*********************************
Drizzt watched Brionne as they settled in to sleep in the small shed where the hay was stored. Anja had taken Nala into the house to sleep on a pallet by the hearth, but there wasn't enough room for all three there.
Drizzt smiled as they prepared for sleep. He had dressed the bandit-caused wound on his arm, and found it less serious than he had first thought. The hay in the shed was clean and still smelled fresh, even though it was from the previous autumn's harvest. The family had given them blankets to make it more comfortable. There had been hardships in his life much worse than a night alone with Brionne in a barn.
A puzzle nagged at the back of his mind though. The collar. In his admittedly limited travels in the city here, he had seen no overt signs of magic. He assumed such a thing was rare and expensive. If so, why put it on a slave, unless that slave was more valuable than the collar itself? What could Brionne do, he wondered, what could he be to make him deserve such a perverse distinction?
He stretched out beside Brionne, feeling their legs brush against each other through their clothing. The younger man had apparently decided to sleep in his shirt and breeches, so Drizzt had followed his example. The fine mithril armor lay near at hand, and even in their uncertain circumstances, he felt safe without it. He had chosen to lay on Brionne's left, away from his still painful arm.
Brionne's pale eyes closed within a few heartbeats after he lay down, and Drizzt could not begrudge him the need for rest. The young man had almost died today, had suffered the pain of a broken arm, and had walked for most of the day without much sleep at all.
Not sure that his touch would be welcome, Drizzt slipped his arm across Brionne's chest. He didn't need much, certainly not the attention and effort Brionne had given him in their short interlude in the forest. He just longed to be able to touch him, so he took the risk and was rewarded by a soft sound of pleasure. The young man seemed to slip into a deeper sleep.
Awake in the deepening darkness, Drizzt tried to make a list of all the qualities and occupations a slave would be valued for. Next he tried to match Brionne up with those ideas. An artist, Perhaps? Dancer, singer, musician of some sort?
"Consort." A voice whispered in the back of his mind. He remembered the feel of Brionne's hand on him, so sure and confident. Experienced.
He tried to deny it; tried to find something else that would explain it all away. He felt a sting of loss, as the beauty of the time they had spent together became marred by the thought of Brionne doing those same things for other men; being forced to do those things for other men.
He tried to work through it, lying there in the dark, feeling the slow steady breathing of the ex-slave beside him. Did the things he had felt were real matter at all to Brionne? Were the touches, the affection he had experienced given with the same...love...they were received with?
Another thought occurred to him. He knew Brionne was grateful for his help fleeing the city. Was he using these pleasures as payment?
Though he tried to fight it, the exhaustion of his past days, no less stressful than Brionne's, caught up with him. I must not judge him before I know the truth, He thought. I will not be like those who judge me for the color of my skin.
Sleep took him in her soothing arms and laid his worries to rest, at least for a little while.
****************************************
Catti-Brie watched Alustriel as her father explained their mission. Catti- Brie was the daughter of a dwarven king. She had never felt the need for fine jewels or silken dresses to make her feel strong and beautiful. At least never except when standing in the presence of the Lady of Silverymoon. Somehow she always felt so plain and dirty in Alustriel's home, as if just by being there, she soiled the place.
"And then the durned elf was just gone." Bruenor was saying when Catti-Brie turned her attention back to her father's words. "This 'un was beggin' for mercy, saying he could get Drizzt back. We didn't want to trust him to start castin' spells, so we brought him here t' you."
Catti-Brie glanced back at the prisoner, remembering his eyes as she sighted down a glowing arrow at the center of his chest. His terror, her pain at the loss of Drizzt. How hard it had been to not just shoot the bastard. In her heart of hearts, she suspected that he was lying to give himself a few more days of life; that her friend was dead, gone forever. The locket that Alustriel had made to find him had been cold since the wizard cast his spell. Cold as death.
She looked back at Alustriel, determined to keep hope alive. If anyone could get him back from wherever this wizard had sent him, the Lady of Silverymoon could.
***************************************
The bang of the gate slamming open seemed deafening to the child as he was led out of the area with the pens and onto the stage. After two days in the darkness of the back rooms, the late morning sunlight stung his pale eyes, and he cried out and raised his hands to shield them.
"Show your face." A sharp voice hissed at him. The man's switch smacked his forearm, just hard enough to leave a welt. Never. He had never been struck before. He stared wide-eyed at the man, too startled to even speak.
