Mitaen: Chpt. 5

A Story by Paul McKnight

Chapter 5

Yeah... So, I've decided that present tense is way too complicated, and a little uncomfortable. So, I'ma be a little more regular. You know, past tense, story-telling style. I dunno how it'll go, since I tend to fudge that up too, so let me know what you think, k?

The car ride back to the Academy was... Awkward, to say the least. I had to keep an eye on the road, since the rain was coming down pretty stinking hard by now. I had been in that little rock box of a building for an hour, jumping through loop after loop , ring after ring. I probably should have been a better customer to Roksboran, since I had never heard of paper work being needed to buy a slave, especially for a Mage. I don't regret it now, though. The only thing I really cared about was in my back seat, shivering.

Well, not really in my back seat, but in front of it.

They had brought John in when I was about half way through the Bureaucratic Bullcrap. He was still filthy, but they had cleaned parts of him. I'm sure they wouldn't have dared brought a slave in in that condition for anyone else, but like I said; I really didn't care at that point. It was odd, the way they had brought him to me. Only part of his leg had been cleaned, above his knee. I found out what the odd wash job was about shortly after that.

Behind me, A noise shakes me from my revery. I drink in a deep breath and smell much of the same as I had before. Fear, confusion, exhaustion and, now, pain. Jon was kneeling in the space in front of the passenger side backseat, where your feet usually go. He's not a small boy, so it was a cramped space for him. I had wanted him in the passengers seat in the first place, but the woman who had handled the paperwork for me had insisted, saying it “Wasn't proper,” and generally making a fuss. Thing is, they were far away in my rear view by now, and what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Well, not until I decided it would.

I stop the car, pulling over slightly. You really don't have to worry about traffic on these roads, especially this late at night. Still, I left the lights on, just in case. I got out of the car, feeling the rain drench me yet again. I really didn't care about that either, really. I was wearing my wool vest, and that was enough for now. I shut my door and walked to the trunk, pressing my thumb to the panel that opened it. The trunk popped open and I grabbed the bottle of numbalm I had requested. Just another thing that had pissed them off. I was kinda enjoying doing that towards the end.

Snapping the trunk shut, I walk over to John's door. As I open it, I see him visibly tense. The same mixture of emotions roll of off him, bathing me in a rather unpleasant itchiness. Trepidation. The word popped out of the depths of my memory, in English, unbidden. It was the perfect description for John's emotions, though, so I squirreled it away for future use. I squatted down behind him and placed my hand on his back, feeling him flinch once again. I sighed, feeling bad. One thing that I hated was when people were afraid of me. Well, I hate when they fear me unnecessarily.

“It's alright. Don't worry, I'm gonna try to make this better” I said, trying to be soothing. I attempt to push calm towards him, but I have no way to know whether I'm successful because the trepidation is as strong as ever. I sigh again and start to push the cloak, which I had redraped over his shoulders before we left, up over his back. I had seen this, I realized with a start. So far, this was the only one of my visions that had come true, play by play. Interesante. He shakes even more under my hands, if that's possible.

Once again, I try to sooth him. “I'm just checking your lash marks, alright? Nothing more. They hurt, don't they?” He nods once, after a moments hesitation. I run my fingers lightly over the angry, red, swollen marks, felling him flinch away from me from time to time. It makes me sad. So far, he doesn't seem to remember me.

I know I walk a dangerous line, with one wrong step sending me, and John, over a cliff that can't be climbed again. I haven't really given much thought to what our relationship from here on out will be like, but what I do know is that he needs to be able to think for himself, grow some balls back. Also, he needs to trust me. He won't survive in the new world otherwise. He may have had some rough assignments before now, but they're nothing like the life of an Academy slave. I know very little about what they truly have to deal with, but what I do know scares me. So, I need to start building that trust right now, while we're just starting off.

At the same time, I know I can't just give him all of his old rights and privileges back and expect him to act as though nothing is wrong. I know enough about psychology and, yes, have read enough kinky slash, to know that some part of him really does want this, or thinks it does. If I just drop all structure, he'll probably self-destruct, explode. Or, worse, implode. I want neither. So, I go with the safe approach. Structured, but gentle.

