Coming Home
by RaeC.
The heavy tread of boots upon snow. The crackle of a fire. The hiss of water boiling on the stove. These were the brief sounds of his freedom. Everyone carefully catalogued, remembered, stored away for the times when he needed them the most.
Here, there were no rules to follow, no orders to carry out, just the simple feel of an ax in his hand striking hard against the chopping block. Or the fresh smell of sweat lingering in the air after a hard day's work. The sound of his heart pumping to the thrill of the chase; hunting, instead of the hunted.
Life without structure, without duty, absent of pain. Warmth without strings.
Priceless, yet always a price to be paid. For nothing worth having came easily, nor is it free. Especially not for him.
Kenneth *would* come. He always did. The price he paid for these few brief moments of freedom. The price he paid to be Ian.
It didn't matter how far he ran or where, Kenneth Irons would eventually find him. As a small boy he'd learned that lesson early, but Ian never stopped trying. He hid in plain sight. In his mind. And in every dark corner he could find. But still Kenneth Irons came.
He'd found him in the sprawling city streets of Los Angeles. The rural outback of Australia. And now, Kenneth Irons stood on the doorstep of his small Canadian shack, so far out into the wilderness that most men would have turned back days ago. But no one ever claimed that Kenneth Irons was most men, nor would they claim him ordinary.
Kenneth Irons had come to claim his pet. His flawed pet. Again.
Perfect in body. Trained. Conditioned. A pet able to respond to any physical threat. Trained in the killing arts. Introduced to every vice, every flaw, every weapon that could be used against another man or woman.
For Irons it was simply a matter of another tweak to be made. Another training session to assign and for Ian to endure. It never ended. Never changed. Kenneth Irons owned him.
He was bred for one purpose. Bred to kill. Bred to protect. Bred to serve.
Never allowed to think, act, breathe, or live for himself.
He owed his life, everything that he was to the man standing before him.
A debt that Kenneth Irons would take great pleasure in collecting.
Some small part of him screamed to run, to hide, to fight back. The clock ticked. Hard, brittle eyes dared him to test Kenneth's patience further. He bowed his head; the dog showing his belly to his master.
And from his screams that poured across the icy, white lands, the debt took a long time to collect.
Then, but for the closing of a door, there was silence.
Ian slept.
Only to awaken changed. Hard. Bitter. Whole. Alive.
A man cannot have two masters. Even one can be a living hell.