Little Cruelties
Disclaimer: All characters and places etc are the property of Yoshiki Tanaka, KKS and others. No money being made here.
Something
of another answer to RB’s challenge.
The Scene: Narsus first rescued Alfreedo from the clutches of Silver Mask’s hands. Remember that scene? How fortunate for the Mrs-Narsus-wanna-be who came close to losing her hide. Remember that remarkable comment Silver Mask/Hermes made about if he’d had such a man by/on his side?
The Challenge: What if Silver Mask had caught Narsus that day? What happens?
All around him are the unpredictable sounds of trudging feet and the clank of metal, the grunting breaths as the soldiers shove the bound and blindfolded strategist towards, presumably, the dungeons. Narsus won’t even let himself think of any other possibilities for his destination. He has been captured by Lucitanians, religious fanatics yet abstractly, it is the fact that he has allowed himself to be captured that causes him the most pain. Granted, no man is infallible but might his seeming one mistake lead to so many others. Trying to push the thought from his mind, Narsus stumbles. Falling, his knees impact with cold stone, rough enough to be dungeon floor. The soldiers curse and he is hauled abruptly to his feet and dragged forward once again, and this time he knows that the grip on his arms is sure to cause bruises.
He doesn’t know how much father they travel before his legs give way and he slumps forward again. This time there is more cursing and when he is jerked backwards, a harsh blow across his face. Instinctively, though he knows it’s not the wisest response given the circumstances, he kicks out, aiming to strike at the face leaning towards him, only the Lucitanian hadn’t leaned forwards. And from the choked cry it sounds like inexplicably, the man has taken a blow that may keep him ever childless. In retaliation someone else strikes him and then his ankles are bound together just as tightly as his wrists.
The brief, sick humour of the moment passes him by quickly and Narsus doesn’t struggle when he is lifted and hauled, bonelessly over a broad shoulder. Despite the discomfort of his journey, it isn’t long before he’s fighting a battle with consciousness. But then, what’s the use of staying awake any longer? It would be so easy to let the darkness swallow him and let what ever will happen, happen. After all, what can he possibly do to prevent it? For a moment he almost falls back on frantic prayer but the words catch in his throat and he coughs weakly instead.
“Your false gods can’t help you now, heathen scum.” Comes the voice of the nearest fanatic.
“Neither can yours.” He wants to answer back but his mouth is dry and such a retort might actually get him killed this time. So instead, he hangs limply over the shoulder of one of his captors and the sound of Lucitanian laughter follows him down into unconsciousness.
Later he wakes to cold stone against his back and his rough bindings are removed, only to be replaced by the distinct clink of chains. Someone removes his blindfold and in the moments it takes for his eyes to adjust to the dim light shed by a single, guttering torch the soldiers have already left. The sound of the bolds sliding home on the other side of the door seems to reverberate inside his cell for an unnaturally long length of time. Shifting, Narsus uses the chains to pull himself upright, so that he is leaning against the damp wall. Surprisingly, he finds that the lengths of chain allow for a certain degree of movement. His arms hang above his head but not uncomfortably so, though not to any extent where he might conceivably do anything with his hands other than flap his wrists uselessly.
The torch on the wall splutters and even if he were not chained to a wall, it would still be too high up to be of any use. Interestingly, he has heard that Silver Mask fears fire. And that he claims to be the rightful heir to the throne of Pulsar. Narsus already has his suspicions as to Silver Mask’s true identity. The most obvious conclusion, considering the man’s own claims would be that his mask is hiding the face of one of the two sons of the late King Osirus and seeing as at least one of those sons would be far too young, it leaves the most probable solution… that the illusive Silver Mask is in fact, Prince Hermes. Of course, such a conclusion would have to ignore the official statement that reported the unfortunately death of both Princes and their mother. Burned to death, of all things… And this time, when the Devil’s Strategist closes his eyes, he dreams of all consuming flame.
This time when he wakes it is to the sound of the blots being drawn back outside his cell. The heavy door swings open, admitting a single figure. The guards make to enter as well but the figure waves them aside and Narsus wonders that they bother at all, since he is chained to the wall as it is. His visitor waits till the door closes before turning to face him properly. Narsus finds himself frowning at the man standing before him, a face he doesn’t recognise. And the man smiles unpleasantly in response.
“How are you enjoying your accommodations? Do they meet the expected standards?” The man’s voice is overtly pleasant.
“Oh, quite well. Not that I’ve any extensive experience of dungeons that is.” And Narsus gives a false smile of his own in return.
“Of course. Never the less I’m glad to hear that we haven’t disappointed.”
“Forgive me, I don’t think I’ve ever had the pleasure…”
“Ah, please pardon my absentmindedness. My name is Bajon, a humble fortune-teller in the service of Lord Silver Mask.” And Bajon accompanies his introduction with a mocking bow.
“A fortune-teller? How very intriguing. But then I suppose a cast-off Prince would have need of every advantage.” Narsus smiles a little at the flash of surprise that fleetingly appears on the other man’s face, as his so open play of his hand.
“Indeed, I must agree that a false Prince would definitely need every advantage, even if it meant the forging of diabolical alliances.”
“My, how pleasant it is to find someone who can agree with me on that.”
“Indeed. Though in of their very nature, such alliances would require any means to achieve their ends.”
“Of course that presumes that the end does justify the means, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, and just when we were getting along so pleasantly. It’s such a shame that the ends we are each trying to achieve are mutually exclusive.”
“Such a pity.” Narsus replies falsely, finding the presence of this man somewhat disturbing.
Bajon’s smile remains fixed and for a moment their eyes lock. Then the mask falls away and the sorcerer’s face is distorted by a cruel sneer. Leaning over the strategist’s prone form, resting his hands flat against the wall on either side of Narsus’ head, Bajon’s sneer twists further.
“I’m going to enjoy breaking you.” He hisses, breath ghosting across Narsus’ suddenly chilled skin and yet the strategist’s gaze doesn’t waver until Bajon has turned and departed. And the bolts across the door slide home before Narsus allows his gaze to drop to the cold, stone floor.
08/02/04
Days pass or maybe only hours before Bajon returns. This time the sorcerer has two burly guards with him and though they glower menacingly, they strike Narsus as being somewhat less threatening than the regular Lucitanian fanatics. The soldiers of the mad priest Bodan being prime examples of such deadly fanaticism. Though, the strategist reminds himself, that at least the fanatics are relatively predictable. And currently there is little indication that might allow him to predict whatever it is that will come next.
For long moments the soldiers glare, then Bajon simply folds his arms across his chest and smiles.
“Nothing to say after three days silence?” the sorcerer mockingly enquires.
