4.
Spock arched against the whipping post, a soundless cry evident in the taut gaping of his mouth, as the lash hit again. Lord Milaresh had decreed that the punishment for last night's disobedience was for him to be stripped and whipped from the beginning of lunch until the last plate was cleared, while guests and household and slaves watched. Spock had been present at only one such punishment before. Without sight, he had not been able to judge whether or not the whip drew blood, or precisely how hard the blows were, but he had heard the man's cries, that had faded away, presumably in unconsciousness, long before the snap of the whip had ended. The hour it took the household to eat their lunch had never seemed so long – until now.
The whip was agonising, with a lash that not only cut into his back but also deposited a charge of electricity with each blow, disturbing his mind's ability to control the pain. He didn't know whether the man beating him knew precisely what he had done to deserve punishment, but he was certainly putting every effort into his job. For just this moment Spock was grateful for his muteness, since it meant he could not cry out no matter how much he wanted to.
Finally the last blow was given, and his hands were released, and he slipped down to the floor, shuddering with the after-effects of the charge-laden lashes. He heaved breath into his lungs, trying to control the stinging pain that pulsed harder with each beat of his heart. He had not been told to move, but he was glad – he wasn't even sure that he could stand.
There was silence in the room, a general mixture of awe, some sympathy and disgust towards him in the emotions swirling in the air. Then a soft murmuring began as people spoke of what had happened in undertones. It had been given out that he had been discovered lying on his Lord's bed, drinking his wine, and had struck his master when confronted. A certain amount of the words he caught were expressing scandalised shock at his insolence. There was nothing that Spock could do to defend his reputation. To a certain extent, he did not care what the free servants and nobles thought of him. All he could do for now was to kneel on the floor and try to control the pain, feeling the hot wetness of blood trickling slowly down his back.
Footsteps moved across the floor, and stopped in front of him. The tip of a booted foot touched his flank, prodding him lightly.
'Send him back to his labour,' Lord Milaresh said grandly.
'Of course, sir,' Master Robbesh said. 'Stand up, boy.'
Spock got slowly and shakily to his feet. He wasn't looking forward to the unassisted walk to wherever he was supposed to be going.
'Go on,' Master Robbesh said.
Spock moved forward, walking uncertainly towards the door, forcing himself to hold his hands at his sides despite his instability. His knees felt as if they would collapse underneath him without warning, and he wasn't sure how far he could walk. But as soon as the door closed behind them Master Robbesh took hold of his arm, supporting and guiding him. Spock turned his head towards him in surprise. Master Robbesh had never offered him guidance before.
'Stay in your room,' Master Robbesh said, leading him through the door. 'Stay small and quiet, and don't leave for anything. Wash yourself and then rest. Your clothes are on your bed, but I wouldn't advise putting them on until your wounds have dried. I'll send someone to apply some salve.'
Spock nodded, trying to show gratitude in the poise of his body. Master Robbesh let go of his arm, and he took a step forward – but he had used up all of his strength and ability at control during the whipping, and he sunk involuntarily to his knees, trying desperately to gather together a last reserve of energy.
'Never mind,' Master Robbesh sighed. 'I'll tell whoever I send to wash you too. Just stay there.'
Spock nodded. He waited for the man to leave, then curled forward, resting his head on his knees and trying to control the spasms of pain that were running through him. He bit his lip into his mouth, forcing himself to remember his disciplines, telling himself over and over that pain was a thing of the mind. At the moment, however, it seemed very much of the body.
Within a few minutes a woman had come into the room and began to carefully clean his back with a surprising gentleness.
'They say you did a good thing, and got whipped for it,' she said as she tended to a deep gash on his neck.
Spock nodded slightly, wincing against the pain.
'Well, it's not the first time he's had his desire with a girl against her will,' she said softly. 'But he's always stuck to servants and slaves before – least, as far as we know. But you're the first that's done anything about it.'
