(no subject)
And more junk for you...
Remember when I said I wanted to write more about Kitz and Val? Well... The start of something here, methinks.
Warnings: The following fic contains master/slave themes. If this makes you uncomfortable, don't read it. Slash is also contained herein. Part one of god knows how many.
Fandom: Original.
Please Note: The following characters and situations belong to me, and I reserve the right to the work. Please do not copy or redistribute the text, or use the characters without prior permission. Thank you.
The sand and grit beneath the bike’s wheels crunched as the vehicle slowed to a halt. The wind, which had picked up in the past hour, was beginning to blow dust up into the air as the young man squinted out across the desert.
Licking dry lips, he paused in his surveillance, digging around in his jacket pocket for his flask. He winced at the heat the black leather had retained, but let out a small, triumphant noise as he withdrew the flask and unscrewed the top carefully. Raising it to his lips, he greedily drank the water, stopping only when he noticed the flask becoming suspiciously light. Resolving to make sure he remained more hydrated in future, he sighed, and shoved the bottle back into his pocket.
Adjusting his sunglasses, he ran a hand through his long hair, frowning as he noticed the rapid descent of the sun. Giving a mental shrug, the man gunned the accelerator on the motorcycle and released the clutch. The wheels skidded for a moment, before finding their grip and the bike turned in a graceful curve back towards the road, which was barely visible in the shimmering heat.
As his black hair streamed out behind him, Valentine bent lower over the bike, a thrill of adrenaline rushing through him, as it always did when he was going so fast. Forgetting, for the moment, that he shouldn’t be calling attention to himself when he was this close to Moonstone (guaranteed someone would cut his throat for the motorcycle if they realised what a good machine it was), he let out a small whoop of pleasure.
The noise died in his throat, however, as a black shape began to loom out of the heat haze. A large mass seemed to be crouched, menacingly, in the middle of the road, blocking any access to the roughly built town beyond.
“Shit.” Valentine slowed the bike again, until it was all but crawling along the road, and narrowed his eyes, trying to make out what the obstruction was. As he watched, there was a sudden flash - a glint of sunlight off metal - and a trail of dust began to detach itself from the main body. Cursing under his breath, Valentine stared hard, unsure whether the approaching vehicle was friendly - or as friendly as something could be in the middle of the Aria - or if it was a Trader vehicle.
The crack of a gun convinced him, and he flinched instinctively as a bullet landed with a thwack in the sand not five feet from his left foot. Hissing under his breath, he revved the bike’s engine and shot off in the opposite direction, praying that the Traders would lose interest when they discovered he was riding a machine that was probably faster than theirs.
The desert flew by in a rush of sand and stinging wind, and Valentine was sharply aware of the huge expanse of sky over his head, and the fact that out here there was no cover - nowhere to hide. Chancing a look over one shoulder, he scowled as he realised that his would-be captives were gaining on him. Turing around again, he fixed his eyes on the horizon, stomach filling with dread as he realised he was driving away from Moonstone.
There was no hope; nowhere to hide; nowhere to run to.
His lips thinned, and Valentine urged his bike still faster, almost flat against the body of the vehicle now. He didn’t dare risk another glance over his shoulder, but he could hear, even above the howling wind and the scream of the engine, the sound of pursuit. It was getting closer.
'How many times was I told as a child not to go out this close to dark?' he wondered, feeling cold dread begin to creep over him. Always keep to the towns at night. Never make yourself clearly visible, or the Traders will spot you, and take you away.
He’s seen the effect the Traders had had on other people in Moonstone. They snatched men and women away without thought, taking them to the City, where they were sold into slavery. Only the rich could afford the captives, but the Trading business never went bust. People were willing to pay good money for an outcast, particularly when they had unusual colouring or manners. Valentine’s fingers clenched unintentionally on the handles of the bike as he recalled the day one of the children had been taken.
The roar of the engines behind him getting were louder now, and he ducked instinctively as another bullet zipped past his ear. Swerving, he tried to keep weaving so that they wouldn’t get another clear shot at him, but it was no use. The crack of a gun was the only warning he had, before something small and hard hit him in the back of the neck. Grunting in pain, Valentine tried to keep the bike moving, but to his utter horror he could feel his fingers loosening their grip.
Dazedly, he noticed the bike was slowing down, and his legs gave way just as the vehicle rolled to a halt. He slid ungracefully off, landing in a heap on the sand, and had just enough strength left to roll sideways as the bike toppled over, narrowly missing him.
'Bastards, using a paralysing gun…'
The crunch of tyres indicated the Traders had caught up with him, and the sound of someone jumping out of the back of the jeep made him close his eyes in desperation. As the booted footsteps came nearer, Valentine tried to will himself to move, but couldn’t. Distantly, he felt hands hauling him up by the lapels of his leather jacket, and heard a murmur of disgust as the Trader discovered he was wearing sunglasses. With his head lolling back, Valentine couldn’t see his assailant, but he could feel the man assessing him with his eyes.
“Take the glasses off.” A voice sounded to Valentine’s left, and he weakly tried to look in that direction. The world was slowly going distant and far away, but he tried to remain focussed, fighting the effects of the drug. He felt his sunglasses being slipped off, and heard the shocked murmurs of the Traders, as they gathered closer, staring at him.
“Strange eyes…” one muttered, bending over Valentine, who glared weakly at him, trying to maintain some dignity.
“What the hell do you make of that then?” another demanded, his voice slightly angry. “He’s useless with eyes like that.”
“Hardly, look at them. Like a cat’s. Someone would pay a fortune for those eyes alone.” Careful hands turned Valentine’s face until he was staring up at another Trader, who raised an eyebrow. “See? Slitted pupils, but the colour…” he whistled expressively. “You know people love oddities.”
'How dare they?' a voice murmured at the back of Valentine’s mind. 'How dare they talk about me as if I’m not here, or as if I’m inanimate?'
“Alright,” someone said dubiously. “If you think he’s worth something…”
“He is,” snapped the Trader who had commented on the price Valentine would fetch for his eyes alone. “Now load him into the truck, will you?”
*
Kiki sat in the small wooden house, staring at the patterns the grit and dust made on the floor. Outside, the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the sounds of Moonstone’s night time activities had begun to filter through. The abject poverty of the house was highlighted by the few meagre things that someone had placed around the room, in an attempt to brighten the otherwise dire living conditions.
The sound of footsteps, then the creak of a door made Kiki look up, her brown eyes worried.
“Still no sign of him?”
Gem shook his head, shrugging off his battered coat. “Nothing, I even asked around - something that cost me a pretty penny.” He grimaced, his young face lean with hard living and hunger. “No one’s seen Val since this morning.”
“Do you think he’s been mugged?” A stupid question, Kiki knew, but she was still adapting to life in Moonstone.