Three days. Narsus’ mind latches on to the fact even as he recognises it as an underhanded interrogation method. Three days might or might not have passed but since he has no means to gauge the time by he is expected to take Bajon’s word for it. Of course it is meant to discourage him, to think that three days have passed already, worry him that no rescue has yet succeeded, induce the cramps and pains brought on by starvation and the small fact of his immobilisation.
“Has it really been three days? I hadn’t noticed.” He smiles as he replies.
“Ah, well. I suppose there is little to corroborate that.” And Bajon gestures, almost casually, to the blank walls with their single guttering torch. “Still…” He shrugs and drifts off into silence.
Narsus lowers his eyes, letting his gaze track the positions of the sorcerer and his guards from the placement of their feet. The guard on the right shifts his weight from one foot to the other, favouring his left hip more so than the right. The other leans back on his right foot, occasionally scuffing at the stones with his left. Between them, Bajon is utterly still, the folds of the long robes he wears, completely unmoving. It is the waiting that is unbearable, slumped on the cold floor, knowing that their eyes are on him and knowing equally that his defiant gaze in return might well be the trigger that they will use to… to do whatever it is that they are here to do.
As it is, Narsus can discern nothing that does prompt eventual action. Bajon moves forward, with the accompanying sound of a blade sliding from a sheath. And still Narsus refuses to look up. Then a hand grabs his jaw and turns his face to the side. He doesn’t flinch as the sharp nails dig into his skin, though they probably are sharp enough to draw blood, waiting for the perverse bite of the knife. Surprisingly, it never comes and instead Narsus finds that his hair suddenly falls free about his face, the blade simply having been used to cut through the binding keeping it back. And though the action in of itself isn’t quite disturbing, the hand that now tangles in his hair, fingertips lightly stroking his scalp while the other slides from his jaw to his throat, most definitely is. Especially when the hand in his hair tightens and the tip of, presumably, a long-nailed thumb rests against the hollow of his throat. Despite his resolve to stay calm, Narsus can feel his breathing speed up, knows he is just barely controlling the urge to gasp. The sorcerer chuckles and dry lips brush Narsus’ ear, before travelling lower, tongue flickering out to taste a sensitive pulse point. Then the hand at his throat is moving, dragging those sharp nails down past his collarbone, sliding between the openings of his tunic. The sorcerer’s tongue delicately traces the shell of his ear and Narsus clenches his jaw to subdue the shudder that wants to answer that touch.
“I wonder, do you like this… whore?” The softly spoken words are a shock. And Narsus instinctively tries to jerk free of Bajon’s grasp, earning him only a painful tug on his hair. Yet he manages to direct his gaze to meet that of the smirking sorcerer.
“My, my, it would seem that I have offended.” Bajon’s voice is still that falsely mild tone.
“But then, that is what you are, isn’t it? The General’s whore.”
Then he leans back to address the still present guards. “One wonders at the state of the Pulsian army if it so lacks for camp-followers that the great General Daryoon has to resort to…” And the sorcerer’s eloquent shrug is further insult, while the guards laugh; though Narsus is sure that it is only the most obvious part of the insult that they understand.
Turning back to the strategist, Bajon smiles one of his mild smiles again, as he slides the hand inside Narsus’ tunic lower and drags those hellish talons across the sensitive skin of Narsus’ belly. The sharp sting is enough to make Narsus flinch and though he barely stifles a gasp, he is quite sure that this time he is bleeding. Then the callous hands withdraw, allowing him to slump back against the wall once more.
He hears the footsteps that carry the sorcerer to the door but no others. The door to his cell is opened and still the guards remain. He doesn’t raise his head partly because there would be no point and partly to hide the fear that suddenly flickers into being. Then Narsus shuts down the thought, refuses to speculate. Don’t think about it, what might happen because anything you could rationally suggest will work against you. But this time, at least, he is spared seeing which of his speculations might have been correct, as Bajon beckons for the guards after a moment and the door closes behind them.
12/02/04
Wakefulness makes little difference to the passing of time within Narsus’ cell. He vaguely toys with the idea of trying to use the ever-present torch to mark the passage of time before realising the potential flaws in that plan. And after all, he has no idea how far the torch has burnt or if they even replace it from time to time, besides it’s not as if he can even see it all that clearly from his position on the floor. A little while ago, he tried staring at the torch, trying to gauge something, anything by it and only briefly earned himself a black spot in the centre of his vision for his trouble. These Lucitanian dungeons are surprisingly clean, no creatures in the dark scurrying, no dripping of water from far off, nothing to break the bleak silence. It even seems that the door to his cell is thick enough that no sound of guards outside penetrates. Though the thought of guards immediately has him thinking of Bajon’s previous entrance, with his two requisite, supposedly intimidating, guards. Focusing on how bland the guards appeared helps him keep from fixating on the sorcerer. Of all his potential tormentors, the sorcerer is actually someone to be feared. While a few violent underlings can be painfully survived it is Bajon that he must somehow resist. And of course they both know that.
Narsus leans back, resting his head against the wall. Closing his eyes he considers what, if anything he can surmise from the recent encounter. The most obvious point is the enemy knowledge of his personal life, though now he takes the time to examine it clearly; it’s more supposition with only the most obvious fragment of truth. It’s general knowledge that he and Daryoon are close friends and confidants. Neither has made any pretence to the contrary; in the face of defeat at Atoropatene he was the first one that Daryoon sort out for aid and regardless of currently situations and affections within the Prince’s camp it is Narsus who has the privilege of ever-flirtatious conversations with the General. From that given information it is only then a small leap to paint them as lovers. There is no definite evidence, just implication. The same is true for the rest of the insult. Calling him a whore, a camp-follower because it is a soldier’s bed he shares, apparently.
Though Narsus can’t quite smile at the inevitable train of logic, it does take some of the sting from Bajon’s words. The great and cunning sorcerer for all his supernatural aid knows only as much as a common gossip. Thus the knowledge is nothing that can be used against him… or Daryoon. At least so he hopes. But Narsus refuses to think about Daryoon, at least not now, not when the twist of a bile-dripping tongue turning on a wistful memory might be enough to break him. Because it is never the larger problems that defeat a man, never the grand schemes of the cosmos that cripple the spirit. In the end it is the little cruelties that destroy all hope, that cling like fading mist, that drag you down into despair and if he is to survive this then there are some things he can not risk. Yet ironically, it is these same few things that in the days to come he will cling to, under the surface of his memory, to keep him sane.
The next time Bajon enters the cell, Narsus is already awake and waiting. And the strategist’s gaze is cool, wary but almost challenging as well. It’s the sort of look that might have unnerved all but the most experienced integrator. Though it’s not as if Bajon is particularly asking any questions… yet. Whatever information the sorcerer is after can wait, will come easily once his victim is broken. So he doesn’t see any point in wasting time plying Narsus with questions now. Or perhaps not ever, since Bajon is enjoying his game for no reason other than his own inherent sadism.
