FIC: Vaster Than Empires (2/2)
Title: Vaster Than Empires (2/2)
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: R
Warnings: None needed.
Summary: Clark and Bruce eventually catch a Zeta Beam, but it doesn't quite go as they hope...and now the tables are turned. Part one is here!
Continuity: Comics, set in the (one hopes) near future when Bruce is back and the war between New Krypton and Earth is concluded. Contains random unfounded speculation. :)
Word Count: 7500
Notes: To thank kungfunurse for her kind and generous donation to Doctors Without Borders for help_haiti!
They reached Zuuri in three days--almost too quickly for Clark's liking. Even the venomous glances cast by a sulking Captain Li couldn't sour his mood, not with Bruce at his side and in his bed.
Zuuri resembled a reconstruction of ancient Babylon: golden brick ziggurauts and tall palm-like trees, with something like a coliseum in the center. "You should take your amri to get him a proper collar, now that you can afford it," noted the caravan-master.
Clark's purse was heavy and jangling with money given by fellow caravan-riders grateful for Bruce's dancing and tea-serving. He cast Bruce a look, and Bruce surprised him by saying "A proper collar would be pleasant, dearest Master."
And so Clark found himself in one of the better purveyors of slave jewelry in Zuuri. The store owner, a willowy woman with auburn hair and vermilion-tipped fingernails, ignored Bruce entirely and addressed herself only to Clark. It shouldn't have surprised him, of course, but somehow he couldn't help it--it didn't seem possible anyone could ignore the man at his side.
"Would honored sir be wanting an anklet as well?" She produced a tray of glittering metal and gems.
Clark eyed Bruce surreptitiously, but the other man stood with his eyes cast politely down. Clark ran his gaze over the rows of belled chains--and stopped. One anklet was a rich, metallic blue. Clark touched it lightly. "Do you have any collars in this metal?"
"Of course, honored sir."
The owner went into the back of the store and returned with a light collar of filigreed metal, royal blue and gleaming. "I'll take this and the anklet," Clark said.
The owner handed it to him and Clark stared at it, then at Bruce. "Only you may have the honor of collaring me, Master," said Bruce. Clark's hands shook slightly as he clicked the collar shut around Bruce's proud neck and Bruce shot him a look that made him want to hurry back to their room.
As they left the store, the bells on Bruce's foot chimed sweetly, and people turned to look at Clark and his treasure. Clark's ears burned: he felt foolish and proud and humiliated and aroused all at once.
When they got to their inn room, Bruce pulled the little Zeta Beam tracker out of their bag. "We've got three more days before the Beam comes through. And it looks like it's going to touch down right in the middle of that coliseum," he said, pointing.
"Is it going to take a crowd of Srataanians with us?"
Bruce snorted impatiently--an incongruous sound coming from a man dressed only in a silk-and-fur loincloth and a slave collar, and one that made Clark's blood heat. "Zeta Beams only work on people who've been exposed to the proper radiation beforehand, you know that."
"I'm surprised you were willing to get a collar."
Bruce shrugged at the abrupt topic change, looked out the window. "Less likely to draw unwanted attention that way. Besides," he said, then stopped.
"Besides what?"
Bruce still wasn't looking at him. "I thought, when we got back to Earth, I might melt it down. Make something new of it."
"An ashtray?"
Bruce didn't rise to Clark's light tone. "I was thinking more along the lines of matching rings."
"Oh," Clark said and couldn't think of anything else to say at all.
"Would you mind?"
"It would be a lot prettier as rings." Clark's voice was a bit hoarse; he swallowed hard.
Bruce flashed him a quick smile, gone like lightning, then went to sit down on the bed. "So we've got three days," he said.
"Three days," Clark echoed. "What are your plans?"
Bruce stretched out on the bed, arms above his head, a portrait in seduction. "I'm sure we'll think of something to do to pass the time," he said.
And indeed they did.
: : :
The fun came to an abrupt end two days later, when there was a pounding on the door. Clark barely had time to roll out of bed and throw on a robe when the door burst open and five armed guards stomped into the room. The leader unrolled a piece of parchment and read out loud: "For the crime of impersonating an amri, for mocking with this pretense the holy name of Dilandra, we sentence you to--"
Bruce was already moving forward, kneeling before the guard, stark naked and totally composed. "He didn't know," Bruce murmured. "The deception is all mine."
The guard seized Bruce by the shoulder, dragged him upright. He glared at Clark. "Is this true?"
Clark bit his lip and forced himself to say the words. "I had no idea," he said, forcing shock and horror into his voice. "Bruce, how could you?"
Bruce met his eyes squarely. "I had to be with you. This was the only way." Clark's heart lurched at the look in his eyes; it was all lies, but beneath it--
"Consider yourself under investigation," growled the guard, glaring at Clark. "The execution is scheduled for tomorrow at sun's zenith, and if we find--"
"--Execution?" Clark felt his face going pale.
"Of course," said the guard. "The price all who wish to cheat the holy Dilandra pay." He started to drag Bruce from the room, but Bruce pulled free from his grip for a second.
"Clark," he said. "I love you."
It was an act for the guards, of course.
Bruce looked at him.
"I love you too," Clark whispered.
The guard gave him a suspicious scowl as they pulled Bruce away. Clark caught a glimpse of Captain Li lurking in the hallway; the door closed on his smile.
The room was very quiet when they were gone, and Clark swallowed hard. Then he saw the Zeta Beam tracker, still partially tucked into the pocket of his uniform. On a sudden hunch, he pulled it out and checked it.
Fifteen minutes after noon the next day.
: : :
The coliseum was full of people cheering and drinking beer, looking forward to the execution. Apparently this was one of the few sources of entertainment in Zuuri. Clark fidgeted in his seat under the watchful eye of the guards, who clearly considered him still under suspicion. The sun was a scarlet disc in the roof of the sky, lowering.
They brought Bruce out. He was wearing nothing but a cotton loincloth and his hands were tied behind his back. They had left him his blue steel collar, Clark had no idea why. His head was high, and his eyes found Clark's in the crowd immediately, as if he could have picked Clark out of a million people without effort. He probably could.
He was smiling slightly.
The guard behind him forced him to his knees and another hulking man stepped up with a monstrous scimitar in his hand. The sun glinted crimson off the edge as he raised it. As he stood poised, a woman in midnight-blue robes emblazoned with the five-petaled flower stepped up to address Bruce. "Blasphemer of Dilandra, have you any last words?"
Bruce locked eyes with Clark and spoke directly to him, his voice ringing through the coliseum: "This is for you, my true Master. As is all I do."
As the scimitar came down, he threw off his guard's grasp and dodged, tumbling in the dust. Instantly, the rest of the guards stepped forward with pikes and swords drawn. Clark felt his own fingers gripping his knees almost painfully, even though he knew better: unarmed, half-naked, bound, Bruce was still more than a match for them all.
It was a dance, Clark realized as the crowd gasped, as Bruce's almost-bare body swayed and moved and flashed between the sword-points. Nothing like the dance he'd done on the plains, though even more beautiful. Bruce's true dance, balanced on the knife-edge of death, always a heartbeat away from killing or being killed.
His hands were free now--he tossed the dagger he'd grabbed from a guard aside with disdain, relying on his bare hands. There was a sheen of sweat on his skin; he glowed in the brilliance of the sun, dancing.
The last guard fell.
The crowd gasped as a horn was blown; the injured guards scrambled to get out of the ring as a giant black panther with a few too many legs and sabertoothed fangs bounded into the coliseum, snarling.
Bruce bowed to it as it charged.
The panther and the man dodged and weaved, leaping and whirling. Crimson sprang across Bruce's chest and Clark was standing, moving to leap down and help, struggling against the guards until a spearpoint was placed against his back. Bruce glanced at him, a plea not to distract him further, and Clark saw the cut was long but shallow, seeping blood but not dangerous.
Bruce turned his attention back to the panther; as it charged him again he leapt on its back in a blur of motion, arms locked around its neck. The beast roared and flung itself around, but Bruce held on, throttling it until it slowly sagged to the ground, defeated. Bruce vaulted from its back, leaving it to retreat woozily.
He landed on the sand and dropped into a graceful obeisance, gazing at Clark. The coliseum was totally silent.
And then the applause and the shouting began, a wave that mounted and broke into chaos.
Surrounded by riotous cheers, Clark and Bruce merely looked at each other until the Zeta Beam locked onto them and the world dissolved around them.
: : :
Clark staggered as the coliseum re-formed around him, silent and empty now, the stone walls chipped and scarred as if from many years of battles. He gazed wildly at the center of the arena, his heart leaping as he saw Bruce there as well, blood still trickling from the wound on his chest. "Bruce!" Clark jumped from the bleachers to join him--and found himself soaring downward lightly, his brain only dimly processing that the sunlight was yellow once more.
He landed with a jarring thump on the sand next to Bruce--powers still not optimal yet--and threw his arms around him, relief singing in his veins. "We made it!"
Bruce made a neutral sound, looking around. "I don't think we're where we want to be yet. This coliseum isn't in the capital in our time. We've moved, but to where--when?" Despite his dry tone, his arms went around Clark as well, holding him close.
Clark pulled back enough to pull the Zeta beam detector out. He groaned as he read the screen. "The next beam isn't going to come through for...over a month. It will sweep past about three kilometers to the west of this spot--at least it's close." He narrowed his eyes at the detector. "It doesn't have a specific time pinpointed yet, but--"
He didn't get to finish the sentence, as the machine in his hands exploded into fragments of plastic and glass. An arrow thudded into the ground amid a shower of broken bits as Clark and Bruce whirled to meet their attacker.