The man ignored him, walking instead towards the edge of the stage. The slack in the rope between them disappeared, and the child was yanked along with him by his wrists, to stare at the gathered crowd. A sea of faces stared back at him, leering, hungry like monsters. In his memories, as in his dreams, they weren't human, couldn't be human.
"Fey-blooded!" He heard the man who held the rope call. "Fair and young. Unsullied!" The rope was pulled and he turned in circles, his eyes still watering from the brightness of the sun. "Who will start the bidding on such perfection?"
A flash of lightening. The roll of thunder. Not the auction gates. Not the harsh glare of sunlight. Brionne opened his eyes, lost and disoriented. Utter blackness filled his vision. The sound of rain hid any other sound that may have been made. An arm was draped across his chest. He concentrated on his own breathing. Steady. Silent. The arm moved, the hand sliding along his ribs in a soothing motion, though it seemed to Brionne that the man had not woken.
Drizzt. He though with a sharp ache of relief. Here, with Drizzt in the hay-barn. I am safe. Nala is safe. Memories came flooding in on him; the day of his first and only auction; the feel of the sword striking his forearm; watching Drizzt fighting, surrounded, as the bandit pulled his head back and tried to end his life.
His breathing still perfectly steady, perfectly measured, he let the tears fall down his face. Safe, he tried to remind himself. I am safe, Nala is safe, Drizzt is safe.
*****************************
The hunter's horse shied at the scent of blood, and the dogs began to whine. She could see the shapes of bodies in the light of her torch. "Keep watch." She ordered her men, as she stepped down out of the saddle.
With a booted foot, she turned over one of the corpses. A man, bearded. It was neither Brionne nor the Fey. He didn't matter at all to her. Frowning, she inspected the other two. Neither of these were her quarry either. She remounted her horse and began to lead the party onwards towards Brambleton.
Less than an hour's ride away they found another body, white and bloodless; the man appeared to have bled out through a grievous wound to his wrist.
Four desperate looking men, dead in the forest, near the trail the runaways followed. She re-evaluated her prey. Perhaps the Fey weren't as fragile and peaceful as the legends said. Perhaps this one was of some strange dark-skinned breed, different than their vulnerable cousins.
A thought occurred to her, and she smiled. Perhaps the Fey had changed. And returned.
**************************
Drizzt watched Brionne as they settled in to sleep in the small shed where the hay was stored. Anja had taken Nala into the house to sleep on a pallet by the hearth, but there wasn't enough room for all three there.
Drizzt smiled as they prepared for sleep. He had dressed the bandit-caused wound on his arm, and found it less serious than he had first thought. The hay in the shed was clean and still smelled fresh, even though it was from the previous autumn's harvest. The family had given them blankets to make it more comfortable. There had been hardships in his life much worse than a night alone with Brionne in a barn.
A puzzle nagged at the back of his mind though. The collar. In his admittedly limited travels in the city here, he had seen no overt signs of magic. He assumed such a thing was rare and expensive. If so, why put it on a slave, unless that slave was more valuable than the collar itself? What could Brionne do, he wondered, what could he be to make him deserve such a perverse distinction?
He stretched out beside Brionne, feeling their legs brush against each other through their clothing. The younger man had apparently decided to sleep in his shirt and breeches, so Drizzt had followed his example. The fine mithril armor lay near at hand, and even in their uncertain circumstances, he felt safe without it. He had chosen to lay on Brionne's left, away from his still painful arm.
Brionne's pale eyes closed within a few heartbeats after he lay down, and Drizzt could not begrudge him the need for rest. The young man had almost died today, had suffered the pain of a broken arm, and had walked for most of the day without much sleep at all.
Not sure that his touch would be welcome, Drizzt slipped his arm across Brionne's chest. He didn't need much, certainly not the attention and effort Brionne had given him in their short interlude in the forest. He just longed to be able to touch him, so he took the risk and was rewarded by a soft sound of pleasure. The young man seemed to slip into a deeper sleep.
Awake in the deepening darkness, Drizzt tried to make a list of all the qualities and occupations a slave would be valued for. Next he tried to match Brionne up with those ideas. An artist, Perhaps? Dancer, singer, musician of some sort?
"Consort." A voice whispered in the back of his mind. He remembered the feel of Brionne's hand on him, so sure and confident. Experienced.
He tried to deny it; tried to find something else that would explain it all away. He felt a sting of loss, as the beauty of the time they had spent together became marred by the thought of Brionne doing those same things for other men; being forced to do those things for other men.