“Alright, I know this will be weird for you, but I need you to answer all questions I ask you out loud, alright, even if the answer is obvious, alright?” John simply nodded his head. I raised an eyebrow, even though I knew it was pointless. “And what do you say to that?” I ask him.

“Yes, my Lord.” Comes out at a whispered volume. It's enough for me, though, so I drop the subject.

As the rain beats a crazy tattoo into my back, and on the metal surface of the car, I trace all of the welts on his back with both of my fingers, counting them. Twelve. Twelve marks criss-cross over his back, raised and still a bit bloody. Covered in muck and yet to be sterilized, they're just waiting to get infected. I shake my head and tap the top of the jar three times and twist the cork to the left, quickly. The wax seal breaks, and a soft purple light infuses the bottle. I set the cork gently on the wet ground and upend the bottle into my left hand. A thick, purple sludge drops out, running slow as molasses. I set the bottle down when I have handful and dip my fingers into the purple slime on my left palm.

“This may feel oddly, either too warm or too cold, and it will probably make you sleepy, but it will take care of the pain. Alright?” I make my voice as smooth as possible, telling him exactly what I'm doing step-by-step, hoping that will help to ease his fears, but highly doubting it.

“I'm just spread the numbalm over the lashes, alright? The pain will go away in a minute, alright? I want you to tell me if anything hurts worse after I put this on, though, alright?” I say. John nods his head, and I clear my throat.

“Yes sir.” Again, in a whisper. Kid must be terrified. I sigh and make my way downward, working the cream in along the upraised tracks. I hiss along with him as I touch a particularly nasty laceration and pain shoots through my back. It disappears almost instantly, though. Hopefully that's because the numbalm has taken care of it. As I work, it soaks into my fingers, making them clumsy and slow. I switch hands three quarters of the way through.

“You ok?” I ask him as I finish up on the last lash, wiping my hands on my pants and surveying my handwork. His back looks like it's bruised as well as broken, but I can't smell any pain, so that's good. “Is there anything else that hurts?” I ask him, just to be sure. He shrugs. I let out a huff of annoyance and prompt, yet again, “Answer out loud please.”

“M-mmm-ma...” He stutters, stopping suddenly.

I press for more. “Your what?”

His shaking intensifies for a moment, and he whispers, “My leg, my lord. Where they branded it.” Ahh... The brand. I'd almost forgotten about that.

See, when they had brought him in, the last part of the buying process had been branding him, marking him as my own, forever. I had tried to bypass it, but I guess it's a requirement for any and every Mage in Mitaen, to ensure that everyone knows who's property they are. “For his safety, as well as your own, sir.” The man with the brand had said. Reluctantly, I had agreed.

Which is how, here in the car, I could still smell the stench of burning flesh, his fear, and behind that, my own disgust. I clicked my tongue and shook my head. “Get out and stand up in front of me, alright?” I took a step back and waited. Slowly, he climbed backwards and stood up. His head was as low as possible and he, still, shook like a leaf. “Spread your legs a bit and open the cloak.” He complied and I squatted in front of him. My body flushed as I realized just what his would look like from the outside. Like one of the fantasies I used to cook up during science while I stared at him. I sighed and said, “Awkward...”
“What, my Lord?” John whispered to me. I look up into his eyes, superimposing an entirely different eye in my mind, and flinched away. I took a deep breath and thrust the arousal out of my mind, forcing myself into business mode.

“Nothing. It's just an odd position, if you know what I mean.” Something told me he did, but instead of relief, I felt only more fear. All these negative emotions were giving me a headache. My nose felt like it had been scalded inside. I snort and move the cloak aside a little more. I see the mark on his left inner-thigh, my mark, livid and bright red against the pale background of his skin. It was almost as tall as my hand, an oval with a cross inside of it. It was the rune for love, the rune that had been chosen to represent me. I had changed one thing to make it mine, lifting the cross piece so it was higher than before, off center. I found it ironic that the sign for love had been used to cause such pain.

I shook my head once again and scooped out more numbalm. With my left hand I held aside the cloak and smoothed the balm over the damaged skin, feeling his sigh of relief course through me. It helped my nose a bit, and I sighed with him. Despite my 'business' attitude, the feel of his skin under my fingers was almost too much. I had to force myself to focus, to finish the job. When I had covered it all, I screwed the cap back on and stood up, tossing the jar into the back seat.

