The Bound Ones Final Draft: Hard Lessons
#4 of The Bound Ones Final Draft
Hard Lessons
His head was buzzing, not unpleasantly. His vision had a shimmer to it that made everything seem just a bit unreal. There was . . . a hand. It was stretched out in front of him. It was tied. Following the twist of the rope made him dizzy and sleepy, but the hand was definitely tied. At the wrist. He twitched his own hand weakly and the one in front of him imitated the motion. Strange.
There was something beyond the hand. Someone there. Someone horribly familiar. Grinning.
You're drugged, consciousness sang from a distance. That's why you're letting him do it. That's why you're not fighting. You're drugged. You're drugged!
He came to realize that he had an erection.
There was something writhing between his legs, stroking him. But he didn't mind it. It was nice.
He drifted off . . .
When Rhys awoke he was sore. He tried to stretch and work the stiffness out of his muscles, but somehow he was already pulled to his very limits. He opened his eyes and lifted his head, curious . . .
He was pinned to the floor, belly down, his limbs stretching away in four directions at once, legs held by the ankles and arms by the wrists. He wriggled to test his bonds, but there was no give in them. His shoulders creaked in their sockets. His wings and tail were free, but they couldn't get him out of this. How did this happen? Where was he?
The sound of the voice answered all his questions, and he realized he should have known.
"Good morning, dear one!" Oraz greeted him, crouching into his field of vision. "Or, I should say, good afternoon. My, but you slept well."
Rhys closed his eyes and let his head drop back to the floor. His heart did a lazy somersault in his chest. The male had finally come for him. Of course.
Better him instead of Achar, after all that misery . . . He didn't know what Oraz would do to him (the signs were not good, the ropes that bound him heavy, and bolted to the floor) but he still considered himself better prepared for any such torment than the gold. He was rested, strong, and not unaccustomed to pain. He was ready for it, though righteously pissed at the male for drugging him and tying him, allowing no warning nor chance for a struggle. It was so matter-of-fact, as if the Pythian were entitled. Coward.
"What do you want with me?" Rhys demanded.
"Oh, so serious all of a sudden!" Oraz frowned at him. "You're much nicer when you're drugged, at least you smile."
"Then you should've had me when I was drugged. Too scared of me even then?" He tugged his bonds to prove it, grinning recklessly. Nothing he could say or do would make this ordeal any worse. The male planned to break him, or kill him. He would not do it easily, Rhys wouldn't let him.
Oraz crouched and fondled the hairy rope that held the gray-green's left hand. "Scared? Only for your well-being, dear one. If I let you fight, you'd only hurt yourself more, or make me hurt you more. We don't want that." He whicked a clawtip down the dragon's spine, not tearing the scales, not yet. He smiled at the shudder it engendered. "What makes you think I didn't have you, slave? You were very pleasant to me when they brought you in. It was sweet."
That . . . He did . . . THAT? Rhys squirmed and strained to look over his shoulder, to move his hands and touch himself, to make certain it wasn't so. Lie. It was a lie, but it didn't have to be a lie. Just because he couldn't remember didn't mean it hadn't happened. But, oh gods, no. Not when he was drugged stupid and didn't know any better to fight, not when he might just have sat there and let it happen. Such violation revolted him. Oraz meant to hurt him this way, scare him, offend him. Showing panic, showing fear, only increased the male's power over him.
He stilled himself, mastered his disgust. Hid it, and crushed the fear that it engendered.
"Pity you passed out before we could get to anything more involved." Oraz spoke carelessly, but smiled at the red-collar's evident relief. "Still, you had to be really awake to react properly, didn't you?" He settled beside the gray-green and began to stroke his back between the wings. Rhys snapped his wings together with a snarl, denying the touch. Oraz's smile became a grin. "Yes." He stood, and disappeared from view. "You're going to be difficult."
Rhys gazed up at the Pythian, a growl rumbling in his chest. The dragon had no right. No right to hold him here and touch him without fear. No right to speak to him this way, each word weighted, careful and soft, as if he was a stupid child. A weak and frightened child. Didn't Oraz see his anger, the need to fight, the desire to kill restrained only by these damned ropes? He was not Achar! Oraz had to drug and bind him to keep him this way. He'd best remember that, he'd best beware. Rhys was no child.
"There, there." Oraz reached down and patted him on the head!
"Don't you touch me!" Rage eclipsed reason. He strained against his bonds again, not for freedom, not from terror, but only so he could get his teeth into the Pythian and kill him.
"You don't really want that," Oraz told him gently. He was pawing through something beyond the gray-green's vision. Rhys quieted to hear it. There was the hiss of fabric, and the clink of metal against metal. "Red-collars are the weak ones, you know. They're the weakest ones here. You think that you're strong, but once you're too tired to fight anymore, you'll see you want me to touch you. You'll beg for it. Most do, or they go insane." He revealed a flattened length of leather to the dragon, and tensed it between his hands. "The strong ones, well, they know that fighting will only hurt them. They have other ways, they . . . " His claws curled out against the leather, his expression briefly distant. He dismissed the thought. "It's harder to hurt them. But you're going to fight me. I like that."
Rhys felt his thoughts drawn from the strap and its purpose to the yellow-green dragon in the cell across from him. Nace? Perhaps he had been able to survive life in the kennel better than most others, but only by submitting so utterly to its indignities that he failed to understand they were indignities at all. That he had somehow come to like what was done to him. Rhys could never manage such, and somehow this realization brought fear to his mind again.
Oraz doubled the leather in his hands and cracked it. "Pay attention, slave. You're going to want to pay attention. This is an important choice."
"This is a choice?" Rhys giggled sickly. Ridiculous. In the midst of all this, ridiculous.
"Of course." The Pythian spoke warmly to him, "You always have a choice. I can hurt you, or I can please you. Your little golden friend could tell you how nice it is when I please him." He grinned and began to thread the leather strap beneath the gray-green. "But I think you're afraid to let me please you. I think you'd rather have me hurt you. If you want that, all you have to do is misbehave. I suppose you will, but that's all right for now."
Rhys did not struggle. He did not give voice to his anger at the way the Pythian treated Achar, hurt him, and dismissed it as 'nice'. He closed his eyes, because he could not see behind him. He waited blindly. He waited for the best moment to try . . .
With a shriek of savage glee, he thrashed his wings out and caught Oraz dead in the face. The Pythian bellowed and clapped a hand over his eye, falling back on his tail in shock.
"Guess I'm not too weak to cut you!" the captive dragon crowed.
Oraz . . . began to laugh. It was a horrible sound, chill and grating, inexplicably pleased. He wiped the blood out of his vision and just laughed. "Oh, it's like that, is it?" he gasped. "It's like that, is it? It's like that!" He punctuated the sentence by bringing his foot down on the gray-green's upper back, knocking the air from his lungs in a rush.
Rhys squirmed beneath the crushing pressure but could not throw it off him. It was steady and increasing, forcing out every sip of air he tried to take in. Strong claws snatched at the fabric of his wings. Rhys fought to keep them free, but the need to breathe was making him go dizzy and faint. Black roses blossomed in his vision, and his mouth hung open wide, tongue panting. Dimly, he knew he had to keep his wings from being caught, but he was forgetting why. Air, the need for air and the lack of it, erased his thoughts like an obsession. Nothing else was so important, he just needed some air! His wings went limp of their own volition, managing only the occasional, reflexive twitch. This was no obstacle to their being bound, but it didn't matter. His head was spinning. Soon, nothing would matter at all . . .
The pressure was released and Rhys gasped in a great, ragged breath, tears trickling from his eyes in abject relief. Still panting, he became gradually aware that Oraz was standing in front of him again. The larger male nudged the side of his muzzle with one foot.
"You're very lucky," he said. "I could have simply torn them off."
Rhys hissed in weak reply, lacking the air to do anything else.
"Why, I do believe you're crying," the male chortled, regarding him sideways. "And so soon."
"Let me up," Rhys wheezed. "Coward. Bastard. Let me up."
Oraz frowned at him. "You think a slave's orders mean anything to me? You have a lot to learn, dear one." He circled the pinned and helpless dragon, passing out of view again. "Your life is considerably different now. You're not a dragon anymore. You are not a servant, you are not a pet. You are a toy, and your only purpose in life is to give your betters amusement. And, just to make it simpler for you, anyone not wearing one of these--" The Pythian seized him by the collar, yanking his head up and forcing him to arch his back, "--is your better."
"Son of a bitch," the gray-green choked out.
The larger male released him suddenly, making his head thump the floor. Before the dragon could recover, Oraz mashed his foot across his muzzle, preventing any further reply. "Now, is that how you speak to your betters?" the dark dragon scolded. "You should not be so rude, knowing what I can do to you. Better to curse God than curse me. God will do nothing for you here."
"You're mad," Rhys managed from beneath the grinding pressure of Oraz's heel.
"Oh, no, dear one. Not mad, not yet," the Pythian chuckled. "And the proper way to address me is 'Master.' Not because you like to, not as a mark of respect, but in recognition of the fact that you are nothing." Oraz leaned in close to him, teeth clenched. "And I will make you wish you were less than that if you forget again. Now," he stood down from his prisoner, "what have you just learned?"
"I learned you're crazy," Rhys said. "That's enough."
"Well, then you're not paying attention," Oraz replied. "You are a slow study, even for a red-collar. I'll put it more simply for you, but you are trying my patience: You are not a dragon, you are a toy." He traced his talons over the sensitive fabric of the gray-green's wings. "Repeat that back so I know you have it."
"You are not a dragon," Rhys shot back. "You are a crazy, perverted Pythian fuck!"
The Pythian quite calmly sliced his index claw down the length of his prisoner's left wing, tracing a long, red line to the side of the bone that had slashed his face, all but cutting the flesh away. The gray-green hissed in pain.
"No," Oraz corrected, softly. "Not quite. Let's try that again: 'I am not a dragon, I am a toy.'"
"Screw you."
The dark dragon grinned. "No, not yet. You're so anxious. We'll get to that soon enough. For now I just want you to repeat what I told you. Surely you're not so dim that you can't manage those few little words."
Rhys grit his teeth and was silent.
"All right," the male growled. "I'm going to make this ridiculously easy for you. Say the first word. Say 'I'. Come now, it's not hard. Say it!"
Rhys knew where this path led. If he took one step because the male wanted him to, soon he would take another, and another . . . It would be easy. And, in the end? Madness, or worse. The dead ones, the broken blue-collars, how many had Oraz created here, in this room, with those words? He wouldn't make another, not now, not this way. Rhys would not say those words, nor make a sound that could be mistaken for one. The male would have to do worse than that.
"Cat got your tongue?" Oraz queried. He latched one of his massive claws around the gray-green's lower jaw, the other around his muzzle, and forced his mouth open. "No, it's still there . . . " He gave a warning growl. "For now." His hands darted away, so expertly that Rhys was denied the faintest taste of the blood he hungered for. Oraz dipped his muzzle and shook his head. "Well, if you don't want to talk anymore, I suppose there's only one thing left to do." He pressed a hand against the flesh of his prisoner's undertail.
Rhys hissed sharply, almost a shriek, and began his struggles anew; wrists and ankles rubbed raw against his bonds, tail lashing, a frantic whip. Oraz maintained the contact, gently, until the dragon had exhausted himself, then he continued to speak as if he had never been interrupted: "Why don't you lift that tail for me, slave? It will be so much nicer for you if you do."
