by Owens J. C.
He liked the thought of Zacar and he having a similar bond. It gave him hope that perhaps he was not as alone as he often considered himself.
Zacar growled, a harsh sound unlike his usual buoyant self. He turned away swiftly, striding across the small room to open the all too familiar medical box, rummaging in the contents with anger evident in each motion.
“Fucking bastard. Crazy, fucking bastard. Completely crazy, that’s what Arran is. Completely fucking insane. And you are the one who takes the brunt of it.”
Rian swallowed hard, the old fear that somehow he had called his brother’s actions upon himself by some unknown action or word rose up once more. “But perhaps it is my fault…”
Zacar whirled, pointing a finger at him, fury etched on his face.
“No. Just - no. Don’t you dare bring that up again! He manipulates you, rapes you, then turns it into something you forced him to do. Somehow it has to be your fault, not his. Listen to yourself! If I said such a thing, you would instantly negate it for the lie it is. You would never let me speak that way about myself, never let me take the blame away from where it truly lies.”
He stepped forward, bandages in one shaking hand, laying his other palm against Rian’s cheek. The love in those eyes, the understanding and empathy, tore at Rian’s very soul.
“He is utterly mad, my lord. You cannot heed the words of a madman, lest you become as mad yourself.” There was utter conviction in the treasonous statement.
Rian laid a cautionary finger over his friend’s lips. “Shh.” He tilted his head warningly toward where they could hear the Hawks settling in. “You speak ill of the king, and there are far too many unfriendly ears that could carry word back to Arran.”
He leaned forward, laid his forehead gently against Zacar’s. “I could not lose you. Could not let him kill another, as he killed Perosh.” He shuddered, the memory all too fresh and painfully vivid. “I had hoped, with my escape, he would have no reason to harm you, Telan, or any of the others. Without me here, he could not use you as leverage.”
“He does not need a reason, my lord, for anything he does. He is king. His power is absolute, greater even than his insanity.” His free hand grasped Rian’s and drew him to the bed. “Come. Enough talk. There is nothing we can change with words. Sit, and let me tend your wounds. Tell me of these cursed Hawks. I can sense the king had a hand in their presence. More of his damned guards over you no doubt.”
CHAPTER SIX
Hamon drew back from where he had stood close to the dividing canvas wall, digesting what he had overheard, feeling sickness rise in his throat.
For a brother to sexually abuse a younger one? Hamon could not conceive the horror of it. Now, suddenly, the memory of Arran’s words, how possessive he had seemed of Rian, became something sinister and utterly appalling. The fact that he had wanted the prince disciplined in such a harsh and physical manner now took on much darker overtones than the indulgent but exasperated brother the king had claimed to be.
And Hamon had agreed with him…
He shivered, feeling tainted, as though he himself had perpetrated Arran’s aberrations, as though he had encountered something utterly vile and it had marked him.
A brother was a thing of kinship, of honor and bloodline. He often fought with his older brothers, but never had there been disrespect between them, much less a wish to harm.
And to harm in a sexual manner… How could something so pleasurable and intimate between consenting partners be turned into wrongness, a sense of dark evil twining along the edges of it all?
It was not within him to understand.
Needing comfort, he turned back to his own kind, most of them brothers of the heart instead of bloodkin.
Striding over to Wravon, he wrapped hard arms about him, drawing his cousin close, surrounding him protectively, feeling like he wanted to flee this place of horrors, keep all with him safe. Wravon gave him a surprised glance, then a shuddering sigh, letting his tense and weary body return the embrace.
“I am so sorry, cousin, for what you lost,” Hamon said. “But I cannot let you go to the horse god yet. You are everything to me. Everything good and right and clean. Forgive me for my selfishness in being glad you are here, despite your grief.”
Not given to sentiment, his words seemed to shake the other men, making them stop what they were doing and watch him carefully.
Wravon drew back a little, concern darkening his sad eyes. “You were listening to them as we settled the horses. What in the gods’ name did you learn to put such a look upon your face?”
So he told them, in halting sentences, feeling their disgust rise to meet his own. After he finished, there was a prolonged, shocked silence.
“You do not think they are deliberately saying such things for our ears?” Dramon’s voice almost held a note of pleading, as though he did not wish to believe what he was hearing.
Hamon looked to Wravon, who shook his head in clear reluctance.
“Unbelievable as we may find it, the words you repeat echo with truth to me.”
Dramon grimaced. “I want to bathe. To think we were in the same room as that…”
The others clearly had the same thoughts.
“This would certainly explain the prince’s attempt to escape.” Hamon’s voice was hoarse with all he was thinking and feeling.
“I would have helped him myself,” Navren, the youngest of them, hissed, eyes blazing. “And killed that bastard in the doing.”
“That bastard has the weight of kingship behind him, as well as the largest standing army in the western world,” Wravon commented drily, though his fierce expression stated that he would have been right behind Navren in his actions.
“The question being though, does the king have that army’s true loyalty?” Hamon queried. “You all saw the soldiers as the prince returned. If it came down to it, I wonder which brother they would stand behind—the one they love, or the one they fear?”
