Title: Honor Bound 1/16

Author: Elandae

Pairing: Craig/Karl, Craig/Dave, Karl/Dave (implied)

Rating: NC-17 overall

Beta: the lovely Daea

Disclaimer: Don’t know them, make no profit from this. Nothing but lies, lies, and more lies.

Warnings: violence, AU

Feedback: Love it!

Author’s Notes: I know that in some places there is what appears to be a het relationship, but this is strictly a slash story.

Dedication: For Daes and Kels cause I loooove them!

Chapter 1:

            The fierce afternoon sun beat down on Craig, his bare chest glistening with sweat. The rough fibre of the ropes that bound his wrists bit into tender skin, gradually rubbing them raw. There were several bruises on his skin that were beginning to darken, and his upper arm was darkened with blood from the cut that stretched across it, crimson drying almost to black. His mouth was parched from the hours spent marching under the cruel, unabated heat of the day. The landscape seemed to reflect the same heat, the colors dimming under the assault.

            The muscles in his legs ached, his whole body ached. Yet not for anything would he slow his pace. He remembered clearly the angry hiss of the whip lashing through the air, the sound of leather strips connecting with flesh. The resounding cry had sliced through him as keenly as a sword blade. He would not stop, no matter how the heat of the sun made his head swim, nor how his body ached so that all he wanted was to sink down in the soft earth at the side of the road and never get back up again.

            He did not slow, continued on with the repetitious movements, too exhausted to force his muscles to obey him. He stared straight ahead, studiously avoiding the people who were chained in the same manner. People he had grown up with, seen every day of his life. If only he had fought harder, done more to save the village he berated himself, but he knew the uselessness of that argument. They had been given no warning, had been greatly outnumbered. The fight was over almost before it had begun, the experienced soldiers making quick work of the villagers. There had been only what had been at hand, clumsy weapons that were no match for the soldiers’ cruelly glittering swords.

            Craig bit his lip, tasting the metallic tang of his own blood as he heard the harsh call of the whip once more. The leather strip searching for one who had collapsed from exhaustion, from the heat, it did not matter. He did not turn his head to see who it was that cried out at the angry sting across his back. He did not turn around at the sound of the cruel laughter of one of the soldiers. He stared straight ahead and kept moving.

            A thin trail of blood slid down his hand, mixing with the dirt on his skin, where the rope had bit deep into his wrist. Craig noticed with an air of detachment, making no move to wipe the blood away, instead moved his wrist slightly, attempting to lessen the insistent friction and kept moving.

*   *   *

            The prisoners were led in through massive gates that barred entrance to a great city. The walls were constructed of stones stacked high upon each other until they stood as tall as three men, one upon the next reaching into the sky. The sun had bleached their surfaces to a white gray shade that made Craig wince as the sunlight shone directly off them.

The guards and their prisoners moved through streets crowded with stalls and people and fragrant with rich and exotic smells as well as that of the people who lived here. Some stopped their daily activities, staring at the short procession as if the exhausted, bound people before were merely another form of amusement. Craig forced his head high, ignoring the complaint of his tired muscles, refusing to even glance at any of the people that lined the streets, disgusted that they would watch, that no one saw anything wrong with this. 

            A shadow fell across their path, casting a gloomy light over the broad avenue. Looking farther up, Craig forgot the ache of his neck muscles for a brief moment at the magnificent structure before him. The palace loomed larger than life, the rays of the sun highlighting an opalescent hue where it touched upon the white stone. The walls soared higher than the ones bordering the city so that they palace could be seen for many miles in every direction, a beacon in the expanse of smooth flatlands that rolled gently away from its grandeur. Craig had seen it countless times, an ever present pale shadow in the distance, coupled with the ague notion of a more extravagant existence, but he had never seen it this close before. He did not wish to be seeing it now.

The palace was opulent, the floors smooth unmarred marble, the walls adorned with rich, dark tapestries depicting the ancestors of the High King, all in various acts of bravery, Craig noted. One featured a man encased in vivid golden armor brandishing a sword, standing proudly at the forefront of his army. The sky was dark and cloudy above him as the enemy army approached, their numbers fading to a faceless black shadow upon the earth. The next showed a different man, with similar features to the man who had preceded him, standing on the deck of a ship. Each mast and whorl of the wood that made the ship was painstakingly detailed, though the same attention was absent on the fleet that followed behind, sails billowing in the wind.

