Hobbit Fic: Thine Hatred To Crown (Part 2.1)

[zincpiccalilli]

I don't know if I'm weirdly proud or just really ashamed that my first attempt at writing smut is a sequence of explicit dub/non-con scenes over thirty thousand words long. Per the prompt from the Hobbit Kink Meme, this chapter has a very strong warning for graphic rape and torture. Rape fantasies abound! And the Master threatens Bard's children, then all under the age of ten, once with semi-graphic murder and sexual abuse. (Why, yes, I am a complete monster!)

Being frankly no expert on the psychology of rape, I am indebted to pretzel_logic for acting as my friendly research anon on the kink meme. She was an invaluable help to me in refining the characterizations of Bard and the Master as well as a fantastic source of inspiration, coming up with many ideas I've incorporated into the story. Finally, what I'm posting is actually the second half of a planned two-part work, the first being Thorin's perspective of events, how his relationship with Bard developed and when he found out about his lover's history with the Master. That chapter, however, is stalled for the foreseeable future until I iron out some wrinkles in the plot. (2014-12-01: Part 1 added!) For now, I think this can be read as a standalone. Comments and suggestions are, as always, welcome!

Thorin Oakenshield/Bard, Master of Laketown/Bard (TW: Rape, Torture)
Every once in a while, the Master of Laketown had Bard brought to his bed as an object lesson on their respective positions. After Bard becomes King of Dale, he begins a relationship with Thorin, whom he eventually tells something of his past. Thorin, furious, dishes out a very generous serving of bloody cold revenge.
Thine Hatred To Crown
The Master

· · ·
The Master of Laketown could remember exactly when the idea first came to him. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, a whore sucking his cock, when he looked down and was struck by how the woman's hair resembled Bard's. Dark and shoulder-length, it was coarse silk to the touch as it wound through his fingers. He jerked hard on a handful, drawing a low moan from the whore, fixated by how the waves sprang back into form and the firelight revealed colors of rich brown, gilding every strand. Suddenly, he wanted to see proud Bard brought low, kneeling on the floor before him in the whore's place, mouth put to better use than spreading dissent. His cock jumped at the thought, his balls tightened, and he came with a groan, the whore obediently swallowing. Could he teach Bard to do the same? And the man would need to be taught, for the Master doubted he had the whore's experience or skill, so long devoted was he to his wife.

For days after he dismissed the whore, whose name he never bothered to learn, the Master considered this new desire of his. There were men in Laketown of such proclivities-he made it his business to know the vices of his subjects-but he had not counted himself among their number. Then again, he supposed there was little difference between a woman's mouth and a man's when it was wrapped around your cock, and he could not deny that imagining Bard at his mercy, finally bowing to his authority and willingly so, if only because there was no other choice, greatly excited him. The Master wasn't one to deny himself pleasure, whether of the flesh or the mind. Why should Bard be an exception? And so he resolved to coerce the man into his bed.

That it would require force was not an entirely unhappy prospect either. While the Master despised toil on principle, especially effort wasted on his part, he could appreciate the consummate application of power and felt taming Bard would be worth the trouble. The young soon-to-be captain of guards was much admired-bold, charming in his own grim fashion, as talented with the bow as any Elf, an upstanding husband and father, and worst of all an idealist, head filled with the most ridiculous populist fancies. The Master would suffer no challenges to his position, and this heir of Girion presented one, something of a king in his bearing no matter how disgraced or impoverished his line.

Threats the Master could make against wife and children, but he had no assurances that Bard, the defiant fool, wouldn't react violently. He did not wish to find himself on the sharp end of an arrow in the dark or, if that woman of Bard's, who was no wilting flower despite her seemingly frail beauty, managed to talk sense into her husband, on the losing side of a people's revolt. The damnable shrew, a wealthy merchant's daughter, was far better at navigating the treacherous shoals of politics than Bard was and fiercely protective of her family, whom she'd been disowned by her kin to have. He rather thought she wouldn't take kindly to loaning out her lover for another to despoil, man or woman of high rank or low.

Besides, the Master suspected a man like Bard was best chained with honor and-he shuddered, wanting to palm his cock but resisting the urge (for now)-shame. Short of having Bard's wife killed, however, he could see no way to leave Bard vulnerable to the necessary manipulations. The Master had few scruples, but murder was a messy affair he preferred to keep as a last resort. He could be patient, he decided, waiting for an opportunity that would almost certainly come with so many dying daily of sickness and other perfectly natural causes.

Months passed, and he'd begun toying with the idea of buying cutthroats to attack the bitch, perhaps on a trip to market, once Bard's third whelp was born-he was not a monster, and a hungry babe was but more leverage on the father-when fate saved him several pursefuls of gold. The loss of his beloved wife to fever after the difficult birth left Bard distraught. Seeing his chance, the Master schemed to drive Bard onto a precipice where he'd have to accept the Master's terms or else leap, orphaning his children.

First, Bard could not be allowed to retain his rank in the Laketown guard, and his anticipated promotion to captain was now out of the question. This was a position of too much influence that was too often in the public eye, as well, gave Bard access to far too many weapons for the Master's comfort, and paid too well when the Master's plans needed Bard destitute, ready to crawl on hands and knees to receive his favor.

Given Bard's exemplary service record and his dutiful nature that would not balk at menial tasks or hard labor, it proved problematic to force the man from the guard against his will. Then Bard did the Master's work for him by resigning. And over so minor a concern as the Master denying his request for leave, too! The Master could only assume Bard's wits had been addled by grief because it had never been standard practice to grant salaried absences for mourning or family issues to common soldiers, even ones about to be appointed officers. That Bard's commander was hesitant to deliver the Master's orders, dared to suggest in fact that his policy was lacking in compassion, was yet another mark against letting Bard continue as a guardsman, free to rabble-rouse.

With Bard out of one job, the Master ensured he would not find a second. This was a simple matter of raising taxes, enough to discourage farmers and tradesmen from hiring new help but not enough to incite anything more rebellious than grumbling. As a bonus, the prices of many major commodities, including food, rose also as producers tried to defray higher operating costs. The Master awoke one morning to hear that the price of milk was up by five percent for the third week in a row and knew he'd have Bard kneeling before him soon.

Finally, a week later, he had Bard brought to his study. The man looked as if he hadn't slept soundly for a month, ragged along the edges and eyes red in hollows of skin bruised black. His cheeks were gaunt with hunger, and his shabby clothes hung loose on his bony frame. The Master felt a faint stirring of pity at the sight. Which was utterly snuffed out ere it could warm his heart when he saw the unbent insolence in Bard's expression, resentment like torches in the night burning in those weary eyes.

