Keys

a story by Onyx Tao

This document is licensed under the Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 United States license http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/us/

© 2012 by Onyx Tao All Other Rights Reserved

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Big. He was big. Big was better.

Vistak was one of the biggest orcs in the barracks, and he knew it. Without a doubt he was the toughest. Nobody dared cross him; he took anyone he wanted to sleep with, and if he decided to favor another with his attention -- well, that orc better be damn grateful that Vistak would bother with him. When an overseer ordered a flogging, it was his right to give it.

Big. He was big. The biggest, damn it!

Then why had the new orc beaten him? And why hadn't he ... finished him? Vistak asked himself that every morning since he'd been beaten. No. Not beaten. Humiliated.

Vistak shook his head to clear it, and the large orc pushed himself up off the soiled straw as the day's routine started. Once upon a time, he might have been angry, or upset, or even frustrated, but today, eight days after he discovered just what happiness was, he didn't feel any of those things. Before, he might have felt good about the upcoming violence he planned, or excited, or something -- anything -- but ... he didn't, not today. It was just another thing to do, like changing the bedding, or lugging crates, or eating, or washing.

Loss was responsible. Loss! It still amazed him that the smaller orc had resisted him, in that first encounter. Vistak was a stud, or at least a retired stud. He could beat anyone. Anyone! Vistak hadn't, though. He hadn't even meant much -- just a little lesson to show the new orc who was in charge. Loss hadn't even dropped the crate he was carrying when he slammed Vistak back into the wall. The dark blue bruises had taken two weeks to fade, and Vistak knew he was lucky not to have broken an arm or leg. He shuddered involuntarily. Their masters had no use for broken orcs, and even less for orcs that broke others. Worse, though, was that their overseer had somehow found out about it. Twenty lashes on top of the bruises and the embarrassment of being beaten by the smaller orc. He'd had to fend off a number of challenges, after that. Frustrating, to have to do, but it hadn't been hard.

Eventually, of course, he discovered just who had snitched on him to the half-elf overseer, Risel. It was that little shit Denton. Denton wasn't as tough as Vistak was, and Loss would have wiped the floor with him. Vistak had been watching Loss carefully. The smaller orc hadn't taken advantage of beating him, just kept to himself, slept by himself, did his work with ... not enthusiasm, no slave, half-elf or orc did that, but he worked hard, and quickly, and did more work than any of the others, without question. And he moved ... gracefully. Balanced. Alert. There was something more than just fighter training there, Vistak realized, even if he didn't know what it was. He kept watching. There wasn't any real reason for it, he told himself, even as he tried to figure out just what kind of training Loss had, not that it was important, but ... but he wanted to know.

Denton he quietly followed into the latrine, and dumped him, head-first, down the sewer. He'd be able to crawl out, but that meant he could show up for his workshift either filthy or late. Denton chose late, and that earned him forty lashes -- more than enough to make up for Vistak's twenty. Risel looked at him suspiciously when he failed to volunteer to do the whipping -- after all, it was toughest orc's job to do the whipping -- but Loss had beaten him, and Vistak would let Loss take the privilege. Only he didn't, standing motionless, no, not, motionless, poised, as if he were just on the verge of moving in that graceful, inevitable way he had, but not just yet. The other orcs stood, too, but not with Loss's stillness, not with his perfect balance.

Vistak looked away, back in front of him, to find Risel staring at him. "You," he said. "Do it. Break the skin."

Vistak did, forty lashes that each left its own dark line of seeping green against Denton's gray-green skin, but there wasn't any satisfaction in it for him, he found. Ordinarily, he enjoyed it -- relished it, both as proof that he, Vistak, was boss orc, and for the odd, visceral pleasure it gave him. But this time, it didn't. He just wanted to get it over with, so he didn't throw in any strokes just barely too weak to draw blood, and none harder, having no interest in stripping flesh from bone, none of the sidling cross-stokes that would flay skin, or slice muscle. Just forty short lashes, and forty green lines, droplets of gray-green blood spattered the floor around the whipping block. Quickly; he had no wish to draw it out. Not this time.

After Vistak finished, he turned to go clean the whip and put it back, and found Risel standing there, silently watching as Denton painfully worked his way out of the supports. Sometimes Risel did that, to make certain a punishment went the way he'd intended. The half-elf didn't say anything, though, just turned and left. It wasn't as if either of them, Vistak or Denton, had needed to be told what to do next.

Nobody had challenged him again after that. And he kept his eye on -- and off -- Loss. There was something about the orc -- more than just the casual way he'd taken Vistak down. At night, in the barracks, he never paired off with another, just pulled clean straw to a spot by the wall -- not even a corner -- and slept. Night after night after night. Vistak had taken others to his bed, not too often, he didn't want to draw the overseer's attention to him, particularly -- no orc in the Nokirt warehouse facility wanted the attentions of their masters -- but after a while, he just lost interest. No, not lost interest. Not all interest.

The one he wanted was Loss, he realized one night. He couldn't just take Loss; that one brief confrontation had made it clear. Rumor finally made it around the warehouse, that the smaller orc was a pit-trained gladiator, banished to drudge work. The reasons varied, from accidentally damaging something important, to a half-elf lover grown tired of him. Even Vistak knew that none of them were true; the only person who might know was Loss himself, and Loss didn't say a single word more than he had to, to anyone. Even amongst themselves, at night, nobody would suggest the other possibility, that an elf had tired of him, but it was implicit in the way the story was told. Or perhaps he'd just failed one too many times. Even his name suggested it, that he'd lost some important fight and an elf had assigned him a humiliating name and drudgery in a passing moment of pique. That was exactly like what their masters would do, but if the drudgery of the warehouses was tedious and bland, at least it kept you away from their attention. There were far worse places to end up than as a slave in the warehouses. Rumors ... there were all kinds of stories, whispers, tales about things the elves did to their slaves, orc and half-elf alike. Vistak didn't know the truth of all of them, or even most of them, but those he did know the truth of made him think the others were true. Or could be. He shuddered, putting them out of mind. Trying to put them out of mind.