Craig noticed with derision that there were no such pictures of these men fighting poor villagers who had no chance to prepare and who did not know how to deal with the attack. There were no depictions of people, dirty and debauched, tied together as they marched towards the pristine palace. No careful work of art that showed the look on a man’s face at the sharp sting across his tender skin as the hard leather of the whip bit deep. Or ones that showed a child in tears, bereft and confused, not understanding where tata* had gone.

It was almost too much to take in at once, every inch designed to impress wealth upon its visitors, superiority. There was not one facet that did not blatantly proclaim the strength of its owners. Craig turned his head, not wishing to see any more but there was nowhere that did not remind him painfully of the contrast between this and his own humble dwelling. What he wouldn’t give to be back there right now, back to the simplicity of his life then.

            Craig’s skin felt hot and tight, sunburned from hours marching in the glaring sun. There was dirt smudged all over his body, he noticed dully, but found that he did not care anymore.

            The prisoners were led before a man dressed in pristine white robes with a thick band of purple along the hem, seated before them on a raised dais. His expression was cold and disinterested as he got gracefully to his feet. He crossed the short distance to the group of people before him, moving slowly down the line. A look of distaste marred his otherwise pleasing features and he took a step back. The two guards flanking him on either side mimicked his movements immediately as though they were directly connected to him.

            The man moved slowly down the line, inspecting each of the people as though they were nothing more than sheep or cattle. Livestock that he cared not for, deserving of nothing more than a cursory glance. He made several comments, though Craig could not make out all of the low-voiced words. The man came to a spot in front of Craig, one eyebrow arching delicately.

“And what have we here?” He asked, his voice liquid and rich. His eyes ran unabashedly over the planes of Craig’s body. Craig did not move, his eyes watching the dark eyes that studied him. He would not show weakness before this man, would not let himself be debased by this man who would never know the indignity of being chained and treated like a beast.  

“He could be quite something, this one,” the man said over his shoulder, seeming to speak to one man in particular. “It’s hard to tell under all this filth.”

The men laughed at this, and a muscle twitched in Craig’s jaw, but he said nothing, blue eyes now staring steadily at the wall just above the men’s heads. One of the men that had accompanied the man in white proceeded to inspect him closely, as he had the other slaves, a humiliating experience, as his mouth was opened, his teeth examined, much the way one would ensure a beast was in good health.  

“He shows well and should fetch a good price, should we not decide to keep him,” the man finally stated, stepping back from Craig, the expression on his face showing the disgust he felt at what he deemed the pitiful example of a man standing before him.

“He would not make a fit slave for you, your Highness,” one of the soldiers spoke up, judging by the medals he wore, the Captain of the Guards. “He is too proud, he must be broken first.” A hard smile touched the man’s mouth; clearly this breaking was something he relished.

The man, who Craig now realized must be the Prince, laughed at this. An arrogant chuckle that told everyone just what he thought of that.

”I do not fear a challenge, Aenan. And this one looks as though he’ll provide a good one, I can see he will not be broken easily.”

Craig felt the heat rise in the pit of his stomach as his anger grew at these men’s words. He would be no slave for them, or anyone for that matter.

 “I would rather die than serve you, your Highness.” Craig spat out, his words low and fierce, making his throat ache.

            The Prince laughed again at this but his eyes were cold.

“Speak to me like that again and that shall be arranged,” he said, his voice steely, matching the hard look in his eyes. 

            He stepped back, addressing the soldiers before him.

“Well done, men. Take them to the holding cells.”

            The men turned to leave, shoving several of the captives before them, when the Prince spoke again.

“Keep your eye on that one,” he said, gesturing to Craig with a dismissive nod, turning on his heels. “And keep him bound.”

*   *   *

            The holding cells were far from comfortable, but Craig was relieved simply to have a chance to rest. He took a grateful swallow of the water, lukewarm and tasting of dirt, but water nonetheless.

