The man moved through the crowds like a shark moved up stream; effortlessly.

He weaved in and out of the mass, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes darting from face to face. He was finely dressed, all pristine and straight, like he was on his way to somewhere important and too flashy for his nature, which he wasn't. He had come to buy apples.

He drew his hat further over his face and walked towards the market.

His eyes were pale blue like flowers and his hair was fine like spun gold and he walked like his every footstep echoed somewhere where they mattered. He wore a white three-piece suit and acted like he was some sort of god among men, a sun among the stars, all winking eyes and sly little smiles. And none of them blinked at him, or betrayed him; they barely even looked him in the eye. He allowed them not to.

His shoes tapped the cobblestone walkway, echoing in his ears and carriages rode past, the horses' hooves clopping against the stone like rocks being dropped from a great height and failing to bounce.

The sky was blue and the sun shone down on him, high drying the puddles left by the rain the night before, and making every surface shine. The air was still filled with the moisture from the rain, thick and sweet. A bird flapped from one building to another, and he watched it and, bobbing around on the rooftop, it looked back.

The market wasn't particularly big, just large enough for it to keep going, not like the main markets, where the majority of people went. It was kept alive mostly by the slave driver, down from the south and the farmers that came with him. It was a collection of battered tents and stalls selling second-class ingredients the second-class and first class slaves to the first class. It was just the way things worked.

"Now this one," the auctioneer called from his stage, "this one's special!"

He stood upon the theatre stage with a chain in his hands and a group of shivering men and women standing in a cage off to the side. The man in white didn't pass him a glance and simply continued on to the stall with the apples. What could he say? He'd just woken up that morning with a craving.

"A magic user, oh yes!" The Auctioneer continued loudly, "Not only is he in prime condition, you'll have plates levitating around your house in no time!" The man in white couldn't fault in his enthusiasm, but there hadn't been a magic user in decades, they'd died out, there weren't anymore. Probably just something to help him sell whoever it was that he was trying to sell.

He rolled his eyes.

He handed over a few coins for the bag of apples to the merchant, and as he turned around he caught a brief glance of the auction taking place. He blinked, uncertain to what he was seeing.

The boy wasn't like the others standing there. They were all hunched over, their shoulder's nearly up to their ears, all frail eyes and bones and fear. But the boy was different, the acclaimed magic user. He stood straight and bold, his mouth set in a straight, thin line, and his eyes glaring fiercely at anyone who dared looked at him.

He wasn't very big, but thin and small, his dirty hair went in all directions and his eyes were the sort of green that you could pinpoint in a crowd no matter where you were. He was grubby, muddy, and bruised and beaten and so much for 'in prime condition'. He looked like he had been through hell, but he stood like a sentinel, despite the fact that his hands were chained together, and there was a collar around his neck. The man could see the bruises where his fingers must've clawed at it.

"20 pounds!" Someone yelled from the crowd, an older man, the man in white recognized him.

Something in the man shifted and he wondered fleetingly if he had enough money, which of course he did. He was in a near permanent state of enough money. He stood paused, just outside the circle of the crowd, with his bag of apples and his suit.

He exhaled.

"25 pounds!" He followed up, raising his hand as the auctioneer attempted to barter and tempt the crowd. He stepped into the group of people, wanting to get a better look at the boy with the collar around his neck. The boy glared at him and he smiled back. The older gentleman sent him a look.

"30 pounds!"

Great, now they were just going up by fives. Wonderful, this was going to work really well. He rolled his eyes and sighed deeply.

"50 pounds," now that was a small fortune, but nothing to him. Nothing at all. He just wanted to get it over quickly. For a split second the boy looked a little dismayed and then it was gone, his real expression slipping back under his enraged mask. The older gentleman glared at him something fierce, something mad.

"Going once!" Taunted the auctioneer, fighting to keep the pleased grin from his face. "Going twice!" He continued, the grip on the young man's chain tightening.

