Of Kings and Slaves Chapter 8
Title: Of Kings and Slaves AU - Part 8
Rating: Mature, violence
Paring: OB/EW - AU
Warnings: violence
Disclaimer: All made up :)
Beta: Many, many thanks to itstonedme
Hi everyone! *waves*
I know this fic hasn’t made an appearance in an eon and for that I do apologize. While I will miss talesinbloom very much, the most lovely itstonedme offered up her beta skills and, before she could run away, I leaped all over her it *g* :D. I sent her this story first as it hadn’t been updated the longest. I hope you don’t mind waiting a little longer for more Realistic. ;)
Previous parts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4.1
Part 4.2
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Orlando watches Elijah sleep. Last night burns in his memory, and the still-smoldering embers of it threaten to kindle a fire in his groin. He wants Elijah again.
However, it will have to wait. Right now, he must go to his father. Orlando leans over, feeling somewhat foolish at the kiss he means to leave upon Elijah’s cheek, but rewarded when Elijah turns into him with the rub of soft lips.
“Where are you going?” Elijah murmurs sleepily.
“Into hell,” Orlando whispers grimly. He sees the confusion in Elijah’s eyes. “I must meet with my father.”
Elijah reaches for Orlando’s hand and squeezes it.
Orlando looks at their linked hands. He curls his fingers around Elijah’s, rubbing his thumb over Elijah’s skin. He is not worthy of such constant, silent comfort. “We will leave here tomorrow,” he promises. “Go back to sleep.”
Elijah smiles gratefully.
*
The hall feels cold after the warmth of the bed, and Orlando’s feet drag against the stone, dread weighing them down. He stands reluctantly before the innocent-looking black door, steeling himself for a meeting he does not wish to have. Reluctantly, he raises his hand and raps the wood. He is no coward; he will not run.
“Enter.”
The door is as massive as he remembers. When he was a a boy, it had never been necessary to lock him out for he literally could not push it open. There had been a time when he would knock, pleading to be let in, but entrance had always been denied. Once, still too young to realize he wouldn’t want the answer to every question, he’d asked his father why the door was so heavy. Tristan had smiled callously as he replied, ‘A real man could open the door’.
That had stuck with him, making him angry and resolute. He would get that door open, and one day when he was perhaps ten he enlisted Eric’s help. Together, they had forced it to yield. He had been so proud of himself, but Tristan had been neither amused nor impressed. In fact, Orlando had been backhanded for his efforts and banished, his father loudly commenting to John that he doubted his son would ever be able to manage the door on his own. Afterwards, as they sat in the quiet of his tower room, Eric had assured him that the day would come when they would become ‘real’ men. ‘We will be welcome, you’ll see.’ Eric had spoken with such certainty, with such an honest smile on his face.
Orlando sighs sadly; he is able to enter under his own power now, but he does not feel welcome or wanted. The room he had been so eager to enter as a child holds no magic now.
“Father.” The title falls stiffly from Orlando’s lips. He is amazed that he should forever feel the child in this place, still afraid, still trembling, longing for the merest scrap of praise and fearing that it will be denied him.
John lurks in the shadows by the fire. Orlando nods in recognition but refrains from any forced formality.
“Sit,” Tristan orders.
Orlando does as bid, in the chair across from his father, his hands on his knees, back uncomfortably straight. “How is Hespiah?” he asks, politely inquiring after the queen.
“Abed with a fever, but we are not here to discuss her.”
“Your kingdom prospers,” Orlando replies neutrally. His father’s gaze is cold; it makes Orlando uncomfortable, and he fidgets, earning a glare.
“I would dearly love to have heard the same of yours,” Tristan replies sourly.
Orlando glances at John. He wishes the flames would lick out and rid him of the foul mouthpiece that fills his father’s head with lies. “It does,” Orlando says. “I can assure…”
“John tells me you put yours at risk,” his father interrupts.
Orlando’s eyes narrow. “I do no such thing.”
“No? Tell me then, what are you doing about the threat from the north?”
Orlando stares at John’s profile, daring the man to turn and meet his eyes, but John remains fixed upon the flames. Orlando turns to Tristan earnestly. “There is no threat. I can assure you the northern people are of no concern. From what I’ve seen…”
“Just what have you seen?” Tristan sneers.
Orlando is used to it. “I have seen enough to know, father. They are not massing, nor are they raising an army. They…”
Tristan’s open palm loudly smacks the wooden arm of his chair as he rises. Orlando silently curses himself for starting at the sound.
“Are you saying that your advisor, a man whom I’ve trusted for years, is lying to me?”
Orlando bites back the first answer that pushes at his lips. “Apparently, we are not of the same views.”
“Indeed,” Tristan continues, “for he’s informed me that they are of formidable number, that they are possessed of weapons, and that they practice with their blades. They heavily guard the road north.”
Orlando eyes John accusingly because this intelligence was never brought to him. He knows that the northern people guard their road, but what he saw were a people protecting their borders, nothing more. “What I saw were farmers concerned with their own crops and livelihoods, men working their fields and unconcerned with us.”
“The one time you managed to drag yourself away from your slave, you mean?”
Tristan’s remark twists like a blade, but Orlando refuses to reveal the ache that oozes from unseen wounds. He sits quietly in his chair, palms rubbing the smooth wooden arms, the worn surfaces testimony to the nerves of countless others who have been seated here before him. “I’ve surveyed more than once and know what I saw. They were tending their crops, not planning for war.”
“I have given you a kingdom and you piss it away.”
His father acts as if he hadn’t bled or killed for it. “I…”
“Enemies are always of concern, you fool.”
“I know this.”
His father snorts derisively. “Is it your mind or your cock that rules? Are you so taken when you fuck your slave that you can’t think for yourself anymore?”
Orlando is stunned by this accusation and blinks in disbelief. “My commitment is to my kingdom.”
“You think me a fool?” Tristan growls. “Do you take me for some nattering old man? It is plain to even the lowliest servant how you feel about him.”
“He is my slave and I am his master.”
“You are so far under his thumb it’s a wonder you can move at all.”
“He doesn’t control me. He is my prize!” Orlando is absolutely perplexed by this tack. He has done what was expected of him. He showed Elijah at dinner, although he does not admit that it pained him to do so or that he hates himself for making Elijah willingly participate in such a public display.
“Prize?” Tristan snorts.
“T-trophy,” Orlando stammers, and immediately regrets how this unintended stumble shows weakness. His father bears his teeth like a angry mongrel.
“You hang a trophy on the wall,” Tristan snarls. “You claim him to be a slave yet you do not share him, and he sleeps in your bed.”
Orlando blanches at the reminder of his indiscretion. To keep a slave in one’s bed is simply never done and yet he has, both in Neverwas and here, in his father’s own keep. In his mind, he hears the echo of Elijah asking, ‘Why must it be this way?’ And indeed why? Why must he turn Elijah from his bed, or remove from his ear a reasonable voice?
He lifts his chin defiantly. “What does it matter if I wish to keep what pleasures me so near?”
“You betray yourself and make a mockery of me. Haven’t you done enough of that?”
“I only wish to enjoy the spoils that are mine.” Orlando’s jaw aches from clenching it so tightly.
