Title: Honor Bound 2/16
Author: Elandae
Pairing: Craig/Karl, Craig/Dave, Karl/Dave (implied)
Beta: a super duper thanks to Daes for this one!! *mwah*
Rating: NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: Don’t know them, not one bit of this is true. Make no profit, it’s purely for entertainment.
Warnings: violence, AU
Feedback: Love it!
Dedication: For my vermin of the night because I love her madly.
Website: https://www.angelfire.com/hero/worship0/homepage.htm
It was not even dawn when Craig was awoken by a rough voice calling for the men to get up. He blinked blearily, hearing the soft sounds of movement throughout the room. The room seemed eerily silent after the bellowing voice, the quiet punctured only by the rustling of clothes as they were hurriedly pulled on. Craig could feel the protest of his sore muscles as he got up, stretching in an attempt to shake the tiredness from his body. He pulled his tunic over his head and washed quickly.
The men grouped before the man who had woken them, still not a word among them. Craig glanced around, before falling in behind the men, rubbing quickly at his eyes to clear his vision, still clouded from sleep. They were led through a maze of hallways as the man moved quickly towards an unknown destination. Craig tried to commit each turn to memory, but knew that he would retain little, if any of it.
The group was led out into the cool of the early morning, the sun only beginning to paint the distant hills with a blood-hued tinge. Craig took a slow deep breath of the crisp air, feeling it push him further awake.
Food was distributed among the men, a few hard biscuits being pressed into Craig’s hand. He looked at them in distaste, but the rumbling of his stomach and the hollow sensation in his midsection soon pushed aside any other thoughts and he bit into one. It was hard and had little taste but it was food and it would suffice for the moment. There was a barrel full of water with a ladle and he lined up behind several other men before drinking deep of the liquid, still cool from the night.
At some unseen signal, the men began to move and Craig cast a quick look around but no one was paying any attention to him, so he took several quick steps to catch up. He pointedly ignored the nervous flutter in his stomach as he wondered where they were being led. He looked around, finding that a tall man with dark hair shorn close to his skull had unconsciously fallen into step with Craig. He was tall and solidly built, with deeply tanned skin and well developed muscles visible in his arms.
He glanced over at Craig then, feeling the inquisitive glance upon him and Craig quickly looked away, though he could feel that the other man’s gaze stayed fixed firmly on him. He did not speak, but studied Craig wordlessly for several minutes, the steadiness of his gaze disconcerting.
It was not until Craig hazarded a look back at the taller man that he finally spoke. “I have not seen you before.” His voice was softer than Craig had expected, though there was no interest invested in the words as though he were not speaking directly to Craig, but merely vocalizing his observance.
Craig shook his head, the thumb of one hand finding its way to his mouth, a nervous habit he had long ago eschewed but that suddenly made its reappearance. He worried the skin between his teeth before hastily answering the man in case he had expected a reply.
They continued down a dirt road, two grooves worn deep into the surface by the wheels of a wagon. The earth on either side of the road was tilled into rich furrows running lengthwise along the generous fields. Farther off in the distance Craig could see the gentle amber hues of crops that had grown tall, the plants looking darker in the low light.
Up ahead a mule pulled a small wagon, the back of it, now that Craig could see it, filled with scythes. He felt a faint sense of relief knowing what was in store for them, recognizing the tools. There were long wooden handles, made of wood darkened with use and sweat of the men who has used them before. At one end there was a long curved blade that shone dully but Craig knew how sharp they would be. There were also several whetstones, for sharpening the blades and several thick coils of rope.
They were led farther on to the fields, where they were formed into a line, the long coils of rope being used to bind the men together. Craig winced at the feel of the coarse material against his still raw skin. There was a length of rope between each man and the gruff voice of one of the guards was explaining that each man would be given a scythe, that the blade was deadly. The men in line shuffled and Craig realized that they must have heard this speech countless time before.
“Should any of you attempt to harm one of the guards,” the man paused then, glaring at the men assembled before him, “You will be hung.” There was finality to his words as he gestured then to the remaining lengths of rope that has not been used. “After we have done that, two other slaves will be hung as well for your crime.” He nodded, a grim smile on his lips and Craig glanced nervously at the other men. The man who had spoken to him on the way met his eyes but looked away after a moment.