He tried to work through it, lying there in the dark, feeling the slow steady breathing of the ex-slave beside him. Did the things he had felt were real matter at all to Brionne? Were the touches, the affection he had experienced given with the same...love...they were received with?
Another thought occurred to him. He knew Brionne was grateful for his help fleeing the city. Was he using these pleasures as payment?
Though he tried to fight it, the exhaustion of his past days, no less stressful than Brionne's, caught up with him. I must not judge him before I know the truth, He thought. I will not be like those who judge me for the color of my skin.
Sleep took him in her soothing arms and laid his worries to rest, at least for a little while.
****************************************
Catti-Brie watched Alustriel as her father explained their mission. Catti- Brie was the daughter of a dwarven king. She had never felt the need for fine jewels or silken dresses to make her feel strong and beautiful. At least never except when standing in the presence of the Lady of Silverymoon. Somehow she always felt so plain and dirty in Alustriel's home, as if just by being there, she soiled the place.
"And then the durned elf was just gone." Bruenor was saying when Catti-Brie turned her attention back to her father's words. "This 'un was beggin' for mercy, saying he could get Drizzt back. We didn't want to trust him to start castin' spells, so we brought him here t' you."
Catti-Brie glanced back at the prisoner, remembering his eyes as she sighted down a glowing arrow at the center of his chest. His terror, her pain at the loss of Drizzt. How hard it had been to not just shoot the bastard. In her heart of hearts, she suspected that he was lying to give himself a few more days of life; that her friend was dead, gone forever. The locket that Alustriel had made to find him had been cold since the wizard cast his spell. Cold as death.
She looked back at Alustriel, determined to keep hope alive. If anyone could get him back from wherever this wizard had sent him, the Lady of Silverymoon could.
***************************************
The bang of the gate slamming open seemed deafening to the child as he was led out of the area with the pens and onto the stage. After two days in the darkness of the back rooms, the late morning sunlight stung his pale eyes, and he cried out and raised his hands to shield them.
"Show your face." A sharp voice hissed at him. The man's switch smacked his forearm, just hard enough to leave a welt. Never. He had never been struck before. He stared wide-eyed at the man, too startled to even speak.
The man ignored him, walking instead towards the edge of the stage. The slack in the rope between them disappeared, and the child was yanked along with him by his wrists, to stare at the gathered crowd. A sea of faces stared back at him, leering, hungry like monsters. In his memories, as in his dreams, they weren't human, couldn't be human.
"Fey-blooded!" He heard the man who held the rope call. "Fair and young. Unsullied!" The rope was pulled and he turned in circles, his eyes still watering from the brightness of the sun. "Who will start the bidding on such perfection?"
A flash of lightening. The roll of thunder. Not the auction gates. Not the harsh glare of sunlight. Brionne opened his eyes, lost and disoriented. Utter blackness filled his vision. The sound of rain hid any other sound that may have been made. An arm was draped across his chest. He concentrated on his own breathing. Steady. Silent. The arm moved, the hand sliding along his ribs in a soothing motion, though it seemed to Brionne that the man had not woken.
Drizzt. He though with a sharp ache of relief. Here, with Drizzt in the hay-barn. I am safe. Nala is safe. Memories came flooding in on him; the day of his first and only auction; the feel of the sword striking his forearm; watching Drizzt fighting, surrounded, as the bandit pulled his head back and tried to end his life.
His breathing still perfectly steady, perfectly measured, he let the tears fall down his face. Safe, he tried to remind himself. I am safe, Nala is safe, Drizzt is safe.
*****************************
The hunter's horse shied at the scent of blood, and the dogs began to whine. She could see the shapes of bodies in the light of her torch. "Keep watch." She ordered her men, as she stepped down out of the saddle.
With a booted foot, she turned over one of the corpses. A man, bearded. It was neither Brionne nor the Fey. He didn't matter at all to her. Frowning, she inspected the other two. Neither of these were her quarry either. She remounted her horse and began to lead the party onwards towards Brambleton.
Less than an hour's ride away they found another body, white and bloodless; the man appeared to have bled out through a grievous wound to his wrist.
Four desperate looking men, dead in the forest, near the trail the runaways followed. She re-evaluated her prey. Perhaps the Fey weren't as fragile and peaceful as the legends said. Perhaps this one was of some strange dark-skinned breed, different than their vulnerable cousins.
A thought occurred to her, and she smiled. Perhaps the Fey had changed. And returned.
**************************