"You wanted to see me, Master?" There was not the least bit of respect in Bard's voice, his title made into an insult. The Master was infuriated. He wanted to break Bard in half and half again and again, to wreck that composure of his, which stayed untouched and prideful even as the world spent its cruelty on him. The heir of kings you may be, the Master thought in a rush of vicious satisfaction, but that won't stop me from taking you like a common whore.

Choking down his rage, the Master smiled pleasantly. "Now, Bard, there's no need for such an ugly tone. Why, I imagine you'll soon be thanking me!" Bard gritted his teeth at this but, wonder of wonders, held his tongue. "As I'm sure you know, times are hard," the Master continued. "When old Guthran came to me saying his joints couldn't stand another hour in the cold and damp, leaving me short a bargeman for the Forest River"-Guthran had done nothing of the sort, of course, before the Master informed him his services would no longer be required-"I thought immediately of you, dear Bard. So tragically separated from your lovely young wife-my belated condolences on your loss-and with three growing children to care for."

Bard's face was frozen in a grimace, of pain or anger or both, the Master couldn't tell. "You... you dare...!" He wrenched his gaze away from the Master with a sudden jerk of his head and clenched his fists at his sides, hands quivering with suppressed emotion. The Master traced the fall of Bard's hair with his eyes, fingers twitching on the armrests of his chair to compare the feel of the dark strands to those of the nameless whore. Bard swallowed, the Master watching his throat move, then said, hoarsely, "I would be... grateful, Master, if you... if you could do me the kindness of hiring me as your new bargeman."

The Master took in Bard's downcast eyes but thought the illusion-and he was not so fool as to believe Bard's newfound deference was anything better than playacting-of submission was rather spoiled by the tense set of Bard's shoulders, every muscle clearly straining against the impulse to do him harm. "Ah, Bard," he said, "I would like nothing more than to grant you this boon, but..." Letting the denial linger in the air so he could stretch Bard's nerves taut with frustrated anticipation, the Master shook his head slowly in exaggerated apology. "I'm afraid the posting may present you some difficulty. The forest has grown dangerous in these dark days, and with any other man I would worry for his safety, but as a former guardsman I trust you can handle yourself. Though, Bard, understand that you will not be issued a weapon." Bard was as still as if he'd been graven in stone except for his deep and steady breathing, listening intently. "No, I think you will be able to adequately defend yourself with the bargepole. Your commander in the guard was quite free in his praise of your prowess.

"What truly concerns me is that this is a station that calls for a certain degree of tact and diplomacy, neither of which you are particularly known for, dear Bard, if you'll pardon my honesty." The Master hid a smirk with his hand, pretending to mull over Bard's unfortunate situation while in actuality enjoying the way Bard's jaw locked, no doubt over harsh words. "The Elves seldom come to the river landing, but rarely is not never, so I must have a bargeman whom I can trust to serve Laketown's interests well and my own, naturally." His voice hardened, and his expression was now stern, though Bard did not glance up from the floor. "You are a troublemaker, Bard, and not once have you shown your devotion-your obedience-to me as master of this town that you and your family live in."

Bard was silent for a long moment. At last, he asked, rasping and low, "What would you have me do, Master, to prove my loyalty?"

He is nearly mine. The Master thrilled at his imminent victory, the prize he sought within his grasp, before carefully schooling his reaction. It would not do to let Bard slip away from this trap; he had to leash the man with desperation and the promise of succor. "I believe a test is in order," said the Master, tapping his chin with a finger. "Something irrefutable and... personal that would assure me of your dedication to serving at my pleasure no matter what I ask of you." Judging Bard to be sufficiently cowed that he could step safely inside arm's reach of the man, the Master left his chair, rounded his desk, and stopped in front of Bard, close enough that he imagined Bard could feel the barest brush of his breath ghosting across those sharp cheekbones. "Tell me, Bard, have you ever lain with another man?"

"What?" Bard raised his head abruptly, shocked. "No! I... no..." The Master smiled at this stammered answer. Heat pooled low in his gut, spreading, at the realization that he would be the first to have Bard in this way. He could leave an indelible mark on the man, a brand of ownership under Bard's skin that he would never be rid of regardless of how many lovers, female or male, he took afterwards. Of course, the Master intended to ruin Bard for good in seeking the latter, if he could. Bard must have read his meaning on his face because Bard unconsciously backed away, horror blooming in his eyes. "You... you want me to..."

The Master crowded Bard and, to his delight, Bard continued to give ground until he was mere feet from being pressed against the door. Such delicious fear, thought the Master, knowing he'd caught Bard off-guard. He fully expected Bard to recover given a little more time, at which point he planned to be well out of striking range, but he could exploit his advantage in the meanwhile and drink of Bard's rare vulnerability as he would the finest vintage. He hoped to see this Bard again soon, drawn out by his cock like blood pearling at the point of a knife ever so slowly sunk into tender (virgin) flesh. Or like tears. What would it take to make him cry? The Master leaned in to whisper in Bard's ear, wavy locks of hair tickling his lips as his cornered prey trembled. "Yes, Bard, I want you to be my whore."

Bard went rigid, and the Master hastily put his desk between them again. And with not a moment to spare. Bard covered the distance from door to desk in long, angry strides, teeth bared like a feral dog and a growl building in his chest. "I refuse," he hissed, "to be your plaything." A red flush crawled up his neck, the muscles and tendons there bunched into thick cords.

The Master stiffened his spine and reassured himself that he still held the upper hand. There were guards right outside the door in case Bard took complete leave of his senses and physically attacked the Master. What's more, no amount of wrathful protest on Bard's part could change the fact that the Master controlled his livelihood and only means of supporting his children. Bard just needed a firm reminder of his place and circumstances.

"Slake your perverse lusts elsewhere," Bard spat. He then turned on his heel and stormed towards the door. The Master waited until Bard had the door halfway open before speaking, tone smooth and light, as if inquiring about the weather.

"Bard, how old is your youngest? A girl, isn't it? And in need of constant care, I wager." There was no response from Bard, though he paused in the doorway. "Milk with her mother departed and eventually food, healthy and filling, like her brother and sister. Ah, and we mustn't forget warm clothes and a warm house for the winter, so fast to be upon us." Bard's shoulders hunched, and the knuckles of his hand showed white as bone where he gripped the door. "I've written the Elvenking requesting a temporary halt to trade on the Forest River while I hire a new bargeman, but this grace period ends in a week's time. You have until then to reconsider my offer." The Master was mildly surprised that the edge of the door didn't splinter into pieces under Bard's fingers, with such force did he dig his nails, dirty and chipped by hard labor, into the wood. "Can I expect to see you again, Bard?" he pushed.

