A Marble Dropped from the Sky -- Spencer/Brendon pre-slash -- Mature
Title: A Marble Dropped from the Sky
Author: sneaky_sena
Pairing: pre-slash, Brendon/Spencer
Rating: Mature (see warnings below)
Warnings: This story takes place in the aftermath, but there are mentions and hints of previous: underage non-con and/or dub-con, slavery, physical, sexual, and psychological abuse
Word Count: ~4,000
Summary: Spencer is a young watercrafter living peacefully on his father's steadholt until his peaceful life is shattered by the arrival of rescued slaves, among them a young boy about his age whose life has been anything but peaceful and secure.
Notes: This is very roughly set in the same universe as the Codex Alera series by Jim Butcher. I don't think you need to have read the books, though. Just know that it's a fantasy series where in late childhood/early adolescence, people bond with and are able to command one or more elemental forces, called furies (of water, air, metal, earth, fire, and wood). Wikipedia entry on the series for those interested.
Spencer woke suddenly. His heart was pounding and his breath caught in his throat. He didn't think that he'd been dreaming; something was wrong.
He was already out of bed, already pulling on his clothing when he heard his mother's feet on the stairs, hears her voice tense and thin. "Spencer! Spencer, wake up, we need you. Call for Kallan."
His mother was the best healer within five days travel, even better than the official healer serving the soldiers at garrison. Spencer was learning from her, could fix scrapes and bruises, mend bone. She'd never needed his help before, and the thought that she was calling on him the same way she'd call any other healer sent a bolt of pride and adrenaline through him. His fury, Kallan, was already there with him, like he always was.
He shruged on his tunic and hurried down the hall towards her. He didn't have to ask where he was supposed to go; he could hear voices in the great hall, thought he could pick out his father's voice above the others. He was filled with nervous excitement, ready to prove himself, ready to help whoever's been hurt.
His mother reached out and gripped his wrist tightly, causing the bones to grind together.
"Mother!" Spencer cried.
She didn't ease her grip. "Listen to me, now," she whispered. "Spencer, you must not open your mind to them. You must shield yourself from them, do you understand?"
"Mother, you're--"
She let go of his wrist only to reach out and touch his cheek, her fingers gentle against his skin. "Spencer, you must shield yourself. Kallan must not let their emotions bleed into you. If there was anyone else, I would not have you do this."
"I'm not a child," he snapped, hotly aware that the whine in his voice made him sound exactly child.
She cupped his face in her hands and gazed at him sadly. He was nearly as tall as she was, now. In a year he'd be taller. He wasn't a child. "You'll always be my child," she said. "And I will always want to protect you. But in this I cannot, so you must do it. Shield yourself against them as much as possible. Promise me you will."
"I promise," Spencer whispered. He was confused. His mother had always told him that a watercrafter's greatest strength lay in their ability to absorb the thoughts and feelings of others. It was what allowed them to diagnose a hurt, to know where to heal, to know when the healing was complete.
Despite his promise Spencer wasn't prepared, and as he followed his mother down the stairs into the great hall, he was overwhelmed with pain and terror, with despair, with wild, fluttering hope. It hit him all at once and he had to steady himself against the wall. He took deep, gasping breaths, blood rushing too quickly through his veins. He had to run. He had to escape. He had to run, couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow. He was going to die. He was going to die if he didn't run, if he didn't try, but trying was useless, he could never escape. He could never make it out, he wanted to die, sank to the floor of the hall knowing that death would be better than this, that if he could only die he could escape--
"Spencer!" His mother twisted her fingers in his hair and yanked. The pain brought him back to himself and he looked up at her with wide eyes. Then he looked at the great hall, and instead of the teeming mass of mortally injured that he expected from the level of pain and fear, he saw only the familiar figures of several of the holt women, swiftly but calmly filling a large tub with water. In the tub was a young woman, maybe five years older than Spencer. There were three other woman huddled together near the fire, one of them crying, another comforting her, another simply gazing into the flames, and off to the side, Spencer's father was in deep conversation with Zack, their blacksmith.
"Four?" Spencer asked. "Only four? Mother, how can only four people--"
"Five," his mother said. "There's a boy, also. Come, we must work."
He didn't ask what needed to be done. He followed his mother to the healing tub and watched as the woman's blood swirled in the water. He took a deep breath to center himself, to shield himself from the violent emotions still in the room, and he gently urged Kallan towards the water in the tub. He appeared the same way he always did, as a reflection of his face when they'd first met. Spencer smiled, thinking of the reflection more as Kallan than as him at seven years old. Kallan smiled back at him, then the water rippled and the reflection was gone, and Spencer closed his eyes and carefully caught the strange woman's blood and urged it back into her body.
He didn't know how to heal the insides of a person, didn't know much beyond surface wounds and broken bones. The woman's breathing was labored and her skin ran hot. There was something wrong inside of her, in her gut, and Spencer let his mother handle that. He urged the blood back into her body, gently smoothed her skin closed where it had been opened. He slid his senses through the water, searching for more wounds, found pain in her hand and with gentle prodding--not enough to let her emotions past his shield-- he found that several of the delicate bones had been crushed.