Wravon leaned heavily against Hamon, exhausted grief etched on his features. “If the king ever came to fear how much potential power the prince could wield, I would not bet odds on the boy’s survival, kinship or not.”
Hamon only nodded, steering his cousin gently across the tent to where his bedroll was positioned next to his cousin’s, all prepared by the rest of them, as part of their mostly silent urge to provide any sort of comfort to their bereaved companion.
Hamon urged Wravon down upon the softness, and the man did not resist, a measure of his mental state.
Dramon seated himself on his right side, and Hamon pressed close to his cousin on the left. Their love and care for him was as natural as breathing, and it only emphasized the stark difference between their bonds and what surrounded the prince of Rashma.
Some two hours later, Rian reclined quietly, watching as the Hawks sat eating, each of them occasionally ensuring that Wravon ate a bite or two. He puzzled over their actions, fascinated by how openly they displayed their care, with no hidden objectives other than to aid their comrade, with no darker side that could burst forth at any time.
Beyond his children, there were only two souls who he felt any closeness too, and even there, he felt the barriers, the fear he had been so well trained in. Telan and Zacar were as far as he could go toward trust and what he hoped was friendship, though he had nothing to gauge it against. So much had kept him from truly opening up to others. His brother and his cruelties and iron control. His own barriers that he’d raised to keep himself safe and the wraith contained. And the wraith itself…which broke free of those barriers whenever he slept.
Surprisingly, Zacar had been gifted to him by Arran himself, possibly the best thing his brother had ever done for him. And if Arran knew the worth of the gift he’d given, he would snatch it away in a second.
Telan, on the other hand, had joined the army on his own, a mercenary from a far, southern land. His attachment and loyalty had surfaced almost immediately, and although Rian held no true concept of why,
he could only be grateful. From the moment of introduction, Rian had felt a powerful sense of safety and security in the huge man’s presence.
Although Rian had several personal servants, most of them evident spies for his brother, these two alone were who he trusted enough to sleep deeply in their presence. They knew of the wraith and did not shun him for it.
Now he would have the stress of utter strangers in his personal space. The Hawks would not let him sleep without supervision, of that he was sure. His privacy, little though it had been before, had now been snatched away completely.
He pushed his plate away, the food barely touched, what faint appetite he felt fading away.
A familiar hand fell upon his shoulder, and Telan sank down to sit beside him, the sturdy chair creaking alarmingly under his weight. There were no words between them. Telan seldom spoke even at the best of times. There was just silent support that Rian endlessly appreciated. Between Telan and Zacar, they had held his sanity from shredding.
“Arran has said he will soon come to take over here, to lead the final battle against Flaren. He is confident that this is it, the last steps of the war.” Rian’s quiet voice was meant only for Telan’s ears.
Telan grunted, his fingers tightening momentarily upon Rian’s good shoulder, silent indication of his thoughts on the king. “He is arrogant in his leading of the men. They will not take well to his presence, nor his evident treatment of you.”
“Not so evident,” Rian grimaced. “He has always been careful. Or perhaps they would agree with his actions. He is king, after all.”
A dark brow rose with clear skepticism. “Or are they terrified of his unpredictable behavior? You need to work past his conditioning, his perpetual destruction of your pride. Don’t fall for his words. You are a strong man, Rian, and some day, when his shadow is ripped away, you will be a great one.”
Rian sent him an astonished glance. “How could there be respect for me when I have accepted my brother’s actions?”
Telan snorted indelicately. “Accepted? You told me you were eight years old when his depredations began. Do you truly believe that a child of that age could refuse or fight off an adult as large and powerful as Arran, someone ten years older?”
Rian blinked, drawing a deep and steadying breath. They had spoken of this so many times, and it helped so much, brought his views back to reality—until Arran had appeared once more. Then all the newfound awareness fled, and he was once more that terrified child who could not understand how his brother, who he so admired, so loved, could hurt him in such a inexplicable way.
The feeling of wrongness, of darkness and insanity, would chase away all reason, leaving nothing but long-standing, well-developed fear.
Each time, he would curse his weakness, wishing there was fire enough within him to stand up, fight back, more than he ever had, even to the point of death itself, if it became necessary.
So often, he had reached that ultimate desperation, but then, at the edge of madness, cold reality would stay his hand.
His son, Timur, only four years old. His daughter Hilaz, just reaching her second birthday. They brought light into his life, their innocence a balm to his own pain.
If he should die, who then would stand between them and their uncle, when the world thought of them as Arran’s children? Would his little son be forced to take Rian’s place as much more than an heir?
If his continued survival, continued sacrifice would keep the small ones safe…
Then death could never be chosen.
When Arran had discovered that he himself could not sire heirs, he had chosen a woman, forced Rian to lay with her. As his natural preference was men, it had been a traumatic experience for Rian, rape of a different kind, and done multiple times, until both children had been conceived.
He could only be pathetically grateful that his own potency, or perhaps that of the mother, had ensured successful breeding almost immediately.
