Malik/Rishid, 200 words.
Guilt
His green eyes hard as stone, his face immutable like a mask, but Malik could see right trough it, see all desires and hopes and fears, and Rishid let himself be stared at, and submitted when weaker hands trailed over his body. He discarded all previous rules, obeyed every command, knee down, suck me, lie down, don't move, kiss me, fetch this, win, kill. The millennium rod had never even grazed his mind.
Whenever there was the beginning of a hesitation, of doubt, immediately an image appeared in front of his interior eye: he was standing before Malik with a knife in his hand. Decided to kill. And now, in the present, his hands begin to shake whenever he remembers this scene: Malik turns round, eyes full of tears, so fearful, so guilty, so loving and trusting still. Brother, he says, and Rishid can still hear the clatter of the steel on the floor, can hear it ring on and on in his ears forever.
Brother, Malik says, sincere at least back then, and later he promised, freedom and recognition and love, and Rishid would do anything for these past promises, even if Malik had long decided to break them.