Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I'm sorry I'm late,” Sylves said. His short blond hair had been flattened by the rain that continued to pour down on him, and his equally wet clothes clung to his body tightly. His shirt was white and thin, outlining clearly every curve and muscle. The sheepish smile on his boyish face didn't serve to detract from the tempting picture he made.

Anereth had never loved him, but sometimes, he did miss the times when they'd been together. Like right now. It would be so easy to lean forward and kiss him, seduce him, and Sylves probably would make it easy for him, not regretting any of it until after the fact. Sylves, he knew, was also still attracted to him, and missed some of the same things he did.

But Anereth had never been satisfied just having one lover, and Sylves, as it turned out, did not enjoy sharing. It had put a strain on their relationship, and they had ended it after their first more heated discussion of the subject, because for different reasons, they did not want to risk romantic troubles causing a permanent rift between each other.

Said reasons were still current, and that was the only thing stopping Anereth from kissing Sylves, and making him return his smile instead. “It's no problem. Please, come in.”

Sylves did, and only then did Anereth realize the man hadn't come alone. “You brought your slave?”

“Yes,” Sylves said as he took off his boots and placed them neatly next to the door. “I'm sorry, is that inconvenient? I don't really like leaving him at home. In the dorms it's not a problem, but my family... well, you know how they get. Especially my father and Imeria. Can't I trade her for one of your sisters? Anyway, I thought you liked Esares.”

“I do,” Anereth said as he watched the slave remove his own shoes and then kneel behind his master, eyes on the ground. He looked nothing like his master, but, Anereth had often thought in passing, no less beautiful.

It was certainly a different kind of beauty, however. He was small and thin, his features delicate. His hair was considerably longer than Slyves', almost as long as Anereth's own, and currently obscuring most of his face. Also very unlike his master, he was quiet and easy to overlook – Sylves, meanwhile, was chatty and boisterous and could barely step onto the street without someone recognizing him as the next leader of the Ivariney, the Magicians' Circle.

To say that Anereth liked the slave was either an over- or and understatement, depending on how you looked at it. He didn't dislike him, and it could be argued he liked looking at him, but it wasn't like they'd ever interacted in any significant fashion. On the other hand, he certainly planned to do something about the last part, and had been for well over a year now; for nearly as long as the slave had been in Sylves' possession.

He returned his attention to Sylves. “I see how you and your father would disagree over him, but I didn't know Imeria had much of an opinion on how slaves should be treated.”

Sylves made a face. “She doesn't. She has an opinion, though, on which slaves are handsome and what her brother should do if he has a slave who happens to appeal to her.”

“Ah,” Anereth said, glancing at the subject of their discussion. Unsurprisingly, Esares gave no indication of even paying attention to the conversation; he was, after all, well-trained. “You think she'd help herself to him the moment you turn your back?”

“She's pretty much admitted she would,” Sylves said. “And you know I don't lend him out. Even if it's my sister... no, scratch that, actually her being my sister makes it more weird.”

Yes, Sylves certainly did not like sharing. That he would be even more possessive with a favored slave was unsurprising. “You think so?”

“Yes,” Sylves said, emphatically. “Besides, he's... you know we've had issues.”

Anereth's gaze slid to the slave again, who was still showing no signs of listening to what was being said. He was good.

And issues was certainly a droll way of putting it.

“You mean when he tried to slit your throat while you slept?” It could have been his imagination, but out of the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw Esares' shoulders stiffen ever so slightly.

Sylves shushed him harshly, looking around like he expected someone from the Mage Council to appear out of thin air, strip him of his honors and seize his slave. “Don't say that. It wasn't like-- he just hadn't been trained, is all. You know they're not like us. Demons... it's their first instinct to kill. But I trained him, and we've not had any issues since. Everyone praises how obedient he is.”

Issues again. It was almost cute, really. “Instinct,” Anereth said. “I'd call it a fairly well planned assassination attempt, but far be it from me to nitpick semantics.”

“That's really not-- demons don't work like that, Anereth! And didn't you just say you liked him?”

Anereth shrugged. “I do. And it's true you've not had any major... problems since then, right? So I'm certainly not telling you to get rid of him. I just don't want you to take the matter too lightly. The last thing I want you is dead. And think of everyone else.” He let his expression change from a concerned frown to something less serious: an amused shine in his eyes, a small teasing smile. He practiced in front of the mirror, sometimes. “Whatever would humanity do without its Chosen One? We would be lost!”