*****
It seemed that days passed before the sun even climbed far enough up the sky for it to be noon. The work was backbreaking. The men swung in rhythmic strokes, muscles aching at the constant strain, the sun making sweat run in rivulets down bronzed skin. It took Craig some time to fall into the natural rhythm the rest of the men had developed, ensuring that the rope didn’t get in the way of the scythe’s handle, sending a wave of fresh pain through his wrists. The raw skin protested with the slightest movement and the rope was soon colored with crimson steaks from the blood the dripped slowly down his hands, mixing with the sweat on his palms so that it was difficult to maintain his grip on the already smooth wood.
Craig breathed a deep sigh of relief when a bell sounded, obviously signifying that the men could stop work. The men moved gratefully from the baking heat of the field.
The food was simple but hearty. The men ate in silence, grateful for the short break and the slight shade provided by the few trees that had taken root. The break seemed too short and every muscle in Craig’s body protested as he pushed himself to his feet.
The rope that looped around each of his wrists was now darkened from a dark tawny shade to a blackened red from the blood that had dried in the fibers. He continued swinging the scythe, the motions automatic, his mind blank as he moved forward, a small step after every flash of the blade.
*****
He had never been so tired in all of his life. Every muscle in his body ached, a constant cacophony of pain that seemed to be the only thing that let him know he was still standing, still conscious. Even after letting go of the scythe, his fingers still curled as though they held the handle in his hands. Craig glanced wearily down, trying to straighten them out, only just managing not to make a sound at the brilliant streak of pain that flashed through every joint in his hands at the motion. The skin of his wrists had been rubbed raw but a quick glance at the man next to him showed that his wrists had scarred over, the skin red, but not bleeding as Craig’s was. It was a small comfort, the only one he could find at the moment. His clothing was saturated with his own sweat, sticking uncomfortably to his body.
He was barely aware of one foot moving in front of the other as they made their ponderous way back to the Palace. He was given some food, and he as vaguely aware that he had eaten it but he could not recall just what it had been.
The days blurred into each other, each one a repeat of the one before him. Each day filled with backbreaking work that left him so exhausted at the end of the day that all he was capable of was falling onto his pallet, asleep within moments. Often he couldn’t even summon to wash the night before, doing it hurriedly in the low light of the early mornings.
*****
It happened one day like any other. The sun was just as bright, just as hot. The work was just as repetitive and backbreaking and the hours just as interminably long. Craig’s head jerked up when he heard a yell, a long drawn out scream that seemed to tear through him.
The man at the farthest end of the line, one Craig had always avoided whenever possible, afraid of the man, was where the yell had come from.
His already hard features were twisted into an angry mask that made Craig shudder, a flash of ice flowing through his veins, unaffected by the blazing heat of the day. The man, who called himself Reaper, was one that the other men avoided, save for a select few who like him were hard-featured, the anger in them almost palpable. Craig watched with a mute shock as Reaper moved quickly forward, it seemed the ropes should pull taut, and the weight of the other men behind him slow him down, but there seemed a curious give to it. Craig was pulled forward, the scythe slipping from hi hands as he stumbled forward, his eyes still frozen on what was unfolding before him.
Reaper advanced on the nearest guard who tried to move back out of reach as he drew his sword, but the scythe had a long reach and with a quick hook, Reaper struck forwards with it, hooking it around the guard’s body. He jerked it back towards himself and Craig could hear the high pitched scream that seemed torn from the guard’s mouth as he fell to his knees, his fall pulling the scythe from Reaper’s hands. Several other guards arrived before he had a chance to retrieve it and Craig could hear the dull sounds of flesh connecting with flesh but he could no longer see just what was happening, the events seems to be unfolding at a faster speed that his eyes could not follow.
Then he could suddenly see Reaper pinned to the ground, blood covering his features, which even from this short distance made Craig halt before he was once more pulled forward by the tug of the rope. The men all pooled around the scene, none of them moving, the guards all standing with their swords drawn and no one dared move closer.