"...yes." The word was choked and barely intelligible, the sound of a wounded animal brought to bay. The Master fancied it scraped Bard's throat raw to say and thought, images of what was to come in glorious parade before his closed eyes, He is mine. Bard had fled when the Master recalled himself, so quietly the Master hadn't heard a single footfall, the door standing half ajar. He'll return. He can't escape me.

In the end, it took Bard almost the full week to come begging, twice as long as the Master originally believed possible. This was a timely warning, the Master decided, that Bard's will was not to be underestimated and that a crippled wolf with one leg caught in a trap could bite still. He winced a bit at this entirely too fitting metaphor and very reluctantly set aside plans to bed Bard for the night. Even if he had Bard chained to the bedposts, he felt he wouldn't be able to relax enough to actually enjoy the experience of fucking the man unless guards were on duty within easy hearing distance. Bard hadn't broken yet, not truly, and until the Master saw resignation in Bard's eyes instead of hate, it behooved him to exercise due caution.

The Master briefly questioned whether he should risk his cock with Bard's teeth but deemed that unavoidable. The idea of Bard sucking his cock like a whore was how this whole affair began, after all, and if he had only this one chance to take Bard before the man balked, the plight of his children be damned, he would have Bard's mouth. A fair exchange, the Master figured, given the trouble that mouth had caused him in the past.

What the Master had not anticipated was how much worse Bard would look. He wrinkled his nose in distaste at Bard's unkempt hair, dark greasy hanks obscuring his downturned face as he stood in the Master's study, curled defensively over his thin arms where they wound around his likely empty stomach. Has he not bathed since I last saw him? the Master wondered in disgust. He did not consider himself an overly fastidious man, but he required a modicum of personal hygiene in his prospective lovers. As it was, if he fucked Bard in the man's current state, he'd be plagued by the need to wipe his hands clean of grime after every touch.

"You wanted to see me, Bard?" The Master let some of his frustration seep into his voice and watched Bard flinch at the implied reproach.

"...yes, Master," said Bard haltingly. His hands tightened convulsively on his crossed arms, and his breaths came quick and shallow. "I... I have reconsidered your offer, Master..." Bard stopped, swallowing dryly, seemingly unable to continue.

"And?" the Master prompted, impatient as he already knew he wouldn't see Bard on his knees today. Though, to be sure, tomorrow was not so long to wait, and this surrender was as sweet as the Master had dreamt.

"I accept." Bard wouldn't be able to manage more than this low croak of an agreement, the Master thought, and he was prepared to move on to discussing the details of their arrangement with a minimum of gloating when Bard surprised him. Straightening and visibly steadying himself, Bard forced his arms to his sides and his head up to meet the Master's gaze, eyes steely. "I accept your terms," he repeated, words clear if clipped, strong but for the slightest quaver at the end. I won't forget this, those eyes said, cold as the northern wastes. Or forgive.

The Master coughed, dabbing his mouth with a handkerchief he'd blindly grabbed. "Yes, yes... I'm pleased you've come around, Bard." He pulled open one of the drawers in his desk and counted out a dozen gold coins to stuff in a drawstring pouch, glad for the excuse to evade Bard's stare. "Serve me well, Bard, and the post of bargeman on the Forest River is yours."

A sudden wash of resentment surged through the Master. I am not the weaker one here, Bard. He tossed the pouch to Bard, who caught it with a faintly puzzled air. "Get yourself cleaned up and a decent meal. I want you presentable for tomorrow." The Master smirked to see how Bard's fingers shook as they closed around the money. "Ready to perform," he added. "Consider those coins payment in advance for your personal services." He deliberately put a nasty edge on the last two words. As he'd hoped, they cut deep, Bard's back curving inward under the weight of the truth. Remember that you are my whore now, bought and paid for. "No need to thank me for my generosity," the Master finished breezily. "You're dismissed, Bard. Until tomorrow. I look forward to seeing you then."

And Bard left, silent as a stalking cat. I must be careful, the Master reminded himself again. At the same time, that Bard was not even half tamed, defiant but grudgingly submitting to a violation he could not know the scope or effect of in his inexperience, excited the Master to heights of arousal he'd seldom felt spilling his seed into faceless women, each a pretty blank doll without an ounce of Bard's... spirit. Dangerous as it was to play this game with Bard, the Master was determined to test the man to the limits of his willingness and rape from him the dignity he wore like a cloak, marking him as above the common run for all that it was tattered by years of hard living.

His semi-erect cock rubbed uncomfortably against his trousers. The Master shifted in his seat, then yelled for the guards. When a man's face, expression obsequious, appeared around the doorframe with gratifying speed, he ordered, "Hold my next appointment. And shut the door! I have urgent business to attend to." Once this was done, the Master drew his cock from his pants with a sigh of relief, stroking it slowly, the phantom sensation of dark hair, waves unruly, at his fingertips.

· · ·
The next day, his afternoon audiences canceled in advance, the Master studied Bard with lazy eyes as the man stood again before him in his study. He noted with satisfaction Bard's clean hair, clean hands, and clean skin, the last scrubbed to a delightful shade of pink where the bones still protruded too sharply. Bard's face was otherwise pale, his eyes shuttered, revealing nothing. He couldn't entirely conceal his (delicious) fear, though, the Master saw. His bottom lip was red and swollen, as if he'd been biting it, and at his sides his hands clutched at his dingy coat. That'll have to come off. Helpless rage there was also in Bard's tense shoulders, the muscles in arm and leg bunched up in readiness to fight.

So long as Bard didn't act on his violent impulses, the Master cared not how much Bard hated him. If anything... The Master gripped the armrests of his chair as his cock twitched. A little resistance makes the subjugation all the sweeter. Anger was so easily turned inward to shame, and the Master did not intend to spare Bard any humiliation. Willing himself to relax, the Master waved a negligent hand and directed, "Take your coat off, Bard." He indicated that Bard ought to drape his coat over one of the chairs kept for petitioners. "Then come here."

Bard was slow to comply, shrugging out of his coat like a man thrice his age whose joints ached deep. His every step was reluctant, gaze fixed on his heavy feet, as he rounded the desk to stop just outside arm's reach in front of the Master in his chair. The Master tamped down his impatience. He gentled his tone when Bard was finally in place. "Bard, kindly kneel." Closer to, the Master could see that Bard's lean frame was racked by minute shivers, ruthlessly suppressed.

