by Amy Lane
But it was not enough, particularly in the wait between. Areau had heard of “ripping” from Dorjan. Before Krissa had come to live with them, he had been doing it for years, one strip at a time.
Krissa had seen that the first time she’d had him strip. Areau had expected a gasp, sympathy, horror. What he’d gotten was hard-eyed contempt, and that had stung too.
“Stupid git,” Dorjan’s purchased whore had spat and had exchanged her gentle leather flogger for a short whip, one that would draw blood. He’d grown erect just looking at it because he knew… crack! Ah, yes, he knew that the blood it would draw would be his.
And for two days, she had. She’d moved the manacles to his room—and that had impressed him, as she did that on her own with the handyman’s tools—and then, two blissful days of pain. Long enough for him to know she was ruthless, that she no qualms about seeing him suffer, and that she did, in fact, enjoy his suffering as much as he did. She’d masturbated once as he’d stood bent over a chair, his hands chained, a ball gag in his mouth, the smooth wood of a flogger jammed up his arse, and he’d been so aroused by her cruelty that he had come when she had—and earned another beloved stripe down his back for his insolence.
Oh, she was good, Lady Krissa. Areau would never think of her as a whore or bought and sold again.
She had him ready to misbehave, ready to be punished, and then she inflicted the biggest pain of all: the absence of it.
And just like Dorjan had followed him through hell for nearly ten years on the hope, the hope alone, that his boyhood friend could be found under the snarls of bitterness and hatred that had contaminated Areau’s soul, Areau had followed Krissa through nearly a seven-day of bilious, hostile, terrifying, screaming, spitting, vomiting, shitting withdrawal on the hope that when it was over, he could have just one more hit of pain.
When it was over, she bathed him, brushed his teeth, and shaved him while he was in the bathtub. She helped him out when his shaky legs wouldn’t hold him, fed him some gruel because it would be easier on his abused stomach, dressed the wounds on his wrists from the manacles, and let him sleep for nearly an entire day. She woke him with a gentle kiss on the mouth, and she tasted so sweet, like woman, like gentleness, and he hadn’t had that, hadn’t allowed that to touch him in oh so long….
They had made love, she riding him proudly, taking her pleasure with laughter and joy, fondling her own breasts as she clenched herself around his cock, and he’d come inside her gloriously, his entire body cleansed from the orgasm that ripped him from the inside out.
When it was over, she fell forward, her dark hair curtaining her tiny heart-shaped face, and kissed him again, smiling. He didn’t remember when the tears started, but they ended in her arms.
She’d given him tiny nips of pain since then, playful little smacks, a few sessions with a paddle that was like a chicken feather compared to the sweet agony of ripping a strip of your skin down your own arm. He’d wrapped those wounds tightly and dressed them well, so Dorjan wouldn’t know of his little trust-and-betray game. When she fingered the faint scars during their time together, he’d confessed to that, and she’d raised her eyebrows.
“That’s diabolical,” she’d said, and he’d flushed. Then he’d swallowed and looked away as the true hideousness of his actions settled into his bones.
“I’m a monster,” he’d realized and had turned on his side, away from her, knowing that his face and his body might have been scarred, but realizing for the first time that the blackness of his heart was far, far uglier.
And Krissa didn’t lie about it, either.
“You were,” she murmured. “You were a monster. It’s like a children’s story—a changeling monster reverts back to its first form when it dies. Your monster has died, Areau. What is your first form?”
He’d gasped thinking about it. His first form, the first time he’d seen himself truly, had been through his best friend’s eyes.
“Oh, Dori,” he’d whispered. “I’m so very sorry.”
She’d rubbed his back then, told him that he could make amends with Dorjan in the morning.
That had been the night the riot began.
When Taern had come hammering on his door demanding armor, Areau had snarled at the little snot for form, but he hadn’t wasted any time pounding down to his workshop to make the armor either.
