concerned about his injury. Was that why the half-dwarf had cornered him? Looking down miserably, he replied, “Nothing more than an owner doing as she may with her property. I carried a message from the Lady Isabelle’s brother that she didn’t like, and she told me to bring her reply back to him- this was the reply.”

Orrin’s eyes widened, then he turned to the side, his body tensing and his teeth visible in a snarl as he huffed a few times, clearly angry.  After a moment, he turned back to the half-elf, his expression concerned and saddened.  “That mean.  Wish I could help it.”

The slave shrugged. “It is as the world is. B-but thank you for, for caring sirrah.”

The thief tilted his head at that last word, but said nothing.  Instead, he looked down at himself and lifted a lower hand, which was clenched around something.  He passed it into an upper hand and stretched it out toward the half-elf, his hand open so what he had could be seen: a date.  “Here,” he said simply.

Sieg looked down in surprise to see the fruit, and a look of fear flashed across his face again. He shook his head, making his fluffy black hair flop around. “Th-thank you, but slaves can’t eat such things. Fresh fruit is too g-grand.”

Disappointment grew on the theif’s face, but he persisted.  “Take.  No one know.”

The half-elf shook his head, shaking now. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, he’d seen slaves beaten and forced to go hungry for days for stealing fresh food. He hugged his package closer to his chest, and stumbled to his feet.

“P-please, if I’m late Master will p-punish me. I, I have to go back. Bef-fore I’m missed.”

Sadness grew on Orrin’s face, as did a hint of frustration.  “Please,” he said, a little louder than before.

Sieg flinched as Orrin raised his voice, instinctively bowing his head. “F-forgive me sirrah, you, you’ve been kind, but I’ve, I’ve got to g-go.”

He scurried forwards, hesitating at the end of the alley and bowing at his waist to Orrin. “Th-thank you for your kindness, Master Orrin.”

The half-elf left Orrin in the alleyway, gobsmacked and dumbfounded.  He gaped, and watched as Sieg scurried away.

* * * * *

It was about two weeks later, and there was a festival taking place in the market. Nothing the nobles cared about in particular, but a pleasant distraction for the local merchants and peasants. They were out in force, taking advantage of the brief respite from the harsh lives that peasants lived in Courdon and special sales deals at the merchant stalls.

Sieg wasn’t there to do anything particularly enjoyable- he was just in town to fetch some fair pastries. The grand duke’s young son had recently taken up baking, and wanted to experiment with some “peasant fare.” He hadn’t really explained himself to Sieg, after all why should a young nobleman bother explaining his whimsy to a slave? All Sieg knew was that he needed to buy some baked goods at the fair, and that was all he needed to know.

Sieg had never really been out at a fair before- Allendale had always preferred to keep the shameful half-elf locked up in his manor house where no one would see him. Alain sending him out into the city on errands was something of a novelty, and not one he’d particularly cared for. As terrifying as the nobles were, at least he knew how to behave around them, and what to expect from them. In a city full of strangers, strangers that looked at him with disdain at best and suspicion at worst, he was constantly on edge.

Thanks to the festival, there were a lot more people out in the city than usual. As Sieg tried to navigate the crowds to get to the various pastry stands, he felt people thump into him, shove past him, and once or twice even cuff him on the back of the head if he was in their way.

Sieg’s heart hammered hard in his chest- he didn’t want to be here. As miserable as his life in the castle was, anywhere was better than this crush. So many people, all of them scowling at him and muttering unflattering things. He flinched away from them, but moving away from one person put him in the way of someone else. Sweat rolled down his face, and he was shaking like a leaf. The longer he walked around purchasing things, the worse the pounding of his heart got, until all he could hear was the blood rushing in his head. He felt someone shove him over entirely, growling a curse. His breath caught in his throat as he hit the pavement, and panic flared in him. He had to get away, he had to get away right now. The slave shoved himself up, swaying a little unsteadily, and bolted for the nearest alleyway. He didn’t care where he went, he just wanted out of the crowd.

He finally reached the safety of the shadows and slid down to his knees against the wall, gasping for air and sweating profusely. Sieg put a hand to his chest, clenching it into his shirt as if by doing so he might still his hammering heart.

“You okay?”

Sieg yelped, his head whipping up, and he gagged as his tightened throat closed further. He bowed his head as he wheezed, muttering hoarsely, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

The newcomer shushed him quietly, walking closer, toward where the slave could see him - walking on four limbs, which had much red hair.  “No hurt you.  Something wrong?”

Sieg realized that he recognized that voice, speaking in broken low Courdonian. He peered up through his bangs, and relaxed a fraction when he saw who it was. “M-master Orrin? I-”

Orrin shook his head.  “No master.  Just Orrin.”

The half-elf gulped. “I just… there were too many p-people. I don’t kn-know what happened. I couldn’t b-breathe.”

He put his face in his hands, an involuntary whine emerging from his throat. What was wrong with him? He was still sweating and shaking, still utterly terrified, and he didn’t know why.

Orrin paused, unsure what to do.  He had no idea what would help with what happened, but he still wanted to help somehow.  He wanted to put his hand on the slave’s shoulder, but again there was that way that slaves didn’t like to be touched.  So instead, he just walked up next to Sieg, and sat down beside him.  “No other people here.  You can stop.  You can breathe.”

The half-elf shook his head, forcing himself to take a deep, somewhat ragged breath. He slumped against the wall again, glancing at Orrin. He put out a hand in a sort of apologetic gesture. “I-I’m sorry. For, for leaving so s-suddenly before.”

The half-dwarf tilted a head.  “But you here now.”  He looked at the slave, who still looked as skinny as before.  “You hungry?”

Sieg shrugged. “S-slaves are always h-hungry. Food isn’t to be w-wasted on property, on… on animals. I-”

At the thought of food, the slave’s eyes widened and he bolted upright. His head whipped around, face fixed in an expression of stark panic. “Oh no, Master Garrick’s pastries, wh-where… I have t-to-” he tried to drag himself up on the wall, but his knees were shaking hard and he slipped again.

Orrin walked up in front of the slave and held a hand for him to ‘stop.’  “Stay here.  I get,” he said before darting off, running with his feet and the knuckles of his upper hands. Sieg looked over his shoulders at Orrin as he dashed off, sliding back down so that he was sitting again. Would he really be alright? The Courdonian peasants were very cruel to nonhumans, and if he was seen…

Of course, not being seen was Orrin’s top priority in retrieving the lost goods.  It was risky, but by laying low and using cover, he made himself difficult to spot, especially with the confusion already going on.  He spotted the bag of pastries and, taking his best shot for timing, reached out and snatched it.  With the bag retrieved, he held it in his lower arms and made his way back to Sieg, whom he carefully set the bag in front of.  “Here,” he said, slightly short on breath.

Sieg watched as Orrin returned with the bag of pastries, and had to fight back a lump in his throat again- but not from fear this time. He bowed at the waist, an odd gesture coming from someone on his knees, and whispered hoarsely, “Thank you. Thank you s-so much. Master Garrick would have… he is… he is very, very strict, and merciless. Thank you.”

Orrin was again confused at the bow, but nonetheless, he smiled at the half-elf’s gratitude.  “You welcome.  Maybe eat something?”

The half-elf shook his head, sitting up again. “I couldn’t. It, it’s forbidden.”

He touched his left arm, a patchwork of horrific scars, each one a reminder of some horrible torture he’d endured at the hands of his first master. Those punishments had left the hybrid so broken that even out of sight of his masters he didn’t want to disobey. After all, Allendale hadn’t exactly needed proof of wrongdoing to implement a punishment.

Concern showed on Orrin’s face.  There had to be some thing he could do.  “Maybe drink?  Water?”

Sieg had to give the half-dwarf credit for his determination. He sighed, the smallest upward twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. “A-alright. But, but only if you don’t have to p-put yourself in danger like that ag-gain. Please, don’t, not for my sake. I’m n-not worth it.”