They didn't go.

They weren't things one could easily forget.

That night, in the dark, after the quiet sounds of sleep had taken the barracks, he took straw, laid it out carefully, and knotted it, left, over, over again, under, around, and then tied it. He knew he shouldn't; it wasn't something he should be caught with or even know how to make. If an overseer caught him with it, he could be put down, or worse. Still. He wasn't sure why the thing made him feel better, but it did. He held it carefully, underneath him, out of sight of anyone. This wasn't something he wanted to share. This was his. Just his. He'd untie it in the morning, and it would be nothing but bent and crumpled straw, but tonight ... tonight it was ... it was ... Vistak didn't know what it was. Just that he needed it, and he'd take the tiny risk of unimaginable punishment for it.

Something woke him, he wasn't sure what. Vistak surreptitiously looked around and saw nothing out of place in the barracks, just the sleeping orc slaves. He turned over, and pushed the little straw thing he'd made deeper into the straw, though, just in case, and went back to sleep.

And woke up again, as he was pulled roughly into a dominance hold by an orc. Even in the confusion of waking, Vistak didn't move, he was not just at a disadvantage. He knew this hold. A twist, no more, and his neck would crack. The orc who held him would drop him back into the straw, and he'd lay there, unable to cry out or move or do anything, unable to breathe, falling inch by inch into asphyxiation and death. The other spoke, and with words came recognition of the other. "Did you think I'd forgotten about the corridor?" The words were quiet, angry, and unforgiving, like the sound the bullwhip made when Vistak uncoiled it. A hint of fear threaded through him; he had realized that Loss just wasn't a good orc to cross, and Vistak had left him alone, completely, after ... after that, and he'd thought that maybe Loss had ignored it, forgotten it, forgiven ... but no. No such fortune for Vistak.

The orc tried to say no, tried to get something out but it was hard to force anything out through Loss's grip and his own rising terror.

"I can snap your neck like a pipestone. Is that what you want?"

He could. And Vistak would be found dead, in the morning, and the blame would fall ... he thought for a moment. And then he remembered what was hidden under the straw. "Uh ... nah ..." he said, trying to say, no, I'm sorry.

"No? Then stay quiet. I suppose you're sorry," Loss said, almost mockingly, but loosening his grip, just a little.

"I'm ... look, I didn't mean anything," Vistak started saying. How did he get here? He was Vistak. Every other orc in this room looked up to him! Did what he wanted! Every other orc ... every other orc except this one. He was going to die.

"It was a joke," Loss said with that same knowing, mocking, threatening tone. "Just a friendly hello to the new slave."

He wanted to nod, wanted to crawl back, but he couldn't, just couldn't. "Yah ... yeah ... just ..." Die. He didn't want to die, didn't want to threaten Loss, all he wanted ... all he wanted ... he just ... wanted ...

"I'm glad I had a chance to talk to you then," Loss said, and the clear menace in his voice made Vistak cringe. This was not an orc who forgave, he realized, this was an orc who waited. Somehow that made Vistak feel better, even as he was terrified."I'm glad to hear you want a chance to be my friend. That's right, isn't it?" Vistak couldn't do anything but look up at the other orc. "You want to be my friend?"

Understanding blossomed like a bruise. That was why he'd been secretly watching this orc. "Yes!" Vistak tried to say, but it didn't come out as clearly as he wanted. How could he have been so wrong? He wanted Loss. He wanted the other orc to force him down, bury his head in the straw, take him. Friend didn't even come close; this orc was so much more than he was, he had confused size with strength, no wonder why he'd been so uncertain, so confused, so lost.

"Good," Loss purred with a quiet menace that ... Vistak almost, almost found reassuring, as Loss caressed his neck, releasing him from the hold. "Then be my friend, Vistak."

"I ..."

"Don't tell me how friendly you are," Loss whispered. "Show me."

Show him? Did Loss mean ... could ... Vistak looked up, startled. Niether of them wore even the loincloths they had while they were working, and Vistak was just inches from ... he looked down, away from the menace of Loss's eyes, to ... to ... the hard gray-green flesh that jutted out in front him. Loss was hard, and seeing that made Vistak go from half-hard (and when had that happened?) to painfully hard. And the smell ... Vistak opened his mouth, intending only to take a deep breath of that warm, musky scent, and then he was tasting it, rich, complex, the flavor of another orc. He wrapped his tongue around the warm flesh, prepared to worship it as it deserved, heard the initial sigh of pleasure.

But Loss said, "Wait."

Vistak froze. What had he done wrong? Should he have waited for an order? For permission? Was Loss just going to pull out, laughing at him?

"Don't lose a drop," Loss warned him, and the instruction confused him, made no sense, how could Loss even think that Vistak would do anything less that take the sweet liquor that would precede the heavier, saltier, stickier seed that he wanted, that he didn't deserve but was going to get, and he wanted, needed, craved ...

He swallowed out of reflex, but the warm sour brine wasn't what he'd expected, wasn't right, not right and he tried to pull back but Loss knew, even before he'd moved, "Do you want your neck broken?" and he just kept swallowing, trying to ignore what he was doing, what Loss was making him do, what he wanted to do, now that he was doing it, servicing the orc in front of him, like he had in the pens, and finally, eventually the flow trickled to an end. Loss held him, tightly, murmured, "Yes," and Vistak could only wonder what that meant, was Loss pleased with him, was this some long-planned revenge, what was Loss going to do? What did Loss want from him? He had a brief vision, of Loss simply reaching down, snapping his neck. Why wouldn't he? Everyone was asleep, they'd never know, he'd just be found, in the morning ... it's what Vistak would have done, once, long ago, before.

