A Man Owned
Blame the delay on Trigger. If only Susan Vaught hadn't written it so well, I wouldn't have had to read it…
Thank you…
ferretgirl-1124- Don't drool over Roy yet... at least let him take a bath first. And you should update, too, missy.
Xment2bursX- Ooh! You should write yours! Then we could see how each one ends up playing out! They wouldn't be the same, after all-- you'd think up things that I'd never imagine, and... yeah! You should totally do it!
StormDancer
DL- I aim to please. (grin)
If you get confused about who's who, simply get to my slimmed-down profile. The characters are on there—I also have pronunciations if you want them. I don't care how you're pronouncing people's names, really…
My newest addiction is House fanfictions. Coupling that fact with the whole of House's cynicisms, the next chapter (with Deverell) may end up different than I expected. But that's okay.
As the last of the black-clad servants shuffled from the room, Deverell gave a final twisted smile and hurried daintily through the doors to dinner. Garth couldn't find the will to follow; he collapsed against the back of a chaise, head turned toward the fireplace, unable to look at the gift of mockery his cousin had left for him.
As a prince, it was his duty to enforce and abide by the law. So what was he doing, allowing the illegal trade of a human being—and allowing for bribes to excuse a man from execution? Servants were one thing, but a man unwillingly taken into custody as a prize—as, if used as Deverell intended, a sex object?
It was only after his pulse slowed to a normal rate that Garth noticed the labored breathing of the man behind him. He turned on impulse, hesitant and yet curious to see what he looked like.
Once more, the first thing Garth could take in was his eyes, a startlingly vivid green against the brown and grey grit covering his skin. They weren't focused on the prince—on anything, really—but they were open and roving, like an animal desperate for escape.
The man's skin was dark with dirt and dried—though in some cases, wet—blood, yet it was obvious that his actual skin was a much tanner shade than any of the royals. His chin, shadowed in unshaven bristles, was strong and square. His clothes were loose, simple and covering, but what skin Garth could see was taught with the muscles of a life hard-lived.
Garth narrowed his eyes, perplexed by the man's behavior. His blinking was slowed, lethargic, and he was shivering despite the warmth of the fire. He must've been cold, for his arms were wrapped around his chest, covering—
"By the Gods," Garth choked out, "you're bleeding!"
The man jerked his gaze to Garth's, green eyes livid. His lips parted to speak but nothing came out; instead, he winced, moving to stand with difficulty.
Garth was beside him in an instant. "Let me see." He pulled the man's hand from where it held his side, revealing the deep slash only a whip could've made. Not even a usual whip—one with adornments: spikes, hooks… He reached to hold the fabric away from it when the hand in his slipped away and a hardened fist slammed into the side of his face.
The pain of the impact faded after a moment, leaving his jaw numb. "You need help," Garth murmured, opening and closing his mouth; every movement made a cracking noise. "Let me—"
The man shook his head, breath still coming short. A sudden gagging came from the back of his throat and Garth drew in a breath, eyes closing as the heaving sound of liquid on flagstone reverberated through the room.
"Please," the prince hissed, looking at the hunched man again. "At this degree of injury, you will—"
Before he could even get the words out, the man's eyelids fluttered. It was all Garth could do to stop his head from careening into the stone.
—
The expression Quintonice wore was one of shock when Garth carried the man through the door over one shoulder, and then carefully set him on the floor in the receiving chambers of the prince's main living area. Coulson followed in a few moments later, warm, damp cloths in his arms and panic across his features.
"Your Highness?" Quintonice asked in a barely-audible gasp. She stepped away from the pile of folded sheets, only coming as close as she dared.
"Give me those," Garth growled, grabbing the stack of cloths from Coulson. He set them on the flagstone and, ripping a hole in the bloodied man's shirt, held one against the laceration. "Fetch an aid, one of you!"
Coulson opened his mouth to protest but was silenced by a violet-eyed glare. He was out the door in an instant. Quintonice crept closer, trying to look at the mysterious man.
"Quintonice," Garth said, gesturing with one hand toward the cloths, "wrap his left ankle. I believe he twisted it, so be gentle."
She nodded and did as he said, trying to apply as little pressure on the ankle as possible. As she began wrapping a second towel around it, her eyes roamed to Garth and caught the blood across his shirt. A patch of brown covered an entire side of his shoulders, some on his neck and chin, some on his arm.
"Are you injured, Your Highness?"
Garth jerked to look at her, his eyes following hers. "No," he said after a moment, reaching for a new cloth. "It's his blood. Is that swollen?"
She stared at him for a moment. "Oh! The ankle—yes. It—"
"Your Highness," a new voice called as another man swirled in through the door, his tall, black hat already thrown onto the floor. "The dinner party is expecting you. They wish to hold a toast for you—but Gods, who is that?"
"Emlyn," Garth barked, bringing the doctor closer to him, "check his ankle. Quintonice, go to the kitchens and request a bag of ice."
"His ankle seems to be the least of the problems," Emlyn murmured. He kneeled across from Garth, batting his hands from the cuts. "By Poseidon, Your Highness. Where did you find such a horribly-wounded ruffian?"