It was the hardest work he'd ever done, much more intricate and exhausting than patching together a crack in a rib sustained from a fall. The bones were so small, and they'd been shattered into so many pieces, it took all his effort, all his energy and Kallan's combined to find the right connections, to urge the water in the woman's body to let him put everything back where it belonged. He didn't know how long he worked, but when he finished and pulled away, he was trembling and sore. He lay his head on the edge of the tub to catch his breath, his arm over the side, fingers dangling into the water where Kallan eddied around them sluggishly.
"Valora!" Spencer heard his father snap. "Valora. Pull back."
Spencer looked up to see his mother perfectly still, both hands resting on the surface of the water. Her fury, Talori, was nowhere to be seen, but Spencer could feel that she was there.
"Valora," Spencer's father growled again.
Spencer's mother opened her eyes slowly and blinked a few times, then looked peevishly up at her husband. "Yes, Rufus?"
Spencer's father paused before speaking, then looked down at the floor. "I, well, it's been over an hour, and I perhaps worried, or thought that you might have--"
"Gone too far to get back?" asked Spencer's mother. "No. No, I'm here. I'm perfectly--" She didn't have a chance to finish her sentence before she fainted, falling back hard.
Spencer's father hurried to her side, as did the holt women. Spencer tried, but he was even more exhausted than he knew, and when he tried to move, all he could do was slowly slide to the floor next to the tub.
"I'm fine," Valora muttered. "Can't a woman faint without the entire steadholt surrounding her? Where's Spencer?"
"Over here," Spencer said from the floor on the other side of the tub. He rolled onto his back and the floor was so, so comfortable, he never wanted to move. "I'm all right. Tired. Think I might sleep."
"The two of you will turn all my hairs silver," his father muttered. Spencer could see movement out of the corner of his eye and he realized that his father had picked his mother up and was carrying her up the stairs where she could sleep off the toll the crafting had taken on her. Spencer hoped his father wouldn't carry him up the stairs. He was nearly fourteen and being carried up the stairs would be embarrassing.
He turned his head the other way and smiled wearily at Zack, who was sitting on one of the low benches along the wall.
Zack smiled back slightly.
Spencer pushed himself up to a sitting position, then decided it would take far too much effort to stand, so he scooted across the floor until he could lean against the dining table. Zack rested a large hand on top of Spencer's head and ruffled his hair. Spencer would have complained, but he didn't have the energy.
"What happened?" he asked. "Who are these people? How did they get hurt?"
"They're slaves," Zack told him.
"So?" Spencer asked. That didn't explain anything. His family had tons of slaves. Or, well, two. But still. "What happened to them?"
Zack sighed heavily and looked over at where the holt women were drying and dressing the slave who'd been in the healing tub. He sighed again. "Not every slave is treated fairly and given the chance to earn their freedom. Sometimes, they're treated like animals. These slaves have been treated like animals. They've been worked half to death and used, well." He frowned and shook his head. "Mostly they've been used for breeding."
Spencer frowned for a moment, then colored. He could feel his cheeks heating and he hoped he was far enough from the fire that Zack couldn't see him blushing like a child. "Oh," he whispered. He didn't know what else to say.
"We took them from Durandholt by order of the Count. He's been funneling them through for years and we didn't know."
Spencer looked up at him. "Steadholder Durand?" he asked. He'd known the man his entire life. "He...these are his slaves?"
"They were. He didn't survive the fight, though that may have been lucky for him. The Count doesn't look kindly upon kidnappers and profiteer slavers, and Durand would have suffered for months before he got the rope."
"Crows and furies," Spencer murmured in awe. "He kidnapped all of his slaves?"
"Not all of them, no, but enough. We only took five. They took at least ten to Korvinholt, even more to Abbanholt, the rest to garrison."
"Crows and furies," Spencer said again. He turned to find a nice bare spot of floor on which to stretch out upon when he found himself staring at a boy huddled in the dark of the corner. "I..." Spencer didn't know what to say. The boy was his age, maybe younger, and despite the cold that far from the fire, he was sweating and trembling, and once or twice his hand came up to almost touch the wide metal collar fastened tightly around his neck.
Spencer understood, then, what Zack was doing sitting so far away from the rest of the people in the room instead of helping, instead of returning to his own rooms; he was sitting there to keep watch on the boy.
The boy's eyes were dark brown, liquid, gazing back at him. His breath came in shallow, silent pants and sighs, and as Spencer watched he licked his lips and his eyes fluttered shut, his body writhing. He wore nothing but a blanket draped over his hips and his skin was discolored with layers upon layers of scratches and bruises and welts.
"I should get him some clothes," Spencer said.
"We tried already. He won't wear them. He barely tolerated the blanket, even in the snow."
Spencer shook his head. "You'll be warmer in clothes," he said to the boy. "It will be much more comfortable. We can find something soft that won't scratch against your skin where you're hurt."