John was just standing there, feet still apart and head still down. The rain beat down onto his head, moving his hair left and right, but he made no move to put his hood up. His fear still tainted the air, and after being in such close proximity with him, I could feel his hurts too. His ribs hurt, and his left ankle tweaked. His head was swimming, keeping him from thinking real clearly. His lower back was what hurt the most though. It was like back home, after a rough football game. Like his muscles were tied into knots and punching you in the spine. My heart broke yet again, and I felt that stab of anger, and guilt. I briefly entertained the though of “Is this my fault?”, and ignore it again. I couldn't think about that. Now, I have to focus on John.

“Alright, we're done here. You can get back in the car and head back to the academy, alright?” I smiled at him, but he didn't see it. He made a move to get into the back seat, but I put out an arm to stop him. “No, you can ride in the front seat. Alright?” Again, he froze. The tidal wave of fear hit him again, and I could feel it far more acutely than before. I put a hand on his arm, attempting to force him into calm again. If anything, the panic intensified. I didn't know what to do, so I do the only thing I can think of. I wrapped him in a hug. The warm fuzzies that I was trying to pass on to him obviously didn't make the transfer, because his body remained as stiff and unyielding as a cold marble statue. I gave up after a moment, and took a step back to get another look at him. The look on his face was too much. All I could say was, “I'm sorry.” I shut the door, opened the passengers side and motioned him in. After a moment, he climbed in and sat down.

I stood out in the rain for a moment, trying to reign in my emotions. I was seriously getting tired of this soap opera, emotional tumult crap. Bidanu or not, this was stupid. Once and for all, I shoved my emotions aside, and the greyness slammed into place again. I felt a muted wave of relief. Finally, some clear thinking. I dropped into the front seat, turned the key in the ignition, and started off down the road.

Next to me, John was sitting stock still, hard and rigid as a statue, staring out into the rainy night. Moments like these, I wished there were radios on Mitean, or iPod's. Anything to break the awkward, monotonous silence. I thought about cracking a lame joke, but I doubted he would get it. God knows what he'd been through over the past year, and who he really was inside. I had a feeling that most of who he had been had been stripped away.

Granted, most of my experience with breaking slaves had come from hearsay and some trashy fanfiction I'd read back home. The gist of it is always the idea that you have to break them down to little tiny pieces and build them back up. Make them into what you wanted again. I only agreed with half of that, the building. John was already broken. Now all I had to do was put him back together.

As always, the murky doubts decended. “Is that your right? Can you really do that to another human?” Luckily, the greyness chewed those fears up and spat them out on the road behind us.

“So, is the numbalm working?” I ask John. He flinches. “It's ok to speak, you know. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise.” I reached over to grip his left knee, and he nearly jumped out of his seat at the touch. “You don't like being touched?” I ask, more likely than not knowing the answer. Like I said, most Mages don't date while active. Hence the “Personal” in personal-slave. “That's alright. We don't have to do that.” I sigh and sink back into silence.

I ponder what the hell I'm going to do as we make our way back to the Academy. I guess I'll just try to make the best of the life I've been given. Now, I can try to make the best life for the beautiful boy sitting in the seat next to me too. In a lot of ways, I've been waiting for this for years. All the way through middle and junior high, I hoped, dreamed, fantasized, wishes and prayed for this boy to be mine, and now he was; Albeit in a twisted and macabre way.

Honestly, despite the fact that I had all these doubts and worries about how I was gonna live with the kid, and the rights and wrongs of the matter, whether it was my fault he was here, mostly all I was was excited. Excited to have another guy around, besides Kike. Excited to have pulled him out of a s**t hole lifestyle, and excited to try to help him out. Mostly, I was excited to have a piece of my home with me.

When I had gotten here, they had taken everything from me, to “Help me acclimate.” They had snatched me after school, so I had had all my books, my computer, my kindle, phone, mp3, car keys. They'd taken it all, and more. They'd even taken the clothes off my back. The possibility of talking about everything I missed, all the things we'd missed was tantalizing, to say the least. I'd had to give up so much of myself when I had come here. I mean, have you ever imagined living without pop culture references? It sucks. And they don't have ice cream here. I mean, what the crap?