“Always a liar. Always weak,” his father scowls. “It is known that you have taken advice from him, been made soft by him. Does he tell you there is no threat from without?”
“He was once a prince. He knows the hearts and minds of those who were at one time his people. I mean only to exploit that.”
He flinches as Tristan closes the space between them. His father grabs his face so hard it hurts.
“And what does he know? What can he know?” Tristan roars. “We pulled the walls down around them! We claimed their kingdom! And you would listen to him? Your enemy?”
“I don’t see why…” The fingers along Orlando’s jaw dig in cruelly and stop his speech.
“No, you don’t,” his father hisses. His face is livid. “You don’t see anything.”
There is a pause, a moment where his father looks into his eyes, and Orlando sees nothing but disgust, the same contempt and hatred he had witnessed the day Eric died.
“You cannot be my son. I cannot imagine the spineless creature she found to fuck that would produce you,” his father spits out in a rage, “because you … you are not mine.”
Orlando slaps his father’s hand away. “My mother was not a whore.” Orlando knows his father wanted a boy like Eric, strong and without conscience. Instead he was borne a son with a slight frame and his mother’s scruples.
The blow that follows makes his ears ring and his head snap back. Another falls before he can lift his hands in self-defense, and he feels his cheek split by his father’s ring.
“I should have put that bitch to the blade for her infidelity and you along with her.”
“You wish you could deny me, but you can’t,” Orlando breathes evenly, but his eyes burn as the last hope for any love or praise from his father vanishes. No matter what he ever does, it will never be enough. “It must pain you to hear others when they say that I am your spitting image.” Tristan isn’t the only one who can cut with words. “They say when they look at me, it’s like looking back in time. Would you call them liars?”
Tristan’s fist curls again and Orlando braces for another blow. He will not shrink away.
“Apparently, we are of different views,” Tristan mocks.
“Perhaps you will have another and not be so disappointed.”
“I have prayed,” Tristan says fervently. “But for now you are all I have and I must make do. Mark these words, however. You had better begin proving yourself to be my son. You need to act a king in your kingdom. Am I understood?”
Orlando lifts a hand to his hot cheek, then thinks better of it. He’ll show no weakness before this man or any other.
“I suggest you rid yourself of the diversion or I shall have to. Do I make myself clear?”
“He is just a slave,” Orlando says tightly.
“Then quit being such a useless thing and start treating him as such.”
“I do. He means nothing to me.” Orlando hopes that saying it with such conviction will help him feel it.
“Remember this. You are nothing without me. You have a kingdom because of me and because of my army. It is yours out of tradition and little more. You will cease being an embarrassment to me.”
“Everything I do is for you!” Orlando cries.
“Then stop being weak! End this shameful fascination you have with your slave!” His father grabs Orlando’s shirt, roughly yanking him from the chair. “Only the gutless and weak allow themselves to be governed by their hearts. Are you a woman, Orlando? Hmm? Or perhaps you are still a puling child.”
“I do not love him. I don’t love anyone. You taught me that.”
“Then do not let him ruin you.” Tristan releases him and sends him sprawling to the floor. “You will lose all that has been hard won by listening to the lies he fills your head with. He will whisper words you long to hear and you will become his slave.”
Orlando blanches. “I wouldn’t…”
“It has already begun. He will take advantage of the length of the leash you give him. He will disobey you and because you love him, you will overlook it, to your own ruination.”
There is a part of Orlando that hears the truth in his father’s words. He has put trust in Elijah. He has taken his advice. Now that the seed of doubt has been planted, he wonders what his own goals would be if he were in Elijah’s place. Wouldn’t he seek to gain the confidence of his master, all the while plotting behind his back?
“I would never let that happen,” Orlando says quietly.
He can see the way his father’s hands shake and his face purples with unspent rage. “Prove it.” Tristan reaches for him once more, dragging him up off the floor by his hair. “Prove it and perhaps you’ll change in my estimation.”
Orlando hates himself for desperately still needing his father’s esteem and love, needing the man who is so cruel to him.
“I will do right by you,” he hears himself promise.
“You had better, for there’s one other thing you should know. If you fail to curb your appetites for him, if you cannot live according to the rules under which you’ve been raised, measures will be taken to remove the threat. Do you understand?”
They would take Elijah from him.
The war continues within his breast, his father’s love versus Elijah’s.
“John has my permission to deal with the situation as he sees fit. Now, get out of my sight until you can prove yourself a man.”
Orlando rises, his body numb with shock, and bows respectfully to his father.
In the quiet of the hall, he stops. A drop of blood drips upon his collar and he smears it with a shaking hand. His father is right. He has been a fool. Elijah only wishes to use him.
And yet there’s a part of Orlando that thinks that if they ever try to touch Elijah, he’ll kill them all. And neither Tristan nor his entire army will be able to ever stop him.
*
Elijah stands as Orlando storms into the room. There’s an ugly slash across his cheek, blood still weeping from it in scarlet drops.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Change into your riding clothes and make ready to leave,” Orlando orders.
Elijah takes a step forward. “Your cheek…”
“Leave it,” Orlando hisses and swipes at the blood with the back of his hand. He stares at the smear as if noticing it for the first time.
“Your father did this to you?” Elijah asks uncertainly. It’s something he cannot fathom.
Orlando does not want the pity in Elijah’s eyes. All he wants, now and forever, is to not feel anything ever again.
“I said get dressed.” His voice is flat, his eyes blank voids.
Elijah takes a careful step away. He’s never seen a look like this before, not on Orlando nor on anyone else, and he finds the lack of emotion terrifying. “You should let me clean it.”
Orlando lets it bleed. Another scar, another reminder that he’s weak, a disappointment today and always. “I said leave it and get dressed. I will not tell you again.” He turns to the task of packing, shoving garments into a leather bag.
“What did he do to you?”
Orlando turns and finds Elijah still standing there, not moving. Rage boils through his veins. “He beat some sense into me!”
“There is no sense in brutality.”
Orlando stalks forward, watching as alarm spreads across Elijah’s face. That is better. Far better fear than pity. “Your father speaks with words to you, mine speaks with his fists to me. Sometimes that drives the point home more clearly. Perhaps I should do the same with you.”
The sympathy in Elijah’s eyes vanishes, replaced with an indignant fire and sneering lip.
Confusion roils through Orlando as he realizes this isn’t better, this is worse. He was baiting Elijah into retaliating, even though he would never be able to follow through.
He is going mad.
He presses the heel of his palm against his forehead, trying to still the pounding there. “I need for you to obey me in all things,” he says dully. He fixes Elijah with a look that scatters Elijah into motion.
Any further plea for Orlando to tell him what’s wrong, what has happened, turns to ash in Elijah’s mouth. Before him stands the man who offered him a blade and bid him to make a choice.
“I have no clothes.”
Orlando flips open a chest, digging through the garments within until he finds the tunic and leggings Elijah wore on their travels and throws them at him. Elijah pulls them on.
There’s a soft knock upon the open door, and Elijah turns to find Charlie standing there. Orlando ignores him.
“Is there anything you need of me?” Charlie asks. Elijah hears the hope in that question clearly.
The room remains silent save for the sounds of Orlando shoving clothing and small items into his bag.