"He won't wear them," came a woman's singsong voice from the other side of the table. It was one of the slaves that had been sitting by the fire earlier. Her auburn hair was tangled and her clothes were worn and dirty, but she was still beautiful. She smiled at him and his stomach fluttered, though there was something strange in her deep green eyes. "He won't wear them. He can't wear them. Master said no. Master likes his pets uncovered, and this one was Master's favorite pet, weren't you, sweet?" She walked as if she were dancing, pausing and turning to music that wasn't there. She turned and swooped down towards the boy, laughing when he shrunk away from her.
"What's wrong with him?" Spencer demanded.
"It's the collar. He has to do what Master says or it's pain, pain like you can't imagine. The collar turns you. The collar changes you. You beg to do what you hate so you won't feel the pain. You beg to do the most horrible things just so you can feel the pleasure. See it in his eyes? Sweet little pet, yes, such sweet, terrible pleasure."
"Why haven't we taken it off?" Spencer asked, looking at Zack. "Surely you can cut the lock."
"There isn't one. It's seamless."
"How?"
"I don't know," Zack admitted. "I've never seen its like. I've heard of such things existing in the North, but I've never heard of such a thing being used here."
Spencer reached out with curiosity with Talin, his metal fury. Spencer's control of metalcraft wasn't nearly as strong as his control of water. He reached out anyway, sending his furies towards the collar, searching around its edges. It wasn't seamless. There was a space, a tiny crack in the metal, and as Spencer searched the rest of the collar, Kallan used the boy's own sweat to slide into the imperceptible crack, to expand, and--
Fear flooded Spencer like he'd never felt before, raw and eating at him from the inside. He was trapped, trapped for good with no hope, no escape, he didn't want to die but if he could just manage it, if he could just slip unnoticed for a moment he could end it and he could be free.
He vacillated there, between despair of anything but death and pure fear that turned his skin cold, froze his breath in his lungs, fear of agony he knew to be all too real, fear of the pain that was so much worse than anything else Master would do to him, no matter how many times Master struck him or took him violently. He would rather be choked half to death and revived before being choked over and over again, he would willingly serve any man Master wished him to, no matter how depraved the act, he would rather kneel unclothed in the snow, unmoving, for hours. Spencer knew deep in his gut that he would rather do anything other than feel that pain again, the torment of the collar that consumed his entire world, that seemed unending. Spencer remembered that agony and he began to scream, clawing at his neck, struggling against the arms that held him down, struggling and screaming and so, so afraid.
When Spencer awoke, it was daytime and he was in his bed. He first thought that it had been a dream, but then he sat up and felt the exhaustion that came from such intense furycrafting, saw that the sun wasn't rising but instead was setting. He rubbed at his eyes and his breath caught in his throat for just one terrifying moment. Then it was gone and he could breathe again. He remembered all of it, the crafting and the exhaustion, his mother fainting, reaching out with his furies towards the slave boy and then, crows, the boy's memories and fears filling him as if they were his own. He didn't know how that had happened, but he knew that somehow it had been his fault. He should have shielded himself better. He should have left well enough alone.
He dressed slowly, limbs sluggish, and shuffled down the hall, his gnawing belly letting him know just how long it had been since he'd gone without food. As it was nearing dusk, people had begun to gather in the hall and he felt them staring at him as he entered. He took a deep breath and pretended not to notice they way they were all looking at him. He headed towards the kitchen, head down and sighed with relief when he saw that the only two people in the kitchen were his mother and Ilaria, their ancient cook.
His mother hurried towards him and Spencer was stunned when she slapped him. She looked just as stunned, raising her hands to her mouth before she cried out and pulled him to her, hugging him tightly. "I told you to shield yourself," she whispered harshly against his ear. "We thought we'd lost you. Zack had to hold you down to keep you from clawing your own eyes out. You brave, stupid boy. Why did you have to take off that collar? Why did you even touch it?"
"I took it off?" Spencer asked, pulling away from her. "The boy. He's all right, now?"
His mother's face went tense and he could feel her shielding herself from him, hiding something from him.
"Crows," Spencer whispered, sinking onto the nearest stool. "I killed him, didn't I? I didn't mean to do it. I just wanted to know what it was, that collar, why it made him the way he was. I didn't--oh, crows and furies, I didn't mean it."
"He's alive," his mother said, squatting down in front of him and laying her hand on his leg. "He's just." She sighed.
"Mad," said Ilaria.
Spencer's mother shushed her. "Not in front of the boy."
"The boy's strong, and a sight better watercrafter than you were at thirteen, Valora. That woman's hand had been shattered into bits; none of us thought she'd ever even regain the use of it. And he's not a silly boy, and he's not a stupid boy, and he's not a cruel boy. He's an honest boy, so be honest. The slave's mad, Spencer. The collar was on him too long. No telling if he'll find his way back to the world or not."
"Oh," Spencer whispered. "I felt it. Everything he was feeling. I remembered things he'd done, remembered things he'd felt. I can't even, I don't know how to even put such horrible things into words. If he's gone mad, well, maybe he deserves that much comfort, at least."