“You'll see. Everything is going to change. I promise.” I told him. He briefly looked over at me, and I caught a whiff of something I couldn't identify. Oh well. I was quiet for awhile, focusing on the road, and how the rain had started to let up finally, when I realized something. Hmmm...

“So, do you remember me?” I asked him. He looked over again, eyes on the dash. He shook his head no. I sighed. “Remember, you're supposed to answer me out loud.” I say. I don't know why that's so hard for him.

“M-m-my Lord?” He asks, whispering yet again. That was starting to bug me too. “May I say something?”

I smile, glad he's taking some initiative. “Of course. Say anything you want.”

He sucks in a quick breath, shocked, but forces himself on. “It's hard for me to speak. I have a Whisper spell in place.”

“What?” I ask, confused. “What's a Whisper spell?” I'd never heard of it before.

John took another deep breath, like speaking really was hard for him. “It's to keep me quiet. I have to scream to speak at a normal volume.” I was shocked. Why would they do that to him? It seemed so stupid.

I remembered what Roksboran had said about him back at the pens. “This one has an attitude problem.” That must be why. I guess I could be proud of his fight, even if that made communications difficult. I was glad that his silence of the whipping post had been out of inability to make a sound rather than the lack of concern for what was happening. That had been a huge fear of mine up to this point.

“So, talking is hard for you?” I ask, just to clarify. He nods. “Alright, then we'll ignore rule number one and work on removing the spell as soon as we can, alright?” He smells of all the same things as before, but on top of that, muting the other “colors” of his scent, is disbelief. I guess I don't blame him. We lapse back into silence. I have nothing to say, and he has no reason to talk. Somehting bugging me though. What was that? I hate being ADHD sometimes.

All around us, the rain is tapering off. The clouds are clearing, and I can see the beginnings of Mitaen's moon in the sky. Even if the cities lights pale in comparison to that of Earth, the sky at home could never hope to compete with the sky here. If we have a million stars in the states, they must have a billion here. The nigh sky here isn't black so much as gray, what with the stars crammed so closeley together. The Mitites believe that each star is another planet, another world, and that for every world there is one person that holds the key to its door. They think that the Citizens of Mitaen are incarnations of these worlds, like so many representatives in a galactic congress. It's a deep thought, mystical and almost beautiful idea, one that holds precedence in so much of their society. It seems to be too good to be true.

It is too good to be true. See, They also happen to believe that since each person holds the key to unlock the door to “their” world that everything, and everyone, in that world belongs to the Mitite that holds it's key . Hence the Imported slaves and the Expansionist idealogies.

The whole process reminds me of U.S. History, one of my favorite classes back home. The memories are murky, tainted with bidanu as they are, but I do remember our discussions of the causes of war. In WW1 it was much the same, with Expansionism and Imperialism playing a key part in setting off the chain of events that plunged Earth into the bloodiest confrontation it had ever seen. I remember doing a project on it, probably a month before I was taken. I had been so excited because John had been in my group, which meant I got to spend an entire hour each day for a week with the ability to openly look at him, as much as I wanted. I even had an excuse to talk to him.

That's what had been bugging me! Me and John. He hadn't answered my question.

I said as much, and got a sort of questioning look from him. I used his emotions to best guess what he was trying to say. 'What question?'

“Remember? I asked you if you remembered me.” He nodded. 'I remember.'

“So,” I say, smiling. “Do you remember me?”

He c***s his head to the side, actually lifting his gaze to chest level, and cocked his head to the side. I could almost hear the gears in his head turning. 'From when?' His shoulders asked me.

I had to think of how to put this in Espenia. Which made me wonder why we were still speaking that language when we had our own we could use.

“It's me.” I answered, in English this time. As the first syllable left my mouth, he tensed even more, but otherwise he did nothing. “It's me, Paul, from your class back home. It's me, John. Don't you remember me?”

At the sound of his name, he got even stiffer, so stiff I could hear his tendons popping, and started he breathing quicker. “John, what's wrong?” I asked him, reaching over to shake his leg, ignoring my promise not to touch. He threw himself away from my touch, as much as he room for anyway, and started to thunk his head against the window. Confusion, thick and foggy, wafted off of him, tonged heavily with the bite of fear.