"Don't move," snarled the man holding the bow and arrow. He was dressed in light leather armor, his coppery hair pulled back into a ponytail. A half-dozen similarly-clad men and women came running up behind him, bows at the ready. Then he caught sight of Bruce's collar, gleaming cobalt-blue in the sunlight, and his eyes widened. He dropped to his knees. "My Lord! Forgive me, I didn't realize!" As Clark and Bruce stared, he turned to the others and hissed, "He wears a Collar of Command!"
With a massive clatter of dropped bows, the group knelt as one before Bruce. "Forgive our presumption, Lord, and spare our worthless lives," intoned the leader of the group. "We did not realize you were a tal-amri."
Clark looked at the groveling Srataanians and resisted an urge to mutter, "Oh boy."
: : :
"Thank you, Amo, for escorting my fellow tal-amri to me." Lord Garash of Zuuri was a slender man with close-cropped golden hair and muddy brown eyes set just a bit too close together for handsomeness. The ornate collar around his neck was made of gold and studded with opals. He patted the kneeling man on his coppery head, then ignored him entirely; Amo bowed out of the room slowly, keeping his eyes cast down.
Still uncertain what had caused this radical change of fortunes, Clark kept his eyes lowered to the ornate brocade carpet as well. Beside him, he felt Bruce start to say something, but Garesh cut him off. "--No, let me see if I can deduce why you're here."
"Very well," Bruce said, and Clark could hear the slight amusement in his voice.
"Judging from your accent and...clothing choice...you are visiting from the deep South. Here in Zuuri we usually wear more clothing. I shall provide some if you like." Bruce murmured his thanks as Garesh went on, "You must be a third or fourth son, if you have only one personal servant. I assume it would be too much to hope your personal army is arriving behind you?" He didn't wait for Bruce's answer this time. "You seem brave and restless; I assume you have heard of Zuuri's plight and have come to aid us against the approaching foe." He chuckled slightly. "Indeed, our plight is such I would not turn down even the help of only two more men."
"Exactly how bad is it?"
Garesh sighed; Clark heard the clink of glass on glass, wine from a decanter. "It's quite bad. Karos's army has Ujul under siege; it's only a matter of time until they submit. After that, he will certainly march on Zuuri. We have no more than a month, maybe two." He handed Bruce a glass. "Damn him and his Rebellion! The tal-amri have ruled Srataan wisely and well for centuries; How dare he interfere with the natural order of things?"
"But did not the tal-amri start as slaves themselves?" Only Clark could have heard the strain in Bruce's voice as he went out on a limb.
Garesh was silent a moment, and Clark wished he could risk an upward glance. "Ancient history," he finally said. "Did not the glory and passion of the Dark One reveal that the amri's true destiny was not to serve, but to rule?"
"Of course, the Dark One," Bruce said, his voice flat.
"May his memory guide us," murmured Garesh, with a rustle of movement that could have been a bow. Clark heard Bruce's intake of breath and looked up.
Garesh had bowed toward an alcove lit with candles, a piece of art in mosaic set into it. A dark-haired man riding a black panther, head high in triumph. Beyond the dark hair, he didn't look anything like Bruce.
"May his memory guide us," Bruce echoed.
: : :
Clark looked around their room. It was opulent, rich, details picked out with gold leaf. Clark grimaced at the luxury, but had to admit the massive four-poster feather bed looked good after a week on the road or in cheap hotels. A quick scan around the room revealed at least two different spyholes, but no heartbeats behind them. "There's no one around," he said, and a little of the tension went out of Bruce's shoulders.
"I hate time travel," Bruce growled, throwing open the closet. It had already been stocked with a variety of outfits in his size; Bruce grimaced at the array of flashy cloth. "Nothing in black, damn it."
"We changed the past," Clark said as Bruce shimmied out of his loincloth and grabbed a tunic of iridescent blue-green, dark as peacock feathers. "What now?"
Bruce scratched at the dried blood on his chest and grimaced at his fingernails. "Now we take a bath and get ready to go back to dinner with our host."
The marble bathtub was already full of warm water; Bruce poured a dipperful over his head and sighed as he worked soap into his hair. Clark came up behind him and started to massage his scalp, prompting a contented sigh. "So in this time the amri have become tal-amri and are the ruling class."
Bruce nodded, leaning back into Clark's touch. "It looks like it's close to a feudal system. The tal-amri are hereditary lords now, and they own serfs. Armies of serfs. Or sometimes just a few personal servants."
"They've assumed I'm your...personal servant."
Another nod. "Just how personal, I don't know." A soapy hand slipped up Clark's thigh. "Feel free to play it however you like."
Clark couldn't help but smile. "Now it's my turn to make you uncomfortable."
Bruce snorted. "I think you'll find I'm unflappable," he boasted.
Clark dumped the dipper of water over his head and listened to him sputter for a moment before capturing his mouth. "I like a challenge," he whispered into the kiss.
: : :
"I thought you said you liked a challenge?" Bruce taunted only a half hour later. "Chickening out already?"
Clark glared at the rack of sheer, nearly-transparent clothing. "I'm just...having a hard time choosing." He reached in and grabbed a shimmering golden robe, throwing it around himself. To his dismay, it turned out to be woven in shifting patterns of opacity and transparency, so it exposed bits of him in different configurations every time he moved. "Yikes," he muttered.
"I like it," said Bruce, eyeing him from head to toe. "Now you need some jewelry."
"Jewelry?" groaned Clark as Bruce held up a glittering band with a loop of chain attached to it.
"Hold still," said Bruce, and Clark felt the band close gently on the ridge of his ear, the chain swaying below. "And the final touch..."
"Oh no," said Clark. "Come on, no."
Bruce just grinned as he swiped his finger into the little pot. It came up glittering with gold. "It's just a little bit of lip gloss and blush, Clark."
"Good grief," Clark said, but he held still as Bruce brushed gloss over his lips and cheeks, his fingers sure and certain. He dabbled his fingers in Clark's hair for a second, then stepped back, examining the final product with a critical eye. Clark rolled his eyes. "How ridiculous do I look?"
Bruce tilted his head, considering. "You look...radiant," he said. Clark made a scoffing noise, and Bruce almost smiled. "You look like a god of the sun, come to earth to dazzle us all." Clark eyed him suspiciously, but Bruce was just gazing at him, a faraway look in his eyes. Clark sneaked a look in the mirror and didn't see anything so special beyond a lot of flashy glitter; Bruce must be in a teasing mood.
Bruce shook himself out of his reverie. "Ready to go to dinner?" When Clark nodded, he swept from the room with his head high, Clark falling into step behind him.
Garesh and two other people wearing the Collars of Command were already sitting at the table; they rose and bowed as Bruce entered the room. They were both younger, a man and a woman. The man was golden-haired like Garesh, with a family resemblance about the mouth. The woman had close-cropped auburn hair and an austere air about her. "My son, Garam, and the Lady Ruu," said Garesh. "Lady Ruu owns a smaller settlement to the west, but she brought her people here when Karos began his march toward Zuuri."
Each of the three tal-amri had a person sitting behind their chair, clearly ready to leap into service; Clark took his place behind Bruce, watching them for cues.
"What will you do in preparation for Karos's attack?" Bruce asked as Garesh's servant poured him a glass of wine and handed it on to Garam's servant.
"Do?" Garesh sipped his wine. "We are hopelessly outnumbered, and there is nowhere to flee to. We shall fight and we shall be defeated." His voice was resigned and cold.
The wine decanter continued to move from servant to servant; when Ruu's retainer handed it to Clark their eyes met and a small, wry smile crossed the other's face for an instant. Clark poured Bruce a cup of wine and Bruce sipped it politely.
Garam leaned forward. "Father, I still think we could--"
Garesh cut him off with a slicing motion of his hand. "We have discussed this, Garam." The conversation was clearly closed; Garam leaned back in his chair, grimacing. He met Ruu's eyes and something flashed between them; Ruu shook her head very slightly. Clark filed as much as possible away for later--Bruce was going to insist on going over every detail to get some grasp on the situation. Stranded here until nearly the date Karos would arrive...it was going to be a challenge.
"Damn him and his rabble of 'free folk,'" Garesh snarled, putting the goblet down with a thump. "Putting ideas in serfs' heads, pointless dreams of equality and freedom."
"Razing cities to the ground is not exactly positive progress," Ruu noted. Her voice was low and level.
"Not for the people who get razed," Garam said with a wry twist to his mouth.
Fortunately, the three tal-amri were anxious to discuss the rebel army, and thus didn't push Bruce to give many personal details. When they asked him questions, Bruce sidestepped them neatly, plucking bits of information from their questions to give back to them.
"If I had known they grew such beautiful serfs in the southern mountains, I would have been vacationing there," Garesh said, arching an eyebrow and looking Clark over. "He's really quite magnificent, isn't he, Ruu? Perhaps you can convince Lord Buruus to share him later."
Ruu barely glanced at him as Clark set his jaw and tried not to fidget at the scrutiny. "I find Malak satisfactory to my needs," she said curtly.
"Thank you, Lady," murmured the man behind her, bowing slightly. Ruu met his eyes and smiled briefly, and the look that passed between them was another Clark stored away for later.