His mother let out a soft sob and placed her head on his lap. Spencer didn't know what to do. He rarely saw her cry; watercrafters could control their tears, keep them back whenever they wanted. He put his hand on her hair, thinking perhaps it would comfort her. She reached up and grasped it, then raised her head and looked up at him, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. "You are never to reach into someone like that, never again, not ever. Do you understand me?" Her grip on his hand grew painful. "Do you understand me?"
"I understand," he said, trying to pull his hand away.
"Promise me." She squeezed tighter.
"I promise," he cried. "Mother, please, let go."
She let go of his hand and stood swiftly, wiping her hands over her face. She turned and busied herself at the stove for a moment, then said, "Go help your father in the barn."
Spencer nodded and stood, taking the hunk of bread that Ilaria handed him. He took a bite of it on the way to the barn, then turned and tucked the bread in his pocket when he heard his father's voice coming from the smithy.
"Oh, look, lazy bones is finally up," said Zack, pretending not to be concerned though Spencer could tell he had been. He liked the way Zack didn't fuss over him, liked the way Zack never treated him like a child.
"Mother said I should help you in the barn," Spencer said to his father.
"Horses are in, hay is stacked, tack is wiped down, doors are secured," said his father. "I suppose I'll allow you a day with no work considering all you did last night, but you'll be up in the morning as usual."
"Yes, sir," said Spencer, feeling strangely pleased. He wanted things to be normal again, wanted to forget the nightmare that teased at the edges of his memory, threatening to overwhelm him again.
"You can put my forge to rights if you're looking for something to do," Zack said, and though he was teasing Spencer nodded and began picking up anything out of place. There wasn't much since Zack kept a neat shop, but there were a few tongs here and there and a hardy tool still in the anvil that Spencer removed and began to clean with a wire brush. He was about to place the hardy tool back onto its shelf when he saw the boy. He was sitting in a corner, again, this time alert and aware.
"Hi," Spencer said softly.
The boy looked at him but said nothing. He didn't move.
"My name's Spencer. We, uh, we didn't get introduced last night." Spencer felt stupid even as he said the words. Of course they hadn't been introduced, it hadn't been a social call. "Do you remember last night?"
"Master's dead," the boy said rapidly, his words stumbling over one another. "Saw him dead. Very dead. Saw him dead." He smiled at Spencer, too bright.
Spencer nodded. "I heard."
"Very dead," said the boy. "All his blood in the snow."
Spencer sat down on the floor of the forge, wincing at the coal dust he was surely getting on his trousers. He sat down near enough to see the boy in the shadows, but far enough away that he wasn't crowding him. He sat silently for a long time, listening to his father and Zack talk about which horses needed to be reshod and whether or not they'd need a new plow come spring.
He remembered the bread in his pocket and pulled it out, offering it to the boy. "Dinner will be soon, but you can have some bread if you want it."
The boy looked at the bread, then at Spencer. He didn't move. Spencer tore the bread in half and leaned closer to the boy. "We can share it."
He snatched the bread out of Spencer's hand and ate it greedily. He was so thin. Once he was finished, Spencer said, "I'm not hungry. You can have mine. Ilaria's making dinner, and she's the best cook. You'll like her. She pretends to be stern, but she's not really. Everyone here at Rufusholt is nice. You'll see."
The boy snatched the second piece of bread from Spencer's hand and ate it more slowly.
The day turned to twilight, and Spencer rose, offering the boy his hand. The boy didn't take it. "It's time for dinner," Spencer told him. "Ilaria and Mother have prepared a feast. I saw three different kinds of sweets when I walked through the kitchen. It will be very good."
"Spencer," Zack said from behind him. "It's no use. We've tried to get him to come into the house, but he won't budge. I'll bring him some food."
"I'll do it," said Spencer. When both Zack and his father seemed about to protest, he said, "You've been working all day. I've been sleeping. I'll do it." He didn't mention that he'd rather eat alone, that he didn't like the way the holt people had looked at him after the events of the night before. He didn't mention that he was exhausted and felt like he could sleep another three days and still be tired. He didn't mention the pulse of fear at the back of his mind.
"I'll be back in just a little bit," he assured the boy, and though his mother wasn't happy about it, she filled bowls for him and for the boy and made him promise again to shield himself, to be careful.
When he got back to the smithy, the boy was in the same corner, cradling something in his hands. When Spencer got closer, he could see that it was a brittle, twisted piece of metal. "What's that?" he asked. He didn't think the boy would strike at him, but he couldn't be sure.
"Dead collar," said the boy, holding it up for Spencer to see. "Watched it die. Very dead."
"Um, yeah," Spencer agreed, looking at what was left of the collar after Zack had subjected it to his forge and hammer. "That looks. Yes. Very dead." He held one of the bowls out towards the boy. "I, um, I don't even know your name."
The boy set the collar down next to him and took the bowl of food. He scooped the stew up with his hand, ignoring the spoon completely. "Brendon," he said quickly between messy bites. "Brendon. Very, very dead."
The fear throbbed in the back of Spencer's mind again, but he pushed it down and told himself firmly that the gnawing ache in his stomach was nothing but hunger. He sat on the floor of the smithy and leaned back against the still-warm brick side of the forge, and he began to eat.