The gray-green snarled his response and began to curl his tail between his legs, until he realized that the motion was only drawing the hated touch of Oraz's claws closer against him. He froze instead, and stretched his tail out behind him, stiff and angled slightly down. No room now for any more touching, not that kind of touching. Oraz could force him, but, fine, then he would be forced. There was no obedience in that.
"Ah well." The Pythian shrugged. "You've made your choice, then. I suspected you would. Remember, this wasn't my decision."
The touching ceased, and Rhys heard footsteps and quiet shuffling behind him. Oraz was going through whatever box or pile he had taken the leather strap from. The gray-green curled his tail beneath him, all the way up his belly. Fine. He couldn't help being tied, immobilized . . . But he would make things are hard as he could!
This time, it was not a simple strap that Oraz showed him; it was a chain, but more than that. There was a thin collar at one end, and a metal cuff at the other, both closed with simple latches. What was it supposed to be, a leash? Was Oraz going to take him for a walk, maybe lead him to a nice little pen where he could crop clover and be milked? He wanted to think it was stupid, he wanted to think it was funny. The idea of being put out to pasture would have been funny, just a little while ago, but now he only felt sick. Whatever that thing was, it could only be bad.
Oraz answered the gray-green's pale grimace with a broad grin of his own. "Curious? The mark of a bright slave, dear one." He unlatched the collar and adjusted its width. "A bad slave, perhaps, but a bright one. Can you figure it out? It's a small contrivance of my own," he added, modestly. He ducked the dragon's jaws and clipped the collar around his neck, above the red one that was the mark of his kind.
Rhys swallowed with effort. This one was tighter.
The Pythian crept behind him, jingling the chain, adjusting it. "Any ideas, slave?"
He was silent.
"You're so contrary. If I ordered you to be quiet, I suppose you'd talk my ear off." Oraz crouched and grabbed him. The Pythian had more strength in his hands than the gray-green had in his tail. A brief struggle, and then he was able to pull out as much of its length as he wanted. He didn't want much. As soon as it became thin enough to clip the cuff around it, he let go.
Rhys choked and strained to see what was going on behind him. The short chain held up his tail. If he tried to pull it down he would strangle from the collar. Oraz watched him come to this conclusion with a disgustingly pleased expression on his face. Rhys glowered and stole another glance back. His tail thinned over its length. If he pulled he would strangle, but how long would he strangle? How long before his tail slipped the cuff and he was free?
Yeah, and how long before Oraz puts it up again?
But could he keep it up?
No, Rhys decided. Not so easily, not this way. He was going to fight, he was going to fight as much as he damn well could. That wasn't much, but this was too simple a thing to intimidate him. He gasped a breath and pulled . . .
Oh, GODS!
Oraz was giggling at him, pointing and giggling, near falling over in amusement. "Oh, you stupid, stupid red-collars! You try! You always try!"
The gray-green closed his eyes and bit back a sob. He didn't need to look back to know his situation now. The cuff was not a simple ring of metal, no. There were teeth in it. Slanting, needle teeth. And when he pulled, oh gods, they tore him . . .
He felt blood trickling down his scales like tears. Hot tears, white hot. Oraz caught one trickle on a clawtip and examined it. "Not going to try again? I won't stop you. One of your predecessors actually managed to skin himself."
Rhys could not choke back a moan. His tail was up now, all the more securely for his efforts, and he found it beyond the power of his will to hurt himself more. Even if he did, if he peeled out of his scales, Oraz would only apply the cuff again, lower, and the teeth would still hold him. The rape itself could not engender so much damage, so much pain. Better just to have it over with, to let it be quick as it had been with Achar that first time. There was nothing more he could do, it hurt too much, and nothing he could say. If he opened his mouth, he would only cry.
He squeezed his eyes shut and braced himself as best he could.
Where was Oraz? Why didn't he do it already? The gray-green was helpless, why didn't he start?
He sucked a sharp breath through his teeth, twisted his pain-wracked body, and sought out the male. He found Oraz reclining against a wall at the edge of his vision. The Pythian had a smug and self-satisfied grin on his face. Was he just going to stand there and watch, until Rhys passed out from shock or bled out and died? Rhys contorted himself, brought more pain, trying to get a better look so he could understand what was going on.
Oraz grinned at his efforts, a little wider, and ran his thick tongue over his lips.
What is he doing? What in the names of the gods is he doing?
The male shifted and settled back in a more comfortable position, arms folded across his chest and a single claw straying over the plate on his shoulder. The tip of his tail wafted back and forth, stirring dust from the cold and dirty floor. His gaze was avid, but his posture relaxed and pleased. After a few moments gazing upon the trussed up, helpless figure of the disobedient slave, he let one hand drop to his sheath and, with a low rumble, began to stroke himself.
Oh, gods! He likes . . . He wants . . .
The gray-green jerked and shuddered with the shock of realization, tearing another inch of scales with his motion. He tipped his head back and howled.
"Ahhh," the Pythian breathed, sliding a talon across his stirring length.
Rhys shut his eyes on tears of humiliation and pain. Dear gods, he's right. I am a toy. He's made me a toy. But he would never admit to that. Never, never. That was one satisfaction he could withhold from the horrible male, one thing no bonds or brutality would force from him. It was one small power, the only one he had left, and he would keep it, for all it was worth. His sanity hinged upon it.
He bled, wept silently, and listened to the larger dragon bringing himself aroused, taking pleasure from his pain. Over soon, the gray-green knew it would be over soon, and he would make it, he was sure. He twisted again, too look, to see how soon . . .
He gasped.
He had forgotten (how could he have forgotten?) how absolutely enormous the male was. And the engorged, red thickness of his length was all the more frightening when coupled with the knowledge that it was going to be directed at him. Rhys had to throttle a rising laugh at the very idea. Does he honestly think he's going to fit that . . . that THING into me? He shut his eyes again and rattled his brain, killing the impending hysteria. He wasn't going to go through this giggling like an idiot, or screaming like a child. Even if he had been reduced to a plaything, he could still act like a dragon. He had to control himself, or else Oraz would.
The male was behind him now, he could tell by the sound . . . That awful, shivering sound! Any moment now. A few more minutes of pain, and then it would be over. Every second, the end of this torment grew nearer. (He could feel the heat of the male's breath on his neck.) Soon he would be curling up again in his cell (Oraz was stroking fingertips over his side), talking to Nace, and Achar (A nip at his neck, a touch at the base of his tail). Then it would be time for evening meal . . . (The pressure against his undertail, the heat . . . ) Then a long rest, and dreams . . . And . . . and . . .
He shrieked agony as the burning solidity tore through his being, throwing his head back and opening his mouth unhingingly wide. The tight ring of untried muscle beneath his tail split open at the very first thrust, and the blood ran down. It gave him no respite, only adding a horrible, hot stinging to his misery. The fiery pain buried itself deep within him, tearing and stretching his insides beyond all natural limit, and just when he thought it could go no farther, it began to draw back, adding an entirely new dimension to his suffering. Then the fire rushed forward again, pushing deeper, so deep, so intolerably deep!
He couldn't stand it. His tail came down, so quickly that he didn't feel the pain until it had ripped free, slashing scales to ribbons all the way to the tip. Pain compounding pain, agony building on agony, he screamed: "AIIIIIII!"
"GOOD!" cried Oraz. "First word! Now, the next one . . . SAY IT! 'I . . . AM'!"
The gray-green wailed and began to sob in anguish. His claws scrabbled the stone floor, trying to dig a hole to crawl into forever. This was not one, simple act; this was not the end. This was never going to end, not until he was completely broken, mind, body, and soul. He mourned the knowledge of his own death, for he was going to die here, on the floor, beneath a Pythian, in perfect agony. And after he died, he would live on, staring blankly at nothing, everything, watching his meals grow cold in front of him, living dead, until the next male came along . . .
"I AM!" he shrieked, clawing the floor so hard that he drew blood from his split nails and fingertips. "Oh gods help me! I am . . . I AM!"
And the pain went on. It went on for hours. When Oraz had exhausted his shaft, he used his tail. It went on for days. There were many more devices, many more cruelties, many more lessons. No food, no water, no sleep.
Eventually, he said the words.
Eventually, he came to believe them.
Someone there . . .
He hissed and lashed out with his claws in instinctive futility. Yet, somehow, this time his hands obeyed his wishes. They moved, and struck . . .
No, gods, no!
He felt the blood running down his fingers, he felt the splintered hooks of his talons scrape scales and flesh. He'd hit someone. His Master. No, no! He'd hit his Master and now there would be so much pain!
Mewling, he scuttled backwards, shaking his head in mute denial of what he'd done. His Master swept after him, swiftly, swiftly. He froze. He knew it was useless. Useless! He clung to the floor and awaited the inevitable agony, eyes squeezed shut.
His Master touched him.
"I . . . I'm not a dragon, I'm a toy!" he wailed. This had pleased his Master before, maybe it would be okay now. He smiled weakly, hopefully.
His Master sighed. "My God, Rhys, look at you . . . "
He blinked at the sound of his name, shaking his head as he tried to make sense of it. He repeated another of his lessons, to reassure himself in this confusion, "Nothing, I'm nothing. I only . . . only exist to please you . . . please you . . . ?" His Master was not pleased. He couldn't remember. He had done something wrong. All of this was wrong. He fell back to mewling softly.
He felt a hand on the side of his face, so much smaller, so much gentler . . .
"Rhys, please look at me. It's me. You remember me . . . That damn fool with the cider?"
"Ssss-sider?" The word tasted familiar. He tried it again, "Cider." It used to be something . . . nice.
"Yes. Please look at me. Please."
He narrowed his eyes to filter the dizzy haze. Blue. Silver. Blue. Not his Master . . . No collar! Not his Master, no, but a Master . . . Wasn't it? He wavered. "Sss-Sidro?" He clamped his mouth shut with a cry, but too late to take the word back. "Master!" he corrected himself, but too late. Far, far too late. He had done badly. There would be pain. "Master! I'm so sorry, Master . . . "
"No. No, no, no. Shhhh." The hand did not strike him, it merely brushed his cheek. "Please, don't call me that. You know I don't like it."
He leaned into the touch. Better. Oh, yes, better. His Master knew he had not done it on purpose, knew his regret was sincere. A touch without hurting, that meant only one thing. The other thing, the good thing. The bad-good thing. Yes, he would do that instead. Anything. Please . . .
The touch remained, long enough to give him hope, long enough to make him smile.
"Rhys? You . . . " The hand jerked away from him. "No! We're not . . . You don't . . . Rhys . . . " Hands cupped his muzzle, turned it, made him look.
Cold fear replaced the easy relief he'd felt, and his shaft retracted swiftly. "No?" he whispered, trembling. "No?"
"No, God . . . No." He was drawn close and held there. "Rhys . . . It's going to be all right. I promise. I swear."
The gray-green pulled back, his eyes flinched nearly shut, trying so hard to see and understand.
"It's me," Sidro repeated. He tried to smile.
"Sidro?" Rhys said. He rattled his head and it cleared somewhat. "I . . . I . . . " With a sudden burst of lucidity, he snatched the silver-blue near and cried, "Sidro, you have to help me, I'm losing my mind!"
"No," the Pythian replied. He held the dragon and fixed his gaze. "You're exhausted. You're . . . " His eyes flicked away, he shivered. "You're h-hurt. But you're not losing your mind. You're going to be okay."