Narsus watches the sorcerer approach with his flanking guards. They come to stop in almost the same places as before, though this time there are no false words exchanged in greeting. Dropping his gaze to the floor Narsus speculates for a moment on what will come next. In front of him there is silence and a lack of movement from the sorcerer that he has come to expect. He waits. They appear to be waiting too. The sound of breathing and the occasional crackle of the torch are the only disturbance to the silence… that and the sound of Narsus’ own heart beat that drums in his ears. He doesn’t know how long it stretches out, this stillness, the anticipatory calm before the storm. The effort of holding himself still burns through his cramped muscles, his chest aches as he tries to stifle and regulate his breaths and still he strains to hear some slight indication of movement.
Finally, where Narsus is beginning to think that he might find himself gasping like a drowning man, because the anticipation is wearing at him remorselessly, because of the mingling fear and pain that started as a dull ache and has now become agony, because the despair so very close to the surface is battering at the walls of his sanity… he hears Bajon issue a command to the guards. He doesn’t hear the actual command over the pounding in his head and only barely manages some semblance of awareness because on the edge of his vision the sorcerer is walking towards him.
Bajon ignores any preamble, simply grabbing Narsus by the hair and jerking his head back. Their eyes lock.
“You think you can resist me!” The sorcerer hisses.
Narsus doesn’t reply because it’s obvious that right now, resisting is the only thing that he can do.
“So you think…” The hissing voice continues. “But I’ll break you, eventually, slowly. By the time I’m finished you won’t even have the presence of mind to beg for death. And then… then, perhaps I’ll send you back to them. Your precious allies, your beloved General and then we’ll see if they want you back!”
Bajon releases his hair abruptly and Narsus’ head slams back against the wall. It takes a few moments for him to recover from the force of the blow and by then there are already hands ripping at the fabric of his tunic. There isn’t even time to panic as his flesh is bared to the cold dungeon air, barely time to register his horror at the feel of Bajon’s hands on him again. Hands that slice into him with their long nails and then as if that wasn’t enough, the cold bite of a knife, dangerously deep, as if meant to sever the tendons of his left arm. Then a sharp pain spreading across his shoulder, the horrible feeling of saliva cooling on a wound left by human teeth.
Narus moans weakly, head falling back against the stone and still the knife doesn’t stop moving. Creating a tracery of nicks and cuts across the fragile canvas of his skin. Breaks in his skin are matched with the dull ache that will form bruises, countered by the sudden gentle touch of finger-tips trailing lightly across already aggravated wounds and worse still the feeling of lips against those same injuries, fluttering softly in what could almost be a kiss.
Then as suddenly as it started, it ceases. Bajon doesn’t even sit back to admire his handiwork. Instead when the sorcerer moves back, still clutching his knife, he emits something of a disgusted sound. Before turning abruptly on his heel and harshly calls his guards to him as he leaves. The door to the cell slams shut behind them and Narsus blacks out before the bolts even slide home.
When next he wakes each breath comes as rasping pain. The ache in his limbs has intensified so much so that Narsus is thankful that he isn’t required to move. Yet as he becomes more wakeful, he is suddenly aware that he is no longer chained to the wall, that he is in fact lying down on a pallet on the floor. For a moment the insane hope that none of his imprisonment was real flares, before he realises that it’s more likely that the Lucitanians don’t want him to die just yet and are therefore seeing to his injuries. A slightly deeper breath that escapes as a sigh and he can feel the bandages wrapped round his torso, some across his arms, another binding his left shoulder. Not salvation then, just a brief respite from the pain.
He doesn’t open his eyes when someone lifts his head a little and urges him to drink some water. At least it seems that they’ve realised that they need to feed him if he’s to stay alive. Though Narsus finds it slightly humorous to consider how doing as such must grate against their fanatical beliefs. Having to waste resources on a heathen must annoy them greatly. A little later, the gentle hands return helping him to sit up a little and this time feeding him some sort of broth. It seems that he must have been unconscious for at least a day to warrant this sort of care. And always the hands are gentle, careful of his wounds and who ever they belong to doesn’t seem to be perturbed that Narsus refuses to open his eyes. He has no indication of how many days he spends like this, drifting between sleep and consciousness, being carefully tended. His bandages are changed; his wounds cleaned but sometimes the hands do little other than stroke his hair soothingly. And for what little comfort it is, Narsus finds that he welcomes it.
Eventually, he wakes to a lack of pain. His injuries have begun their healing and the drowsiness has faded from his mind. He can feel the last of his bandages being removed as he lies there. Once they have finished their task, one hand moves to lightly stroke his cheek and Narsus sighs softly. The warm body of his caretaker moves closer, lying alongside him. The soft hand that had been stroking his cheek now slides downwards, lightly trailing over his chest, careful of his healing injuries, coming to rest on his flat stomach. He feels warm breath against his lips. Still he doesn’t open his eyes, knowing somewhat instinctively that these are the rules of the game. And as their lips meet, the hand that had been resting on his stomach boldly moves lower, caressing him through scant layers of material. He gasps, arching into that touch, as the demanding mouth releases his own. And then a second hand joins the first: touch, light and teasing before he is being exposed to cool air. He manages to stifle the cry that wants to break free at the loss of those firm hands, only to find himself choking back the desperate moan as warm lips engulf him, skilfully tugging at aching flesh. And it isn’t very long till he’s shuddering and crying out his release before falling limply back against the pallet.
After long moments of exhaustion Narsus forces his eyes open, only to find himself staring at a very smug looking Bajon, kneeling between his legs. The sorcerer’s smirk widens at the look of dawning horror on Narsus’ face. And then Bajon wipes his lips with the back of his hand and Narsus wants to scream. He can only watch, helplessly as Bajon readjusts his clothing, then stands up and calls for the guards. And Narsus is too stunned to even put up a token struggle as they drag him up and proceed to once more chain him to the wall.
20/02/04
Once more he is left alone for an immeasurable length of time. Left to contemplate the possible complications of his healing injuries and the implications of the provided care. Not that the sorcerer’s touch is any less unbearable that it was the first time. Just the memory of Bajon’s hands on him is enough for Narsus to have to fight back an involuntary shudder. But he can’t afford to be distracted by such details, for details are all that he can allow such things to be. Because if they become more than details, more than petty, stupid additions to his sorry situation, then he’ll have lost half the battle already. As long as he can think, can hope that there is some larger plan in action, some greater matter at stake then… Then Narsus is certain that he can keep fooling himself, keep telling himself that all this will serve some larger purpose. Everything that they have put him through and anything that he might suffer at their hands in the future can be assigned some value in his mind, cast as a part of some greater framework and not just the inconsequential sufferings of a prisoner at the hands of his fanatical tormentors. Which brings him to another point, something that almost disturbs his train of logic given the circumstances. Other than the sadistic Bajon and his generic guards, there has been no one else to seeming gain from his imprisonment. Of course, it may simply meant that Silver Mask or Hermes or who ever he is under that helmet, has complete faith in his torturer and is calmly waiting for and receiving reports beyond the starkness of these dungeons. It seems the most sensible possibility. After all, why sully one’s hands when there is someone else more than willing to take on the task?