“Tell my men to ready themselves for the road.”
“But, my lord,” Charlie says formally, as if realizing there’s a line not to be crossed, “some of them are out in the market or hunting and…”
“It does not matter,” Orlando says, his voice still devoid of any affect. “Do as I say. Those not ready can come later, with John.”
Elijah can see Charlie’s eyes settle upon the wound on Orlando’s cheek. He sees too the concern and knowledge that flickers across Charlie’s face, but most troubling to Elijah is the dawning realization that Charlie’s hope for leaving with Orlando will not come to pass.
“Will I be coming … ?”
“No,” Orlando shouts, cutting Charlie off brutally. There is a flood inside him that threatens to spill over, murky waters filled with pain and helplessness and all of it afire with rage. Gods help them all if it begins to spill. “You are…”
Charlie and Elijah can hear the words choke in Orlando’s throat.
“You are his and there is nothing I can do. Go now, do as I order.”
Charlie drifts away from the door like a stricken phantom, such anguish on his face that Elijah forgets his silence.
“He feels for you…” he starts, but the anger in Orlando’s eyes and the slave collar in Orlando’s fist stills the words on his tongue. “What are you doing?” he asks warily. He thought the issue of the collar was behind them.
Wordlessly, Orlando flicks open the collar and, without thinking, Elijah tries to escape the silver band and everything it represents. Orlando catches him, fingers digging sharply into his arms.
‘He will take advantage of the length of the leash you give him. He will disobey you and because you love him you will overlook it, to your own ruination’. His father’s words haunt him. This disobedience, this contrariness, is exactly what his father warned him of and he has let it continue far too long. He has been blind to its threat, but no more.
Elijah stops struggling. Orlando is not himself, and Elijah knows better than to taunt a rabid dog.
Orlando snaps closed the foul piece of metal. Gripping Elijah’s arm, he forces him from the room, ignoring the forgotten pieces of his own clothing strewn about, and leaving this room behind them.
*
Only half their cohort mills about the courtyard, readying their horses, but Orlando doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“The others have been ordered to follow with John when they return and catch us on the way,” one of the soldiers tells him.
“They will not catch us,” Orlando assures him.
“We haven’t yet set aside provisions,” another guard protests.
“Then I trust you will have done so by the time the horses are readied.”
The guards blink at him, no doubt in surprise and bitterness, Orlando thinks. He has seen the looks they all give each other when they think he is not looking. These were men ordered to return with him, but they do not wish to leave such luxury for Neverwas.
Orlando has no pity for them. He wants nothing more than to put days of dust between himself and his father.
The courtyard bustles with preparations for their departure. More horses are brought, saddled and ready from the stables; other servants gather whatever provisions they can hurriedly round up. It matters not to Orlando is if they ride with bread from the keep or without. They will hunt if needs be; they are not helpless.
Orlando mounts and grabs at Elijah, pulling him roughly toward the horse. There’s a fragility to Orlando that Elijah finds nearly palpable. Even through the rage, or perhaps because of it, there’s a sense that Orlando might fly apart at any moment. Elijah yearns to tell Orlando that his father’s words must be cruel lies, but the barrier that has been erected between them will not be bridged until - and only if - Orlando wills it. Instead, he accepts Orlando’s outthrust hand and is hoisted onto the horse.
How can a father be so cruel, so provoking, Elijah wonders. Medias never so much as raised his voice to him, save the time he caught Elijah walking atop the garden wall, and even then Elijah had understood it came from fear and love. But for a father to strike his son in anger! He can’t imagine it.
Elijah hesitantly curls his arm around Orlando’s waist, his hand slipping along the lean chest until he feels the wild thump of Orlando’s heart. He leans forward, resting his cheek in silent comfort against the stiff back before him.
Orlando is nearly destroyed by Elijah’s touch, his throat constricting to near breathlessness and his eyes stinging. In a flash, he sees himself through his father’s eyes - weak, simpering, foolish in how such a little thing as this can move him. The eyes of his men seem to burn upon him, and his father’s sneering voice inside his mind belittles and berates, deriding Orlando for his infantile need to still need the succor of his mother’s teat. He grabs Elijah’s hand and pushes it away, flexing his shoulders to dislodge the cheek. He should not need such comfort.
He sees nothing and no one as he guides his horse through the crowded market streets. The moment he passes through the outer gate, he spurs Astolat, and the animal, sensing its freedom to run, lays back its ears and flies across the fields.
*
They ride hard every day, barely stopping to eat or rest. On the second day of their travels, Orlando washes the blood from his torn cheek, but Elijah dares not ask if he can check that it is properly cleaned. At night, Elijah sleeps away from the Orlando and the fire, his bedroll laid out wherever the guards order.
The men protest when Orlando says they will not be stopping at Lucien’s, and he gives them all the opportunity to turn aside if they so wish. Despite Elijah’s certainty that they do, in fact, so wish it, they remain all the same.
Elijah had hoped that the mounting physical distance between father and son would begin to melt the icy cowl around Orlando. But other than commands for him to mount up or get down, not a word toward Elijah has passed Orlando’s lips.
They cover much ground during the daylight hours, his men silent, but by dawn on the fifth day there are grumblings in the camp. Their provisions have run so low that there isn’t enough to feed everyone, so Elijah goes without, as do a few of the others.
He makes ready when commanded, tired because although he knows he has slept, it feels as though he has not. The skies are leaden with the promise of rain, adding to his lethargy.
Orlando calls for him, and he moves stiffly, his aching limbs and sluggish movements earning him a hard jerk on the arm. He’s settled in front of Orlando, and the heat at his back - as well as the heaviness of his cloak, the scratch of his collar and the pounding of his head - is uncomfortable. All that gives him hope is the promise of home. He recognizes this land - the sight of it, the smell, its sounds. Home. He is within the borders of Neverwas now, and they should reach home in another day.
They ride until mid-morning when Orlando orders a halt to water the horses. Guiding the group to a clearing by the river, he orders Elijah down. Elijah slips to the ground, grateful for a chance to drink and rest. He wavers on his feet.
“Stay on your horses,” Orlando commands. “I wish to hunt.”
There is no protest; the men want to eat.
Elijah hangs his head. Only a moment’s rest for pity’s sake, he thinks.
“Come here, Elijah,” Orlando orders, dismounting.
He would think nothing of the request were it not for the great length of rope in Orlando’s hands. His eyes flicker to Orlando’s inscrutable face, and the sick heat pulsing through his body chills with fear.
“Sit there, with your back against the tree.”
“Why?” He can barely force himself to ask the question.
“Because I want to hunt, and I can’t with you in my lap.”
Elijah looks at the men, who are watching expectantly, eager to be off in search of food to fill their bellies. He hasn’t dared defy Orlando on this journey and will not today.
He stumbles toward the tree, tripping upon a hidden rock, and sits heavily on the damp earth, his back pressed against the rough bark. Orlando lifts his right wrist and binds it with a knot.
“Why are you tying me? I’m not - there’s nowhere to go, Orlando,” he pleads softly. He is ignored.
“Can’t you talk to me? Please,” he whispers low, for only Orlando to hear.