"Okay," Rhys acquiesced. His hands slipped back to his sides, then pressed the floor. He swayed. Dizzy. Hurt. He was supposed to hurt. Or, no. Maybe not now. Maybe he was done for a little while. But it still hurt. Confusing. "I . . . Master, I'm so tired . . . "
Sidro nodded and brushed his cheek again. (It felt so strange and fine, just to be touched. Not to be hurt. Not anything else.) "It's all right, but we have to get out of here. Do you think you can walk?"
"Uh-uh," he murmured, sinking lower. Tired.
The silver-blue flinched his understanding. "I can't carry you, I'm sorry, but I can help you. If I can make it, you can." He crouched and offered his arm to the unsteady gray-green, seemingly unsure of where to put it. Rhys leaned into him, ignoring the pain, and one small miracle later they were standing together. Sidro guided him. It was several miles' walk, by the gray-green's estimation, uphill and on unsteady ground, but worth it. He was released into pale softness, covered with smooth warmth. Without another thought or word, he sank unconscious.
He was there. He was there and the male was laughing at him, laughing and hurting. And that horrible, hot, dripping redness was staring him down in the face. And he knew what he had to do, to make the hurting stop, but it was awful, too awful.
And then the pain, the monstrous, tearing pain--
Rhys shrieked and pitched forward, hands covering and clawing at his face, mouth open, gasping inexpressible terror. He didn't want to look. He couldn't look! If he opened his eyes and it was there, he would lose his mind. The rest of it. All of it. He sobbed.
"Shhh . . . " A warm, familiar security touched his back. "It's all right now. No more dreams. You're safe, you're awake."
"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "Not safe, never safe. Go away. Go away . . . "
"Rhys, look at me. Please."
Trembling, he did so. He had to.
The silver-blue smiled at him and patted his hands down. "There, you see? He isn't here."
"He'll come back," the gray-green protested, shedding tears of abject certainty.
"No." The Pythian frowned and brushed the dampness away. "He isn't ever coming back again, not for you."
Rhys shook his head. "No," he said. "How?"
"Because you're mine now," Sidro told him, in tones more suited to relating a death in the family. "Do you understand that? I claimed you as mine and he can't touch you. He can't hurt you any more."
Rhys sat blinking for a time, letting that sink in. Then, very faintly, he smiled. Something alien at the back of his mind was capering and screaming that this was the worst, the most humiliating thing that could ever happen to him, and at any other time, with any other dragon, he might have listened to it. But now it was simply the most wonderful thing in the world. Now it meant he would be safe, safe and warm and cared for, but most importantly safe. For ever and ever. And so he smiled.
Sidro smiled back, relieved. "Guess you do understand. Good." He pushed off the bed. "I've got medicine for you. Give me a minute."
Rhys nodded, still fixated on the space the silver-blue had occupied. It was a bed. (No more than a bunk, really. Narrow and spartan, but Rhys was in no shape to judge.) It was a bed and there was linen, white, and a worn blue blanket covering it, covering him. He gazed in wonderment at the shapes his toes and tail made beneath the covers. A bed. And (he shifted a little) oh, gods, it was soft! He closed his eyes and slid his hands beneath the rumpled edges of the blanket, drawing it up to his face and burying his muzzle in the softness, breathing of the cool, clean scent. For the first time in so long a while he couldn't even remember, he purred.
Sidro glanced over his shoulder, curious at the sound. Finding it benign, he shrugged and continued to do whatever that was he was doing over there. Rhys shifted his focus to the Pythian and his surroundings with some interest.
The room was small, but it was full of glass, full to every spare corner, full to the ceiling. Bottles, cylinders, dishes, tubes, assorted apparatus. Some contained liquids of various colors and consistencies, herbs and other preparations; others were empty, doubtless waiting to be filled; and those over there looked purely decorative, etched and shaped like birds and flowers and things. It was all lit by a ring of the same cold, headache-inducing light as the cells. Sidro was mucking about to one side, sorting through a long line of bottles on a wooden shelf and muttering to himself.
"Dehydration, nutrition . . . Dehydration, nutrition . . . Come on, come on . . . Ah! Pain! Dammit!" A crystalline vial slipped out of his grasp and shattered on the floor, its contents instantly evaporating into a fine, red mist. "Oh, piss out the window, that took forever to make. Nevermind, this works better." He tipped another bottle into his hand.
Rhys felt his body locking up. His claws dug into the mattress on either side of him. Sidro's anger had been perfunctory, fleeting. Nothing! But Rhys was somehow terrified. My fault? he wondered, though he knew it wasn't and knew what it was. It doesn't matter if it's my fault or not, if he's angry, he'll . . .
He understood with horror that he was clutching holes in the bed linen. No, don't do that, he told himself. Don't do that, he'll be mad . . . He brought his hands to his face and hid behind them. He wasn't afraid of Sidro being mad at him, not of Sidro. Sidro wouldn't hurt him, would he? No. But Oraz, Oraz . . . Oh, stop this! Coward. Fool. Oraz is gone!
No. He knew that, Sidro told him that, but he didn't believe it.
"Rhys?" The silver-blue touched his arm, cradling bottles against himself. "Okay?"
He snuffled in a great breath and rubbed his palms across his eyes. "Okay. Okay."
Sidro dropped the bottles in the center of the bed and sat on the edge of it. He took the gray-green's hands. Rhys ducked his head and turned it aside, ashamed. "It's all right," Sidro said.
Rhys took his hands back and swiped one across his muzzle. "Snrrrk."
Sidro snickered a little, searched for a moment, and handed him a clean rag. "Here, this works better."
The gray-green smiled thinly and wiped his face.
The Pythian left him again and sought a few more bottles from the shelves. One, a large decanter, he tucked under his arm. "Just need a glass," he muttered. He looked around the room, which fairly sparkled with containers of this substance. "Oh, I have to have one someplace!" he said.
Rhys snorted in shocked amusement and pressed the damp cloth to his mouth, holding back what might actually have been laughter.
Sidro looked back at him, smiled, but didn't seem to get the joke. He continued to look for a glass, sometimes moving one or two objects that would have served to look behind them. He finally decided, frowning, on a graduated cylinder. This he brought back to the bed and heaped with everything else. He went at the pile with both hands, collecting a scant handful of tablets and measuring a glass full of clear liquid. "Here, take these with that. I can crush some, but they taste terrible. Try it this way."
The gray-green pushed himself upright and accepted the medicine. He had swallowed worse; in the past few days, much worse. The liquid was sweet and soothing, which was fortunate because the tablets scraped his raw throat awfully. He finished the liquid to wash them down.
"Okay." Sidro nodded to him and considered the pile. "Um . . . " He looked up at Rhys and shrugged sheepishly. "I don't know. Are you still sleepy, or do you want to sit up for a bit?"
"I . . . " Rhys clutched his hands against his chest. ("You think it matters to me? You think a slave's orders mean anything to me?") He shivered. No. Yes. No. I don't know anymore! Please don't hurt me, please don't hurt . . . "I don't know," he whispered, horrified that this was true. "I don't know anything. I don't know."
"Rhys . . . " Sidro sat on the edge of the bed, laying a comforting hand on the bump in the blanket that represented the gray-green's left knee. "Rhys, it's all right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just asked like that. Not after . . . everything."
Rhys gazed back at him. He seemed so disappointed, so sad. My fault? Oh, yes. This time, his fault, he could see it in the dragon's eyes. He issued a strangled moan, and could not draw breath again when he wanted it.
"Stop!" Sidro shook him by the shoulders, gently. "Stop it now! It's not your fault. I never should've asked you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He kept insisting until he felt the gray-green relax in his grasp, and then he nuzzled him. "We can figure this out. There's a way to do this without hurting you. Try . . . Try just closing your eyes and see if they want to stay closed or open up again."
Meekly, the gray-green complied. At least he wasn't disappointing now. At least . . . He sighed. It felt so good, to close his eyes and feel the darkness. The darkness was warm, soft, embryonic. So drowsy. So nice . . .
In the darkness, Oraz was reaching for him, laughing . . .
He gasped and snapped his eyes open. "I don't want to sleep," he cried. "I don't want to sleep, don't tell me to sleep!" Slave's orders! Nothing but a slave's orders! "Oh, gods!"
"Stop." Sidro held him again, held him still, until he calmed. "Is it the dreams?"
Rhys nodded.
Sidro fished the decanter out of the pile. He swirled the milky fluid inside of it, stirring up sediment. "This kills pain, but it's strong enough to knock you out. It should kill the dreams, too."
The gray-green reached for the bottle, but Sidro stopped him with a hand. "Wait . . . I want to see . . . I want you to try something, really hard. Try to tell me if you want to drink this. Can you try that, for me? Please?"
Rhys eeped softly and shivered. That didn't used to be hard. Saying things like that, knowing things like that, used to be the easiest thing in the world. "I . . . " His throat closed on the words, and his brain locked up. No, he will hurt me. Oraz? Sidro? It didn't matter. He didn't know. He will hurt me if I try that. It's bad. "Wh-wh-what do you want me to do?"
"I just want you to try to tell me what you want. No one's going to hurt you anymore. It's all right if you can." The Pythian dropped his gaze. "It's all right if you can't."
But Rhys saw that was not all right, and he knew that was not all right, knew it by himself. What's wrong with you? Weakling. Fool. Say it! THINK it! "I . . . " Want! "I won't dream, if I drink the drink?"
"That's right," Sidro nodded.
"Then, I . . . " Want it. I want it. Give me it! "Yes. I do. I w-want it."
The Pythian breathed a happy sigh. Suddenly stupid with hope, he pushed the gray-green a little more, "What if I said I didn't want you to have it?"
It was too much. The dragon shattered. "Oh, gods, Master, please don't hurt me!"
"Oh, no! No, no, no!" But no amount of regret could pick up the pieces. Rhys was shivering, almost shrieking. The silver-blue struck himself with the heel of his palm. "Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!" Collecting his wits as quickly as he could, he stilled the hysterical dragon and gulped his self-disgust. "It's all right. It's okay. Stop. My fault. My mistake. Stupid mistake! Rhys? I want you to have it. It's okay. I promise it's okay. Okay? Here, let me measure it out. Here. Okay? Okay . . . ?"
Rhys mewled and shivered, impossibly unsure. Whether he wanted to or not, whether his Master wanted him to or not, he could not make himself reach forward and take the glass. He could barely breathe.
Sidro flinched his eyes shut. He gathered his resolve. "Drink it, Rhys!" he snapped. "I'm telling you to!"
His hand shot forward and before he could think of it, he had downed what there was in the glass. Rhys licked his teeth. It was like chalk.
The Pythian retrieved the glass and set it on a side table. He leaned on the table for a moment, calming down, until he remembered his charge. The dragon was depending on him. He collected the rest of the bottles and set them on the floor. "Lie back now, all right?" He drew the blanket up to the gray-green's chin and coaxed him to settle. Rhys complied, uncertainly, and eventually curled up on his side.
Sidro tried to smile, but could find no memory of happy feeling to power it. "It's going to feel a little strange, but it's just making you sleep. Don't fight it. You'll feel better when you wake up." (Oh, how he hoped so!) "And then I'll have something for you to eat. Close your eyes, now. Close . . . " Rhys was already doing as he was told, of course he was. Sidro slumped from the bed and left him alone.
Oraz had done his work well, and had much time to make it permanent. Sidro didn't know what he was doing, trying to rip all of it out again. He was hurting the dragon, making it worse when he wanted only to make it better. Flailing in a dark room, looking for some fragile hope to hang on to, and smashing everything he touched.
