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Death of Innocence

Peering through the dark lines, Rhys beheld an impossibility: a slender male dragon, gold, wrapped in a thin and filthy blanket. He was dreaming still, had to be. He pinched himself, claws out, but nothing changed.

"H-have I gone crazy?" he said.

"I don't think so," a familiar voice replied. "But I wouldn't blame you if you had."

Rhys turned slightly and was overjoyed to find the yellow-green dragon staring across at him. Awake and well, he was finally parsing that he was surrounded by cages. These were different cages. He was being kept in a kennel, Pythian efficiency, the most prisoners in the smallest amount of space. There were two short rows of dragon-sized cells, ending on one side in a blank wall, and the other a sharp bend that gave some semblance of privacy. A corridor divided them, but Rhys shared a wall of iron bars with the cages to either side of him. The cell to his right was empty, to his left . . . No, he didn't want to look at that. He had to be crazy, to think he saw such things.

The yellow-green was in a cell across the corridor, and to the right. Rhys shifted so he could look at the dragon without the overt reminder that he was probably hallucinating.

"You'll want some water, I think," the yellow-green said. "There's a tap near the back."

Rhys nodded, stumbling to his feet. He was still a little off-kilter, but a drink would help. True to the dragon's word, there was a bent pipe protruding from the wall above the trench. Wary of the latrine that seemed to run the length of the kennels, he examined it. There was no question of priming the pump, in fact there only seemed to be one moving part, a knobbly thing screwed to the bend in the pipe. He turned it until it stopped. A slow and muddy trickle dribbled down the wall. Rhys flinched with shocked distaste.

"Give it a minute," the yellow-green advised.

After a few moments, and some ominous banging sounds, the flow of water cleared and strengthened. Rhys cupped his hands under the flow and drank eagerly. There was a thin tightness about his throat when he swallowed, but he was too thirsty to mind it much. The water cleared his throat and helped clarify his mind. With a little embarrassment, he used it to clean the residue of sick and semen off his scales, too. The floor could use a scrub as well, but it could wait. He turned the faucet off, it banged at him and began to trickle rusty mud. Well, that would do.

"Thanks," he said. The mess and the view were better from the front of his cell, so he settled there.

"Nothing." The yellow-green shrugged. "I'm Nace. What do they call you?"

"Rhys . . . " He froze. There was a soft sound coming from the cell to his left, not nearly soft enough to convince him he hadn't heard it. He was trying to pass it off as a momentary aberration when he heard it again: "Hic!"

"Oh, be quiet, you," Nace scolded the sound, causing the blood to drain instantly from the gray-green's face. "Hey, you okay?"

Rhys was very pale, but he was not going to faint. He was not even going to breathe. He was just going to stare, slack-jawed, into the cage on his left and try not to see what he was seeing.

The golden dragon was Achar.

Somewhere between denial and panic, Rhys shut down.

"What's wrong?" Nace pressed him. "Are you okay?"

"I just," he said. "I . . . Just a moment . . . " No. He had never wanted Achar, not like that. Achar was a child, and as such had barely merited the periphery of his attention. A pat on the head, a word or two of praise. There was nothing sexual in it. But the dreams, and that awful drink . . . What had he been thinking? What had he thought he wanted to do? What, if he had been allowed, might he have done?

No. I don't have that in me. I never had that in me. It was that drink.

It was the drink, and it made him feel sick and shaky again just to think of it.

_If I had that in me, I would have known, I would have always known, and I would have torn my throat out before I even made my first kill. I never hurt Achar and I would never hurt a child!

I never hurt Achar,_

he insisted, almost aloud. Not even in the dreams. Not even in the dreams, damn it, Achar's eyes are GREEN!

Rhys swallowed hard, nodding his head in agreement with himself. Achar's eyes were green, and that was enough. He could live with himself, and now he would have to say something to Nace: "I just realized I know him."

"Oh." The yellow-green nodded. "I'm sorry."

The half-truth left an awkward silence. Rhys addressed the young one to break it, "Achar . . . "

Achar gave Rhys a dazed smile and a three-fingered wave, then hiccuped again.

Nace felt awkward now. "They've, uh . . . They've been giving him wine." He ducked his head. "To shut him up."

"What?" Rhys said. "How much?"

"A lot."

"Hic!" Achar added pointedly.

Rhys groaned and covered his eyes, pained.

Nace regarded the young one critically. "He's really much better this way."

"How was he before?"

"Loud," Nace replied. Then, with a little more compassion, "Miserable."

Somehow, sitting in a cell and trembling with cold, his blanket soaked in his own vomit, his very sanity torn almost ragged, Rhys could find no room in his heart for sympathy. He was numb. Without warning, a pinched little giggle escaped his lips.

Nace blinked and asked, "What's funny?"

"Don't know!" Rhys gasped, the need to laugh was stifling. "Don't know! I'm trapped in a cage in a Pythian fortress. I'm cold and I'm sick. In a little while, I'm gonna be ruh-raped by any male that takes a liking to me. The luh-last time I saw my best friend on this earth, she st-st-still had little pieces of her eye falling out of her head! And huh-huh-here we are just making conversation, and Achar . . . is . . . drunk!" A fit of giggling cut away his words and he keeled over to one side, tears cascading down his face. "Nothing is funny! Absolutely nothing is funny!"

"Rhys," Nace told him, "stop it. Stop laughing."

"If I stop laughing, I'll go mad!"

"If you don't stop laughing, you'll go mad," Nace said. "Please, now. Try hard."

Rhys had to clamp both hands over his muzzle to stop the hysterical sounds. The tears continued to flow, and in an indiscernible instant his wild laughter became one long, hopeless sob. "Oh, gods!"

"Better," Nace said. He leaned out of the bars again, trying to comfort that which he could not reach. "Quiet now . . . Hush. You'll make yourself sick."

"Good," Rhys said. "Maybe I'll die this time."

Nace shook his head. "You don't want that. You're just tired . . . " His expression lit. "And cold. Here, let me . . . "

Rhys was the recipient of a soft, cloth-like flutter. Lifting his head to identify it, he found Nace's blanket puddled against his cell door. "Don't you need that?" he said.

"What, me?" Nace smiled and shook his head. "I'm used to it, I've been here so long. You can ask anyone."

Rhys could only see Achar, who was sloppily drunk but disapproving of these antics, Nace himself, and around the corner some limp figures that might have been sleeping or just staring into space. He would have to take Nace at his word. Rhys pulled the blanket inside and bundled in it. The warmth helped a little.

"Thanks," he said. "Thank you. I'm sorry I . . . I'm sorry."

"No, don't be sorry. Just . . . " Nace smiled, but his eyes were pleading. "Just be sane, okay?"

Rhys laughed a little, a soft but honest laugh. "Okay. I'll try."

---

They spoke quietly for a time, and Rhys mopped his floor with his dirty blanket, both of which distracted him and helped his mood a little more.

He had missed evening meal, but that was all right. He doubted he could have kept it down, even now. It was about ten hours until morning meal, which Nace warned him to eat slowly whether he was feeling ill or fine. He had to be careful with himself, because Ezmi had given him almost double the dose she should have.

Ezmi was the dragoness who administered the Draught, cataloged the new arrivals and distributed them among the empty cells. She had once been a slave, but now her status was more uncertain. Cataloging was a practiced talent, and she was good at it. The slaves who might be dangerous had to be split up, and dragons sharing a wall of bars had to be certain not to bother each other. The records were tagged with warnings so Pythians using a slave wouldn't get any surprises, like teeth in the throat. Her judgment was law, and she enjoyed that. She enjoyed giving the Draught, too, so she wasn't exactly being held against her will anymore. She had tagged Rhys dangerous, assigning him a bright red collar and a cage beside Achar, whom she had judged to be a friend, or at least someone the gray-green wouldn't kill and eat.