"Clark is handsome indeed," Bruce said. "Handsome, skilled, intelligent...and entirely mine." His tone was pointed and Garesh looked crestfallen.
"Ah," their host said. "I'll admit I was hoping to arrange an exchange. Amo is quite talented in all the best ways," he said, waving a hand at the archer who had captured them earlier, unable to see the sneer that briefly distorted his serf's angular face.
"I'm sure Amo is wonderful," Bruce said, "But Clark is mine and mine alone." Clark could hear his heart was beating a little faster, as if he were anxious.
"Oh, you're one of those possessive types," Garesh shrugged. "Well, there's no accounting for tastes."
Clark felt relief wash through him, relief mixed with an odd warmth at the tone of Bruce's voice. It probably shouldn't make him feel like that to have Bruce talk about him as a valuable possession.
The warmth refused to go away as Bruce stroked a hand down his arm; in fact, if anything it flared hotter. "I don't usually like to display him so...openly," Bruce said. "But it seemed rude not to let my hosts admire his beauty." Clark gritted his teeth against an embarrassed blush--and an even more alarming heat that was not going to his face at all. He shifted to stand a little more securely behind Bruce's chair. "You are fortunate to get a glimpse of him. At home I generally kept him cloistered so that only I could gaze upon him."
Garesh looked rapt at the thought and was about to ask another question when a silvery chime rang in another room. The other three servants bowed briefly and left the room; Clark followed their example.
He found himself in a large kitchen, where a handful of cooks was putting together a meal. "Can you believe that lech?" Garesh's servant, Amo, muttered as they waited. "You're lucky your Lord is possessive, Klaak. Trust me, you don't want him in your bed."
Malak looked worried. "He really isn't going to fortify the city? Or even prepare?"
Amo made a harsh sound in his throat; his hands twitched as if he longed to be holding a bow. "He'll cast the city's serfs up against Karos, bathe the town in blood--then sue for peace, hoping to bribe Karos into letting him live. He won't do any fighting. None of them ever do."
"Ruu--I mean, the Lady Ruu--she wants to help in the defense personally." Malak looked slightly appalled at himself for using his Mistress's name casually, but no one remarked on it.
"Lord Bruce will as well," Clark said. "And his help can be valuable indeed."
Amo shook his head, his coppery ponytail swishing. "Listen to you, sticking up for them. I'll help fight because I love this city, but I won't be sacrificing my body for Garesh. And more serfs than you think will be crossing the river at night to join Karos's army, I'll wager."
Malak looked grave. "I'm certain you're right," he said.
The cooks put the food in front of them and they picked up the heaping platters. Amo grimaced. "All this food for them. It's a damn waste," he said. Clearing his throat, he spat neatly into Garesh's gravy bowl, to appreciative laughter from the kitchen staff. "A little present for my Lord," he grinned as they left with the food.
: : :
Bruce's shoulders sagged as the door to their room closed behind them. He started to say something, then met Clark's eyes, and his own went wary at what they saw there. Clark flickered a quick glance toward one of the spyholes, knowing Bruce would catch it and understand the implication: behind the wall, Clark could hear soft breathing.
"The Lord Garesh is both kind and wise," he murmured, to make clear just whose heartbeat he heard nearby.
"He is indeed." Bruce raised his arms slightly. "Divest me of my outer garments, my beauty." As Clark bent to slowly strip the iridescent green brocade from him, Bruce's hand slid up his arm, the fingers signing: Go slowly. Stall. Don't worry. Bruce's smile went just a touch mischievous as Clark glanced up from the cloth-covered buttons. "So are you wishing you were in Garesh's bed right now?" His voice was rough, but his eyes--where Garesh couldn't see them--were twinkling.
Clark allowed his honest horror to tint his voice. "My precious Lord and Master! You know I belong only to you." He drew the heavy brocade over Bruce's head, his hands dancing lightly across the thin raw silk covering Bruce's back: Why not put on a show for the old goat?
Bruce turned to stare at Clark, his eyes for a moment honestly wide. He narrowed them with an apparent effort. "Do remember that, my jewel." He touched Clark's cheek: Don't be perverse. I'm trying to protect you here.
Clark gestured for Bruce to sit down on the bed so he could draw off his boots. On Bruce's instep, he signed lightly: I can take care of myself. We're more than a match for some lech.
Bruce's fingers drummed in his hair with a touch of annoyance: Why are you always so stubborn?
Why are you bickering with me instead of making out with me? Clark reached up to unbuckle Bruce's pants, his fingers flicking over Bruce's abdomen. Let's show him what he's missing. Nothing too intimate-- A flick of fingers under the waistband and Bruce dragged in a sudden breath, --But why not give him an eyeful?
Bruce shook his head slowly, staring down at Clark's deferential posture. "You are...amazing," he said.
Clark cast his eyes down in polite deference--and so he didn't have to meet Bruce's smoldering gaze. "You know I am your helpless thrall in all things, body and soul." He gently tugged down Bruce's pants, leaving him dressed only in a light silk undertunic and leggings.
Bruce ran a hand through his hair and flopped backward himself on the bed. The sigh of contentment as the feathery blankets settled around him was entirely unfeigned. "Come here," he said, beckoning.
Clark sat down on the bed. "What does my Master require of me?"
"Your body and soul, of course," murmured Bruce. He grasped Clark's hand and drew him down beside him, pressing a kiss onto his forehead. "I have your body here," he said, running a hand down the light cloth covering Clark's ribcage to his hip. "But tonight I want you to demonstrate that I have your soul as well."
"I--" Clark swallowed hard. Bruce's hand was warm on his hip, the fingers resting lightly on the jut of his hipbone. Nowhere near any truly sensitive area, and yet somehow the intimacy of that confident touch sent warmth running through Clark's body. He shifted slightly, and the thick, soft mattress pushed him against Bruce from collarbone to toes in a long, luxurious caress. Clark felt his body stirring into life, nudging against layers of silk, a sweet friction he tried to ignore. "I'll do anything you ask me, Lord. How can I prove my soul is yours?"
"Tell me." Bruce's lips were at the base of his throat now, which meant Clark's swiftly hardening erection was up tight against Bruce's stomach. Clark resisted the urge to tilt his hips into the firm muscled planes. "I want you you to tell me." A flicker of tongue into the groove of his collarbone and Clark groaned aloud. "With words," Bruce clarified, wriggling slightly against Clark to make his point. "Tell me how much you're mine." Bruce's voice was husky and warm, and Clark felt a lazy spiral of desire unwinding in him, almost hypnotically.
"I'm yours, Lord," he whispered. "Yours." His erection jolted, surprisingly demanding, at the words, and Clark lost himself for a moment in a haze of arousal. A sharp nip at the skin of his neck jarred him: As long as I'm talking he won't have to do anything more...intimate with Garesh watching, he reminded himself. Keep talking.
"I've wanted to be yours since the moment I saw you." He remembered it, bright behind his heavy eyelids: the shock of desire, involuntary and undeniable, a lust that had only grown sweeter and deeper as he came to know the man behind the cowl.
"Yes," groaned Bruce into his neck. "I knew. I had to have you someday. Had to--" His hand tightened in the soft cloth on Clark's hip, drawing it more tightly against heated flesh, and Clark felt the spiral of lust winding through him even stronger. "--Had to take you. Make you mine."
He was acting, of course. Acting for their audience. Clark knew that, but the thought was small and far away somehow, and the pleasure at the words was intensely real. "Anything you want from me is yours, my Lord," he whispered. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. Bruce's hands were drawing lazy patterns on his sides and hips that seemed to be keeping him from thinking very clearly. What was a slave supposed to say here? He couldn't seem to focus his thoughts. "I just want to make you happy." That sounded right. "To give my body to you and you alone."
"I want your soul. I want your heart." Bruce's voice was muffled against his skin, oddly fierce.
"Yours. All yours."
"Yes," hissed Bruce, and the triumph in his voice made the lust in Clark turn sharp and rich, difficult to control at all. "I know." He kissed Clark, a very long kiss, his hands roaming over Clark's back, and Clark relaxed into the feeling, letting his body's demands fade to a dim clamor, merely resting in the kiss and holding his lover. They stayed like that for a long time, hovering in delight, until Clark heard nearly-silent footsteps moving away from the spyhole. Apparently Garesh had gotten tired of waiting for them to get to the hardcore entertainment.
Clark wasn't sure if Bruce had heard the quiet footfalls. He opened his mouth to say something...and then closed it again. "My Lord's caresses are sweet," he murmured instead. "I am truly blessed to belong to him."
Bruce pulled back and stared at him, and Clark could see in his eyes he had heard their observer depart too. Whatever he saw in Clark's face made the surprise in his fade to a sharp, predatory look. "Tell me again," he said, one hand tightening slightly in Clark's hair. "I want to hear it again. Tell me you're mine."
"Body and soul," Clark whispered.
Bruce's voice was husky, nearly shaking. "Show me."
Clark showed him.
: : :
"I need a haircut," Clark complained, brushing back the locks that had started to tumble over his collar after more than a month away from Earth.
"Serfs aren't allowed to have short hair," Bruce noted, staring out at the archers training in the courtyard. He grimaced. "They're not going to be ready."
"They'll be as ready as they can be." With only days before Karos arrived with his army, Clark knew better than to try and reassure Bruce. It only made him snappish and they both knew the reassurances were empty.
There was a good chance the Zeta Beam would sweep through just before the battle. Or just after. Or maybe during. Not for the first time, Clark cursed the loss of the detector that would have let them be more precise.