When the gray-green relaxed in sleep, Sidro tucked the blanket around him.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry. I'll do better. I'll try."
Rhys came aware that his eyes were beginning to open. He blinked them shut for an instant more, then reluctantly allowed the lids to part all the way. The world was a blur, soft and warm. He burrowed in the softness, plowing a trail with his muzzle, meaning to enjoy the dim warmth beneath the covers for as long as he could. His mind drifted for a long, pleasant while, before it came to rest against the shores of consciousness. He peeped out from under the covers and rubbed his eyes until his vision cleared.
Sidro was there.
"Sleep well?" he asked.
Rhys nodded, but that was inadequate. He had slept as if he had never slept before in his life. He had slept like a dead person. He had slept . . . Like an innocent. But he couldn't collect the words to say any of that, so he merely added, "Thank you."
The silver-blue waved him off.
Rhys rolled on his back, not thinking, not feeling, and stretched . . .
Oh, gods! It hurts!
"Ah, no! No! Careful!" Sidro lurched forward to hold him still. "Don't move. I couldn't bind everything, try not to move."
Rhys didn't struggle anymore, he gazed at the silver-blue in shock. "W-Why does it hurt?"
Sidro dropped his head with a sigh. "Oraz-- " The gray-green shuddered at the name. "I mean . . . He was at you for a long time, Rhys. Days. I think six days."
Six days? It was six days? Time was distorted. It couldn't have been so long, and yet it had to have been longer. It had to have been forever. His hand crept to the edge of the blanket, to make plain the passage of time by the marks on his body, but Sidro stilled him again.
"I need to see," Rhys protested.
"You do not need to see!" the Pythian told him, so sharply that he cringed. "It's nothing that won't heal," Sidro continued, more gently. "Give your mind a little more time to mend before you worry about the rest of you. I can give you something for the pain . . . Something different if you want to sit up for a while."
The gray-green turned this over in his mind, as one might turn a poisoned blade or baited trap in his hands. This could hurt me. Oraz could make it hurt me. I could hurt myself, if I'm not careful. Rested, awake now and aware, he knew this, but he could not escape it. The need to make a decision, to think about what he wanted and answer accordingly, twisted in his mind and brought pain. It hurt to try. Oraz had trained him to expect punishment when he answered wrongly, and when he tried to think, he always answered wrongly, too dense or too stupid to ever get it right on his own. There were no right answers with Oraz, he knew that, the male had only wanted to break him, to make him parrot back whatever he was told, to break and to mold him. Knowing this made it no easier, only made him feel worse.
It hurt to try. Stupidly, he tried. He tried to force himself to answer back, to say anything, even something meaningless, to thwart the fear and disobey. He couldn't. Too hard, too soon, too much, and it hurt to fail. It hurt to give up. He wanted to, (stop, don't even try!) couldn't. Everything hurt.
He pressed palms to his eyes. Take it away. Someone take it away from me. I can only hurt. I can only hurt myself . . .
"You should eat something," Sidro broke in. His expression was strained, but his tone was soothing. He patted the gray-green's hand. "We won't knock you out just yet, all right? Let's sit up a little while and have something to eat."
Rhys shut his eyes on welling tears and differed to the Pythian, grateful. Shameful.
"Oh, don't . . . " Sidro brushed the dampness away. "Give it time. You need time."
"I hate myself!" the dragon choked.
"No!" Again, so sharply. Rhys dried up as if he had been smacked. Sidro closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. But you mustn't say you hate yourself. Hate Oraz, hate what he did to you, but you mustn't hate yourself."
"It's hard," the gray-green whispered.
"Give it time." The Pythian gave his hand a gentle squeeze before slipping off the bed to check on a bubbling pitcher of fluid. He turned back and asked the gray-green softly, reluctantly, "Is soup all right?"
Rhys shivered and clutched the worn blanket around himself. This was simpler, and more easily put, a one word answer. He forced it out, quickly now, "Yes," and even so it cut him inside. He waited for punishment, waited for pain.
"Okay," Sidro replied and went back to the soup.
He could not feel relief, only confusion. But it was better than pain. Sidro would not hurt him, he knew that even if he couldn't believe it, and anything was better than pain.
(_Almost anything . . .
Anything._
)
The Pythian made quiet preparations. Glass sighed against glass and sometimes clittered a little, shakily, but there were no pots and pans to bang, no drawers to open and shut. Rhys thought of Sola and shed useless tears. Would he cry all the time now? Oraz had broken things in him, maybe not everything, but certainly some form of self-control. He rubbed his eyes dry and looked for Sidro to distract himself.
A thick, ceramic bowl lay steaming on a tray beside a haphazard pile of crackers. Sidro was considering it. He selected a delicate phial from a shelf nearby and tipped a couple of drops into the soup. "I don't think you'll taste it," he said, setting the tray on the side table. "And it won't make you too sleepy if you have it with food."
"Are you going to eat?" Rhys asked him, contemplating the tray.
"If I must," Sidro murmured. He lifted the bowl. "Here, you're going to have to sit . . . "
Rhys struggled upright. He could sit on his own, sitting was easy. It ached beneath his tail, but there were pillows under him. He could rest his back against the wall, if he got too tired. He could sit! Why was Sidro looking at him that way?
"I can't let you have this," the silver-blue sighed.
"Soup is okay," Rhys assured him. He faltered. Wasn't that what Sidro said? "Isn't soup okay?"
"Soup is okay, you're not." Sidro set the bowl down. "Your hands . . . "
Rhys regarded his hands. They were swathed in white gauze, stained pink at the wrists. The claws were scraped down to split and blackened nubs. He flexed his fingers. They were stiff, sore, and they would not stop shaking. He dropped them into his lap, ashamed.
Sidro smiled at him. "I shake too, all the time. Don't worry." He set the bowl in the gray-green's lap, between his useless hands. He collected each in one of his own, and pressed them to the sides of the bowl. "We'll do it this way. Help me out."
Rhys turned his muzzle away. He had no strength in his arms for lifting the bowl. Help? Sidro wanted him to sit here and allow himself to be fed, and he was softening the truth for consumption by an invalid, a mental defective. Rhys cursed his weakness, his damnable confusion. It would be better to starve to death.
The Pythian lifted the bowl, and his hands, and nudged it toward him hopefully. "Please?"
Sidro was shaking. The gray-green could feel it.
Rhys grudgingly glanced at the soup. He scented it. Chicken. In the end, the warmth and the smell of it decided him just as much as the silver-blue's pitiful expression did. He touched his lips to the edge of the bowl and took a tiny sip.
"Oh . . . " Someone was purring. He was purring. He fought back an embarrassed urge to clamp down on the noise. If he was going to cry all the time, let him be happy when he felt happy. This was--he let his eyes drift shut--oh, it was nice. The broth was strong, piping hot. It warmed him where there had been no warmth for quite some time. On his second sip he picked up some skinny noodles and a chunk of carrot. He couldn't taste the medicine, but he felt it. Or maybe it was only the pleasure of the experience dulling his pain. He opened his eyes then, and smiled. "Thank you."
Sidro flushed through his crest. "Don't thank me. You'll be damned sick of soup by the time you're well. I don't know how to make real food."
Rhys shook his head, wide-eyed, denying the very idea.
The sliver-blue snickered. "Just try and finish off the bowl, then."
Rhys was halfway there already. He continued to drink, and Sidro tipped the bowl as needed, until the last dregs of scrap and spice had disappeared down the gray-green's throat.
Sidro smiled into the empty bowl. "More?"
Rhys shook his head and settled back in the pillows, profoundly contented. Even one sip more would have left him more full than comfortable. He wanted to be comfortable. It was so strange and wonderful, to want, and to have. The sharp pains from his various wounds had faded to a weak, general soreness that was easily ignored. His belly was full and quite blissfully warm, and the clean, pale softness of the bedding enveloped him. Feeling this way, he could almost shake off the earlier unpleasantness as the stuff of fevered nightmares and delusions . . . Almost.
Sidro was masticating a cracker with little enthusiasm. He swallowed. "Are you going to be all right like that? Would you like a book or something?"
"No," the gray-green murmured. "Maybe later." Maybe later it wouldn't be enough just to be happy. Maybe later he would get bored. But for now this was novel and fascinating.
Sidro shrugged and spent a few minutes just focused on getting his lunch down. He hadn't worked with the Draught today, so he was able to finish the crackers he had set out. Crackers were harder than toast; you had to get through so many of them. Perhaps, if he managed to avoid work the next day too, he would try them with something on them. Not jam, or cheese, nothing like that. Maybe he could dip one in soup and see how that went. Thin soup. He was going to be all right for some tea today, too. He rose to boil the water.
"Rhys? Do you want . . . " He left the water and approached the bed. "Are you okay?"
The gray-green was shivering. "I don't feel well," he whispered. "I don't think I feel well."
Sidro took his hand. It was icy and damp. "How do you mean? How do you feel?"
Rhys let go a rising whine. He didn't know. It had started like a tickle at the back of his mind. He was no longer used to this kind of treatment, this kind of peace. He had begun to feel nervous. And he had thought of Oraz. He had become afraid, and with fear came the desire, perverse and unbidden, for Oraz to touch him again. That was the only thing, the only way to truly be safe, otherwise it was only a matter of time before there was pain. The leather strap. The chain. The hooks. The blades. He remembered all, and could not stop thinking of them. Even beyond Oraz, Achar's screams, Sola's wound, and the laughter of the evil dragoness who had forced the Draught on him. He was afraid to open his mouth, because he felt sure he would speak of these things, and to hear them aloud would overwhelm whatever remained of his sanity. He would begin to cry, or scream. Or faint. He was afraid. "I don't want to faint . . ."
"You're not going to faint." The silver-blue yanked pillows off the bed. "Put your head back. Lie back."
"I don't feel well," he repeated, this time with a great deal more urgency. He pushed himself off the edge of the bed and threw up on the floor.
Sidro jumped back out of the way, a dawning horror spread across his face. "Oh, please don't let it be that." He backed his way to the shelf, keeping an eye on the gray-green for any further developments, and fumbled blindly for the crystal phial. "Not on top of everything else . . . It was all right last week!" He slipped the stopper out, touched a claw to its contents, and tasted . . .
"Shit!" the Pythian screeched, flinging the bottle to the ground. It shattered. "Oh, shit!"
Rhys lifted his muzzle with effort. He was pitched halfway off the bed and very gray. He had only managed to absorb that something bad had happened, and it had to do with him. "M-Master . . . " he was too ill to gulp that back, it even eased him a little. "I'm sorry . . . "
"Oh, God, don't be sorry," Sidro groaned. "Don't be sorry, look what I did to you . . . I'm sorry! Oh, God . . . " He hauled the trembling dragon back into bed and covered him. "Rhys?" He guided the gray-green's head, trying to make him focus. "Listen to me. It can't last long, you didn't have that much, and you didn't keep it down. A couple hours . . . Less! And you might fall asleep . . . " The silver-blue ground his fist into one eye, staving off a guilty tear. "God, I wish I could give you something to make you sleep."