"Come now," the Master said, voice as treacle. "There's no sense in delaying the inevitable. A few minutes on your knees, and when I'm well pleased, you leave none the worse for the wear with your livelihood and your children's futures secured. Surely, that is worth your pride?" The Master frowned, though he doubted Bard was aware of much beyond whatever demons he wrestled with in his mind. "Unless... you've had a change of heart on accepting my offer?" Bard flinched. "I can't say I wouldn't be disappointed, but..."

Silent except for a rasping breath, Bard fell to his knees. His head was bowed, fists clenched on his thighs and hair hiding his face, dark strands parted over the nape of his neck. The Master's attention lingered on the bare skin there, picturing his hand wrapped around the knobby ridge of Bard's spine to force him down as he bent to his task.

At last! "You've chosen wisely, Bard." The Master edged forward in his seat, eager, and hungrily traced with his eyes the jut of Bard's collarbones where his roughspun tunic hung loose, ties open at the neck. Resisting the urge to adjust his stiffening cock, the Master asked, "Do you know what I want?" Bard nodded. "What shall you do next then?"

In answer Bard shuffled nearer-for a man unused to this position, he moved with grace enough, thought the Master, as if he had been born to it-until he crouched between the Master's obligingly spread legs. With shaking fingers, Bard unbuttoned the Master's pants and pulled out his hard cock, drawing a hiss of pleasure from the Master, Bard's calluses sliding along the shaft, tip already gleaming wet, as he held the Master's cock gingerly. Bard hesitated, shuddering more noticeably as he almost gasped for air. "Oh, and Bard?" the Master said, his own pulse quickening. "I don't think I need remind you to keep your teeth well away from any... sensitive parts." After a long moment, Bard shook his head, but his hands reflexively jerked.

The Master stifled a groan, wanting to grab Bard by the hair and stuff his cock down Bard's throat but needing to retain control for now. His fingers locked on the chair's arms, and he cleared his mind with an effort. "Bard," he snapped, in no mood anymore for niceties. "Hands behind your back. Use only your mouth."

When Bard stalled again after obediently clasping his hands behind him, as if in a trance, the Master gritted his teeth and demanded, "What are you waiting for? I begin to question whether you truly mean to win my favor." The Master smiled, and it was not pleasant at all. "Or would you rather I fuck you like a woman?"

"No, Master," Bard whispered, proving he hadn't gone deaf and mute. His head bowed lower. He took several deep breaths, then leaned in and closed his mouth on the Master's cock.

This time, the Master didn't bother to quiet his groans, hips thrusting shallowly into the wet heat. Bard had no finesse, as expected, sucking cock like a child would an oversized candied apple, sloppy and pulling away between tastes to catch his breath, but this satisfied the Master for a while. He was content to let Bard set a languid pace, the knowledge that it was proud Bard kneeling on the floor before him and Bard's mouth he was fucking like a common whore's kindling a blaze of lust low in his gut. Soon enough, he wanted more.

Seizing a handful of Bard's hair close to the roots-it was coarse silk to the touch as it wound through his fingers-the Master shoved his cock further into Bard's mouth. Bard instinctively tried to recoil as he gagged, but the Master's grip on his hair tightened brutally, the Master's other hand dropping to the nape of his neck, an iron collar, to press his face down. The Master grew painfully hard at the sound Bard made, half choke, half whine.

He began thrusting in earnest, panting as he drove his cock deeper. In and in, until the head hit the back of Bard's throat, massaged by muscles squeezing as they sought in vain to expel him, the desperate squirming of Bard's trapped tongue. Why, the Master fancied he could feel beating against his cock the panicked flutter of Bard's heart as his lungs burned for air.

For a heady moment, his blood thrumming throughout his body at his rape of the man at his feet, the Master thought he might fuck Bard's throat until his scrubbed pink skin shaded blue and he choked to death, mouth still stuffed full of cock. An end befitting the whore he is now. Then the Master looked down, and his balls drew up in an all too familiar sensation at the sight.

Bard's face was flushed red, his eyes screwed tightly shut. No tears. A pity. His insolent mouth was stretched obscenely around the girth of the Master's cock, and his lips glistened with spit and pre-come, rivulets of fluid pushing out with every thrust the Master made to weep down his chin. Bard trembled-his throat, his jaw, his head as he involuntarily jerked in the Master's hold, and his hands where they were twisted together behind his back, bloody crescents blooming on the skin cut by his nails. The Master imagined painting Bard's insides white with his seed, arousal licking like fire up his spine, and knew he was close. With a few last thrusts, the Master came with a groan, emptying in spurts and wringing from Bard another reedy whine as he forced Bard to gag deep once again on his cock.

This was apparently more than Bard could take. He pushed hard away from the Master with his hands, scrambling backwards on all fours until his coughs grew too violent for him to move farther. The Master, sated, watched through eyes half lidded as Bard gasped wetly, body heaving. One hand curled into a fist on the floor, fingers scratching across the wood; the other shook uncontrollably as Bard lifted it to wipe his mouth, smearing the Master's come over the back, his chin and cheeks. White spatters trailed from the Master to Bard, larger milky splotches pooling where Bard had spat them out. Come streaked Bard's dark hair. A sudden knife of lust stabbed hot through the Master at this proof of his claim upon Bard. His softening cock twitched.

With a sigh, the Master dropped on his desk the wisps of hair he'd torn from Bard's scalp and picked up a handkerchief. He gently cleaned his cock and tucked himself back into his trousers. Shaking his head, the Master tossed the soiled cloth to the floor before Bard and said, "Clean yourself up." Bard's body was still racked by suppressed coughing, but he'd drawn himself up to his knees and now stared at the Master's handkerchief, showing no sign that he intended to take it. The Master affected a disappointed tone. "I knew you were untutored in the art of lovemaking, but I'd hoped..." Another heavy sigh. "I expect better of you tomorrow, Bard."

Bard tensed. "Tomorrow?" Though he didn't glance up, there was an edge in his hoarse voice, sharpening rapidly. "Haven't I kept my end of... our bargain, Master?"

"I'm afraid not, Bard," the Master said, apologetic. "Our agreement was that I would appoint you my bargeman on the Forest River if you pleased me and pleased me well." Bard's raspy breathing, which had slowed to a semblance of normality, stuttered, then sped as the Master continued, words practiced. "Today's... performance hardly qualifies. Why, I had to do most of the work myself, so little skill and enthusiasm did you show in your task. And what an unsightly mess you've left!"