Nobody had slept—not even after the message that said he’d survived that first night. In his self-centeredness, Areau was not aware of how the message arrived or even that the messengers still lived in his home. What he had known then, still knew, was that the idea of Dorjan not coming home to this dusty, vaulting mansion was intolerable.
Areau needed to make amends. He was a monster. As far as Dorjan knew, he was a monster, the real Areau had never come back, and all of Dorjan’s pain, all of his betrayed hope, was all for nothing.
Areau had slaved over that armor, had gone for two days without sleep, had put up with… with… well, with whatever Taern was to Dorjan. He’d put up with Taern stalking, snarling, begging, cajoling, weeping—
Yes, he’d been weeping, hadn’t he?
It wasn’t until Taern had taken the armor without so much as a thank-you and gone bounding off into what was apparently a very dangerous night that it occurred to Areau that Taern had been weeping.
Areau had always assumed—through the worst of his addiction, through the darkest moments of his craving for pain and degradation—that Dorjan would love him best because Areau loved/hated Dorjan best.
But Taern had been weeping, and he vaulted off to fight at Dorjan’s side. Krissa, tough Lady Krissa, who had stood by impassively while Areau vomited out ten years of bitter addiction, wiped her eyes and offered Areau Mrs. Wrinkle’s pie in comfort, and it suddenly occurred to Areau in the strangest, most dreamlike of ways, that his pain was not the only pain on the planet.
And that Dorjan might die, and if Dorjan died, it wouldn’t matter whom he loved best. He would never know that Areau still loved him and that Dorjan’s love had not been in vain.
Areau had cleaned up his workshop methodically, then gone up into his room to bathe. He’d come downstairs and obediently eaten the dinner Mrs. Wrinkle had prepared, and had insisted Krissa eat some as well. He had heard without hearing the young voices of the girls who had brought the message, and he had summarily ignored them: he was better, yes, but ten years of believing you were the blistering, fractured, volcanic center of the universe did not go away overnight.
And then he and Krissa sat in the kitchen playing whist as though it were the most natural thing in the world, until Taern burst in through the door that led from the stables.
Areau had not been allowed to treat him or to see his wounds. Krissa had smiled tiredly when he’d asked and patted his cheek.
“It’s a fine sentiment, Ari, but as you haven’t doctored any of his hurts to date, we’re not sure he will trust you now.”
And Areau had grieved at what he had lost. Carrying Dorjan up the stairs to his room had felt like a benediction and the first steps to forgiveness. It wasn’t until he watched Dorjan fight past his healing body to continue his work at the Forum that Areau realized how very much forgiveness he had to earn.
So when he opened up the door to Dorjan’s room, it was not to taunt him, not to urge him to continue his regimen, not to do anything beyond check on him and make sure he was resting properly, and maybe have a few words without pain.
He’d been unprepared to see his friend, head back, mouth slack, so lost in passion that the lines and shadows that had layered his face for so long had fallen away. And the boy behind him, the nuisance, the festering little turd Areau had wanted to sweep out of his life, had been kissing Dorjan’s nape with such tenderness, such absurd, weighted tenderness, that Areau—who had been congratulating himself on being a better person—found his world remade yet again.
THIS time he knocked and was chagrined when Taern’s voice whispered, “Come in.”
Areau
ventured in quietly, a tray in his hands, and when Taern moved to get out of bed—naked and impudent, of course—Areau shook his head.
“Stay,” he said quietly, looking over at Dorjan’s sleeping body. Bimuit, but his friend was thin. He grimaced at Taern, unable to resist the jibe. “I’m sure you need your rest as well.”
Taern scowled. “Enjoyed looking, did you?” he asked angrily, and Areau found himself flushing.
“Yes,” he admitted, remembering all of the times he’d lied to Dorjan. He had felt faint stirrings of desire for his friend—nothing like what he felt with Lady Krissa, but he knew them for what they were. He couldn’t lie about that anymore. It was a betrayal of himself, and of Dorjan, and he had betrayed them all enough.
Taern’s scowl deepened. “That’s not what Dorjan said.”