Spock pressed his lips together, wondering how many times he had stood at the side of that room when his master had been raping someone who was too scared to make any outward signs of resistance. He had grown used to shutting his shields down over the feelings of lust in the air, but perhaps he was shutting out more than just that.
'There,' she said, putting things back in a container, and touching his shoulder. 'I'm done. Master Robbesh says you're to rest, and I'm to see you have a good meal later. No meat – is that right?'
Spock nodded, surprised. He had reconciled himself to eating meat here. He had little choice. Again he found himself suffused with gratitude for Master Robbesh's benevolence. He didn't imagine that every slave on this planet had someone like that to stand between them and their master's whims.
******
It was late in the evening before he was summoned by his master again. Spock walked stiffly and apprehensively to his rooms, every laceration on his back tight with pain. When he knocked on the door and entered he could feel the anger radiating from the man inside, so intense that it almost felt like a physical barrier. He was met instantly with a blow to the side of his head, and he staggered, resisting the imperative to fight back.
'Stand still,' Lord Milaresh said in a tone of fury.
Before Spock could even think of obeying something struck his chest so hard that it made him choke as he drew breath. He staggered backwards, hearing the momentary swish and metallic clink of the object again just before it slammed into him.
'*Stand still*,' Milaresh ordered again, whipping out at him again. From the sound and the feel of it Spock guessed it was the buckle end of a belt. The pain it inflicted on his chest and stomach was astounding, even through his tunic. He lifted his arms to defend himself, and the buckle caught his wrist with a pain that made his eyes water. '*Stand still*, you fucking animal,' Milaresh shouted again, his voice raw with uncontrolled fury as the belt hit again and again.
Spock stepped backwards. He could not make himself stand motionless as this man beat him. He found himself standing against the wall, and he felt desperately out to his side for the door.
'Oh no, you're not going anywhere,' Milaresh growled. 'Come on,' he said roughly, grabbing hold of his arms and pushing and kicking and hitting him across the room. 'Come on here. You denied me what I wanted last night. I'll have it from you.'
Spock stiffened apprehensively, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to protect himself. His only escape would be violence or the nerve pinch that would be interpreted as violence, and Robbesh had warned him that that would result in death. He found himself pushed forward over the table that stood near the drinks cabinet, and suddenly something cold had clicked about his wrist and tethered it to the table leg. Spock bit his lip into his mouth. He had often laid out the restraints that his lord sometimes chose to use to make his love-play more exciting, but he had never expected to be subjected to them himself. The second pair of cuffs was attached to his other wrist and the other table leg, stretching his arms wide and forcing him to stand bent over the table. Then each of his ankles were being lashed to the table legs on this side, pulling his legs apart, and his clothes were being ripped from him and thrown aside.
He strained against the restraints, but struggling did nothing but hurt him, so he stilled, and waited. There was silence, but he could feel the man standing behind him. Every muscle in his body contracted, waiting to be touched. But Lord Milaresh had no intention of a sexual attack at that moment – instead he laid into the Vulcan again, beating his back and legs furiously with the belt. Spock closed his eyes, desperately trying to control pain laid on pain, unable to do anything but lean over the table and accept the punishment.
Then he stopped, and Spock heard him sit on his bed, panting heavily. Spock waited silently, letting the waves of pain crash through him and trying to analyse and lessen each one as it came. His respite lasted ten minutes – and then suddenly Milaresh was behind him again, parting his buttocks roughly, and forcing an entry to the Vulcan's body that would have made him scream with pain if he had been able.
******
When Milaresh withdrew from him he stayed frozen, every muscle clenched, his eyes tightly shut despite his blindness. He could not bear the thought of relaxing and letting what Milaresh had released in him trickle down his legs. Pain coursed through him, dwarfing the throbbing from his beating.
Each cuff was clicked open, one by one, and he straightened up, stepping backwards unsteadily, clutching his arms about his torso as if that could cover his horror and his nakedness.