Craig could see the guard that lay across the ground, his own blood pooling around him. His eyes were closed and Craig felt a faint ash of relief as he saw them flutter, a groan escaping the man’s lips but he did not move.
It dimly occurred to him that one of the guards was speaking now, the same one who spoke to them every morning, reminding them that should one of the slaves attack a guard, that his life and that of two others would be ended. Craig swallowed hard, his mouth dry, as he wondered which two men would be chosen, how they would be selected.
Several lengths of rope were fetched, and as the first one was being tied into a noose, the guard who had spoken moved slowly before the men, stopping and grabbing one of the men from the lines. Craig could see that it was one of the men who was habitually crowded around Reaper. His ropes were untied from his wrists as another was prepared to be tied around his throat.
The man stopped in front of Craig then, and he could hear the sound of his heart racing in his ears, a rushing sound that seemed to drown out all else. The guard reached out, grabbing the man who stood just behind Craig, and he felt ashamed at the rush of cool relief that flowed through is limbs making his joints feel weak.
The guards made sure that no one could escape while the first two men were hung, and Craig averted his eyes, forcing himself not to look, not to watch as their faces reddened, as their limbs flailed. He felt his stomach turn and tried to tune out the sounds, overly conscious of every intake of breath he could so easily draw.
Reaper stood in front of the slaves, tightly held by two guards, forced to look straight ahead, to watch the display. Craig, risking a glance at him, saw that he did not blanch, did not attempt to run his head away, but stood there, jaw muscle clenched. Craig could sense disappointment in the guards who were not tending to the injured man, wanting to see some display from this man, wanting to see his disgust, his horror, his fear. No emotion passed over his face though and Craig looked at the man, awe-struck and a little horrified that he could be so composed.
It seemed too long before the horror was over. Not until both men were dead did the guards take Reaper to the tree, cutting down the bodies so that they hit the ground with a sickening thump. He cast his eyes down, refusing once more to watch as Reaper was strung up, he squeezed his hands tightly together until his fingernails cut into his palms, leaving crescent shaped marks on his skin, needing that slight flash of fresh pain to ground him.
Before the slaves could go home, they were led past the dead bodies of the men, a further warning to any foolish enough to imitate Reaper’s actions. A sharp blow to Craig’s head by one of the guards made him look, and he felt his stomach turn over once more, seeing the still forms. He could see the dark marks on the dead man’s skin, marks Reaper had made himself, cutting into his skin with a small blade and rubbing ink into them so that the symbols and designs were permanently marked onto his body, dark black-blue designs on his tanned skin. He could see the way the men’s eyes were opened, his stomach churning. One foot slid and looking down he realized he had stepped in the pool of blood that had formed beneath the injured guard. The blood was dark and thickened, drying onto the brown grass. He thought he could smell the cloying scent of it and Craig stumbled out of line, bent over and was sick.
*****
The days continued on in their routine of rising in the first light of the day, a cold unsatisfying meal and then work under the glare of the sun. Craig lost track of time, slowly forgot that there had ever been a man named Reaper with dark marks on his body that had risked his own death rather than continue like this. His skin darkened to a shade of bronze that matched the other men’s and the skin of his wrists scarred, a reddened circlet on each arm that was vivid and ugly but that Craig was grateful for.
The only day they got any rest was Sunday. One brief respite from the hard work of the week, but they were grateful for any break to the endless monotony of their day-today life.
It was Sunday, after the time the slaves were forced to spend at the temple once a week, when Craig was heading down one the hallways in the servant’s quarter. Ahead of him he could see two figures, one that of a guard, made recognizable by the color of the tunic he wore, the thick laces of the sandals that he wore on his feet. He was facing away from Craig, and neither could he see the young woman that the man was speaking to. There was a hint of dark hair but nothing that he could see behind that. Craig felt a slight twinge in his stomach as he thought of similar dark hair but pushed it irritably from his mind.
As he drew nearer the pair, he could make out a few words of what was being said.