"If all else fails," he had murmured to Bruce weeks ago, "I can prevent any bloodshed. A fully-powered Kryptonian--"
"--We've already meddled in Srataanian history once," Bruce had responded. "We're trying to keep it to a minimum here. We don't need you to become a god."
"But I will do something, if it's necessary to prevent a slaughter."
Bruce had frowned, but merely said, "Of course."
Lady Ruu was pacing the parapet, looking down upon the drilling serfs. Her servant, Malak, walked beside her. Lately he hadn't been bothering to keep the respectful three paces behind her. They looked at each other and Clark could see the worry flashing between them.
"They're not going to be ready," Ruu said as the pair drew closer.
"You've trained them as best you can in the bow, and Clark and I in hand-to-hand combat."
"Not enough," she said, gritting her teeth. "They'll be massacred, and for what? To defend a class of lords which no longer does anything but sit on their padded arses and eat peeled grapes. Karos is right--the tal-amri are a blight on society and must be eliminated."
Clark saw Bruce's eyebrow shoot upward; it was the most blunt Ruu had been about the slavery system since they arrived. "But not through bloodshed," he said.
"I would prefer it not be by the blood of these brave people, no." Her lips quirked in a sad, bitter smile. "Or my own."
"There must be some other way. There's always another way."
Malak was frowning. He started to speak, then caught himself. "Permission to speak, Mistress?" Ruu nodded and he went on: "Karos's army will encamp on the other side of the river before their assault," he said, gesturing toward the wide river with its shallow ford. "If the river were to flood..."
"...It would stall them, give us more time. Maybe convince them to turn away." Ruu nodded. "But the rainy season is months away. We can't--"
"--We can." Garem, Garesh's son, stepped from a shadowed doorway. "There's an old dam up in the mountains. My father constructed it a decade ago. If it were to give way the river would be unfordable." His eyes flicked to each person in turn. "I can show you the way."
Bruce nodded slowly. "How long a trip is it?"
Garem frowned. "A few days."
Bruce looked at Ruu. "You know the people here better than I do. Pick a team and go. Clark and I will stall the army."
Her auburn eyebrows rose into her hair. "Stall?"
"We'll find a way."
She gave both of them a long, assessing look. "Maybe you will, at that." The three of them took off at a lope to assemble a group.
"Stall?" Clark asked when they were out of earshot.
"We bluff. We're good at that. And we hope the Zeta Beam doesn't come through too early." Bruce took Clark's arm. "Let's hit the library and find some archaic laws we can use against Karos."
The other serfs looked at them as they left arm-in-arm, but Bruce paid them no attention at all.
: : :
"All right," said Clark, "Your plan is working perfectly." He shifted his grip on his dagger and eyed the long line of rag-tag soldiers massed before them.
"Flawlessly," Bruce retorted over his shoulder. They were back-to-back on the far side of the still-unflooded river, the city walls depressingly distant. "As Zuuri's champions, we have to be given the right to confront the enemy champion before the army attack the city."
"You do realize they're deciding whether to just attack us en masse," Clark muttered, listening to the growl of conversations from the horde. "Or fill us full of arrows."
"Of course."
"What's your plan if they try it?"
Clark felt Bruce's shoulder-blades press against his just a little more snugly. "We'll wing it."
"Nifty."
Bruce's body shook slightly against his in a quiet chuckle. "Have a little faith, Clark."
Clark was going to respond with something scathing--he just wasn't sure what yet--when the crowd parted to reveal a man striding toward them across the plain. He was short, and wasn't dressed in any finery, just homespun robes and boiled leather armor, but Clark could sense the confidence and power emanating from him. Karos, leader of the Serf Rebellion.
Karos stopped well short of the pair, but Clark could sense his keen regard. "Who are you and why do you face me?"
Clark recited the ritual words they'd found in the library: "We stand between you and the city and challenge you to combat us, the champions of that city."
Karos's eyes flicked to Bruce's neck and the glimmering blue metal collar, then back to Clark. "Your tal-amri allows you to speak for him? An unusual man." He took a step forward. "And he risks his life with yours. Truly, he is like no other tal-amri I have ever met."
"There are more than you might think," Clark said, thinking of Ruu and Garem in the mountains, struggling together to break the dam and save the city.
Karos's mouth was set in a hard line. "Then why do you oppose us?" A low rumble, angry and solid, was rising from the mass of people behind him, and Clark eyed them anxiously. He couldn't keep Bruce safe if they attacked, not unless he revealed his powers...
There was a sharp motion behind him as Bruce reached up and wrenched off the shining blue Collar of Command. He threw it into the field between him and the rebel leader, and the rumble changed to a murmur, full of shock. "We do not oppose your goal. We do stand between you and the city," Bruce called into the space between them. "But we stand together today not as a master and slave, but as equals. Back to back, side by side, sharing in all fates and all things. There is no mastery in friendship, and no slavery in love." He raised his voice to a shout. "We stand here together to say this!"
Clark picked up his cue as Bruce fell silent. "Today I fight not for the glory of a tal-amri, but for the honor of our friendship. I would give anything for him--and he for me. And we both--" his words rang out across the plain, "--we both would give anything to preserve the lives of the innocent!"
He had bought them some extra time; Karos stepped back to confer with his generals, and the crowd stared in astonishment at Bruce and Clark, alone on the plain together.
And then Clark heard it, far off: the rushing of water. "They did it," he murmured to Bruce. "The dam is broken."
He could feel Bruce's fierce smile in his voice. "We've bought the city some time. Maybe a lot of it."
"You do realize, of course, that we're about to be stranded on this side of the river with a hostile army?"
"Then we'd better hope that Zeta Beam comes through very, very soon."
People in the army were pointing toward the mountains, their faces slack with shock. Karos looked torn between fury and admiration. Clark looked over and saw the wall of churning, muddy water coming down from the crags, rushing to flood the fords. There were cheers from the walls of the city, and growing roar of anger from the massed army. "Now would be nice," he muttered, gripping his quarterstaff tighter.
"This was all a trick!" howled Karos. "A ruse! And now you shall face our steel!"
Clark felt a smile tug at his lips, triumphant, as he gazed at the rank on rank of archers and spears. His voice carried over the growing sound of rushing water. "Steel can break the chains of slavery, Karos. But nothing can destroy the bonds of friendship."
"We shall see about that," Karos growled across the plain, his voice gone cold and determined. He barked a command and the air was filled with a storm of arrows, arching toward them.
The world fell away from them as Clark braced himself to shield Bruce.
It re-assembled itself around them into a suburb, alien but clearly modern. Srataanians who could be Ruu and Malak's descendents gaped at them as they materialized. Bruce stepped forward, shaking off disorientation. "We are Superman and Batman, sent here to negotiate a treaty between Srataan and Rann. Where are the talks being held?"
There was a long moment in which Clark began to worry they still weren't in the right place or time, but then a woman in a stall draped with bright cloth pointed down the street. "The Great Hall," she said. "They began fifteen minutes ago."
"Damn," said Bruce. He tossed a coin to the woman, whose eyes widened in amazement at the ancient stamp, and grabbed a length of black cloth to use as a makeshift mask. "We'd better hurry."
They did.
: : :
Hours later they were sitting at a banquet table, their clothes hastily changed for something more appropriate for the time, being served something very similar to a vegetable dish Clark had come to love during their months on the planet. The opening talks had gone surprisingly smoothly--but then, Clark and Bruce had an advantage now. Bruce knew when the lead Srataanian tilted his head and squinted, that was a common nonverbal way of expressing cautious interest. Clark knew that an allusion to "the time of storm" was a reference to the myth in which Dilandra reshaped the world, and could play upon those themes to good effect. All in all, Clark had to conclude, their months stranded in the past had prepared them well for the talks.
"At least we managed to keep from changing the past too much the second time," he whispered to Bruce as a musician set up some kind of massive harp with a multitude of strings.
The crowd hushed as the harpist ran a hand across the strings, a sweet glimmer of music running through the hall. He smiled at Clark and Bruce. "Welcome to Srataan, honored Batman and Superman. Tonight I shall play for you the greatest song of our people, the Rubaiyat of Freedom. It tells the story of how the sin of slavery was finally abolished from our world and equality came to rule our land." He struck the strings again and raised his voice:
The city stood silent in fear and amaze
Before the great army come hither to raze
Its walls and its turrets, then sentence to die
Each person within, in the perilous blaze.
But then from the city, their heads held up high
Came forth two strong men--fair of form, blue of eye
Together they stood back to back on the field
To give the cruel army courageous reply.
As equals they waited, refusing to yield
And all gazed in wonder at what they revealed
As friends and as comrades they stood, bright and true--
Their love for each other shone out, unconcealed.
Clark felt his ears turning red with embarrassment as the Rubaiyat continued, extolling the grace and mercy of the heroes, how they had shown the world a vision of true equality and purest love before being assumed bodily to heaven before the eyes of all the peoples. As the singer launched into an entirely mythical account of their births and youth together, Clark closed his eyes and prayed for it to end soon.
There were eighty-eight stanzas--he counted--each more ludicrous than the last. But when Bruce's hand found his under the table, tracing laughter into his palm as the singer warbled:
Their love was not conquered by warfare or years
Vaster than empires, stronger than spears
Their bond it was deathless, their friendship complete
Together forever, through joy and through tears.
--he decided he didn't mind listening to it so much, as long as Bruce's strong fingers stayed entwined with his.