'Go on – get out,' Milaresh said shortly. 'You've given me what I need.'
Spock turned stiffly, moving in a daze, reaching out a hand as if to feel for his clothes.
'Don't bother about your clothes,' Milaresh said, kicking at his ankle. 'Go on. Fuck off. You can come and clean up tomorrow. Fuck off back to your stall, or wherever it is I keep you.'
Spock trembled, fighting with a huge amount of discipline against the fury that was urging him to turn and snap Milaresh's neck with one hand. It was a small relief that the man hadn't demanded that he put the room to order now, because he didn't know how he could bear staying in his sight, obeying his orders. He moved to the door as quickly as possible, letting himself out into the silent corridor and standing still for a moment, trying to calm the shivers of horror. Then the uncomfortable feeling of pressure in his rectum reminded him cruelly of the physicality of what had been done to him, and he moved swiftly on down the corridor, desperate to get back to the slave room before his clenched muscles let go.
******
He was grateful that when he entered the room everyone seemed to be asleep. The servant who had been sent to see he went in also gave him new clothes, but he asked nothing about how Spock had lost his original outfit, or why he was cut and bruised and obviously traumatised. Spock put the clothes automatically in his alcove on the wall, and then went into the tiny toilet at the side of the room. He sat there for over an hour with his hands pressed over his face, trying to expel every trace of what Milaresh had left in his body. There was a great deal of pain, and he thought he could smell blood too, but he was almost certainly bleeding from the numerous lacerations on his torso. Certainly what was leaving his body felt more fluid than it should be. But there was nothing he could do. He could not call anyone and explain. How did one sign rape?
He clasped his hands together, rubbing them over his head. The metal band about his left wrist caught at his hair, reminding him of its presence, and he ran his fingers over it. Perhaps if he deliberately broke the bones in his hand he could wrench the band off, and escape – but he couldn't escape without seeing where he was going. The idea was ridiculous. He had been rendered utterly helpless.
A shudder ran through him. He didn't think he had ever been brought this low before, or been so utterly subject to another person's desires without hope of resistance. Now it had happened this first time there was no reason why it should not happen again, and he could do nothing to stop it. He would have to stand in Milaresh's room tomorrow night, and the night after that, and every night he was called upon, and wait for it to happen again, and know that he would have to submit without struggle. Every facet of his life here seemed to have condensed into this pinpoint of misery, and there was nowhere to turn for hope.
He exhaled slowly. He had to deal with this. No one else could help him. It wasn't as if he was totally unfamiliar with the idea of such intercourse. He spent every night in a room with six other men who had no sexual outlet but each other, in a culture where gender boundaries were not so firmly drawn. Although thankfully none of them had attempted any advance towards him he was familiar enough with waking to the gentle sounds of love-making in the room. But that was so different… That was his friends dealing with their biological need in the only way they could, in a consensual and considered way. This was… This was horrific, it was brutal and violent and full of pain. He had been used as nothing more than an orifice, to punish his disobedience, to show him who was in control, to prove just how little power he really had. Everything seemed centred now on that one small part of his body that was still spasming with pain. All he could think of was the pressure of that man's corpulent body over his and the clawing of his hands into his shoulders, and the feeling of that rod of flesh inside him, and the guttural sounds of satisfaction he had made as he finally climaxed. Those bestial grunts of pleasure were echoing and magnifying in his mind until he could hear nothing else.
He had to stop himself from reliving it over and over. He rose and moved to the shower at the back of the room. He took the cloth that they all shared and ruthlessly washed himself from top to bottom, letting the pain of the fresh bruises and cuts distract himself from the pain between his legs. He dried himself and went silently to his bed. He lay there shivering for some minutes before he realised he was not the only one awake in the room.
Finally Delash said, 'He beat you well, didn't he?'