“Take time.  You wait?” Orrin asked.

Sieg nodded; frankly he was glad for an excuse to stay out of the crowd. “I d-don’t have to be back right away. Just… just not too long.”

Orrin looked away from the half-elf and immediately climbed his way up to the nearby roofs.  He moved across them, careful to stay out of public sight.  Minutes later, he returned with a waterskin, which had some water in the bottom.  He made his way back down, and handed it to Sieg.  “Here.”

Sieg accepted the water skin, drinking from it gratefully. Having sweat so much had done him no favors. He then offered it back to Orrin. “Th-thank you. Mas- I, I mean Orrin? Orrin, why… why are you helping me? I’m j-just a slave.”

Orrin took the waterskin with a smile.  “You half-blood.  I half-blood.  You slave, I street-rat.  No one like us, but we same in ways.”  He took a step closer to the half-elf.  “I want help you.  Friend?”

Sieg’s amber eyes widened, and his mouth fell open at the word. “I… Orrin, you… You d-don’t understand, my… I’m half-elf because my f-father was an elf slave and my mother was a free h-human. They were discovered and, and my mother was s-sold into slavery and my f-father is dead. I d-don’t want you to, to get hurt bec-cause of me!”

Orrin took another step forward, his eyes just beginning to glisten.  “I get hurt before.  I get hurt again.  It happen.  I want help you.”

The half-elf swallowed hard. This strange dwarf-monkey man who kept following him, and helping him… he was the kindest person Sieg had met since his father and Lord Ambrose. He was the only one to actively stick himself out for the half-elf’s sake. Sieg got the feeling he was lonely, which was something he slave could definitely relate to. Being a half-breed meant being an abomination, an anathema, something that was less than subhuman. Even the other slaves looked down on Sieg. But while he wanted desperately to take what Orrin was offering, he was also afraid to. He didn’t want to be this kind man’s downfall.

“Are… are you r-really sure?”

Orrin simply nodded, a half-saddened, half-pleading look in his eyes.

Sieg’s eyes stung, and he felt hot wetness spill over onto his cheeks. He clenched his eyes shut, trying to suppress the tears. The last time he’d cried he’d had a hot clamp applied to the skin between his fingers. But instead of stopping, a strangled sob emerged from his throat and the stream of tears intensified. Unable to produce a single coherent sound, he nodded in reply.

Orrin smiled, tears escaping from his own eyes.  He wanted to hug the slave, or something, anything.  But knowing Sieg would flinch away from his touch, Orrin instead extended a hand, inviting the half-elf to touch him.

Sieg stared at the hand in confusion, wavering as tears continued to fall down his face. Hesitantly, he put out one of his hands, spider-webbed with scars, and put his hand in Orrin’s. The half-dwarf’s hand was rough, but warm, and it gently clasped over Sieg’s. He returned the gesture, losing himself to tears again.

The half-dwarf smiled further, tears streaming in more earnest.  Oh how he wanted to pull the half-elf into a deeper embrace, spend some more time with him.  But he knew neither was likely a good idea.  “You need go?  I no stay here long.  Maybe people see…”

Sieg nodded, wiping his face roughly with his free hand. “P-probably. I need to get th-the rest of the pastries. But I… thank you.”

He stood shakily, one hand still clasped in Orrin’s. “...Thank you.”

The half-dwarf let go, allowing Sieg to leave. The slave pulled his hand away, bending down to pick up the bag of pastries, and as he was standing again, he gave Orrin the faintest, most fleeting of smiles. Then he turned and vanished into the crowd as Orrin vanished from the alley.

* * * * *

Three months passed, and while Sieg didn’t always happen across Orrin when he was in town, the times he did he came to appreciate.  Their conversations never lasted more than a few minutes at a time, since if Sieg lingered in town too long he risked being punished for lateness. He still spent long hours in the castle, abused and alone. But at least for those short exchanges in the city, he had someone to fill that yawning void.

The half-dwarf was generous, eager to please, and seemed to have an almost pathological need to be helpful to others. Sieg wondered what sort of person he’d have been if it wasn’t for how he looked. Certainly he’d have had a good many friends, and wouldn’t have to come looking to a mongrel half-elf for company. One some level Sieg wished that Orrin could have had that sort of life; he deserved it. But a small, selfish part of him was glad to have someone else like he was, someone who wouldn’t look down on him for his hybridism.

One day, while picking up an order for herbal medicines from the physicians- there was a chill going around and the Grand Duke’s youngest son had taken ill- he heard the familiar hiss from an alley and glanced aside with a slight smile.

“Orrin? Is that you?” he asked, carefully walking forwards into the darkness.

“Yes,” came a whispered reply.  “Please come.”  

The half-elf walked further into the alley, and caught sight of Orrin; when he saw the half-dwarf, however, he clenched his arms tighter around his package and squeaked in horror.

“Wh-what happened to you?”

Orrin lifted a left index finger to his lips, reminding the half-elf to keep quiet.  He looked down at his right arms, each of which had a long, thin gash across it.  The relative size and position of the injuries suggested they were made with a single stroke, while he was running.  They had largely stopped bleeding, but movement still caused it to crackle, and dried blood still matted his arm hair.  “Guard see me.  Chase me.  Use sword.”  

Sieg clenched his jaw a bit, kneeling down in front of the half-dwarf and setting his bags down on the ground beside him. “G-good thing you’re f-fast,” he said softly, diverting the attention from the injuries to something more positive, as he’d learned to do from his father when he was hurt and often did for the other slaves when they had injuries. The dried blood that matted Orrin’s arm hair made him frown a bit. “Did you clean this yet? If it w-went putrid that would be… it would be bad.”

The half-dwarf seemed tense, his mouth pulling tighter.  “Use water.  No help much.  Hurt happen before… I okay.”

Sieg’s amber eyes were bright with worry, and he shook his head. “You’re lying.”

Orrin snapped to look at the half-elf, his expression seemed to have equal measure of surprise, confusion, and sadness, as if shocked at the accusation.  “No.  Happen before.  I…” he searched for the correct conjugation.  “Will be okay.”

The half-elf shifted uneasily, holding up a shaky hand. “C-can I see? Please?”

Orrin looked at Sieg, a little uncertain.  After a moment, he shrugged, looking away.  “Okay.  You may look.”

The half-elf sat down with his legs crossed, gently peeling back the coarse hairs on Orrin’s arm. “T-tell me if I’m hurting you,” he said, trying not to wince as dried blood flaked and fell off where he was working. He eventually managed to expose the cut on Orrin’s upper arm, which was mostly scabbed over but still looked a little moist in places where the scabs had cracked.

As gently as he could, Sieg inspected the edges of the cut, and gently felt it with his fingers. He knew the common signs of early infection- redness, swelling, warmth to the touch- but to his relief the cut seemed mostly okay. He checked the other arm, and saw the same result.

“L-Looks fine for now,” he said. “Do you know wh-where you can get some garlic? Or, or maybe cloves? Rub them on the cuts where they crack. It’ll sting but, but it’ll help them stay clean.”

The half-dwarf paused, looking up in thought as he went through what he knew of the market in his head, then nodded.  “Yes.  Can get garlic.”

Sieg sighed a little with relief. “Th-that’s good. Sorry, I just… I worry. I try to help the other slaves too, when they’re hurt. Wounds can go bad s-so easy, and then…”

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

Orrin shook his head.  “No, you okay.  Not you fault.  Thank you.”

The half-elf looked up at the sky over the alley, and sighed, putting a hand to the scars on his arm. “I want… to help. To be g-good for something. So, so knowing about wounds, that’s useful. Slaves are p-punished all the time. So I can help with that, and m-maybe my life will mean something.”

He looked back down at Orrin with a sad smile. “You h-help me so much, and, and y-you’re kind to me. Of course I want to help you t-to.”