Pairing/Characters: Clark/Bruce
Rating: R
Warnings: None needed.
Summary: Clark and Bruce eventually catch a Zeta Beam, but it doesn't quite go as they hope...and now the tables are turned. Part one is here!
Continuity: Comics, set in the (one hopes) near future when Bruce is back and the war between New Krypton and Earth is concluded. Contains random unfounded speculation. :)
Word Count: 7500
Notes: To thank kungfunurse for her kind and generous donation to Doctors Without Borders for help_haiti!
They reached Zuuri in three days--almost too quickly for Clark's liking. Even the venomous glances cast by a sulking Captain Li couldn't sour his mood, not with Bruce at his side and in his bed.
Zuuri resembled a reconstruction of ancient Babylon: golden brick ziggurauts and tall palm-like trees, with something like a coliseum in the center. "You should take your amri to get him a proper collar, now that you can afford it," noted the caravan-master.
Clark's purse was heavy and jangling with money given by fellow caravan-riders grateful for Bruce's dancing and tea-serving. He cast Bruce a look, and Bruce surprised him by saying "A proper collar would be pleasant, dearest Master."
And so Clark found himself in one of the better purveyors of slave jewelry in Zuuri. The store owner, a willowy woman with auburn hair and vermilion-tipped fingernails, ignored Bruce entirely and addressed herself only to Clark. It shouldn't have surprised him, of course, but somehow he couldn't help it--it didn't seem possible anyone could ignore the man at his side.
"Would honored sir be wanting an anklet as well?" She produced a tray of glittering metal and gems.
Clark eyed Bruce surreptitiously, but the other man stood with his eyes cast politely down. Clark ran his gaze over the rows of belled chains--and stopped. One anklet was a rich, metallic blue. Clark touched it lightly. "Do you have any collars in this metal?"
"Of course, honored sir."
The owner went into the back of the store and returned with a light collar of filigreed metal, royal blue and gleaming. "I'll take this and the anklet," Clark said.
The owner handed it to him and Clark stared at it, then at Bruce. "Only you may have the honor of collaring me, Master," said Bruce. Clark's hands shook slightly as he clicked the collar shut around Bruce's proud neck and Bruce shot him a look that made him want to hurry back to their room.
As they left the store, the bells on Bruce's foot chimed sweetly, and people turned to look at Clark and his treasure. Clark's ears burned: he felt foolish and proud and humiliated and aroused all at once.
When they got to their inn room, Bruce pulled the little Zeta Beam tracker out of their bag. "We've got three more days before the Beam comes through. And it looks like it's going to touch down right in the middle of that coliseum," he said, pointing.
"Is it going to take a crowd of Srataanians with us?"
Bruce snorted impatiently--an incongruous sound coming from a man dressed only in a silk-and-fur loincloth and a slave collar, and one that made Clark's blood heat. "Zeta Beams only work on people who've been exposed to the proper radiation beforehand, you know that."
"I'm surprised you were willing to get a collar."
Bruce shrugged at the abrupt topic change, looked out the window. "Less likely to draw unwanted attention that way. Besides," he said, then stopped.
"Besides what?"
Bruce still wasn't looking at him. "I thought, when we got back to Earth, I might melt it down. Make something new of it."
"An ashtray?"
Bruce didn't rise to Clark's light tone. "I was thinking more along the lines of matching rings."
"Oh," Clark said and couldn't think of anything else to say at all.
"Would you mind?"
"It would be a lot prettier as rings." Clark's voice was a bit hoarse; he swallowed hard.
Bruce flashed him a quick smile, gone like lightning, then went to sit down on the bed. "So we've got three days," he said.
"Three days," Clark echoed. "What are your plans?"
Bruce stretched out on the bed, arms above his head, a portrait in seduction. "I'm sure we'll think of something to do to pass the time," he said.
And indeed they did.
: : :
The fun came to an abrupt end two days later, when there was a pounding on the door. Clark barely had time to roll out of bed and throw on a robe when the door burst open and five armed guards stomped into the room. The leader unrolled a piece of parchment and read out loud: "For the crime of impersonating an amri, for mocking with this pretense the holy name of Dilandra, we sentence you to--"
Bruce was already moving forward, kneeling before the guard, stark naked and totally composed. "He didn't know," Bruce murmured. "The deception is all mine."
The guard seized Bruce by the shoulder, dragged him upright. He glared at Clark. "Is this true?"
Clark bit his lip and forced himself to say the words. "I had no idea," he said, forcing shock and horror into his voice. "Bruce, how could you?"
Bruce met his eyes squarely. "I had to be with you. This was the only way." Clark's heart lurched at the look in his eyes; it was all lies, but beneath it--
"Consider yourself under investigation," growled the guard, glaring at Clark. "The execution is scheduled for tomorrow at sun's zenith, and if we find--"
"--Execution?" Clark felt his face going pale.
"Of course," said the guard. "The price all who wish to cheat the holy Dilandra pay." He started to drag Bruce from the room, but Bruce pulled free from his grip for a second.
"Clark," he said. "I love you."
It was an act for the guards, of course.
Bruce looked at him.
"I love you too," Clark whispered.
The guard gave him a suspicious scowl as they pulled Bruce away. Clark caught a glimpse of Captain Li lurking in the hallway; the door closed on his smile.
The room was very quiet when they were gone, and Clark swallowed hard. Then he saw the Zeta Beam tracker, still partially tucked into the pocket of his uniform. On a sudden hunch, he pulled it out and checked it.
Fifteen minutes after noon the next day.
: : :
The coliseum was full of people cheering and drinking beer, looking forward to the execution. Apparently this was one of the few sources of entertainment in Zuuri. Clark fidgeted in his seat under the watchful eye of the guards, who clearly considered him still under suspicion. The sun was a scarlet disc in the roof of the sky, lowering.
They brought Bruce out. He was wearing nothing but a cotton loincloth and his hands were tied behind his back. They had left him his blue steel collar, Clark had no idea why. His head was high, and his eyes found Clark's in the crowd immediately, as if he could have picked Clark out of a million people without effort. He probably could.
He was smiling slightly.
The guard behind him forced him to his knees and another hulking man stepped up with a monstrous scimitar in his hand. The sun glinted crimson off the edge as he raised it. As he stood poised, a woman in midnight-blue robes emblazoned with the five-petaled flower stepped up to address Bruce. "Blasphemer of Dilandra, have you any last words?"
Bruce locked eyes with Clark and spoke directly to him, his voice ringing through the coliseum: "This is for you, my true Master. As is all I do."
As the scimitar came down, he threw off his guard's grasp and dodged, tumbling in the dust. Instantly, the rest of the guards stepped forward with pikes and swords drawn. Clark felt his own fingers gripping his knees almost painfully, even though he knew better: unarmed, half-naked, bound, Bruce was still more than a match for them all.
It was a dance, Clark realized as the crowd gasped, as Bruce's almost-bare body swayed and moved and flashed between the sword-points. Nothing like the dance he'd done on the plains, though even more beautiful. Bruce's true dance, balanced on the knife-edge of death, always a heartbeat away from killing or being killed.
His hands were free now--he tossed the dagger he'd grabbed from a guard aside with disdain, relying on his bare hands. There was a sheen of sweat on his skin; he glowed in the brilliance of the sun, dancing.
The last guard fell.
The crowd gasped as a horn was blown; the injured guards scrambled to get out of the ring as a giant black panther with a few too many legs and sabertoothed fangs bounded into the coliseum, snarling.
Bruce bowed to it as it charged.
The panther and the man dodged and weaved, leaping and whirling. Crimson sprang across Bruce's chest and Clark was standing, moving to leap down and help, struggling against the guards until a spearpoint was placed against his back. Bruce glanced at him, a plea not to distract him further, and Clark saw the cut was long but shallow, seeping blood but not dangerous.
Bruce turned his attention back to the panther; as it charged him again he leapt on its back in a blur of motion, arms locked around its neck. The beast roared and flung itself around, but Bruce held on, throttling it until it slowly sagged to the ground, defeated. Bruce vaulted from its back, leaving it to retreat woozily.
He landed on the sand and dropped into a graceful obeisance, gazing at Clark. The coliseum was totally silent.
And then the applause and the shouting began, a wave that mounted and broke into chaos.
Surrounded by riotous cheers, Clark and Bruce merely looked at each other until the Zeta Beam locked onto them and the world dissolved around them.
: : :
Clark staggered as the coliseum re-formed around him, silent and empty now, the stone walls chipped and scarred as if from many years of battles. He gazed wildly at the center of the arena, his heart leaping as he saw Bruce there as well, blood still trickling from the wound on his chest. "Bruce!" Clark jumped from the bleachers to join him--and found himself soaring downward lightly, his brain only dimly processing that the sunlight was yellow once more.
He landed with a jarring thump on the sand next to Bruce--powers still not optimal yet--and threw his arms around him, relief singing in his veins. "We made it!"
Bruce made a neutral sound, looking around. "I don't think we're where we want to be yet. This coliseum isn't in the capital in our time. We've moved, but to where--when?" Despite his dry tone, his arms went around Clark as well, holding him close.
Clark pulled back enough to pull the Zeta beam detector out. He groaned as he read the screen. "The next beam isn't going to come through for...over a month. It will sweep past about three kilometers to the west of this spot--at least it's close." He narrowed his eyes at the detector. "It doesn't have a specific time pinpointed yet, but--"
He didn't get to finish the sentence, as the machine in his hands exploded into fragments of plastic and glass. An arrow thudded into the ground amid a shower of broken bits as Clark and Bruce whirled to meet their attacker.
