DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the characters from Guardians of the Galaxy, either in its movie or comic incarnation. I own any OC I can invent, though. I am not making a £ out of this. It is just for shits and giggles.
Warnings: this chapter contains more of Ronan's confused boner, some mild speciesism and sexism as well as angst, mild violence and voyeurism.
The inhabitants of Spartax are called Spartoi in the comics, which is reason enough for me to make them channel a whole lot of ancient Greece in their language and behaviour.
Helot(s) means slave(s) or servant(s) and barbaroi means barbarians.
Also, the Shi'ar are another extra-terrestrial race from the Marvel comics. Some of them are avian-esque humanoids, others look a lot like humans. I am going with the avian-esque theme and giving them all feathers in place of hair.
Gladiator is a real Shi'ar character from the comics, which I am re-casting for the benefit of the story. This is an AU, after all.
Enjoy, and don't kill me, please.
During their trip to Spartax Prime and the following night, Ronan thinks long and hard about his perplexing talk with Star-Lord.
He had thought that the Terran had finally realised that he wanted him, and he even tried to tell him, in a way, even if it was already a bit like stepping into whore territory already.
But no, suddenly Star-Lord is all worried and put off by the fact that he is inexperienced in bed! That has to be one of the most frustrating things he has ever experienced!
What is the problem with him?! Isn't he happy that he can have him first, stake his claim over him unequivocally, and so on?!
It makes him nearly want to go to the first bar he can find on Spartax and lay with any man who fancies him.
That rebellious plan doesn't survive five minutes after he has conceived it, though.
What he is after, isn't just carnal pleasure. He wants what he has briefly had at the Silk Den, to give himself up to the person he loves and trusts. He wants Star-Lord and Gamora, yes, them both, to make him theirs.
That night, he even dreams about it. The dream is vague, and confused, and as soon as he wakes up he can barely remember it already, but he is hard as a rock, and can't stop thinking about both his masters.
He won't be able to resist without giving himself away. Hell, he has already given himself away enough in that wretched club, but it has not made things better.
Curse the lack of perceptiveness of Gamora and Star-Lord! Does he have to tell them everything in gory detail for them to understand that he is willing?
Maybe he does, he thinks later, over breakfast.
Maybe on Terra, or wherever Gamora comes from, everyone is much more proactive about their sexual preferences and choices of partners. Maybe his reticence, which would have been taken as a sign of honesty and modesty by his own people, comes across as unwillingness or outright rejection to those two.
The thought rocks him a bit, but it kind of makes sense, especially in the light of some of the things Star-Lord has said during their discussion.
He seemed to be very keen on freedom of choice and consent, so maybe for him it is not enough that he goes along with what he suggests or orders.
Maybe they need him to be more clear, and openly assert his willingness and availability.
Ronan is not sure it he is comfortable with that. Kree people are not very forward about sex, and haaq are not supposed to be forward at all, but something has to be done if they want to get out of that impasse, and it seems that he will have to do it.
It even seems right, after he thinks a bit about it.
He wants it, and being all underhanded in the hope that they will realise it, and force him into a situation where they can give him what he wants seems a lot more dishonest than just telling them straight away.
So far he has been trying to push the choice and the responsibility on them, and it is not fair, especially if anything less than explicit consent turns sex into abuse or even rape in their cultures.
He doesn't want that, he thinks with a shiver. He has ended up dealing with some rapists in his career as an Accuser (mostly with a swift and sure blow of his hammer to their heads), and he knows that Star-Lord and Gamora are nothing like them. He doesn't want to put them in a position in which they end up feeling that they are like those cruel perverts.
They want him to choose freely, make a statement, and transgress all the unspoken rules of being a haaq? Alright, he thinks with new-found determination.
His people have struck him from the rolls, he doesn't exist for them anymore. None of them has the right to judge him any longer. He doesn't owe them anything.
To Star-Lord and Gamora instead (and to the rest of the Guardians in truth), he owes everything, his peace, his happiness, his very life.
If staying with them requires severing the last link with the traditions that imprisoned him in his old life, so be it. He will make them a gift of his complete, unconditional surrender.
It has taken him more than a year to figure that out, but now that he has, he cannot wait to actually put that idea into practice. He forces himself to bide his time, though.