Orrin looked at the slave, staring with a soft gaze.  Slowly, he reached for Sieg’s shoulder with his upper left hand.  He’d often found himself trying to express himself with touch, especially when he felt his speech couldn’t.  Granted, it was difficult, especially with one so hesitant to be touched.  Still, he tried, making sure to give Sieg enough time to see the touch coming, and to respond as he liked, or often inviting Sieg to touch him instead.  He’d been trying to make his way up from the handshake they first shared, hoping a hug wasn’t too far away.

Sieg saw Orrin’s hand reaching towards him, and though he shuddered a bit he didn’t pull away. It was hard- the only times most people touched him where to deliver a blow, or to drag him off for some punishment or another. But he knew that wasn’t always the case, after all his father had touched and held him to comfort him, and he knew on a conscious level that Orrin was just trying to help. He had to brace himself a little at first, but when he felt Orrin’s hand touch his shoulder, he leaned forwards to put his forehead against the half-dwarf’s forearm. It wasn’t a hug, exactly, but it was as close as he could bring himself just then.

“Thank you,” Orrin expressed aloud.  “You help.”

The slave sniffed, looking up at Orrin with a very small smile. “That’s what f-friends do, right?”

Orrin gave a smile in return.  “I hear ‘yes.’”  He said.

He was silent for a moment, smiling for some time before he let it start to fade.  “You need go soon.”  He glanced around at the alleyway.  “I should show you other meet places.  Make us more hard find.”

Sieg nodded. “Good idea. You know the city b-better than I do.” With a smile he added, “B-but not high up. I can’t climb like, like you can.”

This gave Orrin pause.  Climbing was most of how he made his way around.  Still, he knew his tricks for making his way around the ground, too, even if he was a little rusty.  Even harder would be showing Sieg without being seen, himself.

Then an idea struck him.  “Okay, you go, I follow from above.  I show you what I can.  Okay?”  Already he was preparing to climb to the nearest roof.  “Walk normal.  Maybe nobody notice.”  

* * * * *

It was several weeks later, and the half-elf was in deep, deep trouble.

Sieg didn’t even remember how it had happened. One minute he’d been walking down the road towards the market, a pouch jingling with coins in one hand for his purchases, the next he’d been yanked into an alley and slammed against one of the walls. Only the hasty application of a rag into his mouth stopped him from sobbing with agony as his tender spine hit the bricks.

“Gonna make this simple, mongrel,” snarled the man who was pinning Sieg to the wall, his breath stinking of unwashed teeth and old rot.  He pulled the gag out of Sieg’s mouth, freeing the half-elf’s pain-filled whimpers. “Give us your pouch, and we let you scurry back to that noble scum with all your body parts intact.”

“Wha… wha…” Sieg stared at him without comprehension, still dazed from the pain in his back. He clenched his teeth hard against a cry of agony as he was pulled forward and shoved hard against the wall again, making every muscle in his body spasm and leaving him breathless.

“Your money. Give it. Now.”

The half-elf whimpered. “P-please, it’s M-Master’s, he’ll, he’ll kill me if it’s stolen, he’ll think I s-stole it!”

“Serve you right, half-blood. I bet you would too, if you didn’t know what he’d do to you for it. Hand it over.”

Sieg said nothing, but clenched his fingers tighter on the pouch. The thief snorted, and threw the half-elf to the ground. Sieg heard footsteps, and realized that there were two other men as well, with equally unsympathetic expressions. One of them kicked him in the gut, making Sieg gag, and another stepped hard on the fingers of his free hand.

“P-please…”

The first attacker snarled, “You know how to make it stop.”

Sieg clenched his eyes shut, shaking his head. There was a growl, and the half-elf felt his entire body thrash again as pain erupted from his spine where one of the thugs had kicked him.

Suddenly, something threw itself, from above, into the thief that had kicked Sieg in the back.  He found himself knocked to the ground, hitting the floor before he even knew what hit him.  Orrin had pounced from above, throwing himself at one of Sieg’s attackers.  He turned to face the other two thieves, bearing his teeth in a snarl, letting out a growl of his own - one that was much more animalistic than any of the men could perform.

Then he added voice to his warning.  “Leave.  Now!”

One of the thieves, whose foot was still on Sieg’s fingers, swore under his breath. He hissed softly, “What are you doing here, this isn’t your turf. This is our mark, we saw him first!”

“I say leave!”

Orrin didn’t reach to strike the thieves, but he did step closer, moving to a spot where hopefully, he could protect Sieg better.  Of course, he would have to get the one man off of Sieg’s fingers first.  He attempted to solve that by knocking his foot out from under him with a sweep of the arm. The thief yelped, stumbling backwards a few steps, and one of his cohorts slapped a hand over his mouth.

“Can it you nit, you’ll bring the guards,” he hissed, glaring daggers at Orrin. “You’re going to regret this, you four armed freak. Hope the mongrel’s coins were worth it.”

The one who’d called the retreat bent over to drag up his companion that Orrin had knocked down. Then they fled out the back of the alley, looking around to make sure that no guards were drawn by the noise of the brief struggle.

Orrin kept an eye on them as he watched them leave, waiting to make sure they were gone.  Once he was certain the two half-bloods were alone, he turned to Sieg and spoke softly.  “You okay?”

Sieg was shaking hard, his back twitching as if there were a muscle spasming under the skin. He cradled the hand that had been stomped on to his chest, his breath ragged with pain. When he heard Orrin’s voice, he peeled his eyes open and looked sideways into the half-dwarf’s concerned gaze. He didn’t reply verbally at first, just moaning, and letting his eyes slide shut again. One of the fingers on his hand looked to have been dislocated when it was stomped on, but he barely seemed to register it. When finally he replied it was to whisper, “My… b-back…”

Orrin paused, then leaned over to try and get a look at Sieg’s back.  It was hard to see through his clothes, but there wasn’t anything obviously wrong, other than perhaps a slight twitching.  “It hurt?” he asked.

“Elf th-thing,” the slave rasped. “It’s… it’s tender. I c-can’t move. It’ll t-take time to go aw-way.”

He whimpered a little, though it was soft. “Orrin, Orrin, y-you…” The half-elf shuddered, biting his lip against the pain in his back and his hand. “You stopped them, y-you saved me, thank you, th-thank you…”

Orrin gave a small smile, his eyes beginning to glisten.  However, much of his gladness was overtaken by concern, and he again turned his attention to the slave’s back.  “Stay still,” he said.  “I see if you too hurt.”

Having lived with a group with a life as risky as thievery, Orrin had seen a number of bone injuries.  He had even helped with some, sympathizing as he remembered his mother’s own hurt leg.  He also understood that spinal injuries were something to be handled delicately.  And so, hoping he wouldn’t cause too much damage, he tried to be extra careful as he gently prodded the half-elf’s back, on either side of the spine.  He also hoped Sieg would understand why Orrin was doing this, even though he disliked touch. The slave flinched a little initially, but let the half-dwarf feel his back without further resistance.

“Feel good,” the half-dwarf said, determining that nothing seemed broken.  He crawled back over in front of Sieg, noticing the way he was holding his own hand… and how one of the fingers was pointing the wrong way.  “May I help that?” he asked.

Sieg looked up at Orrin in confusion. How could he help with this? The half-elf didn’t know anything about setting broken or misplace bones- the only thing he’d ever broken was his nose, and that had never healed properly. But… Orrin had never given him any reason to doubt his capabilities nor his intentions. Closing his eyes, Sieg nodded and put the battered hand out gingerly. The damaged digit, his left index finger, jutted out at an awkward angle from the rest of his hand. Though he made no noise as he moved it, and gave no sign of the pain he felt on his face, it was obvious from the way his hand twitched with every stray brush on the twisted finger that it bothered him more than he was letting on.

Once Sieg carefully extended his hand, Orrin took it just as gingerly and gave it a quick examination.  From the position and angle from which the finger jutted, it certainly looked like it was simply dislocated.  He apologized to the half-elf in advance and tried giving it a light, tactile examination, and found no evidence that it was broken.  This was to the half-dwarf’s relief, as it was easier to put a bone back in its joint than to work with one that was actually fractured.  Healing would be easier, too.