Somehow, he found the courage to suckle on the orc again, as Loss's hands tightened around his neck, either as a hint or warning. A vision of himself, laying motionless on the straw of his bed as his vision faded spurred him on. Loss might be angry, but if Vistak could only show him he'd be good, he'd do what Loss wanted, he would ... he would, he could, please the orc, and somewhere in the back of his mind Vistak realized he didn't care if Loss killed him afterward.

"That's right," whispered Loss, finally encouraging him, and then roughly pulling his head down onto the shaft. Vistak struggled for a moment, relaxed, accepted it. It was right, only right. Loss was stronger, better, than he was, this was where he was meant to be, servicing his better, and for so long there hadn't been one. He, Vistak, had been the best, he'd forgotten to bow his head, forgotten that he was just an orc, barely even a slave, a beast of burden that was better trained than most. And he'd committed the unforgivable sin, ignoring his training, thinking that he was something, but he wasn't, and even as Vistak felt surge of anger dying, he realized that was wrong, he knew he should be grateful, thankful, appreciative of Loss's taking the time to correct him. He was, he was grateful, thankful, for the correction, for the chance to serve, as he should, as an crude and stupid orc should. That was what he was for, how he could make amends to his better.

For Loss to use him, pulling Vistak's face to his crotch, thrusting into him, showing the orc what he was good for. He didn't know how long it took, the action, Loss's pleasure, his service, all melted into a blur of relieved obedience and he was near tears when Loss finally answered Vistak's need, the thick warm salty seed, more than he expected, and then more yet, and Vistak savored it, swallowed it, quickly, before it could be taken from him, before Loss realized that Vistak didn't deserve it, couldn't deserve it, and shouldn't have it. It was too good for him, but even the thought of punishment for daring to swallow without permission didn't worry him; it was worth it, worth even a whipping. The spurting slowed, stopped, and Vistak licked the other orc clean -- cleaner, gently pressing his face against Loss's muscled thigh, using his tongue to pay homage to the other before Loss killed him. Vistak didn't want to die, he wanted to serve this orc, be used by him, be of use to him, anything other the worthless failure he realized he was, but he'd lost his chance. He deserved this. He looked up at Loss, and wondered how much it would hurt. He nuzzled up against what he could have had with regret, hoping Loss would kill him cleanly, not leave him to die slowly, not alone, no, please, not alone ...

Loss's words, though, filled him with yet more confusion. "I'm glad we've come to an understanding." The orc just turned -- doing nothing more, and Vistak's shame was eclipsed by his growing relief. He wasn't sure why Loss hadn't killed him. Did he worry that an orc would tell on him? They wouldn't, Vistak knew, they'd claim ignorance, uncertainty, confusion at the cold body when their sleep shift was finished. He doubted Risel would push for an answer. Their overseer had made it clear that Loss was a favorite of his. Maybe Loss, though, didn't know that.

Of course he knew that, Vistak thought. He doesn't even have to kill me. I'm not important enough.

Vistak could tell, the next morning, who knew what had happened, which orcs had witnessed it, just by the way they glanced at him. He didn't catch anyone telling, but the story spread -- he could feel it, see it, as the tone and body language of the other orcs shifted. Of course Loss hadn't killed him. Loss hadn't needed to. The others would do it for him, once Loss had shown that Vistak could be taken. Two, three of them would gather what little courage they had, find a moment with him alone, and he'd die. Loss wouldn't have to bother. Why should he? Vistak was beneath him, a problem that would go away on its own, undeserving of any further attention.

But the enigmatic orc exerted himself differently. Vistak couldn't tell how. Once or twice that day, he caught Loss staring at him, or glancing past him. What should have felt threatening, didn't. Maybe it was no more than that. Vistak would have threatened the others, had he wanted to put another orc under his protection -- warned them. Perhaps bloodied the first to look. Not Loss. Loss said nothing, made no threats, needed no ominous looks, and still somehow made clear that Vistak was not to be troubled; Vistak was under his protection, or perhaps, that Vistak was his to deal with. For the first part of the day, even through the monotonous dinner, Vistak kept expecting Loss to approach him. Tell him that the sufferance that shielded him was thin, that Vistak would submit to him, show his mastery to the others. Instruct Vistak on what do to, lest that protection be withdrawn. It would be humiliating, but he'd do it. He'd have to. He just wanted it to be over, to have Loss take him, show his weakness up to the world.

Loss didn't. Loss said nothing, made no moves, nothing. It was unbearable.

It wasn't until after dinner that Vistak understood what he had to do; understood the only thing he could do. Understood just how totally Loss had ... Vistak floundered. Owned him? Taken him? Beaten him? Except Loss had done none of those things. But there was nothing else he could do. No other options. He hurried through the washing, was the second orc into the sleeping pen, and he changed out the straw, made it into a bed. Loss wasn't going to do it, wasn't going to tell him that his protection had a price, wasn't going to demand Vistak's submission in front of the others. No. Loss expected Vistak to do it himself, admit that he was nothing but a sow, for Loss, or for any boar Loss felt like letting have him. And he ... Vistak realized he had to do it. There was nothing else, nothing. Although ... after a moment, he took a handful of straw, and knotted it, left, over, over again, under, around, and finished with another knot, and thrust the thing deep into the bed. Just for ... for ... he wasn't sure. But it was there, and it made him feel better. Took his mind off what would happen. He wasn't sure why he'd done it. But he felt less scared knowing it was there. Others were beginning to filter in, and they were ... not looking at him. Loss would be here.

Soon. Soon. Vistak took off his loincloth and sandals, kneeled down to wait. Soon.

He didn't even realize Loss was there until he saw Loss's cloth and sandals drop next to his. He turned, anxiously, but Loss just stretched out on the fresh bedding. "You changed the straw?"

Vistak nodded. "Yes. I ... I thought ..."

"Good," said Loss, and Vistak realized that Loss could hardly care what he thought. "You joining me?"