"N-not tired," Rhys explained. He felt better, lying back, but he wished Sidro wouldn't be so blurred and shaky, it was making him feel queasy again. He ran the back of his hand over his eyes, but it didn't help much. "Not tired," he explained. "Just . . . don't feel well. Feel strange. Thinking too much." And all of it bad. His mind was racing, not pausing on any one thought long enough to digest it or make sense of it. He had only the vaguest idea of where he was, and he had entirely lost the thread of what he was doing. Sidro was there, he looked very unhappy. What was he supposed to do about Sidro? What was it? "No, not that," he told himself. "You said no more. You said . . . bad. You said . . . it's so bad in my head . . . I don't want the chain anymore . . ." He hadn't meant to speak aloud, and was frightened by the senselessness of his words when he did. Help, he thought, but it was impossible to get the word out. There was so much, so much else to say. It all seemed so important. "Think . . ." he managed. "I think . . . I think I'm delirious."
The Pythian flinched. "I think so, too."
"You mustn't let me!" the gray-green said. "I don't want to. I don't want to be foolish, I just want to talk. You have to let me talk because if I don't talk I'll go crazy, but I can't be foolish. I'm not stupid. I'm not a toy. He can make me all he wants, but I still won't say I'm a toy. I'm not. I'm not!"
"No," Sidro agreed helplessly.
"Anyway, that doesn't matter," Rhys replied. "I had to. I had to. I never wanted to. He was hurting me. He could hurt me all he wanted. It doesn't matter if he touched me. I don't want this blanket on me, it's too hot."
"No, Rhys, not that. Please. You're like ice."
The gray-green didn't follow that at all. "But I don't want him touching me!" he said. "You don't understand. It's not like when he hurts me. He can hurt me all he wants to, but he shouldn't touch me. I don't want it to feel good. It's not right to feel good. It wouldn't be right if I wanted him to do it, I . . . I'd never want that, IT HURTS ME!" This last came out with such vehemence that it scared him, and he was silent for a time.
"Oh, no," Sidro murmured, shaking his head. He was talking to himself and he knew it. "Of course you didn't want that, but you wanted him to stop . . . " He trailed off, sickened. Oraz had never stopped hurting Rhys, not once in six days, not even if he touched him and it felt good. Especially not then.
Rhys clawed at the blanket, but he didn't have enough traction to get it away from him. "Why is it so hot in here? I don't want it touching. It's too hot!" It was too close, he was stifling.
"All right," the silver-blue relented. "All right . . . "
He heaved a ragged sigh of relief as the as the suffocating blanket was drawn away. His body ached in the rush of blessed coolness and he stared down at himself, not understanding why.
He had blood on him. A lot of it. Staining bandages, drying on long cuts and puncture wounds, pushing past deep, heavy bruises. His blood. It terrified him. When did this happen? Why . . . ?
Sidro touched his shoulder. "Oraz hurt you," he said.
Rhys nodded blankly. He remembered something like that. He thought he did. He felt the gauze that covered his wrists. He knew why that was there. He had been trying, trying so hard to get away! But the rope had cut in and it hadn't let go. Whiteness, staining red. He was transfixed. "I tried," he whispered, though that did not encompass what he had done. The burning rope, the writhing agony. "It hurt," he marveled.
It was too much for the silver-blue. He was too frightened of what Rhys might do to himself, looking like that. He pushed the gray-green's hands down, hoping to break the spell. "I know about that!" he said. "You don't have to tell me about that, okay?"
The dragon blinked once and gazed up at him, only half-seeing. "Did you know he made me lick it up?"
"Oh, God . . . "
"It wasn't enough that I had to suck on him. I spilled . . . " His eyes grew a little wider. "And he made me lick it up."
"I'm sorry," Sidro whispered hoarsely, barely managing that. "I'm so sorry."
"There wasn't any water." Rhys stared at the circlets of gauze, red on white, hardly seeing himself. "I had to . . . " Before the fastest hands could have stilled him, he gave a shriek and tore the whiteness away in his teeth, ripping cloth and flesh indiscriminately. "Oh, gods, I'll make him leave me alone!"
And then someone was holding him down, practically laying on top of him, suffocating. He moaned in hollow protest and struggled beneath the weight, before his mind cleared enough for him to see, and understand.
"Stop it! You have to stop it . . . Please!" Sidro was begging him, his muzzle perhaps an inch away, nearly touching. "Please . . . "
Rhys focused on him. There were three tiny scratches across the Pythian's muzzle. Redness. "Hurt . . . I . . . . hurt you . . ."
"What?" Sidro touched himself. "That? That was nothing, you didn't hardly have any nails left."
Rhys choked. In the dimness of his vision, he saw Sola's wound again.
"It's almost healed up already," Sidro was saying, as the gore dripped down.
"Oh, gods, I hurrrt . . ." The gray-green began to sob. "Sola. Sola! Never should have come here. My fault. Should have told her . . . Die . . . Please. Die."
"No one's going to die!" cried the Pythian. "Not you, not me, not anybody! You're safe here, you understand? You're safe!"
"Already dead," Rhys whispered, and somehow this seemed to ease him. He was quiet for a time. He was exhausted. "Don't feel well," he said. He was shivering, cold, and he felt he might be sick. A part of him, slowly subsiding, wondered if he would be made to lick it up.
Sidro gave an airy little sob and crawled off of him, replacing his weight and warmth with the blanket and the sheet. "You'll be okay." He wiped his eyes. "You should rest now."
Rhys thought that might be nice. He passed out.
He was there, against the cold, hard floor. Had never left there, would never leave. Delirium. A dream. Foolish dream. He would never be allowed to leave. To leave would be bad. It was better now. At least the burning ropes were gone. He didn't need to be tied now, he was good. He tried to be good.
He was exhausted, and he barely had the strength to kneel.
But that was what his Master wanted and all else was pain so he tried again, pushing up from the floor, shuddering, praying that the gods would keep him upright this time. Failure was pain. He hated the pain, wished he could bite and tear it away. He didn't care how many times his Master told him it was his own fault, for his own good . . . The pain was bad, and his Master was bad for making him have it. He hated his Master . . .
But, oh gods, he had to kneel for him! He could not tear his Master, nor bite, nor be rid of him. Body and mind revolted at the thought. Obedience was the only way past pain. Weakness and failure were disobedience . . . And yet, he fell again, fell hard, knocking the wind from his lungs and the sense from his mind as he hit the floor. Dimly, he understood his Master's displeasure. He moaned and tried to curl in on himself, waiting for the pain to start, that horrible, tearing pain . . . And yet, it did not come.
Instead there were voices, familiar ones. His Master and . . . Someone else. Someone from another life, another dream, but someone so much nicer!
"Sidro, what are you doing here? Have you decided you like to watch now, too?"
"No, Oraz--" A pause, one full of anger and hate on both sides. "Sir." He spat the word. "I've decided to give you a chance to stop this yourself before I have to take it up with the council."
"Why should the council care what I do with this one? He's a nuisance anyway. Unusable. Isn't that right?" Another pause, this one laced with smugness and humiliation.
"Unusable or not . . . " His voice was weak. He broke off and began again, "Unusable or not, he's mine now--"
"What!"
"He's mine and I won't have you damaging him!"
"You can't--"
"I can. I just haven't until now." A certain flavor of pride was creeping into his words. "Oraz . . . Sir. I know you didn't do that well in school, but you must've learned by now that it's not nice to break the other children's toys. Especially when you keep all the best ones for yourself. It's frowned upon. No matter how good a soldier you are, you've already pushed the council's patience. This would be going exactly one step too far . . . And you know it, too."
His Master disdained the subject. "What do you want with him, anyway? You've never used a slave in the whole of your miserable life." He grinned. Rhys could hear that grin. It chilled him. "I don't even think you can."
"I don't see why I have to explain myself to you, sir. The laws are pretty damn clear on this one, rank doesn't even enter into it. You have yours already, and that's mine. So if you would, sir, get the fuck out of my way."
The reply came sharply after a pause, "I'll tell you why you have to explain yourself to me, because if you don't, you will have to take this up with the council. And by the time those old fools are done babbling about it, it'll be far too late for you to get him back." His Master knelt beside him and caressed his muzzle with one gigantic claw. Rhys shuddered a little, then smiled at the gentle attention, so happy not to be hurt again. "See? He likes me already. Don't you, pet?"
The gray-green trembled. The words were bad--good. "I love you," he said, but he couldn't mean it. His Master knew he couldn't mean it and he had been taken to task about it. Now there would be pain.
The familiar voice, the kind one, sighed. "My God, Oraz. You've taught him a trick, even you're not stupid enough to think he means that."
"He will mean it," his Master snarled, sinking in his claws. "I can make him mean it."
"You'll never make him mean it," said the other, softly. "You'll get him to say it as if he does, maybe even believe it himself, but by the time that happens he'll have forgotten what it really means. You can't force someone-- "
"But I can break him!" his Master snapped. "I will break him. I'll break him so badly he won't remember what his fucking name means! So you tell me what you want with him." The claws clamped around his snout. "You tell me right now or he never draws breath again."
Rhys whined deep in his throat, his air cut off again. It was all right. Breathing had become a privilege. If he needed it, he had to earn it, like everything else.
"He . . . He strikes my fancy!" came the quick and rather desperate reply.
"You liar!" But the claws released him, and Rhys gasped air, weeping gratitude.
"Oraz, leave him alone," the familiar voice murmured, almost begging but not quite. "You have no right, and you know it won't make any difference in the long run. There will be someone new for you to break tomorrow, someone who hates you just as much as this one does. After that, there will be another. An endless supply and no one will stop you . . . But not this dragon, not today; I'm going to fight you. It isn't worth it. Let him go."
"You?" A snort. "Fight me?"
"Yes, and don't think I won't hurt you before you beat me. Don't think I won't hurt you as badly as I can. It isn't worth it. For God's sake, let him go!"
Another pause, a long one. So long that Rhys felt he would go insane before it ended. But then his Master spoke. His Master broke.
"Take whatever's left of him and get out of here."
Then he turned and walked away, silvery tail lashing behind him.
Rhys began to shudder violently, seeing this. His mind shrieked in happiness and misery at the same time. His Master was leaving. Leaving him alone. Alone by himself with no more orders or demands. Rhys didn't know if he could exist that way any longer. He didn't think he could . . . It hurt!
Something deep within him snapped. He tried to kneel again, reflexively, not knowing what else to do or think. Again, he fell, and kept on falling, into forever.
With a shock and a gasp he awoke, clutching hard against the bedding, his hands trembling and nearly white from effort.
"Shhh . . . It's okay. It's okay now." Something cool dabbed over his muzzle.
That voice again, that wonderful voice!
Rhys gazed around him, seeing it all again for the first time, like an amnesiac or a distracted child. "Not a dream . . . Not a dream, oh, gods . . . " His eyes were welling tears. "Master . . . Sidro. You saved me."
"I know," the silver-blue said softly. He folded the cool, damp cloth and mopped up the tears. "Are you all right now?"
What? What? He didn't know. He didn't care, either. He was safe, alive, healing now and all because of Sidro. He was thankful, and he felt blessed. Sidro had saved him and he would do anything for him. Whatever he wanted. He tried to think of something and couldn't think at all. He just sort of stared.
"Rhys, are you okay?" Sidro asked him, more closely and more concerned.
"I . . . " Oh, he wasn't sure about that. What would make Sidro happy to hear? "Yes . . . ? No. No, I . . . I don't know."
The Pythian considered his question and reformed it, "Do you feel any better?"
Rhys filtered this through remembered words and remembered pain, hoping in his new knowledge to push past it all. "Better. I . . . Yes. I think so. I feel better." He was kind of giving himself a headache, actually. He didn't care, Sidro wanted him to be better. He tried to be.
"All right. That's good. That's fine."
At this praise his discomfort all but vanished. He even managed a smile. "Thank you, Master."