“This will hurt…” he gently warned, giving the slave enough time to brace himself.  Sieg swallowed hard, then nodded, his face grim. Orrin then guided the finger so it popped back into place. Sieg clenched his teeth hard as the finger was rotated back into the socket, but made not a single sound apart from the slight hiss of a sharp exhale. Then he went limp, panting.

“That… that’s a lot better,” he said, looking at the finger in surprise. It was still sore, but the excruciating agony had abated significantly. “Th-thank you. How d-did you learn to d-do that?”

Orrin paused for a moment, mulling over how to express his answer.  “I have some friends.  Sometime we get hurt, even bones.  We help each-other.  I help, I learn.”  He then took another look at the finger.  “Be careful until it heal.  Try to keep still.”  

Sieg nodded, “I’ll try. B-but Master may not, may not give me that ch-choice.”

The pain in his back was abating somewhat, and he tried gingerly to push himself upright with his undamaged hand. He slipped a bit as a bolt of pain shot up his spine, and clenched his teeth, and Orrin stepped forward in case he fell. The half-elf was probably developing some bruises under his clothes. He tried to force himself up again, leaning on the wall of the alley for support- though not on his back, but on his side. Even that small exertion left him panting.

“I’m s-sorry,” he muttered. “It’ll be a wh-while before I can m-move properly. They hit my back pretty hard. It’s like… I can’t describe it, but it’s the worst pain possible without c-cutting me open or something.”

He shook his head, “It’s d-dangerous for you to stay here…”

“Dangerous for you, too,” Orrin retorted gently.

Sieg smiled a little. “I don’t m-mind that. I’m… I’m not much. But, but you’re good a-and decent, and kind, and y-you have friends to look out for, for each other. I’m j-just me, the grand duke’s pet.”

Orrin’s mouth pulled tighter, showing a form of unamusement.  “People call me ‘pet,’ too.  And they not friends like you.  Not really…”  He looked to the side quietly, his eyes shimmering.  “I still street-rat.  You nice to me.  And… I think ‘kinship’ right word?”  He looked back up at Sieg, holding his upper-right arm near the cut that Sieg once examined - the wound had since healed, leaving little more than a faint scar behind.  “You good-  ‘You’ is good.  I like you.”

The half-elf was quiet for a time, his eyes awash with more emotions than he could put a name to. He felt so conflicted. Part of him wished that Orrin could find somewhere else to be, somewhere safe where his compassion could be appreciated and he could have friends that didn’t put him in danger, that weren’t weak and pathetic. But at the same time… he understood. That loneliness that came with being half-blood and outcast, that kinship Orrin had expressed, he felt it too.

The slave shook his head, smiling again. “Are all dwarves th-this stubborn?”

Orrin paused, then gave a smirk of his own.  "Are all elfs this stubborn?"

“Don’t know,” Sieg admitted. “I h-haven’t met many. You’re… you’re the only p-person other than my father I’ve ever met that w-wasn’t human. Papa n-never told me much; I only know what my m-masters say, which… isn’t good.”

He turned slightly wincing a little as his back twinged. Then, very hesitantly, his whole body quivering, he reached out a hand towards Orrin.

“But… th-thank you. For thinking I’m worth s-something anyway. For b-being my f-f-friend.”

The outstretched hand from Sieg honestly surprised Orrin.  His face broke into a smile, wide enough that he was beaming.  Enthusiastically, he grabbed Sieg’s hand and pulled him into a hug, giving him a light squeeze before Sieg’s tenseness reminded him that only his hand was offered.

“...Oh!”  Orrin let go, then rubbed a hand behind his head sheepishly.  “Ah… Sorry.”

The half-elf had been caught completely off-guard when Orrin pulled him into a hug, and he’d locked his muscles instinctively in surprise. But when Orrin loosened hold so that Sieg could pull away, he coughed and shook his head.

“It’s f-fine you just… I wasn’t expecting it, is all.  You… you’ve b-been wanting to do that for a while, h-haven’t you?”

Orrin gave an apologetic nod.

The half-elf gave a soft exhale, not quite a sigh, and tentatively put the hand out again with a small smile. “J-just… a warning next time.”

A smile returned to Orrin’s face, and he reached out to take Sieg’s hand.  He held it a little firmer than he normally did, squeezing it lightly.  However, he decided not to do any more than a handshake for the meantime, thinking Sieg may find it a little too soon for another hug.

Sieg squeezed Orrin’s hand back, simultaneously relieved and oddly disappointed that the half-dwarf hadn’t opted to try the hug again. Deciding to change the subject, he asked softly, “What about those, those three who t-tried to rob me? They said you… you’d… what will they try to do?”

Orrin blinked.  It was a moment before he remembered what Sieg was referring to, then his eyes widened as he realized.  “Oh!” he exclaimed, his gaze shifting to the side and downward, his expression more uncomfortable.  “We… will see.”  He grew silent for a moment.  “There someone I can tell.  Maybe he can stop them before trouble.”

The half-elf winced. So they would try to cause trouble. He didn’t know much- if anything- about how thieves operated, but if it was anything like how nobles worked, they would not at all appreciate another thief stopping them.  

“I hope so,” Sieg said softly. “I don’t want you to g-get hurt because of me. N-not that you ever s-seem to mind,” he smiled again. “I never th-thought anyone would ever do that for me. I… I hope someday I can m-make it up to you. Somehow.”

The smile that the half-dwarf returned suggested he felt… touched.  “You no need, but thank you.”  He glanced at the wall behind the half-elf.  “You can go okay now?”

The slave frowned a bit, and put his undamaged hand on the wall to try and pull himself up. It was slow-going, but with a bit of effort he managed to stand.

“I th-think I’ll be okay. Shakey, but okay,” he sighed. “I’ll p-probably be p-punished for being late, but, but it won’t be so bad as wh-what would have happened if I lost Master’s money. I’d better g-go, but… I’ll see you again, Orrin.”

Orrin gave the half-elf a concerned smile.  “See you, Sieg.”

Sieg turned and walked back out of the alley to purchase what he’d been sent out for as Orrin followed behind him, watching from his hiding places. Sieg held the hand that had been hurt by the thieves, that Orrin had fixed, close to his chest.

A friend. A real friend. Whatever Alain would do to him didn’t seem quite so horrible when he was in the city with Orrin. It was a fleeting light in his life, but he treasured it all the more for that.  Orrin, meanwhile, appreciated having someone who thought kindly of him, and that he could help.  He had wanted to make a difference to someone, even if small, and he found what he appreciated most was the relation that had come from it.

Happiness was a rare thing in Courdon. But it was not dead.

[Shinko]

Continuation of the story of Morgaine and Belial's tragic romance...


No Matter the Consequences: Part Two

SPOILER: Click to show

The night after Morgaine told Belial she was to have his child, the two of them met again. They had never before dared to meet two nights in a row, for fear of being discovered, but Morgaine didn’t dare put this off. She was already five months pregnant- if they waited much longer she wouldn’t be able to travel at all. Better to go now, while she still had the strength to move, before she or Belial lost their nerve.

When Belial arrived, he had nothing with him- that only made sense, considering he was a slave and had no belongings. He did not even rightly own himself. He would though, if they could reach the border and safety. They would both be free, to live and love openly.

Morgaine was a little more weighed down. She didn’t have a lot of things, but she did bring several skins of water, food, and as much money as she could carry for bribes and food on the road. That wouldn’t last long- likely her disappearance would be linked with the disappearance of Belial after not too long, and her head would be on wanted posters as well. But as long as they could, Morgaine meant to take advantage of the lack of a slave brand on her collarbone to buy supplies for both of them with impunity.

“We can do this, Belial,” she said softly, leaning into his chest as he hugged her close. “I know we can. Soon you’ll be free again.”