Author: sneaky_sena
Pairing: pre-slash, Brendon/Spencer
Rating: Mature (see warnings below)
Warnings: This story takes place in the aftermath, but there are mentions and hints of previous: underage non-con and/or dub-con, slavery, physical, sexual, and psychological abuse
Word Count: ~4,000
Summary: Spencer is a young watercrafter living peacefully on his father's steadholt until his peaceful life is shattered by the arrival of rescued slaves, among them a young boy about his age whose life has been anything but peaceful and secure.
Notes: This is very roughly set in the same universe as the Codex Alera series by Jim Butcher. I don't think you need to have read the books, though. Just know that it's a fantasy series where in late childhood/early adolescence, people bond with and are able to command one or more elemental forces, called furies (of water, air, metal, earth, fire, and wood). Wikipedia entry on the series for those interested.
Spencer woke suddenly. His heart was pounding and his breath caught in his throat. He didn't think that he'd been dreaming; something was wrong.
He was already out of bed, already pulling on his clothing when he heard his mother's feet on the stairs, hears her voice tense and thin. "Spencer! Spencer, wake up, we need you. Call for Kallan."
His mother was the best healer within five days travel, even better than the official healer serving the soldiers at garrison. Spencer was learning from her, could fix scrapes and bruises, mend bone. She'd never needed his help before, and the thought that she was calling on him the same way she'd call any other healer sent a bolt of pride and adrenaline through him. His fury, Kallan, was already there with him, like he always was.
He shruged on his tunic and hurried down the hall towards her. He didn't have to ask where he was supposed to go; he could hear voices in the great hall, thought he could pick out his father's voice above the others. He was filled with nervous excitement, ready to prove himself, ready to help whoever's been hurt.
His mother reached out and gripped his wrist tightly, causing the bones to grind together.
"Mother!" Spencer cried.
She didn't ease her grip. "Listen to me, now," she whispered. "Spencer, you must not open your mind to them. You must shield yourself from them, do you understand?"
"Mother, you're--"
She let go of his wrist only to reach out and touch his cheek, her fingers gentle against his skin. "Spencer, you must shield yourself. Kallan must not let their emotions bleed into you. If there was anyone else, I would not have you do this."
"I'm not a child," he snapped, hotly aware that the whine in his voice made him sound exactly child.
She cupped his face in her hands and gazed at him sadly. He was nearly as tall as she was, now. In a year he'd be taller. He wasn't a child. "You'll always be my child," she said. "And I will always want to protect you. But in this I cannot, so you must do it. Shield yourself against them as much as possible. Promise me you will."
"I promise," Spencer whispered. He was confused. His mother had always told him that a watercrafter's greatest strength lay in their ability to absorb the thoughts and feelings of others. It was what allowed them to diagnose a hurt, to know where to heal, to know when the healing was complete.
Despite his promise Spencer wasn't prepared, and as he followed his mother down the stairs into the great hall, he was overwhelmed with pain and terror, with despair, with wild, fluttering hope. It hit him all at once and he had to steady himself against the wall. He took deep, gasping breaths, blood rushing too quickly through his veins. He had to run. He had to escape. He had to run, couldn't breathe, couldn't swallow. He was going to die. He was going to die if he didn't run, if he didn't try, but trying was useless, he could never escape. He could never make it out, he wanted to die, sank to the floor of the hall knowing that death would be better than this, that if he could only die he could escape--
"Spencer!" His mother twisted her fingers in his hair and yanked. The pain brought him back to himself and he looked up at her with wide eyes. Then he looked at the great hall, and instead of the teeming mass of mortally injured that he expected from the level of pain and fear, he saw only the familiar figures of several of the holt women, swiftly but calmly filling a large tub with water. In the tub was a young woman, maybe five years older than Spencer. There were three other woman huddled together near the fire, one of them crying, another comforting her, another simply gazing into the flames, and off to the side, Spencer's father was in deep conversation with Zack, their blacksmith.
"Four?" Spencer asked. "Only four? Mother, how can only four people--"
"Five," his mother said. "There's a boy, also. Come, we must work."
He didn't ask what needed to be done. He followed his mother to the healing tub and watched as the woman's blood swirled in the water. He took a deep breath to center himself, to shield himself from the violent emotions still in the room, and he gently urged Kallan towards the water in the tub. He appeared the same way he always did, as a reflection of his face when they'd first met. Spencer smiled, thinking of the reflection more as Kallan than as him at seven years old. Kallan smiled back at him, then the water rippled and the reflection was gone, and Spencer closed his eyes and carefully caught the strange woman's blood and urged it back into her body.
He didn't know how to heal the insides of a person, didn't know much beyond surface wounds and broken bones. The woman's breathing was labored and her skin ran hot. There was something wrong inside of her, in her gut, and Spencer let his mother handle that. He urged the blood back into her body, gently smoothed her skin closed where it had been opened. He slid his senses through the water, searching for more wounds, found pain in her hand and with gentle prodding--not enough to let her emotions past his shield-- he found that several of the delicate bones had been crushed.