“…..so what do you think of that?” It was the guard who spoke, the oily tones of his voice making Craig’s expression twist in revulsion.
He could vaguely hear the woman reply, her voice soft and trembling, the tone distorted by the way it echoed slightly off the marble walls. The guard made another comment, this one voiced low enough that Craig could not make out what was being said, but he crossed the hall, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the couple as he made his way towards them.
“I-I don’t think I should be here,” The woman stuttered, and Craig could see a slight movement to the side of the man that he assumed was the woman trying to step forward. The man’s arm shot out, neatly imprisoning her between the solid bulk of his body and the wall behind her.
“There’s nowhere else you need to be,” the guard replied with a cocky grin, looking steadily down at her and making a wave of anger wash over Craig at the words.
“Please, just….I need to go,” she protested again, and now that Craig could clearly hear her voice, he felt a block of ice form in the pit of his stomach. The voice was one that he knew well, Annalise. His steps quickened automatically, hurrying towards the two people farther down the hall, every word coming from the man’s mouth, every insinuating movement serving to fuel Craig’s anger.
The guard was involved in his attempted conquest he did not hear Craig’s approach. Without even a second thought as to what he was doing, Craig clapped a hand down heavily on the other man’s shoulder, forcing him to spin around so that they were face to face. Before the guard even realized what was happening, Craig swung, a solid punch connecting with the resounding noise of flesh on flesh. The other man stumbled back, taken by surprise, his hand going up automatically to his face and coming away colored with blood from his split lip. Annalise’s blue eyes were wide as she stared at Craig in shock. She seemed not to comprehend what was happening.
“Whattya think you’re doing?” The guard slurred at him, spitting to his side to rid his mouth of the blood. His voice was low and menacing. Craig was surprised that he had not simply swung back, and he kept his eyes on the other man, unsure what he was going to do. The man’s features were twisted into a sneer and he stared angrily at Craig.
“Let her be.”
His own voice sounded higher than he had intended, echoing softly in the quiet hall. The guard’s eyes narrowed, and Craig only just managed to side step the punch that was suddenly thrown his way, the hit just glancing off his jaw, rather than connecting with what he knew would be bone-breaking force. Dimly in the back of his mind he realized that he was in over his head but he pushed the thought away quickly, focusing all his attention on the man.
“It’s none of your business,” the man spat at him just before he lunged, taking Craig to the floor with him. Both men landed hard and it took Craig a moment to recover, his breath having been knocked out of him by the weight of the other man who had a more solid build than he did. The guard took advantage of that and swung, his fist connecting, making stars dance in Craig’s vision as he it blackened for a moment. He threw his weight against the other man, managing to roll him over, and he took advantage of the momentary triumph, his mind blanking out and his instincts taking over as his fist connected, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction at the force of the collision.
Before Craig even realized what was happening, there were rough hands grabbing his arms and hauling him off the guard and onto his feet. He fought against them in vain, his stomach sinking as he wondered where the additional guards had appeared from.
They pulled the two men apart, each with his arms held behind his back, their chest rising and falling rapidly with each heavy breath. Annalise cried out as the men holding onto their fellow guard loosened their hold on the man’s arms, allowing him to free his arms. His fist connected cleanly, with Craig unable to maneuver out of the way. His head snapped back as blood poured from his nose and over his chin.
“Not so pretty now, are you?” The guard sneered, his dark features twisted into a look of disgust. The other men seemed to find this amusing, and Annalise’s stomach turned over as she listened to them chuckle. Craig’s head fell back for a moment from the impact of the hit. He struggled to free himself once more, a weaker attempt that was no more fruitful than the first occasion. A thin trail of blood dripped from his chin onto his tunic, unnoticed.
One of the men holding Craig back as he struggled in vain against them growled, “Aenan will deal with you.”
Annalise remembered with a wince the loud crack of the whip as it bit deep into exposed flesh and felt a wave of nausea wash over her at the thought of that happening to Craig. She pushed herself away from the wall, and was about to call out when her eyes met Craig’s. The expression in those familiar blue eyes was one she knew well, and so she sank back silently against the wall, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she watched them lead Craig away.
/////