Rhys stroked the thin strip of leather over his throat self-consciously.

"I'd leave it alone, if I were you," Nace said. "If you itch, you'll just get raw. And if you tear it off, they'll only clip another on. And they'll drug you to do it."

Rhys flinched. "The Draught again?"

Nace snickered. "Ye gods, no. That stuff's valuable, and there are easier things." He shook his head, "But you don't want to be unconscious, not if you can help it. Sometimes the guards, they . . . " He didn't want to say it. "If you can't fight, or make noise, it's easier to do things to you."

The gray-green nodded slowly. He did not relish the idea of waking up sore, and violated, and not even knowing how. He didn't want to dwell on it. "What do the other collars mean?" Just among the three of them, Nace's was yellow, and Achar's green.

"Well," Nace said, "green . . . Young, afraid." He dropped his muzzle. "Vulnerable. Green means vulnerable, no fight in him at all."

Rhys looked at Achar, who was dozing off his wine, and shivered. It was true, and that was frightening. What manner of Pythian would want a pretty young thing, too scared to fight, and too little to make a difference even if he did? "That's terrible," he said, because it was the only thing he could say.

"It might be better for him," Nace murmured. "A male who wanted him, wouldn't want violence. Wouldn't hurt him. And he's pretty. He might be kept, by just one dragon. That can be better, sometimes better."

The gray-green touched his collar again. If green could be good, if you could call that good, what did red bode for him? He closed his eyes, and would not think of it. "What about yours, Nace? What's yellow?"

Nace shifted, not looking up, and flushed in his ears and the thin skin around his horns. "That . . . Um, that . . . "

"Is it something bad?"

"No. No, I just . . . " The yellow-green rubbed his collar, obscuring it. ". . . like it here."

"How's that?"

"I like it here," he muttered. "Means I like it here."

Rhys could only stare. Nace suddenly had a horrifying fascination to him, like a rare beetle in a jar. Could such creatures really exist? He must have misunderstood. "I don't understand. Are you a crazy person?" Crazy people, he guessed, were common enough.

"Don't think so," Nace replied, sheltering under his wings. Now the collar was hidden and so was the rest of him. "Not about everything. Other things. Just this."

"You like living in a cell?" Rhys hazarded. "No things of your own, no sunlight?" An idea occurred. "Are you very religious? An ascetic?"

"No." Nace's voice had become nearly a squeak, the soft, dry sound of chalk on a slate. "I just . . . I can manage those things, but . . . It's being kept. I like being kept. I want to be kept."

Rhys didn't know how to reply to that. Apparently he was so long in not knowing how to reply that Nace felt obligated to go on, "I do miss the sun. The lights here . . . " He shook his head.

"How long have you been down here?" Rhys asked him.

"No," the yellow-green said firmly. "It's no good to keep track. You shouldn't try."

"I won't," Rhys said. "I guess." He did guess. He guessed it had been a very long time indeed. Nace seemed to know everyone and everything about the fortress, and there was a thin desperation in his speech. He wanted to speak, had been left wanting to speak, and was afraid of losing his chance. Losing his chance again, perhaps even a third of fourth time. He had outlasted any other friends that might have shared these cells with him. If he had gone a little soft in the head, and even if he hadn't, he deserved a little slack.

With mild encouragement, Rhys induced him to speak on the calming subject of plumbing. The concept of running water was as alien to him as a pipe coming out of a smooth, solid stone wall. Nace seemed to be telling him that the wall was not solid, but contained adequate space inside for pipes and ventilation. Nace said that this space had not been carved, but that two thick walls had somehow been poured, and the emptiness left between them. The walls, moreover, had wood and metal supports inside them, like nutmeats in a cake.

Nace was beginning to explain, with some enthusiasm at the gray-green's avid interest, the duct work that kept the stale air circulating, when a distant clatter stopped him cold.

"What's that?" Rhys asked. The corner that segmented them off was sharp, and he couldn't see much beyond it. He couldn't even be sure the noise was coming from inside the kennel. "Can't be breakfast already, can it?"

Nace gave throat to a sudden, feral moan of fear. He clutched his head. "No . . . No, oh no, oh, no, oh, no . . . "

"What is it?" Rhys hissed, his good humor dissolving like sugar in the rain.

"Oraz!"

"What? Who?"

Nace began to rock himself. His sanity had snapped, snapped like a brittle bone or a green twig, with no warning save that chilling cry. From the cries and sobbing that echoed from beyond the corner, he wasn't the only one in this condition. He was starting to babble, "Doesn't want me . . . Doesn't like me, won't hurt me, won't bite me, doesn't like me. . . No more scars, no, never, no, no . . . "

"Nace!" Rhys wanted to strike him, but the anxiety of his call had much the same effect.

Nace refocused on him, hollow-eyed. "He doesn't know you're awake." He spoke with disconnected wonder, "You've been asleep since you came, nobody knows you're awake."

"What?" said Rhys.

"Go back to sleep!" the yellow-green cried.

"I can't sleep now!" The scent of panic in the cells was far too strong and growing stronger, growing nearer. Rhys could smell that some of the prisoners had voided themselves.

"Close your eyes!" Nace hissed. "Close your eyes, lie down and keep still!"

The crying and clattering was almost upon them. Half out of his head, Rhys never questioned what he was told, he just did it. He dove beneath the blanket and hid his face, eyes squeezed tightly shut and body held stock still. He had done so as a child, when there were nightmares, but he never could resist the urge to peek. Better to know the monster was coming, even if it was coming to kill you. Better the known than the unknown. As the noise drew closer yet, he opened one eye, hooded safely in the blanket's shadow. The monster was coming.

It was . . . Enormous.

Rhys gulped an eep of fear. This wasn't a mere physical enormity, although the gods knew there was plenty of that. The dragon wore his size like a suit of armor. His crest, though short, only added to the effect, turning his dark head into a decorated battle helm. This was not a monster, not a monstrosity, but some kind of cruel machine. He was entirely covered in plates, not scaled; their shifting made the clatter. He was too dark to be silver, but the quality of shine was something you could never get from polished iron. He did not stand, he loomed, and as he loomed he looked over Rhys and the young gold. Looked them over, but did not see them, not any more than a careful customer sees an inadequate cut of meat, or an unripe piece of fruit.

He turned to Nace's cell.

The yellow-green had lost most of his color. Now he lost a little more.

"Nace."

"Yip!" he said. "M-Master?"

"These are new." The male nodded to the cells behind him. "You've spoken to them."

Nace started to shake his head, but he didn't get very far. "Only . . . I'm sorry, Master. Never the gray-green. Only the yellow-gold, if it please you, Master."

Rhys bit his lips beneath the blanket. Achar. Why doesn't he do anything for Achar?

Achar had been awake longer. Achar had take wine from the guards. There was nothing Nace could do about Achar, no lie convoluted enough to save him, and Rhys knew it. But Achar needed saving, Rhys knew that too. From this monster, a green collar was not protection enough.

"It does not please me," Oraz said. "Why haven't you spoken to the red-collar?"

"If it please you Master, if it . . . He hasn't been awake yet."

Rhys closed his eyes in shame. Nace had just put his neck on the line for him, and the only thing he could do in return was keep the deception, continue the lie. Continue to lie, in other words, and 'sleep' until Oraz left them.

"Asleep?" Oraz whirled and latched on to the gray-green's cell door. His fist encircled the full width of the bar, and dwarfed it. He rattled the door until the hinges screamed at him, so hard the floor shook, and the other bars resonated with the vibration long after he had stopped. Rhys was quiet, very quiet, and still. The male turned on Nace, "Why is he still asleep?"

"I wouldn't know, sir, I'm not the one who drugged--" Nace withered under the larger dragon's stare. "Master! I'm sorry, Master, I meant no disrespect!"