It was the hardest work he'd ever done, much more intricate and exhausting than patching together a crack in a rib sustained from a fall. The bones were so small, and they'd been shattered into so many pieces, it took all his effort, all his energy and Kallan's combined to find the right connections, to urge the water in the woman's body to let him put everything back where it belonged. He didn't know how long he worked, but when he finished and pulled away, he was trembling and sore. He lay his head on the edge of the tub to catch his breath, his arm over the side, fingers dangling into the water where Kallan eddied around them sluggishly.
"Valora!" Spencer heard his father snap. "Valora. Pull back."
Spencer looked up to see his mother perfectly still, both hands resting on the surface of the water. Her fury, Talori, was nowhere to be seen, but Spencer could feel that she was there.
"Valora," Spencer's father growled again.
Spencer's mother opened her eyes slowly and blinked a few times, then looked peevishly up at her husband. "Yes, Rufus?"
Spencer's father paused before speaking, then looked down at the floor. "I, well, it's been over an hour, and I perhaps worried, or thought that you might have--"
"Gone too far to get back?" asked Spencer's mother. "No. No, I'm here. I'm perfectly--" She didn't have a chance to finish her sentence before she fainted, falling back hard.
Spencer's father hurried to her side, as did the holt women. Spencer tried, but he was even more exhausted than he knew, and when he tried to move, all he could do was slowly slide to the floor next to the tub.
"I'm fine," Valora muttered. "Can't a woman faint without the entire steadholt surrounding her? Where's Spencer?"
"Over here," Spencer said from the floor on the other side of the tub. He rolled onto his back and the floor was so, so comfortable, he never wanted to move. "I'm all right. Tired. Think I might sleep."
"The two of you will turn all my hairs silver," his father muttered. Spencer could see movement out of the corner of his eye and he realized that his father had picked his mother up and was carrying her up the stairs where she could sleep off the toll the crafting had taken on her. Spencer hoped his father wouldn't carry him up the stairs. He was nearly fourteen and being carried up the stairs would be embarrassing.
He turned his head the other way and smiled wearily at Zack, who was sitting on one of the low benches along the wall.
Zack smiled back slightly.
Spencer pushed himself up to a sitting position, then decided it would take far too much effort to stand, so he scooted across the floor until he could lean against the dining table. Zack rested a large hand on top of Spencer's head and ruffled his hair. Spencer would have complained, but he didn't have the energy.
"What happened?" he asked. "Who are these people? How did they get hurt?"
"They're slaves," Zack told him.
"So?" Spencer asked. That didn't explain anything. His family had tons of slaves. Or, well, two. But still. "What happened to them?"
Zack sighed heavily and looked over at where the holt women were drying and dressing the slave who'd been in the healing tub. He sighed again. "Not every slave is treated fairly and given the chance to earn their freedom. Sometimes, they're treated like animals. These slaves have been treated like animals. They've been worked half to death and used, well." He frowned and shook his head. "Mostly they've been used for breeding."
Spencer frowned for a moment, then colored. He could feel his cheeks heating and he hoped he was far enough from the fire that Zack couldn't see him blushing like a child. "Oh," he whispered. He didn't know what else to say.
"We took them from Durandholt by order of the Count. He's been funneling them through for years and we didn't know."
Spencer looked up at him. "Steadholder Durand?" he asked. He'd known the man his entire life. "He...these are his slaves?"
"They were. He didn't survive the fight, though that may have been lucky for him. The Count doesn't look kindly upon kidnappers and profiteer slavers, and Durand would have suffered for months before he got the rope."
"Crows and furies," Spencer murmured in awe. "He kidnapped all of his slaves?"
"Not all of them, no, but enough. We only took five. They took at least ten to Korvinholt, even more to Abbanholt, the rest to garrison."
"Crows and furies," Spencer said again. He turned to find a nice bare spot of floor on which to stretch out upon when he found himself staring at a boy huddled in the dark of the corner. "I..." Spencer didn't know what to say. The boy was his age, maybe younger, and despite the cold that far from the fire, he was sweating and trembling, and once or twice his hand came up to almost touch the wide metal collar fastened tightly around his neck.
Spencer understood, then, what Zack was doing sitting so far away from the rest of the people in the room instead of helping, instead of returning to his own rooms; he was sitting there to keep watch on the boy.
The boy's eyes were dark brown, liquid, gazing back at him. His breath came in shallow, silent pants and sighs, and as Spencer watched he licked his lips and his eyes fluttered shut, his body writhing. He wore nothing but a blanket draped over his hips and his skin was discolored with layers upon layers of scratches and bruises and welts.
"I should get him some clothes," Spencer said.
"We tried already. He won't wear them. He barely tolerated the blanket, even in the snow."
Spencer shook his head. "You'll be warmer in clothes," he said to the boy. "It will be much more comfortable. We can find something soft that won't scratch against your skin where you're hurt."