Orlando rises. The tree is sufficiently wide that he has to walk the rope around it, and he’s glad to escape the sound of Elijah’s voice. He squats on the other side and bends to his task. Loop the rope to the other wrist, tie the knot.
“Please, you don’t have to do this. I’ll sit right here and wait for you,” Elijah begs. The thought of being left here alone makes him panic. What if they don’t come back?
Orlando tugs the bonds to make sure they are tight.
Elijah twists in his bonds, the rope scraping his skin. He can almost bring his hands together but not quite. “Please don’t do this.”
Orlando straightens and looks down at Elijah. He means nothing to you. Those wide blue eyes and flushed cheeks mean nothing to you; he is just a slave. “You’ll stay until I come for you, and you won’t try to escape, will you?”
Elijah turns his eyes away, too tired to fight. He hears Orlando walk away, the squeak of leather as he pulls himself into the saddle and the command he gives his horse as he rides off.
Orlando marks this place in his mind’s eye, the bank of the river, the tree and the rocky outcroppings. He turns his thoughts from the doubt and anguish that Elijah’s pleading eyes have wrought - he will feel nothing -- and focuses instead on the growl in his belly and his need to see blood.
*
Each minute that passes stretches out forever for Elijah. He listens as the birds call to each other, telling of the coming rain. No amount of shifting can ease his discomfort from the long days of riding nor loosen the bite of the rope about his wrists. He tucks his chin and burrows deeper in his cloak, ears straining for the sounds of Orlando’s return.
He tries to quiet the pounding of his head and heart by thinking of his family. They are so close now, and he needs to see them to know they are okay.
Time drifts, and he dreams of the being in the river boat with Orlando, the furs beneath his body and the breeze upon his cheeks. Orlando playfully flicks water at him, but it becomes cold and persistent, and Elijah’s eyes flutter open to find that it is raining, heavy drops falling upon him from the unfolding green leaves overhead.
Moreover, the light has changed, and it is later now. How long he’s been asleep he does not know, but the birds have quieted in the empty clearing, and all about him is only the sound of the river and rain.
His arms are stiff and full of prickles when he tries to move them. The cold rain against his heated skin and the growing sickness he feels make a sob rise easily in his throat. He cannot stay like this, an easy target for any beast that might come down from the mountains to drink at dusk.
He moves his hands and finds that the knot on his right wrist is looser than the other, but no amount of twisting will undo it. He stares at it, and whether it is the illness that makes him impatient or simply his growing frustration, the task of freeing himself seems insurmountable. He pauses to breathe and think and realizes that if he gives with one arm, he can pull the other closer.
The bark is rough as he stretches one arm out, and it pushes at the sleeve of his cloak, scraping skin. Fire blooms in his shoulder as he stretches it unnaturally, but he ignores it and pulls at his left hand until at last he can bring the knot to his teeth. It tastes of earth. At first, there is no give, and Elijah feels panic surge within. He breathes deeply and tries again, and this time, when he pulls, the knot unravels as if it never was and falls away. He turns to untie the other wrist.
“Didn’t I tell you not to move?”
Elijah starts, at first in fear, then relief. He had heard nothing of their approach so intent had been his concentration and the sickening ache and rush of blood in his head.
“I - I thought you weren’t coming back.” Elijah can hear his breath hitch.
Orlando looks upon the loosened rope and his fingers curl into fists. His slave has not listened. He squats before Elijah and takes hold of his chin, his hands cruel and biting.
The others are leading their horses to the water. The rain has picked up; whatever they have killed, they won’t be attempting a fire.
“You think that I would leave something so precious behind?” Orlando’s voice makes Elijah feel anything but valued. “You disobeyed me.”
“I thought you meant to leave me here.” Elijah’s teeth have begun to chatter. “It grows late.”
“The only thing you should fear,” Orlando says darkly, “is me.” His hunting has been futile; there was no blood let by him, no release for the madness boiling inside. “You do what I say when I say it. If it should lead to your death … it doesn’t matter.”
Elijah cries out as Orlando leans forward and bites his bottom lip. He pushes at Orlando’s shoulders and struggles beneath the hands that reach for his own.
“No!” Elijah hisses.
“You do not tell me no.” The unseen wounds Tristan inflicted have become a poison in Orlando’s veins, and the harder Elijah fights, the angrier Orlando becomes. He will prove once and for all that he’s not under Elijah’s thumb.
“No, Orlando. Stop.” Elijah struggles beneath the weight pinning his legs, and when Orlando moves to grab for his hands, Elijah kicks out hard, his boots glancing off Orlando’s chest. It’s not enough to keep Orlando from grabbing at him again.
Elijah kicks out once more and connects solidly. This time, there is only the sound of Orlando struggling to breathe. Elijah scrambles to his hands and knees and tries to crawl away, only to be crushed against the wet grass by Orlando’s weight. His hands are caught and wrenched so high behind his back, he cries out and thinks that surely Orlando means to break them.
When Orlando’s fingers yank at the tie on his leggings, Elijah realizes Orlando’s intent and stills. He had not thought Orlando capable of rape. And he’d thought to love such a man? As the cruel realization settles upon him, whatever Tristan said or did has erased the hope he held for both of them.
“You can take my body now, but that is all you will ever have.”
It is the dullness of Elijah’s voice and his lack of fight that makes something register in Orlando’s mind; this writhing creature beneath him is real, and it is Elijah whom he’s hurting.
He removes his hands abruptly and looks down as if seeing what he’s done for the first time. Elijah’s loosened leggings have slipped down on slim hips to reveal the brilliant red marks left by his brutal fingers.
Orlando’s stomach rolls and sick sweat breaks out across his brow as he crawls away from Elijah and into the bushes. He kneels there and heaves.
He has become his father.
Nothing will come up, nothing but the brackish, invisible poison deep with in his belly. He passes his arm over his sweaty brow and watches as Elijah sits up. For the second time in his life, he weeps for what he’s done.
Elijah flinches as Orlando approaches. He’s just too spent to run. If Orlando has returned to finish what he’s started, then so be it.
Orlando kneels by his feet. For the first time in a week, Elijah sees some humanity in Orlando’s eyes, humility as well.
Orlando doesn’t dare speak. The men have led their horses back to the clearing and are waiting impatiently. Weather and hunger have already made them irritable, and Orlando knows he has already pressed his luck too far. He removes the knot from Elijah’s wrist, the sight of the raw skin shaming him further, but nothing hurts worse than Elijah’s refusal to accept his help to stand up.
Elijah turns away, tries to stand and stumbles. He rests a moment on his hands and knees, panting for breath, and tries again. This time he manages to get to his feet and stay there.
The men mount up as he approaches. Elijah stands listlessly beside the horse, his skin still hot to Orlando’s touch as he is helped up. Both of their clothing is wet from the rain, but Orlando draws Elijah back against him and pulls Elijah’s hood over his head. He spurs his horse, guiding it back to the road.
They can’t ride like before. The rain makes a mire of the road and turns the footing dangerous. The slow pace gives him that much more time to dwell on his horrific actions, on what almost was. He cannot believe it could have been something he would do. Part of him thinks that if he turned and looked over his shoulder, he’d see a figure in the road, the shape of the demon that’s been flogging his back the whole way home. There is no question whose face it would wear.