"I ..." Vistak said, hesitantly, glancing around. Had he misunderstood?

"Then come here," and Loss reached out, and grabbed him. Vistak didn't resist, let himself be pulled into the other's embrace. He knew others were watching, and ... he didn't care. Loss mattered. Only Loss.

"Vistak?" Loss asked quietly, and Vistak pulled his attention back to Loss.

"Just ..." He swallowed. He wanted to get it over with; wanted the pain. Pleasure. Both. "Just fuck me."

Loss stared at him for a moment, and then frowned. Vistak paused -- had he been too forward?

Yes. Loss pulled him in. "When I'm ready." A twist, and suddenly he was on his back, in the straw, and Loss had his arm twisted back. "And now I'm ready."

Vistak wasn't, but Loss entered him anyway, using brute strength to force his way in. Vistak refused to cry out; this was Loss's right, to take him any way he chose. He hadn't been taken -- forced -- used -- like this for a long time. Too long. The memories flooded back, the pain, the humiliation ... it had felt so good ... "Hurts," Vistak moaned quietly, for Loss and for Loss alone. "Hurts good." If Loss heard him, the other orc answered him only by thrusting harder, deeper. "Oh," Vistak said, feeling Loss in him, using him. "Don't stop." It had been such a long time, so long, but all the guilty pleasure came flooding back to him, the punishment room, how his half-elf trainers would take him, over, and over and over again, until he would beg ... to continue, to stop, to anything they wanted, to whatever would please them, amuse them, anything, for just a look, a glance, a laugh, some indication that they weren't going to throw him away, toss him into the dark. "Please ..."

Loss continued, riding Vistak's willing body as if he'd done it a thousand times, knew every motion and curve, knew what would feel good, what would hurt at just the right moment; touching him -- somehow knowing where to touch, where to stroke lightly, where to slap, where to grip, where to twist until Vistak's body belonged not to Vistak, but Loss, like a half-elf trained to serve a Great Lady. Vistak moaned and rutted under Loss, twisting, half-trying to escape but always pushing back, impaling himself, deeper. He convulsed, finally, his muscles clenching around Loss, seed jetting into the once-clean straw even as Loss filled him with warm slick ejaculate. Vistak tightened himself, bearing down, trying to keep Loss inside him. Even when Loss became less hard, and slipped out, Vistak half-rolled down, and let his tongue wash Loss clean.

Loss simply stroked Vistak's head, possessively, and Vistak finally started relaxing. Until Loss reached over, his arm reaching deep into the straw, to pull out the figure Vistak had hidden. After a brief glance, Loss put the evidence of Vistak's perfidy -- gently -- into his hand. Loss didn't say anything, he didn't have to. Even the suggestion of this would condemn Vistak to death from any overseer ... Vistak looked at it briefly, and then back at Loss. He'd already known Loss could kill him, but ... maybe, somehow, he'd thought that Loss wouldn't, because of the overseer. Not that an overseer -- his overseer -- would care, but perhaps Loss wouldn't realize that. Now, even that tattered excuse was gone. He burst out crying.

Rather than laugh, though, Loss just held him, let him weep, let him covertly unknot the thing, smooth it back into the sweat-tainted straw, and eventually Vistak fell asleep.

The next day, he kept waiting for Risel to come to him and denounce him, or another half-elf to peremptorily order him to follow me or even one of the Great Ladies to appear, but nothing happened, and with trepidation, he went back to Loss' bed. He seemed welcome there, and the bruises and pain were small things against having someone to serve.

And the next night.

And the next.

And after more of them -- he wasn't entirely sure of how many, the other orcs stopped watching him. He wasn't boss anymore -- he wasn't even sure who was. Loss, it should have been Loss, but Loss was disinterested in everything except his duties, and, at night, Vistak, worthless sow that he was, but still ... the terrible fear Vistak had was slowly retreating, as he learned how to please Loss, and cherished the marks that showed how Loss had used him.

Over then next few weeks, he tried to understand his new ... superior. Even in his own mind, he shied away from the word master, that was reserved for the Great Ladies and them alone but in the darkest sleep, when the heavy breaths and occasional grunts of sleep told him he was as alone as he could be, he used it. Reveled in it, he had a Master!

Vistak had a Master. And his Master held him, and fucked him, and nobody, nobody, dared to touch him for fear of his Master. He was careful to keep that thought hidden, though, letting it course through him as he lay in Loss' embrace, or under the other orc, just as a slave should be with his Master. Risel even stopped asking Vistak to do the punishments -- he had Corrux do them. But Vistak didn't care; neither Vistak nor Loss did anything to draw Risel's ire -- Risel seemed to like Loss. At least Loss got the more difficult tasks, the tasks that Risel needed done right, the first time. And sometimes, Vistak got assigned to work with Loss.

More often he didn't, but it didn't matter. The days stretched out, all the same, wake, eat, work, wash, sleep, wake, eat, work, wash, sleep, wake, eat, work, wash, sleep ... but every sleep he was with Loss. At first, Vistak didn't notice any change, but after a few days he realized he'd been having dreams. Amazing, wonderful dreams. Flying through a huge -- endless -- cavern, the ceiling so high above him it was just a blue wash of color, soaring through cold, invigorating banks of mist. Feasting on foods that Vistak would have sworn he'd never seen and couldn't name but were delicious, drinking wine (which he had tasted, once) and sweet tea (which he'd had twice). Wrestling with a huge furry thing that he couldn't name, by a strange river. The oddest molds, everywhere, all green, and sharp, like tiny blades, sharp but yielding to his weight. And everything was bright, so bright that it hurt his eyes, left a sizzling green glow through his eyelids at first, until he got used to it. There were other strange things, huge mushrooms he couldn't name, of that same unnatural green as the fungus-sprouts, but lifted up, on thick woody trunks, splaying tiny flat fragile green growths.