Sidro cringed but hid it well. Rhys clearly couldn't help himself, or had forgotten how much the silver-blue hated the word, or hadn't even realized the way he'd put it. He looked contented and fine, and the Pythian wasn't about to challenge that. Not tonight. "Okay," Sidro said. "It's late, we'll leave it for now. Plenty of time tomorrow."
Rhys nodded. Sure. Plenty of time tomorrow for, well, whatever. Anything. Anything Sidro wanted, because Sidro had saved him and would keep him safe. Sidro was kind, not like Oraz, not like his old Master. Oh, and that was not good, to think like that. To think of Masters, old or new. That was dangerous, frightening, but it was soothing, too. If he fought the idea, he might kill it, and he needed it. He needed Sidro, needed to trust him. He needed to be taken care of. He needed to rest.
Sidro let him. He pulled up a high-backed, wicker chair and settled in it to rest himself, close enough for the gray-green to touch him, or call him, if he needed. "I'm right here, okay?" he informed the dragon. "Just wake me if you want anything." He yawned and tipped his head back. "Don't be afraid to ask."
Rhys nodded and curled up in bed. Sidro didn't look too comfortable in that chair, but if he wanted to sleep in a chair, the gray-green wasn't going to argue. Anything Sidro wanted would be fine . . . fine . . .
That night, not afraid, no not afraid but terrified of disturbing his Master's rest to ask for permission or (gods help him!) assistance, he messed the bedding.
The next morning, after the resulting hysteria, Sidro began to give lessons.
"Not lessons. Please, Rhys. I know I'm asking you to do stuff, but it's not lessons. Not like--I just, I just want to help, okay?"
The gray-green nodded, somewhat blankly. He wasn't exactly sure why it was such a big deal. Sidro was trying to tell him how to do things, and that was okay. He needed to learn, re-learn maybe. Lessons didn't have to be bad, they didn't have to hurt. But if Sidro didn't want him to use the word, he wouldn't. He could do that, even if he didn't understand it.
"And you're not stupid. You're not."
Rhys sighed. He guessed he could try not to say that, either. Not out loud.
"But we have to get this down. I know it's embarrassing as hell, but try. 'I need . . . '"
"I don't need anything," the dragon insisted. He pushed upright to meet the silver-blue at eye-level. "I don't need anything, honestly. You've done enough. You've done so much . . . "
"Okay, I know you don't really need anything. I do know that." He nudged the gray-green back into the pillows. "But I need to know you can say it. And if you say it, I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to be mad. I'll just get it and I'll leave you alone."
Rhys glanced at the device. "I really don't want it," he said miserably. The bed pan, a punitive chamber-pot for those unable to stagger the distance to the public toilet (which, Rhys thought, was a funny thing to call a cess pit with a board over it).
"I know," Sidro said. "I just . . . "
"I think I can get to the toilet right now!" the gray-green cried. He sat up, flopped out of the bed and dashed his ribs against the floor. "Ahh . . . " The sound fizzled, and became rapid panting.
Sidro hauled him back into bed and made him lie flat. "You need the bed pan," he said.
"I need the bed pan," Rhys agreed weakly.
The Pythian left him. "And now you need drugs."
The gray-green made a soft, affirmative noise. It hurt to breathe.
Sidro gave him something, and for a while he didn't need anything at all.
They practiced the necessary things first, simple phrases beginning with "I need" and "I want". Words that curdled in the gray-green's throat. Each felt ungrateful, undeserved. Sidro had done so much, what right had he to ask for more? Too much. Too much, and the silver-blue would be angry at him, or hate him, and abandon him again to Oraz's hell. He was afraid to ask too much, he was afraid for his life.
He only kept trying because Sidro wanted him to. Sidro was so unhappy when he failed. He tried to hide it, but there was always a little slump, and he would flick his eyes away. It terrified the gray-green. Dissatisfaction came in many flavors, all bad. He must neither ask too much nor do too little if he wanted to remain in the Pythian's favor. It was so much harder than with Oraz. At least Oraz would come right out and demand what he wanted, but Sidro would only ask him to try, and if he didn't do it right, Sidro would only be sad. Sad hurt worse, inside, than the things Oraz did. He could hate Oraz, not Sidro. Not at all.
Rhys learned "I need" and "I want", but only used them when the silver-blue asked. That seemed relatively safe. He learned to watch the Pythian, deduce when something was expected of him, and work it out before the dragon said the words. Sidro expected him to eat at least twice a day, and drink often, so he did. Sidro hoped he would use the bed pan in the early evening before sleeping, so he did. He tried to time when Sidro would want to give him more medicines and got pretty good at that, too. And if he thought he needed something, anything, unexpected in the middle of the night, he kept it to himself. He waited for Sidro.
He often wept a little, in the mornings. Sidro thought it was bad dreams, but he was taking too much medicine to really remember his dreams. Usually it was pain, and sometimes a desperate need to pee, though he tried not to drink much at night. (The pitcher of sweet liquid was near, and he could get it himself, but he wouldn't, not without the silver-blue awake.) And of course sometimes there were tears of simple relief. Sidro was awake and would let him know what was okay again, just by being there.
The Pythian thought they were making tremendous progress, until he found out Rhys had cracked one of his ribs in that mad lurch for the toilet, five days ago, and said nothing about it. Not even hinted. The silver-blue was apoplectic.
"Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me it hurt? Why didn't you tell me you hurt it more? You could've torn your lung open, I should never have let you move!"
Rhys lay disconsolate in bed, restricted in movement and in breathing by a stiff corset of bandages. He had been restricted so before, under circumstances not much different. Sidro would hurt him. Oh, he knew the dragon said he wouldn't, but he'd pushed things too far. There were limits, there were rules, and he'd broken them. Superficially he knew that this was not so, that Sidro was not Oraz, but it did no good. His heart said that it was all going to happen again, and he believed it. He waited for it.
"Maybe you already tore it. Is this the first time you coughed up blood? Is it? Have you been hiding it? Were you so stupid you thought you could hide it?"
The gray-green shook his head, eyes closed. No, Master. Can't hide anything from you.
"What were you thinking? How am I supposed to help you, how am I supposed to heal you if you don't tell me when it hurts? Damn it, it's the only thing I know how to do! I can't help you if you, if you screw me up! It's hard enough as it is, damn you!"
Maybe he'll do the other thing, Rhys thought sickly. And he wanted that. Now that he'd realized the possibility, he wanted it more than anything. He felt feverish, suddenly desperate.
Oraz had used his tail. Oraz had used him, but when he was merciful, he used his tail. It was long, silvery, so flexible at its tip that it seemed boneless. Rhys had cried the first time, many times, because it felt good and he didn't want it to feel good. He hated Oraz and didn't want the male to touch him, but that wasn't an option. It would be pain or his tail, and eventually he begged for the tail. Helpless and even aroused, he begged, because it did feel good, and the more he begged, the more he needed it, the more the Pythian would do it, until he spilled his seed and collapsed over it, grateful and ashamed. It hurt, but not like when Oraz bit or penetrated him, or devised some new form of torture. It hurt, but that was only inside, deep inside, and he didn't have to look there. In his body, in his mind, it felt good. It felt like escape.
Now, unable to move from fear and pain, he desperately needed that escape. If Sidro would touch him there, he knew there would be no more pain. His shaft felt full, hot. He wanted to masturbate. Oraz had made him do that too, until he worked himself into a state the male approved of. Maybe Sidro now, maybe . . . He whined, high and thin. You didn't hurt me. I think I could love you, if you told me to.
"Why didn't--Oh, God, you're hurting." The Pythian clasped hands over his mouth and ceased his tirade. "Of course you're hurting. My God . . . " Sidro flew to the shelves. "I'm sorry. Wait. Don't cry. You're gonna make it so much worse if you cry. Wait. I just--Here!" The silver-blue rushed back to the bed with a bottle of something. It was reddish. Rhys had had it before and it was sickish-sweet, flavored cherry.
The gray-green barely absorbed this fact; he was waiting. Sidro would decide what to do, but he would ask. Sidro had taught him to ask for things again. In one gauze-wrapped hand, he grasped the blanket and tugged it aside. "Please," he said. He opened himself. It hurt to move, but it might be the last hurt. "Please. Don't hurt me. I . . . I want you to."
"You," Sidro said. "What?" He felt the bottle slipping out of his hand, and he tightened his grip, white-knuckle tight. "Did you . . . What?" And then he understood what the dragon was showing him, what he was offering. "Oh, God."
Rhys, bandaged, bloody and panting pain, was asking to be used. He thought, must think, that Sidro wanted to rape him. And he was willing to allow it, as long as it didn't hurt.
The silver-blue hadn't felt so weak and ill since he'd last worked on the Draught, days ago. He was going to throw up. Drop the bottle and throw up on the floor, and then fall in it. His legs wouldn't hold him. He collapsed in the wicker chair and let the bottle loose in his lap. "No," he said. His head was bowed. He didn't want to look at what he'd seen.
"Please," Rhys whispered. His throat ached, his chest ached. He was going to cry. Sidro told him not to cry. He was afraid. He tried to reach out. He couldn't kneel to beg.
Sidro threw himself back from the touch and out of the chair, spilling both it and himself on to the floor. The bottle went clattering and slid under the bed. "No!" he insisted, almost hysterical. He warded off the dragon with both hands. He didn't want the gray-green to touch him. "No, no, no!"
Rhys curled in on himself, hiding his shaft from view again. He buried his muzzle in his arms and began to weep.
"No . . . " The Pythian reached out, but couldn't close the distance. He wanted to weep, too, at Rhys and what Oraz had done to him. What Oraz had done and Sidro had failed to fix. Might never fix. He was afraid to touch the dragon, but Rhys was in pain. He needed medicine, at least that. Sidro crawled under his bunk and retrieved the bottle. There was a graduated cylinder on the side table and he measured into it. Carefully, oh very carefully, he lay one hand on the dragon's shoulder.
Rhys shuddered and sobbed in a panicked breath.
"No," Sidro said. It seemed to be all he could say, but it wouldn't make this not be happening. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said, though Rhys clearly didn't believe it. "I am so sorry I yelled at you. It was stupid. Stupid. I wanted to help, I was mad that I didn't help. Not mad at you, mad at myself. I'm so sorry I didn't help. You need help."
The gray-green chanced a peek out at him and found his expression deliberately neutral. Rhys didn't believe that either and hid again.
"No," Sidro said. Back to that again. Was there nothing he could do? Nothing? "Rhys, I want to give you medicine. Please come out. Please." He kept the tears out of his voice, but they fell from his eyes.
Rhys saw them, gasped (too deeply for his broken rib) and cried harder, cried out, "Oh, Master, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!"
"Oh, no." Sidro drew back. Rhys was going to tear himself inside. He caught both of the gray-green shoulders and tried to press him still. "Oh. Oh, don't. Oh, God. Shhh. Shhh . . . You haven't done anything wrong. Not a thing wrong."
"Didn't," Rhys sobbed out, "didn't, didn't tell you . . . Didn't tell you I hurt. You wanted . . . I dis . . . So disappointed!"
"Me?" Sidro asked. "You disappointed me?"
The gray-green nodded against him, then paused and shook his head.
Both of us, Sidro thought. "You didn't disappoint me." he assured. "You couldn't if you tried . . . Sad. I get sad. I saw you before you got hurt and you were good and kind . . . You're hurt now, and that makes me sad, but you're still good." He pushed back from Rhys, sniffed back snot and smiled at him. "And strong. A lot of others wouldn't have made it so long. And you have healed, and you've managed so much . . . "
Rhys shook his head. "I'm broken!"