He would like to have some privacy when he tells them, because hopefully things will progress quite fast from there, if he has any say in it, and surely he doesn't want any of the other Guardians to see or overhear anything, especially Groot. He is still technically a child, even if the others often forget.
No, he has to manage to get the two of them alone on the ship, while the others are somewhere else.
Star-Lord almost immediately gives him the perfect opportunity to enact his plan.
"Alright, buddies! - he exclaims - I suggest we go out and explore this place. Just be careful, we don't know yet who our enemies are." he advises.
"Yes, stay alert and avoid dodgy situations." Gamora asks.
"No worries, mom. - Rocket teases - This will take care of all the bad guys!" he declares, petting his massive gun.
"And try not to get arrested on our first day here!" Star-Lord adds, rolling his eyes.
"Spoilsport..." Rocket mumbles.
He and Groot leave on their own, saying something about some landmark or other they want to visit.
Ronan dons his most threadbare and unassuming clothes and leaves his labyrs on the Milano. Servants are often considered unimportant and people feel more free to speak in their presence.
He'll act the part and mingle with the crowds, hopefully that will gain him some intelligence on their quarry.
He sets out on his own, just as Star-Lord and Gamora are leaving together, and heads towards the main market of the city.
The crowd is packed among the stall displaying wares from all over the quadrant and beyond.
Shi'ar Space borders with the Kree Empire on the far side, and somehow a couple of Kree merchants have found their way to Spartax. Ronan steers well clear of their stall, no matter how enticing the smell of tea and spices might be. He doesn't want to rin the risk of being recognised.
He concentrates on his supply run and stops at a stall manned by a Spartoi servant, what they call an helot. The man, who bears a very passing resemblance to Star-Lord with his tousled, light-brown hair, is pleased by his custom and quite chatty.
"Did you get taken in for debt, or do you have a fixed-term indenture?" he asks.
Ronan looks at him in puzzlement for a moment. Slavery on a contract? That is a queer legal practice.
"I have been taken captive in battle." he replies.
"Oh, wow! You are a warrior then!" the Spartoi exclaims.
"I was." Ronan clarifies. There is no need for the man to know the unusual arrangement he has with his masters.
"And when is your release date?" the man continues.
"Well, never." Ronan retorts nonchalantly.
The man's eyes go very wide and his jaw slackens in utter astonishment.
"Oh, man! This must suck so much!" he condoles.
"No, not really. - Ronan retorts - My masters treat me better than well."
The man eyes him suspiciously, trying to figure out if he has told him the truth.
"You know you can appeal to the Temple of the Twin Gods, right? - he advises - They are sworn to protect helots who have been mistreated by their masters. Sometimes barbaroi aliens do appalling things to their helots..." he explains.
"Thank you for your concern, sir, but I am perfectly fine with my arrangement with my masters." he retorts stiffly.
The Guardians are not barbarians. They are good people, and it angers him to think that strangers might look down on them just for their motley origin and rough looks.
And he is doing it again, he realises. He is thinking and feeling things that couldn't be more different from what he thought and felt before his fall, but that somehow sound more in accord with the spirit of Pama's teachings. She teaches that one should judge all people, from their actions and not their looks or circumstances, but somehow, until not long before, he has always taken it as meaning only Kree people or subjects of the Empire.
Now he is quite sure that that isn't how it was meant to be. Pama is a great goddess, and her message is supposed to be universal, embracing all the Galaxy and beyond. Everyone should be treated fairly, with justice and mercy.
Absorbed in his musings, he pays the concerned merchant and wanders aimlessly around the market, until he ends up in a big plaza, where what looks like a debate is being held.
On a ring of benches sit Spartoi men of substance and power, and a few women, clothed in flowing tunics and cloaks in all the colours of the spectrum. The discussion is quite animated, but takes place in Spartoi, of which he has only a superficial knowledge, enough to know that they are talking about a marriage and about the Emperor, but no more than that.
Ronan sticks to the outskirts of the crowd, unwilling to risk being a victim of pickpockets since he cannot benefit from listening more closely to the debate.
A few young men have climbed on the plinth of a nearby statue to have a better view of the proceedings. Ronan follows their lead and joins them on their precarious perch.
"Well met, blue man of Kree! - one of the boys greets in Trader's Tongue - The Assembly is a thing of wonder, isn't it? " he asks.