Mercifully, Oraz turned away before he could induce a fatal heart attack in the yellow-green. He fixed his gaze on Achar's cell and brushed his claws along the bars, making them ring. "Did this one . . . Impress you, Nace?"

Nace answered with a strangled mewl.

"NACE!"

"Master, if . . . If it please you . . . " Nace shuddered. "He . . . He is so young, he would be nothing to you, another dragon, perhaps . . . "

The male snarled, bringing his massive head level with Nace's in one violent movement. He snatched the yellow collar deftly and pulled the dragon up against the bars. "You presume too much! You think it matters to me if he is young!"

"I'm sorry!" Nace cried, strangled. "I'm sorry, Master. Please . . . I beg that you forgive me!"

"You should," came the curt reply. He returned to Achar's cell and peered inside. "What's the matter with him?"

"If . . . If it please you, Master . . . If it please you--"

"Stop asking if it pleases me!"

"H-h-he's drunk!"

"Interesting," the Pythian rumbled. Then he smiled. "You there! Little one!"

Achar hiccuped and beamed up at the male from the floor. "H-hiiiii!" he said brightly.

Rhys felt his claws curling out, unbidden. He had to stop this. He had to stop this! How? How, and would revealing Nace's lie mean mere punishment, or death for the yellow-green? How, and what about Achar? What about the death of innocence, what about the soul?

"What's your name, boy?

"A-hic! Achar. What's yours?"

"Oraz," the dark dragon replied with an indulgent smile.

"Hi!" the gold repeated. He gave a tiny wave, but overbalanced and tipped on to his side with a soft thump.

Shut up, Achar, Rhys pleaded with him. Please. For love of the gods, he may still leave you alone if you don't interest him. Please, for all our sakes, shut up! But the young one knew no better.

"Dijoo, hic, bring me anything, anything to drink? I'm sooooo thirsty!"

"You have water, little one," Oraz said.

Achar pulled a face of absolute disgust, extending his thin, pink tongue to its fullest length.

Oh, gods . . . Rhys nearly wept for him.

Oraz gaped. Then he laughed. "Perhaps I do have something for you to drink."

There was a fine, silver chain wrapped double around the Pythian's wrist, upon which dangled a single key of dark iron. He flipped the key into his hand and fitted it to the heavy lock on Achar's door.

A ragged sigh emanated from Nace's cage. It was relieved, but miserable in being relieved. Rhys looked and saw the yellow-green slumped where the two rows of bars made a corner, sweat-soaked and trembling. As Achar's door swung open, he cringed and folded into himself, hands over his ears and body curled beneath his wings.

I am sorry, Nace, Rhys thought. I am so sorry. He pulled the blanket from his face. With horror, he saw that the tip of the dark dragon's length was already peeking into view.

Achar noticed too, but with quite a different reaction. He pronounced his considered opinion, "You're . . . biiiiig."

Nace was shaking his head wildly, silently. No, he mouthed at the gray-green. No!

Rhys shook his head, getting to his feet. I'm sorry.

Oraz was running a clawtip over himself. "Do you like it?" he asked the gold.

Achar giggled and nodded emphatically, such that he almost fell over again.

Rhys seized the back of the Pythian's head and slammed it back into the dividing wall of bars, once, twice, three times in sharp succession. BANG BANG BANG! "That's enough," he snarled. "You hear me, you son of a mongrel bitch? You face me, face an adult. Leave him alone."

Oraz reeled, and even that was enough to break the gray-green's hold. The Pythian was tall, the angle was bad. Without the bars between them, Rhys could perhaps have used his handhold to climb, dig, and sink his teeth into the dragon's neck. With them, there was nothing to do but let go. Oraz reeled, and did face him, from just out of reach. He groped with one hand, blindly, badly, and leaned into the cell door, shutting himself in with the gold.

"Rhys?" Achar said, perhaps sobering up a bit. There had been a lot of noise all of a sudden, and the look on the gray-green's face was deadly angry.

"So this is what we have here," Oraz said. He clutched a bar to steady himself, but the stun was already wearing off and his eyes had focused. "Feeling quite well, red-collar. Rhys. Not a speck of puke or come on you. Miraculous recovery, don't you think so, Nace?"

Nace shook his head, agonized. He spoke only to Rhys, in his tiny, chalk-scratchy voice, "Don't you see? It won't do any good."

"I don't think he does see," Oraz said. "Perhaps you'd like to explain it to him."

Nace shook his head. He closed his wings over himself and hid.

"We will have dealings later," Oraz told him, "you and I. But not tonight. Come here, little one. There is something I wish to show you, and your friend."

Achar wobbled to his feet and approached the larger dragon cautiously. Maybe he was a little embarrassed for himself, now that he was thinking more clearly. Maybe he was a little afraid.

Rhys snarled and squirmed, shoulder-deep in the bars, but Oraz was keeping well away from him. He could spit the distance, but that was no good. If he had a sword, or a staff . . . If he had a broken bottle, or a rock . . . He clawed the wall, he clawed the floor, but the smooth stone only split his nails. He yanked on the pipe but the metal was stuck fast.

Oraz wrapped both arms around the young gold, tightly, pinning his wings between them. "Hold still now, little one. It won't take but a minute." His jaws revealed a mouth full of silver teeth, and closed around Achar's paper-thin wing. Closed and dug into the stout bone and muscle that connected it at his shoulder. Closed like a steel trap.

Achar squealed in sudden, affronted pain.

"Now," Oraz snarled through clenched teeth, "cry. I'm going to kill you. Cry for your life."

"Rhys!" the gold shrieked. "Rhys!"

"Oh my gods, I will kill you," Rhys said. He said it very plainly, not a shout, but a rising inflection. Then he went mad for a little while. He shoved himself through the bars, his shoulder and his body, his collar bone which creaked in protest, his ribs which bruised and ached. He extended his reach to his utmost, until physical impossibility stopped him, and it was not enough. He snarled, he foamed, he shouted. Promises. He promised horrible things. "Damn you! Damn you! Let him go!" And Achar still cried. Cried and reached for him and struggled in the dark male's grip as Oraz bore down on his wing, but it was no use. Eventually, the gold went limp in Oraz's arms.

Oraz smiled, released him, and gently stroked his tear-damp face. "There, now. I see you understand. I will not kill you, little one. I only wanted you to understand." The marks from his teeth were scored in Achar's wing and blood was on his lips. He licked it away. "There, now. Dry your eyes."

Incredibly, Achar did, scrubbing both hands over his face. It was as if he'd fallen and scraped a knee.

Rhys didn't know what to do. He was wedged in between the cells, utterly useless, midway between madness and hopelessness. There was nothing he could do. Nothing. "Don't hurt him," he croaked. He looked at Oraz, calm again, and begged, "Please don't hurt him."

Oraz smiled at him. "You understand as well. Perhaps I will decide to be merciful. Debase yourself, slave. You've already frothed and screamed and beat your breast. Show this little one what you will sacrifice for him. Give me your dignity. Cry. Plead. Promise me your soul. Scar yourself, give me your blood. Maybe I will leave him."

Rhys slipped back into his cell, back through the cold bars with sweat-slick scales. He understood, all right. By standing, by fighting, he had given Oraz two to torment instead of one. He was sorry, and he hoped that Achar knew that, but it would do no good to say it in front of the Pythian.

"You won't leave him," Rhys said. "Damn you for even saying that you would. You know you can hurt both of us and you won't stop. Fine. But I won't help you any more."

Achar shook his head frantically, still fearing death. "No, Rhys! No, he said! He said!" He gazed up at Oraz and Oraz nodded. "He said he'd leave me alone! He said that!"

Rhys dipped his muzzle. "No, Achar. He won't. There's nothing I can do."