“If he’d been mugged, he’d be home by now,” Gem pointed out, crossing the room to sit next to her. “Being mugged is just one of those things. Happens to everyone, so you just shrug and move on with life.” He took Kiki’s hand, rubbing it between his in a vain attempt to warm it. “He’s either still out mucking around on that damn bike of his, or…” Gem trailed off, looking grim. The shadows played under his eyes, sinking his cheeks and making him look much more sinister - like the murderer he was.
“Traders,” Kiki stated flatly, looking away.
“Yeah.” Gem squeezed his girlfriend’s hand, then let go. “Always thought they’d catch him eventually. He’s too bloody reckless!” Unable to sit still, he jumped to his feet and began pacing the small room.
“But what about his scars? Surely they’d realise something like that would make him worthless?”
Gem stared at her in disbelief. “Keek, no one’s going to care about a few scars. Think about it. Val’s unusual enough without his eyes - he’s surprisingly good looking for someone who’s been stuck out here. Those scars will just add to the attraction - people will think he’s been in a desperate fight of some sort. It adds romance to the idea of buying a slave. No, mark my words: if the Traders have got him, they’re going to be selling him for a very high price.”
“Then what do we do?” Kiki wailed, her fingers bunching the dull material of her trousers. “We can’t just leave him to be sold to the highest bidder?”
“Oh? Then what would you have me do? Go to the City where there’s a price on my head, just to rescue bloody Valentine, who ignores the bloody warnings and gets himself bloody caught?” Gem’s voice had risen, drowning out the noise from outside. He rounded on Kiki, who, to the surprise of the both of them, leapt to her feet, snarling.
“YES, if that’s what it takes! And I’ll come with you if you’re so scared of a couple of Hoplite Guards!”
“You can’t,” Gem said, staring at her in disbelief. “They’d string you up from the City walls.” He paused then sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “God, listen to us. We’re arguing. We don’t even know for sure if he’s been caught by Traders and we’re arguing.” He laughed, hollowly, and Kiki felt the anger drain out of her as she stared at him. Crossing the room, she pulled him into a hug, burying her face in his neck.
“So what do we do?” Her voice was muffled.
Gem sighed as he rested his chin on top of the thief’s head. “We have to wait.”
“But if we wait, we might never find him again.”
“I know, Keek. But that’s what we have to do.”
*
Kitz stared dispassionately at the body of the Guard. Behind him, his twin brother Khan retched violently, turning away from the gruesome sight of a man with no head, and only one remaining limb.
“Get it out of here.” Jerking his head at the two Hoplites standing to one side, Kitz spun on his heel, glaring at his brother. “I don’t know why you’re reacting like that,” he snapped. “That…thing would have betrayed us.” He snarled indignantly as Khan simply stared at him, green eyes wide in his pale face.
“Couldn’t you have shown mercy?”
Kitz smiled, cruelly. Turning away from his brother, he strode out onto the balcony, inhaling the fresh, cool air of early morning. Hundreds of feet below him, the citizens of the city were beginning to wake up, and he could hear the quiet hum of life. Absently brushing a lock of scarlet hair back from his face, he waited for the inevitable footfalls as Khan came to stand behind him.
“Mercy is only a useful measure when you’re going to profit from the spared victim,” he commented, tossing his head back and lifting his face to the breeze. “That guard was utterly against us. He wanted to die - a martyr for his cause. You could see it in his eyes.” He stared absently out, towards the desert. Behind him, Khan shifted uncomfortably, hating the way his morning had turned out, and disliking this cold shell of a human that was his brother.
“But…surely…”
“Surely?” Kitz mimicked, refusing to turn around, but raising one eyebrow.
“We could have shown mercy - got information from him?”
“No.” Kitz’s eyes were hard emeralds, his hair a banner of scarlet in the light of the early morning sun. “We are the Ovates; betrayal must be paid back in full.” He smiled, coldly, finally turning to look at his brother, who flinched under the steady gaze. “Any betrayal or attempt to overthrow us must be dealt with swiftly and efficiently.” Absently, he rubbed the ring on his middle finger.
Khan stared at the ring for a moment, before his attention was dragged back to the present by the feel of a mental call vibrating through the network that had been carefully set up. He frowned, aware that Kitz was still watching him with a cold, calculating expression. “I think Father’s just woken up,” he commented needlessly.
“I know. No doubt he wants his favourite son by his side.”
“He’d want you there, too, if you were just more agreeable,” Khan said, softly.
“Unlike some people, I actually have work to do. Besides which, we both know Father loathes me, and it’s only through necessity that he even keeps me in the palace.” Again, Kitz absently rubbed the ring, his long fingers brushing lightly over the small sapphire in the middle. “But of course, what would psychic powers and prophecy matter if I was made to live elsewhere?” He laughed and turned away, leaning against the marble railing of the balcony. “A mad seer is a useless one.”
“Father keeps you because you’re more powerful than all of us,” Khan said softly, “and because he values you.”
“He values my strengths, you mean. He certainly doesn’t value me as a person.” Kitz shrugged and dug in his pocket. Pulling out a cigarette, he lit it and inhaled, gaze still fixed on the city spread below him. “Well, he’ll be dead soon, and then it’ll be my turn to rule.”
“That’s callous,” Khan said quietly, stepping up beside his brother.
“Yes.” There was no remorse in Kitz’s voice. “And if he were in my position, he’d say the same.” His sharp green eyes flickered sideways to glance at Khan and he smiled, slyly. “You’re just too nice, little brother. It’s certainly not something you get from your Ovate blood. It must be what comes of not knowing the darkest thoughts in a man’s mind.” He laughed, cruelly, and Khan flinched. “You’d best go. Our most esteemed father is no doubt waiting for his beloved son to join him.” Kitz turned his attention back to the view.
Khan bowed and retreated. Turning on his heel, he wondered exactly how it was that the age gap of roughly two minutes could separate them, turning a matter of seconds into an insurmountable obstacle. ‘If,’ he wondered as he pushed open the doors of Kitz’s chambers and stepped out into the light of the corridor, ‘I had been born first. I wonder what I would have been like?’
He could come up with no reply to this troubling question, so instead he hurried off towards his father’s suite, the gentle call at the back of his mind a constant companion every step of the way.
*
Despite desperate attempts not to be, Valentine found himself impressed.
The sheer richness of the room made him feel like a small boy - intimidated but fascinated. He stared around with wide eyes, completely forgetting that he was not supposed to be calling attention to himself. The vast floor space was bare, but the stones were painted a rich cream. A similar colour adorned the walls, which were decorated with light, delicate silk hangings. Thin pieces of embroidered gauze covered doorways that led off into the rest of the palace, and a small pool resided at the centre of the room, its fountain playing quietly.
