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Shadows of the South

Chapter Two: Fields of Crimson Grasses

~*~

He brought the whip down hard, feeling surprisingly-little as the slave screamed and writhed beneath him, and watched as a thin line of blood traced its way onto the boy's back. It was strange, how this mere act of power and punishment had intoxicated him once, when he was a younger, different man. Vengeance, the only way he knew how... Now, it was little more than a habit, a convenient way of keeping the men in line while still clinging to the elusive strands of his youth in the process. But, did it give him that dark, bloodied satisfaction anymore? Did it make him smile, seeing them scream beneath him like cows at the slaughter?

His first impulse was, of course, to say no. Of course not. Why would it?

But, at the same time, he knew that somewhere deep within, he -did- enjoy it, that inside he longed for the violence with something hungry and frenzied. Or, perhaps, it was the power that he desired; the satisfaction of knowing that these men feared him; that they watched his every move with wide eyes and a longing to please so great that it often got in the way of survival itself. He'd seen one man, nearly-unconscious with flu, nonetheless drag himself to the fields and work tirelessly in the scathing sunlight for hours, just to avoid the trauma of his wrath. The man, of course, hadn't made it very far before he collapsed and eventually died, but Nakago had been more than a little impressed by the display.

Devoted followers, cringing beneath his every word, lowering their eyes when they spoke to him; fearing him for his vicious whip; loving him for his spare, true words of praise. Perhaps one never outgrew the intoxication of that kind of power, he reflected, bringing the whip down one last time. The boy, a lithe teenager he'd heard a few other slaves call "Suboshi," gave one last cry as the pain lanced through him. And, then, realizing that the punishment was over, the boy went limp on the ground and spent a long moment gasping for breath. His dark, smooth-skinned back was bright with crimson, lined and cracked from the beating, but the boy recovered surprisingly-well. Only a few moments later, he crawled to his feet, completely of his own volition, and stared up at Nakago with something like challenge in his eyes.

"I deserved it," he said, his words slow and halting, as if he were putting every ounce of his willpower into the forming of each syllable. "But, it won't happen again."

He knew, of course, what the boy meant--but, for some reason even he himself didn't understand, he merely nodded, said, "See that it doesn't," and then walked away.

"Master!"

He skidded to a halt, startled and beginning to get angry, and turned slowly back to face the boy. Suboshi stood slightly-hunched, the sunlight stinging down against the wounds on his back, his sun-lightened hair fluttering down over slim-boned, cherubish features. His hands were clasped together a bit rigidly in front of him, and there was something almost...crazed about the look to his eyes. But, something desperate, also. Desperate and...unafraid.

"I didn't mean that," he continued in the same halting tenor. "I meant...you won't whip me again."

//I know what you meant, you fool!\\

"Indeed," Nakago rumbled. "And, why is that?"

The boy didn't blanch. Instead, he drew in a deep breath, forced his clenching hands to relax at his sides, and then covered the distance between them in a few graceful strides. "Because," he said, and his strange, bluish eyes seemed to glow with something otherworldly for a moment. "I'm being freed."

Nakago stared at the boy for a long moment in stunned silence, eyes just slightly widened--and, then, he laughed, a long, mocking laugh that made several nearby slaves wince. "Freed?" he echoed. "And, who would want to free a worthless boy like you?"

Suboshi's nose rose a few inches. "Mister Abraham Lincoln, that's who." The boy's words, no longer halting or unsure, rose suddenly into passionate shouts, echoing with surprising volume from the distant trees. "Mr. Lincoln an' his armies are gonna free us all! They're gonna come on down through the South and set us free! And, we won't ever have to work in the fields or be whipped again! We'll be free! Free!"

A thin smile touched the blond man's lips. "What beautiful bullshit," he murmured. Feeling the reigns of control sliding back into his grasp, he turned, regarded the men who still worked tirelessly in the rows of cotton, no doubt pretending to be oblivious of the conversation. "Well?" he shouted to them. "Who thinks Mister Abraham Lincoln--" His voice soared into a cruel mimic of the boy's voice. "--is going to swoop down from the Heavens and save you all? Well? Answer me! Who?"

After a long enough pause for it to be obvious that no one was going to speak, he turned back to Suboshi, triumph glowing like a flame in his eyes, and regarded the boy soberly. "It seems," he murmured, "that you stand alone."

But, still, the boy did not back down. "You'll see," he said, and his voice was so low that Nakago almost couldn't hear it. "When they come, they'll kill you. Kill you and free us all. You'll see." And, then, he turned and stalked back to his place among the other workers, and started to rip at the nearest cotton plant like a man possessed.

Nakago watched him, puzzled and strangely intrigued. The boy would have to be whipped again, of course--but, despite the necessity of the punishment, it was almost...refreshing to see this one lone boy, passionate and unafraid, speaking out against the voice of authority; shaking his fist at the god who could destroy him with a thought. Perhaps, he was reminded a bit of himself, he reflected. The sudden image of a slight, blond-haired boy flitted into his mind, and he watched inwardly as the boy fought back against the hands that groped for him; pushed away the longing eyes that turned, again and again, to the wide-eyed, golden beauty that shadowed him like a curse.

He shook his head, then, putting thoughts of childhood and boarding school far from his mind, and returned his attention to the present. A few moments later, he'd dragged Suboshi out into the clearing and was slashing at him again--couldn't let the boy think he'd won, after all. He was secretly pleased to find that, despite the agony he must be in, the boy did not cry out.

//Honor, even among the filthiest of dogs.\\

~*~

They'd just finished rinsing the last of the supper dishes when, so soft it nearly went unheard, there came a gentle tap on the window. After a quick glance out into the dining room to ensure that no one had heard, Nuriko slipped to the far window, tucked his fingers beneath the sill, and heaved it open. The daylight was fading rapidly, smoothing the rolling fields into a blanket of darkness, but enough light remained for the figure just outside to be both visible and recognizable.

Nuriko's eyes widened. "Amiboshi," he hissed. "Are you crazy? What're you doing here?"

The boy, the wide blue eyes he and his twin shared leveled just above the sill, spoke in a harsh whisper. His voice was thick with urgency. "I need Mitsukake," he said. "It's...it's Suboshi. I-I was sick today and I needed to lie down for awhile, but I couldn't because of Master Nakago, but Suboshi said he'd take care of it, and..." The boy trailed off, head shaking almost violently. "Nakago beat him bad, Nuriko. Please. I-I'm afraid he might--" His words cut off, abruptly, as if he couldn't bear to say the words. "Please, get Mitsukake!"

The sixteen-year-old winced. "He's not here. Tamahome took him into the city a few hours ago. They're not due back until morning."

Amiboshi's eyes went dark--his features paled in anguish. "But...but, by then--"

Nuriko's eyes slid closed. "I'm sorry. You know if I knew anything about medicine I'd help, but I--"

Whether it was Miaka's gasp or the sudden thud of riding boots against the floor, he never knew. But, whatever the case, Nuriko broke off, spun around, and found himself face to face with the amber-eyed son of his master, his skin smooth and bronze in the dying light.

"Perhaps, I can help," Hotohori said softly. He was clad in a silken, cream-colored shirt topped with a vest of embroidered velvet, his slim legs wrapped in some dark, form-fitting fabric. His eyes were warm and golden, soft as candlelight through the darkness. "I'm not as knowledgeable as Mitsukake, but...I may be able to help."

The breath seemed to have fled his lungs. "But...but, Nakago--" he managed.

"Is my uncle," Hotohori murmured, "nothing more." And, then, lifting his eyes to the wide-eyed boy outside the window: "Take me to him. I'll see what I can do."

~*~