Yet some
time later, Narsus finds himself worrying about
another possible reason that Bajon is his only
visitor. The same reason
that for all this talk of breaking him there has been no questioning of
what he knows and little other than the initial insinuations about his
relationship with Daryoon. Perhaps Silver Mask doesn’t
not know what has been done to him in this cold cell or perhaps, more
likely, he does not care. How better to
cripple the enemy than to prevent them from reaching the likely aid of
If it were Daryoon or Pharangase they would resist till the end, warriors both, expecting and giving no quarter. But the Prince is just a child, a child with just enough knowledge to realise the horror of it all, a child just like… And Narsus clenches his jaw till it aches, knowing that concentrating on the pain, the dull ache is the only thing keeping back a sob.
Later when the sound of the bolts on the door being thrown back reverberates in his cell, Narsus flinches involuntarily, knowing that his nerves are still frayed and raw-edged. He can feel the faint tremors that pass through his body caused by fatigue, physical and mental. Knows that Bajon will look for and find them. And when the sorcerer enters the cell to stand before him, flanked as usual by his guards, Narsus doesn’t need to raise his head to see the sneer etched on those now familiar features.
“Broken so soon? Who would have thought… all it took was a little kindness adequately applied between a little pain.”
The sorcerer’s laugh bounces off the cold stones and behind him the guards shuffle about as if uncertain if they are permitted to join in. And then a sharp-nailed finger is hooked under his chin, forcing him to meet that cool gaze.
“So very weak.” The sorcerer mutters half to himself and to his horror Narsus feels a tear slide down his cheek. Bajon’s eyes track the path of the tear before he leans forwards as if he were a lover come to kiss away the pain.
“Pathetic.”
And despite the fact that it is a gentle whisper or perhaps because of it the strategist shudders again. In response almost, he feels the soft pad of a thumb brush over his lips, the touch feather-light; tracing the shape of his mouth, teasing between lips that instinctively want to part. It is only through the minute jerk of his head that the sorcerer knows that he wants rid of that touch so desperately but it is enough to set off that awful laughter again. Enough to have Bajon’s other hand cup the side of his face, holding him still for a moment before sliding through his hair, before that possessive touch moves further down to trail over freshly healed skin. It seems almost as if Bajon admires his handiwork in the map of broken flesh, over flaking scabs and tender scars. Perhaps he does, perhaps it is not the act of cutting that enthrals him, not the initial flush of blood but the intricate tracery that it leaves behind.
Then Narsus finds that his ruined tunic is being pushed open and the cold air prickles his flesh once more. And both of the sorcerer’s hands are on him, pressing into healed wounds, feather-light against the curve of bone under flesh, carefully taking possession. Not once do the sharp nails scrape against his over-sensitised skin; he feels only the most delicate or deliberate touch. And in some way that is worse than the feel of those claws before, somehow worse now that his tormentor takes the time to be careful. He ends up closing his eyes because in some arbitrary, irrelevant fashion if he can’t see what is happening to him, then somehow… somehow…
Bajon’s lips brush against his cheek and Narsus trembles, unable to pull away, unwilling… And then his eyes snap open in horror, Bajon’s chuckle soft in his ear. The feel of that body shifting closer is enough to unnerve him; the way that one hand slips down to stroke his thigh, the fact that the other hand has slid round to rest on his lower back, forcing him to arch forward. The sound of breathing in his ear has sped up and it takes all the remnants of Narsus’ shattered self-control to stifle a whimper. As it is, he can’t hold back the stuttered breath that turns into a gasp as Bajon’s shifting moves the sorcerer further between his spread legs. A flick of a tongue against his ear and then both hands are deliberately stroking his thighs. And perhaps if it weren’t for the temporary reprieve of clothing Narsus knows he would be starting to panic.
Still trying to hold on to some semblance of control, it takes Narsus a moment to notice that Bajon’s hands have stopped their obscene caresses, are just resting on him now with the occasional stroke of a thumb against his sensitive inner thighs. He’s trembling now, with the helpless urge to do something, to somehow fight back. Even though it’s useless, even though he’s chained, immobile to a wall, even though there are guards present, fully capable of holding him down… Another stifled gasp and then he suddenly finds himself looking into inhumanly red eyes. Staring directly into the sorcerer’s unnatural gaze, seeing in it only madness. And he can’t turn away, feeling the fear build, unable to disguise it though he knows that just like every other weakness, it will be used against him. Though for some reason it seems that Bajon is simply content to stare, for long unblinking moments. The sorcerer’s gaze is strangely unguarded in those instants, leaving Narsus both confused and apprehensive as to what it means. Then, in keeping with this change in direction, Bajon’s lips brush his, gentle, almost tender. And Narsus can’t think because he is being kissed, by those same lips that laughed at his weakness, that called him a whore. Daryoon’s whore, to be precise. Which is why his mouth hardens and he tries to pull away from that abhorrent touch, though it only seems to amuse Bajon as the sorcerer sits back a little to smirk at him.
“My, my… and for a moment it looked like you were enjoying it… whore.”
The smirk remains but interestingly the sorcerer doesn’t try to touch Narsus again.
“In fact, it almost makes me wonder if there’s something better to fit between your lips.”
And in response the strategist bares his teeth.
Bajon only laughs, a sound surprisingly devoid of maliciousness before he stands up and with an efficient gesture, summons the guards to him as he leaves.
In the long moments of silence after the cell door has closed, Narsus remains the way that Bajon has left him, trying not to think. Then calmly he draws his legs together. In fact he doesn’t care how much the chains bite into his writs as he uses them to pull himself up a little so that he can tuck his legs beneath him. Though as soon at that’s done he lets himself relax limply back against the wall. His eyes take on an impenetrable, glazed quality, that some might mistake for a vacant mind and which Daryoon has frequently blamed on drunkenness. But that is only the façade because behind it there are fragments being slotted together, plans within plans forming and Narsus is wondering how best the sorcerer’s madness might be used against him.
03/03/04
The trick, Narsus decides a few days later, is to provoke Bajon. To attack the sorcerer’s precious self-control, to cause him such fury and resentment that he is moved to foolish actions. And of course to make sure that afterwards he is fully aware of that loss of control. It is a simple plan really, the sort of thing that could so easily work against him and in that comparison Narsus finds a certain sense of irony. They are similar, too similar to co-exist… even if it were possible; they would destroy each other. He can’t imagine a scenario where they both might have some modicum of peace. And philosophically speaking, peace is in fact what he would like. He’d very much prefer it but, on reflection, he’ll settle for silence.
