Alfred stood, walking slowly toward the group of man that had gathered by the side of the stage. He felt lightheaded. What had he been thinking, buying a slave? He was no better than the rest of the bidders, jumping at the prospect of owning the sandy-haired man and abandoning his principles in favour of material gains. He ignored the voice in the back of his mind that argued that he had been trying to help, that he'd been too caught up in the heat of the moment to think rationally, that surely a life of servitude to someone as gentle as himself would be preferable to a life with Ivan.
The auctioneer strode over to the men, much more somber now that the bidding was over with. "Right this way, gentlemen." He led the group to a small entranceway, presumably leading backstage. He paused behind a thick curtain to discuss with a manager, waving for the group to move on ahead. Most of the winners moved forward impassively, apparently used to the payment procedures. Alfred shook as he trailed behind, wary of what he might see. Visions of cages and whips filled his mind, slowing his steps to a reluctant shuffle as he neared the end of the small passageway.
Finally, he emerged into a large room, sucking in a breath at what he saw. It wasn't as bad as he had originally thought –there were no cages, at least- but the disturbing sight of rows upon rows of slaves, chained to the wall awaiting the next auction, still sickened him. In one corner of the room, the slaves that had been bid on stood awkwardly against the wall while stagehands fastened black leather collars around their necks. The green-eyed slave was slumped against the wall, still coming to terms with his enslavement. Hurriedly signing a check and forcing it into the hands of an attendant, he made his way over to the defeated being on the floor. As he first approached, Alfred thought the man was simply depressed, but as he drew closer he could see the hazy unfocused look in his eyes, and realized that he had not recovered from the effects of the drugs. The man looked the same as he had on the stage, the marks from the whipping still fresh on his chest. The only difference that Alfred could discern was that he now wore a pair of black leather shorts and a matching collar. Alfred curled his lip in disgust. How could anyone be forced to wear something so degrading?
He stood in front of the slave, awkward and self-conscious. He didn't really know what to do. Should he just take the man and go? Would he be able to walk, or would he have to carry him? He wondered what it would look like, an owner carrying his slave. People would stare, he knew that much. Still, he couldn't force the man to walk, not in his current state anyways. As if reading his mind, an attendant approached him, pressing a small black whip and a matching leash into his hands. "These will get him up. They come free with your purchase." Alfred nodded dumbly, muttering his thanks. The attendant stayed, pulling a pair of black leather cuffs from the folds of his suit. "For an extra $40, you can have these. I strongly recommend them, considering his temperament."
Alfred withdrew the desired amount from his pocket, handing it to the attendant before asking, "Um, sorry, but how long is he going to be like that?" He gestured to the semi-conscious Briton.
Smirking, the attendant replied. "Don't worry sir, he'll be fine. A few cracks of the whip and he'll be right as rain. He just needs a little encouragement." Without waiting for Alfred's response, he signaled to a tall man standing in the corner of the room. The slave driver, Alfred assumed worriedly. The burly man uncoiled a thick bullwhip from around his waist, cracking it in the air a few times before lashing out at the defenseless man huddled against the wall, carving two twin marks, bloody and raw, in his upper body. The Englishman flinched, his eyes travelling up to his new tormentor before struggling to haul himself to his feet.
Alfred meanwhile, was protesting vehemently at the treatment of his slave, pleading with the angry slave driver to leave, claiming he could manage. As soon as the attendant left, he rushed forward, pressing the startled Briton against the concrete walls of the theatre in his rush to inspect the damage. The piercing emerald eyes widened for a split second –almost as if he were confused as to why Alfred cared about his wellbeing- before shoving him away roughly, glaring angrily at his new master.
"Stay away from me." Alfred shuddered at his words. They were like knives, piercing his skin easily as they found their target. Still, he persisted, slowly approaching the angry man once more.
"I'm just checking your wounds, alright? Calm down. I promise I'll back off as soon as I make sure that you're okay."
The man glared at him before dropping his gaze, his body deflating as Alfred came closer again, stopping when they were almost nose-to-nose. The American ran his fingers along the deep gashes, marveling at the grotesque accuracy of the slave driver. He had broken the skin, striking the British slave just hard enough to tear through the first layer of muscle, but not enough to cause any permanent damage. He traced the outside of the gashes, unable to look away in morbid fascination. After a few tense moments, the Briton jerked his gaze back up, shoving his new master away again. "I'm fine."