“John, calm down. John!” I said, not knowing what I had done wrong. He slammed his head against the window, clawing at the door like an animal; making a low airy noise, like he was gasping. He threw himself to the left and I slammed on the brakes as he slammed into me, making the car skid crazily on the wet pavement. I closed my hand on his arm to try to keep him still, but that just made him react more violently. As the car came to a full stop, he jerked his arm away from me, his momentum slamming his head into the window. He goes limp, and I was worried he had knocked himself out. I wanted to reach out and shake him, to make sure he's ok, but I know that that's probably not a good move. Before I can ask though, he made the oddest noise.

I didn't know what it was at first. It sounded like he' was trying to bark or something, with a deep shaky breath in the middle. Then I caught the usual fear and sadness, this time ten times worse. My eyes watered at the intensity. With a start I realized he was crying, and can barely make out words between the sobs.

It was difficult to understand him, but I managed to make out a few words. “Please... Don't... Bad... Better... Sorry...” His shoulders shook, and he stayed pressed against the window.

My God... What had brought that on? I mean, all I'd asked was whether or not he'd remembered me. He had acted like he was in pain, throwing himself around like that. He had nearly given himself a concussion, and I don't know what would have happened if he had opened the door. Mitite cars don't have seat belts.

After a bit, he starts to calm down. I just wait for him to do something, not moving or sayign anything for fear of setting off another fit. After about three minutes, I feel his emotions start to calm down. Lingering in the air is a scent I know, or at least I know the emotions it represents. It's like when you trip up with an adult, unconsciously admitting to them that, Yes, it was you who had switched the shampoo with mayonnaise. That same sinking dread and immobilizing fear, mixed with a wild abandon to right what had gone wrong. It was terrible, and I couldn't place when or under what circumstances I had felt it.

John draws me from my thoughts. He doesn't move, and I can see he's still shaking, but he whispered to the window, “I'm sorry about that, My Lord. I am ready for whatever my punishment may be.”

If it hadn't been for the grayness, I may have felt something huge, like rage or sadness. Instead, all I felt was curiosity. “I may have thrown out rule number one, but I was serious about not hurting you.” He sucks in a breath, but I ignore his confusion. “What happened anyways? What did I do?”

He turns his head towards me, eyes bright with moisture and fear. “You did nothing wrong, My Lord!” It's almost a shout. “No, this was my fault. I couldn't control my emotions. That's what's wrong with me, why I'm worthless.”

Again, the grayness shuts down anything but professional curiosity as I process what he had said. “You're not worthless. I wouldn't have bought you if you were. And I didn't ask about what you did wrong. I asked about what I did wrong. Tell me.”

His eyes widen, but he obeys me. “That name, My Lord. That's the name they said wasn't mine, the one they told me to forget about. It's the one they said they'd beat me for if they ever heard me calling myself again. I apologize for my overreaction, My Lord. It will not happen again.” He almost sounded like a robot, but I knew he was still roiling on the inside. Now that we were both calmer, and the grayness had filled me up again, I noticed just how tired he was. Tired and cold. Suddenly, I remembered how cold he had been as I had walked him in from the whipping post. I cursed myself silently and reached over to the panel on the dash, drawing the control marks out to where I could see them. After a moments fiddling, the car filled with a hazy warmth, pulled through he vents from the engine. It felt good to me, so I couldn't imagine how good it must feel for John.

“There. You should have said something about being cold.” I chuckle a bit, trying to set him at ease once again. I start the car moving again as I as him. “So, if that name is off limits, what name would you like me to call you?”

He turns his head back towards the window, eyes falling shut and the exhaustion in his scent thickening. He doesn't answer me.

“Is there a name you'd like? Anything in particular?” I prod. I know he's probably be more comfortable if I just picked the name, names are important to me. I wanted him to pick it.

After a moment, I hear it, so soft I almost think I'm imagining it. “Joaquin, My Lord.”

I smile, liking the sound of that. “Alright, Joaquin.” I test the name on my tongue. “Well, we'll be home in an hour or so. Feel free to sleep until then.” For once, no fear, confusion or trepidation fills the air. He's asleep within the minute. I smile to myself, forcing myself to believe that this will all be ok. And, it will. Right?