Happiness, this could only be happiness; he knew the word, he'd heard it a hundred times, used sarcastically, seriously, painfully ... but now, now he knew what it meant. It was the scent of Loss in the dark, the ache of muscles pulled roughly back when Loss wanted him, the soreness after his Master (for he could use that word, now, in his own mind), even the sour salty brine he drank -- craved, better than wine or sweet tea, the slipperiness of Loss's sweat, the feel of that powerful flesh against his, holding him down in the straw, crushing the fragrant stuff against him, keeping him from the swallowing dark, giving him a reason, a purpose, something to do beyond the deserved drudgery that awaited a beast like Vistak. Happiness. Better than food, better than sleep, better, far better, than the lash ... it seemed like it would last forever.

It ended when Loss disappeared.

Nothing warned him. Nothing was different that morning, he went to one job, Loss to another. But Loss wasn't at dinner, and when the barracks were locked, Loss hadn't come in. Risel queried a number of slaves, including Vistak, about Loss's disappearance. He'd been tasked to move some boxes, only some of which were moved. Loss himself had vanished, and Risel was clearly angry about it, threatening them if anyone knew something, anything, and didn't come forward. But all Vistak knew was that Loss hadn't been at dinner, and hadn't returned that evening. Threats, and even ten lashes, and then another ten, couldn't make him know something he didn't know.

Risel eventually accepted that Vistak didn't know, but that just made the overseer angrier. For the next week, Vistak found himself getting harder and longer duties. Eventually, though, Risel seemed to let it go. During that same period, a couple of orcs -- Cank and Jantor -- tried to take him, but he was tougher than they were. He didn't bother beating them to the ground; he just did what Loss had done to him: responded hard enough and fast enough to let them know the next time, they might not survive, and they backed off. Most of the other orcs left him alone, and the few who didn't, learned to do so fast after he broke a finger or two. It was as much the threat of violence as the clear fact that Vistak didn't really care if he was punished for it.

He'd only thought he knew what pain was. He'd thought it was missing dinner, or a hundred lashes, or being held down while a half-elf peels the skin off his arms, and those were bad. But Loss ... Loss hurt, and it wouldn't stop hurting, until hunger or the sting of a whip or even the burning helpless pain of being skinned would be a welcome distraction from his time with Loss.

One day followed another, and another, and another, and turned into a week, and another week, and another, and still, he heard nothing about Loss. Risel didn't mention him, the other slaves forgot about him, until it was only Vistak, eating alone, sleeping alone, clutching a handful of straw in the night, who still remembered him.

Mourned him.

Vistak wasn't sure why. He'd never thought Loss cared for him, really. Loss hadn't been more than impersonally cruel to him -- never hurt him just to hurt him, although Loss had always hurt him when Loss fucked him. Was that important? Was that part of it? The pain was just part of the pleasure; part of the blissful joy of serving, really serving, really letting another take not just his mind, but his body ...

And nobody would want a damaged, worn-out worthless orc. Not even Vistak wanted himself, and none of the other slaves, younger, maybe the touch of orc on orc, flesh on flesh, was for younger orcs. Prettier. Softer. Anything but what he was, anyone but who he was ... why did Vistak have to be Vistak? That wasn't what he wanted, was it? To be a slave, to carry boxes of merchandise to and from and back again? To eat, sleep, shit, bathe, work, eat, sleep, shit, bathe, work ... over and over and over, a hundred times, a hundred thousand times, some number in between those extremes, but every day the same?

He wanted ...

Vistak didn't know. He just wanted ... something. Something better. Loss, Loss had never felt this way, like everything was the same, everything would be the same, like he was just an orc, a drudge, a slave born to work, not even to please a master, just work, work that any orc or half-elf or elf could do and would still need to be done over and over and over and over and over ...

There had to be something different; something more, something ... Loss had had something. The work ... Loss had never cared about, one way or another, just like Loss had never cared about anything. Much of anything. He'd been kind, a little, to Vistak. Was that what he wanted, kindness from a master? Because Loss had surely been that. Vistak hadn't known, until Loss showed him, just how much he'd longed for a Master, someone to serve, someone he could make proud, someone he could help, even in the littlest ways possible. Maybe he hadn't wanted that, maybe Vistak hadn't even known he could want that. Maybe Vistak didn't want it, because he didn't know it could exist, until Loss showed him. Until Loss made him happy.

Until Loss had left.

Laying in the straw that night, Vistak couldn't even be angry at Loss. Whatever had happened to him, wherever he was, Vistak had still been happy. Maybe he wasn't happy now, but he could remember what it was like; remember Loss's touch, his scent, the soft, commanding tone that made him feel happy, sad, alive, instead of the nothing he'd felt forever before and after.

He could think about Loss, pretend Loss was just about to join him, in a fresh bed of straw, dream of Loss pushing him, holding him so he couldn't move, the indescribably pleasure of Loss taking his own pleasure in him, the warm hurt of Loss's carefully restrained violence -- and it had been restrained, Vistak realized. Loss was trained to kill, a gladiator, not a drudge like him. He was just lucky Loss had ... chosen him? Noticed him? Why had Loss come to him that first night, so long ago? Loss had said it was because of that first incident, but that had been weeks, and weeks ago ... had Loss really waited that long? Why?

He wondered, and as Vistak wondered, he realized he wanted to know.

Wanted something! He might as well want Loss back, want to be in Loss's arms, under the smaller, stronger, faster orc, pleasing him ...

But he did want that. He wanted it ... he wanted that, wanted to be with Loss, he'd do anything, just to see Loss again, fix his face and form in his memory. He'd never really dared to look at Loss, afraid Loss would take it as an impertinence, as unbecoming to be stared at so greedily by a sow-orc, good for fucking, and little else. Vistak didn't deserve Loss, couldn't pretend he should have have such a master, any master, but that didn't stop him from wanting it. The wanting was just another new kind of hurt. He was used to hurt, whatever it was called, but this ... this was a very bad hurt, for all that it was new and didn't seem to correspond to any injury.