The court was collected just beyond the fountain, and flashes of brightly coloured clothing could be seen as the aristocrats moved in a strange, cultured dance, hiding behind fans and talking in low, deliberate voices. Valentine was struck by how much each movement seemed to tell - how carefully prepared each flick of the eyes or brush of a hand seemed to be. Here were men and women who never did anything without purpose. As he watched, warily, some of them suddenly appeared to notice the small group huddled at the far end of the room. There was a shift and some general muttering, before several women descended upon them.
“Alistor, my love. You’ve been away for so long.” One woman, her hair piled high on her head, pouted at the Trader who was standing next to Val.
“You must forgive me, my Lady,” Alistor swept a polite bow, clearly intent on impressing. “I have been out risking my life to bring you rare goods.”
‘Rare goods,’ Valentine thought sourly. ‘The slave trade classifies itself under the acquiring and selling of “rare goods”. Hah.’ He pursed his lips and dropped his gaze as more courtiers began to crowd around, their bright, airy clothing beginning to give him a headache.
“What exactly is so rare?” Another female voice, this one much sharper, and Valentine found himself looking up, trying to see who had spoken in such a bored, cultured voice.
“Lady Calliope,” the Trader’s voice was full of respect and…Valentine tilted his head just slightly…a little fear. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we have all seen slaves before. There is hardly anything special about them.” The lady waved her hand. Her skin was the colour of coffee, her eyes an exceptional black that reflected the light and revealed nothing. They were cold, calculated, and Val shivered. She looked barely older than him, but her mind was filled with the cruelty that came of surviving court machinations. The pale pink material of her dress was so sheer as to be almost see-through, but even this style seemed to be more of a calculated style than because of a genuine desire to spark interest.
“You haven’t seen a slave like this one,” Alistor was promising her, tapping Valentine’s shoulder lightly with a finger. “The rest of them,” he jerked his head towards the other captured men and women, “are well enough. But this…” he trailed off and shrugged expressively.
“Let’s see him properly, then,” Calliope snapped, folding her arms. By now most of the court had gathered around, and out of the corner of his eye, Valentine noticed that the Dirah, the king, had also joined them. Next to him was a slim young man with fiery red hair and a quiet, concerned expression.
Rough fingers gripped his chin, forcing his head up properly and brushing his hair out of his eyes. Valentine tensed, hearing the astonished mutters of the court. Hands cupped his face as Alistor smirked triumphantly, and his lips were pulled apart, as though he was simply an animal on show at a cattle market.
“Look at his teeth, as well,” the Trader promised as the court jostled for a closer look. “Pointed, all of them. We didn’t notice this until we got him back to the Centre. Of course,” he added pointedly, “this makes him more valuable.” There were a few murmurs, and people, Valentine noticed, were beginning to eye one another, assessing potential rivals. For him, he realised, nausea welling up inside of him. Blocking out the talk, he concentrated on the rage he could feel simmering at the back of his mind.
‘Let them buy me,’ he thought savagely. ‘Let them try and make me into a pampered pet. I’ll kill them.’
“Fifty drachmas for him,” Calliope said, coolly.
Alistor shook his head. “With regret, my Lady, I must inform you he is worth far more than that.”
“Two hundred,” another lady offered, her blonde hair carefully curled and tumbling over her silk-clad shoulders.
“Two hundred and fifty,” a young man added, smirking at the blonde, who scowled.
Valentine seethed, his fury welling up to almost unbearable levels. Struggling, he dropped his gaze to the floor, hands clenched into fists as the shackles around his ankles clinked, and the aristocrats continued to bid. As much as he tried to block out the sound, their voices continued to drill into his head; the high, screeching tones of the women, the low, arrogant voices of the men. After a while, as the bids became higher, the words began to blur, until all Valentine could hear was the variation in sound.
“A talent.”
“One talent, five hundred drachmas.”
A squabble broke out amongst several of the women.
“Two talents!”
“Three!”
“Good grief, and here I thought this ridiculous farce of a court could stoop no lower.”
It took a moment for Valentine to realise that the voice was not bidding for him. Indeed, what made him pay attention, more than anything, was the acidic tone and disgust, which was evident. Understanding what the voice was feeling, he glanced up, intent on finding the speaker.
The crowd had parted, several courtiers falling back to give way to the young man who stood in their midst. At first, Valentine thought it was the sympathetic young man from earlier, who had stood beside the Dirah. This one, however, was dressed in black, from head to foot, apparently oblivious to the heat, and his flaming red hair was longer, falling over his shoulders in thick waves, the tips of which were curling slightly. His expression, too, was different - green eyes cold, his generous mouth twisted in disgust. As Val watched, he stepped closer, his boots ringing across the stone floor.
“This is what all the fuss is about?” Malevolent eyes raked over Valentine’s form, taking in the scruffy clothes, which hadn’t been changed in nearly three weeks, and the sullen, mutinous expression.
“Khalidiya, this man is unique!” Alistor’s voice rang with indignation.
Khalidiya - crown prince. Valentine snarled, aware that this was the man who had, without even meeting them, sentenced Kiki and Gem to a life of harsh exile amongst the desert sands. His opinion of the man had just dropped considerably. He lived in a rich palace, pampered and spoilt. He knew nothing of life in the real world, where people starved every day, and he had passed judgement on those who did what they had to in order to survive.
“Well, he at least has spirit.” The sharp green gaze had clearly not missed Valentine’s snarl, and the red haired man’s lips twisted in something bordering on a cruel smile. “Even so, despite the fact he has somewhat unusual eyes, I must confess I hardly see what all the fuss is about. Your goods are becoming of poor quality, Alistor.”
“Kitz…” The Dirah had spoken at least, his expression full of warning. “Do not insult our guest. He has provided many of us here with high quality goods.” There was a murmur of agreement from some of the court, and the crown prince raised an eyebrow. “Besides which, this slave does appear to have certain…qualities which are desirable and highly valued. And he is from Moonstone, is he not?” The Dirah turned to shoot Alistor a questioning gaze.
The Trader nodded and shoved Valentine forwards a couple of steps. Caught off his guard, Valentine staggered, saved only by his lightning quick reflexes. Unthinking, he reacted to the shove as he would have under normal circumstances, and spun around, the shackles impeding his movements only slightly. Before he could stop himself, his hand had swung out, hitting Alistor across the face, snapping his head back with the blow. The forced imprisonment had deteriorated none of Valentine’s strength, as the Trading policy was to keep slaves in the best of health - they were more valuable that way.
There was a stunned silence broken only by the faint echo of the slap, which resounded softly around the large room. Alistor, however, recovered quickly and, despite his already bruising cheek, he lashed out at Valentine with the toe of his boot, hitting him squarely in the shins with such precision that the young man crumpled to the floor with a pained grunt.