Ronan acquiesces. "It is very impressive. - he agrees truthfully - What are they debating about?" he asks.
"The marriage between princess Helenai and the Shi'ar prince Gladiator." the young Spartoi explains. His curls are black as jet and his skin dusky, a bit like the woman We'al described.
"The marriage that will end the war, or so they have told me." Ronan says.
"And that will firmly put Helenai on her father's throne." the youth adds.
"Not everyone is happy about it." another one of the company, a red-haired lad, explains.
"And why? - Ronan asks, shifting on his precarious perch to have a better hold - Would she be a bad queen?" he asks.
"Emperess, blue man. She'd be the Emperess of Spartax. - the first youth explains - She'd be the first woman on the throne. Emperor J'son has had fourteen daughters from his wives, but no sons." he adds.
"Well, I am sure the Emperor will have prepared her for her task for years already." Ronan says.
"Oh yes, she has the mind and the courage of a man... - the red-haired youth retorts - but still the soft heart of a woman, and she is very much in love with the Shi'ar prince..." he declares with displeasure.
"The Shi'ar will end up having the upper hand in the deal." a third boy adds.
"Yeah, and that feathered bastard will be ruling us to his pleasure." Red-hair concludes.
"I gather that there are no alternative candidates to the throne." Ronan interjects, not entirely comfortable with the tone of some of the boys' remarks.
Dark-skin shrugs. "There is a younger brother of Emperor J'son, but he was injured in battle. It knocked a few of his screws loose, if you know what I mean." he replies.
"Yeah, he is totally unfit to care for himself. Princess Vesta of Shi'ar probably would rather jump off a cliff than marry him." another voice adds.
A woman takes center stage in the Assembly. Ronan momentarily switches off from the side-debate happening on the plynth between supporters and detractors of the princess.
The Spartoi noblewoman is tall and strong, dressed in a short white tunic and a cloak of carmine red, a sword at her belt and brass bracers around her wrists. She is a warrior and a leader, it is plain to see.
Her skin is dark and smooth, like polished ebony, and her dark curls are held by a circlet of gold around her brow. From where he is standing, he cannot quite see her eyes, but he would bet they are blue, and when she starts speaking, her voice is clear and sharp, but somehow still sweet... a bit like the smell of gardenias, as We'al had said.
"Hey, men of Spartax, who is that woman?" he asks, butting in their conversation.
"That is her. - Dark-skin replies with a smile - Helenai of Spartax. Isn't she beautiful?" he adds.
Ronan makes a noncommittal noise, trying to absorb the information.
That is the princess and future Emperess of Spartax, and she is the one who arranged things to capture Star-Lord. This has the potential to become a big problem.
"And she in one of Spartax's finest warriors. - Dark-skin continues - They say she duelled prince Gladiator of Shi'ar to a standstill on the battlefields of Mekara. Only the fall of night could end their dance of death. They say that Gladiator fell immediately in love with his fierce foe." he adds, as if he is reciting a poem. Maybe he is. From his days in the Academy he remembers something about the supposed passion of Spartoi people for sagas of heroic deeds. Maybe it is actually true.
"What is certain is that a few days after that duel, the Shi'ar proposed a dynastic union." the Spartoi continues.
"Yeah, well, Gladiator is the spare. He has no right to the throne unless prince Praetor kicks the bucket before his wife sprogs." Red-hair chimes in.
This sparks another violent debate, but Ronan switches it off and, saying farewell to his improvised companions, jumps off the plynth and picks his way through the crowds back towards the Milano.
The Guardians need to know as soon as possible about this piece of information.
And then he needs to stash the food into the preserver before it rots in the heat and have a shower. He is still dead set on his plan for Star-Lord and Gamora and he wants to look and smell his best for them.
There is quite a bit of time before sundown, but he does not care. He'll bide his time a bit, maybe cook something in advance, then comm his quarry and set the trap, he tells himself as he enters the ship.
As soon as he is in, however, he realises that there is something not quite right in the Milano.
Something is off, even if he cannot quite put his finger on what. It might be a noise at the edge of his perception, or a smell he cannot quite identify. Whatever it is, it is setting him on edge.
He stashes the perishable goods pell-mell into the preserver, and then he hears it.
A subtle noise, some sort of gasp, or a low, suffocated cry. It is coming from one of the rooms.
