Chapter Seven

The sigils Balthazar traced through the air erupted in a shower of sparks, small embers of light that crashed to the floor to feed the green flames around Dave.

A moment passed after that, then two, until the younger man was almost sure nothing was happening—but as soon as the thought crossed his mind, his world tilted wildly. Looking down, he saw that the fire immediately surrounding him had turned an angry red, and it was slowly creeping its way up his legs, though he felt no heat or burning. No, what he felt was far worse—spreading from his legs outward, it was as though someone had slipped beneath his skin with a thousand little fingernails, scratching lightly at his insides. It wasn't necessarily unpleasant, but it certainly had the capacity to be. At the moment, the nails were being soft and gentle, but there was a threat in their presence, an intimate promise of pain.

"All you have to do is acknowledge me," Balthazar told him, once more moving to pace the outside of the flaming circles. "Say the word, and everything stops."

Dave didn't like the sound of that, and the older man's dark tone was enough to send shivers up his spine. A few moments later, he found out he was right on all accounts—right to expect pain, and right to be wary of Balthazar.

To say that Dave's world erupted would be unfair; the pain started slowly at first: tiny increases in pressure, a scratch that was uncomfortable and gaining force. In fact, it wasn't for several minutes that things got truly nasty. The pressure of the fingernails slowly increased, bit-by-bit, but once Dave hit his threshold it became unbearable. Suddenly, it was like a thousand angry claws were within him, shredding apart his muscles to scrape against his bones. He had experienced painful things before—not the least of which included abdominal surgery and accidental electrocution—but this was simply beyond compare. There was no respite in sight, and the only way to stop it was the one thing he refused to do.

"Just say the word," Balthazar coaxed. His tone was relaxed, almost bored, but there was something about the way he moved that suggested he was uncomfortable.

Dave felt a sweat break out along his skin, slicking his back and making his clothes stick to him. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the world of agony that had set fire within him, and shook his head at the older man. "No," he croaked out simply.

It was hard to tell, now that there was sweat in his eyes, but he thought Balthazar's eyes narrowed in anger. "I'm just holding the sword, Dave," the older man snapped, "you're the one impaling yourself. This doesn't have to last any longer than you want it to."

Balthazar's dichotomy was baffling to Dave's scattering and delirious thoughts. Why should he be mad? He was the one who'd started this insanity in the first place! It seemed wrong that he should try to blame Dave for what was happening, but it was clear proof that he was becoming distressed by the torture that he was inflicting.

And it was torture—what had once simply been uncomfortable was now like an iron lance pressing slowly through his belly. Distantly, he remembered the memory Balthazar had shown him; he remembered the bodies Morgana had left in her wake, run through with ice and glass. He knew, abruptly, how they had felt as they'd died, only he was probably not as afraid as they'd been because he knew without a doubt that Balthazar needed him alive. But, all the same, he felt a sudden kinship with those men, centuries dead, and his resistance slipped a little—they had suffered a horror few could understand, and it was only right that someone avenge their deaths. But Dave was no hero, the thought came back to haunt him.

A particularly vicious dig against a soft organ snapped him from his thoughts, forcing an angry groan from his lips. He'd been careful to make no sound, he wanted there to be no doubt that he'd never given in, but the pain cause such a fierce and aching fire within him that the sound had simply escaped him.

Balthazar paused at the noise, then gave an angry snarl and stomped his foot against the ground; immediately, the red flames extinguished and slowly rekindled into a blue fire.

Dave hung limply, panting heavily as he passively tried to shake the sweat out of his eyes. The nasty little claws were gone, but the irritation they'd caused still throbbed within him—not quite pain, but not quite the absence of pain either. Below him, the blue flames popped and waved serenely, releasing the scent of lemongrass and sweet oats into the air. Or perhaps he imagined that part; reality was beginning to blur around the edges a little.

"I was never this stubborn at your age," Balthazar said tightly. "But times were different, I suppose. Your century breeds stubbornness like a plague." He drew closer again, the anger in his face clear, but it was mingled with worry and sympathy. For all his bluster and insanity, Balthazar was not an unfeeling man—he just took his duties much too seriously. "I'm not doing this because I think it's fun, Dave. You understand that, right?"