“Forgive me, Dirah. He is still not used to subservience.” Alistor’s voice was only slightly winded as he nursed his cheek. Valentine spat on the floor by his foot. Around him, the courtiers drew back, suddenly afraid of this strange, feral half human who defied their laws and customs. From where he was still sprawled on the floor, Val felt a savage flash of triumph as he watched several women who had bid for him retreat behind their male counterparts.
‘Good,’ he thought savagely, not bothering to shake his dark hair out of his eyes. ‘Let them see me now. Let them realise I’m not a pet.’ He bared his teeth in vicious grin, revealing his white, somewhat pointed, teeth.
The sound of footsteps made him turn his attention back to the little group by the Dirah, and his eyes narrowed as the crown prince - Kitz, was it? - shoved his way through the crowd that had closed around him. Someone gasped as the Khalidiya pushed through to the front of the circle of courtiers and paused a few steps away from Valentine, who stared up at him, eyes filled with hatred.
//I can feel it, you know.// The voice in Valentine’s head made him shudder, his hand flying up to touch his temple. //Your anger is quite astonishing. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who was filled with so much rage.// There was a soft chuckle, and Val stared, shocked, as Kitz crouched down next to him. Ignoring the warning from Alistor to be careful, the prince reached out, touching Valentine’s hair, pushing it back from his eyes.
//You hate them. That’s good.// Green eyes glittered maliciously. //You hate me, as well, of course.// The shock on Valentine’s face could not be concealed, but somehow he doubted that was what prompted Kitz’s smile. //Surprised, slave? Clearly you have never encountered an Ovate before. I can read minds, you know. I see what you’re thinking; I know exactly what you’re feeling.// Strong, slender fingers were still combing through his black shoulder length hair, and Valentine suppressed a shudder as superstitious fear ran through him.
//How else do you think we continue to rule?// Green eyes flared with some strange emotion, and Kitz’s lips curved triumphantly. //Now you fear me, a little. But not very much. You are brave to the point of foolishness.// Valentine swallowed, unable to look away from that strange, hypnotic gaze. He felt dizzy, angry, full of hatred but unable to act, as Kitz continued to stare at him, still absently touching his hair.
‘I hate you.’ The viciousness of his own, inner voice made Valentine feel better, until Kitz’s lips parted in a silent laugh.
//I know you do. And that is what makes this so interesting. No one else is allowed to hate me.//
‘You’re nothing but an arrogant, spoilt prince, who thinks he can control those beneath him.’ Valentine felt a flash of triumph as Kitz’s eyes narrowed slightly, the smile falling from his face. ‘You’re pathetic. You can’t control your courtiers, and you couldn’t control me.’ As soon as he’d finished, he knew he’d made a mistake as the expression on the crown prince’s face changed to one of genuine amusement. Distantly, Valentine could hear the Dirah commanding Kitz to move back from the slave, but the red haired man paid no attention to his father, reaching out instead to trace Valentine’s lips with one quick, clever finger.
//I think I’ll enjoy proving you wrong. Pet.// Standing up abruptly, Kitz nodded at Alistor. “I’ll give you fifty talents for him,” he snapped, ignoring the sounds of indignation from the rest of the court, who had been robbed of their prize by a man who had claimed disinterest. He smiled at Alistor’s wide eyes and nodded down at Valentine, who was staring up at him with hate filled eyes. “Hand him over to my personal staff and ask them to make sure he is dressed…appropriately.” The last was said with a glance of disdain at the scuffed leather jacket. “Collar him,” Kitz added, and smirked as Valentine was hauled to his feet, struggling and spitting as he tried to fight against the implacable hands that pulled him away.
“And leave him in my rooms,” he added.
*
Valentine sat bound to a chair, his expression icily furious.
He had been hauled by the Traders to these rooms, where a horde of servants had descended on him. They’d washed him then rubbed him dry before smoothing oils and spices onto his skin. They’d brushed his hair until it gleamed, before dressing him in light, cool bright blue silks that matched his eyes. Sandals had been bound to his feet and Valentine hadn’t resisted, grateful for the change of clothes in spite of everything. When one of the servants had advanced with kohl, however, Valentine had rebelled.
The man was still bleeding from a scratch on his face.
As the daylight faded, the lights that were secreted around the room flicked on. A cool breeze blew through the chamber from the balcony, which was cut off only by a light gauze curtain - scant protection against the night air. Open archways connected the prince’s chambers and beyond one, Valentine could see a large room almost like a courtyard, the roof of which opened out onto the sky. Graceful pillars were set around the room, and the whole effect was completed by the natural colour of the stone, which was sandy.
Footsteps dragged Valentine’s attention back to his predicament, and he turned his head just in time to see Kitz slip through one of the arches, his expression furious. The servants, who clearly knew how to react to his moods, vanished abruptly into the room beyond. Val wished he could do the same, but his rebellion had neatly put an end to any freedom of movement he might have otherwise been given.
“I see they’ve managed to clean you up.” Kitz’s voice was cold as he stalked across the room, a malevolent figure of fire and darkness. Pouring himself a drink, he turned to regard Valentine, who raised his chin defiantly. “A good job too. You were filthy.” One red eyebrow rose in disdain as the crown prince assessed his latest piece of property. “They haven’t collared you yet, though.” He shrugged. “No matter, I’ll do it myself.”
Setting his glass to one side, Kitz crossed into another room, returning moments later. In his hands was cradled something small, black and circular. As he moved closer, Valentine realised it was a black leather collar, complete with a small brass insignia attached to the front, marking it - and him - as the property of the Khalidiya. Before he could even struggle or protest, Kitz had darted across the room and closed the leather tight around his throat. There was an audible click as the buckle was sealed.
“There,” the prince announced, eyes gleaming in the half-light. He turned, already stripping off his black shirt. “I’m going to bed.” He glanced over one shoulder at Valentine, who was watching him, hatred in his eyes. “I’m leaving you like this tonight. Perhaps in the morning you’ll be a little more agreeable.” He laughed, tossing the shirt to one side. “And I wouldn’t try anything suspicious. That collar’s linked directly to me.” Green eyes flickered slyly towards Valentine. “And it has the most wonderful psychic device.”
There was no warning; merely a sudden rush at the back of Valentine’s mind, before intense, agonising pain swept through his body. He screamed, back arching as he struggled against his bonds, desperately fighting the sensation of red-hot knives sliding along his back and under his skin. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped, leaving him shuddering, weak and helpless. His hands convulsed of their own accord as he panted, still twitching from the aftershocks.
//There.// Kitz’s mind voice was full of satisfaction. //The device in the collar convinces you you’re feeling pain. Quite remarkable, really.// He laughed. //And don’t try to remove it either, because I’ll know.// He bowed mockingly to Valentine, who blinked, dazedly, having just enough coherency left to project a wave of hatred towards Kitz.