"I'd rather not explain." Garth got to his feet, shifting toward the door to look for Coulson. "Will he—"
"This man—well, he's more a boy—will be waking soon. You sent your maid to fetch ice?"
"Yes, she—ah, she's coming now, down the hall." Garth came back into the room, picking at his bloody coat. "Will you need alcohol for the cuts, or will—"
A sudden intake of breath made both men freeze. The man on the floor coughed, abruptly awake and mobile. He put his unharmed foot flat on the flagstone and grabbed at Emlyn's hand, trying to rid himself of it.
"Your Highness," Quintonice said as she appeared in the doorway. In that half-second moment of distraction, the man sat up; his head cracked against Emlyn's and a hoarse series of oaths echoed through the air.
"Emlyn, watch—!"
The man was on his feet, bad ankle favored as he stumbled backward. Garth took a step to one side, subconsciously moving in front of Quintonice. The maid herself merely clutched the pack of ice and tried to be still.
He coughed again but didn't speak; his hands still covered the slash in his side. The bright green of his eyes met Garth's again.
"You're bleeding," Garth said slowly. "You twisted your ankle as well; we have to help you."
The man shifted his weight, limping a distance to the side. He caught himself on the edge of a table, eyes narrowed, teeth sunken into his bottom lip in either pain or frustration.
"Emlyn, please return to the dinner," the prince suddenly said. "Alcohol and salve will be fine for his cuts."
The doctor hesitated, but after a moment murmured a quiet, "Yes, Your Highness," and retreated from the room. Quintonice made a move to follow, but Garth called her back.
"Quintonice, set the ice there"—he pointed to a random end table—"and draw a bath, quickly."
The girl rushed toward the inner chambers of the wing, leaving the two alone. Garth kept his eyes locked with the man's but came closer, slowly. "Will you tell me your name?" he asked gently. "I wish to address you properly, instead of just 'you, there.'"
The man didn't move.
"I'm the Prince of Atlantis—my name is Garth, as I'm sure my cousin has told you. You are…?" After a moment, Garth let out an exasperated sigh and tugged on a stray string from his jacket. He opened his mouth to speak, but another voice, lower than his own and hoarser, spoke first.
"Why didn't you say no?"
The prince started, head jolting up. "I… what?"
The corner of the man's lip twitched in pain. "You're fucking royalty. If anyone should ignore my life, it should be you, and he, and everyone else in this damn palace. Why didn't you decline his offer?" He smirked, remembering. "Oh, that's right, you killed someone else, and because you're a self-righteous man who was never taught to ignore guilt, you think killing some soul—even if he is fully culpable—is, as mommy told you, 'wrong.'"
As the prince tried to regain his sense and perhaps close his gaping jaw, the man scrutinized him. "If you're the prince, I pity the citizens."
"Why," Garth started, forcing himself from stuttering, "are you acting so hostile? I saved your life—"
"No, you simply prolonged it. I know your type of man. You think I'll benefit from being helped, from being washed and clothed, from being given a good meal and then, naturally, from being turned into the streets and flushed to the depths of society again. You think I won't be caught, that I won't be hanged. You must think you're so clever, so kind, to help a criminal." The man let out a jarringly harsh laugh. "You aren't. You're a cruel man who merely delayed my death and increased my suffering, and all because your guilty conscience told you that this was an opportunity for penitence. Do you feel like a savior now?"
Garth had moved across the room to the linen closet while the man had been arguing; now he turned to face the angry redhead, towels in his arms, a serenely oblivious look forced across his face. "I'm not a savior," he said slowly, approaching the man. "I never want to be. Decency and morals made me agree to keep you here. I will be sure you're washed, clothed and fed, but after that the decision is yours. If you so desperately need your life to end, you're free to leave. But I'm offering you the chance to stay here, under the protection of the crown, for as long as you need or want."
"You don't know what I've done," the man growled. "I could very well kill you."
"That's very true. Executioners generally have a reason for killing criminals, and if you're to be hanged I'd expect you did something to deserve it."
"And yet—"
"And yet," Garth continued, holding the towels out to him, "I could kill you as well. You don't know what I have done; you merely know that someone's murder lay on my shoulders, a fact that was, before this evening, known to only three people."
"So we're both men damned to Hell," came the bitter response. "That's no reason for you to trust me, or even care about me."
"The way I see it, you don't know my past and I don't know your past. I won't inquire of yours, and you won't inquire of mine. If we both keep our wits about us, there's no danger of one harming the other." He shook the towel, drawing the man's attention to it. "Now, if you'll tell me your name, you can bathe and I can attend the banquet. Quintonice will sort out clothes and, when I return, we can fix your wounds and give you a meal."
The man hesitated, but finally took the towel with chagrin. "Call me Roy. Garth, you said… would your banquet happen to have pears?"
Garth laughed, turning to the hall. "We'll see."
Ah, pears. Pears are key. Pears will be used in more ways than should be possible.
And finally, I can call him "Roy" instead of "the man." I hate vague identities.