TBC … Part 9
Rating: Mature, violence
Paring: OB/EW - AU
Warnings: violence
Disclaimer: All made up :)
Beta: Many, many thanks to itstonedme
Hi everyone! *waves*
I know this fic hasn’t made an appearance in an eon and for that I do apologize. While I will miss talesinbloom very much, the most lovely itstonedme offered up her beta skills and, before she could run away, I leaped all over her it *g* :D. I sent her this story first as it hadn’t been updated the longest. I hope you don’t mind waiting a little longer for more Realistic. ;)
Previous parts:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4.1
Part 4.2
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Orlando watches Elijah sleep. Last night burns in his memory, and the still-smoldering embers of it threaten to kindle a fire in his groin. He wants Elijah again.
However, it will have to wait. Right now, he must go to his father. Orlando leans over, feeling somewhat foolish at the kiss he means to leave upon Elijah’s cheek, but rewarded when Elijah turns into him with the rub of soft lips.
“Where are you going?” Elijah murmurs sleepily.
“Into hell,” Orlando whispers grimly. He sees the confusion in Elijah’s eyes. “I must meet with my father.”
Elijah reaches for Orlando’s hand and squeezes it.
Orlando looks at their linked hands. He curls his fingers around Elijah’s, rubbing his thumb over Elijah’s skin. He is not worthy of such constant, silent comfort. “We will leave here tomorrow,” he promises. “Go back to sleep.”
Elijah smiles gratefully.
*
The hall feels cold after the warmth of the bed, and Orlando’s feet drag against the stone, dread weighing them down. He stands reluctantly before the innocent-looking black door, steeling himself for a meeting he does not wish to have. Reluctantly, he raises his hand and raps the wood. He is no coward; he will not run.
“Enter.”
The door is as massive as he remembers. When he was a a boy, it had never been necessary to lock him out for he literally could not push it open. There had been a time when he would knock, pleading to be let in, but entrance had always been denied. Once, still too young to realize he wouldn’t want the answer to every question, he’d asked his father why the door was so heavy. Tristan had smiled callously as he replied, ‘A real man could open the door’.
That had stuck with him, making him angry and resolute. He would get that door open, and one day when he was perhaps ten he enlisted Eric’s help. Together, they had forced it to yield. He had been so proud of himself, but Tristan had been neither amused nor impressed. In fact, Orlando had been backhanded for his efforts and banished, his father loudly commenting to John that he doubted his son would ever be able to manage the door on his own. Afterwards, as they sat in the quiet of his tower room, Eric had assured him that the day would come when they would become ‘real’ men. ‘We will be welcome, you’ll see.’ Eric had spoken with such certainty, with such an honest smile on his face.
Orlando sighs sadly; he is able to enter under his own power now, but he does not feel welcome or wanted. The room he had been so eager to enter as a child holds no magic now.
“Father.” The title falls stiffly from Orlando’s lips. He is amazed that he should forever feel the child in this place, still afraid, still trembling, longing for the merest scrap of praise and fearing that it will be denied him.
John lurks in the shadows by the fire. Orlando nods in recognition but refrains from any forced formality.
“Sit,” Tristan orders.
Orlando does as bid, in the chair across from his father, his hands on his knees, back uncomfortably straight. “How is Hespiah?” he asks, politely inquiring after the queen.
“Abed with a fever, but we are not here to discuss her.”
“Your kingdom prospers,” Orlando replies neutrally. His father’s gaze is cold; it makes Orlando uncomfortable, and he fidgets, earning a glare.
“I would dearly love to have heard the same of yours,” Tristan replies sourly.
Orlando glances at John. He wishes the flames would lick out and rid him of the foul mouthpiece that fills his father’s head with lies. “It does,” Orlando says. “I can assure…”
“John tells me you put yours at risk,” his father interrupts.
Orlando’s eyes narrow. “I do no such thing.”
“No? Tell me then, what are you doing about the threat from the north?”
Orlando stares at John’s profile, daring the man to turn and meet his eyes, but John remains fixed upon the flames. Orlando turns to Tristan earnestly. “There is no threat. I can assure you the northern people are of no concern. From what I’ve seen…”
“Just what have you seen?” Tristan sneers.
Orlando is used to it. “I have seen enough to know, father. They are not massing, nor are they raising an army. They…”
Tristan’s open palm loudly smacks the wooden arm of his chair as he rises. Orlando silently curses himself for starting at the sound.
“Are you saying that your advisor, a man whom I’ve trusted for years, is lying to me?”
Orlando bites back the first answer that pushes at his lips. “Apparently, we are not of the same views.”
“Indeed,” Tristan continues, “for he’s informed me that they are of formidable number, that they are possessed of weapons, and that they practice with their blades. They heavily guard the road north.”
Orlando eyes John accusingly because this intelligence was never brought to him. He knows that the northern people guard their road, but what he saw were a people protecting their borders, nothing more. “What I saw were farmers concerned with their own crops and livelihoods, men working their fields and unconcerned with us.”
“The one time you managed to drag yourself away from your slave, you mean?”
Tristan’s remark twists like a blade, but Orlando refuses to reveal the ache that oozes from unseen wounds. He sits quietly in his chair, palms rubbing the smooth wooden arms, the worn surfaces testimony to the nerves of countless others who have been seated here before him. “I’ve surveyed more than once and know what I saw. They were tending their crops, not planning for war.”
“I have given you a kingdom and you piss it away.”
His father acts as if he hadn’t bled or killed for it. “I…”
“Enemies are always of concern, you fool.”
“I know this.”
His father snorts derisively. “Is it your mind or your cock that rules? Are you so taken when you fuck your slave that you can’t think for yourself anymore?”
Orlando is stunned by this accusation and blinks in disbelief. “My commitment is to my kingdom.”
“You think me a fool?” Tristan growls. “Do you take me for some nattering old man? It is plain to even the lowliest servant how you feel about him.”
“He is my slave and I am his master.”
“You are so far under his thumb it’s a wonder you can move at all.”
“He doesn’t control me. He is my prize!” Orlando is absolutely perplexed by this tack. He has done what was expected of him. He showed Elijah at dinner, although he does not admit that it pained him to do so or that he hates himself for making Elijah willingly participate in such a public display.
“Prize?” Tristan snorts.
“T-trophy,” Orlando stammers, and immediately regrets how this unintended stumble shows weakness. His father bears his teeth like a angry mongrel.
“You hang a trophy on the wall,” Tristan snarls. “You claim him to be a slave yet you do not share him, and he sleeps in your bed.”
Orlando blanches at the reminder of his indiscretion. To keep a slave in one’s bed is simply never done and yet he has, both in Neverwas and here, in his father’s own keep. In his mind, he hears the echo of Elijah asking, ‘Why must it be this way?’ And indeed why? Why must he turn Elijah from his bed, or remove from his ear a reasonable voice?
He lifts his chin defiantly. “What does it matter if I wish to keep what pleasures me so near?”
“You betray yourself and make a mockery of me. Haven’t you done enough of that?”
“I only wish to enjoy the spoils that are mine.” Orlando’s jaw aches from clenching it so tightly.
“Always a liar. Always weak,” his father scowls. “It is known that you have taken advice from him, been made soft by him. Does he tell you there is no threat from without?”