Spock nodded stiffly. Delash moved over to him and lifted the blanket for a second. Spock froze. Surely it was obvious in every facet of his body what had just happened to him? Surely there were marks at his wrists and ankles, and where the edge of the table had bruised his hips, and where Milaresh's cruel fingers had pulled at his buttocks to open him up? Surely he smelt of it? But Delash simply said, 'What was it? Belt buckle? He's handy with the bad end of his belt.'
Spock nodded, keeping his eyes closed.
'Gods, surely they did enough to you at lunchtime?' He fell silent, then said after a moment, 'You're cold tonight.'
He nodded again. He felt as if he would never get warm.
Delash pulled his own sleeping mat across and laid it down flush to Spock's, before lying down himself with his body spooned against Spock's back. He could only be grateful that the man was perceptive enough to know by now that Spock disliked skin-to-skin contact, and took great care to keep Spock's blanket between them. Then he took his own blanket and laid it over both of them.
'I'm not hurting you, am I?' he asked anxiously.
Spock shook his head. The slight pressure against his whipped back was painful, but the comfort and warmth from the man's presence far outweighed the pain. He wished he could thank him, but lying as he was it would be useless even to try to sign it.
'You're welcome,' Delash said softly, and Spock nodded in return. He wasn't sure how he would survive in this place without this man, who seemed to know what he wanted to say even when Spock wasn't sure how to say it himself.
******
He woke more than once that night from dreams that were simply vivid re-livings of what had happened in his master's room, his throat choking on sounds that he could not utter – but each time Delash woke too and touched his shoulder to reconnect him with reality. Finally he managed to pull together enough control to at least soften and suppress the dreams when they came, and eventually he gained a few hours of solid sleep to help himself recover from the abysmal day that had gone before.
When the bell rang out in the morning he didn't react, waiting for Delash to move first.
'Spockesh, are you awake? Are you all right?' the man asked in concern.
Spock nodded stiffly. He had little desire to move. Every part of his body ached with bruising, and that place between his legs was tight with sore, stinging pain. But he had to move. He had to get up and get dressed and go out to his breakfast and carry on as if this was any other day. He sat up slowly, the blanket falling away from his chest, and he heard the shocked reactions of the others in the room as they saw him. He knew his face alone must present evidence enough of his injuries – he could feel tender bruises on his jaw and temple and left ear where his master's fists and belt had caught him.
'Master belted him,' Delash explained succinctly.
'That's some good bruising there,' Andresh remarked. 'I've never seen him lay into someone that hard before.'
'You haven't been here that long. You've never seen him that angry,' Lamesh replied, coming over to the Vulcan and touching his chest with great care. 'He's not broken any bones, has he?' he asked with concern.
Spock shook his head. He felt as if he was wearing a skin-tight suit of pain, and he seemed to have no energy or will to suppress it. It hurt to sit and to stand and to lie down. It hurt to move – but it seemed to go no further than cuts and bruises.
'Sal, go and tell Master Robbesh,' Lamesh said. 'He can't work outside today – he just can't. He can hardly move.'
'I'll *tell* him,' Salensh said doubtfully. He disappeared briefly, then came back into the room with an aura of surprise about him. 'Spockesh, he says stay where you are. He'll come and see you when he's got breakfast over. He said, don't get dressed – he wants to look you over.'
Spock nodded sombrely, pulling his blanket up to wrap it around himself like a cloak. Perhaps Lamesh was right. He probably shouldn't be working outside today – but at least the work would have kept his mind occupied.
He waited while the others washed and dressed and left, sitting uncomfortably on his bed mat with his arms about his knees. Finally Master Robbesh entered.
'Come on, stand up,' he said briefly. 'Let me see the damage.'
Spock stood slowly, letting the blanket fall away with disguised reluctance, standing still while Master Robbesh circled him, touching the bruises and lacerations on his body.
'Well, he certainly worked his anger out, didn't he?' Master Robbesh said.