The elf said nothing. She could tell by the tired, defeated look in his eyes that he didn’t really believe it. He was only doing this because he loved her, and she was insisting on it. He didn’t honestly think they’d escape alive. It was why he’d made the request he had the night before, asking her not to let Allendale have him back at any cost.

It wouldn’t come to that. Morgaine would make sure of it. He might not believe they could escape now but he’d see. They would make it. And when they did, Morgaine would be watching his face for that light of true joy and hope she’d never seen from him.

Not wasting any time, the two of them left that well secluded nook in the desert that had been their meeting place for the past two years, and headed out into the unknown wasteland beyond. North, to Kyth and freedom.

* * * * *

It was three days later, and Morgaine split up with Belial at the edge of a small trade village. He would circumvented the edge of the town while she passed through directly to purchase supplies. Briefly they’d discussed pretending he was her slave so they didn’t have to split up, but dismissed the idea. He had Allendale’s brand on his arm, and even if Morgaine had been willing to put her master’s brand on his shoulder to facilitate the illusion, there was no way a mere merchant would be able to afford to buy an elf slave from a nobleman. Not that she was willing to mark him in such a way regardless- he’d endured enough pain already. She didn’t like letting him out of her sight, but for now it was the safest way to go about this.

As she left him a safe distance from the buildings, she couldn’t help but notice there was an odd glint in his amber eyes as he watched her go. As usual his face was a dull mask of fear and pain, but there was something else there she couldn’t quite place.

Dismissing it, she went into the town, trying to act as casually as she could. She wasn’t a fugitive; she was a traveler, a merchant who was perfectly allowed to be travelling north. She didn’t rush her shopping, much though she wanted to, but made casual conversation with the vendors and gossiped and joked. She even asked where would be a good inn at the next town to stop for the night- though obviously she had no intentions of staying at an inn. Then, once she walked out of the town, she walked along the roadway, as any legitimate traveler would, instead of immediately heading into the wilderness to catch up with Belial.

Finally, when she thought it was safe, she broke from the road and darted into the wild lands on either side. Belial, having followed her from a safe distance in the brush, came into view as soon as she was clear of the trail.

“So far so good,” she remarked in an undertone when she caught sight of him. “No one was talking about any escaped slaves or hunters in the area, and I didn’t see any posters of either of us. Looks like we’re still ahead of the searchers.”

The elf said nothing- he just put his arms around her shoulders, kneeling so that he could shield his face in her shoulder. “Morgaine, Morgaine…”

Startled, the young woman hugged him in return, feeling him trembling under her touch. “Belial? What’s wrong, did something happen?”

“N-no, but… Morgaine, I was so afraid. What we are doing, what will be done to me if I’m caught… when you were gone, I felt as though I would be swallowed up by my own terror.”

The locksmith shushed him, running her hands through his long blonde hair and stroking his back along the sensitive line of his spine. Gradually his trembling subsided, and he went limp in her arms.

“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely. “I am so weak. Such a coward…”

“You’ve every reason to be afraid,” Morgaine reassured him, but he shook his head.

“So have you. But here you are, calm and collected, as if nothing whatsoever were wrong and we were making a casual vacation trip. Oh, Morgaine.” he clung to her more tightly. “Where from do you draw this courage, my beloved? How is it you remain unflinching before the wrath of the hunters and nobles?”

“Fear won’t help anything,” she said simply. “I am afraid, but that’s all the more reason I need to keep a clear head. So that I don’t have to be confronted with the source of that fear. You’re strong Belial, I know you are. You saved my life, and you kept meeting with me despite the risks. You’ve more courage than you give yourself credit for.”

He looked up at her bleakly, and shook his head. “No, my dear. I am but a shell of a man, devoid of any redeeming qualities. All that I have done, I do for the love I feel towards you, because you are so great a person that you give your heart and your kindness to this thing I have become. You are my strength, Morgaine. And when we are apart, I die a thousand deaths wondering if I will ever see you again- if you will be caught, or I, leaving the other to wait and wait and wait, unknowing.”

“Belial,” she murmured in his ear, letting her cheek rest against his. “We are in this together. I swear it- we will be free, or we will go to the gods, but however this ends, we will be together.”

* * * * *

It was night, a week out from their initial flight from Allendale’s domain. Belial found it hard to believe they’d actually made it this far. He’d assumed they’d be caught the very first day, if not the day after that. To last a week uncaptured… could they really do this?

They’d had to give up stopping in towns for supplies, unfortunately. It was just too dangerous, the chances of news of their flight getting out ahead of them was too high. Even if by some fluke they stayed ahead of their pursuers, Morgaine making regular appearances in towns would create a shining beacon for hunters to follow after. So now they were well and truly fugitives… but for the first time in his life, Belial felt the stirring of something in his chest that he had not thought still existed. Something that was at once wonderful and terrifying- hope.

The elf was keeping watch for the first half of the night until the moon reached the top of it’s journey, a habit the two of them had gotten into for better security while they rested. Morgaine would take over at midnight, giving the elf a chance to sleep.

Or at least that was the intent. When Belial glanced down at the human woman, lying with her back to him, he realized she wasn’t sleeping. Her hand was moving rhythmically up and down over her stomach.

“Morgaine?” he murmured, making her start. She glanced over her shoulder at him, then smiled sheepishly.

“I still don’t quite believe it,” she said softly, rolling over so that she was facing him. “There’s… there’s a living person growing inside of me. It’s so strange to think that this bulge in my middle is really a child.”

The elf looked down at Morgaine’s abdomen, feeling that familiar thread of terror at the reminder of what had driven them to this. But apart from the fear, there was something else now too. Following an instinct he couldn’t name, Belial reached out a hand and tentatively put it over the locksmith’s stomach. Somewhere within, nurtured by Morgaine’s womb, was a child. His child. It had been over two hundred years since Belial had seen his parents, or any of his own kind. Here, just under his hand, was the first true family he’d had in centuries.

Morgaine put her hand over his, and looked up to Belial with a smile. “He or she will be beautiful, I just know it. Our perfect little one, born in freedom.”

“Our little one,” he echoed softly, his voice almost reverent. It hit him then- really hit him. This wasn’t just a terrifying accident that was forcing Belial and Morgaine into danger. It was a life, more precious than all the riches in the Courdonian royal treasury. He was going to be a father to Morgaine’s child.

“Yes,” he said softly, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. “I’m sure they will be the most perfect child in the world. And I will protect you and them with every fiber of my being; I swear it.”

* * * * *

Belial gasped, stumbling and falling to his knees. Morgaine turned, alarm shooting through her as she darted towards him. He was panting, his ghostly pale skin that never tanned no matter how much time he spent in the sun flushed with heat.

“You’re dehydrated again aren’t you?” the locksmith asked softly. She put an arm under his shoulder, trying to hoist him up. “Come on, we need to get you out of the sun for a while.”

“I am sorry,” he rasped. “I just… Morgaine I’m slowing you down. I’m starved, beaten, and my race is not at all suited to this climate. I’m draining your resources, and you need everything you have for yourself and the child. Please, go on without me.”

“Belial,” Morgaine said fiercely, pulling his head up. “Shut. UP.”

She crushed her mouth against his, trying hard to suppress tears of frustration. That would only dehydrate her more. When she pulled away she snarled, “I am not leaving you. You love me and want me to survive- you think I don’t feel the same way? We can do this. We can.”

He chuckled softly. “You do so much for me, my dearest. I don’t deserve you.”

“My child will know their father,” she said fiercely. “They will know how he was brave and strong, how he defied the wrath of the mighty Courdon so that they might have a better life.”

He let her tow him to a gnarled, twisted tree, and he two of them sat down in it’s shade. He leaned heavily on Morgaine’s shoulder, his skin radiating heat. After a moment he whispered, “How do you do it, Morgaine?”

“Do what?”

“Infect me with your folly. Make me really believe in this fever dream of yours,” he looked at her, reaching out a hand to cradle her cheek. “For the first time in centuries, I have the taste of hope in my mouth. It is sweeter than any wine, but it is as terrifying as it is exhilarating. I know now what it is to have something to lose.”