Dave didn't want to nod, but he did understand. They were two opposing forces that had to bombard one another until some sort of reaction was achieved. It was simple and scientific—and it did not at all change the fact that he'd just been tortured. His whole life had been a litany of abuse at the hands of others, both verbal and physical, but he'd never experienced a pain as keen or as unforgiving as the one Balthazar had just introduced him to. So he understood, but he still hated the older man for it.

Slowly, as he contemplated this new emotion—he'd never really hated anyone before—Dave became aware that his body was cooling, the muscles relaxing as his tensions eased, and the memory of pain became dull and distant. But not forgotten. Still, the comforting strength the blue flames were imparting him with was more than welcome. After only a matter of minutes, he felt just as he had before he'd ever noticed Balthazar was in the room: a little bleary and a lot panicked, but otherwise fine. It couldn't last, though; if nothing else, he knew that much.

Balthazar continued to circle the younger man, just inside the first ring of green flames now. His expression was pinched, as though he knew he'd made a mistake but wasn't sure how to fix it. "I don't understand why you're resisting so much. I'm only asking you to give up the time it will take to defeat Morgana," he breathed, his brow furrowed. "After that, you can go back to your coils, your friends, and your tiny apartment; I'm just asking for the interim between now and then, and the sooner you give in, the sooner you can be rid of me."

That nearly undid Dave. He'd come to realize that, much like a dog with a bone, Balthazar would never give up. So the sooner he began his training, the sooner he could defeat Morgana, and then he could turn away from the older man and never look back. It was that simple—and he still hated it. Maybe he was just being stubborn now because of all the pain he'd been forced to endure only minutes ago, but whatever it was it certainly didn't make him feel like cooperating, no matter how tempting the bait was.

Balthazar must have read the answer in his face, because he closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples. Dave sincerely hoped he was giving the older man a migraine, but the vindictive thought died when Balthazar looked back up, a decision shining in his eyes—it seemed he had only been thinking. Balthazar made no motions this time, but the air in the room abruptly thickened, the humidity doubling.

Dave, who had never really stopped sweating in the first place, found the mugginess oppressive—still, it wasn't horrible. Either this new tactic was really obscure, or it hadn't truly started yet.

"You're too stubborn to bend for pain," Balthazar said into the silence of the room, "so perhaps you'll bend for pleasure instead."

The words sparked a fear so visceral that Dave immediately tensed. He'd already flirted with thoughts of Stockholm Syndrome—he didn't need to make it a reality. Pleasure would break him, he knew it; he received the warm intimacy so infrequently that he knew his resistance would eventually melt.

Lick by lick, the flames surrounding Dave slowly turned the color of the midnight sky—not blue or black or green, but some glorious combination of all three. The slow dance of the strange color was mesmerizing, but its beauty did not diminish its danger. At the first touch of this new flame, Dave felt his body grow heavy as a curious hum began to dance up his spine. From there, small tendrils of warmth spread out to every corner of his being, until it was as though he were surrounded in a golden haze. But, just as with the pain, what was merely pleasant soon intensified; the tendrils fanned out, delving above and below his skin, mapping his body and what areas seemed to draw the best responses out of him. The gentle caresses became teasing touches, phantom hands stroking him in places that were far too sensitive.

This was worse than the pain, somehow: it was a pleasure so beguiling and absolute that he was paralyzed by it. And there was no outlet to be had; he couldn't move, couldn't direct what was happening, and his body was responding without even a hint of his permission. Mechanically, anatomically, he knew he couldn't stop his body from its natural response—after a certain point, there was nothing left for his body to do other than to become primed for sex—but that didn't make it any less infuriating. He didn't want to experience this at the hands of a madman. How could someone who caused him so much trouble also give him so much pleasure? The mere thought was so unbalanced that he didn't know how to deal with it.

A finger, solitary but full of purpose, ran up Dave's spine, sending sparks, both literal and figurative, dancing across the captured man's nerves. For a moment, Dave thought this was just a new trick of the fire, but there was a presence behind him—in his golden haze, he had missed the fact that Balthazar had slipped from sight.

The older man's touches were hesitant at first, almost reverent—a gentle touch here, a brief caress there—never anything overtly intimate or purposefully seductive. He touched with the curiosity and wonder of a man who had long been denied the luxury—he touched just like Dave would have, had he felt the inclination and not been tied up. Unfortunately, he also touched with electricity; sparks inexplicably jumped from his hands, jolting and teasing the younger man in ways he never thought he would have found pleasurable.