Spock thought he detected annoyance in the man's tone. Presumably it only made the day more difficult when slaves were pulled out of the labour pool. They would have to use an animal to pull the cart, and an animal needed far more close care than a slave. Master Robbesh lifted Spock's wrist, inspecting it carefully.
'He chained you,' he said, and Spock nodded. He touched his fingers to the two tender bruises on each hip where he had been repeatedly slammed against the table. 'So – I guess he fucked you too?'
Spock dropped his head. Just having it spoken of in such a casual manner made him nauseous.
'Well, it is an effective punishment for you, isn't it?' Master Robbesh said curiously. 'It's not one I like, but you've taken it now, and likely that's evened out the score for him. I'm sorry you had to take that on top of the whipping in front of the household, but it's over now. You'd do best to forget it.'
Spock lifted his head sharply, an eyebrow rising in anger. How was he supposed to forget an event like that? No Vulcan would expect rape to be accepted with equanimity.
'You're a slave, boy,' Master Robbesh said at his reaction. 'You can't expect to say yea or nay over what happens to your body. You may not have desired his attention, but you don't have the right to refuse it. No court in the land would stand up and say that you did. The only power out of his hands is the right to end your life – and that lies with the court, not you.'
Spock closed his arms over his chest in a subconscious effort to show that he owned his own body.
'You have to learn that, no matter how much you dislike it,' Master Robbesh said plainly. 'He owns your skin, he owns your bones, your heart, your stomach, your lungs. He owns that hole you shit through and he can do what he likes with it, whether that be taking you himself or coupling you with another slave for his own amusement. He owns that soft sack between your legs, and he can have it off if he likes, or leave it on, or take your seed to make himself more stock, or have you do to him what he did to you.'
Spock turned away, trying to suppress the shaking that was setting up in his body despite his efforts at control.
'*Don't* turn away from me,' Master Robbesh said, taking hold of his arm and pulling him back. Spock's instinctive reaction was to slap his hand away, but he stopped himself just before his muscles obeyed the command. 'Listen. It may not be fair, but that's just the truth of what you are now. You're not free and you don't have rights – and if you want to spare yourself you have to understand that and toe the line. I'm sorry for you, believe me. I'm sorry for what you've been brought to. I saw what you were before Master took a fancy to you and arranged to have you. You've fallen a long way. But I can't do anything about it. I can just be glad I'm on my side of the fence and not yours.'
Spock exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. He knew despite everything that Master Robbesh was fair even if he was harsh. He needed to keep in favour with him, for his own sake. He nodded slowly, as the only way he could show his acquiescence.
'All right,' Robbesh said, touching his arm. 'Let me see,' he said, turning Spock around. Spock stiffened, but did not resist as Master Robbesh touched a hand to his buttock. Thankfully, the man did not give him any more than a cursory visual inspection. 'A very little blood.'
He moved away, and Spock heard the rustle of blankets.
'You've not bled into your sleep mat – it's nothing serious. But Salensh is right. You can't work outside today. You'd be more of a danger than a help in your condition. Just – stay there, I'll send some food in for you, and some antiseptic cream too. You can put that on your wounds – *all* of them,' he said firmly. 'You can come and assist me later. Then tonight – '
Spock stiffened. He had no desire to come into Lord Milaresh's company again after what he had done. He knew he had no choice in the matter – how little choice had just been made very clear to him – but he didn't have to like it.
'Don't worry. Thanks to you your Lord is having to go to Lavorian household to atone for what he tried with their daughter. He'll probably have to be there for a number of days. Lavoresh will have no desire to drag him through the courts and expose his own daughter in that way, so some kind of settlement will have to be worked out. Tonight, I was going to say, you can stay in your room with the rest of your seven, and perhaps by the day after you'll be ready for work again?'
Spock nodded again, instinctively using the sign that Lamesh had taught him for thank you. His use of sign language was becoming more and more instinctive as each day went by.