"And sold, to the man in white!" The Auctioneer beckoned him towards the stage, towards the steps that led up to him and his bounty. He ducked through the crowd, digging through his pockets for the money, still having enough for a taxi ride home. The Auctioneer tugged the boy to the edge of the stage where the steps met the floor, holding tightly onto his chain as if he thought that the boy might run, and from the look in his dart eyes, he just might.

The man in white waited for them at the bottom of the stairs and the Auctioneer didn't ask for his name and he didn't give it, he just handed over the money and was passed the chain in return.

"Thank you," he nodded to the collar around the boy's neck, ignoring the glare while the Auctioneer went through his pockets for the keys, "what's that for?"

None of the others had collars.

The Auctioneer's eyes flickered to him and he adjusted his hat.

"It keeps his magic suppressed, had to get it cursed and everything."

The man looked at him doubtfully as he was handed two keys, one for the chains and one for the collar, he presumed.

"You really believe in that stuff?"

The auctioneer sneered at him, no longer keeping up appearances, not after the sale had been made.

"He killed three of my men and turned a fourth into a snake, of course I believe in it." Then he turned and stomped back up the stairs and the man in white turned to the boy.

"Well then," he said respectfully, "I'd appreciate it if I could remain in my human form, thank you." The boy's lip curled at him and he took that as a response. "Come along then."

He tugged the boy through the crowd towards the road. He didn't feel like walking any longer.

The boy didn't make any moves, didn't run or scream for help, he just glared, his lips pressed together and his expression firm and tight. Perhaps he knew that he wouldn't be able to get away. The man was bigger than him and could probably run faster too. And he knew the streets better, not to mention he was in chains. He could do nothing, but wait for the right moment to catch him unawares, which the man was sure he was.

It made him grip the chain even tighter.

Somehow he managed to flag down an empty taxi and bundle the boy inside, managing just barely to stop him from darting out the other side. The boy gave him a look of utter contempt and he attempted a smile in return. He told the taxi driver his address and turned back to the boy, digging into his bag of apples and offering one to the boy, being as nice as he could.

The boy's eyes darted between the red apple and him, considering his options.

"It's an apple," the man said helpfully, "you can't poison an apple." The boy narrowed his eyes in vague annoyance and reached forward, his shackled hands going forth together. He moved very slowly, watching the man in white's every move, calculating every thought. And when he had it he drew it to his mouth and took a careful bite, his eyes never leaving the man in white's. Some juice slipped down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.

"What's your name?" He asked, hoping he'd established trust. The boy didn't respond, he only continued to methodically eat his apple, staring at him. The man pushed his eyebrows together. "You do… have a name, don't you?"

The boy rolled his eyes as if he was stupid and took another bite of his apple.

Most people would be scared in this type of situation, but the boy wasn't, he was just… pissed off.

"My name's Francis," the man named Francis held out his hand, offering it to the nameless, voiceless boy. The boy gave it a long look and decided it wasn't for him, opting instead to just look out the window at the streets going slowly by, eating his apple. Francis awkwardly retook his hand and wiped it on his pants. He could practically hear his tailor scolding him.

It didn't take long for them to reach his home, as it wasn't that far from the market. His house was neither large nor small, but instead just perfect sized, tucked just outside of the city, where he could have a garden and room to breath. It wasn't as big as he could afford, but he didn't need any more than he had. He didn't like people to know he had as much money as he did; it made him too susceptible to robbery.

The house was painted blue and the garden was filled with flowers that he couldn't name, but liked, and the veranda had chairs sitting on it, and he liked it just the way that it was. His father didn't, but his father liked very few things. Including him.

He tugged the boy out of the carriage and the boy let him, knowing that he couldn't run just yet, but he would get there eventually. Francis could see it in his eyes; he was getting ready to bolt, formulating plans and theories.

They walked up the garden path, towards the front door and the boy lagged, looking around, for a escape route, or perhaps just out of curiosity. His eyes skipped from plant to plant, smelling the air, like he could detect something that Francis couldn't. Some invisible threat.

He wondered if he really was a magic user, a rare breed. God, he hoped not. If anyone caught on that he had a real life magic user in his home the boy would be taken from him and dissected before he could blink.