"He won't wear them," came a woman's singsong voice from the other side of the table. It was one of the slaves that had been sitting by the fire earlier. Her auburn hair was tangled and her clothes were worn and dirty, but she was still beautiful. She smiled at him and his stomach fluttered, though there was something strange in her deep green eyes. "He won't wear them. He can't wear them. Master said no. Master likes his pets uncovered, and this one was Master's favorite pet, weren't you, sweet?" She walked as if she were dancing, pausing and turning to music that wasn't there. She turned and swooped down towards the boy, laughing when he shrunk away from her.
"What's wrong with him?" Spencer demanded.
"It's the collar. He has to do what Master says or it's pain, pain like you can't imagine. The collar turns you. The collar changes you. You beg to do what you hate so you won't feel the pain. You beg to do the most horrible things just so you can feel the pleasure. See it in his eyes? Sweet little pet, yes, such sweet, terrible pleasure."
"Why haven't we taken it off?" Spencer asked, looking at Zack. "Surely you can cut the lock."
"There isn't one. It's seamless."
"How?"
"I don't know," Zack admitted. "I've never seen its like. I've heard of such things existing in the North, but I've never heard of such a thing being used here."
Spencer reached out with curiosity with Talin, his metal fury. Spencer's control of metalcraft wasn't nearly as strong as his control of water. He reached out anyway, sending his furies towards the collar, searching around its edges. It wasn't seamless. There was a space, a tiny crack in the metal, and as Spencer searched the rest of the collar, Kallan used the boy's own sweat to slide into the imperceptible crack, to expand, and--
Fear flooded Spencer like he'd never felt before, raw and eating at him from the inside. He was trapped, trapped for good with no hope, no escape, he didn't want to die but if he could just manage it, if he could just slip unnoticed for a moment he could end it and he could be free.
He vacillated there, between despair of anything but death and pure fear that turned his skin cold, froze his breath in his lungs, fear of agony he knew to be all too real, fear of the pain that was so much worse than anything else Master would do to him, no matter how many times Master struck him or took him violently. He would rather be choked half to death and revived before being choked over and over again, he would willingly serve any man Master wished him to, no matter how depraved the act, he would rather kneel unclothed in the snow, unmoving, for hours. Spencer knew deep in his gut that he would rather do anything other than feel that pain again, the torment of the collar that consumed his entire world, that seemed unending. Spencer remembered that agony and he began to scream, clawing at his neck, struggling against the arms that held him down, struggling and screaming and so, so afraid.
When Spencer awoke, it was daytime and he was in his bed. He first thought that it had been a dream, but then he sat up and felt the exhaustion that came from such intense furycrafting, saw that the sun wasn't rising but instead was setting. He rubbed at his eyes and his breath caught in his throat for just one terrifying moment. Then it was gone and he could breathe again. He remembered all of it, the crafting and the exhaustion, his mother fainting, reaching out with his furies towards the slave boy and then, crows, the boy's memories and fears filling him as if they were his own. He didn't know how that had happened, but he knew that somehow it had been his fault. He should have shielded himself better. He should have left well enough alone.
He dressed slowly, limbs sluggish, and shuffled down the hall, his gnawing belly letting him know just how long it had been since he'd gone without food. As it was nearing dusk, people had begun to gather in the hall and he felt them staring at him as he entered. He took a deep breath and pretended not to notice they way they were all looking at him. He headed towards the kitchen, head down and sighed with relief when he saw that the only two people in the kitchen were his mother and Ilaria, their ancient cook.
His mother hurried towards him and Spencer was stunned when she slapped him. She looked just as stunned, raising her hands to her mouth before she cried out and pulled him to her, hugging him tightly. "I told you to shield yourself," she whispered harshly against his ear. "We thought we'd lost you. Zack had to hold you down to keep you from clawing your own eyes out. You brave, stupid boy. Why did you have to take off that collar? Why did you even touch it?"
"I took it off?" Spencer asked, pulling away from her. "The boy. He's all right, now?"
His mother's face went tense and he could feel her shielding herself from him, hiding something from him.
"Crows," Spencer whispered, sinking onto the nearest stool. "I killed him, didn't I? I didn't mean to do it. I just wanted to know what it was, that collar, why it made him the way he was. I didn't--oh, crows and furies, I didn't mean it."
"He's alive," his mother said, squatting down in front of him and laying her hand on his leg. "He's just." She sighed.
"Mad," said Ilaria.
Spencer's mother shushed her. "Not in front of the boy."
"The boy's strong, and a sight better watercrafter than you were at thirteen, Valora. That woman's hand had been shattered into bits; none of us thought she'd ever even regain the use of it. And he's not a silly boy, and he's not a stupid boy, and he's not a cruel boy. He's an honest boy, so be honest. The slave's mad, Spencer. The collar was on him too long. No telling if he'll find his way back to the world or not."
"Oh," Spencer whispered. "I felt it. Everything he was feeling. I remembered things he'd done, remembered things he'd felt. I can't even, I don't know how to even put such horrible things into words. If he's gone mad, well, maybe he deserves that much comfort, at least."