//Sleep well, half breed.//
Part Two
Remember when I said I wanted to write more about Kitz and Val? Well... The start of something here, methinks.
Warnings: The following fic contains master/slave themes. If this makes you uncomfortable, don't read it. Slash is also contained herein. Part one of god knows how many.
Fandom: Original.
Please Note: The following characters and situations belong to me, and I reserve the right to the work. Please do not copy or redistribute the text, or use the characters without prior permission. Thank you.
The sand and grit beneath the bike’s wheels crunched as the vehicle slowed to a halt. The wind, which had picked up in the past hour, was beginning to blow dust up into the air as the young man squinted out across the desert.
Licking dry lips, he paused in his surveillance, digging around in his jacket pocket for his flask. He winced at the heat the black leather had retained, but let out a small, triumphant noise as he withdrew the flask and unscrewed the top carefully. Raising it to his lips, he greedily drank the water, stopping only when he noticed the flask becoming suspiciously light. Resolving to make sure he remained more hydrated in future, he sighed, and shoved the bottle back into his pocket.
Adjusting his sunglasses, he ran a hand through his long hair, frowning as he noticed the rapid descent of the sun. Giving a mental shrug, the man gunned the accelerator on the motorcycle and released the clutch. The wheels skidded for a moment, before finding their grip and the bike turned in a graceful curve back towards the road, which was barely visible in the shimmering heat.
As his black hair streamed out behind him, Valentine bent lower over the bike, a thrill of adrenaline rushing through him, as it always did when he was going so fast. Forgetting, for the moment, that he shouldn’t be calling attention to himself when he was this close to Moonstone (guaranteed someone would cut his throat for the motorcycle if they realised what a good machine it was), he let out a small whoop of pleasure.
The noise died in his throat, however, as a black shape began to loom out of the heat haze. A large mass seemed to be crouched, menacingly, in the middle of the road, blocking any access to the roughly built town beyond.
“Shit.” Valentine slowed the bike again, until it was all but crawling along the road, and narrowed his eyes, trying to make out what the obstruction was. As he watched, there was a sudden flash - a glint of sunlight off metal - and a trail of dust began to detach itself from the main body. Cursing under his breath, Valentine stared hard, unsure whether the approaching vehicle was friendly - or as friendly as something could be in the middle of the Aria - or if it was a Trader vehicle.
The crack of a gun convinced him, and he flinched instinctively as a bullet landed with a thwack in the sand not five feet from his left foot. Hissing under his breath, he revved the bike’s engine and shot off in the opposite direction, praying that the Traders would lose interest when they discovered he was riding a machine that was probably faster than theirs.
The desert flew by in a rush of sand and stinging wind, and Valentine was sharply aware of the huge expanse of sky over his head, and the fact that out here there was no cover - nowhere to hide. Chancing a look over one shoulder, he scowled as he realised that his would-be captives were gaining on him. Turing around again, he fixed his eyes on the horizon, stomach filling with dread as he realised he was driving away from Moonstone.
There was no hope; nowhere to hide; nowhere to run to.
His lips thinned, and Valentine urged his bike still faster, almost flat against the body of the vehicle now. He didn’t dare risk another glance over his shoulder, but he could hear, even above the howling wind and the scream of the engine, the sound of pursuit. It was getting closer.
'How many times was I told as a child not to go out this close to dark?' he wondered, feeling cold dread begin to creep over him. Always keep to the towns at night. Never make yourself clearly visible, or the Traders will spot you, and take you away.
He’s seen the effect the Traders had had on other people in Moonstone. They snatched men and women away without thought, taking them to the City, where they were sold into slavery. Only the rich could afford the captives, but the Trading business never went bust. People were willing to pay good money for an outcast, particularly when they had unusual colouring or manners. Valentine’s fingers clenched unintentionally on the handles of the bike as he recalled the day one of the children had been taken.
The roar of the engines behind him getting were louder now, and he ducked instinctively as another bullet zipped past his ear. Swerving, he tried to keep weaving so that they wouldn’t get another clear shot at him, but it was no use. The crack of a gun was the only warning he had, before something small and hard hit him in the back of the neck. Grunting in pain, Valentine tried to keep the bike moving, but to his utter horror he could feel his fingers loosening their grip.
Dazedly, he noticed the bike was slowing down, and his legs gave way just as the vehicle rolled to a halt. He slid ungracefully off, landing in a heap on the sand, and had just enough strength left to roll sideways as the bike toppled over, narrowly missing him.
'Bastards, using a paralysing gun…'
The crunch of tyres indicated the Traders had caught up with him, and the sound of someone jumping out of the back of the jeep made him close his eyes in desperation. As the booted footsteps came nearer, Valentine tried to will himself to move, but couldn’t. Distantly, he felt hands hauling him up by the lapels of his leather jacket, and heard a murmur of disgust as the Trader discovered he was wearing sunglasses. With his head lolling back, Valentine couldn’t see his assailant, but he could feel the man assessing him with his eyes.
“Take the glasses off.” A voice sounded to Valentine’s left, and he weakly tried to look in that direction. The world was slowly going distant and far away, but he tried to remain focussed, fighting the effects of the drug. He felt his sunglasses being slipped off, and heard the shocked murmurs of the Traders, as they gathered closer, staring at him.
“Strange eyes…” one muttered, bending over Valentine, who glared weakly at him, trying to maintain some dignity.
“What the hell do you make of that then?” another demanded, his voice slightly angry. “He’s useless with eyes like that.”
“Hardly, look at them. Like a cat’s. Someone would pay a fortune for those eyes alone.” Careful hands turned Valentine’s face until he was staring up at another Trader, who raised an eyebrow. “See? Slitted pupils, but the colour…” he whistled expressively. “You know people love oddities.”
'How dare they?' a voice murmured at the back of Valentine’s mind. 'How dare they talk about me as if I’m not here, or as if I’m inanimate?'
“Alright,” someone said dubiously. “If you think he’s worth something…”
“He is,” snapped the Trader who had commented on the price Valentine would fetch for his eyes alone. “Now load him into the truck, will you?”
*
Kiki sat in the small wooden house, staring at the patterns the grit and dust made on the floor. Outside, the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the sounds of Moonstone’s night time activities had begun to filter through. The abject poverty of the house was highlighted by the few meagre things that someone had placed around the room, in an attempt to brighten the otherwise dire living conditions.
The sound of footsteps, then the creak of a door made Kiki look up, her brown eyes worried.
“Still no sign of him?”
Gem shook his head, shrugging off his battered coat. “Nothing, I even asked around - something that cost me a pretty penny.” He grimaced, his young face lean with hard living and hunger. “No one’s seen Val since this morning.”
“Do you think he’s been mugged?” A stupid question, Kiki knew, but she was still adapting to life in Moonstone.