"You...!" Bard bit off what, the Master guessed, was most likely a curse, hands trembling again but in unmistakable anger. "What of the Elves?" snapped Bard. "Do they not expect trade to resume soon?"

"Oh, did I not inform you?" The Master pretended surprise. "I've been granted an extension, a full month, on my search for a bargeman. The Elvenking was quite understanding, competent help being so hard to come by these days." In truth, the Master had never exchanged missives with the Elvenking directly, and Galion, the Elvenking's seneschal, was growing decidedly impatient at the unexplained delay, intimating that his liege was similarly displeased. But Bard doesn't need to know that.

Bard at last raised his head. His face was grim, as cold and lifeless as stone, but his eyes...! Oh, how they burned, lit from within by utter loathing, the slow drying stripes of come on his skin and in his disarrayed hair making him look more than half a savage. Some wild man from out of the forest, thought the Master, suddenly uneasy. Or one of those queer Easterlings.

Holding fast to the fact that, mere moments ago, he'd had Bard at his mercy, helpless as the Master fucked his mouth to satisfaction, the Master tilted his head in consideration. "You may leave at any time, Bard, your word broken but with no ill feeling on my part. I will seek elsewhere for a bargeman. Though..." The Master's voice turned concerned. "Do you truly wish to return home empty-handed when you've already come so far and done so much?" Fallen so low as to whore yourself to a man you hate. The Master smiled inwardly as Bard looked away, sure that he'd heard the unspoken. Not so worried now and beginning to anticipate having Bard suck his cock tomorrow-and perhaps the next day, too, and the day after that-the Master waited.

Finally, Bard said, "It's enthusiasm you want?" His voice was as ice but, underneath, quivered a bleak note. The Master repressed a smirk. He is yet mine.

"Skill would please me, as well," the Master added. "And when I'm satisfied with your conduct, you shall receive your reward, as promised." The Master laid a hand over his heart and, expression wounded, said, "Though I have no doubt you think me a dastardly knave, I assure you, Bard, that I am a man of honor..." Bard skewered him with a glare as fatal as one of the man's arrows, and the Master almost quailed, hastily finishing, "...in matters of business."

Bard was silent as he ran a mostly steady hand through his hair, raking it of come, his eyes closed. He wiped his face clean with his sleeve, ignoring the Master's handkerchief still on the floor, then rose stiffly from his knees. His gaze was carefully blank as he met the Master's politely questioning stare, but the corners of his mouth were pinched. "I will hold you to your word, Master," said Bard, a dire vow. The Master had expected no less and nodded in smooth acceptance. Bard breathed in, then exhaled a gust of air, shoulders hunching slightly and a shudder running through his lean frame before he forced himself to calm, walking slowly, as if his joints ached deep, to retrieve his coat. "I... will see you tomorrow, Master." On the way to the door, Bard's pace quickened until he was very nearly in flight, flinging the door open and vanishing around the corner, the flap of his coat whipping the frame.

The Master eagerly scooted his chair to the window and, soon enough, watched Bard sprint down the boardwalk like the dragon had left its lair in the Mountain and was at his heels, spewing fire. A smile spread gradually across the Master's lips as he rubbed his fingers together, recalling the feel of Bard's skin. Not broken, not truly, he thought, but mine. For now. He would not fail to exploit his advantage.

And so the Master did. The next day, Bard did not hesitate to strip out of his coat and kneel, though his movements were jerky, taking the Master's cock in his mouth without (much) prompting. He licked and sucked, if not exactly enthusiastic, then at least determined to be done with it. The Master, however, was not done with Bard.

When Bard was once again on his hands as well as his knees, heaving up what he'd swallowed of the Master's come, coughing raggedly, the Master yanked Bard's head up by the hair. "No teeth," the Master said sharply, as Bard winced in pain, panting. The light scrape of Bard's teeth down his cock as Bard pulled away, gagging on his come, had been undeniably arousing, admitted the Master, some part of him thrilling at the risk, but a danger it was to allow Bard a longer leash. "No teeth," he repeated, gentling his tone. He gripped Bard's jaw tight enough to bruise with one hand, then caressed Bard's come-spattered lips with two fingers of the other as his whore shivered at the touch, rubbing his still warm seed across Bard's skin until it'd sunk into the man's very pores, never to be washed clean. "You have another chance to please me well tomorrow, Bard." And the Master savored how fear edged into Bard's eyes before he closed them, nodding minutely.

The day after, the Master almost came at the first tentative stroke of Bard's tongue, like a kitten lapping at a saucer of milk, while he fucked Bard's mouth. Ah, Bard, he thought, as he pumped hard and fast into Bard's throat, balls drawing up at the choked whimper of protest. I'll make a good whore of you yet. This time, Bard didn't even try to swallow, too shaken, but the Master held his head in place by the ears, coating Bard's face and hair white with ropy spurts of seed, cock seemingly draining for minutes. The Master groaned as he came at the sight of disgust and shame roiling under Bard's taut skin. When the Master was finished, cock soft again in his pants, Bard did not refuse the Master's offer of a handkerchief, taking the soiled cloth with the barest of pauses and brusquely mopping himself down, body rigid.

Anger at me? the Master wondered idly. Or at himself? Dismissing Bard's harsher feelings as of no import so long as he stayed compliant, the Master delivered his verdict: "Better, but I believe you can do better still, can't you, Bard?" He gestured at the dirty handkerchief Bard had kicked to one corner and raised an eyebrow. "Tomorrow, less of a mess. Wouldn't you agree?"

By the sixth time, a week later, the Master had to concede, sighing in pleasure as his thrusting cock was laved by a wet tongue, that Bard was becoming quite the accomplished cocksucker. He ran his fingers through Bard's coarse silk hair, dark locks curling, and mourned that their time together was at an end. Not only was he having trouble finding fault with Bard's service, but the Elves were demanding answers for the continued stoppage of river traffic. The Master looked down at Bard's head, bobbing between his spread legs, and heaved another sigh, one that changed into a moan when Bard made a low involuntary noise of pain, the sound vibrating along the Master's cock. I will miss this, thought the Master, considering how much longer he could keep Bard on his knees.

Finally, the edge of his arousal growing too sharp, the Master began fucking his cock deeper into Bard's mouth, breath quickening and pulse pounding in his veins. Bard choked at first but had at last learned to relax his throat. The Master groaned and groaned again as he drove his cock against spasming muscles, painfully hard at hearing Bard keen, wounded, as he tried desperately to draw breath enough. All too soon, the Master was coming. Bard gagged when the Master's seed hit the back of his throat, then swallowed it down as quickly as he could. Still, come filled his mouth, trickling from the corners in thin white trails as the Master shoved his softening cock in once, twice, three times. Releasing his iron grip on Bard's hair, the Master leaned back in his chair, sated. His cock slipped from between his whore's lips as Bard wrenched away, gasping, on hands and knees as usual.