'Hey,' Master Robbesh said quickly, grasping his hand and pushing it down to his side. 'Use that with your seven – use it *sparingly*, in private – but don't flash an ability to communicate about in front of anyone else. It's not encouraged. *I'm* not supposed to encourage it – but some might report it to Lord Milaresh, and he wouldn't be pleased at all. Do you understand?'
Spock nodded quickly. Obviously a mute slave with an ability to communicate was a useless commodity, and the danger of being useless was obvious. He could not imagine that his master would simply let him free.
'Good. Now, I'll have that food and cream sent in, and you can stay here in peace this morning. I'll have you brought to my room after midday and I'll set you to work.'
Spock nodded again, keeping his hands still at his side. Master Robbesh left the room and he turned and went back to his sleeping mat, sinking down onto it and hugging his blanket about himself tightly. He leaned sideways, resting his head on the cool of the wall. After a moment he reached out to touch it, wondering about the reality of his situation. He had never seen this room. He had no idea what colour the walls were, or what colour his bed mat or blanket was. He had no idea of the faces of his seven. Master Robbesh, he had seen, briefly, but he could not put faces to any other names. And now he was sitting here in this room he had never seen, with the knowledge of what had happened to him last night battering at his mind. Surely it could not be real?
He got up and went into the shower, trying again to wash the feeling of what had happened from his body. Whatever he did he could still feel Lord Milaresh's oily flesh pressed over him, and the repeated slap of his hips against his buttocks, the bruises from the table edge against his own hips, and the stinging soreness between his legs. He turned the shower off and stood there, letting the water run from him, trying to rationalise the repeating memories. It should have been easy. All that had happened was that a man had touched him and hurt him in a place that was private to him. But it wasn't easy, and he couldn't rationalise his reaction.
He went back to his bed, and discovered that a bowl of food and a medicinal-smelling tube had been placed on it while he was in the shower. He sat and carefully rubbed the cream into every place on his body that seemed to have open wounds, ruthlessly suppressing his revulsion to push his finger into that place where Milaresh had entered and apply cream to the stinging lacerations. Then he washed his hands and turned his attention to the food, touching his fingers lightly to it and smelling it to try to ascertain what had been brought for him. He didn't feel like eating, but it was logical to eat. It seemed to be a cold, disparate mixture of cheeses, limp, cooked vegetables in various sauces, and lumps of the local version of potato. Perhaps it was scrapings from the plates of the free household's last meal – but it was more pleasant than the thick porridge, and probably far better for him too. There was no cutlery, so he ate it with his fingers, then washed his hands again and lay back down on his side on his bed with his blanket wrapped around him.
******
Food was sent to him again at midday. By that time Spock was dressed, with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders to try to get somewhere close to the warmth he constantly craved here. He was deeply immersed in meditation, attempting to control his anger and shame at what had happened the night before. He was, at least for now, glad that he could not see, so he could not look down at the body that had betrayed his mind, or catch a glimpse in a mirror and see his face with the knowledge of what he had become.
The clatter of a bowl on the floor, and the touch of a woman's hand on his shoulder, snapped him out of the meditation before he had achieved what he had wished. He was not sure if he would ever achieve what he had wished – but at least he had sufficient control now not to react with violence to that startling touch.
'Your lunch,' the woman said.
She sounded young, her voice soft and pleasant. Spock raised his head, nodding his thanks. Presumably she was a slave like him – or perhaps, not quite like him. She, at least, could see and speak. With those two sparse words her voice had sounded full of sympathy. Did she know what had happened to him? He couldn't imagine that Master Robbesh would advertise it.
No, he decided. His wounds from the beating were quite obvious, and the true story of what he had done to anger Lord Milaresh was common knowledge among the slaves. That would elicit sympathy enough. Unless Lord Milaresh boasted of it, only three people in this place would know the true details of the attack, and he was quite content to let it stay that way.