“He was once a prince. He knows the hearts and minds of those who were at one time his people. I mean only to exploit that.”
He flinches as Tristan closes the space between them. His father grabs his face so hard it hurts.
“And what does he know? What can he know?” Tristan roars. “We pulled the walls down around them! We claimed their kingdom! And you would listen to him? Your enemy?”
“I don’t see why…” The fingers along Orlando’s jaw dig in cruelly and stop his speech.
“No, you don’t,” his father hisses. His face is livid. “You don’t see anything.”
There is a pause, a moment where his father looks into his eyes, and Orlando sees nothing but disgust, the same contempt and hatred he had witnessed the day Eric died.
“You cannot be my son. I cannot imagine the spineless creature she found to fuck that would produce you,” his father spits out in a rage, “because you … you are not mine.”
Orlando slaps his father’s hand away. “My mother was not a whore.” Orlando knows his father wanted a boy like Eric, strong and without conscience. Instead he was borne a son with a slight frame and his mother’s scruples.
The blow that follows makes his ears ring and his head snap back. Another falls before he can lift his hands in self-defense, and he feels his cheek split by his father’s ring.
“I should have put that bitch to the blade for her infidelity and you along with her.”
“You wish you could deny me, but you can’t,” Orlando breathes evenly, but his eyes burn as the last hope for any love or praise from his father vanishes. No matter what he ever does, it will never be enough. “It must pain you to hear others when they say that I am your spitting image.” Tristan isn’t the only one who can cut with words. “They say when they look at me, it’s like looking back in time. Would you call them liars?”
Tristan’s fist curls again and Orlando braces for another blow. He will not shrink away.
“Apparently, we are of different views,” Tristan mocks.
“Perhaps you will have another and not be so disappointed.”
“I have prayed,” Tristan says fervently. “But for now you are all I have and I must make do. Mark these words, however. You had better begin proving yourself to be my son. You need to act a king in your kingdom. Am I understood?”
Orlando lifts a hand to his hot cheek, then thinks better of it. He’ll show no weakness before this man or any other.
“I suggest you rid yourself of the diversion or I shall have to. Do I make myself clear?”
“He is just a slave,” Orlando says tightly.
“Then quit being such a useless thing and start treating him as such.”
“I do. He means nothing to me.” Orlando hopes that saying it with such conviction will help him feel it.
“Remember this. You are nothing without me. You have a kingdom because of me and because of my army. It is yours out of tradition and little more. You will cease being an embarrassment to me.”
“Everything I do is for you!” Orlando cries.
“Then stop being weak! End this shameful fascination you have with your slave!” His father grabs Orlando’s shirt, roughly yanking him from the chair. “Only the gutless and weak allow themselves to be governed by their hearts. Are you a woman, Orlando? Hmm? Or perhaps you are still a puling child.”
“I do not love him. I don’t love anyone. You taught me that.”
“Then do not let him ruin you.” Tristan releases him and sends him sprawling to the floor. “You will lose all that has been hard won by listening to the lies he fills your head with. He will whisper words you long to hear and you will become his slave.”
Orlando blanches. “I wouldn’t…”
“It has already begun. He will take advantage of the length of the leash you give him. He will disobey you and because you love him, you will overlook it, to your own ruination.”
There is a part of Orlando that hears the truth in his father’s words. He has put trust in Elijah. He has taken his advice. Now that the seed of doubt has been planted, he wonders what his own goals would be if he were in Elijah’s place. Wouldn’t he seek to gain the confidence of his master, all the while plotting behind his back?
“I would never let that happen,” Orlando says quietly.
He can see the way his father’s hands shake and his face purples with unspent rage. “Prove it.” Tristan reaches for him once more, dragging him up off the floor by his hair. “Prove it and perhaps you’ll change in my estimation.”
Orlando hates himself for desperately still needing his father’s esteem and love, needing the man who is so cruel to him.
“I will do right by you,” he hears himself promise.
“You had better, for there’s one other thing you should know. If you fail to curb your appetites for him, if you cannot live according to the rules under which you’ve been raised, measures will be taken to remove the threat. Do you understand?”
They would take Elijah from him.
The war continues within his breast, his father’s love versus Elijah’s.
“John has my permission to deal with the situation as he sees fit. Now, get out of my sight until you can prove yourself a man.”
Orlando rises, his body numb with shock, and bows respectfully to his father.
In the quiet of the hall, he stops. A drop of blood drips upon his collar and he smears it with a shaking hand. His father is right. He has been a fool. Elijah only wishes to use him.
And yet there’s a part of Orlando that thinks that if they ever try to touch Elijah, he’ll kill them all. And neither Tristan nor his entire army will be able to ever stop him.
*
Elijah stands as Orlando storms into the room. There’s an ugly slash across his cheek, blood still weeping from it in scarlet drops.
“What happened?” he asks.
“Change into your riding clothes and make ready to leave,” Orlando orders.
Elijah takes a step forward. “Your cheek…”
“Leave it,” Orlando hisses and swipes at the blood with the back of his hand. He stares at the smear as if noticing it for the first time.
“Your father did this to you?” Elijah asks uncertainly. It’s something he cannot fathom.
Orlando does not want the pity in Elijah’s eyes. All he wants, now and forever, is to not feel anything ever again.
“I said get dressed.” His voice is flat, his eyes blank voids.
Elijah takes a careful step away. He’s never seen a look like this before, not on Orlando nor on anyone else, and he finds the lack of emotion terrifying. “You should let me clean it.”
Orlando lets it bleed. Another scar, another reminder that he’s weak, a disappointment today and always. “I said leave it and get dressed. I will not tell you again.” He turns to the task of packing, shoving garments into a leather bag.
“What did he do to you?”
Orlando turns and finds Elijah still standing there, not moving. Rage boils through his veins. “He beat some sense into me!”
“There is no sense in brutality.”
Orlando stalks forward, watching as alarm spreads across Elijah’s face. That is better. Far better fear than pity. “Your father speaks with words to you, mine speaks with his fists to me. Sometimes that drives the point home more clearly. Perhaps I should do the same with you.”
The sympathy in Elijah’s eyes vanishes, replaced with an indignant fire and sneering lip.
Confusion roils through Orlando as he realizes this isn’t better, this is worse. He was baiting Elijah into retaliating, even though he would never be able to follow through.
He is going mad.
He presses the heel of his palm against his forehead, trying to still the pounding there. “I need for you to obey me in all things,” he says dully. He fixes Elijah with a look that scatters Elijah into motion.
Any further plea for Orlando to tell him what’s wrong, what has happened, turns to ash in Elijah’s mouth. Before him stands the man who offered him a blade and bid him to make a choice.
“I have no clothes.”
Orlando flips open a chest, digging through the garments within until he finds the tunic and leggings Elijah wore on their travels and throws them at him. Elijah pulls them on.
There’s a soft knock upon the open door, and Elijah turns to find Charlie standing there. Orlando ignores him.
“Is there anything you need of me?” Charlie asks. Elijah hears the hope in that question clearly.
The room remains silent save for the sounds of Orlando shoving clothing and small items into his bag.
“Tell my men to ready themselves for the road.”