"Don't move," snarled the man holding the bow and arrow. He was dressed in light leather armor, his coppery hair pulled back into a ponytail. A half-dozen similarly-clad men and women came running up behind him, bows at the ready. Then he caught sight of Bruce's collar, gleaming cobalt-blue in the sunlight, and his eyes widened. He dropped to his knees. "My Lord! Forgive me, I didn't realize!" As Clark and Bruce stared, he turned to the others and hissed, "He wears a Collar of Command!"
With a massive clatter of dropped bows, the group knelt as one before Bruce. "Forgive our presumption, Lord, and spare our worthless lives," intoned the leader of the group. "We did not realize you were a tal-amri."
Clark looked at the groveling Srataanians and resisted an urge to mutter, "Oh boy."
: : :
"Thank you, Amo, for escorting my fellow tal-amri to me." Lord Garash of Zuuri was a slender man with close-cropped golden hair and muddy brown eyes set just a bit too close together for handsomeness. The ornate collar around his neck was made of gold and studded with opals. He patted the kneeling man on his coppery head, then ignored him entirely; Amo bowed out of the room slowly, keeping his eyes cast down.
Still uncertain what had caused this radical change of fortunes, Clark kept his eyes lowered to the ornate brocade carpet as well. Beside him, he felt Bruce start to say something, but Garesh cut him off. "--No, let me see if I can deduce why you're here."
"Very well," Bruce said, and Clark could hear the slight amusement in his voice.
"Judging from your accent and...clothing choice...you are visiting from the deep South. Here in Zuuri we usually wear more clothing. I shall provide some if you like." Bruce murmured his thanks as Garesh went on, "You must be a third or fourth son, if you have only one personal servant. I assume it would be too much to hope your personal army is arriving behind you?" He didn't wait for Bruce's answer this time. "You seem brave and restless; I assume you have heard of Zuuri's plight and have come to aid us against the approaching foe." He chuckled slightly. "Indeed, our plight is such I would not turn down even the help of only two more men."
"Exactly how bad is it?"
Garesh sighed; Clark heard the clink of glass on glass, wine from a decanter. "It's quite bad. Karos's army has Ujul under siege; it's only a matter of time until they submit. After that, he will certainly march on Zuuri. We have no more than a month, maybe two." He handed Bruce a glass. "Damn him and his Rebellion! The tal-amri have ruled Srataan wisely and well for centuries; How dare he interfere with the natural order of things?"
"But did not the tal-amri start as slaves themselves?" Only Clark could have heard the strain in Bruce's voice as he went out on a limb.
Garesh was silent a moment, and Clark wished he could risk an upward glance. "Ancient history," he finally said. "Did not the glory and passion of the Dark One reveal that the amri's true destiny was not to serve, but to rule?"
"Of course, the Dark One," Bruce said, his voice flat.
"May his memory guide us," murmured Garesh, with a rustle of movement that could have been a bow. Clark heard Bruce's intake of breath and looked up.
Garesh had bowed toward an alcove lit with candles, a piece of art in mosaic set into it. A dark-haired man riding a black panther, head high in triumph. Beyond the dark hair, he didn't look anything like Bruce.
"May his memory guide us," Bruce echoed.
: : :
Clark looked around their room. It was opulent, rich, details picked out with gold leaf. Clark grimaced at the luxury, but had to admit the massive four-poster feather bed looked good after a week on the road or in cheap hotels. A quick scan around the room revealed at least two different spyholes, but no heartbeats behind them. "There's no one around," he said, and a little of the tension went out of Bruce's shoulders.
"I hate time travel," Bruce growled, throwing open the closet. It had already been stocked with a variety of outfits in his size; Bruce grimaced at the array of flashy cloth. "Nothing in black, damn it."
"We changed the past," Clark said as Bruce shimmied out of his loincloth and grabbed a tunic of iridescent blue-green, dark as peacock feathers. "What now?"
Bruce scratched at the dried blood on his chest and grimaced at his fingernails. "Now we take a bath and get ready to go back to dinner with our host."
The marble bathtub was already full of warm water; Bruce poured a dipperful over his head and sighed as he worked soap into his hair. Clark came up behind him and started to massage his scalp, prompting a contented sigh. "So in this time the amri have become tal-amri and are the ruling class."
Bruce nodded, leaning back into Clark's touch. "It looks like it's close to a feudal system. The tal-amri are hereditary lords now, and they own serfs. Armies of serfs. Or sometimes just a few personal servants."
"They've assumed I'm your...personal servant."
Another nod. "Just how personal, I don't know." A soapy hand slipped up Clark's thigh. "Feel free to play it however you like."
Clark couldn't help but smile. "Now it's my turn to make you uncomfortable."
Bruce snorted. "I think you'll find I'm unflappable," he boasted.
Clark dumped the dipper of water over his head and listened to him sputter for a moment before capturing his mouth. "I like a challenge," he whispered into the kiss.
: : :
"I thought you said you liked a challenge?" Bruce taunted only a half hour later. "Chickening out already?"
Clark glared at the rack of sheer, nearly-transparent clothing. "I'm just...having a hard time choosing." He reached in and grabbed a shimmering golden robe, throwing it around himself. To his dismay, it turned out to be woven in shifting patterns of opacity and transparency, so it exposed bits of him in different configurations every time he moved. "Yikes," he muttered.
"I like it," said Bruce, eyeing him from head to toe. "Now you need some jewelry."
"Jewelry?" groaned Clark as Bruce held up a glittering band with a loop of chain attached to it.
"Hold still," said Bruce, and Clark felt the band close gently on the ridge of his ear, the chain swaying below. "And the final touch..."
"Oh no," said Clark. "Come on, no."
Bruce just grinned as he swiped his finger into the little pot. It came up glittering with gold. "It's just a little bit of lip gloss and blush, Clark."
"Good grief," Clark said, but he held still as Bruce brushed gloss over his lips and cheeks, his fingers sure and certain. He dabbled his fingers in Clark's hair for a second, then stepped back, examining the final product with a critical eye. Clark rolled his eyes. "How ridiculous do I look?"
Bruce tilted his head, considering. "You look...radiant," he said. Clark made a scoffing noise, and Bruce almost smiled. "You look like a god of the sun, come to earth to dazzle us all." Clark eyed him suspiciously, but Bruce was just gazing at him, a faraway look in his eyes. Clark sneaked a look in the mirror and didn't see anything so special beyond a lot of flashy glitter; Bruce must be in a teasing mood.
Bruce shook himself out of his reverie. "Ready to go to dinner?" When Clark nodded, he swept from the room with his head high, Clark falling into step behind him.
Garesh and two other people wearing the Collars of Command were already sitting at the table; they rose and bowed as Bruce entered the room. They were both younger, a man and a woman. The man was golden-haired like Garesh, with a family resemblance about the mouth. The woman had close-cropped auburn hair and an austere air about her. "My son, Garam, and the Lady Ruu," said Garesh. "Lady Ruu owns a smaller settlement to the west, but she brought her people here when Karos began his march toward Zuuri."
Each of the three tal-amri had a person sitting behind their chair, clearly ready to leap into service; Clark took his place behind Bruce, watching them for cues.
"What will you do in preparation for Karos's attack?" Bruce asked as Garesh's servant poured him a glass of wine and handed it on to Garam's servant.
"Do?" Garesh sipped his wine. "We are hopelessly outnumbered, and there is nowhere to flee to. We shall fight and we shall be defeated." His voice was resigned and cold.
The wine decanter continued to move from servant to servant; when Ruu's retainer handed it to Clark their eyes met and a small, wry smile crossed the other's face for an instant. Clark poured Bruce a cup of wine and Bruce sipped it politely.
Garam leaned forward. "Father, I still think we could--"
Garesh cut him off with a slicing motion of his hand. "We have discussed this, Garam." The conversation was clearly closed; Garam leaned back in his chair, grimacing. He met Ruu's eyes and something flashed between them; Ruu shook her head very slightly. Clark filed as much as possible away for later--Bruce was going to insist on going over every detail to get some grasp on the situation. Stranded here until nearly the date Karos would arrive...it was going to be a challenge.
"Damn him and his rabble of 'free folk,'" Garesh snarled, putting the goblet down with a thump. "Putting ideas in serfs' heads, pointless dreams of equality and freedom."
"Razing cities to the ground is not exactly positive progress," Ruu noted. Her voice was low and level.
"Not for the people who get razed," Garam said with a wry twist to his mouth.
Fortunately, the three tal-amri were anxious to discuss the rebel army, and thus didn't push Bruce to give many personal details. When they asked him questions, Bruce sidestepped them neatly, plucking bits of information from their questions to give back to them.
"If I had known they grew such beautiful serfs in the southern mountains, I would have been vacationing there," Garesh said, arching an eyebrow and looking Clark over. "He's really quite magnificent, isn't he, Ruu? Perhaps you can convince Lord Buruus to share him later."
Ruu barely glanced at him as Clark set his jaw and tried not to fidget at the scrutiny. "I find Malak satisfactory to my needs," she said curtly.
"Thank you, Lady," murmured the man behind her, bowing slightly. Ruu met his eyes and smiled briefly, and the look that passed between them was another Clark stored away for later.
"Clark is handsome indeed," Bruce said. "Handsome, skilled, intelligent...and entirely mine." His tone was pointed and Garesh looked crestfallen.