Areau sighed. “Do you like milk or sugar in your tea?” he asked shortly, and Taern snapped, “Both, but I can make my own damned tea.”
“Yes, you obnoxious little shite, but I’m trying to be nice.”
That seemed to bring Taern up short. He sat up in bed and accepted the cup of tea and the tray of cold dinner with some grace. Areau had to admit—reluctantly, it was true—that the young man possessed his share of grace. He had been running regimens and they had practiced fencing and fighting together, and Areau had been hard-pressed to best him. Give Taern another week of practice and he would be besting Areau. The thought occurred to Areau as he sat that it was just as well he make his peace with Taern now, before Taern grew too sharp in their hand-to-hand training, or Areau might finally learn what it was like to have too much pain.
“Why?” Taern asked suspiciously, and Areau shrugged.
“Because I feel like it. Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” Taern said frankly. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him these past years?”
Areau sighed. “I’m an addict, Taern. Do you think I gave a cricket’s shite?” Well, it would have been nice to pretend to be civilized.
Taern took a delicate bite of chicken pot pie. “No,” he said after chewing thoughtfully and swallowing with a gulp of milk. “I don’t. I think you got off on his misery, which is why I’m not inclined to trust you.”
“Well, you’re definitely clever,” Areau said with reluctance. “I thought you were after his money, which is why I think it’s a mistake to trust you. Do you feel better now?”
Taern jerked as though he’d been hit. “After his money? Are you dusted? Do you have any idea how much money I sold my arse for every night? Money I have!”
“Dusted? No. Not so much. But I wasn’t well, no.”
“Yes,” Taern said with disgust before taking another bite of pie, “we heard.”
Oh, lovely. Yes, of course, Areau, you’re not the only person in the house. They heard. They all heard you debasing yourself for pain. “Well, you know, mansions aren’t as private as a whore’s bedroom, now, are they?” He winced when he said it, knowing it made him a first-class arse but unable to stop himself. He was stung, dammit, and humiliated! But of all the nasty things he could have said, Taern didn’t seem to be bothered about this one.
“Yes,” he said, drinking some more hexacow milk. Well, he was probably still growing. “I was a whore. I’d still be one now, contract or no contract, if I had any desire to be. Most of the streetwalkers out there, they have to be. I liked it. Does that soften your cock, Areau, to know someone liked it?”
“Balls!” Areau snapped, feeling uncomfortable about sex and uncomfortable about the things he’d done and uncomfortable about being in this room with this young man and his friend, sleeping in exhaustion and repletion and probably relief on the other side of the bed. “Do we have to do this? Are you going to make me say it? Or can you simply accept a lousy peace offering and my bloody thanks!”
Taern blinked and narrowed his eyes. “Thanks?”
“For….” And oh, it sounded so trite. After everything, it sounded so very weak, but it was the truth, dammit! “You make him happy. You take care of him. If I didn’t give a hexashite, I wouldn’t have bothered to drag him down to hell with me!”
Taern grunted, obviously surprised. “I’ll be sure to tell him,” he said, meditating on the empty glass of milk. “I’m sure he’ll be very relieved.”
Areau stood abruptly, absurdly disappointed. He’d been trying, dammit! “Well, if you’re going to be that way, you bloody git—”
“No!” Taern protested. “Sit down, you wank! I’m being serious! He….” Taern looked at Dorjan and, like Areau, softened—his posture, his demeanor, his voice. “He loves you. I may never know why. He… he was at the end of his rope the night he met me, and all of it was over you. It’s good to see you somewhat human again. I’ll be honest—if you hadn’t learned the knack of it, I may have killed you with a knife in the night, just to save him the pain.”
Areau gasped. “Pain makes us self-centered,” he said automatically, “insular, alone—”
“Unless you’re him,” Taern interrupted, no pity in his voice at all. “But I don’t think you’ve gotten that far in your human lessons. Let me know when you pick up that chapter, I’ll give you pointers.”