"There, Achar," Oraz said. "He won't do anything. That leaves me and you."

Achar turned back to look at him, eyes wide. "What are you going to do to me?"

Oraz touched his shoulder and made him turn the rest of the way. "I only want you to please me. I'm afraid you may have to work at it; your friend got me quite out of the mood, and I may have to hurt you a little bit. But I don't want to hurt you, you see?" His tail crept between the gold's legs and pushed up firmly.

Achar gasped. He mewled and shook his head.

The Pythian ignored him and continued to work his tail against the young dragon's sheath, short, light strokes. "You'll want to please me." He examined his claws. "I can do things for you, little one. I can do things to you." Suddenly, his full attention was on the gold. His hand clamped down on Achar's shoulder and forced him to kneel as his tail wound around the young one's emerging length. The tip of his tail was incredibly flexible, it drove Achar to comply. "There now, that's good."

The yellow-gold shivered but did not pull away. He was beginning to pant. His lips writhed around clenched teeth in what might have been a grimace, or a smile. Slowly, inevitably, he released himself into the male's writhing grasp.

"Are you still thirsty, little one?" Oraz asked. When Achar made no motion to reply, the Pythian squeezed harder, bringing pain.

"Gods," the gold yelped. He tried to clutch his hands between his legs, but there was no good he could do.

Oraz rumbled deep in his chest, a warm sound of growing contentment. "I asked if you were thirsty."

Achar nodded frantically. His mouth had gone desert dry. Maybe the male would let him have a drink of water, let him go, for at least a little while . . .

The Pythian's hand crept from his shoulder to the back of his neck. It held him there, and the tip of the male's length brushed his muzzle, dark and swollen like a plum.

The young gold tried to twist away. "No, no . . . "

"Yes," Oraz said, jerking him near. "Or do you want me to hurt you again?" He brought his muzzle down to Achar's ear, close to his pulsing throat. "I can do things to you. I can do whatever I want. I can bite you to pieces and then have your friend instead, it's all the same to me. Would that be better, slave?" Perversely, his attention to the gold's shaft had grown more intense, the pleasure engendered finer and more sharply drawn.

Hot and cold, Achar teetered perilously close to orgasm. He wanted more. He wanted the male to go away and leave him alone. He was afraid. He wanted to go home. He wanted it to stop. He didn't want it to stop, it felt good, and if the Pythian stopped he would bite again. He wanted Rhys, but there was nothing Rhys could do.

Because he could make no answer, he leaned forward, shut his eyes, and took the tip of the male's length into his mouth.

Oraz smiled at him, and expelled a long sigh. "There. That's a good boy."

Achar moaned, mixed comfort and despair. His hips moved weakly and his tail brushed the ground. More, please. Pleasure and not pain. He had made his choice. When Oraz forced more of his shaft into his muzzle, he did not struggle, nor draw away. He moved his tongue, and Oraz rewarded him with a particularly lengthy pull, so he did it again.

"Ahh," the Pythian said. "That's it. I do believe I'll keep you."

A stifled cry of remorse echoed across the hall, courtesy of the yellow-green. Crouched in his cell, claws digging into his shoulders, Rhys bit the inside of his mouth hard enough to make it bleed.

Keep him? This dragon? This male? Nace had suggested that being kept was almost a reprieve, but this was a death sentence. If not death, Rhys could foresee only torment for the young gold. He wanted to scream, he wanted to kill. Most of all, he wanted to make the Pythian stop, and take back what he had said. But even a word from him, even a sound, and Oraz might renew his games with the young gold. Perhaps hurt him again, hurt him more, just to make Rhys squirm and prove how helpless he was. The Pythian's final goal, the one thing Rhys could neither prevent nor distract him from, was this rape. Better for it to be over, quickly and with no more pain. The gray-green felt his brain writhe, this thought was like boiling water, it burned him. But he forced himself to look at the bleeding wound in Achar's wing, a bite he might as well have inflicted himself, and clamped his muzzle shut.

Achar was suckling now, Rhys could hear the sounds. He wished he was deaf. It was wrong, so wrong. He was hearing something he once dreamed, through unwilling eyes he saw it, but distorted through the dark lens of a violent nightmare. Rhys nurtured a feverish hope that he was dreaming still, perhaps it was only his own perversion, mad and uncontrolled. If he dreamed this, he would go insane. He would kill himself when he woke, and never dream again. But there would be no madness, no waking. Only dull, relentless reality, and a damp, sucking noise that made him want to weep.

The two dragons were oblivious to his anguish. Oraz might not have noticed if the gray-green had begun to scream at him, or weep. He knew nothing but Achar, the gold's weak and inexpert attentions, and the mixed need and disgust in his expression. The young one didn't want to, but he was, and that was wonderful. He didn't want to like what was happening, either, but Oraz could force that upon him too. His tail was well-practiced, and had forced tougher dragons than this confused and pathetic male to admit pleasure, and to experience it. And, eventually, to beg for it.

Achar was beyond denying anything, to himself or to the larger male. He would respond to and obey a push or a touch, even though his jaws ached and his panting breath had dried his throat to a crisp. He needed what Oraz was giving him, it was like nothing he had experienced, pleasure shot through with abject fear. He had known no other lover, only this dragon and his remarkable tail. In this moment, half-crazed, he wanted nothing else. This was better than being bitten, (And he'll bite me if I don't. Oh, gods, he will!) it was better than anything, and all he had to do was move his head, move his tongue, move his mouth . . .

Oraz groaned and thrust his hips against the smaller dragon's muzzle, forcing his way deeper and with more violence as his climax grew nearer. The gold was so pretty, wide-eyed and so innocent-looking. He was, Oraz noticed with delight, crying, and did not know that he was crying. He dug his claws into the back of the little dragon's head, ever mindful not to scar that beautiful hide. Close, now. He made the gold slow in his motions, and slowed his own as well. He would decide.

Achar gazed up at him, confused, not registering the pain of the claws digging in between his scales. He was afraid, and didn't know what to do. Would Oraz hurt him? No, he begged, with a tiny whimper and a motion of his hips. Please.

That was enough. Oraz pushed against him, gaggingly deep as he came. He squeezed the young one's shaft, so persistent and so hard that the dragon has no choice but to spill his seed as well. In spite of this, shuddering and barely able to move, Achar pulled back in shock at the liquid warmth that filled his mouth.

Oraz tightened his grip. "Swallow it!" he commanded, eyes lust-glazed and dangerous. "All of it!"

Achar made no protest. He would swallow or choke himself. He gulped the thick liquid, barely tasting it, the frantic motion of his mouth only forcing more semen out of the Pythian's spasming member. Oraz snarled at this and thrust himself deeper, to the back of the young gold's throat. He basked in the pleasure engendered as the dragon gagged and struggled to breathe and, finally, began to sob.

He was still sobbing when Oraz finally withdrew. The large male rumbled with contentment and stroked the small one's face as his sticky-wet shaft sluggishly retreated to its proper place. "That's a good boy," he soothed. "Very good. I will keep you. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

His little body wracked with tears, Achar still managed to nod as the Pythian required.

"Good boy." Oraz smiled as he crept out of the cell and the door clicked shut behind him. "I'll see you soon."

Achar continued to nod, long after the dragon was out of sight. When he finally broke down, he curled up on the cold, hard floor, clutching his tail against him, and wept like a child. He did not stop until he had cried himself into an exhausted sleep.

---

"Poor thing," Nace murmured, for perhaps the fiftieth time. "Poor, poor thing."