Sylves looked very much disgruntled. “Don't call me that,” he said, and his ears turned a little red at the tips.

Anereth's lips curved further, the smile becoming more genuine. “You don't seem to mind when anyone else does.”

“Well, everyone else is not my best friend,” Sylves said, almost petulantly, and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

For a moment, Anereth could understand why he used to worry he might have come to genuinely care for the man, once.

He did not dwell on the stray thought, and laughed lightly. “All right, then. I suppose I can do without that particular privilege.”

Sylves seemed marginally mollified. Slowly, he unfolded his arms. “Well, do we want to go inside or...?”

“Yes, please,” Anereth said, gesturing down the corridor.

Sylves nodded. “Come on, Esares.” Without turning to see if his slave obeyed, he headed towards the living room.

Esares stood immediately, but then hesitated, looking between the two humans. And ah, yes, Anereth could see his dilemma. He was supposed to follow at his master's heel, but at the same time, it was atrocious etiquette to cut in front of his master's host. Really, had he adhered to the rules of convention, Anereth would have gone first, leading Sylves into his home. He rarely did, but then, they rarely met at Anereth's private residence, and Sylves rarely brought his slave.

“Shoo,” Anereth said, gesturing for Esares to go after his master. It was, perhaps, not the most genial way to go about it, but he wasn't in the best of moods, and it was hassle enough to pretend otherwise in front of Sylves.

The slave, of course, did not complain, or look like he would have liked to complain. If anything, he appeared slightly relieved as he hurried after his master.

They made themselves comfortable on the pale couch in the living room. Well, not Esares, of course. The slave knelt at his master's feet on the dark blue carpet.

“Do you mind if I give him a cushion to kneel on?” Sylves asked.

“Not at all, pick whatever one you'd like.”

Sylves got up and did just that. As the slave settled down on the fluffy orange cushion he was given, he said, softly, “Thank you, master.”

Sylves quickly tousled the slave's hair as he set back down, and let out a relieved sigh. “I know why I brought him. My father might have suggested to just let him wait outside the door in the rain, kneeling on blank cold stone of course. 'He's a demon, it won't damage his knees'. But sometimes he even lets the dogs on the couch.” Something seemed to occur to him. “You don't mind that my clothes are wet, do you? And his. I didn't mean to get your furniture dirty--”

“No, it's fine. It's just water, after all. I'm mostly just curious what you wanted to talk about. Did you want something to drink, by the way?”

“No, I'm fine. Ah, well, I actually wanted to talk about Esares...”

Anereth blinked. “About Esares?” His eyes wandered to the slave again. His muscles seemed tense and he was staring at the carpet almost a little to intently, but if this was a surprise to him, too, he hid it well.

“Yes. I... well, you know I have to visit a lot of places during the holidays, because... well, because of my status. I can't during the school year, and everyone understands that, since of course I have to improve my abilities and learn more spells if I'm to decide a war that's been going on for centuries. But during the spring holidays, no one is so understanding, and now that I've turned twenty-two and finished all the basic lessons, apparently it has suddenly become reasonable to expect me to travel all over the country.”

Anereth had an inkling where this was going, but it seemed unlikely, considering how possessive and enamored with his slave his fellow mage was.

But as Sylves continued, it quickly became evident his first guess had been entirely correct. “I can't take Esares with me to many of those cities, either because of certain rules and expectations or because demons aren't allowed inside at all. And I can't leave him with my family. Well, I'll ask my brother if this is too troublesome for you, but it would be really hard to make work and... well, could you take him, for a few weeks?”

“I have to admit, I'm a bit surprised. As you said, you don't like giving him to anyone else, do you? Even if it's just to watch him. Really, I'd have expected you to hire a professional.”

Sylves looked very much unhappy. “I don't know if it sounds arrogant to say, but I don't think I can trust anyone, considering how well-known I am. They might try to get personal information about me from him, or worse. You know--” He broke off, shook his head. “I'm just not comfortable with it.”

Anereth could see what the main reason for that discomfort was, and he wondered if that was what Sylves had started to say before deciding never speaking of it aloud ever again would make it go away.