"Ah," their host said. "I'll admit I was hoping to arrange an exchange. Amo is quite talented in all the best ways," he said, waving a hand at the archer who had captured them earlier, unable to see the sneer that briefly distorted his serf's angular face.
"I'm sure Amo is wonderful," Bruce said, "But Clark is mine and mine alone." Clark could hear his heart was beating a little faster, as if he were anxious.
"Oh, you're one of those possessive types," Garesh shrugged. "Well, there's no accounting for tastes."
Clark felt relief wash through him, relief mixed with an odd warmth at the tone of Bruce's voice. It probably shouldn't make him feel like that to have Bruce talk about him as a valuable possession.
The warmth refused to go away as Bruce stroked a hand down his arm; in fact, if anything it flared hotter. "I don't usually like to display him so...openly," Bruce said. "But it seemed rude not to let my hosts admire his beauty." Clark gritted his teeth against an embarrassed blush--and an even more alarming heat that was not going to his face at all. He shifted to stand a little more securely behind Bruce's chair. "You are fortunate to get a glimpse of him. At home I generally kept him cloistered so that only I could gaze upon him."
Garesh looked rapt at the thought and was about to ask another question when a silvery chime rang in another room. The other three servants bowed briefly and left the room; Clark followed their example.
He found himself in a large kitchen, where a handful of cooks was putting together a meal. "Can you believe that lech?" Garesh's servant, Amo, muttered as they waited. "You're lucky your Lord is possessive, Klaak. Trust me, you don't want him in your bed."
Malak looked worried. "He really isn't going to fortify the city? Or even prepare?"
Amo made a harsh sound in his throat; his hands twitched as if he longed to be holding a bow. "He'll cast the city's serfs up against Karos, bathe the town in blood--then sue for peace, hoping to bribe Karos into letting him live. He won't do any fighting. None of them ever do."
"Ruu--I mean, the Lady Ruu--she wants to help in the defense personally." Malak looked slightly appalled at himself for using his Mistress's name casually, but no one remarked on it.
"Lord Bruce will as well," Clark said. "And his help can be valuable indeed."
Amo shook his head, his coppery ponytail swishing. "Listen to you, sticking up for them. I'll help fight because I love this city, but I won't be sacrificing my body for Garesh. And more serfs than you think will be crossing the river at night to join Karos's army, I'll wager."
Malak looked grave. "I'm certain you're right," he said.
The cooks put the food in front of them and they picked up the heaping platters. Amo grimaced. "All this food for them. It's a damn waste," he said. Clearing his throat, he spat neatly into Garesh's gravy bowl, to appreciative laughter from the kitchen staff. "A little present for my Lord," he grinned as they left with the food.
: : :
Bruce's shoulders sagged as the door to their room closed behind them. He started to say something, then met Clark's eyes, and his own went wary at what they saw there. Clark flickered a quick glance toward one of the spyholes, knowing Bruce would catch it and understand the implication: behind the wall, Clark could hear soft breathing.
"The Lord Garesh is both kind and wise," he murmured, to make clear just whose heartbeat he heard nearby.
"He is indeed." Bruce raised his arms slightly. "Divest me of my outer garments, my beauty." As Clark bent to slowly strip the iridescent green brocade from him, Bruce's hand slid up his arm, the fingers signing: Go slowly. Stall. Don't worry. Bruce's smile went just a touch mischievous as Clark glanced up from the cloth-covered buttons. "So are you wishing you were in Garesh's bed right now?" His voice was rough, but his eyes--where Garesh couldn't see them--were twinkling.
Clark allowed his honest horror to tint his voice. "My precious Lord and Master! You know I belong only to you." He drew the heavy brocade over Bruce's head, his hands dancing lightly across the thin raw silk covering Bruce's back: Why not put on a show for the old goat?
Bruce turned to stare at Clark, his eyes for a moment honestly wide. He narrowed them with an apparent effort. "Do remember that, my jewel." He touched Clark's cheek: Don't be perverse. I'm trying to protect you here.
Clark gestured for Bruce to sit down on the bed so he could draw off his boots. On Bruce's instep, he signed lightly: I can take care of myself. We're more than a match for some lech.
Bruce's fingers drummed in his hair with a touch of annoyance: Why are you always so stubborn?
Why are you bickering with me instead of making out with me? Clark reached up to unbuckle Bruce's pants, his fingers flicking over Bruce's abdomen. Let's show him what he's missing. Nothing too intimate-- A flick of fingers under the waistband and Bruce dragged in a sudden breath, --But why not give him an eyeful?
Bruce shook his head slowly, staring down at Clark's deferential posture. "You are...amazing," he said.
Clark cast his eyes down in polite deference--and so he didn't have to meet Bruce's smoldering gaze. "You know I am your helpless thrall in all things, body and soul." He gently tugged down Bruce's pants, leaving him dressed only in a light silk undertunic and leggings.
Bruce ran a hand through his hair and flopped backward himself on the bed. The sigh of contentment as the feathery blankets settled around him was entirely unfeigned. "Come here," he said, beckoning.
Clark sat down on the bed. "What does my Master require of me?"
"Your body and soul, of course," murmured Bruce. He grasped Clark's hand and drew him down beside him, pressing a kiss onto his forehead. "I have your body here," he said, running a hand down the light cloth covering Clark's ribcage to his hip. "But tonight I want you to demonstrate that I have your soul as well."
"I--" Clark swallowed hard. Bruce's hand was warm on his hip, the fingers resting lightly on the jut of his hipbone. Nowhere near any truly sensitive area, and yet somehow the intimacy of that confident touch sent warmth running through Clark's body. He shifted slightly, and the thick, soft mattress pushed him against Bruce from collarbone to toes in a long, luxurious caress. Clark felt his body stirring into life, nudging against layers of silk, a sweet friction he tried to ignore. "I'll do anything you ask me, Lord. How can I prove my soul is yours?"
"Tell me." Bruce's lips were at the base of his throat now, which meant Clark's swiftly hardening erection was up tight against Bruce's stomach. Clark resisted the urge to tilt his hips into the firm muscled planes. "I want you you to tell me." A flicker of tongue into the groove of his collarbone and Clark groaned aloud. "With words," Bruce clarified, wriggling slightly against Clark to make his point. "Tell me how much you're mine." Bruce's voice was husky and warm, and Clark felt a lazy spiral of desire unwinding in him, almost hypnotically.
"I'm yours, Lord," he whispered. "Yours." His erection jolted, surprisingly demanding, at the words, and Clark lost himself for a moment in a haze of arousal. A sharp nip at the skin of his neck jarred him: As long as I'm talking he won't have to do anything more...intimate with Garesh watching, he reminded himself. Keep talking.
"I've wanted to be yours since the moment I saw you." He remembered it, bright behind his heavy eyelids: the shock of desire, involuntary and undeniable, a lust that had only grown sweeter and deeper as he came to know the man behind the cowl.
"Yes," groaned Bruce into his neck. "I knew. I had to have you someday. Had to--" His hand tightened in the soft cloth on Clark's hip, drawing it more tightly against heated flesh, and Clark felt the spiral of lust winding through him even stronger. "--Had to take you. Make you mine."
He was acting, of course. Acting for their audience. Clark knew that, but the thought was small and far away somehow, and the pleasure at the words was intensely real. "Anything you want from me is yours, my Lord," he whispered. His voice sounded strange in his own ears. Bruce's hands were drawing lazy patterns on his sides and hips that seemed to be keeping him from thinking very clearly. What was a slave supposed to say here? He couldn't seem to focus his thoughts. "I just want to make you happy." That sounded right. "To give my body to you and you alone."
"I want your soul. I want your heart." Bruce's voice was muffled against his skin, oddly fierce.
"Yours. All yours."
"Yes," hissed Bruce, and the triumph in his voice made the lust in Clark turn sharp and rich, difficult to control at all. "I know." He kissed Clark, a very long kiss, his hands roaming over Clark's back, and Clark relaxed into the feeling, letting his body's demands fade to a dim clamor, merely resting in the kiss and holding his lover. They stayed like that for a long time, hovering in delight, until Clark heard nearly-silent footsteps moving away from the spyhole. Apparently Garesh had gotten tired of waiting for them to get to the hardcore entertainment.
Clark wasn't sure if Bruce had heard the quiet footfalls. He opened his mouth to say something...and then closed it again. "My Lord's caresses are sweet," he murmured instead. "I am truly blessed to belong to him."
Bruce pulled back and stared at him, and Clark could see in his eyes he had heard their observer depart too. Whatever he saw in Clark's face made the surprise in his fade to a sharp, predatory look. "Tell me again," he said, one hand tightening slightly in Clark's hair. "I want to hear it again. Tell me you're mine."
"Body and soul," Clark whispered.
Bruce's voice was husky, nearly shaking. "Show me."
Clark showed him.
: : :
"I need a haircut," Clark complained, brushing back the locks that had started to tumble over his collar after more than a month away from Earth.
"Serfs aren't allowed to have short hair," Bruce noted, staring out at the archers training in the courtyard. He grimaced. "They're not going to be ready."
"They'll be as ready as they can be." With only days before Karos arrived with his army, Clark knew better than to try and reassure Bruce. It only made him snappish and they both knew the reassurances were empty.
There was a good chance the Zeta Beam would sweep through just before the battle. Or just after. Or maybe during. Not for the first time, Clark cursed the loss of the detector that would have let them be more precise.