“If he’d been mugged, he’d be home by now,” Gem pointed out, crossing the room to sit next to her. “Being mugged is just one of those things. Happens to everyone, so you just shrug and move on with life.” He took Kiki’s hand, rubbing it between his in a vain attempt to warm it. “He’s either still out mucking around on that damn bike of his, or…” Gem trailed off, looking grim. The shadows played under his eyes, sinking his cheeks and making him look much more sinister - like the murderer he was.
“Traders,” Kiki stated flatly, looking away.
“Yeah.” Gem squeezed his girlfriend’s hand, then let go. “Always thought they’d catch him eventually. He’s too bloody reckless!” Unable to sit still, he jumped to his feet and began pacing the small room.
“But what about his scars? Surely they’d realise something like that would make him worthless?”
Gem stared at her in disbelief. “Keek, no one’s going to care about a few scars. Think about it. Val’s unusual enough without his eyes - he’s surprisingly good looking for someone who’s been stuck out here. Those scars will just add to the attraction - people will think he’s been in a desperate fight of some sort. It adds romance to the idea of buying a slave. No, mark my words: if the Traders have got him, they’re going to be selling him for a very high price.”
“Then what do we do?” Kiki wailed, her fingers bunching the dull material of her trousers. “We can’t just leave him to be sold to the highest bidder?”
“Oh? Then what would you have me do? Go to the City where there’s a price on my head, just to rescue bloody Valentine, who ignores the bloody warnings and gets himself bloody caught?” Gem’s voice had risen, drowning out the noise from outside. He rounded on Kiki, who, to the surprise of the both of them, leapt to her feet, snarling.
“YES, if that’s what it takes! And I’ll come with you if you’re so scared of a couple of Hoplite Guards!”
“You can’t,” Gem said, staring at her in disbelief. “They’d string you up from the City walls.” He paused then sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “God, listen to us. We’re arguing. We don’t even know for sure if he’s been caught by Traders and we’re arguing.” He laughed, hollowly, and Kiki felt the anger drain out of her as she stared at him. Crossing the room, she pulled him into a hug, burying her face in his neck.
“So what do we do?” Her voice was muffled.
Gem sighed as he rested his chin on top of the thief’s head. “We have to wait.”
“But if we wait, we might never find him again.”
“I know, Keek. But that’s what we have to do.”
*
Kitz stared dispassionately at the body of the Guard. Behind him, his twin brother Khan retched violently, turning away from the gruesome sight of a man with no head, and only one remaining limb.
“Get it out of here.” Jerking his head at the two Hoplites standing to one side, Kitz spun on his heel, glaring at his brother. “I don’t know why you’re reacting like that,” he snapped. “That…thing would have betrayed us.” He snarled indignantly as Khan simply stared at him, green eyes wide in his pale face.
“Couldn’t you have shown mercy?”
Kitz smiled, cruelly. Turning away from his brother, he strode out onto the balcony, inhaling the fresh, cool air of early morning. Hundreds of feet below him, the citizens of the city were beginning to wake up, and he could hear the quiet hum of life. Absently brushing a lock of scarlet hair back from his face, he waited for the inevitable footfalls as Khan came to stand behind him.
“Mercy is only a useful measure when you’re going to profit from the spared victim,” he commented, tossing his head back and lifting his face to the breeze. “That guard was utterly against us. He wanted to die - a martyr for his cause. You could see it in his eyes.” He stared absently out, towards the desert. Behind him, Khan shifted uncomfortably, hating the way his morning had turned out, and disliking this cold shell of a human that was his brother.
“But…surely…”
“Surely?” Kitz mimicked, refusing to turn around, but raising one eyebrow.
“We could have shown mercy - got information from him?”
“No.” Kitz’s eyes were hard emeralds, his hair a banner of scarlet in the light of the early morning sun. “We are the Ovates; betrayal must be paid back in full.” He smiled, coldly, finally turning to look at his brother, who flinched under the steady gaze. “Any betrayal or attempt to overthrow us must be dealt with swiftly and efficiently.” Absently, he rubbed the ring on his middle finger.
Khan stared at the ring for a moment, before his attention was dragged back to the present by the feel of a mental call vibrating through the network that had been carefully set up. He frowned, aware that Kitz was still watching him with a cold, calculating expression. “I think Father’s just woken up,” he commented needlessly.
“I know. No doubt he wants his favourite son by his side.”
“He’d want you there, too, if you were just more agreeable,” Khan said, softly.
“Unlike some people, I actually have work to do. Besides which, we both know Father loathes me, and it’s only through necessity that he even keeps me in the palace.” Again, Kitz absently rubbed the ring, his long fingers brushing lightly over the small sapphire in the middle. “But of course, what would psychic powers and prophecy matter if I was made to live elsewhere?” He laughed and turned away, leaning against the marble railing of the balcony. “A mad seer is a useless one.”
“Father keeps you because you’re more powerful than all of us,” Khan said softly, “and because he values you.”
“He values my strengths, you mean. He certainly doesn’t value me as a person.” Kitz shrugged and dug in his pocket. Pulling out a cigarette, he lit it and inhaled, gaze still fixed on the city spread below him. “Well, he’ll be dead soon, and then it’ll be my turn to rule.”
“That’s callous,” Khan said quietly, stepping up beside his brother.
“Yes.” There was no remorse in Kitz’s voice. “And if he were in my position, he’d say the same.” His sharp green eyes flickered sideways to glance at Khan and he smiled, slyly. “You’re just too nice, little brother. It’s certainly not something you get from your Ovate blood. It must be what comes of not knowing the darkest thoughts in a man’s mind.” He laughed, cruelly, and Khan flinched. “You’d best go. Our most esteemed father is no doubt waiting for his beloved son to join him.” Kitz turned his attention back to the view.
Khan bowed and retreated. Turning on his heel, he wondered exactly how it was that the age gap of roughly two minutes could separate them, turning a matter of seconds into an insurmountable obstacle. ‘If,’ he wondered as he pushed open the doors of Kitz’s chambers and stepped out into the light of the corridor, ‘I had been born first. I wonder what I would have been like?’
He could come up with no reply to this troubling question, so instead he hurried off towards his father’s suite, the gentle call at the back of his mind a constant companion every step of the way.
*
Despite desperate attempts not to be, Valentine found himself impressed.
The sheer richness of the room made him feel like a small boy - intimidated but fascinated. He stared around with wide eyes, completely forgetting that he was not supposed to be calling attention to himself. The vast floor space was bare, but the stones were painted a rich cream. A similar colour adorned the walls, which were decorated with light, delicate silk hangings. Thin pieces of embroidered gauze covered doorways that led off into the rest of the palace, and a small pool resided at the centre of the room, its fountain playing quietly.