            He settled uneasily onto the ground, setting his still bound wrists gingerly on his lap so that the rope would cease to bite at his tender skin. His wrists were both wreathed with angry red circles. He leaned back, resting his head against the wall behind him. The line of his spine pressed uncomfortably into the hard surface of the wall, but the coolness soothed the heat that lingered on his sun burnt skin. He could hear the clatter of the metal grating to each cell sliding open, and the shuffle of feet, raising and falling, as prisoners were either pushed into the cell or moved in of their own accord. The resonating tones of the guard’s voice echoed loudly, but Craig did his best to ignore them, straining to hear the voices of his fellow villagers, looking to distinguish one in particular but without any success.

            The sounds eventually died down, and Craig realized that he’d fallen asleep as he was woken with a start when the door to his own cell opened loudly. A guard stood in the doorway and Craig realized that it was the one that had spoken to the Prince earlier, Aenan.

            He was tall, several inches taller than Craig, and dark-haired, with hard blue eyes. He was naturally fair skinned, but from the ruddiness of his complexion it was clear that he spent a lot of time in the sun. He had broad shoulders, and a lean build. Craig could see a long jagged scar that ran lengthwise up Aenan’s right forearm, no doubt received in battle. There was another noticeable scar that ran across his left cheekbone, past his eye and up onto his forehead. He had strong features, his rugged looks dominated by his large nose.

“On your feet,” he barked, the deep tones echoing in the small chamber. Craig stared for a moment, as the other inhabitants of the cell stood quickly, before he got to his feet as well, a long enough pause to let the man know that he did not fear him as the others did.

            Moving single file, they left the cell, Aenan’s eyes fixed steadily on Craig. Aenan stopped him as he approached and Craig swallowed hard, but the man merely untied the rope around his wrists. He was roughed than necessary, and Craig had to force himself not to wince as the rough fibers, feeling like jagged shards of metal, were dragged across his skin. There were several guards leading the prisoners in the direction they had entered but when Craig went to follow, Aenan interceded.

“Over there,” he growled, gesturing to a smaller group, standing off to the side. Craig hesitated for a moment and received a sharp push from Aenan that sent him sprawling towards the others.

            He barely managed to stay on his feet, stumbling right into someone. He felt the woman steady him, for it was clearly a woman, he could tell by the softness of the touch. He looked down into clear blue eyes. Familiar eyes. He made no outwardly sign that he recognized the woman, that he had been looking for her, not wanting to endanger her any more. He moved towards the back of the group, making sure to keep the woman with long dark hair that tumbled down her back, in a tangles at the moment, within his range of vision.

            A guard approached, one Craig did not recognize but in their helms and armor, the men resembled one another a great deal.

“This way,” he directed, his voice flat and uninterested.

            He moved forward, his stride long and quick, with the small group of prisoners following hesitantly behind him. Several more guards flanked them, with another positioned at the back. Craig eyed the spears that were held in the men’s hands now, knowing that the sharp point would be used to push anyone back into the group, should they stray.

            They were led through a maze of hallways, until they arrived in a hallway less opulent than the rest of the palace, and Craig realized that these were the slave’s quarters.

            The room they were ushered into seemed large at first glance, but was divided into many smaller sections, cordoned off only by thin sheets of muslin. The walls were blank, unmarked and unadorned. It appeared clean, if lacking in the beauty that was richly distributed throughout the remainder of the palace. 

He was shown to an empty section and entered slowly. There were clean clothes, and water to wash with. Craig quickly took advantage of that, doing his best to clean the encrusted dirt and blood from his skin. He washed the cut across his forearm as best he could, hoping that infection would not set in. It was shallower than he had thought, but looked as though it should heal well if he could keep it clean.

            Looking around, he noticed for the first time, that the room was filled with men only. He had not been paying attention earlier, though it occurred to him, that he had no idea where Annalise, the dark haired woman he had stumbled into before, was now.

“I do not belong here,” Craig mumbled under his breath, unable to accept that he was now a slave, another persons’ property.  It seemed that he spoke more to reassure himself than any attempt to direct the words to someone else.

He was his own man no more. He belonged to the Prince now.

/////

*tata means something akin to daddy.

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