Fortunately for his plan it seems that Bajon has some certain issues with his self-control already. That little episode which might very well have left Narsus bleeding to death is proof of the fact but regardless of the sorcerer’s predilection for such actions, to let the matter rest on Bajon’s varying moods leaves far too much to chance. While Narsus might believe in fate enough not to outright refute it, he’s not willing to let his continued existence hang by Atropus’ thread. Though he’ll certainly see if something can be done to shorten the weave of Bajon’s life under Lachesis’ hands.
Yet as much as he anticipates acting on his plans, Narsus can not help but worry about the possible repercussions. He’s fairly sure that he can manipulate Bajon because finding the other man’s weaknesses will be all that much easier due to their similarities. All he will need to do is face his own limitations… which, as much of a cliché as it sounds, is easier said than done. And more worrying than that, if they really are that similar, might it not be possible that the sorcerer has decided on the same solution? In which case neither of them will ‘win’ because they will just destroy each other and themselves. But then… Narsus doesn’t know. The very idea is making his head ache. Which is the lesser of two evils? Destroy the sorcerer and himself in the process or just sit here and wait for the end, notwithstanding the fact that Bajon might kill him anyway? Of course the decision is a moot point. He’ll try to do something; anything because just waiting here helplessly is the one thing that would break him. And it looks as if the same is true for the sorcerer because couldn’t Bajon just as easily leave him here to rot? After all, wouldn’t that be the finest form of torture, to let Pulsar’s strategist go mad, all alone with only echoing stone walls for company?
When Bajon finally returns Narsus watches the other man’s movements about the cell with lowered eyes. Yet there is only silence and the whisper of Bajon’s robes over stone as the sorcerer paces in front of him. Narsus can feel himself tensing as he tracks the sorcerer’s movements, trembling and growing more paranoid by the second. But of course that is probably the point, Bajon’s silence pacing may well be a means to drive him to distraction. And if that is the case, then these games may come to an end very quickly.
Strangely enough it is that thought that pricks at Narsus’ mind and starts the spinning of schemes once again. The sorcerer is acting in a certain fashion with the full knowledge of what those actions will do to him, what they are most likely to do to him. That is the point that the entire matter turns upon: his most likely response. The Devil’s Strategist has become predictable, at least to his man, this necromancer. But it is no grand work of black magic that has delivered Narsus into his hands, just a steady, dogged observation. An analytical mind, an eye for detail, the cunning to build a scheme on only limited resources… And Narsus has to fight back a laugh; it is all so very predictable, so very perfect. He could easily come to love Bajon and in his narcissistic moment of revelation, the strategist smiles.
Bajon isn’t actually looking at Narsus, so it takes the nervous shuffling of the guards to alert him to the sudden change in the atmosphere. The sorcerer pauses a little way from his captive and stares. Narsus doesn’t raise his head but continues to smile or perhaps it could more properly be called a smirk.
“And what is it that you are finding so amusing this morning?”
“You, me, everything, this entire situation…”
The sorcerer, taken aback, hesitates for a moment and the strategist’s smile broadens. The guards seem to have ceased their shuffling but somehow have begun to edge back towards the door.
“Where do you think you’re going!” Bajon snaps at them before turning back to fix his gaze on that obscene smirk again. Then he crouches down in front of his prisoner and grabs hold of Narsus hair, forcing the strategist to meet his eyes.
“What ever it is that you’re playing at won’t help you here.”
But the only reply is that continual smirk.
“Do you think that you can outwit me? Do you think yourself better than I am?”
And Narsus barely manages to hold his tongue instead of giving the answers of ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ respectively. Then Bajon’s grip tightens in his hair and the sorcerer leans forwards, leering.
“Or perhaps you really do enjoy this, whore.”
The sorcerer’s gaze is fixed on Narsus’ parted lips so he doesn’t notice the gleam of triumph in those green eyes. And Narsus manages to mask the disdainful curl of his lip at the thought that Bajon really needs to find some new insults. Slowly Bajon raises his eyes to meet Narsus’, fixing that piercing stare on the strategist perhaps in the hope of unnerving him.
“Yes, I think you’re enjoying this far too much.” The sorcerer’s lips are now only a hairsbreadth away, his previous raging volume dropped to soft insinuations.
“Perhaps I am.” And Narsus’ smile doesn’t waver.
“The General’s pretty little whore.” The sorcerer whispers against his mouth, giving the strategist no chance to reply as he claims that mouth in a bruising kiss. And for the first time Narsus doesn’t think of resisting, he yields without hesitation.
When Bajon releases him, it is the sorcerer who looks ever so faintly worried. Whose pale cheeks are slightly flushed, whose hands tremble as they withdraw. Narsus lets his gaze drop once more, though he studies those reactions discreetly and from what they tell him, either the sorcerer isn’t quite as experienced as he pretends or at least, he’s not so experienced with a somewhat willing partner. It might explain all the insults that centre around his relationship to Daryoon. Perhaps in Bajon’s mind such a relationship can never be equal, one person always having to be the one to dominate the other, which would certainly make for a skewed outlook on life. Then again, perhaps Narsus is simply trying to give the sorcerer the benefit of the doubt or perhaps not, perhaps he is simply trying to look at the situation from all angles. And to be honest, he doesn’t think that he’s capable of that much sympathy.
As it is, Narsus barely has time to reflect on that speculation before the unnaturally red eyes narrow suspiciously and he receives a harsh slap across the face for his trouble. Which for all it’s sharp sting makes Narsus wonder again because just as Bajon’s palm connects with his cheek, he feels the faint jerk of the sorcerer’s wrist being pulled back so as to lessen the impact. Letting his head fall forwards Narsus holds still, waiting for whatever will come next. The sorcerer doesn’t move, then a hand reaches out and a sharp nailed finger tilts his chin up. Bajon inspects the mark he has left and in a moment of masochism Narsus licks his lips and smiles. Abruptly he is released. And this time the Devil’s Strategist doesn’t hold back his laughter, dropping his gaze once more he is already chuckling when Bajon calls for his guards. His laughter is getting louder and louder as the sorcerer stumbles towards the door, his guards already unnerved. Then, just as the door is wrenched open, Narsus becomes abruptly silent, causing the sorcerer to pause and eye him suspiciously again.
“I suppose…” Narsus suddenly begins in an absurdly conversational tone. “I suppose I should be flattered that it takes all this to entomb me.” And he gestures with his chained hands to encompass the cell, the fortress and everything else that keeps him prisoner.
Bajon opens his mouth as if to reply but then says nothing.
“I mean, it’s not as if I’m Zahak or anything really.”