The court was collected just beyond the fountain, and flashes of brightly coloured clothing could be seen as the aristocrats moved in a strange, cultured dance, hiding behind fans and talking in low, deliberate voices. Valentine was struck by how much each movement seemed to tell - how carefully prepared each flick of the eyes or brush of a hand seemed to be. Here were men and women who never did anything without purpose. As he watched, warily, some of them suddenly appeared to notice the small group huddled at the far end of the room. There was a shift and some general muttering, before several women descended upon them.
“Alistor, my love. You’ve been away for so long.” One woman, her hair piled high on her head, pouted at the Trader who was standing next to Val.
“You must forgive me, my Lady,” Alistor swept a polite bow, clearly intent on impressing. “I have been out risking my life to bring you rare goods.”
‘Rare goods,’ Valentine thought sourly. ‘The slave trade classifies itself under the acquiring and selling of “rare goods”. Hah.’ He pursed his lips and dropped his gaze as more courtiers began to crowd around, their bright, airy clothing beginning to give him a headache.
“What exactly is so rare?” Another female voice, this one much sharper, and Valentine found himself looking up, trying to see who had spoken in such a bored, cultured voice.
“Lady Calliope,” the Trader’s voice was full of respect and…Valentine tilted his head just slightly…a little fear. “What do you mean?”
“Well, we have all seen slaves before. There is hardly anything special about them.” The lady waved her hand. Her skin was the colour of coffee, her eyes an exceptional black that reflected the light and revealed nothing. They were cold, calculated, and Val shivered. She looked barely older than him, but her mind was filled with the cruelty that came of surviving court machinations. The pale pink material of her dress was so sheer as to be almost see-through, but even this style seemed to be more of a calculated style than because of a genuine desire to spark interest.
“You haven’t seen a slave like this one,” Alistor was promising her, tapping Valentine’s shoulder lightly with a finger. “The rest of them,” he jerked his head towards the other captured men and women, “are well enough. But this…” he trailed off and shrugged expressively.
“Let’s see him properly, then,” Calliope snapped, folding her arms. By now most of the court had gathered around, and out of the corner of his eye, Valentine noticed that the Dirah, the king, had also joined them. Next to him was a slim young man with fiery red hair and a quiet, concerned expression.
Rough fingers gripped his chin, forcing his head up properly and brushing his hair out of his eyes. Valentine tensed, hearing the astonished mutters of the court. Hands cupped his face as Alistor smirked triumphantly, and his lips were pulled apart, as though he was simply an animal on show at a cattle market.
“Look at his teeth, as well,” the Trader promised as the court jostled for a closer look. “Pointed, all of them. We didn’t notice this until we got him back to the Centre. Of course,” he added pointedly, “this makes him more valuable.” There were a few murmurs, and people, Valentine noticed, were beginning to eye one another, assessing potential rivals. For him, he realised, nausea welling up inside of him. Blocking out the talk, he concentrated on the rage he could feel simmering at the back of his mind.
‘Let them buy me,’ he thought savagely. ‘Let them try and make me into a pampered pet. I’ll kill them.’
“Fifty drachmas for him,” Calliope said, coolly.
Alistor shook his head. “With regret, my Lady, I must inform you he is worth far more than that.”
“Two hundred,” another lady offered, her blonde hair carefully curled and tumbling over her silk-clad shoulders.
“Two hundred and fifty,” a young man added, smirking at the blonde, who scowled.
Valentine seethed, his fury welling up to almost unbearable levels. Struggling, he dropped his gaze to the floor, hands clenched into fists as the shackles around his ankles clinked, and the aristocrats continued to bid. As much as he tried to block out the sound, their voices continued to drill into his head; the high, screeching tones of the women, the low, arrogant voices of the men. After a while, as the bids became higher, the words began to blur, until all Valentine could hear was the variation in sound.
“A talent.”
“One talent, five hundred drachmas.”
A squabble broke out amongst several of the women.
“Two talents!”
“Three!”
“Good grief, and here I thought this ridiculous farce of a court could stoop no lower.”
It took a moment for Valentine to realise that the voice was not bidding for him. Indeed, what made him pay attention, more than anything, was the acidic tone and disgust, which was evident. Understanding what the voice was feeling, he glanced up, intent on finding the speaker.
The crowd had parted, several courtiers falling back to give way to the young man who stood in their midst. At first, Valentine thought it was the sympathetic young man from earlier, who had stood beside the Dirah. This one, however, was dressed in black, from head to foot, apparently oblivious to the heat, and his flaming red hair was longer, falling over his shoulders in thick waves, the tips of which were curling slightly. His expression, too, was different - green eyes cold, his generous mouth twisted in disgust. As Val watched, he stepped closer, his boots ringing across the stone floor.
“This is what all the fuss is about?” Malevolent eyes raked over Valentine’s form, taking in the scruffy clothes, which hadn’t been changed in nearly three weeks, and the sullen, mutinous expression.
“Khalidiya, this man is unique!” Alistor’s voice rang with indignation.
Khalidiya - crown prince. Valentine snarled, aware that this was the man who had, without even meeting them, sentenced Kiki and Gem to a life of harsh exile amongst the desert sands. His opinion of the man had just dropped considerably. He lived in a rich palace, pampered and spoilt. He knew nothing of life in the real world, where people starved every day, and he had passed judgement on those who did what they had to in order to survive.
“Well, he at least has spirit.” The sharp green gaze had clearly not missed Valentine’s snarl, and the red haired man’s lips twisted in something bordering on a cruel smile. “Even so, despite the fact he has somewhat unusual eyes, I must confess I hardly see what all the fuss is about. Your goods are becoming of poor quality, Alistor.”
“Kitz…” The Dirah had spoken at least, his expression full of warning. “Do not insult our guest. He has provided many of us here with high quality goods.” There was a murmur of agreement from some of the court, and the crown prince raised an eyebrow. “Besides which, this slave does appear to have certain…qualities which are desirable and highly valued. And he is from Moonstone, is he not?” The Dirah turned to shoot Alistor a questioning gaze.
The Trader nodded and shoved Valentine forwards a couple of steps. Caught off his guard, Valentine staggered, saved only by his lightning quick reflexes. Unthinking, he reacted to the shove as he would have under normal circumstances, and spun around, the shackles impeding his movements only slightly. Before he could stop himself, his hand had swung out, hitting Alistor across the face, snapping his head back with the blow. The forced imprisonment had deteriorated none of Valentine’s strength, as the Trading policy was to keep slaves in the best of health - they were more valuable that way.
There was a stunned silence broken only by the faint echo of the slap, which resounded softly around the large room. Alistor, however, recovered quickly and, despite his already bruising cheek, he lashed out at Valentine with the toe of his boot, hitting him squarely in the shins with such precision that the young man crumpled to the floor with a pained grunt.