The Guardians might be in danger.
There is no time for him to get into the holding cell and retrieve his labyrs, apart from the fact that it is too big to wield inside the ship. He grabs one of the kitchen knives, a big, heavy thing, and quietly slips down the corridor.
The noise is coming from Star-Lord and Gamora's room.
The door is slightly ajar, and he peers in cautiously, starting to formulate a loose rescue plan.
And then he sees and it is clear that a rescue is not just unnecessary, but undesirable.
Star-Lord and Gamora are naked in bed with a stranger, a Spartoi warrior by the looks of it, with a golden tan and flowing ebony locks. He is admittedly handsome, but he is nothing compared with his masters.
Gamora is lying on her back, her long legs wrapped around the stranger's waist, her back arched and her face flushed in pleasure as he slides in and out of her.
Star-Lord is kneeling behind the man, thrusting into him as he thrusts into Gamora, and his curls are all tousled and sweaty and he looks as beautiful as the stars.
He wants that, Ronan realises in a bittersweet flash of epiphany. He wants to be that man, caught in the middle of so much beauty. He wants to be the one to give them both pleasure.
It should be him.
It would have been him, if he hadn't been so slow to accept his feelings, if he had not waited so long.
He had made them wait too long and now they had found someone else, someone more confident and experienced, probably, someone whom they don't have to teach, someone whom they don't have to protect.
He cannot really blame them. He knows that he is not actually worth waiting for, especially not for so long, but the realisation pains him, fills him with sorrow and anger.
He drops the knife on the floor without even realising and turns his back on that scene, running out of the Milano and back into the city.
His heart feels full and heavy, ready to burst and his thoughts run in circles around the bliss he has glimpsed but will never have for himself.
How can he go back to the Milano, after what he has seen?
How can he look those two in the face, knowing that his longing for them has only grown, but that they don't want him anymore?
He doesn't want to think about it. He wants to stop thinking at all, to exhaust himself into oblivion.
In his quest to avoid the crowds, Ronan ends up in one of the unsavoury districts bordering the city centre. The streets are lined with watering holes, disreputable houses and dodgy establishments of other sorts.
A placard stuck to the front of one of them attracts his attention. It is written in Trader's Tongue as well as in Spartoi and advertises a prize-fighting tournament, open to everyone.
Ronan changes his course and enters the place.
It reeks of old beer and sweat, with an aftertaste of blood and puke. A ten-feet-deep pit is in the center of the main room, and the crowd is gathered around it, cheering and shouting.
He peers over the heads of the crowd. Two Spartoi men, bare from the waist up, are having at each other with fists and feet, and it seems that no holds are barred.
Perfect. That is exactly what he needs to relieve the pain of his discovery.
Ronan quickly locates one of the managers. The man is sitting at a counter and counting a stack of credits.
"Is it still possible to enter the tournament?" Ronan asks.
"Of course it is, stranger. As long as you pay the entrance fee." the Spartoi replies.
"How much?" he retorts.
"Fifty. It's for the insurance and logistic expenses." he explains.
Ronan digs in his pockets. He still has some of the money the Guardians had given him for the supply run. He pays up, feeling slightly bad, but he needs this to stay sane.
He is left with a little more than two credits. He will make good of his debt in time.
"Can you read?" the Spartoi asks.
Ronan acquiesces.
"Then read and sign this. - he instructs, shoving a form under his nose - It is a legal waiver for all and any damage you might incur during the tournament." he explains.
The Kree quickly reads through the form and signs his name at the bottom in High Kree formal script, which is mostly unknown and incomprehensible to non-Kree.
The man eyes the form critically but doesn't comment.
"So what is your name, fellow?" he asks.
"Coehl." Ronan replies.
"Right, Coehl, you are next. - the man announces - Good luck!"
Within five minutes, or little more, of his arrival, Ronan finds him standing on the sand-covered floor of the pit. Before him, stands a purple-skinned Shi'ar man, his feathered crest perked up in excitement.
Shi'ar and Kree have fought many wars in the past, but he has never had the honour of breaking a feather-head's face himself before.
It seems that today is his day, he thinks, then the referee gives the sign and the Shi'ar advances confidently, throwing punches and kicks and Ronan has to stop thinking.
Just as he wanted.