"No, you're not. We've got to get those bandaged. Come on, I've got some supplies at home that should suffice." Alfred strode toward the exit, pausing when he realized the Briton hadn't moved from his spot on the wall. "Come on, are you really going to be like that? I'm trying to help you!"
"No, you're not. I'm just another toy to you. Don't lie." Alfred was caught off guard by the response. The man still sounded angry, but now the anger was tinged with a tone of sadness and regret.
"I'm not. I really want to help you! Why can't you see that?" He approached the slave –his slave, he reminded himself- cautiously before grasping his hand. "Please don't be difficult. I don't want to have to hurt you."
In response, the Briton jerked his hand out of the American's sweaty palm, slapping him across the face. "You don't want to hurt me," he spat, anger blazing in his furious emerald eyes. "You stood by and did nothing while I was beaten on stage, and you continued that pattern of indifference a few minutes when I got these, " he pointed to the gashes on his chest frantically, his voice rising in volume. "I can barely stand because of the bloody drugs these wankers keep using on me, and you have done nothing to help." He paused, taking a deep breath, "And that was just today! Where were you on the cold nights where I nearly starved? Where were you when I was beaten and used over and over until I couldn't walk, let alone think? Where were you when they took me from my home?" His voice railed off at this. He stared at the floor for a few seconds before venomously finishing his rant. "And you say you don't want to hurt me. You're the reason I'm like this. You have hurt me far more than any whip or knife ever could."
Alfred stared at the man, unsure of what to say. He felt horrible, realizing that the Briton was right. He hadn't put much thought into this rescue at all. So far, all he had done was hurt the man farther. "I'm sorry."
The Briton looked as though he were about to respond, when he suddenly let out a loud screech, dropping to his knees as the thick whip descended on his abdomen, cleaving through skin and flash as easily as a knife through butter. Alfred jerked his gaze up to meet that of the slave driver. "Sorry sir," the man sneered, kicking the whimpering slave on the floor. "I'll make sure that doesn't happen again." He raised the whip to strike again, grinning cruelly as the Briton's eyes closed in fear.
"STOP!" Alfred's voice carried through the room. "Um, I mean, that won't be necessary. I can handle him on my own, thank you." The slave driver looked unconvinced; swishing the whip through the air in mild annoyance as Alfred hurriedly pressed forward. "I prefer to train them myself, it's better that way. If you beat him here, he's just going to misbehave more when he gets home." Alfred glared at the man, frantically wracking his brains as he tried to think of something that would be appropriate in this sort of situation. "Besides," he managed to stutter out, "I don't want him damaged." The slave driver nodded slowly, coiling the whip and resuming his post in the centre of the room. The small crowd that had formed dissipated as it became clear that the show was over.
The attendant from earlier stayed, approaching the prone man on the ground cautiously. He prodded the limp figure with his boot, peering expectantly at Alfred as he did so. "Sir, would you like me to restrain him for you? Travel would be much easier this way." Alfred nodded, coming to squat next to his slave as he watched the attendant click the leather cuffs into place. The cuffs were then clipped to the metal leash that was then attached to the man's collar. The attendant handed the leash to Alfred, assuring him that he would be easily accessible if he had any further trouble.
Alfred leant down over the Briton, brushing sandy hair from his face and watching as the injured man tried to get his breathing under control. He was trembling uncontrollably, and Alfred felt another pang of guilt and despair settle in his heart at the sight. After a few minutes, he tentatively stroked the man's cheek, cautiously asking if he was able to walk.
"Whatever you wish, Master." Was the sarcastic reply. Alfred stayed beside him for a while longer, sitting on the dusty wooden floor and simply watching as the man struggled to overcome the pain and the numbing effects of the drugs that still coursed through his system. Eventually he grew tired of the silence, and tried to make conversation.
"So, I know we got off on the wrong foot before, and I know you don't really trust me, but all this slave and master stuff is starting to freak me out. Do you have a name I can call you by?"
The slave seemed to deflate farther, and Alfred immediately regretting asking. "I'm a slave. I have no name, save for whatever you wish to give me."
Alfred, seeing the man's obvious stress, pressed on. "Alright, assuming I believe in that crap, which I don't, what would you be called if you had a choice? If I ordered you to pick a name, what would it be?"
The slave paused before finally answering. "Arthur. My name is Arthur."