"If all else fails," he had murmured to Bruce weeks ago, "I can prevent any bloodshed. A fully-powered Kryptonian--"
"--We've already meddled in Srataanian history once," Bruce had responded. "We're trying to keep it to a minimum here. We don't need you to become a god."
"But I will do something, if it's necessary to prevent a slaughter."
Bruce had frowned, but merely said, "Of course."
Lady Ruu was pacing the parapet, looking down upon the drilling serfs. Her servant, Malak, walked beside her. Lately he hadn't been bothering to keep the respectful three paces behind her. They looked at each other and Clark could see the worry flashing between them.
"They're not going to be ready," Ruu said as the pair drew closer.
"You've trained them as best you can in the bow, and Clark and I in hand-to-hand combat."
"Not enough," she said, gritting her teeth. "They'll be massacred, and for what? To defend a class of lords which no longer does anything but sit on their padded arses and eat peeled grapes. Karos is right--the tal-amri are a blight on society and must be eliminated."
Clark saw Bruce's eyebrow shoot upward; it was the most blunt Ruu had been about the slavery system since they arrived. "But not through bloodshed," he said.
"I would prefer it not be by the blood of these brave people, no." Her lips quirked in a sad, bitter smile. "Or my own."
"There must be some other way. There's always another way."
Malak was frowning. He started to speak, then caught himself. "Permission to speak, Mistress?" Ruu nodded and he went on: "Karos's army will encamp on the other side of the river before their assault," he said, gesturing toward the wide river with its shallow ford. "If the river were to flood..."
"...It would stall them, give us more time. Maybe convince them to turn away." Ruu nodded. "But the rainy season is months away. We can't--"
"--We can." Garem, Garesh's son, stepped from a shadowed doorway. "There's an old dam up in the mountains. My father constructed it a decade ago. If it were to give way the river would be unfordable." His eyes flicked to each person in turn. "I can show you the way."
Bruce nodded slowly. "How long a trip is it?"
Garem frowned. "A few days."
Bruce looked at Ruu. "You know the people here better than I do. Pick a team and go. Clark and I will stall the army."
Her auburn eyebrows rose into her hair. "Stall?"
"We'll find a way."
She gave both of them a long, assessing look. "Maybe you will, at that." The three of them took off at a lope to assemble a group.
"Stall?" Clark asked when they were out of earshot.
"We bluff. We're good at that. And we hope the Zeta Beam doesn't come through too early." Bruce took Clark's arm. "Let's hit the library and find some archaic laws we can use against Karos."
The other serfs looked at them as they left arm-in-arm, but Bruce paid them no attention at all.
: : :
"All right," said Clark, "Your plan is working perfectly." He shifted his grip on his dagger and eyed the long line of rag-tag soldiers massed before them.
"Flawlessly," Bruce retorted over his shoulder. They were back-to-back on the far side of the still-unflooded river, the city walls depressingly distant. "As Zuuri's champions, we have to be given the right to confront the enemy champion before the army attack the city."
"You do realize they're deciding whether to just attack us en masse," Clark muttered, listening to the growl of conversations from the horde. "Or fill us full of arrows."
"Of course."
"What's your plan if they try it?"
Clark felt Bruce's shoulder-blades press against his just a little more snugly. "We'll wing it."
"Nifty."
Bruce's body shook slightly against his in a quiet chuckle. "Have a little faith, Clark."
Clark was going to respond with something scathing--he just wasn't sure what yet--when the crowd parted to reveal a man striding toward them across the plain. He was short, and wasn't dressed in any finery, just homespun robes and boiled leather armor, but Clark could sense the confidence and power emanating from him. Karos, leader of the Serf Rebellion.
Karos stopped well short of the pair, but Clark could sense his keen regard. "Who are you and why do you face me?"
Clark recited the ritual words they'd found in the library: "We stand between you and the city and challenge you to combat us, the champions of that city."
Karos's eyes flicked to Bruce's neck and the glimmering blue metal collar, then back to Clark. "Your tal-amri allows you to speak for him? An unusual man." He took a step forward. "And he risks his life with yours. Truly, he is like no other tal-amri I have ever met."
"There are more than you might think," Clark said, thinking of Ruu and Garem in the mountains, struggling together to break the dam and save the city.
Karos's mouth was set in a hard line. "Then why do you oppose us?" A low rumble, angry and solid, was rising from the mass of people behind him, and Clark eyed them anxiously. He couldn't keep Bruce safe if they attacked, not unless he revealed his powers...
There was a sharp motion behind him as Bruce reached up and wrenched off the shining blue Collar of Command. He threw it into the field between him and the rebel leader, and the rumble changed to a murmur, full of shock. "We do not oppose your goal. We do stand between you and the city," Bruce called into the space between them. "But we stand together today not as a master and slave, but as equals. Back to back, side by side, sharing in all fates and all things. There is no mastery in friendship, and no slavery in love." He raised his voice to a shout. "We stand here together to say this!"
Clark picked up his cue as Bruce fell silent. "Today I fight not for the glory of a tal-amri, but for the honor of our friendship. I would give anything for him--and he for me. And we both--" his words rang out across the plain, "--we both would give anything to preserve the lives of the innocent!"
He had bought them some extra time; Karos stepped back to confer with his generals, and the crowd stared in astonishment at Bruce and Clark, alone on the plain together.
And then Clark heard it, far off: the rushing of water. "They did it," he murmured to Bruce. "The dam is broken."
He could feel Bruce's fierce smile in his voice. "We've bought the city some time. Maybe a lot of it."
"You do realize, of course, that we're about to be stranded on this side of the river with a hostile army?"
"Then we'd better hope that Zeta Beam comes through very, very soon."
People in the army were pointing toward the mountains, their faces slack with shock. Karos looked torn between fury and admiration. Clark looked over and saw the wall of churning, muddy water coming down from the crags, rushing to flood the fords. There were cheers from the walls of the city, and growing roar of anger from the massed army. "Now would be nice," he muttered, gripping his quarterstaff tighter.
"This was all a trick!" howled Karos. "A ruse! And now you shall face our steel!"
Clark felt a smile tug at his lips, triumphant, as he gazed at the rank on rank of archers and spears. His voice carried over the growing sound of rushing water. "Steel can break the chains of slavery, Karos. But nothing can destroy the bonds of friendship."
"We shall see about that," Karos growled across the plain, his voice gone cold and determined. He barked a command and the air was filled with a storm of arrows, arching toward them.
The world fell away from them as Clark braced himself to shield Bruce.
It re-assembled itself around them into a suburb, alien but clearly modern. Srataanians who could be Ruu and Malak's descendents gaped at them as they materialized. Bruce stepped forward, shaking off disorientation. "We are Superman and Batman, sent here to negotiate a treaty between Srataan and Rann. Where are the talks being held?"
There was a long moment in which Clark began to worry they still weren't in the right place or time, but then a woman in a stall draped with bright cloth pointed down the street. "The Great Hall," she said. "They began fifteen minutes ago."
"Damn," said Bruce. He tossed a coin to the woman, whose eyes widened in amazement at the ancient stamp, and grabbed a length of black cloth to use as a makeshift mask. "We'd better hurry."
They did.
: : :
Hours later they were sitting at a banquet table, their clothes hastily changed for something more appropriate for the time, being served something very similar to a vegetable dish Clark had come to love during their months on the planet. The opening talks had gone surprisingly smoothly--but then, Clark and Bruce had an advantage now. Bruce knew when the lead Srataanian tilted his head and squinted, that was a common nonverbal way of expressing cautious interest. Clark knew that an allusion to "the time of storm" was a reference to the myth in which Dilandra reshaped the world, and could play upon those themes to good effect. All in all, Clark had to conclude, their months stranded in the past had prepared them well for the talks.
"At least we managed to keep from changing the past too much the second time," he whispered to Bruce as a musician set up some kind of massive harp with a multitude of strings.
The crowd hushed as the harpist ran a hand across the strings, a sweet glimmer of music running through the hall. He smiled at Clark and Bruce. "Welcome to Srataan, honored Batman and Superman. Tonight I shall play for you the greatest song of our people, the Rubaiyat of Freedom. It tells the story of how the sin of slavery was finally abolished from our world and equality came to rule our land." He struck the strings again and raised his voice:
The city stood silent in fear and amaze
Before the great army come hither to raze
Its walls and its turrets, then sentence to die
Each person within, in the perilous blaze.
But then from the city, their heads held up high
Came forth two strong men--fair of form, blue of eye
Together they stood back to back on the field
To give the cruel army courageous reply.
As equals they waited, refusing to yield
And all gazed in wonder at what they revealed
As friends and as comrades they stood, bright and true--
Their love for each other shone out, unconcealed.
Clark felt his ears turning red with embarrassment as the Rubaiyat continued, extolling the grace and mercy of the heroes, how they had shown the world a vision of true equality and purest love before being assumed bodily to heaven before the eyes of all the peoples. As the singer launched into an entirely mythical account of their births and youth together, Clark closed his eyes and prayed for it to end soon.
There were eighty-eight stanzas--he counted--each more ludicrous than the last. But when Bruce's hand found his under the table, tracing laughter into his palm as the singer warbled:
Their love was not conquered by warfare or years
Vaster than empires, stronger than spears
Their bond it was deathless, their friendship complete
Together forever, through joy and through tears.
--he decided he didn't mind listening to it so much, as long as Bruce's strong fingers stayed entwined with his.