The sorcerer hesitates a moment too long in looking away and Narsus catches the suddenly worried gaze. Sees the fear and suspicion that has grown in place of contempt. Then Bajon turns abruptly on his heel and stalks swiftly from the cell.
This time, once the door has closed and the bolts have been thrown home, Narsus smiles smugly at nothing. His guess seems to have paid off. An unfounded guess based on nothing really. Based on the fact that the Lucitanians aren’t getting anything of value from him, that even Silver Mask isn’t gaining from his imprisonment, that all it seems to serve is the sadism of one sorcerer. Bajon claims to be a humble fortune-teller but Narsus has heard the rumours and he knows the value of hearsay. His spies have often reported that the illusive Silver Mask keeps a sorcerer, a power necromancer who seems to serve for no reason other than to cause destruction. These are old rumours but by their reckoning so was the sorcerer. Supposedly old and withered, keeping himself to himself in his underground lair. Which is why Narsus was a little surprised to find that same sorcerer appeared quite young and attractive. Not necessarily because it seemed impossible that they might be the same man but because he has heard the tales, the old stories about the rewards Zahak’s black magicians have garnered from the sacrifice of blood. The legends are familiar to him since those same old tales say that the Snake King’s tomb lies beneath the Devermant mountains; the region where he was born. And not for the first time Narsus’ knowledge of the ancient mythology has been found to have some relevance in present time.
Yet his self-congratulatory mood does not last because if he is correct, as it would seem; if Bajon truly is a servant of Zahak, then it might take more than mortal cunning to find a way out of this situation.
11/03/04
Surprisingly, days later Narsus is beginning to wonder if his assessment of Zahak’s servant is correct after all. Because for all his apparent connections to dark supernatural powers, the following days of torment are nothing but pedestrian tortures. And the strategist doesn’t know if he could be grateful or disappointed at the fact. Probably the former but he can’t help wonder at his own sense of nihilism, that would have relished an insurmountable challenge.
“So what is it exactly that you’re hoping to accomplish here?” He asks one day, in his blandest tone before the sorcerer’s guards even have a chance to close the cell door behind them.
The guard outside the cell twitches but says nothing as the door swings closed. The guards inside the cell just look apprehensive again. Bajon swings round to face him, tightly controlled fury evident in his twitching features.
“What do I mean to accomplish? What do I mean to accomplish!” And then, as expected, a hand suddenly twists in his hair, jerking his head up so that his gaze meets the sorcerer’s.
“How dare you-“
“Rivers of blood? Death, pain and destruction?” Narsus queries still in that mild tone.
And Bajon is shocked into silence.
“In His name will you lay waste to all the nations of the world? Do you think he will reward you: his faithful servant, his foolish slave?”
Narsus reels backwards at the force of the sorcerer’s blow, striking his head against the wall he is chained to. It takes him a moment to recover enough to spit out the blood he tastes in his mouth and continue his monologue.
“And the rivers will run red with the blood of the fallen, the great nations of the world turned to dust at His command…”
“Yes…” Bajon hisses. “An end to all things…”
This time the strategist smiles a little when he replies. “I’d almost wish to help you, if you could really promise me an end to everything…” he says in barely a whisper before raising his voice again “But then, somehow I don’t think the servants of Yaldabod would agree with you.”
The sorcerer watches as Narsus’ gaze flickers towards the guards briefly and Bajon guesses immediately what the compromise would be; have the Lucitanian guards hear his heresy or dismiss them and loose that particular method of intimidation. Yet for the sorcerer there is no compromise, there is little the guards can do but dislike the heretic in their midst, the heretic who will give them victory over Pulsar. So he smiles and leans over the strategist again.
“It doesn’t matter what they think. As long as they have their victory what does the means to the victory matter?”
For a moment Narsus’ eyes widen in shock, then his gaze narrows coldly. “The ends never justify the means.”
Bajon shrugs “Ah, well… Just another thing this we disagree on.”
23/03/04
And despite the sudden rush of fear at what response he might have provoked this time, Narsus is secretly triumphant because that in of itself has proven that he knows how to get the sorcerer to respond, even if it is subconsciously. If this were an open battle-field, or at least as open as any strategist’s battle-field might be, they would probably be equally matched. They might each provoke the other and slowly end their dance in mutual destruction, for in learning the patterns of the other they might be absorbed into such behaviour themselves… because they are too similar, because they are very much the same. And yet, Bajon’s apparent advantage has proved, will prove his downfall because in all his control over every nuance of their encounters, the one thing that has failed to anticipate is the machinations of a trapped strategist. Because Bajon has allowed himself to be manipulated, has believed that his advantage will always hold sway and thus has overestimated himself. The first rule of warfare, Narsus remembers is to always remain formless, to allow the enemy to believe that they have the advantage and to let them act accordingly, only then is it possible to construct an argument to dissuade them.
When Bajon reaches out to run his fingers through Narsus’ hair, the strategist doesn’t flinch. Instead he smiles when the sorcerer notices that his actions don’t produce the anticipated response.
“I could destroy you.” Comes the whisper of his captor.
“Then why don’t you?”
And the sorcerer lets go with a snarl. “I will destroy you.”
Yet he says nothing further, simply calling his guards to him and departing without a backwards glance.
“Put men on a ground of death and they will live.” Narsus quotes absently in the silence then he leans back against the wall and closes his eyes.
Of course, he will live. His will survive this because it is in his nature to do so. He will survive all the pains and anguish heaped upon him, no matter how terrible, no matter how devastating. He will survive because it is the only thing he knows how to do. The Devil’s Strategist will not give in so easily because… because, perhaps on some level a masochistic part of him enjoys this, enjoys the challenge. There have been no others like this pale servant of Zahak. No one else to challenge his intellect or his cunning. No one else quite so sadistic or dominant, that he aches to yield. No one else quite so lovely or diabolical as him, and in this Narsus means himself, since he is sure that there has never been anyone else who could compare to his fractured beauty, both of mind and body. Yes, perhaps in some unholy, narcissistic fashion he does indeed love Bajon.
It’s nothing to compare to the way in which he loves Daryoon though. Narsus won’t sully that relationship with any foolish comparison. Daryoon loves him in an entirely different sense, perhaps in the way it should be. And of course Narsus returns the sentiment wholeheartedly but in the matter of this sorcerer… it is a wholly unhealthy type of affection. Like the admiration of a perfect reflection or an unnatural fascination with the grave. But just because he finds the reflection beautiful to behold does not mean that he’d like to remain here forever, gazing at it’s empty depths. It has to end soon and one of them must break.
Narsus hopes it will not be him.
When Narsus wakes he remembers, uncomfortably enough, dreams that border on clichés of symbolism. Empty landscapes with mirrors breaking, always breaking… Shattered fragments that never reflect his own face or perhaps it wasn’t his face to start with, perhaps he is the broken reflection after all?