He opened the door to his house, slipping off his shoes by the door, he would've told the boy to do the same if he had owned shoes. Inside the house was neat and clean, with a hardwood floor and a homely smell. They padded down the hallway together.

"I'm home," he called, turning into the kitchen, where Elizabeta stood at the stove, making some soup for lunch. Elizabeta lived with him three and a half days of every week, and the rest at a man named Roderich's house, looking after his adopted boys.

She turned around to smile at him, but stopped as soon as she saw the boy trailing after him and the chain in his hand. She went pale and looked at him in dismay.

"You just went out to get apples," she said in a distressed voice.

"And I did." He said, putting the bag on the table. "I just also happened to get something else."

She frowned at him, and he could tell she was rethinking her employment.

"I thought you disagreed with that sort of thing?" Obviously she did and wanted him to as well.

"I do," he answered simply, the boy standing confusedly as far away from them as he could. "But he was going to be sold to Ivan's father, I couldn't have that." Ivan's father, a man named Winter, was notoriously cruel to his servants, usually beating them to death before the end of a year.

The statement wasn't strictly true. Sure, he had felt sorry for the boy, he had felt sorry for all of them, standing up there, but he had also just wanted to talk to the boy. Ask him what he was doing there, and why he was so defiant when everyone else was scared. He had simply appeared to be the sort of person that Francis would want to know.

"Oh," Elizabeta said, and feeling a little conflicted turned back to her soup, leaving the boy with only a lingering, half-worried glance. He could tell that they were going to have a long conversation later that night about the special place in hell for slavers.

But before that happened Francis beckoned the boy to come closer to him, leaning against the table with the apples. With his chin raised high, the boy regarded him coldly and the man in white rolled his eyes.

"Oh, calm down, I'm just going to take off your chains." He dangled the key between two fingers and after a pause the boy held out his chained hands, expecting them to be undone. The man, as gently as he could, took the boy's hands, soft like silk as they were, and inserted the key into the keyhole.

"Now, before I take these off, I just think you ought to know that all the windows and doors are locked, and I'm the only one with a key. So I would really appreciate it if you wouldn't make a fuss or break anything, okay?" The boy nodded silently. "There we go mon cher, we have an agreement." He said lightly, turning the key as he spoke and removing each cuff.

The boy rubbed his bruised wrists and Francis felt a little bad.

"Elizabeta," he addressed. Elizabeta turned cautiously around.

"Yes, sir?"

"Could you get our new guest into the bath and into some of my old clothes? I'll finish with the soup." Francis smiled at her and she smiled back. Still holding the boys velvet hands, he turned and looked the boy in the eyes, focusing all his attention on him.

"Now," he continued, "this is my maid, Elizabeta. And you'll want to be treating her kindly, because she feeds us and will treat you kindly in return. No biting, you hear me?" The boy was looking at him like he was an idiot again, that happened a lot it seemed. He took it as an agreement.

Elizabeta patted the boy's shoulder in greeting and he flinched and they pretended not to notice.

"Come along Sweetie," she said instead, "Up the stairs now."

He allowed her to command him and scratched at his steel collar.

If the situation was different then he would have let the boy go. He would hope he would return, but he would have let him go either way. But unfortunately, the slavery ring was very seriously upheld. You could beat a slave, kill a slave, refuse to feed a slave, but you could not let one go. Or resell one. Or abandon one. The only way you could get rid of one was through death. Or else the slave would be ruthlessly tracked down, and killed, and you would be sent to prison. And he didn't like prison, no matter how rich he was. The rules were as they were to try and wean slavery off the black market, make it only an official thing.

Inevitably, the boy was his until one of them died, whether he liked it or not.

It struck him what a decision he had made. A lifetime decision. The decision that would go on until he was dead.

He suddenly felt like he had underestimated the situation.

…

He was certainly a fierce little boy, seventeen or eighteen maybe, all filled with rage and fear. She scrubbed through his muddy hair and he let her. She got the distinct impression that everything she did in relation to him, he was letting her do. Nothing more. He was in control.