She smiled, but instead of answering she reached into her pack and pulled out one of the water skins- nearly empty now. “I never would have figured you such a speech maker. Drink this, or neither of us is going far.”

“Perhaps this would be easier if we travelled at night,” he suggested, accepting the water skin and taking a single large gulp before handing it back. “Then it would be cool, and we can rest in the heat of the da-”

Morgaine slapped a hand over his mouth, cutting him off. He fell silent instantly, tensing, and after a moment he realized what had alerted her. In the distance, ever so faintly, he could hear the baying of hounds. The hounds that belonged to slave hunters.

No. They’ve found us, but we came so far, gods above and below we’ve gone so far! I… I can’t let them have Morgaine, or my child, but we’ll never outrun them in this state and the hounds could follow us even if we did.

“We have to fight them.”

Morgaine stared at Belial in disbelief. “With what weapons? Belial we’re both weak and dehydrated, and they’re trained hunters!”

“I know,” he said bleakly. “But I can’t let them have you or our little one. I won’t.”

“Belial-” she objected, panicked now, but he paid her no heed. Briefly, he leaned towards her, putting a gentle hand over the bulge on her middle and using his other hand to pull her face close to his. The kiss he gave her in that moment had an air of desperation about it, a fierceness possessiveness she’d never felt from him before. As he pulled away and staggered to his feet, there was a cold fire blazing in his amber eyes. This wasn’t the broken, hollowed out husk of a man who had been a slave to House Allendale for two hundred years. No, for the first time in a long time, he felt like a knight again.

“I will always love you, Morgaine,” he said.

He could see the distant red smudges of the hounds closing in on them- there was no more time. Drawing what strength he could from the adrenaline surging through his veins, Belial reached up into the tree above, and yanked free a thick branch. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. He fumbled for a minute with it as his hand struggled to remember how best to grip the improvised weapon. The old conditioning he’d endured during his earliest slave days began to kick in, making the branch feel as if it were uncomfortably hot in his grasp, but he ignored it.

For Morgaine, and my unborn, he thought grimly. Whatever gods might be listening, I will gladly offer up my own life if that is the price I must pay- just let them escape and find the place of safety in the north.

He could see them now- two hounds, followed by four armed men. All of them were running directly towards him. Belial held up the branch, which was now painfully hot, and glowered at them. Gritting his teeth, he ran forwards, shouting an Elvish war cry. He brought the branch around, slamming it into the jaw of the first of the hounds. The dog yelped, tumbling sideways into it’s companion so that they were both sent sprawling. In the process of their fall they tripped one of the hunters, and he cursed in pain as he hit the dirt. With a snarl, Belial turned his attention to the other three, bringing his branch upwards at the head of the nearest. The elf’s muscles were weak, and barely remembered the old movements of his long ago swordplay lessons, but his aim was true and he was able to hit the slaver square in the temple. The man went down without a sound.

The other two skidded to a stop a safe distance away, watching Belial warily. Their gaze flickered to Morgaine, cowering under the tree, before they focused on the elf again.

“That’s the one,” one of them said softly. “He’s got Allendale’s brand, and he matches the description. The woman must be the one who stole him.”

“She stole nothing,” Belial spat. “The Allendales are the thieves, who stole me from my home and my people, and then stole my very spirit so that I became a husk of a man. She is the one who saved me, and returned everything I had lost. You will not touch her.”

The second standing hunter scowled. “You have some gal, slave. You will respect your betters.”

That tone made Belial flinch instinctively, but he tightened his grip on the branch. It hurt, it hurt so much, he wanted to drop it so badly…

No!

There was no time for chit-chat. He charged towards the hunters, swinging his branch, but they were more prepared this time. One of them had a club, which he brought up to block the branch. The impact of wood on wood rattled Belial’s bones, and he stumbled a bit from the force of it. Immediately pulling back, he lunged again, missing any vital targets but managing to score a blow on the hunter’s hand that made him almost drop the club. The elf drew back again, intending a final strike to finish it-

“Belial!”

The elf tensed, spinning around at the sound of Morgaine’s voice. The hunter who had stumbled over the dogs was up again, and had yanked Morgaine off her feet.

“Let her go!” Belial cried, panicked. The man tsked.

“Don’t think so- she’s wanted for theft and high treason against Lord Allendale.”

“You monster, I-”

The rest of Belial’s sentence was cut off as his spine exploded with pure, unbridled agony. One of the hunters behind him laughed as the elf fell, curling into a fetal ball. The club contacted his back again, and he thrashed, mindless with pain. Only distantly was he aware of Morgaine’s voice sobbing, calling his name desperately.

“We got ‘em boys,” said the one holding Morgaine. “Now wake up Ellis and let’s load ‘em in the wagon back at the road. We have a reward to collect from his lordship.”

No! Belial thought, struggling to make his limp muscles respond, to push himself up, to fight. He had to protect Morgaine, he had to protect his child. They’d take him back to Allendale and probably execute her, killing both his beloved and their unborn. He moaned, tears of pain and anguish rolling down his face as his traitor body refused to respond.

It was over. They had lost.

[Shinko]

Final part of the Belaine arc of Countryswap. Content warning for suicidal thoughts, violence, and general dark themes.

No Matter the Consequences - Part Three

SPOILER: Click to show

Belial had been beaten before, far more times than he cared to count- but it was never like this.

He was in a cold, dank side tunnel of Baron Regan Allendale’s jewel mine. Lacking a proper dungeon, the nobleman used these emptied seams to hold criminals, as well as slaves who were being punished. The tunnels were barely tall enough to crawl into on one’s hands and knees, leaving the prisoners within in excruciating pain just from being cramped, cold, and lying on hard stone. That in and of itself would have been bad enough, but it was only the beginning for the elven slave. His body was covered in purple welts where he’d been beaten with a club, welts that screamed with agony where they touched the stone of the cavern floor. He’d been lashed as well, and still had scabs on his back. Belial couldn’t move, he could barely think, and every exhaled breath emerged as a pained wheeze.

Yet none of the physical pain was anything compared to the raw, unbridled grief that was eating him alive from the inside. They had failed. They had failed. He and his beloved would never reach freedom, they would never get to watch their child grow and thrive, never get to make a life together. All of that promise, that hope, had been snatched away in the space of a few minutes. Allendale had been furious enough at the attempted escape, but when he learned why his slave had fled, the secret that Morgaine was carrying inside her womb, he’d been absolutely livid.

The Baron would kill her, of course. For “using” his slave’s “services” without compensation, and then “stealing” it outright? There could be no other punishment. Belial’s beloved would die, and their unborn would die with her. If he’d had the voice the elf would have howled with grief. For the first time in over two hundred years he’d known what it was to be loved, to be a person instead of an object, to feel true hope- and now he was going to lose it forever. His love- his child…

Strangely, however, this grief brought with it a surge of bitter defiance. Morgaine and their child were the only people he had in the entire world. They represented his happiness, the light in a darkened existence. Without them, he had no reason to go on living. So he wouldn’t. He would follow the woman he loved and the child who would never get the chance to live at all into the next world. They would finally be free from chains, free from pain and heartache. They would finally be together, in death if not in life. Allendale thought he had gotten his property back, but he didn’t realize that he’d lost the moment Belial agreed to run away- he could steal the slave’s freedom, he could beat him and condition him until he couldn’t hold a weapon to harm himself, he could have him watched at all times to ensure he wouldn’t do himself any harm… but he couldn’t force the elf to eat.

It was a slow, miserable way to go out. But a few weeks of starvation was better than centuries of grief and loneliness.

* * * * *

Morgaine looked up as a faint glow pierced the absolute darkness, and the overseer’s shadow appeared at the end of the mine shaft where she was being kept. A soft scraping noise signaled that the hastily installed bars over the entrance had been pushed aside.