"No," Sidro said with a quaver. "Not broken. Hurt. I wanted to help, but I don't know what I'm doing. I wanted you to be the way you used to be, act the way you used to act . . . But that's not right, that's not enough, I . . . I didn't . . ." He scrubbed the back of his arm across his muzzle. "I want to help you now. Please let me try."
Rhys closed his eyes, hid again, and nodded.
"Does it hurt very badly?" the silver-blue asked.
He nodded again. "Everywhere."
Sidro considered the liquid in the glass and poured it back into the bottle. He found the decanter of white fluid and measured a good dose of it. "Twelve hours of sleep and no more hurt," he promised, offering it.
Rhys was shaking too hard to take the glass, so Sidro held it as he drank it down.
"Can't sleep forever," murmured the gray-green.
"No, but you'll be safe when you wake up," Sidro said. "I can do that much. I'll prove to you I can."
Rhys didn't believe it. But, as his thoughts ebbed into sleep, he wanted to. He tried.
The gray-green woke rather late into the evening, somewhat pained and rather more chagrined. Even before he was fully conscious he knew he was coming back to something he had bitched up irreparably. He felt the bandage on his ribs, tried not to remember, did anyway, and winced.
Sidro was there. Close, too close, and the gray-green turned to avoid his gaze. "I . . . Mmm . . . " He bit his tongue. He wanted to say something stupid, bad, and on top of everything he'd said already. A part of him insisted that was the only way to make things any better. Debase himself. Submit.
"Sidro," he forced himself. He knew what not to say, but not what to do. To fix things. To take it all back and make it be normal. Make himself be normal. "Sidro," he repeated, but he was useless.
"It's all right," Sidro told him.
"No," said Rhys.
"No," the silver-blue agreed softly. "Here." The Pythian gave him medicine, and cold water to kill the taste. It was good. It helped some. Rhys thanked him, but Sidro would not reply to that or meet his gaze. The gray-green subsided meekly.
"Are you . . . ?" Sidro asked. "Do you, um . . . "
Rhys looked up at him, too eagerly. Sidro didn't finish. Instead, he looked away again and clasped his hands against his mouth. "You don't have to . . . I don't want you to . . ." But he didn't finish that either. "Get some rest, okay?" he said finally. "You're hurt. That's best. I'll give you something to eat, in a bit. You . . . You don't have to ask." He looked up. "You don't have to do anything. Just . . . try to be still. Heal a little. The other stuff . . . Doesn't matter. I can do it." He smiled.
The Pythian looked like death on a cracker. His smile, weak and hideously toothy, brought the realization home. Dark circles. Red eyes. Raw muzzle. "Did you . . . " the gray-green began. Sleep at all? Eat something? Rest? Cry? But the words stuck in his throat. He didn't trust himself to do anything but make it worse. He didn't want to make it worse. He shook his head. "Okay," he said, and even that made Sidro flinch. Rhys covered his face and gave up.
"I am so sorry," Sidro murmured. The gray-green didn't respond. "Try to rest," he said.
Rhys did try, and he let it go on longer than he would have for anybody else. He was still, he breathed carefully and slept much. Sidro did the rest, all without asking. Once Rhys had anticipated the silver-blue, but now Sidro worked to anticipate him. Worked hard, screwed up, tried again, tried harder. Even so, he always managed to smile, to find some new little kindness he could bestow. Something to eat. Something to drink. Medicine. A pillow. A book. The books were illegible, Pythian writing was so much chicken scratch, but he looked at the pictures, anyway. It was something to do, and something to look at besides the silver-blue. Too hopeful, too anxious, smiling, and hurting somehow. Hurting constantly.
Rhys didn't want him to, but couldn't tell him so. There was no point even trying. He was useless, tangled in his own guilt and confusion. He had wanted to make Sidro happy, the first and only thing he'd wanted, and he had done this. He couldn't make himself say the words that might end it, to beg or command. Sidro had asked him to rest, he clung to that. Even if it did no good, it didn't make things worse.
Some time--day and night had lost meaning under constant light, irregular meals, and constant attention--Sidro dropped a waterglass. It broke, and the pieces flew.
"Shit!" he said, and then with careful mildness, "It's okay. It's all right." He knelt and began to gather the shards. They turned in his fingers and cut, but he paid no mind.
Rhys watched, horrified, as the first drops of blood stained the floor. "Sidro, don't--" he tried to get up, to help, "Ah!"
"Don't!" the sliver-blue cried, now truly upset. "You're hurting yourself . . . "
"YOU'RE hurting yourself!" Rhys shot back. "Can't you even tell you're bleeding?" He pressed a hand to his shoulder where the dragon had touched and thrust it at him. "You see this? This is yours!"
"I . . . " Sidro gulped unevenly. "I'll get a ruh- a rag . . . " He was slow in getting to his feet.
Rhys snatched his shoulder. "No! Stop it!" Sidro made as if to move again and Rhys yanked him against the bed. His sides ached, and his breath came sharp and quick. "Stop it. Just stop it. Stop."
"I have to . . . " Sidro said.
"NO!" Rhys snarled at him. "You have to sit down before you fall down. Damn it, gods damn it all. You're killing yourself. I won't let you. I won't let you anymore, you understand me? Not for me. Not because of me. It hurts to look at you, you understand? You're hurting me! You have to stop it!"
"Oh," Sidro said. He leaned awkwardly on the bed, his weight on one hip. Rhys had his arm and wouldn't let go. The Pythian turned his head away. It was the best he could do. He was crying.
The gray-green released him and drew back, clutching hands to his muzzle. "I . . . Oh, I . . . " He was going to be sick. He was going to scream and run away. He was going to take it all back, because it was bad and look what he did! "Oh, gods."
He'll hurt me. Won't he hurt me? I hurt him.
Maybe that was right. He should be hurt. Maybe it would shut his mouth forever and teach him to be good.
Sidro crept slightly nearer. He pulled the gray-green's hands down, wrapped arms around him, and held him. Rhys tensed briefly, thinking he would squeeze, force the air from his lungs and crack his healing ribs and oh, he would deserve that, but he was afraid of the pain . . .
Sidro held him, so carefully, and cried. There were words in his tears, "I . . . I screwed everything up. I did everything wrong, but it's okay. It's okay. It's gonna be okay."
"No," Rhys said. "No, no." Not to the second part, he couldn't even conceive of being okay, but to the first. The sick feeling rose and choked his voice. "My fault. All my fault. I should've . . ."
The Pythian sat back and shook him lightly. "Should've nothing. I didn't know what to do. I still didn't know what to do, and I hurt you."
"No. No, never--"
"Yes," Sidro told him. "I was scared I broke you. If you couldn't tell me you hurt, couldn't even tell me you hurt, I . . ." He trailed away in sobs. "But it's okay now! Okay, it's not okay," he allowed, "but it's gonna be okay, if you can tell me, if you can just tell me I won't, won't ever again. And . . . And I can do what you want . . ."
"I don't know what I want!" the gray-green cried out. He hid, buried his face in the blanket and hid the tears, muffled the sounds. "Don't you see that by now? I want things, and I think I want things, and I screw it up! I wanted you to be happy!"
"But . . . That's not important . . ."
"Don't tell me it's not important, it's important to me, okay? After all you did, that was all I wanted . . . And I didn't tell you . . . I didn't tell you what you needed to know and I hurt you and now there's this . . . And now I hurt you again. I hurt you again, you're crying."
Sidro wiped his muzzle. "Sometimes I cry. It's not your fault."
"Bullshit."
"Okay," Sidro admitted. "Okay, but, this makes me happy. Knowing you can tell me what you need makes me really happy. I was just . . . Really scared. For a long time."
"I'm still scared," Rhys murmured.
"I'm terrified," Sidro said. He giggled. "I could mess so many things up so bad. But I think it's going to be okay. I think you're going to be okay, eventually. You do know what you want, you know?" he added. "You're scared to say it, and I'm sorry, part of that's my fault . . . It's okay not to be able to say it, doesn't mean you're bad, a bad person . . . "
Rhys mumbled soft protest, inaudible under the blanket. He shook his head.
"No, Rhys. It means you're hurt and scared and frustrated as hell, but not bad. Or weak, or stupid, or any of that. But you can say it, I know you can. And if you can say it once, you can say it again. And it'll get easier, it really will."
"Not right now, okay?" Rhys said.
"Okay," the Pythian agreed. He smiled, unseen. "Let me get the glass--" He broke off as the dragon glared at him. "I have a brush. I'll use a brush."
"Bandage your fingers," the gray-green told him.
"Oh. Oh, yes. Right. Right away." Sidro brought linen and plaster back to the bed, so Rhys was able to give him an extra, needed hand with his fingers. Silently, he blessed them. He would've cut them sooner if he'd know it would bring out so much determination in the gray-green. He would've cut off a hand for this. Rhys was telling him what he wanted. Little things, after that first, but still telling him. Without knowing, but without fear. Sidro was not about to mention this. He swept up the glass quietly.
Rhys took time to speak again, and not easily. He looked up at Sidro from the bed, eyes too wide. "Is there cider?" he said.
"Huh?" Sidro replied. "Uh-huh. Always."
"Can I have some?"
Sidro had to consider that for a minute. Rhys had done so well, and Sidro hated to deny him anything, but was he healed enough to drink?
If he throws up, I'll just hold his head, the silver-blue thought. "Yes. I think so." He crossed the room to the still, where mashed apples and amber fluid simmered in a complicated mass of pipes.
"Can I have a lot?" Rhys pressed him.
Sidro turned to smile at him, and snickered softly. "Until you throw up or pass out. That sound good to you?"
Rhys settled back in bed and managed a slow smile. He closed his eyes. "Oh, gods, yes."
The Pythian collected the soup bowl, paused, looked, and picked up another. "It sounds good to me, too." He filled both bowls to brimming and carried them back to the bed, balanced like the scales of justice. After some consideration, he offered one to Rhys. It was heavy, but the gray-green looked steady enough to manage it. Steadier than Sidro felt.
Rhys took it carefully, with both hands. He wasn't strong, but he felt he could get the bowl to his muzzle without much effort, and it was a simple matter to let it rest in his lap when he was tired. He rested it there now and adjusted the pillows behind him, so he could sit back. There was a momentary, warning twinge in his side, which settled when he did. He sighed, content.
Sidro cradled his bowl with real affection and lifted it slightly. "We ought to toast," he said. "To something."
Rhys nodded, thinking about it. "To the worst Master ever?"
"And the worst slave, too, I hope," Sidro added.
Gently, so as not to spill, they touched the bowls together, and they drank. Deeply.
Sidro came up for air first and Rhys soon after, each leaving his respective dish about half empty.
"Oh, mercy," the Pythian murmured, balancing upright. "I don't drink like this."
Rhys hiccuped. "You certainly do."
The silver-blue shook his head. "Not like this. Not all at once."
The gray-green reached forward to touch him, his expression grim. "You'll puke," he said.
Sidro giggled and covered his muzzle with one hand. "Will you hold my head?"
"Over what?" Rhys asked.
"Oh, it beats me," Sidro said, and laughed again. "Oh, no, if I keep on like this I'm gonna get . . . I'm gonna get so silly!"