The woman picked up the bowl and put it to his hand, perhaps thinking he would not be able to find it where she had left it on the floor.
'Master Robbesh says, when you've eaten your lunch, you're to come to his office,' she said in that gentle voice again. 'Understand?'
Spock nodded, taking the bowl and sniffing the contents. It seemed to be a repetition of the same mish-mash of scraps that he had eaten that morning.
'He's well-disposed to you, Sarkesh,' the woman said. 'That's a big thing you've got on your side.'
Spock nodded again. It had stopped jarring now when people called him Sarkesh. It was only those in his seven who called him Spockesh, and then only in private, so as not to expose his ability to mindmeld. It was, perhaps, better that way. Sarkesh was a slave, mute and blind, subject to every whim of the free-born around him. He was cuffed and pushed, shouted at and blamed and whipped for his transgressions. Spock lived inside his own mind, with his own thoughts, separate from this unpleasant world around him…
Except – except for what Milaresh had done to him last night. Somehow that bridged the gap between servile, maltreated Sarkesh and Spock, Vulcan, scientist, First Officer of the starship Enterprise. Everything else, he thought, could be shaken off when – if – this all ended. But that one act, those five minutes of hell… He could not begin to imagine how to un-weave that intrusion from the tangled threads of his life.
He came back to himself, realising that he was alone in the room again, and that his hand was gripping tightly enough on the bowl to dent the metal. He sighed, hoping that the damage was not severe enough to be noticed, and marked on his punishment sheet. He had only three more marks left to him before he would incur punishment, and he had suffered quite enough pain in the last two days.
******
He came to Master Robbesh's room clean and presentable, with a mask of non-emotion covering over the turmoil inside him. He knocked softly on the door, and was rewarded immediately by a voice inside calling, 'Come.'
Master Robbesh almost never made anyone wait – at least, not simply for the sake of showing the slaves their place. Spock opened the door, silently as he had been taught, and stepped through into the invisible room.
'Ah, Sarkesh,' Master Robbesh said.
From his voice, he seemed to be seated behind his desk. Spock had gradually gleaned certain specifics of this room – the desk opposite him, a couple of chairs, shelves about the walls, and some kind of filing cabinets on the right. He had superimposed a vision of the place, taken from his own experience of such offices, but he knew that his imagined room must have very little to do with the real one. He had found that the best way to create a map of his surroundings was to create his own reality, and in that way the entire mansion was a composite of his recollections of the ship, of places on Vulcan and Earth and sundry other planets he had spent time on through his life. It was, he supposed, inaccurate, but it at least gave him something familiar to grasp in his attempts to deal with this invisible world.
Spock stood, hands clasped behind his back, waiting.
After a long, loaded silence, Robbesh said softly, 'My master gave me a task before he left for the Lavorian manor. He has asked me to talk to you. To make sure you know where you stand.'
Spock raised his head a little, and nodded. It was an odd relationship he had with Master Robbesh. He respected and liked him, to a certain extent, and he was sure that Master Robbesh held much the same opinion of him. But as things stood at the moment, he was a slave and Master Robbesh held power and authority over him. He could not help but feel uncomfortable in his interactions with someone who held control of his very body and freedom.
'You are his chamber slave,' Robbesh continued. 'That means that you exist to serve Lord Milaresh in all of his chamber needs – *all* of them,' he said firmly. 'Your body is his to do with as he likes.'
Spock dropped his head again, tightening his hands into fists at his sides. He could still feel the evidence of Lord Milaresh's power, in the tight, sore pain between his buttocks and the cuts and bruises all over his torso.
'He intends to continue using you to relieve his sexual needs,' Robbesh said. His voice had dropped, and he sounded as if he was leaning a little closer across his desk. 'After all, that's why he had you brought here. It is your duty to be passive and accept what he chooses to do to you.'
Spock stiffened, his face a white mask, lips pressed together into thin lines.