The Master traced with his eyes the line of Bard's throat as he swallowed convulsively, fingers digging into the wood of the floor. Turning reluctantly from this arresting sight, the Master mechanically wiped his cock clean with a handkerchief, tucking himself in, then opened one of the drawers in his desk, pulling forth several sheets of parchment, the topmost with his official seal. There was a sudden intake of breath from Bard, followed by what was almost a sob, stifled.

"Congratulations, Bard," the Master said with false cheer. He was disappointed to see that Bard had climbed to his feet and removed any trace of come from his face using his sleeve while the Master completed the necessary paperwork, initialing, signing, dating, and stamping irritably. "You are hereby appointed my bargeman on the Forest River. Report to the customs office at the South Gate for consignments and to receive pay on a monthly basis."

How the Master regretted that he could not order Bard to collect fees from him in person. What might I have... persuaded him to do? But that was not routine procedure, and while the Master had no worries that Bard would go about town blabbing of their arrangement, for shame that he played the whore, others were not so constrained. The Master had taken steps to avert gossip this past week by rotating the guard, but if he started meeting with Bard every month when there was, legally speaking, no need to, people would inevitably talk. A sex scandal the Master could do without. Why can I not fuck the man in peace, free of meddlesome rumormongers? He sighed.

After checking that all was in order, the Master folded the papers into a packet and handed them to Bard, who took them with shaking fingers. Another pang of regret shot through the Master at the sight of Bard with his shabby coat pulled tight about his body, one arm wrapped protectively around his middle. Why did I not think to have him strip naked? Not that the Master lusted after Bard's body or that of any other man, but seldom was a man more vulnerable than when he was as bare as a babe newly drawn from its mother's womb. The Master thought wistfully of striping Bard's chest with his come, marking his claim across those jutting collarbones, arched like the wings of a bird in flight. A missed opportunity.

Bard had unfolded the papers, eyes feverishly scanning every word, every line, every page. The thin sheaf of parchment was slightly crinkled at the edges where Bard's unsteady hands had grasped it too tight before he loosened his grip by force of will. The Master watched in interest as Bard's face twisted in an agonized expression of mingled anger, shame, relief and, chief of all, hope.

This was more emotion than Bard had shown in days, since he wiped himself clean of the Master's dripping come with the Master's handkerchief. For the moment, Bard was laid open. His heart was as plain to the Master as if the Master had cut into his chest and spread his ribs wide to see it beating red and furious. Pain the Master had wrung from Bard when his knees ached from the hard floor and his jaw ached from the thrusting of the Master's hips, his throat from the scraping of the Master's cock. But what was such pain compared to that which could wound a man soul-deep? Though Bard had whined and whimpered, choked and gasped under the Master's hands, never once had he cried or cried out. Even now, his ordeal nearly over, Bard read the papers sealing his appointment to the post he had debased himself for with dry eyes, hunched shoulders shuddering like he was falling apart in sobs but white lips pressed closed over any sound of hurt.

I would see his face wet with tears, thought the Master, an ugly feeling clawing at his insides. I would hear my chambers echo with his screams. It was then that the Master decided he was not through with Bard. He would coerce the man again into his bed, in the fullest meaning of the phrase, and the next time he would not be satisfied with just fucking Bard's mouth.

Smiling pleasantly as he imagined Bard split in twain, jerking, on his cock, the Master said, "I trust you find all as expected, Bard. The bureaucracy of our fair town can be such a tedious process, and I'd hate to learn that one of my clerks made an error costing you your new station, so arduously won." The Master berated himself for not having arranged precisely such an administrative blunder.

No matter, he then assured himself. There will be other chances. When he was in the guard and his wife lived still, Bard was an irritating do-gooder on the best of days, a dangerous dissident on the worst. His livelihood secured, Bard would not be long in reverting to his former bad habits, the Master figured, men of his like being quite predictable in that way. And I will be ready to catch him as soon as he puts a toe out of line.

Glancing over the papers again, Bard nodded curtly and said, rasping and low, "All seems to be in order, Master." Somewhat surprised, the Master realized he could not recall the last time Bard had spoken to him. Has he not said a word all week? Surely not! Bard's voice was raw, as gritty as sand to the ears, the repeated abuse of his throat clearly having taken a toll. The Master wondered in passing how Bard had explained this change to his children.

When Bard turned to leave, papers clutched close with both hands, the Master called his name. Bard tensed. "Have you nothing more to say to your benefactor?"

His gaze carefully blank but for a spark of fierce emotion, impossible to name, Bard said, stiffly, "Thank you, Master, for this boon." A quiet croak, but the Master grudgingly admitted that Bard may not be able to produce speech any louder.

"You are very welcome," the Master replied graciously. "Do your new duties well, Bard, and cause no more trouble. You have my leave to go now." The Master had barely finished dismissing him before Bard fled, the door left swinging open in his wake.

Standing, the Master crossed to the window and followed Bard with his eyes as Bard walked south, head bowed, no doubt eager to present his papers to the customs office. The Master watched until Bard disappeared from his sight, then returned to his desk, plans already forming in his head and resolve hardening in his heart. You are not rid of me yet, my whore.

· · ·
For the next two years, to the Master's intense frustration, Bard evaded all of the Master's attempts to entrap him. He lived quietly with his children, seldom leaving his house except for the Forest River or with them. The boy would be on one hand and the older girl on the other, the youngest strapped in a sling across his front until she grew enough for Bard to carry in one strong arm while her sister walked with increasing confidence at their father's side, hands clasped low before her like a proper lady.

Bard did not even go to market days as he used to, his produce delivered to him at home by a widowed herbalist or one of her five sons, the eldest nearly twenty. In exchange, Bard gathered plants for the herbalist's practice from the deep forest and occasionally gave her squirrels or rabbits he'd snared. His only solitary trips, his children left in the care of a neighbor, besides when heading out to his barge or returning from it, were his bimonthly rounds of the shops. Bard never visited the same ones, however, sometimes the baker, sometimes the butcher, the tailor, cobbler, or candlemaker. And he had few other routines outside of his duties, making his way about town by a different route every time. Though Bard showed a distinct preference for the less crowded streets and alleys, this just made it harder to have him followed without notice. The spies the Master had set on Bard were confounded.