"Alright Arthur, I'm Alfred. Alfred Jones. But you can call me Al. I'm pleased to meet you." He extended his hand toward Arthur. The Briton raised an eyebrow at this, somewhat surprised that the American was treating him as if he were…normal. As if he weren't a slave. Suddenly he was a lot more self-conscious, a faint blush coating his pale cheeks as he remembered he was partly naked and lying on the floor. The collar around his neck seemed suffocating. He cautiously extended his hand, clasping Alfred's weakly, almost afraid that this was just another test. He was pleased to find out that it was not. They shook, and Alfred positively beamed at him before withdrawing his hand and standing. "Do you think you can walk? It's not far, we just have to get to the carriage." Arthur nodded, struggling to gather his feet beneath him. Alfred gripped his arm and helped him stand, reluctantly pulling away at the curious stares from the attendants. The room had mostly emptied by this point, and Alfred was eager to leave, the judgmental scrutiny of the slave traders making him uncomfortable. He held the leash in one hand, gently tugging on the thin leather cord to signal to Arthur that it was time to leave. The British man hobbled behind him, doubled over from the throbbing pain in his chest. Alfred almost dropped the leash, the urge to simply carry Arthur out to the carriage becoming unbearable, but he knew that was not the behavior expected from a Master.
The pair silently made their way toward the door, Arthur pointedly ignoring the sneer of the auctioneer as they passed by. It hurt for him to be seen like this, but he couldn't afford to fight back, not now at least. His wounds hurt far too much, and he could still feel the after effects of the drugs running through his body. It would take a while until he was strong enough to escape. He flinched as he felt a gloved hand come to rest on his shoulder, preventing him from continuing forward. He turned around, coming face to face with the cold blue eyes of the auctioneer. Alfred had noticed the exchange and quickly placed himself between Arthur and the auctioneer, determined to keep the blonde safe. However, nothing could have prepared him for the auctioneer's next words. "Leaving so soon?"
Alfred could only nod, feeling cold dread creep up his spine.
"That's a shame. We can't let you go just yet; you haven't claimed your slave!" He shook his head in mock pity, smirking at Arthur as he did so. "Surely an esteemed businessman such as yourself would be aware of the laws surrounding slaves, correct Mr. Jones?" Without waiting for a response, he continued. "You have to mark them, Mr. Jones. We wouldn't want this beauty to escape, now would we?" His voice was sickly sweet, and Arthur could feel himself start to shake. He was so naive! He had been stupid enough to keep up hope; hope that would only lead to more pain and heartbreak. How could he have believed, even for a moment, that he would escape without this? In hindsight, he realized how moronic his hopes had seemed. Of course the auctioneer wouldn't let him go –he hadn't been branded.
The auctioneer's words finally seemed to click, and Alfred tried to protest. The auctioneer cut him off before he had a chance. "We have the brand ready right now, Mr. Jones. If you would kindly lead your slave over to the far corner of the room, we can begin immediately."
"Actually, I don't think that's necess-"
"Are you implying you want to leave your slave unmarked? That would be illegal Mr. Jones, as you very well know. Besides, it's for the good of society. We wouldn't want these vermin running around everywhere if they escaped. You need to instill the idea that they will never be free from the moment of their capture. It makes them much easier to break." He flashed another evil grin at Arthur.
Alfred could only sigh. "I-I know. I just…"
"Didn't want to mark him?" The blue-eyed man quickly cut in. "I understand perfectly. Many people don't like their slave permanently damaged, but I assure you, the brand is quite small. Now, if you'll allow me, we can get the process underway." He took the leash from Alfred's numb hands and proceeded to drag Arthur over to a small forge, where yet another slave driver sat waiting, slowly rotating a hot metal poker in the fire.
"Here's the last one, make sure you mark him well." The auctioneer threw Arthur at his feet, sneering as he struggled to maintain his balance with his hands cuffed together. "Now," he continued, addressing Arthur once more, "Where shall we mark you? I think the shoulder would be too mundane, far too easy to cover with a scarf or a shirt. No, we need to make sure you remember your place every moment of the day. Perhaps your inner thigh? Yes, that could work. It won't be as hard to hide as a brand on the shoulder, but this way, every time your Master..." he made sure to accentuate the last word before continuing, "Decides to use you, you will know who you belong to. Even if you somehow manage to escape, build a new life, and -heaven forbid- find a wife, your past will haunt you. You will never be able to father children without knowing your true place in this world." He tied the leash tightly to a ring in the floor, preventing the slave from lifting his head or shifting his upper body. He then motioned for the slave driver to spread his legs, pulling down the short leather shorts as he did so. Arthur could feel tears pricking at his eyes as he was put on display, the memories of his training swimming sickeningly before his eyes. He angrily willed them away. He would be strong. He couldn't show weakness, not now, not when he was so close to leaving this place.