“But, my lord,” Charlie says formally, as if realizing there’s a line not to be crossed, “some of them are out in the market or hunting and…”
“It does not matter,” Orlando says, his voice still devoid of any affect. “Do as I say. Those not ready can come later, with John.”
Elijah can see Charlie’s eyes settle upon the wound on Orlando’s cheek. He sees too the concern and knowledge that flickers across Charlie’s face, but most troubling to Elijah is the dawning realization that Charlie’s hope for leaving with Orlando will not come to pass.
“Will I be coming … ?”
“No,” Orlando shouts, cutting Charlie off brutally. There is a flood inside him that threatens to spill over, murky waters filled with pain and helplessness and all of it afire with rage. Gods help them all if it begins to spill. “You are…”
Charlie and Elijah can hear the words choke in Orlando’s throat.
“You are his and there is nothing I can do. Go now, do as I order.”
Charlie drifts away from the door like a stricken phantom, such anguish on his face that Elijah forgets his silence.
“He feels for you…” he starts, but the anger in Orlando’s eyes and the slave collar in Orlando’s fist stills the words on his tongue. “What are you doing?” he asks warily. He thought the issue of the collar was behind them.
Wordlessly, Orlando flicks open the collar and, without thinking, Elijah tries to escape the silver band and everything it represents. Orlando catches him, fingers digging sharply into his arms.
‘He will take advantage of the length of the leash you give him. He will disobey you and because you love him you will overlook it, to your own ruination’. His father’s words haunt him. This disobedience, this contrariness, is exactly what his father warned him of and he has let it continue far too long. He has been blind to its threat, but no more.
Elijah stops struggling. Orlando is not himself, and Elijah knows better than to taunt a rabid dog.
Orlando snaps closed the foul piece of metal. Gripping Elijah’s arm, he forces him from the room, ignoring the forgotten pieces of his own clothing strewn about, and leaving this room behind them.
*
Only half their cohort mills about the courtyard, readying their horses, but Orlando doesn’t seem to notice or care.
“The others have been ordered to follow with John when they return and catch us on the way,” one of the soldiers tells him.
“They will not catch us,” Orlando assures him.
“We haven’t yet set aside provisions,” another guard protests.
“Then I trust you will have done so by the time the horses are readied.”
The guards blink at him, no doubt in surprise and bitterness, Orlando thinks. He has seen the looks they all give each other when they think he is not looking. These were men ordered to return with him, but they do not wish to leave such luxury for Neverwas.
Orlando has no pity for them. He wants nothing more than to put days of dust between himself and his father.
The courtyard bustles with preparations for their departure. More horses are brought, saddled and ready from the stables; other servants gather whatever provisions they can hurriedly round up. It matters not to Orlando is if they ride with bread from the keep or without. They will hunt if needs be; they are not helpless.
Orlando mounts and grabs at Elijah, pulling him roughly toward the horse. There’s a fragility to Orlando that Elijah finds nearly palpable. Even through the rage, or perhaps because of it, there’s a sense that Orlando might fly apart at any moment. Elijah yearns to tell Orlando that his father’s words must be cruel lies, but the barrier that has been erected between them will not be bridged until - and only if - Orlando wills it. Instead, he accepts Orlando’s outthrust hand and is hoisted onto the horse.
How can a father be so cruel, so provoking, Elijah wonders. Medias never so much as raised his voice to him, save the time he caught Elijah walking atop the garden wall, and even then Elijah had understood it came from fear and love. But for a father to strike his son in anger! He can’t imagine it.
Elijah hesitantly curls his arm around Orlando’s waist, his hand slipping along the lean chest until he feels the wild thump of Orlando’s heart. He leans forward, resting his cheek in silent comfort against the stiff back before him.
Orlando is nearly destroyed by Elijah’s touch, his throat constricting to near breathlessness and his eyes stinging. In a flash, he sees himself through his father’s eyes - weak, simpering, foolish in how such a little thing as this can move him. The eyes of his men seem to burn upon him, and his father’s sneering voice inside his mind belittles and berates, deriding Orlando for his infantile need to still need the succor of his mother’s teat. He grabs Elijah’s hand and pushes it away, flexing his shoulders to dislodge the cheek. He should not need such comfort.
He sees nothing and no one as he guides his horse through the crowded market streets. The moment he passes through the outer gate, he spurs Astolat, and the animal, sensing its freedom to run, lays back its ears and flies across the fields.
*
They ride hard every day, barely stopping to eat or rest. On the second day of their travels, Orlando washes the blood from his torn cheek, but Elijah dares not ask if he can check that it is properly cleaned. At night, Elijah sleeps away from the Orlando and the fire, his bedroll laid out wherever the guards order.
The men protest when Orlando says they will not be stopping at Lucien’s, and he gives them all the opportunity to turn aside if they so wish. Despite Elijah’s certainty that they do, in fact, so wish it, they remain all the same.
Elijah had hoped that the mounting physical distance between father and son would begin to melt the icy cowl around Orlando. But other than commands for him to mount up or get down, not a word toward Elijah has passed Orlando’s lips.
They cover much ground during the daylight hours, his men silent, but by dawn on the fifth day there are grumblings in the camp. Their provisions have run so low that there isn’t enough to feed everyone, so Elijah goes without, as do a few of the others.
He makes ready when commanded, tired because although he knows he has slept, it feels as though he has not. The skies are leaden with the promise of rain, adding to his lethargy.
Orlando calls for him, and he moves stiffly, his aching limbs and sluggish movements earning him a hard jerk on the arm. He’s settled in front of Orlando, and the heat at his back - as well as the heaviness of his cloak, the scratch of his collar and the pounding of his head - is uncomfortable. All that gives him hope is the promise of home. He recognizes this land - the sight of it, the smell, its sounds. Home. He is within the borders of Neverwas now, and they should reach home in another day.
They ride until mid-morning when Orlando orders a halt to water the horses. Guiding the group to a clearing by the river, he orders Elijah down. Elijah slips to the ground, grateful for a chance to drink and rest. He wavers on his feet.
“Stay on your horses,” Orlando commands. “I wish to hunt.”
There is no protest; the men want to eat.
Elijah hangs his head. Only a moment’s rest for pity’s sake, he thinks.
“Come here, Elijah,” Orlando orders, dismounting.
He would think nothing of the request were it not for the great length of rope in Orlando’s hands. His eyes flicker to Orlando’s inscrutable face, and the sick heat pulsing through his body chills with fear.
“Sit there, with your back against the tree.”
“Why?” He can barely force himself to ask the question.
“Because I want to hunt, and I can’t with you in my lap.”
Elijah looks at the men, who are watching expectantly, eager to be off in search of food to fill their bellies. He hasn’t dared defy Orlando on this journey and will not today.
He stumbles toward the tree, tripping upon a hidden rock, and sits heavily on the damp earth, his back pressed against the rough bark. Orlando lifts his right wrist and binds it with a knot.
“Why are you tying me? I’m not - there’s nowhere to go, Orlando,” he pleads softly. He is ignored.
“Can’t you talk to me? Please,” he whispers low, for only Orlando to hear.