His shoulders were thin, and but he could see malnourished muscles under the skin of his arms, small, but strong, she concluded. He was a lean person, a lion trapped inside the skin of fearing little boy. She felt sorry for him. Him and his bruised ribs and his collar.

She wondered what it was doing there as she rubbed the soup through his hair, stealing the dirt from his scalp. The master had taken off his cuffs, but not his collar, even though it wasn't connect to anything. She stored it in the back of his mind to ask him.

The boy rubbed a cloth against his muddy feet like she had asked him to do, scrubbing at his toes and making the water brown. Silently she reached down and filled a jug with water to pour over his hair.

"One, two, three."

She poured the water over his head, washing away the dislodged dirt and the soap. She did it a few more times and the boy allowed her to do so, silent and waiting. She babbled to him lightheartedly, trying to pretend she didn't feel his misery through the water.

"I think you'll like it here," she said, as he scrubbed his legs, he didn't respond so she continued. "The master is a kind man. Flirtatious in the beginning, but I think that that's just how he gets comfortable with people." She moved carelessly around the large bathroom, picking things up and putting them back down again. He looked over his shoulder at her, a doubtful look on his face.

He had heard kind words before, but it didn't matter what they said. They all wanted the same thing in the end. The women were usually nicer than the men, but they all just wanted something to enact their power upon, someone to make them feel like they were in charge. He highly doubted that the man in white who called himself Francis was any different. He had trusted before and he had been chained to a wall, he would not make the same mistake again.

For the time being though, he simply took advantage of the luxuries he had while he had them, scrubbing over his scars and scrapes and bruises. He was sure that she noticed his wounds, but she didn't mention them. He would've been horrified if she had.

When he was asked to step out of the bath he was glad to be clean, to be stripped of his layer of dirt and watch it roll down the drain, leaving him bare, and stronger. The woman who was the man in white's maid sat him down on the closed toilet, wrapped in a fluffy white towel and dried his hair with a separate towel. They had a whole cupboard full of them. He had no idea what they did with all of them. What do you do with seventeen towels?

While he pondered about the seventeen towels the woman continued to babble to him, about liking it there, about her, about what he needed to know. He couldn't concentrate. He'd been through so much that day, and all the days before. He was so tired, and so warm, warmer than he had been in what felt like years, and he just wanted to curl into a ball and sleep.

There was a knock at the door and both he and the woman looked up.

"Elizabeta, the soup is ready," the man in white called through the door.

"We'll be right there," she called in return, and they listened to his footsteps fade away.

And then the woman put him undergarments that were too big, and pants that were too big, and a white shirt that was too big, and she pushed his hair away from his eyes, clutching his cheeks.

"Look at you," she addressed, "all presentable and clean." She smiled sadly and ushered him down the steps, towards the dining room, where the man in white was preparing the table. He was laying out bowels and spoons and napkins, a steaming pot in the middle of the table. He smelt the air and he could detect every ingredient.

His mouth watered. When was the last time he had hot food?

The woman called Elizabeta sat him down next to the man in white, who was still dressed in white, but had shed his coat. He sat at one head of the table, and the woman sat at the other, the boy sat in the middle with his hands twisted in his lap.

He scratched at his collar.

The man in white served him some of the soup, served the woman, and then served himself and they sat down together, the woman and the man beginning to eat.

"Still not talking?" Francis asked, and the woman across from him shook her head sadly.

"Not a word, I'm not even sure he knows the language." She raised the spoon to her mouth.

The man in white shook his head in return.

"No, he knows it. He glares at me when I say anything stupid."

The boy glared at him and Francis noticed that he wasn't eating. He gestured to the steaming soup and the bread sitting beside it.

"Well, eat up," he said, knowing that he would be hungry. The boy looked at him doubtfully and he sighed. "Admittedly, you can poison soup, but if I was going to poison you, I'd also be poisoning me, and that just wouldn't work."

"Nid wyf yn credu ei fod yn ddrwg Dyna syniad o," I don't think it would be that bad of an idea.

Notes:

For the record, Arthur was speaking Irish. Don't know why I need to mention that, but I do.