Areau let out a bitter, muted bark of laughter. “I’m sure you’d be thrilled. I’m glad that he still loves me, never stopped. It may not be the thing I accidentally saw a few hours ago, but it—the thing we had between us—was precious to me. I’m glad it’s not dead altogether.”
Taern grunted and stacked his plates on the tray. “Me too,” he admitted reluctantly. “Not that you accidentally saw us”—his tone conveyed his utter disbelief, but Areau couldn’t change that—“but that he still loves you. Not for you, you understand. You’ve got Krissa on your side, you don’t need me and I don’t want you. But for him. I’m glad his faith wasn’t for naught. And thanks for being human enough to come tell him.”
Areau grunted, about ready to exact a promise from him, but Taern held up his hand.
“And for trusting street trash to relay the message. I understand you, scientist. You’d hoped to catch him awake. Your bad luck, but I’m here. Well, I’m easier.”
Areau stood and took the tray. “There is another pie under the napkin,” he said, setting the tray down on the dresser and lifting the dirty dishes to take downstairs. “If he wakes, it’s for him. If you need anything else, come knock on our door. Krissa or myself will run down for it. It’s….” His face heated. “We made a pact, you know. To make these rest days truly restorative for him. Try not to wear him out.”
Taern waited until his hand was on the doorknob, damn him, to say, “Thank you, scientist. The dinner was appreciated. The humanness too, if you want to know the truth.”
Areau stomped down on his pride and his instinct to say something cutting. “Well, I suppose dinner is always in the house, but don’t count on the humanity all that often. I practiced being a rank bastard for ten years. Some habits are hard to break.”
“Whoring wasn’t,” Taern said quickly before Areau could make the grand exit.
Areau was relieved enough to look over his shoulder and nod gratefully.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Believe it or not, I would have worried.”
He hurried down the stairs with the dishes before Taern could say anything else. His heart was pounding and he was sweating as though he were craving a stripe across his back, although that wasn’t the thing his blood wanted, not anymore. He got down to the empty kitchen and dropped the dishes in the sink with a clatter, then remembered he was trying not to be a git anymore and started to wash them, his hands shaking. He’d just stacked the last of them into the rack and was wondering desperately if there wasn’t any pie, or cream, or some cookies or squash bread and butter, when Krissa walked quietly into the kitchen.
“So?” she said softly, offering a drying cloth for his hands. “How did it go?”
Areau tried for an insouciant smile. “Dorjan may still love me, and Taern might not hate me quite as much,” h
e said, his voice firm in spite of what was happening in his heart.
But Krissa knew. Areau still wasn’t sure what nisket of luck had led Dorjan to her, inspired him to take her home and give her like a gift to Areau, but Areau wanted to do more than thank it. He wanted to prostrate himself before it and weep at its feet. Even more so when she walked into his arms without flinching back from the scars on his face, his shoulder, the strips he’d torn from his own arms or the ones she knew lay beneath his breeches, and wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. He stood there for a moment, scenting the flower oils that she used to rinse her hair, before encircling her shoulders and letting the tension fall from his own.
“I’m proud of you, Areau,” she said softly. “You’ve done well for your friend tonight.”
Areau swallowed hard and closed his eyes against the stinging. “Thank you, my lady Krissa,” he said honestly. “I could not have done so well without you.”
Nyx and Cricket
OH, IT was a relief to no longer be injured or ill or hovered over like a dying hexacow being circled by vultures in the meadow!
Well, maybe not that bad, but when Dorjan returned from the Forum on the first day after rest, he felt good enough to take a gentle pass around the courtyard and had found himself in the unlikely position of having to defend himself from every member of his household, including the housekeeper, who all told him that if he opened even one stitch they’d never speak to him, cook for him, or (this from Taern) suck his cock again.
Dorjan had gaped at all four of them and scowled. “Very well, then,” he told them with dignity. “I’m going for a walk around the block. Might I do that, or does someone need to hold my hand to keep me from stumbling on the monorail as I go?”