Of course, the Master thought acidly, these spies had largely proved themselves incompetent fools. A truly embarrassing number of them had startled Bard and been pinned to the nearest wall with a tense forearm at their throats. Many refused to resume their watches after these incidents, mumbling vague excuses. Bard's senses and reflexes had apparently sharpened further, though the Master hardly believed that possible, and his rage was unabated. The Master couldn't decide whether he was annoyed at Bard's still resilient spirit for the inconvenience it caused him in keeping eyes on the man or excited that it remained whole for him to break.

The Master had returned to his other whores but found the women less satisfying than before, unable to rouse him much unless he pictured Bard in their places. They moaned and writhed in affected pleasure when the Master wanted honest tears and screams. Every once in a while, with a whore whose hair was dark and shoulder-length, waves unruly, the Master contemplated stuffing his cock down her throat until she choked on his come or fucking her raw up the ass while her back arched in pain, fingers scrabbling uselessly across the sheets. But always he refrained. In the end, not one of these nameless women was Bard, and he could ill afford to antagonize the steely-eyed matron of Laketown's finest pleasure house by ruining one of her girls when he was so short on palatable options for his own relief, what with Bard continuing to elude his grasp. Curse the man!

Instead, after he dismissed whores unsated, the Master entertained himself with detailed fantasies of how he would punish Bard for his transgression. Perhaps he would chain Bard to his bedposts, hand and foot, face down with ass presented for the Master to fuck whenever he wished. Many a night the Master came pumping his hard cock at the thought of his seed painting Bard's thighs, his back, pooling in the curve of his spine above his ass and on the bed below as it oozed pink from his twitching, abused hole. Better yet if Bard could be coerced somehow into a semblance of willingness. Could he be made to beg, humiliated, for the Master's cock?

Leverage was what the Master needed. And Bard's children came immediately to mind. They were children, however, and in the Master's experience, few things could incite a crowd into a mob faster than a perceived threat to an innocent child's life.

What's more, each time Bard left home for the Forest River, he asked a different neighbor to watch his children; the entire quarter knew his brats now and was enamored of them, most having invited Bard's three to run about underfoot at their own hearths alongside their own children. The Master had the sour suspicion that this was no accident on Bard's part. Bard's late wife might have done the same, the damnable shrew's influence on her husband still strong though her body was over two years moldering in the grave.

Bard's children out of his reach (for now), the Master could only inspect Bard's performance of his duties in the hopes that he would be remiss in some way that the Master could exploit to his advantage. But Bard proved a more than competent bargeman. He learned to navigate the ruins of Esgaroth in sun and mist. He was unfailingly punctual-always early to the south docks, where the traders with wares to ship up the Forest River appreciated his young back, and never late returning from the river landing, barge laden with empty barrels. He even completed and filed all the proper customs declarations, carefully itemizing every shipment as old Guthran hadn't bothered with in years. In short, Bard did absolutely nothing that the Master could cite as an excuse to summon him for a private audience. This was surely no accident either.

The Master's one spot of luck was finding a willing informant in the customs office, a man named Alfrid, who had a keen eye for detail and made himself valuable, his faintly rodent-like appearance notwithstanding. As difficult as it was to have Bard tailed in town, it was impossible to do so out on the open waters of the lake. Alfrid's reports were the Master's sole window on Bard's activities during his trips on the Forest River, and if Alfrid thought the Master's interest in a lowly bargeman, Bard's every move and mood, strange, he did not see fit to question his orders so long as he was paid. The Master felt he could perhaps raise a practical man of Alfrid's talents to a more befitting post.

For the moment, though, Alfrid remained in place. And from his spy the Master heard of small, gratifying signs that Bard was not as well as he seemed. Alfrid noted that, on occasion, Bard returned with his hair wet when there had been no rain or his face chafed red when the day was warm and windless. He was distracted on these occasions, Alfrid added, often not answering hails until they were repeated, louder and closer to.

Recalling our time together, Bard? thought the Master, once Alfrid had slunk out the door, coins in hand. My claim upon you is not a stain so easily removed. Yet the problem of leverage resisted the Master's attempts to solve it. Frustrated, the Master began to consider whether arranging for Bard to be arrested on bogus smuggling charges would be worth the trouble of planting evidence and bribing witnesses.

And then Bard disappeared up the Forest River for the better half of a month.

The first couple days, the Master was unconcerned. Likely the Elves were late in floating barrels downriver, and Bard had provisions enough that he decided to camp at the landing overnight, hopefully to return to town the next day with a loaded barge. In fact, once the Master realized he could demand that Bard give an account of the causes of his delay in person, especially should he fail to deliver any barrels, the Master was elated. Here at last was leverage-if not ideal, for the infraction was a minor one-that he could use to bend Bard to his will.

When two days became three, then four, and still there was no word of Bard, an unhappy notion occurred to the Master. Could Bard be dead? Not without reason was the forest known as Mirkwood. Rumors spread among the woodsmen of a dark sorcerer in the forest's southern reaches and of foul beasts creeping in the shadows under the eaves of trees grown twisted, the very air pressing close and heavy. None in Laketown ventured as deep into the forest as did Bard, poling his barge miles up the river and daring the woods in solitary searches for plants to trade the herbalist. As capable a fighter as Bard was, unarmed but for a wooden staff and far from even the prospect of aid, it was not inconceivable that the dangers of Mirkwood had killed him. The Master smashed a fine crystal decanter in a fit of rage at this idea, though not before he drank its contents. How he regretted not jailing Bard under some pretense and setting as bail a long, hard fuck, now that all his schemes and patience had come to naught. And left me again short a bargeman.

On the sixth day after Bard went missing, a letter arrived by Elven courier. The Elvenking, Galion wrote, was calling a halt to river traffic while the Master's bargeman, one Bard, remained an honored guest-prisoner, more like, guessed the Master-in his halls. Galion finished by informing the Master that Bard would be released to his duties in two weeks, at which time trade could resume. The Master had a whore, dark-haired, brought to him that night and fucked her slow from behind, until she was mewling in her desperation to come or at least playing her part of the wanton well. This was no minor infraction. He is mine.

In the clear light of morning, however, the Master started to suspect conspiracy. With Erebor the lair of the dragon and Dale near two centuries a ruin, the power of the Woodland Realm was the only that could challenge his own in this corner of the Wilderland. Did Bard think to seek asylum from the Elvenking? And how would the Elves, fey and fell creatures that they were, respond?

