Night's Children: Dum Spiro, Spero

AN: Flashback of sorts in this chapter- how Art got sent to the labor pits

Part Two: The Servant

Chapter One: Death of a Slave

The boy knew he was in danger the moment he started to receive the sympathetic looks from the other servi of the Lord's manor as he scrubbed the cobblestones of the walkways. A few of the older ones shook their head at him as they continued working on their own assignments, and when he finally found the courage to ask one of his fellow servi, a young girl with blonde hair and owl-like eyes, what the answer was horrified him.

"The Lord has discovered who has been sneaking into the library during the early hours," She whispered, quaky as if she feared punishment just for telling him. As soon as she had said those condemning words, she went back frantically to washing the large, stained glass windows.

The boy felt something drop into the pit of his stomach as raw terror squeezed his heart in a vice. His mouth was dry and his eyes wide, "Who told?" He whispered. He didn't get an answer, and he didn't expect one.

The boy, ever since he had met the young goddess a few years ago, had taken to infiltrating the large, extensive library of the Lord's home. The room was huge, with seemingly thousands of archaic, moldy tomes that held the secrets of the ancients and the powerful Immortals. The boy had been sneaking in every day since the goddess had smiled at him, searching for a way to lift his contract and escape to the real world. Most of the words had been in Latin, and the boy, who had always been bright, had slowly taught himself how to decipher certain words from pictures and roots until he knew enough to decode the old spells and curses. He was so close to finding a way to free himself, maybe a few more months…

But now his shame had been uncovered. The boy knew he was going to be sent to the coliseum. There was no possible way to avoid it, any servi caught meddling in affairs that were outside of their duty were destroyed or never heard from again.

Pure dread overtook the boy, as he turned as white as a sheet and his hands trembled. He was going to die. His existence was over and he would die alone and cold in a shadow world. Fear gripped him, and he quickly dropped his washing rag, running towards the servants' washroom.

The boy's scarred, raw, and bleeding hands quickly turned on the faucet to the old sink, brown water spurting out of it. He pooled it into his small hold and splashed his face, on the verge of hyperventilating as he continued to heap more water over his closed eyes.

He had been discovered.

He was going to be destroyed.

The boy quickly ran towards a foul chamber pot, where he bent over and promptly expelled what little food he had in his stomach.

In the middle of his retching, the door to the washroom was brutally kicked open, and his head looked up to see one of the older servi standing at the door. He was big, and strong, and by the totally stoic stance but sad eyes he had, the boy deducted that he was the one who would be dragging him to the Lord's chambers for punishment.

The boy stared at the older man, and despite himself, he felt hot prickles in the corners of his eyes. He crawled into a corner, frail hands clenching onto knobbly knees as he tried to make himself disappear. Full, fat tears rolled down his face as the older servus stepped closer to him. Each footfall another nail in his coffin.

The boy knew running would be futile. He was sickly and weak, the servus before him had been given cushier treatment in order to provide physical strength for his duties. He was doomed.

"I'm sorry, but I need to take you to the Master now," His voice was low and remorseful, but unwavering. The boy knew he would not be changing his mind. A large hand clamped around the boy's birdlike shoulder and a sense of raw terror filled his chest.

He was going away. He would be one of those who were never heard from again. He was going to be one of those.

The boy met the man's sad eyes for an instance, before his stomach flipped and he once again vomited.

The man wasn't disgusted, having seen much worse during his stint as a servant of evil. He scooped the boy up like he weighed nothing but air, tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

The boy began to wail desperately, unintelligible cries of profound grief as he futilely beat his weak fists against the man's backside, his breathing spiking and his eyes beginning to grow dark in the corners.

It wasn't a great existence. It was a horrible existence. But at least it was a life, something better than the terrible expanse of unknown that was death. The boy struggled, writhing like a worm on a fish hook, but the big servus paid him no mind as he robotically walked towards the Lord's personal quarters.

The boy didn't know enough words to plead for his life, his mind had abandoned him and his rhetoric was sorely lacking. The only thing he could comprehend was his imminent destruction.

It soon physically manifested itself in the form of two large, oak doors.

The big man knocked once, dropped the boy to the ground almost impossibly gently, and soon vanished into the darkness.

The boy scrambled to get to his feet, to stand and make a run for it, but terror had immobilized his, crawling down his spine and tearing all of his nerves. Nothing reacted, nothing knew how to react. He collapsed to the ground and shivered as the crying escalated beyond his control.

He was picked up again, cold hands on each of his stick-like biceps as he was dragged into the room. He couldn't look up to meet the eyes of his condemner, but he could feel his horrifying presence as surely as he could tell that the ones holding him were Regulators by their stench.

"You've crossed me," Came the voice of his executioner, "Betrayed me, who gave you a home."

The boy did not know what a home was, his mind failed to process the words spilling out of the Lord's mouth like red wine onto clean linen.

"I can't stand for this. You must die," The boy emitted a fresh sob, and was given a sharp jab to his ribs for the effort. He felt something snap, but oddly enough there was no pain. "You are going to the labor pits before the coliseums because I hear the Regulators still have a sense of humor." He drawled, before addressing the boy's holders, "Dispose of this filth."

The boy screamed, and then there was only darkness.

OoO

Up Next: Bonds aren't as easy to form when one is under constant threat of death, but they seem to last a bit longer.