Dave put up an admirable fight—he couldn't move, but he held on to his resistance and bolstered his newfound hatred. He thought that, with a little luck, he might be able to survive this new persuasion, but when Balthazar's hands began to slide lower on his body, he knew he was in trouble. One hand flirted with his hip, delving beneath the band of his jeans to better feel him. Even without the sparks, this touch was electrifying: it was the first true skin-to-skin contact they ever made, outside of Balthazar's errant face-stroking. The sorcerer's fingers slid over the contours of Dave's hip, mapping his body as it made a journey to more exotic places.

Dave had little in the way of sexual experience, aside from what simply came from instinct. He knew well enough how to pleasure himself, and how to do it so that it felt the best, so it seemed both odd and unfair that the lightest caress from Balthazar should eclipse anything he'd done on his own. But it was true—the moment Balthazar's hand found Dave's burgeoning hardness, his touches became concentrated there, and the pleasure he created in that physical flirting was enough to short circuit the younger man's brain.

The noises began then: whimpers and moan, pleads for mercy or release. Dave had been so proud never to have begged through the pain, but this pleasure was too crippling to be endured for a long stretch of time. Everywhere, he was being stroked, and now his erection—the one thing he wished he could have denied at the moment—was being lavished with attention. It was simply too much. There had to be a release, he had to climax or his body would twist itself into knots—the pleasure would soon become more painful than the torture had been.

"What am I?" the older man asked suddenly, quietly, his breath ghosting over Dave's neck.

"Balthazar!" Dave snapped, his anger undermined by the whimper that was lacing his voice.

Balthazar made a disapproving noise and shook his head. "Not good enough."

"Balthazar, please!" Dave begged. He wasn't proud of that, but he was fast reaching a breaking point.

"Not until you tell me what I want to hear," the sorcerer replied seriously. "What am I?"

Dave's thoughts hit an abrupt wall. He knew what the Balthazar wanted to hear—he knew exactly what word would earn him release. But was it worth it? Or perhaps the better question was: could he survive much longer if he didn't say it? The pleasure and desire pumping through his veins was so severe and all encompassing that it wouldn't be possible to take much more without climaxing, but he had a feeling that Balthazar had no intention of allowing him that luxury without acknowledgement. He was damned either way, so did it really matter what he chose?

Dave breathed deep, closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth. "Master," he hissed quietly.

"Very good," Balthazar rumbled, his touches becoming firmer in reward. Then, perhaps just to be difficult, commanded, "Again, Dave."

"Master!" he shouted this time, his body already tightening in release. The moment seemed to stretch out as he achieved the most intense and humiliating orgasm of his life, and when it was over his body still spasmed in wicked echoes of pleasure. But the humiliation was not done—it was as he hung there, spent and dazed, that the absolute worst came.

Someone spoke up from the corner of the room. "Am I interrupting something?" the voice was male, cheerful and accented, but there was an underlying darkness in the tone.

Balthazar moved away from Dave, positioning himself between the captured man and this new stranger. "As a matter of fact, yes," he replied, his voice rough. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Dave was fighting down a blush, jittery nerves, and what was possibly the beginning of a monumental complex, but he still chanced a look at the intruder. The man was about Dave's age, perhaps a few years older, lithe, and tall, made even more so by the heeled boots he was wearing. His clothes were hard to describe, but they were tight, dark, and flashy—not simply stylish, but eye-catching by their edgy and inventive design. On anyone else they would have looked ridiculous, but considering the man also had painted nails, frosted hair and heavy eyeliner around his already dark eyes, the outfit simply looked natural.

"Hey now," the stranger laughed lightly, "there's no need to get defensive; it's none of my business what you like to do in your free time, or who you do it with. Although, if you ask me," he gave Dave a curious once over, "you could probably find someone a little more willing." The stranger paused, then shrugged. "Unless you're into that sort of thing."

Balthazar gave a low growl at that, although why he should take offense at something that Dave thought was essentially true would remain a mystery. Still, the older man did seem offended by the implication, and he was quick to rush the stranger out of the room. How they left would also remain a mystery, because Dave was much too tired and sore to turn and watch them when they exited his line of sight. For the first time since he'd awakened, he was left alone with his thoughts.

He almost wished the two men would come back.