The waterway had become the primary trade route as the forest paths fell into disuse or vanished along with many an unwary traveler, but the Lakemen and Wood Elves disputed the upkeep of the Forest River, the Master arguing that he could not be responsible for the care of the banks to the landing for lack of men who would brave Mirkwood's haunted depths. The Master did not doubt that the Elvenking could use his dealings with Bard to force concessions from him, whether by threats of blackmail or formal charges of abuse of authority, backed by Elven gold and steel, if Bard had confided all. He felt Bard would not easily trust another with his shame, yet the Master found himself increasingly anxious in his uncertainty with each passing minute.

So, on the day Bard was to return, the Master personally went up the Forest River in the early hours before dawn, accompanied by a small contingent of fifteen guards and a servant with provisions to see to his needs. Bard's barge was moored at the landing, apparently undamaged, barrels lined neatly upon the deck, though half-filled with rainwater. The Master sent most of his guards and his servant farther upriver with their boat to wait hidden by the trees while he stayed at the landing with six men, intent on catching Bard unawares in whatever plot he had hatched with the Elves. It was approaching midday, the Master growing irritable in the heat and his hunger, when the scout on watch reported movement on the forest trail coming towards the landing. The Master hastily scrambled up from where he'd been sitting on the barge's railing, fanning himself, and ordered his men to take cover in the brush.

When Bard walked out of the woods, his steps light as a deer's, he was alone. The late summer sun caught in his hair and revealed colors of rich brown, gilding every strand. His clothes were mended as good as new, and slung over one shoulder was a gracefully curved longbow of silver wood that the Master noted with some alarm. Both the bow and the embossed quiver of arrows fletched in spiraling white feathers were unmistakably of Elven make.

The captain of the guards looked questioningly at the Master, expecting his command to break cover, but the Master shook his head, thinking furiously as he watched Bard crouch on the balls of his feet, setting bow and quiver on the pier within easy reach, to check that his barge was sound with hands and eyes. I will have him arrested, the Master finally decided, and learn the truth of his time with the Elves when he's behind bars. Bard would not escape his imprisonment until he agreed to the Master's terms.

Suddenly optimistic that, after more than two years of frustration, he was less than a day, maybe two, from bedding Bard, the Master stepped from his concealing bush, arms spread wide in greeting. "Ah, Bard!" he cried, jovial. "Just the man I wa-" The Master got no further, the guard next to him tackling him bodily to the ground. An arrow tore through the air where his throat had been and hit a tree some distance into the forest with a sharp thunk, point buried deep in the trunk, feathered end vibrating. All about the Master, shouts of alarm erupted.

Bard had tensed at the rustle of leaves and spun around with bow loose in hand, still crouched, but upon hearing the Master's voice, seeing the Master's pleasant smile, his eyes widened and his face went white. In one continuous motion, he'd drawn an arrow from his quiver and, staggering a step forward, nocked it to his bow, then fired, barely pausing to take aim, though his arms shook violently.

His first shot having missed, Bard grabbed blindly for a second arrow. The guardsmen were running down the riverbank, hands on the hilts of their swords, yelling for Bard to drop his weapon. Except the one who'd rolled off the Master but held his position shielding his prone lord, sword raised defensively.

What does he plan to do with that? thought the Master, a bit hysterical. The only man here who could perhaps have hoped to deflect an arrow in flight with the flat of a blade was currently drawing his bow, bent on assassination. Bard paid no attention to the guards converging on him. His dark gaze was fixed unerringly on the Master, who tried to sit up and at least hide more of his body behind his would-be protector's.

The Elvish longbow thrummed again, string slicing the air with a sound like that of silk threads being cut by a razor. His eyes screwed tightly shut, the Master braced for the blow to land. The words of Bard's former commander rang in his ears from the argument they'd had over his denial of Bard's request for leave. "That lad's the best hand with a bow I've ever seen in all my years. Could shoot the wings off a drunken fly at two hundred fifty paces. Seems a right shame to let a talent like his go to waste 'cause you can't find some compassion in you for a man grieving." Peeved at being questioned so brazenly, the Master had demoted the old man on the spot for insubordination, from captain of Laketown's half a dozen companies of archers to master at arms in charge of green recruits and trainees. The now-sergeant was unfazed, however, warning the Master he'd one day regret not keeping Bard's loyal service. Then, saying that he'd inform Bard of the Master's judgment, he took his leave with a curt nod, not waiting for dismissal.

Even so, the Master couldn't quite bring himself to regret forcing Bard to be his whore-having Bard on hands and knees at his feet, choking on his come, had been too sweet a victory to wish otherwise-only that he had not been able to drive Bard to despair. Curse the man! There was too much anger in Bard and not nearly enough fear, if his first instinct at meeting the Master unexpectedly was to attempt murder.

Screaming, raw and breathless, rose over the noise of a scuffle. The timbre of it punched the Master in the stomach, sinking in like a fishhook and pulling at his guts as it rolled, then fell. He opened one eye in a squint, feeling queasy. Is it over? The man who'd stood guard before him was gone, hurrying to help his fellows on the pier where they fought to restrain Bard. Patting himself down with his hands, the Master found no wound; Bard's second and last arrow was embedded at an angle halfway up the gently sloping riverbank. The Master sighed in relief and clambered gingerly to his feet, straightening his clothes and brushing off patches of dirt left from his dive to the ground.

By the time the Master collected his wits and picked his way over to the captain's side, Bard's screams had mercifully died to an unceasing series of muffled cries and slurred words. One guard kept Bard pinned to the weathered stones of the pier with a knee in the small of his back, twisting Bard's right arm high behind him, while another tried to pry his white-knuckled grip loose from the Elvish longbow that Bard held in his left hand still. A third guard lay sprawled with his forearm across Bard's ankles, his head tipped back, hand stemming the flow of blood from his nose. The Master glanced at the captain, who sported a split lip and a bruised eye that was already blackening, then at the man sitting off to one side, an arm around his ribs, and finally at Bard, who twitched and jerked under his captors' touch, every so often growling. Blood trickled down Bard's chin from where he'd bitten through his lower lip in his struggles. It was a stark red against Bard's skin, which was bloodlessly pale.

A month with the Elves and he's gone feral, the Master thought, slightly repulsed. Whether Bard had lost his senses or not remained to be seen. The Master would bed Bard half-wild and thrill at the taming but not fuck a rabid whore. Though if he is of sound mind... The Master studied Bard again, gaze calculating. Bard may have sought to kill the Master but, in failing, had only tightened the Master's leash on him. Mine. He is mine.

With a wrench, the second guard at last succeeded in parting Bard from his bow. Bard's hand, bereft, curled into a trembling fist. He moaned low in his throat, back arching as he brought his forehead to press against the pier.

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