“Forgive me, Dirah. He is still not used to subservience.” Alistor’s voice was only slightly winded as he nursed his cheek. Valentine spat on the floor by his foot. Around him, the courtiers drew back, suddenly afraid of this strange, feral half human who defied their laws and customs. From where he was still sprawled on the floor, Val felt a savage flash of triumph as he watched several women who had bid for him retreat behind their male counterparts.
‘Good,’ he thought savagely, not bothering to shake his dark hair out of his eyes. ‘Let them see me now. Let them realise I’m not a pet.’ He bared his teeth in vicious grin, revealing his white, somewhat pointed, teeth.
The sound of footsteps made him turn his attention back to the little group by the Dirah, and his eyes narrowed as the crown prince - Kitz, was it? - shoved his way through the crowd that had closed around him. Someone gasped as the Khalidiya pushed through to the front of the circle of courtiers and paused a few steps away from Valentine, who stared up at him, eyes filled with hatred.
//I can feel it, you know.// The voice in Valentine’s head made him shudder, his hand flying up to touch his temple. //Your anger is quite astonishing. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who was filled with so much rage.// There was a soft chuckle, and Val stared, shocked, as Kitz crouched down next to him. Ignoring the warning from Alistor to be careful, the prince reached out, touching Valentine’s hair, pushing it back from his eyes.
//You hate them. That’s good.// Green eyes glittered maliciously. //You hate me, as well, of course.// The shock on Valentine’s face could not be concealed, but somehow he doubted that was what prompted Kitz’s smile. //Surprised, slave? Clearly you have never encountered an Ovate before. I can read minds, you know. I see what you’re thinking; I know exactly what you’re feeling.// Strong, slender fingers were still combing through his black shoulder length hair, and Valentine suppressed a shudder as superstitious fear ran through him.
//How else do you think we continue to rule?// Green eyes flared with some strange emotion, and Kitz’s lips curved triumphantly. //Now you fear me, a little. But not very much. You are brave to the point of foolishness.// Valentine swallowed, unable to look away from that strange, hypnotic gaze. He felt dizzy, angry, full of hatred but unable to act, as Kitz continued to stare at him, still absently touching his hair.
‘I hate you.’ The viciousness of his own, inner voice made Valentine feel better, until Kitz’s lips parted in a silent laugh.
//I know you do. And that is what makes this so interesting. No one else is allowed to hate me.//
‘You’re nothing but an arrogant, spoilt prince, who thinks he can control those beneath him.’ Valentine felt a flash of triumph as Kitz’s eyes narrowed slightly, the smile falling from his face. ‘You’re pathetic. You can’t control your courtiers, and you couldn’t control me.’ As soon as he’d finished, he knew he’d made a mistake as the expression on the crown prince’s face changed to one of genuine amusement. Distantly, Valentine could hear the Dirah commanding Kitz to move back from the slave, but the red haired man paid no attention to his father, reaching out instead to trace Valentine’s lips with one quick, clever finger.
//I think I’ll enjoy proving you wrong. Pet.// Standing up abruptly, Kitz nodded at Alistor. “I’ll give you fifty talents for him,” he snapped, ignoring the sounds of indignation from the rest of the court, who had been robbed of their prize by a man who had claimed disinterest. He smiled at Alistor’s wide eyes and nodded down at Valentine, who was staring up at him with hate filled eyes. “Hand him over to my personal staff and ask them to make sure he is dressed…appropriately.” The last was said with a glance of disdain at the scuffed leather jacket. “Collar him,” Kitz added, and smirked as Valentine was hauled to his feet, struggling and spitting as he tried to fight against the implacable hands that pulled him away.
“And leave him in my rooms,” he added.
*
Valentine sat bound to a chair, his expression icily furious.
He had been hauled by the Traders to these rooms, where a horde of servants had descended on him. They’d washed him then rubbed him dry before smoothing oils and spices onto his skin. They’d brushed his hair until it gleamed, before dressing him in light, cool bright blue silks that matched his eyes. Sandals had been bound to his feet and Valentine hadn’t resisted, grateful for the change of clothes in spite of everything. When one of the servants had advanced with kohl, however, Valentine had rebelled.
The man was still bleeding from a scratch on his face.
As the daylight faded, the lights that were secreted around the room flicked on. A cool breeze blew through the chamber from the balcony, which was cut off only by a light gauze curtain - scant protection against the night air. Open archways connected the prince’s chambers and beyond one, Valentine could see a large room almost like a courtyard, the roof of which opened out onto the sky. Graceful pillars were set around the room, and the whole effect was completed by the natural colour of the stone, which was sandy.
Footsteps dragged Valentine’s attention back to his predicament, and he turned his head just in time to see Kitz slip through one of the arches, his expression furious. The servants, who clearly knew how to react to his moods, vanished abruptly into the room beyond. Val wished he could do the same, but his rebellion had neatly put an end to any freedom of movement he might have otherwise been given.
“I see they’ve managed to clean you up.” Kitz’s voice was cold as he stalked across the room, a malevolent figure of fire and darkness. Pouring himself a drink, he turned to regard Valentine, who raised his chin defiantly. “A good job too. You were filthy.” One red eyebrow rose in disdain as the crown prince assessed his latest piece of property. “They haven’t collared you yet, though.” He shrugged. “No matter, I’ll do it myself.”
Setting his glass to one side, Kitz crossed into another room, returning moments later. In his hands was cradled something small, black and circular. As he moved closer, Valentine realised it was a black leather collar, complete with a small brass insignia attached to the front, marking it - and him - as the property of the Khalidiya. Before he could even struggle or protest, Kitz had darted across the room and closed the leather tight around his throat. There was an audible click as the buckle was sealed.
“There,” the prince announced, eyes gleaming in the half-light. He turned, already stripping off his black shirt. “I’m going to bed.” He glanced over one shoulder at Valentine, who was watching him, hatred in his eyes. “I’m leaving you like this tonight. Perhaps in the morning you’ll be a little more agreeable.” He laughed, tossing the shirt to one side. “And I wouldn’t try anything suspicious. That collar’s linked directly to me.” Green eyes flickered slyly towards Valentine. “And it has the most wonderful psychic device.”
There was no warning; merely a sudden rush at the back of Valentine’s mind, before intense, agonising pain swept through his body. He screamed, back arching as he struggled against his bonds, desperately fighting the sensation of red-hot knives sliding along his back and under his skin. Then, as suddenly as it had started, the pain stopped, leaving him shuddering, weak and helpless. His hands convulsed of their own accord as he panted, still twitching from the aftershocks.
//There.// Kitz’s mind voice was full of satisfaction. //The device in the collar convinces you you’re feeling pain. Quite remarkable, really.// He laughed. //And don’t try to remove it either, because I’ll know.// He bowed mockingly to Valentine, who blinked, dazedly, having just enough coherency left to project a wave of hatred towards Kitz.
//Sleep well, half breed.//
Part Two