Orlando rises. The tree is sufficiently wide that he has to walk the rope around it, and he’s glad to escape the sound of Elijah’s voice. He squats on the other side and bends to his task. Loop the rope to the other wrist, tie the knot.
“Please, you don’t have to do this. I’ll sit right here and wait for you,” Elijah begs. The thought of being left here alone makes him panic. What if they don’t come back?
Orlando tugs the bonds to make sure they are tight.
Elijah twists in his bonds, the rope scraping his skin. He can almost bring his hands together but not quite. “Please don’t do this.”
Orlando straightens and looks down at Elijah. He means nothing to you. Those wide blue eyes and flushed cheeks mean nothing to you; he is just a slave. “You’ll stay until I come for you, and you won’t try to escape, will you?”
Elijah turns his eyes away, too tired to fight. He hears Orlando walk away, the squeak of leather as he pulls himself into the saddle and the command he gives his horse as he rides off.
Orlando marks this place in his mind’s eye, the bank of the river, the tree and the rocky outcroppings. He turns his thoughts from the doubt and anguish that Elijah’s pleading eyes have wrought - he will feel nothing -- and focuses instead on the growl in his belly and his need to see blood.
*
Each minute that passes stretches out forever for Elijah. He listens as the birds call to each other, telling of the coming rain. No amount of shifting can ease his discomfort from the long days of riding nor loosen the bite of the rope about his wrists. He tucks his chin and burrows deeper in his cloak, ears straining for the sounds of Orlando’s return.
He tries to quiet the pounding of his head and heart by thinking of his family. They are so close now, and he needs to see them to know they are okay.
Time drifts, and he dreams of the being in the river boat with Orlando, the furs beneath his body and the breeze upon his cheeks. Orlando playfully flicks water at him, but it becomes cold and persistent, and Elijah’s eyes flutter open to find that it is raining, heavy drops falling upon him from the unfolding green leaves overhead.
Moreover, the light has changed, and it is later now. How long he’s been asleep he does not know, but the birds have quieted in the empty clearing, and all about him is only the sound of the river and rain.
His arms are stiff and full of prickles when he tries to move them. The cold rain against his heated skin and the growing sickness he feels make a sob rise easily in his throat. He cannot stay like this, an easy target for any beast that might come down from the mountains to drink at dusk.
He moves his hands and finds that the knot on his right wrist is looser than the other, but no amount of twisting will undo it. He stares at it, and whether it is the illness that makes him impatient or simply his growing frustration, the task of freeing himself seems insurmountable. He pauses to breathe and think and realizes that if he gives with one arm, he can pull the other closer.
The bark is rough as he stretches one arm out, and it pushes at the sleeve of his cloak, scraping skin. Fire blooms in his shoulder as he stretches it unnaturally, but he ignores it and pulls at his left hand until at last he can bring the knot to his teeth. It tastes of earth. At first, there is no give, and Elijah feels panic surge within. He breathes deeply and tries again, and this time, when he pulls, the knot unravels as if it never was and falls away. He turns to untie the other wrist.
“Didn’t I tell you not to move?”
Elijah starts, at first in fear, then relief. He had heard nothing of their approach so intent had been his concentration and the sickening ache and rush of blood in his head.
“I - I thought you weren’t coming back.” Elijah can hear his breath hitch.
Orlando looks upon the loosened rope and his fingers curl into fists. His slave has not listened. He squats before Elijah and takes hold of his chin, his hands cruel and biting.
The others are leading their horses to the water. The rain has picked up; whatever they have killed, they won’t be attempting a fire.
“You think that I would leave something so precious behind?” Orlando’s voice makes Elijah feel anything but valued. “You disobeyed me.”
“I thought you meant to leave me here.” Elijah’s teeth have begun to chatter. “It grows late.”
“The only thing you should fear,” Orlando says darkly, “is me.” His hunting has been futile; there was no blood let by him, no release for the madness boiling inside. “You do what I say when I say it. If it should lead to your death … it doesn’t matter.”
Elijah cries out as Orlando leans forward and bites his bottom lip. He pushes at Orlando’s shoulders and struggles beneath the hands that reach for his own.
“No!” Elijah hisses.
“You do not tell me no.” The unseen wounds Tristan inflicted have become a poison in Orlando’s veins, and the harder Elijah fights, the angrier Orlando becomes. He will prove once and for all that he’s not under Elijah’s thumb.
“No, Orlando. Stop.” Elijah struggles beneath the weight pinning his legs, and when Orlando moves to grab for his hands, Elijah kicks out hard, his boots glancing off Orlando’s chest. It’s not enough to keep Orlando from grabbing at him again.
Elijah kicks out once more and connects solidly. This time, there is only the sound of Orlando struggling to breathe. Elijah scrambles to his hands and knees and tries to crawl away, only to be crushed against the wet grass by Orlando’s weight. His hands are caught and wrenched so high behind his back, he cries out and thinks that surely Orlando means to break them.
When Orlando’s fingers yank at the tie on his leggings, Elijah realizes Orlando’s intent and stills. He had not thought Orlando capable of rape. And he’d thought to love such a man? As the cruel realization settles upon him, whatever Tristan said or did has erased the hope he held for both of them.
“You can take my body now, but that is all you will ever have.”
It is the dullness of Elijah’s voice and his lack of fight that makes something register in Orlando’s mind; this writhing creature beneath him is real, and it is Elijah whom he’s hurting.
He removes his hands abruptly and looks down as if seeing what he’s done for the first time. Elijah’s loosened leggings have slipped down on slim hips to reveal the brilliant red marks left by his brutal fingers.
Orlando’s stomach rolls and sick sweat breaks out across his brow as he crawls away from Elijah and into the bushes. He kneels there and heaves.
He has become his father.
Nothing will come up, nothing but the brackish, invisible poison deep with in his belly. He passes his arm over his sweaty brow and watches as Elijah sits up. For the second time in his life, he weeps for what he’s done.
Elijah flinches as Orlando approaches. He’s just too spent to run. If Orlando has returned to finish what he’s started, then so be it.
Orlando kneels by his feet. For the first time in a week, Elijah sees some humanity in Orlando’s eyes, humility as well.
Orlando doesn’t dare speak. The men have led their horses back to the clearing and are waiting impatiently. Weather and hunger have already made them irritable, and Orlando knows he has already pressed his luck too far. He removes the knot from Elijah’s wrist, the sight of the raw skin shaming him further, but nothing hurts worse than Elijah’s refusal to accept his help to stand up.
Elijah turns away, tries to stand and stumbles. He rests a moment on his hands and knees, panting for breath, and tries again. This time he manages to get to his feet and stay there.
The men mount up as he approaches. Elijah stands listlessly beside the horse, his skin still hot to Orlando’s touch as he is helped up. Both of their clothing is wet from the rain, but Orlando draws Elijah back against him and pulls Elijah’s hood over his head. He spurs his horse, guiding it back to the road.
They can’t ride like before. The rain makes a mire of the road and turns the footing dangerous. The slow pace gives him that much more time to dwell on his horrific actions, on what almost was. He cannot believe it could have been something he would do. Part of him thinks that if he turned and looked over his shoulder, he’d see a figure in the road, the shape of the demon that’s been flogging his back the whole way home. There is no question whose face it would wear.
TBC … Part 9