Balthazar felt sick— and not just a passing discomfort and a twinge of regret. Nausea was rolling around in his belly as though he were standing on a ship caught in a fierce storm. He'd broken so many of his own codes in the last hours that he wasn't sure what to think of himself anymore. At his basest, he'd always considered himself a fair and honorable man, if somewhat eccentric and unorthodox; his mission had never sat well with him because he knew, from the very outset, that it was unfair. But who was he to defy destiny? Still, what he'd done in that room today, what he had put Dave through was possibly the single most horrifying thing he'd done in his unnaturally long life.

He had almost lost himself while watching Dave's pain, had almost broken before the younger man did. Balthazar had seen many peculiar methods of persuasion in his time, but he had never gotten used to, or found a fondness for pain. Dave had made little noise, but his suffering was clear in every tense line of his body—what he had experienced must have been agonizing, and yet he hadn't cried out until the sound had been forced from his lips. In the same moment as he'd been admiring the younger man's courage, Balthazar had been hating himself, and maybe hating Dave's disposition a little too. Why did it have to happen like this? Pain and torture was no foundation to build a Master and apprentice relationship on—they could only be twisted after this, with Balthazar using progressively more forceful methods of persuasion while Dave's resistance dwindled but his hatred grew.

He'd seen the hatred in Dave's eyes, and it had hurt Balthazar so completely that pleasure had been the only logical avenue left for him. It had been the best apology he could offer while still trying to gain acknowledgement. But that had backfired too—not in the end result, because he had gotten what he'd wanted, but he hadn't meant to participate. At the first, he'd intended to let the magic take its course, but seeing Dave there, flush now with something that wasn't pain, Balthazar had been unable to resist. He'd had so little contact through the centuries, so little to hang onto that was good; for too many years he had existed solely to find the Prime Merlinian, and now that he had he was starting to regard the boy like a treasure. It was perverse, but the physical assurance that Dave was there, that he could be just as affected by Balthazar's presence as Balthazar was by his, had been like a balm to the older man's soul. He'd needed that feeling, had needed to know that in some way they were connected.

He would never forget the sounds Dave had made, or the way he had twisted and bucked in desire, but he would also never forget that it hadn't been Dave's choice; the whole experience had been forced on the boy in a desperate act of trickery.

Balthazar's thoughts turned to Veronica—he didn't let himself dwell on her often, but she was never far from his thoughts, always waiting, just one vulnerability away, to strike at his heart. And strike she did. Veronica would have been appalled at his behavior, at what he had done to the boy he was meant to give guidance to and at what he was still willing to further do; she would have called him a beast and immediately gone to sooth Dave. But Veronica wasn't there, and that was a good deal of the problem: Balthazar had always lost perspective without her. But he knew, this time, he had well and truly betrayed her—he'd done things that Merlin himself would have condemned as barbaric, and he had found an addictive pleasure in the feel of Dave. For so long he had missed Veronica, but with each slow year his hope of ever seeing her again had died a little; by the time she came out of the Grimhold now, it would be Veronica only in body. Morgana had infected her mind for too long to expect anything more.

Was it wrong to move on? He'd loved her for ages, and he would always love her in some ways, but she was, in most practical senses, dead. The Veronica he had known and cherished would never return; he'd remember her always, but he couldn't spend the rest of his life chasing a dream—he'd done that for too long already. Now he had Dave, who was, rightfully, untrusting of him, but at least present. He had to be open to the boy in all senses possible—Dave was his whole world now—and perhaps nothing spectacular would come of that relationship other than what was expected when one trained the Prime Merlinian, but he had to make sure that anything was possible and he couldn't do that with Veronica's specter hanging over him. He would have to bury her, once and for all.

But he knew, in his heart, that it would never be that simple.

"Hello?" A gloved hand waved in front of his face, snapping Balthazar from his thoughts. He'd forgotten about this new danger, the young stranger who felt like desperation. Balthazar had no time for this distraction though—the longer Dave was left alone with his thoughts, the more time he would have to rebuild his resistance—so this intruder would have to be dealt with as quickly as possible.


A/N: This chapter was heavier in both content and emotion than I was really intending to go right now, but I think we've been heading to this scene for a while anyway, so here you are. In my opinion, there were a lot of sensitive subjects in this chapter, so I'm apologizing straight up to anyone who was uncomfortable or offended.

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Disclaimer: I do not own Sorcerer's Apprentice, Disney does.