He had never seen the woman since, never had any interaction with her. He had never even known her name. When the children were born, she had disappeared, nurses caring for the newborns. He wondered about her fate, whether it would be her or some other poor woman Arran would choose to bear future children.
The first time he had held his son and then his daughter, he had discovered a warmth within himself. Love. Through them, he had finally experienced what the word meant.
His relationship with them had kept him from utter despair.
Arran had initially allowed unlimited time with them, a blessing as Rian formed strong bonds with the children. As time passed however, and the children grew, Arran showed signs of jealousy, possessiveness. He began using them to control Rian, to force him into greater compliance than ever before.
When separated, he missed them fiercely, but there was a certain resentment that seethed below his consciousness as well. Their birth had led to a worsening of his circumstances. In his worst, mad moments, when sanity was thin, he tried to break the links, told himself he did not, could not care.
When his escape failed, some tiny part of him felt relief.
His own helplessness and inability to have any say in their upbringing made him worry for their future. Under Arran’s rule, would they turn out to have all the characteristics of their uncle? Timur would someday rule in Arran’s stead. His brother had made it perfectly clear that Rian was for Arran alone. He was a figurehead, necessary for fulfilling a sacred requirement, and of course he was Arran’s personal plaything… But he would never rule, not strong enough, not smart enough, not anything but what Arran made him.
Rian silently agreed.
There was nothing within him that wanted kingship. But neither did he want his son forced into the role, taught cruelty with nothing of mercy or understanding of their people.
What of little Hilaz? Not yet two. So innocent and pure. She would be figuratively sold to the highest bidder, to those who wanted a link to the king. She might be the one to bear the next prince, the next heir.
Rian wanted to rail against their fate, and his own, but it seemed impossible, futile to the point of despair. Arran ruled them all, would decide their paths despite all struggles. He could no longer fight that for himself, but a surviving sliver of rebellion wanted more for his children.
His escape attempt, so futile in the end, had been because Arran had informed him, with much pleasure in his reaction, that he would be siring yet another child, or indeed several more, until a second son was produced. A second boy to ensure the bloodline continued.
The news had driven Rian past all thought, and he had sought escape, foolishly. He’d arranged to have his children smuggled out of the palace while he drew Arran in a chase in the opposite direction. It had been a desperate plan, and he’d known in his heart his chances were slim…but he’d hoped at least his children would escape from Arran forever.
But he had failed.
Carain had betrayed him. His beloved mare had paid the price. His children remained in the clutches of a madman. What had he achieved? Nothing at all. He was back where he had started. He had no doubt, that upon victory, upon the war ending, his battle would just be beginning.
Used as a stud for his brother’s wishes.
He shuddered at past remembrances. Of Arran lying beside the woman and Rian, urging him on, preparing him, positioning him. Once he was within the woman’s channel, then Arran had mounted him, pinning Rian between the two bodies, forcing him into completion. Always making it very, very clear that Rian had no power at all, even in this.
Another child… Dear gods.
Most of all, a dark corner of his mind whispered that he must keep Arran’s attention upon him, that as Timur aged, became closer to the age that Rian’s innocence had ended, his brother might turn his gaze, his desires, upon the boy, might begin his predations anew. Destroy yet another life.
It was his own defiance, his own tiny rebellion, that he would do anything to divert that event. His plan had failed to get his childre
n away from Arran. Now he had no choice but to do anything, say anything, be anything Arran wished, as long as his son and daughter were safe.
At times, a dark tendril of will rose up at the thought, and he knew, in some corner of his mind, that despite his torn and decimated love for his brother, he could kill.
The only light in the future Arran had planned for them was that he would no longer be separated from the children. Maybe, with his final submission over and done, Arran’s paranoia would settle, and Rian could quietly, discreetly, attempt to steer their upbringing toward sanity.
He also prayed, with less hope, that with enough pretense Telan and Zacar would be allowed to remain with him. They were his sanity, his anchors to reality and hope. To lose them, would ensure his final strength would be lost.
Telan made a sound low in his throat, a warning growl that was far from his normal, calm demeanor.
Rian snapped back to the present to find Hamon standing before them with Zacar at his side, his expression grim. Surprisingly, the Hawk leader nodded to Telan, respect in the gesture, before his gaze swung to Rian.
“We must sleep. Dramon and I have been selected to remain in your room with you tonight.”
Telan half rose in his chair, expression murderous. Only Rian’s swift touch halted his movement.
Rian met his friend’s eyes squarely. “They obey Arran’s orders,” he said softly, wearily.
“Then I sleep within the room as well.” Telan’s eyes were hard and challenging upon Hamon, inviting conflict.
The Hawk leader merely nodded, not returning the hostility.
Telan settled somewhat at the lack of response. He rose to his full height, dwarfing all of them, and urged Rian to his feet, guiding him with a gentle hand upon the small of his back to the inner room where his bed lay welcoming. Zacar was just turning back the covers. It looked so soft, so wonderful…
“I will be sleeping with you in the bed.” Hamon’s tone was cool and calm, with nothing of innuendo.