His mother let out a soft sob and placed her head on his lap. Spencer didn't know what to do. He rarely saw her cry; watercrafters could control their tears, keep them back whenever they wanted. He put his hand on her hair, thinking perhaps it would comfort her. She reached up and grasped it, then raised her head and looked up at him, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. "You are never to reach into someone like that, never again, not ever. Do you understand me?" Her grip on his hand grew painful. "Do you understand me?"
"I understand," he said, trying to pull his hand away.
"Promise me." She squeezed tighter.
"I promise," he cried. "Mother, please, let go."
She let go of his hand and stood swiftly, wiping her hands over her face. She turned and busied herself at the stove for a moment, then said, "Go help your father in the barn."
Spencer nodded and stood, taking the hunk of bread that Ilaria handed him. He took a bite of it on the way to the barn, then turned and tucked the bread in his pocket when he heard his father's voice coming from the smithy.
"Oh, look, lazy bones is finally up," said Zack, pretending not to be concerned though Spencer could tell he had been. He liked the way Zack didn't fuss over him, liked the way Zack never treated him like a child.
"Mother said I should help you in the barn," Spencer said to his father.
"Horses are in, hay is stacked, tack is wiped down, doors are secured," said his father. "I suppose I'll allow you a day with no work considering all you did last night, but you'll be up in the morning as usual."
"Yes, sir," said Spencer, feeling strangely pleased. He wanted things to be normal again, wanted to forget the nightmare that teased at the edges of his memory, threatening to overwhelm him again.
"You can put my forge to rights if you're looking for something to do," Zack said, and though he was teasing Spencer nodded and began picking up anything out of place. There wasn't much since Zack kept a neat shop, but there were a few tongs here and there and a hardy tool still in the anvil that Spencer removed and began to clean with a wire brush. He was about to place the hardy tool back onto its shelf when he saw the boy. He was sitting in a corner, again, this time alert and aware.
"Hi," Spencer said softly.
The boy looked at him but said nothing. He didn't move.
"My name's Spencer. We, uh, we didn't get introduced last night." Spencer felt stupid even as he said the words. Of course they hadn't been introduced, it hadn't been a social call. "Do you remember last night?"
"Master's dead," the boy said rapidly, his words stumbling over one another. "Saw him dead. Very dead. Saw him dead." He smiled at Spencer, too bright.
Spencer nodded. "I heard."
"Very dead," said the boy. "All his blood in the snow."
Spencer sat down on the floor of the forge, wincing at the coal dust he was surely getting on his trousers. He sat down near enough to see the boy in the shadows, but far enough away that he wasn't crowding him. He sat silently for a long time, listening to his father and Zack talk about which horses needed to be reshod and whether or not they'd need a new plow come spring.
He remembered the bread in his pocket and pulled it out, offering it to the boy. "Dinner will be soon, but you can have some bread if you want it."
The boy looked at the bread, then at Spencer. He didn't move. Spencer tore the bread in half and leaned closer to the boy. "We can share it."
He snatched the bread out of Spencer's hand and ate it greedily. He was so thin. Once he was finished, Spencer said, "I'm not hungry. You can have mine. Ilaria's making dinner, and she's the best cook. You'll like her. She pretends to be stern, but she's not really. Everyone here at Rufusholt is nice. You'll see."
The boy snatched the second piece of bread from Spencer's hand and ate it more slowly.
The day turned to twilight, and Spencer rose, offering the boy his hand. The boy didn't take it. "It's time for dinner," Spencer told him. "Ilaria and Mother have prepared a feast. I saw three different kinds of sweets when I walked through the kitchen. It will be very good."
"Spencer," Zack said from behind him. "It's no use. We've tried to get him to come into the house, but he won't budge. I'll bring him some food."
"I'll do it," said Spencer. When both Zack and his father seemed about to protest, he said, "You've been working all day. I've been sleeping. I'll do it." He didn't mention that he'd rather eat alone, that he didn't like the way the holt people had looked at him after the events of the night before. He didn't mention that he was exhausted and felt like he could sleep another three days and still be tired. He didn't mention the pulse of fear at the back of his mind.
"I'll be back in just a little bit," he assured the boy, and though his mother wasn't happy about it, she filled bowls for him and for the boy and made him promise again to shield himself, to be careful.
When he got back to the smithy, the boy was in the same corner, cradling something in his hands. When Spencer got closer, he could see that it was a brittle, twisted piece of metal. "What's that?" he asked. He didn't think the boy would strike at him, but he couldn't be sure.
"Dead collar," said the boy, holding it up for Spencer to see. "Watched it die. Very dead."
"Um, yeah," Spencer agreed, looking at what was left of the collar after Zack had subjected it to his forge and hammer. "That looks. Yes. Very dead." He held one of the bowls out towards the boy. "I, um, I don't even know your name."
The boy set the collar down next to him and took the bowl of food. He scooped the stew up with his hand, ignoring the spoon completely. "Brendon," he said quickly between messy bites. "Brendon. Very, very dead."
The fear throbbed in the back of Spencer's mind again, but he pushed it down and told himself firmly that the gnawing ache in his stomach was nothing but hunger. He sat on the floor of the smithy and leaned back against the still-warm brick side of the forge, and he began to eat.