"Nothing wrong with silly," the gray-green said, dipping his muzzle for another warm, wonderful sip. It was . . . liquid gold. It felt wonderful resting in the bowl and warming his lap. It felt wonderful going down. It felt wonderful filling his belly with amber heat, filling his mind with amber thoughts. Rhys closed his eyes and let out another long sigh. It was peace. And after so long with so little, he never wanted it to end. He drank again.
"Hey, sl-slow down," Sidro admonished him, laying a hand over the dish. "Not going anywhere."
Rhys was sure if the Pythian meant the remaining cider or the pleasure within him, but he nodded. He didn't want to pass out yet, this was nice as it was. He slowed, and in between sips rested back with a comfortable smile.
The Pythian, with no such place to settle, soon began to waver on the edge of the bed. A graceful motion, but dizzying to watch. Evidently it was dizzying to experience as well, for Sidro soon laid a hand on the side of his face and whispered vaguely, "Have . . . Hafta sit back a minute."
Rhys flinched. He had no idea how Sidro planned to make to the chair if he couldn't even sit up any longer. Fortunately, such a foolhardy idea never occurred to the silver-blue. He merely set his bowl to one side and keeled over, his head coming to rest just above the gray-green's left knee. "Sorry," he said, though he seemed unwilling or unable to get up and move elsewhere.
"S'all right," Rhys replied, shifting beneath him. And it was.
Sidro plopped fingers into his bowl, checking for spillage, then tipped his head back to aim a sloppy smile in the gray-green's general direction. "Said . . . I said I'd get silly," he told the dragon, giggling as he formed the words with difficulty.
"Uh, maybe . . . Maybe you shouldn't drink all that," Rhys said, his own speech as uneven as a rickety fence.
"No, don't be ridic!-ridiculous. I only see two of you." The Pythian waved indulgently at the shifting images. "An' they're both so cute."
Rhys colored deeply at this, but found himself grinning nonetheless. Other words might've been uncomfortable, but so cute? It was absurd.
"Ooh, did I embarrass you?" the silver-blue asked muddily.
"You . . . You're gonna embarrass yourself in a second," Rhys warned him.
"Oh, don't worry. I won't remember a th . . . a thing in the morning," he slurred. "We are way past the point of my brain working. Or me caring. Way-waaaay past." He rolled over on his back, more towards the middle of the bed, and regarded the gray-green upside down, with legs and tail draped over the foot end. "Sisslong--" Giggling cut his words away and he tried again, "As. Long. As m at it, I'm gonna tell you you're the goddamn handsomest dragon I've ever seen in the whole of my miserable life. Rhys," he continued, seriously, "you're the goddamn . . . Didn't I say that already?"
The gray-green snorted and covered his mouth, dissolving into giggles, too. "Oh, gods, you're crocked!"
"I . . . Am not crocked!" Sidro insisted, raising a finger to declaim, "I will have you know I am utterly smashed." And he said it with such inebriated dignity that Rhys laughed himself into a hiccuping fit.
"Ohhh." The gray-green moaned and held his side, still sniggering intermittently. "Oh, it only hurts when I laugh."
"You're making me spill!" Sidro scolded him. To prevent further accident, he snatched up his bowl and drained the remainders at a gulp.
"You said slow dow-own!" Rhys replied, pointing a finger.
"'Mergency," the silver-blue answered faintly. He was sitting up again and it wasn't doing him well. His balance was nonexistent. "S'it dizzy in here?"
Rhys considered the ceiling. "A li . . . little bit."
"Whish way's your room spinning?" Sidro asked.
The gray-green drew a small circle in the air, demonstrating.
Sidro imitated the motion. "This way?" He grinned. "Mine's goin' that way," he reversed the direction and laughed aloud, tipping over the edge of the bed to thud against the floor.
Rhys laughed too. He couldn't help it, and didn't want to. After a good long while he collected himself enough to wonder, "Whasso funny?"
The Pythian hauled himself upright again to explain. "Well, if your room's goin' this way, and mine's goin' that way . . . " He snorted and fell over again. "T'gether, we're sober!"
Rhys didn't care about being trapped in the Pythian fortress. He didn't care about the torture and the scars it left. He didn't care about Sola, or Achar, or Nace. He didn't even care about being so cute. For the moment, all he cared about was ever being able to draw breath again. He doubled over with laughter, spilling his drink in his lap and not caring about that either.
Sidro curled up on the floor, sniggering helplessly. "Oh, I'm gonna hurt myself . . . "
The gray-green sniffled, rubbing his muzzle dry of hysteria. "M-maybe . . . Maybe you oughta get back on the bed."
The Pythian rolled on his back and stared up at him, spent. "God, I'll never make that."
"I'll help. Lemme help . . . " Rhys said. He drained his bowl to get it out of the way, then rolled on to his side (healing ribs or not, he was feeling no pain) and dangled an arm over the edge of the bed. "C'mon, I'll pull you up."
"You couldn't barely lift the bowl," Sidro informed him doubtfully.
Rhys paused a moment. This was true. "Well . . . Gives you something to hang on to."
The silver-blue nodded, and after a few near passes, managed to grab hold of the actual dragon. Sidro staggered, Rhys pulled, and a clouded instant later, the Pythian was back on the bed, lying very close to (almost on top of) the gray-green.
Sidro turned his head, bonking their muzzles together, and snickered softly. "You. Are. So. Cute." he reiterated, poking the gray-green in the chest for emphasis.
Rhys flushed a little more this time and ducked his head to the side. "You're too funny," he mumbled, self-conscious.
"Yeah," the silver-blue replied, stretching. "I know. An' I'm too drunk, too."
Rhys felt that assessment could also be applied to himself, but that was a few too many too's in a row for him to wrap his mind around, so he just shrugged.
Sidro gave a quiet sigh and snuggled up against him, eyes squeezed shut.
The gray-green tensed, bringing another twinge of pain that sobered him slightly. Wait. What's this? What are we doing? Are we going to do THAT? I can't, I . . .
No. He could and he had, before. It seemed like a long time before. Before Oraz had taught him the true meaning of what was bad, and wrong. He'd shamed himself, punished himself, then. He didn't have the strength to do that now, and it seemed such a little thing. He knew he was plastered again, and might well feel differently when he sobered up, but this time he didn't think so.
He was tired of hurting. Sidro wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't let him hurt himself. He was safe, and this was good. Let that be enough for now.
He closed his eyes and returned the embrace.
"Huh?" The Pythian stirred himself. "I'm sorry . . . "
Rhys opened his eyes with a faint smile. "Said we could do what I want."
"I did?" Sidro didn't quite understand where he was or what was happening. He withdrew to the extent that he could and blinked at the dragon. "What did I. . . What were we doing?" Rhys nuzzled him and nestled beside him. Oh. They were doing that. Well . . . Okay. "You sure you want that?"
The gray-green sighed. "S'good for now."
"I'm not hurting?"
"Nuh-uh."
"Okay." Sidro covered him with a wing and curled his muzzle over the gray-green's broad shoulder. He smiled.
Rhys was content. Every so often he shifted or twitched a finger over the Pythian's back, just to be sure of where he was. He was warm, and he wasn't alone. It was good. Maybe they would stay like this forever. Maybe . . . Maybe later . . .
He closed his eyes and drew in a great hiss of air as a shiver ran through him. Yes, maybe later, if he wanted, and that would be good, too. He remembered the silver-blue's touch, and it would be wonderful to have that again. He felt a flush of warmth between his legs at the thought of it. No, not just warmth. He purred and twitched his fingers lightly over the Pythian's ribs.
"You're so thin," he noted, softly.
There was no reply.
He brought his head a little closer and listened to Sidro's even breathing, the languid thudding of his heart. Rhys smiled and let his eyes drift shut. This was good, too. The flush in his sheath faded as his sleep grew deeper, but the purr continued on into the night.
They shared the bed after that. There was no point in upholding pretense, and Rhys wouldn't hear of Sidro spending another night in the chair. It was better, anyway, when the gray-green awoke in the night, uncertain or afraid, to be wedged between the security of the wall and a warm body. Otherwise he might've fallen out of bed, or tried to run, or hide. This way he kept still, so as not to wake the Pythian, and most of the time was even able to get to sleep again.
He healed and grew stronger, shedding bandages like outgrown scales. Sidro had to find more ways to occupy him, and began to teach him how to work the glass machines, making medicine, liquor, and the occasional soup. He needed to do something, because when Sidro left, there wasn't much. And, increasingly, Sidro had to leave him.
The first time, which wasn't a short dash to the toilet or to the storeroom for food, was only a quick trip to the cells to check on Nace, and update him on Rhys. Sidro had sent a note, but one could never be sure about those things, and he wanted to answer any questions. The trip was quicker and less answer-intensive than he had wanted; Nace had been elsewhere, and Sidro had not been able to wait. He was not able to wait, Rhys discovered upon pressing him, because the young gold in the cell across the way had begun to shriek at him, and throw things. Oraz, denied the revenge he wanted, was taking it out on his pet.
There was a screaming argument about this, Rhys demanding to be put back into the cells to care for Achar, and Sidro insisting that way was death. "You can never go back there," he said. "Oraz would have you out as soon as he knew. It doesn't matter that he's not allowed, he doesn't even have to ask for a key. He'd be punished, sure, but you'd be dead by then, or worse."
"At least take me down there to talk to him," Rhys had pleaded. But Sidro would not relent on the matter. With the gold in such a state it would do neither of them any good, and he was privately afraid the dragon's words would damage the gray-green, badly. Rhys had healed, but he could still be hurt, especially by the things the gold was saying. Sidro promised to check on Nace and the gold later, and then maybe bring Rhys along if things were better. But, before he could do that, other matters intervened.
Sidro was accosted one night on the way back from the storeroom. Rather forcefully, was all he would admit, though Rhys had to spend some time sticking bandages to him afterwards. Supplies were nonexistent, Sidro had shirked his responsibility too long, and he would have to go back to making the Draught immediately to satisfy demand. He had no apprentice, no helpers to pick up the slack, and soon he was pulling eighteen-hour days in some dark lab near Ezmi. Rhys helped as best he could, pouring the dragon into bed at night and getting a decent meal down him whether he wanted it or not. After the fourth or fifth time holding Sidro's head while he sicked soup into a bucket, "a decent meal" became a few crackers and some tea, but Rhys would not allow him to revert to a liquid diet, no matter how ill he claimed to be.
But, even so, they shared the bed. They held each other. Things were not always good, in fact sometimes they were downright terrible, but together they were okay. They would get through the bad patches, and they would be okay.
Maybe they would have been okay.
One night, Sidro staggered home and without a minute's rest began breaking things. Not on purpose, but he would pick something up, set it somewhere without looking, and it would fall, or he would knock it over.
"Stop that, stop that," Rhys nattered. "What do you think you're doing? I'll get a dust pan . . . Leave it alone! Did you overcook another batch? What are you looking for? You're going to cut . . . "
His eyes were streaming tears.
Sidro's hand jittered and he lost hold of another bottle, spraying white tablets over the kaleidoscope of glass that littered the floor.
Rhys dropped the dust pan and took Sidro by the shoulders.
"I . . . have to . . . I . . . " the Pythian insisted, struggling.
The gray-green pulled him away from the broken glass and sat him on the bed. "What is it? What happened?"
"I don't have any time!" Sidro cried.
"I'll get what you need," Rhys told him. "You're not doing anyone any good like this. Tell me what happened."
"It's Nace," Sidro said. He balled his hands into fists and choked out a sob. "I can't do anything . . . I can't do anything, he's going to die!"