Perhaps then Bajon is disappointed when he returns to torment his prisoner or perhaps he is so deeply mired in his foolish game that he doesn’t notice when Narsus alternately tries to provoke him or just stares blankly at nothing.
The stinging blows still hurt but Narsus’ mind is too clouded to truly respond to the pain. The sharp slashes of a blade draw blood, come dangerously close to doing permanent damage and yet neither man really seems to notice. The strategist is so caught up with the intricacies of a multitude of plans that could so easily be madness that he pushes aside the pain and focuses on his spiralling thoughts, while the sorcerer goes through the motions but truly pays little attention to anything his prisoner might say. Bajon is entranced by the fine lines of scaring that he has caused, by the myriad of colours in a bruise, the warmth of the skin beneath his fingertips. He thinks that perhaps, in another life, he might fancy himself an artist.
Panting, flexing the fingers cramped round his knife Bajon pauses to survey his handiwork. And in that pause Narsus blinks slowly, focusing his gaze on the man kneeling in front of him.
“Kill me.” He says in such a neutral tone that it’s indistinguishable as either a request or a question.
“No.” And the knife drops with a disturbingly loud clatter.
Narsus’s mouth opens to voice some thought; some question but then Bajon’s lips are upon his, devouring him with such heat and passion that the ever-present guards shift uncomfortably.
There is a brief moment, when the sorcerer’s kiss is met by slack lips and Narsus’ mind stutters to a halt. An instant when Narsus wants nothing more than to struggle free of Bajon’s grasp, when he longs to cry out Daryoon’s name… but it is only an instant.
He will survive this, somehow… And he kisses the sorcerer back, blanking Daryoon’s face from his mind.
Almost as suddenly as it began, the sorcerer breaks the kiss. Aware of the guards again, he sits back on his heels and sneers.
“Perhaps we’ve been neglecting you? Or at least neglecting those special attentions that you seem so eager to receive?” Bajon’s gaze flickers to the guards.
The slow realisation of what the sorcerer is suggesting dawns across their bland faces and Narsus lets his head fall forwards as he catches sight of their leers.
“Now, now we should let our Pulsian whore get used to the idea first. Let him wait a little, after all, don’t they say that anticipation is half the pleasure?”
Bajon trails a hand down Narsus’ face, in mockery of a lover’s touch, before he leans in close, just as he’s done before.
“Next time…” His warm breath pickles across Narsus’ skin. “I’ll have you and no one is going to be able to save you from me. Not your gods, not your beloved General…”
This time, when Narsus is left alone, he continues to stare at the floor. Looking for all the world like the dejected wretch they hope to finally break. The torch on the wall splutters and the strategist raises his head to gaze at it slowly, then he blinks and his hazy green eyes snap into focus. And he smiles slightly.
“You forget… that perhaps I can save myself.” He mutters softly.
Yet for all his silence, the gaze of the Devil’s Strategist burns will all the fires of hell.
25/03/04
This is easily what Narsus might call the countdown till the end, to the completion of his destruction. To the mutual annihilation of both parties. And he can’t help but wonder if he regrets it, the end to the game, to this perfect dance, this ungodly existence. He wonders if Bajon might regret too, if it is possible that Zahak’s servant might feel something akin to human sympathy when he seems to bent on serving his master’s will? Perhaps, because in basic flashes of emotion there has seemed some spirit of… Of what, he doesn’t quite know. Not sympathy for his plight, not regret for the pains caused but something. Something so indelible that to give it voice might shatter it, burden it with the weight of meaningless words that… that are simply unnecessary. In the end words are always worth less than their meanings, their intent. And the Devil’s Strategist knows the weight of sophistry both in the hollow words and the equally unmet intent. Just as he knows the weight of his own words and intentions, just as equally as the sorcerer must know his own. They are equally, perfectly matched and only one can possibly remain.
Yet Narsus wonders again at the nature of his survival. If it will be enough to simply survive this ordeal or if in surviving he will break anyway. Perhaps, perhaps but it is a necessary risk, just like all his other strategic manoeuvres. Perhaps Daryoon will not forgive him and Bajon will have secured some small measure of victory. And Narsus smiles at that, since a victory won by the dead is surely somewhat hollow.
And what if they follow each other down into Hell? Then Bajon will have ranged behind him the fallen warriors of Zahak, ranks upon ranks of defeated Lucitanians, a hundred generations of necromancers stretched back though time. And Narsus? He will, he thinks have the advantage of a thousand generations of disgruntled ancestors, the might of the greatest Pulsian army ever gathered and of course, all the powers of Hell itself. After all, surely after some point they must owe him some favours. He can’t help but laugh at his own pretensions, even though it is the laugh of a condemned man, the insane laughter of one so close to madness that he might be called a genius…
Once he though that all he wanted was peace, an end to the constant clamour of living, once… He’d often said that he wanted peace but he’d settle for silence and others had laughed, not understanding that he meant every word. Only Daryoon had seen though the truth disguised as fiction. Those blue eyes that had always seemed so guileless to him, so piercing, had always narrowed a little in thought when he had said such things. As if the General were also contemplating the end of such an existence or perhaps just the end of Narsus’ existence. And that understanding had always been enough to pull him back from the brink of nihilism, it was always enough to make him consider the alternative of surviving. Not just the next battle or the next but all of it; enough to make him consider the bizarrely absorbing possibility of life continuing for some indefinable length of time. Was that enough to persuade him to survive this? A battle with both himself and a seemingly insurmountable foe, insurmountable because they were practically the same. Perhaps… perhaps…
When Bajon enters the cell again, he brings a different pair of guards with him but Narsus says nothing, remaining with his head bowed, awaiting whatever judgement may come. What ever will be, will be. It is a lesson he has learnt many times over and long before Bajon or his ilk were ever his concern. Perhaps if the powers that be smile upon him this time, he may yet have time to learn that lesson again.
The guards shuffle uncomfortably, remarkably like their predecessors. Seeming reluctant to be here in this cell, will their chained prisoner, the heathen Pulsian: the strategist who wields the unholy powers of Hell. When the sorcerer comes to stand in his customary place in front of him Narsus still refuses to look up. And in an obvious parody of their initial meeting, Bajon stands motionless in silence. Long moments drag out and still Bajon does nothing but stare. Narsus can feel the weight of that gaze on his bowed head, knows that the unnatural red-tinged gaze holds neither rage nor sympathy. Finally, raising his gaze to meet the sorcerer’s, there is little to do other than face the inevitable. They eyes lock and Narsus almost wants to ask if Bajon regrets… anything. For all the foolishness of such a question, it suddenly seems important or perhaps it doesn’t, perhaps he is just fooling himself into thinking that the sorcerer might regret. And after all, it’s not as if it matters, either way. Or at least it won’t, soon enough.