It is called heartache.

"Who ..."

Loss is Mine. The voice hurt his head, echoing, booming, like lines of blue fire.

"I'm sorry," Vistak said, looking around for the speaker. "I ... won't, I won't take him ..."

No? Not even if I offer him to you, Vistak? The orc writhed as the voice burned through him, but hearing his name doubled and redoubled the pain until Vistak thought his skull would explode from the fire inside it. But ... but ... "I want him," Vistak said. Pleaded.

Enough to bear My talking with you? Needles of fire lanced through him; making him think of being skinned again. But that pain had faded, and this fiery torment faded even faster, gone within a few seconds of the voice's retreat into silence.

"Yes," Vistak said. "He's alive?" A sudden sick feeling seized him; when Loss had vanished, and not returned, he'd assumed the other orc was dead.

He lives. Vistak welcomed the pain, if it came with that message. Loss lived! That was wonderful, and yet, and yet, and yet ...

"I want to see him."

Serve Me, Vistak. The orc shook his head, wincing as it exploded anew.

"No. I want to see him. Before I believe you."

Doubt? Through the haze of pain, Vistak sensed great surprise, and then, something like amusement. Very well. You shall see him. And no more.

"But you said I could have him ..."

Yes. I can give you this thing that you want, little orc, and I will, if you serve me. This time, it was worse, the words were red-hot nails, pounded into his skull.

"I have to see him, first, ..." Vistak said, his voice reduced to a mumble; just moving his jaws to form words hurt.

Even under this lash, you do not fear Me ... you have lost your fear, little orc. And I shall show you him. This time, the voice was a bonfire in his head, and then Vistak knew nothing more as he vanished into a midnight blue holocaust.

The sound of the others rising woke Vistak, his splitting headache a mere echo of the night's conversation, and he joined them groggily, getting ready for his work shift. He was slow, though, the food was hard to force down, and he was one of the last to report to Risel's chamber. There were crates to move, of course, this was the hub -- or at least one of the hubs -- of House Nokirt's mercantile empire, there was always something that had to be somewhere else. The dull pain in his head subsided, leaving only a memory of the strange conversation. Vistak wondered if it had really happened. Maybe it was a dream? He'd dreamed, strange dreams, with Loss, but ... this had seemed different. Well, and wouldn't a dream seem different? It was foolish, nothing but foolishness, and he was a fool.

His headache was gone entirely the next day, and a week later, he'd almost forgotten the dream entirely, when he walked into a warehouse -- and Loss was standing there, talking to a very attentive Risel. Vistak knew the figure was Loss, evening if the orc wasn't facing him, even if the orc was wearing a pale blue silk tunic and pants and slippers, even if his hair was clean, and tied back with a pale blue ribbon that matched the other finery. The orc didn't have to move, didn't have to face him. Just the stance, the shape, that alone and nothing more -- that was Loss. That motionless sense of movement; it could be no one else, nobody but Loss. His Loss, he whispered bravely to himself.

Loss was alive. Alive! The conversation came flooding back into his mind; Loss was alive!

And then Loss turned, and left. He was facing Vistak briefly -- very briefly -- as he turned, but it was Loss. With a silvery overseer's badge, with another design overlaying the dagger and stalactite of House Nokirt, a design of crossed sword and wand, studded into the badge in sapphires. Vistak glanced back at Risel, who had a bronze badge, with only the House Nokirt insignia, and Risel had the strangest look on his face, something between amazement and terror. Vistak prudently put down the crate he was carrying, and ran to fetch another.

It was not that night, but the next that he was woken. And so you have seen Loss, alive.

The transition from sleep to waking was almost instant. "Yes," Vistak said.

And?

"And what?"

Do you want him?

"Yes!"

Why? The word came with a dull ache.

Why? What kind of question was that? Why ... because, because ... "I ... don't know!"

Strangely, the voice just sounded disappointed. Not good enough. But you may try again, someday, and the voice was gone. It didn't stop Vistak from asking plaintively, "Who are you?"

But it did leave him with the question -- why did he want Loss? Did he really want Loss? He worried at the question for the rest of the sleepless night, and then during the day. Why was Loss so ... so ... he didn't even know what Loss was, really. All he knew was the pain that his absence caused. What had the voice called it? Heartache? That seemed strangely appropriate for the dull thudding misery that submerged him.

It was more than ten days and less than a month before the voice woke him again, with the same impossible question. Why do you want Loss?

"Because I want the pain to stop," Vistak said confident, of his answer.

Do you want to die?

"No!"

That would stop the pain, the voice observed quietly.

He did want the pain to stop, but ... the voice was right. He wanted more than just the pain to stop. He wanted ... he wanted ... Vistak wasn't sure, he knew what he wanted, he wanted Loss, he wanted Loss to hold him, control him, fuck him, he wanted to be Loss's orc, wanted to be ready to serve when Loss woke, there when Loss slept, to do everything he could to be noticed, wanted, anything to serve!

Was there a word for that? He couldn't think of one. He didn't think there was one. Only ... he'd seen Loss, the voice had given him that much, all he had to do was ... was ... what? What? What was the word, the thing the voice wanted, what was the answer? Was there an answer?

Why?

Why do you want Loss?

It was certainly a month, at least, maybe three, before the question came again, not in the middle of the night, but in the morning, just before the bells for waking. Why do you want Loss?

"I don't want to die, and without him, I don't want to live," Vistak said. There was a feeling of consideration, a deep emptiness that was nevertheless full with presence and then, a soft acceptance. That will do, little orc, as an answer. It shows that merely breathing, eating, shitting, sleeping, even fucking, is not enough for you. You want more. Your life is incomplete, there is no joy, no happiness, nothing, without the thing you crave.