Achar moaned in his sleep and Rhys reached through the bars to comfort him again. "Shhh . . . It's all right. It's all right . . . " He smoothed over the young one's blanket, tucking him in the more secure after each fitful motion of his sleep. Turning his head, the gold took the tip of his tail into his mouth and began to teethe. Rhys drew back with a shiver. Hatchlings chewed their tails, but no child took more than ten steps out of the nest before the habit was forgotten. Achar was biting too hard. The gray-green stroked his muzzle and spoke soothing, senseless words, until he stopped.

"Poor thing," Nace sighed, shaking his head. "Poor, poor thing . . . "

"Are . . . Are they all so bad?" Rhys brought himself to ask, quietly, so as not to disturb the gold. Better he sleep, as long as he could. The gray-green wished him no dreams.

"No," Nace said. "No. Oraz is . . . A special case. Not many like him, though I guess there's a few."

"A special case?"

Nace shifted nervously and looked round the corner, as if speaking of the male would bring him back. "He's a general, very high rank. They gave him that key, it opens everything. Even the females. Especially them. He could have anyone he wanted, any time he wanted."

"Then why was he down here?" There wasn't a female near enough for Rhys to scent, and surely the ability to visit them whenever he wanted was a hard-won privilege.

"He . . . He doesn't want females." Nace shuddered. "I wish he did!"

"I'm glad he doesn't," Rhys said. He remembered Sola, and where she would be if she were still alive.

Nace regarded him oddly but continued to explain, "His rank is the only reason he's still allowed any slaves. He's too cruel, but no one dares . . . " The yellow-green swallowed hard and tried to steady his voice before going on. "He has killed."

"Haven't they all?"

"He has killed prisoners," Nace said. "Oraz bites, he always has." He turned sideways and indicated a number of scars in his hide, most notably a deep one at the base of his tail. He had lost a piece of himself there, and didn't like to think what happened to it. "He . . . He bites hard. Sometimes too hard."

Rhys felt his eyes drawn again to the small wound in Achar's wing. "Will he . . . ? Will he . . . ?"

"No," the yellow-green assured him. "He's going to keep him, and he likes that Achar's pretty. He won't want there to be any scars. He will not hurt him again."

The young one whined softly in his sleep and began to gnaw his tail.

Rhys shook his head. "He's been hurt enough already . . . Shh, Achar. Stop it, now."

Nace merely sighed and reiterated, "Poor, poor thing."

---

When Achar's sleep had deepened, and he no longer cried out or risked hurting himself, Rhys left his side and approached the back of the cage. He stood before the stone wall, made a fist and struck at it. He snarled, and struck again. When he had bloodied the knuckles of one hand he led with the other. He would have bitten, too, if there was anything to bite. At last, exhausted and ashamed, he sank to his knees. He bowed his back, eyes closed and pained. He would not cry. If nothing else, he could control himself.

"Rhys . . . " Nace whispered.

"I'll be all right," the gray-green said.

"You're bleeding," Nace replied.

"I know." He turned on the tap and rinsed his hands. The cold water stung, but numbed him. He scrubbed his face, too, and banished the hot prickle of tears. "I'll be . . . " he said, but he stopped. There was a sound. Not the rhythmic thump of the water shutting down, but the scrabble of clawed feet on a cold, stone floor. Someone was coming down the hall again.

Rhys whirled on Nace, crouched in a protective stance. "What's that?" he hissed. "What is it?"

"Shh!" The yellow-green cut his hand at Rhys in violent motion. "I think--"

"God help me," a mournful whisper joined the sound of feet. "If she keeps this up she'll kill somebody. She'll kill me. She uses so much . . . "

Nace smiled. "It's Sidro."

"Who?"

The yellow-green nodded down the hallway to his right. "You'll see in a minute. It'll be all right."

"I don't believe that," Rhys said, but in a minute, he did see.

He was rather small, for a Pythian, and skinny. His scales were silvery-blue, and true scales they were, for he lacked the protection of a single plate upon his hide. His underside was bare, blue skin. His crest was pale, wilting. His eyes silver, unfocused, and distracted by something. It was obvious what that was. Sidro was in season, very much in season judging by the deep redness of the flesh between his legs. Though his length was sheathed carefully, and he seemed to be making some effort to keep it that way, it looked as though it would push out at the slightest provocation. He was limping, too weak or too humiliated to walk properly. He clasped against the bars of an empty cage as he worked his way around the corner. He stood there for a time, panting, damp grip slipping down the metal with a high, soft squeal. He gazed, well, somewhere head of him, but he still wasn't focused. He shook his head and forced himself to move on.

He stopped in front of the gray-green's cell and took out a key.

No, gods . . .

The key dangled from a stamped metal tag, jittering audibly in the Pythian's grip. He clamped it in his fist and pushed it into the lock, guiding one hand with the other. It clicked the sides, rattled against the lock and finally slid home. It wouldn't turn. He tried to force it and it wouldn't turn. He read the tag, squinting to do so, and cast a hopeless glance back down the hall. "Wrong one," he said. "Gave me the wrong one. Oh, damn it all to hell!" Nearly sobbing, he stumbled back the way he came, cursing with every other breath.

Rhys shuddered. He felt the blood draining from his face and his heart banging in his chest. He dropped to one knee, because he would fall over otherwise. He needed to stay ready, and he needed to be calm, because the Pythian was coming back. The Pythian was coming back, and Rhys would have to kill him. It would be a simple matter, the miserable creature was in no shape to fight. It might wake Achar, and that would be bad, but if Rhys could explain it to him, perhaps he could be calmed again. There would be no more rape here tonight, not if he could stop it. He looked down the hall, peered past the blind corner, and waited.

"Ye gods, it's bad today," Nace murmured.

Rhys nearly jumped out of his skin. He whipped his head back around and stared at the yellow-green, amazed and confused. He's crazy, Rhys thought. He really is crazy. Maybe it was his weird attitude about imprisonment that allowed him to express sympathy for his captors. No matter, but it complicated things. Would Nace let him kill the Pythian, or make a fuss? And if the yellow-green screamed, would others come?

"What's the matter with him?" Rhys asked, gauging the situation.

"It's the Draught," Nace said. "You remember what it did to you?"

Rhys nodded absently. He was watching the hallway again, but he was not liable to forget the Draught.

"Sidro makes it. Usually he's just sick, but when this happens it's really bad. I don't know if it's just from cooking it, or if he has to drink it sometimes . . . " Nace paused and cocked an ear to something inaudible. "Oh, here he comes again."

When he rounded the corner, the Pythian had his tail pressed between his legs and curling up his naked underbelly. He had another key, but he didn't get very far with it. He stopped, whined, and carried his hand to his shoulder. "The--thing!" he hissed. "The other things!" He clenched the key in his hand and pounded it against the bar of an empty cell, engaged in a protracted fit of swearing. When he was through, he limped away, quite obviously in tears this time.

"Why are they making him come here?" Nace said. He shook his muzzle, making a soft sound at the back of his throat that could have been a snarl or a whine. He looked at Rhys with blind concern, "He should be in bed!"

"What?" Nace was teasing him, or omitting something, and Rhys was in no mood for such cruelty. He wouldn't have expected it of the dragon. "What are you talking about? Who would make him come down here?"

Nace stumbled back from the bars of his cell, bruised by the gray-green's tone. "I-I don't know. The guards . . . Or the council. Maybe the girl that brings the food--I don't know! There isn't anybody sick!"

"Sick!" cried Rhys.

"Yes, sick! He makes the Draught and it makes people sick! He knows what to do to make them well again. Sometimes someone will get him, if somebody's just hurt, he has medicine . . . The healers don't come here except for service." Nace gestured angrily. "More slaves are cheap."

"Wh . . . That . . . He's here to help somebody?"

"Ye gods! Yes." Nace nodded quickly, understanding at last. "He wouldn't . . . I've never seen him do that. He's got no status, I don't think he's even allowed . . . I said it would be all right," he added, a little wounded.

"You're telling me he goes around like that and he doesn't have sex with anybody, ever?"