“Get up here,” he growled. Morgaine almost ignored him, her impulse to be as defiant as possible, but she shoved the surge of bile away and obeyed. The first few times she’d refused to come out when called they had sent one of the mine slaves down to drag her out by her hair. Better to just get whatever it was over with.

She didn’t know how much time had passed- it was always dark in the mine, so it was impossible to tell the time of day. A few days? A week? A month? The locksmith didn’t know what Allendale’s cronies hadn’t killed her yet. The bulge in her middle was impossible to hide now. They knew what she was concealing within her body- there was no way they were going to let her get away with such a thing.

As soon as she reached the entrance of the shaft and stood up, the overseer held up his lantern so that it shone directly in Morgaine’s eyes. She hissed in pain, squinting hard against the glare as it brought tears to her eyes.

“He’s not eating,” the man said bluntly. “Are you behind this?”

“If you clarified what you were talking about, I could tell you,” Morgaine retorted, earning herself a backhand across the face for the impudence.

“The elf,” the overseer spat. “He isn’t eating. Did you plant this idea in his head?”

Realizing what he must mean, Morgaine swallowed hard. Oh… Oh no…

“What if it was?” she asked bitterly. “What are you going to do? Beat me so that he’s forced to eat?”

The man snarled, grabbing her by the hair and dragging her off her feet. “You will show some respect, criminal.”

“No, I won’t,” she snapped, in spite of the pain from her scalp that was making her want to lop off her own hair. “You’re going to execute me anyway, I’m not playing your game! You can’t cow me!”

She expected a blow to come then, but instead the overseer fell silent. It was a very uneasy sort of silence. After a moment, she risked glancing up at him, and despite the fact that the light from the lantern was still making her eyes swim, she realized the man was smirking.

“Oh, we’re not going to execute you,” he said icily. “The baron has much more interesting plans for you.”

Morgaine felt a tremor of fear threading down her spine, but she kept her face set firmly in a scowl- if a somewhat pained one since the overseer was still holding her by her hair. “And what makes you think I’ll play along with these plans?”

“You won’t have a choice… slave.”

Before Morgaine could react to this, she was shoved bodily back into the empty mine shaft. Her head knocked hard against the stone wall, briefly swamping her mind with excruciating pain. Dimly she was aware of the makeshift door being slammed shut, and the overseer’s footsteps retreating from her prison. She stayed curled up by the entrance, moaning softly, trying to hold her head and pull her knees up to her chest despite the swollen bump on her gut obstructing her movement.

Finally, the aching of her head had eased enough that she could think coherently. Not that this was an improvement. Slave. By Carricon, they were going to make her a slave. That was why they hadn’t killed her yet. But why then where they keeping her in this cell? Why hadn’t they branded her, or taken her to be trained as fresh caught slaves generally were?

The answer was obvious- this was a relatively new development. Allendale had only just made the decision to keep her alive. And on the heels of Belial’s attempt at a hunger strike… what was the baron up to?

A wave of nausea washed over the locksmith, and she moaned again, putting a hand to her stomach. Regardless of Allendale’s plans, she might not survive her pregnancy long enough to become a slave. She could barely move anymore; standing up when she crawled out of the tunnel took every ounce of her energy and coordination. She did it anyway, because she did not want these people to think they had her cowed- but she was paying the price for her pride.

At least it seemed that Belial had found his escape. It made Morgaine want to wail, to think of him intentionally starving himself to death, but… she couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t warned her of what he’d do if he was pushed. She had promised him she wouldn’t let his master take him back- even if somehow she could get a message to him, she wasn’t going to try to talk him out of this. Not after the way he’d looked at her when the slave hunters had come; strong again, full of hope and pride. She’d seen tiny flickers of that side of him, but she’d never dared to hope that it might one day shine through the years of dehumanization. He’d finally won back his selfhood; he deserved to be able to die on his own terms.

It wasn’t a very reassuring thought. Clutching their unborn child, guilt and anguish roiling within her, Morgaine started to cry.

* * * * *

Belial was only semi-conscious when he was hauled bodily out of the seam that was his prison. He was weak- painfully weak. Whoever had grabbed him had to physically hold him up so that he wouldn’t collapse. His stomach screamed for lack of food, hunger a constant, all-consuming force in his mind. His own survival instincts were raging against him, but he ignored it. Survival didn’t matter. His life hadn’t been worth living for a long time. Just let it end… let him slip away, to where Morgaine was waiting…

A sharp pinch on one of his long ears brought him back to awareness, and he hissed in pain. “Wake up,” the bored voice of the overseer commanded. “I thought you’d want to see the woman you decided was worth defying your master for.”

“Wha?” Belial croaked, his eyes fluttering open. At first he couldn’t make out anything, forced as he was to squint against the lantern light after the absolute darkness of the cave. But as his vision slowly started to come into focus, he realized that there was a very familiar short, dark haired person standing across from him, a pair of shackles around her wrist being held onto by another slave. Belial felt a jolt run through him, and with a hoarse cry he tried to lurch towards her, only to be brought up short by the overseer, still holding him back.

“None of that,” he snapped. “You can look, but don’t touch. Your master is very displeased with both of you- so he thought it best to address both of you at once.”

Belial’s shoulders tensed, and he wanted to tell the overseer exactly what he thought of his master… but something about the wording of that remark brought him up short. “You” could be singular, referring exclusively to Belial, but it was phrased in a way that made it sound like a plural, directed at both of them. But Morgaine was a free merchant, Allendale wasn’t…

It hit him like a brick wall, and his heart clenched. No.

He hadn’t anticipated this. Of all the possible outcomes of this venture, not once had he entertained the idea that Morgaine might be made a slave. That she should endure the horror, the agony, the dehumanization that he had been forced to live through for two hundred years…

A cry of rage emerged from Belial’s throat, and he tried to wrestle himself out of the overseer’s grasp. Adrenaline pumped through him, anger giving him energy he’d never have expected in the condition he was in. But the overseer only snorted, letting go of his arms with one hand and using it to punch him in the back. Belial’s spine lit with agony, and his muscles instantly went limp as pain fired in every nerve of his body.

He dimly heard Morgaine give a muffled cry of anger, but she didn’t seem able to actually say anything audible. Was she gagged? Belial’s eyes still hadn’t adjusted enough to the light for him to be able to tell, even if he could look up to face her. His voice high with pain, Belial whimpered, “M-my dearest…”

“Shut up,” the overseer snarled, yanking the limp elf upright. “You’re not to talk to one another. Let’s move, you don’t want to keep your master waiting.”

Belial clenched his jaw, but he knew it was pointless to try and fight back. He was too weak, and they already knew from the slave hunters that they could rein him in by threatening to hurt Morgaine. Instead he allowed himself to be half led, half dragged out of the tunnel for the first time in the gods only knew how long.

Morgaine was equally mute, but there was a mulish set to her face that Belial was hard put not to smile at. She never changed. That fiery defiance was what had brought them together in the first place, when the elf tried to warn her off when she was playing pranks on the baron. He’d been trying to save her life- it seemed all he’d managed to do was ruin both of their lives.

Yet he could not regret it. Not when she caught his eye, and he saw the warmth in her gaze and knew that she still loved him. It would have been so easy for her to be resentful, but in spite of the torture that his master had subjected both of them to, their bond was as strong as ever. If it were not for the fact that they were too far apart, and her wrists were bound, he’d have reached out to take her hand in his.

Finally, they reached the mouth of the cavern, both Morgaine and Belial hissing in pain as the sunlight blinded their weakened eyes. He was still blinking away the tears and trying to see more than whiteness when that awful, hateful voice rung in his ears.

“So, I understand the two of you have been causing… problems.” Regan Allendale said coldly, making Belial instinctively want to bow his head in submission. He resisted the impulse only with tremendous difficulty, instead turning his face in the direction of his master’s voice- though he still could not see well enough to make out the man’s face. He uttered not a word, but the mere fact that he was looking up at Regan, instead of away or down in submission, said everything. He heard the soft crunch of footsteps on gravel, and a moment later felt the sharp sting of a hand striking his cheek.