Alfred, shocked by the display and paling considerably at Arthur's distress, stepped forward again, determined to stop the procedures, but was interrupted by the auctioneer once more. "Now I know what you're thinking Mr. Jones, but I assure you, this is normal procedure, and to get in the way of things could end badly. It will all be over soon enough." He turned his back on the businessman, pressing the heel of his boot to the small of the slave's back and forcing him against the rough floorboards. The slave driver spread Arthur's legs wider as the auctioneer withdrew the glowing poker from the fire, and Alfred couldn't help but stare as he slowly lowered the blistering metal to the milky inside of the Brit's thigh. The sizzle of metal on skin echoed through the room, and the smell of burning flesh quickly filled the air, spilling into Alfred's lungs and choking him. Worst of all were Arthur's screams. He howled in agony, fighting desperately to escape the horrible, searing, pain that tore through his body. The auctioneer grinned evilly and pressed the brand deeper, laughing as the young man's screams increased substantially in volume. Finally, he pulled the scalding metal away, tossing the brand carelessly into the fire as he leaned down to inspect the fresh mark. He traced his fingers over it, enjoying the empty sobs that managed to escape through the slave's clenched teeth. He untied the leash, handing it back to Alfred who stared, too shocked to move, at the pitiful form on the ground beneath him. Pressed into Arthur's skin were two ornate letters, A.J. Alfred Jones. A small circle of burnt flesh surrounded the markings, presumably to add some visual appeal to the otherwise hideous burns.
The slave driver released Arthur's legs, yanking the tight leather shorts over the fresh brand as he did so. The slave let out a choking howl as the rough material scraped against his burning flesh before falling silent once more.
The auctioneer kicked him in the side, ordering him to get up. Surprisingly, he managed to stand. His eyes remained trained on the floor as he stood next to Alfred, fighting to keep the tears from spilling from his eyes. He would get through this. He had to.
Alfred gazed worriedly at Arthur before turning toward the exit, muttering a scathing 'Good day' to the auctioneer as he fought the urge to sprint from the building. Still, he kept his pace slow and even as Arthur walked behind him, still refusing to look anywhere but the floor. Only when they had left the theatre did Alfred turn around, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder. He felt the Brit shiver beneath his fingers, but refused to let go. Not yet. "I'm sorry," he chocked, the horrors of what he had witnessed finally settling in his mind. "I'm so, so, sorry." The Brit lifted his head minutely, just enough to meet Alfred's sorrowful blue eyes. He made a noncommittal noise of acceptance before training his eyes back on the ground, looking up only to enter the luxurious carriage parked near the theatre entrance. Alfred murmured a few instructions to the driver before joining him, seating himself on the fine velvet cushions next to Arthur.
It suddenly dawned on Alfred that the British man looked exhausted, the black rings around his eyes accentuated by the dim lighting in the carriage. He seemed to be trying very had to stay awake. 'The pain must be getting to him,' Alfred thought silently, staring worriedly at the other man. 'He's had a rough day –a rough life, really- and I haven't done much to make things easier on him.' Without thinking, he pulled him into a gentle embrace, ignoring the way his muscles tensed at the sudden contact. He ran one hand through the sandy blonde hair, using the other to rub comforting circles in the other's back.
Slowly, the Brit began to relax into the embrace, his eyes slipping shut as the soothing touches lulled him to sleep. As much as he loathed to admit it, the drugs were still affecting him, and the constant throbbing in his chest and thigh was making his head fuzzy and blissfully numb. The sounds of the carriage and the crowded city streets became dulled and meaningless in his ears as he sank deeper and deeper into unconsciousness, a warm fuzzy feeling gradually replacing the ache and burn that coursed through his tired frame. The last thing he could remember before sleep finally claimed him were Alfred's whispered words, "Welcome to your new life, Arthur."
Whew, not bad for a night's work.
I'm alternating between updating 3 stories, depending on what mood I'm in, so if I stop updating this frequently, it's because of that. Or, you know, maybe I want to have a social life :P
Anyway, thanks so much for the reviews, it's nice to hear people's opinions on my writing :) I'm not done yet, not even close. This is probably going to go on for a bit, because the plot's going to start later on when a 'mysterious someone' comes into the story and starts screwing things up.
Let me know what you think of this so far,
-Meg