When Bajon finally approaches it is unhurried, almost as if the sorcerer is stalling, trying to buy them some time. Perhaps, Narsus thinks, perhaps…
And the sorcerer opens his mouth to make some scathing comment that seems to die in his throat. Narsus waits, wondering what this final revelation might bring as the sorcerer swoops down to glower at him.
“You…” Bajon hisses.
“Yes?”
For all his empty posturing the sorcerer can’t construct the appropriate reply.
“What? No more threats, no more reminders of how a thousand years of terror will follow your master’s return? Well, servant of Zahak?”
“No. No more empty threats, no more talk of prophecies, unless…” And the sorcerer is suddenly thoughtful.
“Unless?”
“Perhaps you didn’t know. Prince Hermes’ claim to the throne is perfectly legitimate.” His tone is blandly conversational like it was in the beginning.
“Not that it makes any difference.”
“Oh?”
“He is not, will never be, a suitable King. The line of Andragoras will end.”
“Then the Crown Prince apparent?”
“Is no child of Andragoras.”
“So the line of King’s ends anyway.”
“Through their own folly. And strategists and necromancers have nothing to do with it after all.”
“Yes. Quite fitting really.”
“I always thought so.”
“But for us… it changes nothing.”
“I’d be disappointed if it did.”
“Of course.”
And Bajon steps back, signalling his guards to move forwards. “Remove the chains.” He orders coolly. Only at the guards’ hesitance does he add with something of his familiar sneer “You’ll need them out of the way to strip him.”
And as much as these guards might seem to relish the idea like the last ones, now that they have been ordered to action they are surprisingly reluctant. Narsus finds himself thinking dryly that perhaps it is only violence against women that is sanctioned by their religion. But then, as a heathen, doesn’t he count as a lower form of life for them. Unless of course, that means that this borders on bestiality now.
Despite their reluctance, the Lucitanian soldiers are capable of following orders and are careful to hold him tightly to prevent his struggles. But Narsus doesn’t fight back so much. Only enough for them to find his distress believable but not enough for Bajon to see anything more than a token protest. Their hands bruise but do little else; they are quite efficient in removing the clothing of an unwilling victim. A fact that disturbs Narsus more than a little. Is this how the priests of Yaldabod spread their religion? He shudders at the thought.
Naked, they force him to his knees and await orders. But again the sorcerer falls silent, just watching. Looking as if he is bizarrely trying to memorise the situation or perhaps just the fallen strategist at his feet. Bajon folds his arms, his lips compressed into a thin line.
“Chain him up again.”
And the guards are only too willing to comply, since it means that they might not have to participate in whatever the sorcerer intends to do. Narsus sighs at the cold bite of metal against his wrists again, unsure himself if this is the way he intended it to go or not.
“Leave.” And the guards are gone.
“Since this is just between us after all.” Bajon says by way of explanation. Narsus doesn’t reply; he doesn’t need to.
This time where the sorcerer leans over him to lightly stroke his cheek there is no barrier to hold back the panic that rises and yet as much as Narsus feels his lack of control swamping his conscious mind the expected panic doesn’t come. Or at least it is a detached form of panic, of distress. He is aware of everything, the dire situation he is trapped in, the inevitable consequences and yet…
Bajon kneels between his spread thighs and leans forwards again so that their foreheads are almost touching.
“I will destroy you.”
“Perhaps…”
“There is no other way for this to end.” And Bajon presses his lips to the sensitive flesh beneath an ear. Narsus shudders at the contact and it is not an entirely unpleasant feeling. Long-nailed hands lightly scrape down his thighs. This time there will be no escape. The thumb of one hand begins to rub slow circles against his hipbone, eliciting a sigh. The other hand begins to ease Narsus’ legs further apart.
“No one will save you this time.”
Bajon shifts forwards until there is barely a hairsbreadth between their bodies.
“Not your gods, not your beloved…”
Their lips are close enough for each to taste the others’ breath.
“Perhaps, I can save myself…”
Bajon smiles against Narsus’ lips, his perfect mocking smile.
“I think… perhaps…” Narsus murmurs against the sorcerer’s mouth, though he pulls away from another kiss, turning his head a little so that his words pour directly into an exposed ear. “Perhaps… I might love you.”
For an instant the sorcerer’s body stiffens, then relaxes forwards against him and Narsus feels Bajon draw breath to say something but whatever it might be, he’ll never get to hear it. Because for a moment his lips rest against the fragile skin of Bajon’s throat, right over the jugular and the strategist feels the pulse of blood under the skin but only for a moment before he bites down hard: rupturing skin, possibly part of a tendon and a vital artery. The sorcerer doesn’t even have time to respond and it would hardly matter anyway, since Narsus has no intention of letting go till Zahak’s servant is dead.
Later when the sorcerer has still not emerged from the cell the guards nervously inform Lord Silver Mask. Unwilling and previously ordered to keep out of the Pulsian’s cell they report to their Commander, who for once doesn’t bother with his mask as they stand in the dungeon corridors.
“How long?” Silver Mask asks with some faint annoyance.
“Too long, sir. Too long for…” The guard trails off.
Hermes scowls as his annoyance grows. The guard looks at the floor, avoiding his Commander’s irritated gaze.
“Fine then. Open the door.”
The bolts are thrown back and Hermes shoves the door open impatiently, striding inside. He is immediately sorry for his impatience and in his hurry is entirely unprepared for the sight that greets him.
Inside the cell, the famed Lord Narsus is chained to the wall, that much he had expected. Perhaps even the captive’s nakedness was expected too, considering Bajon’s predilections. What Hermes had not anticipated was the blood; covering both the trapped strategist and Bajon. That the sorcerer is dead, he is already certain even before he notices the gaping wound where the man’s throat should be. It looks like he’s been savaged by a wild beast, though reason and evidence tells Hermes otherwise. Lifting his gaze from the fallen sorcerer to Pulsar’s finest strategist, a man without peer in all three kingdoms, the would be King is further disconcerted to notice that beneath the splattering of dried blood Narsus is smiling. And Hermes doesn’t even try to prevent his involuntary step backwards. The Prince swallows uneasily, now not at all sure that he’d want this man on his side after all.
“The ends never justify the means.” Hermes finds himself whispering.
And the Devil’s Strategist continues to smile.
25/03/04
The End.
Atropus and Lachesis are two of the
three Fates. Lachesis measures the thread of men’s
lives, while Atropus cuts them.
Narsus' thoughts about the strategic value
of appearing formless to force the enemy to act so that you might form a
suitable reaction are taken from Sun Tzu's “Art of War”.
The quote "Put men on a ground of
death and they will live." is similarly taken from the “Art of War”.
07/04/04