“It seems my overseers were correct,” he remarked with venom. “The thief really has ruined you. You seem to be laboring under the mistaken impression that you are actually worth something, that you have the right to defy me.”

“I am, and I do,” Belial hissed. “You are nothing but a cruel, petty tyra-”

Regan grabbed his jaw, yanking his chin up with a snarl. “You are a fool, elven scum. You know full well what I am capable of when I’m crossed.”

“I do, and that is why I am not afraid of you,” Belial shot back. “You can hurt me, but you cannot control me. Not anymore.”

There was silence for a time. Then, Regan released Belial’s chin, and the elf heard his footfalls moving away. A few seconds later, there was the sound of a fist impacting flesh, and a muffled cry of pain in Morgaine’s voice, and the elf lurched to his feet with a cry of anger. The overseer yanked Belial back down again. Belial thrashed, but he was too weak to break free, and so was forced to listen helplessly as the sound of flesh impacting flesh filled the air, and Morgaine’s voice cried out.

“You will not submit to pain inflicted upon yourself,” Regan remarked. “So perhaps this will get the message across. You will do as I say, or I will take it out of the woman’s hide. If you are defiant, she will be beaten and you will watch. If you refuse to eat, she will be beaten, and you will watch. If you die… she will go to work in the mines.”

Belial’s entire body stiffened. As an elf, he’d never worked in the Allendale mines. He was far too valuable- and the mine work was far too dangerous. crawling into tiny tunnels in the pitch dark, tunnels that could collapse at any time, the threat of floods and entrapment, the freezing temperatures in the lower levels of the mine, and lack of clean air giving the workers breathing problems… not to mention the grueling, neverending nature of the work.

His thoughts were interrupted by muffled words from Morgaine. She was trying to talk to him- no doubt trying to tell him to forget about her, and think of himself. Trying to convince him not to submit. Morgaine was always like that; selfless to a fault, and limitless in her capacity for empathy. It was why Belial had given his fragile heart to her, after centuries of being numb and broken.

“I… I love you Morgaine, more than anything,” he said hoarsely. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

She moaned, pleading evident in her voice. Clenching his hands into fists, squeezing his eyes shut against the hot sting of tears, Belial knelt, prostrating himself before their tormentor.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he whispered. “Just please, please don’t hurt her.”

* * * * *

Months passed, and very quickly things settled back into their former pattern for Belial, but with two glaring exceptions. The first was that he no longer had his illicit meetings with Morgaine to look forward to. He only saw her when he inadvertently did something to upset his master, and she was brought out to suffer in his stead. The second was that he was kept on a very short leash, others among the slaves watching him for any sign of defiance at all times.

He was miserable, and ravaged with guilt. He should have known better than to think he could possible win. There was no victory for a slave of Courdon. Not ever. And now he’d gotten Morgaine trapped in the same quagmire that had held him prisoner for so long. How could he have been such a fool?

When he saw Morgaine, he could see her stomach swelling, growing and growing as the child inside took form. What would become of the young one? Belial didn’t know if they would even survive at this point. A half-elf was not worth nearly what a pureblood was. There was no promise of the child having an elven longevity, and there would inevitably be questions about how it had come to exist in the first place. Those questions would be a scandal for Regan, a scandal he would no doubt want to avoid.

Finally, one day some three months after he’d seen her last, Morgaine appeared for a punishment noticeably thinner. She must have either delivered the child or miscarried, though Belial could not guess at which. As always she was brought out bound, blindfolded, and gagged. It was everything in Belial not to try and lash out to save her- he knew that would just make things worse.

The elf was miserable. He’d had a brief, shining glimmer of hope, a fleeting ray of pure happiness. Now it was gone, and the hollow emptiness of his life felt even more yawning for having temporarily dared to think he might escape. The pain, the loneliness, the objectification…

Then, one day, his master summoned him. When Belial appeared, prostrating himself obediently, he caught a glimpse of a triumphant smirk he could not like in Regan’s face.

“I have something for you, elf. A new job for you to take on. Call it… a reward for good behavior.” The nobleman turned to an overseer standing nearby, and nodded. Belial sat up, watching the man approach warily. He was holding a bundle of rags in his arms, a bundle he shoved roughly at Belial. The elf accepted it, wincing a bit at the unexpected weight. It wasn’t a bundle of cloth as it had appeared at first, it was heavier. Then, he felt whatever it was move, and heard a very faint noise of distress from within the folds.

No, it couldn’t…

His heart hammering wildly, the elf pulled the blanket apart. A very, very small face appeared from within the rags. A face that blinked up at him with his own shimmering amber eyes, a face that was framed by Morgaine’s curly black hair. The elf looked down at his child, his child, tears starting to burn his eyes. He pulled the tiny creature closer, so that he could feel the infant heartbeat against his chest to confirm that this really wasn’t a dream...

“This is the result of your betrayal,” Regan said cooly. “Your son. I have decided to call him Sieg- he will be your responsibility from now on.”

“You’re… You’re giving him to me, Master?” Belial stammered, not daring to believe his ears. The infant was wiggling with dismay, confused to be surrounded by strangers. Belial instinctively stroked at his head, making shushing noises. Regan sneered.

“Someone must look after him, seeing as his mother is going to the slave market in the morning. You are the sire, so it might as well be you.”

Belial’s heart clenched, and he looked up with a cry of negation. Regan glared at him, and the elf immediately fell silent, clutching his infant son close to his chest.

“You may keep the brat,” Regan said sternly. “But the deal I made with you eight months ago still stands. However, Sieg will stand in his mother’s place, and he will take your punishments should you displease me.”

The elf’s blood ran cold, and his entire body felt frozen. Instinctively he leaned down over his son, as if to shield him, shaking his head desperately. “Please, please Master, I will do whatever you ask, I will obey, always and forever. I swear it, I swear it, only please, don’t hurt him, don’t hurt my son, he has nothing to do with this!”

“He has everything to do with this,” Regan hissed. “And you do not make requests of me, slave. I would as soon smother the brat. But since I can get some use out of him, I will allow you to care for him. Do not make me regret this decision.”

Belial bit back a whimper. Morgaine was being sold- he’d never see her again. Now, his son was going to be Regan’s chew toy, the object of his petty revenge against Belial’s betrayal. But some deep, powerful instinct in the elven man’s chest was stirring, and when he looked down at the baby in his arms he felt a surge of warmth and passion. Sieg, his master had called him. Belial’s son, and Morgaine’s. He had just met this tiny creature, but Belial already knew that he loved Sieg more than life itself.

“I understand, Master,” he whispered.

“Good,” Regan said briskly, turning on his heel. “See to it that the brat is not a distraction or an annoyance to the other slaves. And I expect you to keep up with your usual workload.”

The elf bowed, waiting until both Regan and the overseer had gone. Only then did he turn his attention back to Sieg. The baby was fussing again, kicking at the blankets he was wrapped in and whimpering softly. The infant’s sobs tore at Belial’s already aching heart, and he kissed the little one gently on the forehead.

“Hush my child, my everything,” he whispered. “You are safe now, this I swear upon my very life. I know you want your mother. So do I. But she’s gone now, and neither of us will ever see her again.”

He slowly rocked the baby, tears sliding down his face and splashing on Sieg’s nose. The baby blinked in surprise at the wetness, looking up at Belial in confusion. Then, he reached up a tiny hand towards his father, cooing. Belial leaned closer, letting Sieg touch his face.

“I… I loved her, Sieg. Your mother was the only one who ever made me feel as if my life mattered. As if I was worth something as a person, instead of as an object. I know you will grow up a slave, and for your own sake you must never know that feeling. The nobles will kill you if you try to aspire above your station, especially after what I tried to do.”

He bit his lip, a hoarse sob rising out of his throat. “But even if you never know your worth as an individual, this I swear; you are my son. As I loved your mother, I love you as well. And I will make sure you always know that.”