"I guess," Nace said. "I mean, there aren't only slaves, I don't know. But I think that's what he does."

Rhys sat down on his tail. His rage had broken, snapped back, and hit him in the face. It hurt, and it happened so fast it scared him. "That's terrible."

The yellow-green nodded. "But I don't understand, you certainly don't need . . . "

Sidro dragged himself back around the corner. He walked from bar to bar, half-crawling. A gray suede satchel hung over his shoulder, hit the metal, twisted, and impeded him. He had the key, he had his things, and when he fit the key in the lock it sprung open with a well-oiled click.

"Thank God," he said, carried by the door as it pivoted inwards. He pulled himself to the other side and leaned back, closing the door with his weight, sliding down it. The lock clicked shut. Sidro lay still, eyes closed, drained.

Rhys extended one leg, so that he could nudge at the Pythian without getting too close. He didn't know about himself, but Nace was going to be pretty upset if Sidro just died on him. "Um . . . Are you all right?"

The silver-blue gasped and flung himself upright. In the process he lost his feeble grip on the key, and it went skittering into the latrine with a plop.

Rhys absorbed this with shocked amusement, then turned to see the Pythian's reaction. While the gray-green had been watching the key, Sidro had completely broken down. He lay flat on his back, tears dribbling out of his eyes and into his ears, an arm flung over his face in despair. "I . . . I'm having . . . such a bad day."

Rhys didn't know what to do with him. He backed off a little and sat on his haunches. He would have helped another dragon, but not one that looked like that. Not one so obviously, helplessly aroused. A touch might do more harm than good, or cause something he didn't want to see happen. He wished the silver-blue would cover himself up.

"You . . . " Sidro said. He pulled himself to a seated position. "You're conscious."

"Um," Rhys said. "Yeah. I guess so."

The dragon peered at him. "I mean, really conscious. Oraz said you didn't purge. You should be," he gestured, "screwed up. Ezmi gave you much too much."

"I threw up," Rhys told him. "And, and everything. I did that."

"Where?"

"Everywhere." He motioned to the floor, but it was clean. "Oh, I, um, mopped it up. Before. Rinsed it out of the blanket. It still smells funny."

"He was awake before," Nace said. His voice was quiet, pained. "Master? He was awake before, before the other came here. I . . . I didn't tell him."

"Nace!" the Pythian yelped. He wrapped his wings around himself. "I didn't see you. I'm sorry."

"When it's this bad, Master, you don't even know where you are, I can't ask you to keep track of me. I'm sorry. I think . . . I think you were sent here because of what I did."

"Why would . . . " Sidro said. He shook his head. "My brain isn't working. Oraz would have known, just to look at him . . . "

"He knew," Nace replied, eyes downcast. "He knew it'd hurt me to see you like this, too."

"Hurt you?"

The yellow-green forced a smile, which soon became natural, and spoke easily, "It's all right, Master. It's really nothing you should worry about."

Sidro gazed back at him with a pained expression. "I wish you wouldn't do that, Nace. I really wish you wouldn't."

"Master, it . . . " Nace dropped his voice, "I wish I could, but it would only get us in trouble."

"It isn't your fault if I asked you to do it."

"Then it will get you in trouble. It's not worth it. M-Master, it's such a little thing."

Sidro slumped and shook his head. "Could you at least try not to say it so often?"

Nace frowned, but nodded. "I suppose I don't have to. . . Not all the time."

"Thank you. I just wish . . . Wait." He collected his satchel from the floor, held it to his ear and shook it once. "Nothing broken." He smiled. "It's mostly just medicine, but I've got to have something in here . . . " The Pythian plucked at the closure of the bag with his claws, but couldn't seem to work it. "Oh, damn," he muttered. "Damn. Damn it, you stupid thing . . . "

Rhys reached forward, apologetically, and undid the clasp with a simple motion of one hand.

Sidro started back from him. He seemed to have forgotten he was sharing a cell with another dragon, and a red-collar at that. He swallowed. "Th-thanks. Um . . . Oh. Are you going to kill me?"

The gray-green rattled his muzzle. "I--what?" Kill this dragon? He had planned to, but he had been so much distracted that the idea didn't make sense anymore.

Sidro reached behind him and tugged at the door. "I mean, I'm stuck here 'til morning. When the food gets here they'll let me out, but that's hours. I don't think the guards would come for me even if I scream--" He broke off with a squeal of dismay, clasping both hands over his mouth. What was he trying to do, convince the dragon to do it?

Rhys snickered softly, he couldn't help it.

"He won't," Nace said. He glanced over at Rhys, worried and hopeful.

The gray-green nodded agreement. "I won't. I won't, I don't have any reason to." He smiled, a bit. "Gods, don't worry."

Sidro breathed a fluttery sigh. "Thank you . . . " He blinked and sat forward. "You're hurt."

"Huh?" Rhys examined his hands. "Oh. That's nothing. That's . . . Stupid. It'll heal."

"I have bandages," Sidro said. He fumbled with the bag. "Somewhere . . . "

"No," Rhys said. He tugged at the Pythian's arm, "Come on. I feel dumb enough--"

Sidro gasped, stared at the touch and pulled back from it. "Don't . . . "

Rhys quickly withdrew. He had forgotten the Pythian's miserable state, the agony the Draught made of sensation. Sidro wasn't so far gone, but he had grabbed him without warning, without thinking. "Sorry."

The silver-blue hugged his shoulders, digging in his claws. He closed his eyes and rocked himself, just slightly. His tail lashed the floor. "Oh, God, don't . . . "

Rhys retreated to the farthest corner of his cell. If Sidro . . . If he couldn't control himself, if he had to do something, or let something happen, Rhys would back off and leave him alone. And he wouldn't look. The Pythian was pained and humiliated and Rhys wouldn't make it worse by looking at him.

He was going to stop looking right now!

There was just this awful, pitiful fascination to it. The gray-green cupped his hand to his face and turned his head manually. There.

The Pythian whined, high, thin and hopeless. He gasped his breath. "No. No. I can't. Oh, God, I can't. I just need a minute. I need a minute . . . "

Rhys was willing to give him more than a minute, and he was sure Nace would too. Achar was sleeping, he would make no comment. It was still awful, but it was the best they could do.

"No," the silver-blue insisted. "No, no. I'll be okay. I'll be okay." His breathing slowed. He gulped and cleared his throat. "I'm okay. Please."

Reluctantly, Rhys turned back around. The dragon had wrapped his body in his wings again. He had cried a little, but it seemed he was back in control. The gray-green didn't know whether to admire or study him. How? Why?

Nace wanted to speak to him. His mouth formed the first syllable of a word, but gave it no air. "Master," he said.

Sidro shook his head. "I'm okay." There was room again for other thoughts in his mind, concern was among them. He spoke to Rhys, "Are you okay? I'm sorry about that."

"Me?" The gray-green blinked. "Fine." He was scared and he was confused and he was locked in a Pythian fortress and he'd just seen Achar raped and then tried to punch out the wall, but compared to the silver-blue, he thought he was doing just dandy.

"You sure?" He pawed through the contents of the gray satchel. "She really gave you much too much. I'm able to make it stronger now, better, and sometimes she forgets . . . " He drew out a bottle, halfway. "Are you dehydrated? I mean, do you still feel thirsty, kinda sick, even after drinking out of the tap . . . Um, there's a tap. Did you drink?"

"Yes," Rhys said. "Nace showed me. I'm fine, really."

Sidro let the bottle slip back inside with a sigh. He smiled then, and drew out another. "Maybe I have something for you anyway." It was a tall flask, filled to the cork with amber fluid. He offered it to Rhys.

"Uh." The gray-green shied away again, wary of Pythians bearing strange liquids.