"Yes," said Vistak, gratefully. That was it; that was what he had meant, even if ...

Even if you did not know you had meant it?

That was harder, and Vistak puzzled over it for a while, but he could feel the questioner waiting, patiently, for him. Why? It ...

Because it will take you some time to understand. I am not an especially patient God, but I do not ask the impossible from My petitioners. You will understand when you understand, and not until.

A God?

Yes.

A God was interested in ... him? In ... Vistak?

Obviously so.

But ... he was just, just, Vistak. Just an orc, just a ... why would a God be interested in him?

That is another thing you must come to understand, the God said. A God? He was ...

He didn't think he was dreaming. "But all I wanted was Loss..." whispered Vistak, stunned.

Yes. And no. Take your time, Vistak. But when you do understand, when you do come to know why you might interest Me, you will have taken a great step toward having ... what you have Lost. And the presence was gone.

There wasn't even a trace of the headache he'd had the first few times; but Vistak still didn't understand why, why a God would take any interest in him, why a God would help him, what ... what could he offer a God? Why would a God even think that Vistak would have something to offer? Would ... would he have to find something to offer him? He'd have to ... to ... to ... what? Vistak tried to imagine what he could do, what he could offer.

But he was just Vistak; an orc slave who moved boxes, crates, did whatever he was told. He couldn't imagine that a God would need an orc to move boxes. A God wouldn't need anyone to move boxes, even if a God had boxes, and ... and ... Vistak wasn't sure but he didn't thing a God would. What else did he have to give? And why ... what could he trade for Loss? Was the God just teasing him? Just ... showing him something he wanted more than anything, something that had sparked his want in the first place? But ... why would a God bother?

I don't understand, he thought every night, after he'd tried and tried and tried to figure out why a God would be interested in Vistak, would care enough to give Loss to Vistak -- although what Vistak wanted was closer to the reverse. Vistak just wanted to be back under Loss. He wanted to serve Loss, it was what he knew what to do, what he knew how to do. Serving a God ... he had no idea how to serve a God, he thought dully.

What makes you think I wish to be served?

Relief flooded Vistak, followed by fear. "I don't know what I can do for you," he said. "I'm sorry. There's ..."

Since that is not what I asked of you, it is not a problem. I asked why you might interest Me, Vistak, not what you can do for Me.

Vistak just nodded miserably. "I don't know. I'm ... just me. I'm sorry, I'm..."

There was a pause. Perhaps, the words formed slowly, I am expecting too much of you. Comparisons are invidious and yet I cannot help but compare you to Loss. And that is deeply unfair to fearless Vistak.

Loss? He was being compared to ... "I'm not like Loss," Vistak blurted out. "He's much better than I am!"

No, he is different. Not better. Not worse. Different than Vistak. But, sweet little orc, it is not enough to have longing. It is not even enough to know what that longing is ... you must know why you long. The hole is your heart draws me, and I am pleased -- deeply pleased -- that you have identified the piece that will make you whole, but ... to be mine, you must have the last thing. Where did that hole come from?

"I ..." Vistak stumbled and then was quiet. "I don't know. Can ... can I think about it?"

Yes, the voice said slowly. But do not put the matter off. Until ... you are mine, heart, body, and soul, you are ... not mine.

Not mine, Vistak thought all the next day. He wasn't sure what that meant, but it didn't sound good.

I don't know, Vistak thought that night.

And the next night.

The night after that, too.

The fourth night, Vistak was distracted by the whipping he'd received -- because he hadn't been paying attention to his job. I don't know, he wailed. Couldn't you at least give me a hint?

Now that you have asked for help, I can help.

But ...

You had to ask, the God said. Before I could offer. Reflect on this, Vistak. What was your life like before you encountered Loss?

Pretty much the same as it is now, I guess, Vistak thought, mystified.

But it was not unendurable. Your heart did not call to me then.

Of course not. I didn't know ... Vistak paused. Was it that simple? Because now I know what I'm missing? Is that it?

The answer flowered in his mind like a crystal explosion of blue that dazzled his eyes and senses for a long minute. Yes. Beloved. You are Mine. How was it possible to taste blue? To smell it? To touch it? To hear it, a cascade of chiming perfect tones that were, somehow, impossibly, blue.

That was all, thought Vistak, stunned. Just that?

Just?The voice was amused. There is no just to it, beloved. It is an epiphany, and the one that permits Me to take you. And it is not merely that you know what you are missing -- it is that it is your deepest desire. That, when you were with Loss, you felt real, and without him ...

I don't, Vistak said. Yes. And I want to be real, again.

It is rare -- practically unheard of -- that I can fulfill a heart's desire so easily. How wonderful, beloved Fearless Vistak. And ... there may be something you can do for after all, beloved. We may -- we might -- have an opportunity to tweak Boojum's nose.

Boojum? What ...

A rival God. A God of tiny hearts and shriveled wishes, of timorous caution and spiteful cruelty. But above all else, a God of fear. For all that I despise Boojum, Boojum remains dominant in this realm, and you have given Me the opportunity to present It with a truly gratuitous insult.

But ...

Do not fear, Fearless Vistak. Simply remain quiet for a few minutes. There is about to be some ... disruption. There is one thing I might need ... it is unlikely Boojum will step just where I would like, but if It do, then, will you serve me?

Of course! Vistak thought. But what do you mean by ...

This, the God said as the doors slammed open, letting a hard biting light into the room. Vistak tried to shield his eyes from the painful glare.

"Arrest all of them," came a clear, sweet and above all furious voice. "And ... Dear Queen! Look!" One of the elves, a lady with a fine dress of silver silk and glittering poison-green gems, pointed in horror at the chamber.