'You did a noble thing for the Lavorian girl,' Robbesh continued. 'What he did to her won't be spread around publicly – but women talk to each other, and your Lord may find far fewer willing to go with him to his room. That means he will have to find a substitute. *You* are his substitute. That's the price you will have to pay for what you did. I have been told to make it clear to you – if you don't obey him promptly and willingly, you will be subject to punishment. You know from experience that he will have you anyway, if he wishes. So, it is – only logical – that you submit to him willingly – is it not?'
Spock nodded very, very slowly, biting his lip into his mouth.
'I'm trying to save you pain, Sarkesh,' Robbesh said, a trifle roughly.
Spock nodded again, closing his eyes and dropping his head again.
Robbesh left him in silence for a few long minutes. Spock was grateful for the time and the chance to draw together his incoherent thoughts and order them into a semblance of control.
*Kaidth*, he told himself. *What cannot be changed must be accepted*.
He could not accept it – but the time Robbesh gave him at least allowed him to draw a veil of calm back across himself.
'Now… What can you do for me?'
Robbesh sighed, sounding as if he was shuffling paper on his desk. There was a long silence, then he said in a tone of frustration, 'You're so little use to me, blind. I imagine you'd have a lot to offer me if you could see.'
Spock raised an eyebrow in chagrin. It was Master Robbesh who had blinded him, who had taken his ability to speak, who had passed over the money that sold him irrevocably into slavery.
'Yes, I know,' Robbesh muttered, correctly reading his expression. 'Believe me, I don't like mutilating people. I follow orders, just as you do.' He paused again, then said rather defensively, 'I brought you here to give you something to do, so you weren't sitting in that room thinking of nothing but what's been done to you over the last few days. Would you rather I sent you back?'
Spock lifted his head, then shook it slowly. Every movement made his cuts and bruises throb with pain, but any distraction was welcome from that constant feeling between his legs.
'Sit down for a minute,' Robbesh said, tapping his hand on a chair. 'Let me get sorted here.'
Spock moved over to the chair and sat carefully, trying not to put too much pressure on the bruises from Milaresh's belt buckle. He sat listening to Robbesh moving about the room. At one point he clicked a button and spoke into what was obviously a comm device, and Spock clenched his hands at his sides. He was so close to a device that could gain him freedom, but he could not see to use it, and even if he could open a channel he could not speak to alert anyone to his situation. He had never felt so utterly helpless as he did now, in the aftermath of Milaresh's attack.
'Here,' Robbesh said eventually, thrusting a cloth and a spray bottle into his hands. 'It's been a while since I've let any of those cleaning oafs into here – I don't like them looking through the Master's accounts. Start with the shelves, take the books off and clean the covers, then clean the shelves too. Don't mess up the order. I rely on order.'
Spock nodded, and turned immediately to his work.
Hours passed, with almost no conversation between him and Robbesh – or at least, almost no one-sided comments from Robbesh. The man occasionally looked up from his work and directed Spock to another place in the room, or praised him for his achievements. It seemed that sightlessness gave him an advantage over the regular cleaning slaves, because it caused him to be more thorough. And Robbesh had been right – the slow, meditative task of cleaning what he could not see was a perfect focus for his distracted mind.
Finally, Robbesh called him from his work, allowing him to sit down, and again pressing a fluted glass of some kind of spirit on him. Robbesh's leniency with Spock through the day spoke of the type of person he was – fair, despite the power he held. The alcohol, though – the second time he had pressed it on Spock – spoke more of guilt than anything else. If Spock had had a way of communicating it, he would have let Robbesh know that he did not hold him to account for what had happened. He knew that Lord Milaresh's word was the final one in this place, whether one was free, servant, or slave. It would be illogical to expect Robbesh to favour the slaves at the detriment of his own safety. And the alcohol, at least, dulled some of the sharper shards of pain in his mind as it slipped down his throat.