"No, it's all right," Sidro told him. "I'm going to have some myself if you can get the stopper out. You'll see."

He accepted the flask and uncorked it at arms' length, giving it right back to the Pythian. Sidro carried it to his lips, with both hands, but even so a few ounces jittered over the rim. He closed his eyes and took a long sip, smiling when he swallowed. After a few moments of quiet contentment, the silver-blue offered the bottle again. "Makes life a little more bearable," he said. "Go on and try it, you'll like it."

Hell, Rhys thought. He took the bottle, and hazarded a tiny sip.

YOW!

He didn't say it, because he would have spit, but his eyes went round. The inside of his mouth was bitten raw, and the liquor burned like fire. He swallowed quickly. The heat was more tolerable, going down. It was even a little nice, resting warm in his belly and chasing the coldness of the floor. He explored his mouth with the tip of his tongue, it felt like a cauterized wound and tasted faintly of apple cider.

"It's a little strong." Sidro smiled apologetically. "Did you want some more?"

Rhys considered the bottle. It was still nearly full, and it kicked like a horse. "I think I do," he said. He thought maybe he wanted a lot more, even if it burned his mouth. He thought maybe he wanted to get absolutely drunk, and lie here on the floor, feeling nothing but warm and maybe a little dizzy. He thought maybe he needed that.

He sipped again, a little more, and sighed. It was good.

"I could do with a little of that over here," Nace called, lifting a hand.

"You sure?" said Sidro. "It always knocks you flat on your tail."

The yellow-green snickered. "It's after midnight. Can't I have a little nap?"

"Well . . . I guess." The Pythian took the bottle and turned it in his hands. "But if you sleep through morning meal, it's not my fault." He pushed the stopper in, a little too deeply, lay the flask on its side, and shoved it out beneath the cell door. It slid across the hall, beyond his reach. "Shit. Nace, can you get it?"

"I got it! I got it!" The yellow-green had to hook his arm out of the cell to reach, but he did have it. He uncorked the flask, wiped the lip of it and took a good-sized swig. "Ye gods!" He coughed. "It was strong before, why do you keep messing with it?"

Sidro ducked his head. "It's something to do. It's better than the other thing, it doesn't hurt anybody."

"It's good," Nace said. He took another drink, against the watches of the night, and against his better judgment. "Ish very good and I think I'm done now."

"Nace, if you can't get that thing back here without breaking it . . . " Sidro groped for more words. "I've been having such a bad day!" he cried.

Rhys snickered a little and worked his arm out through the rightmost bars of his cell. He wanted the bottle back too, but Nace looked flushed and positively goofy. "Here--Nace? Over here. Gently. I'll get it."

The yellow-green wriggled down on his belly, aimed, and sent the bottle back across the hall.

"Perfect!" Rhys drew out the cork and returned the flask to Sidro, safe and only a quarter gone.

The Pythian sipped gratefully.

"We should play that with an empty one," Nace said. He was swaying. "Ish kinda fun."

"Hm." Rhys thought he would have to have a lot more cider, or get a lot more bored, before sliding things on the floor became fun. The cider perspective was one he intended to investigate, and he had another sip.

"Y'know," Nace continued, "that thing you were sayin' about naps?"

"I think you were saying that." Rhys smiled.

Nace waved him off, too-extravagant a motion. "Whoever. I'm tired."

Rhys was tired, too, but not enough to sleep remembering the other things that had happened that night. That long night. "You want your blanket back?" he offered.

"Huh-uh." Nace furled his wings around himself and settled. He laid his muzzle across his hands, and the rest of his body on the hard floor without complaint. " 'M use to it. Said that, didn't I?"

"Yeah." Rhys remembered, but it seemed like years ago. Incredibly, things had been better then. He took another drink, quickly. He didn't want to get maudlin, he wanted to get stupid. Stupid enough that he'd stop caring about these things. He looked back at Achar, briefly, and then told himself not to do that ever again. He drank.

Sidro reached out and touched his hand, just with a fingertip. He was trembling. "You'll puke," he said.

Rhys giggled, half-hysterical, and covered his mouth. Somehow he had expected something a little more profound.

Across the hall, Nace snored.

Sidro snickered. He rubbed the back of his hand across his face. "I warned him, you heard me."

"Is breakfast very soon?" Rhys asked.

"I have absolutely no idea," Sidro said, and with such defeated certainty that Rhys couldn't help but laugh at him. The Pythian bore this quietly, with just a hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth.

"I don't know either," Rhys said, wiping his eyes. "I really don't. Nace said ten hours when I woke up, but it's been forever."

"Time drags here. I don't know how Nace can tell. He can, but I don't know how." Sidro took the bottle and drank.

Rhys made up a drinking game for himself, or a not-drinking-so-much-so-fast-he'd-throw-up game. If the Pythian took a drink, he'd take a drink.

He took a drink.

They spoke of simple, inoffensive things. Sidro apologized for the Draught. It hadn't been his fault that Ezmi overdosed Rhys, but the cinnamon aftertaste that gagged him was. He tried to improve things, both to increase the strength of the drug and lessen its after effects. The rotten taste of the drink seemed impossible to lessen, but he tried. He screwed it up, but he'd try again. Anise, maybe. Rhys didn't say much, there was no experience he wanted to share with the Pythian, and he couldn't speak of Achar or Sola without chancing tears. As time passed and they emptied the bottle, it became harder to hold the thought of them, and he was glad. He was warm, and soon he would lie down, either to sleep or pass out, he didn't much care which.

Sidro was already stretched out on the floor with his hand over his eyes. He had not seemed to grow drunker, only more unsteady, until he couldn't operate the bottle anymore. He had shed a couple tears, ashamed, and then curled up in the corner, hiding maybe. Rhys let him. Now it seemed he slept.

The gray-green would join him. The bottle, still holding an inch of liquid at the bottom, he tucked back inside the Pythian's satchel. He didn't need it, and he had already assured himself a prodigious hangover in the morning.

Sidro emitted a low moan of misery.

"You awake?" Rhys wondered, creeping over to examine the dragon at the close range his focus demanded.

"No . . . No . . . " Sidro raised both hands to ward him off, cringing, as if from a nightmare. His wings had fallen away from his body. His sheath was indecently red, and his shaft was out.

"Hey . . . " Rhys said.

The silver-blue mewled and curled into a ball, definitely hiding, his wings shielding all but one eye from view.

The gray-green nudged him. "Hey, is okay. Nothing I haven't seen before. Gods, I've had the Draught. Not your fault. C'm outta there."

The bundle of dragon squeaked. Very slowly, with the care of a habitual drunk, Sidro said, "It's my season too, not just the Draught. It's nothing normal. Please stop touching me."

"Oh, c'mooon." Rhys snatched his shoulders and shook him. "Doesn't matter what it is, just do something about it! G'wan in the corner by the trench, no one's looking. Get it over with."

"Please stop touching me!" the blue bundle shrieked, with such violence that Rhys, drunk as he was, drew his hands away.

"Okay," he said. "Okay, but you hafta do something. Hurts just t'lookit you."

The bundle was quiet for a time. "I will go in the corner by the trench," it said.

"Won't look," Rhys promised as Sidro unfolded himself. Still, he couldn't stop an involuntary dip of his eyes, morbidly curious. He turned away before anything registered and settled himself in the opposite corner, facing the hallway.

The gray green considered the merits of a glass bottle game. Not enough potential for amusement if you just played catch. Maybe you could aim for the latrine, try to get as close as you could without falling in, like pitching pebbles against a wall. He snickered to himself. If he had a bottle he'd try it. Maybe Sidro wouldn't miss a couple little ones from the bag . . .