Vistak, with the other barracked ninety-nine orcs all looked around at the same time, to see the walls spangled with a strange geometric tracery of lines slanting and joining, stretched and the angles warped along the walls, ceiling and floor. And each line was a different shade of blue, from midnight-dark to a pale shimmering blue that hurt to look at, and every color in between. Outwardly, Vistak tried to mirror the surprise and confusion of the others, but he knew what had happened.

It was from moments ago, when the God had unfolded Himself within Vistak. He felt ... light, giddy, like he wanted to laugh, and the teeth-grinding fury of the elf was just that much funnier. What could even she do against a God?

Quite a bit. Don't underestimate her. I will need you to do what I say, when I say it.

How could he not? Vistak watched as the handful of guards looked around, and then turned back to their Mistress. "Great Lady, we lack the resources to ... arrest ... all of these slaves. Can we not simply seal them in?"

"No," the clear voice answered, holding a painful and -- to Vistak, hearing with the ears of the God within him -- magical compulsion. "We will not leave these ..."

"Leave who?" another clear elfin voice said, sounding mildly interested, and above all, astoundingly impossibly male. Vistak didn't think he'd ever seen a male elf.

"Herath ... what are you doing here?"

The elf shook his head. "I want to see this for myself."

"It's unsafe!"

"I have my bodyguard," the elf said casually, and Vistak realized he meant the figure in blue armor standing beside him. That was ... Loss! He's here! Vistak thought joyfully.

He is, the God answered. Get nearer to him. Walk over to him.If we are fortunate, he has something we will need.

What?

A shard of a broken mirror. A long, sword-shaped shard. It is in his scabbard, of course. Do not touch it until I tell you. He will not oppose your taking it.

Why?

Ah, Beloved, because, perhaps, today you and I will do something remarkable.You do remember how to use a sword, don't you?

Of course.

Good.

"And this is quite a rare phenomenon," the male elf continued. "Do you know what this is, Tangeline?"

"It's a threat."

"An opportunity," Herath said. "It's a drop of a God's blood. How it fell here ... I do not know."

"What?" asked Tangeline, her eyes narrowing. "What good is that?"

"It represents a God's power made manifest in our world. We can touch it, collect it, use it ..." started Herath.

"The God lost it?" said Tangeline suspiciously. "How could that happen?"

"A fight between Gods, perhaps. Or a gift gone awry. I don't know. You're the priestess. What does the Queen of the Night say?"

Be calm, Beloved.

"She says ..." Tangeline paused, and a shudder ran through the elf. "Finders, keepers!"

Take the sword now. Plunge it through her heart. Quickly. One move. Now!

Kill an elf? Vistak almost hesitated, and then, moved. The sword came out of Loss's scabbard in a smooth graceful way -- very smooth for such a mismade weapon. It had rough edges, no sword, Vistak realized, but a long splinter of jagged glass, the top wrapped over and over and over with metal wire and heavy leather to form a sort of hilt.

"What..." asked Tangeline, or the thing inhabiting her as the glass slid into her, piercing through her robes and skin as if they weren't there. And then there was a soundless wail of No!

Even as the thrust went home, Vistak was ... elsewhere. A flat, featureless plain of gray dust. A fist-size something pulsed with a quiet, faint blue light. Vistak's makeshift sword was impaling not Tangeline, but a something in an enormous cloak of heavy, black suffocating ... silk? Wool? Carpet? Vistak wasn't sure, and it didn't matter, as the cloak simply shredded apart into smaller and smaller frayed rags whipped by some unfelt wind. The rags kept fraying, threads coming apart and unspinning themselves into gray dust.

At the center, now exposed, was a tiny, twisted form, like a small child, staring in disbelief at the jagged splinter in its heart. It looked up at Vistak with -- not the anger the orc expected, not the rage and fury and hatred he had braced himself against, but a look of terror, and confused betrayal. Hurts, it whispered in a small, scared voice.

And then it bled gray dust, too, and all that was left was a dark black stain.

Goodbye, Boojum. That voice came from behind Vistak, and somehow, Vistak knew what he would find there. He turned, and saw ... Loss, if Loss had cobalt flesh, sapphire eyes, and azure hair.

"What ..."

I need one more thing, Beloved. You offered your heart to me once. Will you give it to me again?

Vistak turned, and looked at the pulsing blue thing. "That's my heart?"

In a sort of a way. I placed ... a great deal of myself into it. Well done, very well done, Beloved. But having given you that part of myself ... it is yours, Beloved. I strongly suggest you reclaim your heart, however, whether you intend to return it to me or not.

Vistak nodded, turned, and went over. "I can just pick it up?"

Here, yes. And place it in your chest. Or you can offer it to me, again. The figure lifted his hands.

Vistak grabbed the thing from the ground. It was warm, and he could feel it beat, and ... it was him, he realized. And ... he had offered himself to his God. But ... "What would happen if I kept it."

You would become powerful beyond your imaginings. You would not be a God, but you would be nearly as powerful, and fully capable of mortal deeds. I would be weakened, and unable to interfere with you. But, Beloved, you could never have your heart's desire.

"Loss ..."

Loss will have you.

Vistak swallowed. "But if you have my heart, how can I have a heart's desire?"

Beloved, I do not take hearts. I am offered them. Your heart is yours. But that does not mean you cannot offer it to another. It was your offering your heart to Loss that called me to you. Loss has your heart, does he not, even as it is still yours?

"Yes," whispered Vistak. He took the still-beating thing, and held it out to the blue image of Loss.

Thank you, Beloved,and the figure touched it. The soft glow faded, revealing nothing more than a still-beating heart.

And Vistak was back in the cavern, back among the orcs and standing in front of the female elf, Tangeline Nokirt, now collapsed on the floor -- but untouched. No spear of glass transfixed her, her clothes were not rent, she looked like she had just crumpled to the floor, a delicate flower cut and helpless. She was dead, Vistak realized with horror.

"What have I done?"

You slew a God, Beloved. That is a great and terrible thing.

"I think," Loss said after a moment, "that Vistak should come with us."