He'd almost turned back around before he remembered he was not supposed to be looking in that direction. The Pythian was still busy over there. Rhys couldn't see him, but he could hear the choked sounds of someone trying not to make any noise. Poor bastard, it must be embarrassing as hell. No wonder he was having such a hard time of it. The idea of feeling that way, with no one to be with and nowhere to go . . . Rhys realized he'd been in that situation himself not long ago, but at least he hadn't been conscious. Being conscious seemed like an unnecessary cruelty, on top of the fact that Sidro might never . . . Well, the Pythians didn't take mates, and using a slave was a terrible thing, but to have no possibility of anyone . . .

Rhys cocked his ear to Sidro's sounds. They were different, different in a way that bothered him.

"Hey . . . " He wasn't supposed to look, but there was something wrong. "You okay?"

Another tiny sound, this one clearly a sob.

"Hey!" Rhys knelt behind him and touched the back of his neck. The thin blue wings snapped round again. "Hey," he tugged at one hunched shoulder, "quit that. Come out."

Sidro lifted his head to look at him, eyes red and muzzle streaked with tears, "Please, stop . . . "

"I'm touching!" Rhys said. "I'm touching. I'm not touching anywhere bad. Why're you crying?"

"I--I can't . . . "

"Look, it's a shitty situation, go easy on yourself. If you could think of something else, anything else . . . "

"No! You stupid son of a bitch, I can't," Sidro cried. "I'm in season but I'm always on the fucking Draught and I fucking can't!"

Rhys felt sobriety threatening at the very thought. Of course he hadn't been able to, for a while, but in the end . . . If for Sidro there was no end . . . "Ever?" the gray-green eeped.

"Not myself," said Sidro. After his outburst he would make no eye contact, he was talking to the floor. "Huh. Y'know how you can't tickle yourself? It's like that, only sometimes . . . Once in a while, another male--" He squawked sudden laughter, turned, and banged his face against the wall of bars. Laughing, crying, he looked back at Rhys and spread his hands helplessly. "You wouldn't think it'd be so hard to get raped here, would you? I must be really disgusting . . . "

Rhys dragged him back from the corner and turned him around to prevent any more violence. This was all getting way too weird and he was way too drunk to handle it. He ran his thumb down the Pythian's cheek.

Sidro tried to pull back. "Don't . . . "

"Shut up," Rhys said. He released the darkening flesh beneath the dragon's eye. "You just gave yourself one hell of a shiner, you know that?"

Sidro giggled. "God, I've had worse than that from walking into a door." He pressed the heel of his palm to his eye. "Walk into doors all the time. Can't focus, sick. That's the Draught, too. Cider doesn't help."

Rhys had a sudden urge to groom him, in a perfectly normal, social, and not at all homosexual way. Thus assured, he gave the bruise a couple of cautious licks.

Sidro stared at him for a long time, trembling, his fingers against the wet spot. "It . . . It's true, what it says in the records, isn't it?"

"I guess so," Rhys said. "Don't remember lying a whole bunch. What's it say?"

Sidro closed his eye and Rhys licked it another couple times. The silver-blue sighed in soft contentment. "It . . . Dangerous, but--males. Says you like males."

Rhys stopped with his tongue halfway out and felt his throat closing up.

Sidro cringed, "God, I'm sorry!"

"No," Rhys whispered. "Not your fault. I do, but I don't want to."

The silver-blue edged back towards the corner. "Should go over here. I should go over here, and you go back over there, and I--we . . . We'll wait. We'll just wait and they'll bring the food and it'll all be okay."

Rhys dropped his muzzle and held it in both hands. "I don't want to, but I do," he said. "I don't want to be this drunk right now, but I am this drunk and I do like males, and I do like you." He lifted his head again and looked at the Pythian, as if the looking pained him. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do anymore, I just know what I want to do."

"I can't do that," Sidro said. "I don't want you to . . . "

"You need someone to," Rhys said, drawing nearer. He lifted his hand, considered, and closed the distance between them by touching Sidro's arm. "It's not . . . It's not forcing anybody it's just . . . " He wracked his vocabulary. "It's medicinal."

"God." The Pythian giggled and sniffed back tears. "I hate . . . I huh-hate taking medicine!"

Rhys considered this, considered what he was about to do, but not too much because it terrified him. "Close your eyes," he said.

Sidro did, and held his breath, too. He let it all out and gasped in another when the gray-green touched him there. "God, oh God . . . "

That was what Rhys was thinking, too. Sidro's length slid out easily into his hand. He held it, and Sidro covered his face with both hands. "Gently," the silver-blue pleaded. "Oh, God, gently. Gently . . . "

"Gently," Rhys agreed. He didn't know any other way to do this. He drew his hand forward a little bit, then back. The friction was worrying, and Sidro cried out, "Ah!" He was still crying silently, behind his hands, but his tail thumped the floor.

Rhys stopped the motion but kept the contact, and leaned up close to the silver-blue's muzzle. He nuzzled it; Sidro was going to have to come out of there. He touched the tip of his tongue to the scaled snout and nuzzled again. Sidro peeked out between his fingers, shy and uncertain.

Better, Rhys thought. Watching for the silver-blue's reaction, he moved his touch back to the sheath, in hopes the less-sensitive area would work better. Sidro tensed, but he dropped his hands back to the floor and nodded frantically. The tears were almost dry now.

The gray-green decided to take this academically, like a puzzle or a series of moves in a board game. It helped his focus, and made the situation less fearful. To keep from hurting the dragon, to keep his attention pleasant and not undo what he was doing was a complicated task. With only an occasional glance up at Sidro when he gasped or twitched his body, Rhys kept his eyes on his work.

The sheath was flushed and very warm. He plied it with his fingertips, not daring the touch of a claw, lightly at first but then deeper. With excruciating slowness a bead of moisture formed at the tip of the shaft , hanging like a tiny ornament, until it slipped down the underside of the length and disappeared. Another crystalline drop took its place. Rhys sampled this new slickness with a clawtip and eased it down to soften his touch. The dragon's hips quivered, never quite lifting from the floor. After a few more drops had slickened his length, Rhys began to work his fingers up and down. Gently, gently . . .

Absorbed, he didn't notice Sidro reaching for him, he only felt him when he touched. Rhys hissed and quickly cupped his hands between his legs. It was sore there, and he looked beneath them. Though withdrawing now in shock, his shaft was out. He stared down at it, betrayed.

Sidro leaned into him, not asking aloud, but asking just the same.

Oh, how can I? But, beneath the soreness, there was a delicate pulsation in his length. Somehow, he could and, gods help him, he even wanted to. His higher functions were shutting down, clogged with cider and now with need. He only knew what he wanted.

He licked his lips with a dry tongue. "Gently," he said.

"Gently," Sidro nodded.

Rhys was awed by just how gentle that could be. Sidro had been trained by his own constant suffering. Rhys barely felt the touch at all, only pleasure, contentment. It built inside him, he signaled for more with his hips, and Sidro responded, without a word. For a while, Rhys only held the Pythian's length in one languid hand, lost in deep satisfaction. It was good, so good it eclipsed all guilt and aversion in his mind. Gods, but he was forgetting Sidro, too. The silver-blue needed the same escape, more so than himself. Rhys stroked him, aware of his own clumsiness by comparison, and tried to imitate the Pythian's careful motions. Sidro responded well to him, panting as his tail drummed out a rhythm behind him.

What are you doing? the gray-green's rational sense cried out, a dying gasp.

It's what I want, he soothed it, smiling, panting now as well. It's too good to be bad, it's only what I want. I can have what I want. I can have what I want . . .

He moaned at the thought. It was true and it was wonderful. He arched, tipped his head back, trying to be steady, trying to be kind, but his fingers gave a shuddery twitch that made Sidro hiss, and then made him yowl.

Rhys joined him as he came. It was amazing. It was wonderful. It was wonderful!

And it could never be taken back, now.

Never.