Every mage's, every human mage's power was tied to its wielder by words that were revealed to the mage in question and only them by Evynera, goddess of protection. This happened during meditation or while asleep, and was sometimes described as a vision and sometimes as a dream. It was a sacred and very private experience, and no other human could ever find out the words that created a mage and could become his undoing, provided proper precautions were taken to prevent oneself from being able to speak them even during torture, which these days was a common safety measure for all registered mages.

No other human could learn the words as a result, but it was said that demons could, by calling to their own bloodthirsty gods and performing an unholy ritual, or so legend went. Anereth suspected it had more to do with the nature of their own magic, which many scholars called raw and unrefined, but to Anereth the one time he had made contact with it had felt more like concentrated unbridled power. There had been nothing unrefined about it.

Whatever the reason, though, there was no doubt their ability to figure out the words necessary to rob a mage of their craft – and by extension almost inevitably their life – was not just a myth, because they had gone and done it to the Chosen One, and then sent one of theirs to him in the guise of a slave, when his true purpose had been to kill Sylves and steal his power for himself while he was at it. How Sylves could delude himself into thinking it had been anything but a cunning and extremely elaborate plot, Anereth would never know.

However, even if Sylves chose to believe his demon had acted more like a wild dog than a determined assassin, and appeared to go so far as to think his slave was loyal to him, even he was not so naive as to not see what threat he posed simply by knowing. The Timnestra collar binding his magic made him harmless physically, but it was still not possible to place a complex spell on a demon that would survive longer than twenty-four hours. If Esares were to be tortured by one of Sylves' many enemies or someone who would pass on the information to them, he would become a liability, regardless of whether he still held ill-will towards his master or not. And personally, Anereth had no doubt he did.

Sylves knew almost as well as Anereth how tempting the prospect of finding the Chosen One's ultimate weakness and taking his power for oneself was. The risk of dying in the process meant little for a mage skilled enough that the probability was low. Almost certainly, once Sylves' murderer survived the act itself, there wouldn't even be severe repercussions, since while it would be almost impossible to not get caught, the ancient laws supporting the practice had never been overturned: the idea had been that any mage foolish or weak enough to reveal the most sacred part of themselves would perish, and the one who had overpowered them would be considered precisely the way their firstborn child would, as their heir.

The latter part had been important because during the Great Wars, sometimes aging and dying mages had voluntarily given their powers to their successor or whoever was near them as they lay bleeding out on the battlefield, and it often had been impossible to tell what precisely had occurred after the fact. Back then, locking up or executing a powerful mage without an extremely compelling reason would have been an unbearable loss for humankind. And even today, simply squandering the Chosen One's power was unthinkable. Most likely, Sylves himself could go out and commit a string of murders and people would jump to make excuses for him, so long as he did not kill the Queen and King themselves.

Aside from this most dangerous secret of Sylves', probably Esares knew much more about him that could be used against him in less significant ways, or simply make for long-lived uncomfortable gossip. Though no one not in the room knew about the demon's assassination attempt, once someone started getting information out of him one way or the other, it would be a slippery slope.

So it was, after all, not so surprising that Sylves would not give his slave to a complete stranger for the duration of his absence; even a professional who was supposed to do nothing more and nothing less than what he had been instructed to do and paid for.

Therefore, Anereth said, slowly, “I see.”

“I'm really sorry to spring this on you,” Sylves said. “But you are my best friend, and there's no one in this city I trust more than you. And I'm not talking about immediately, I still have a few more days before I need to leave, so you can take your time thinking about it. Just... it would be a big help.”

Sylves took a deep breath before continuing, “And I know it would be too much to ask to just look after him, with all the work of having a slave and none of the benefits. I know you think slaves are too much trouble to keep around. But you like him, and I remember you said you like his looks, too, and I... I know I've been--” Sylves' ears reddened-- “a bit territorial, in the past. But you can use him. And treat him like he's yours, really.” He rested a hand atop the unmoving slave's head. “Of course I don't want him to be permanently damaged or treated cruelly, but I know you wouldn't do that, so with anything else... he'd be yours. Though-- don't leave him alone with anyone else. Just think about it?”

Anereth tried not to stare at the other mage. For one, essentially being given free reign over the slave in this agreement was even more unexpected than the request to look after him in the first place. More importantly, however, this was just too perfect. He might have expected some sort of trick, had this not been Sylves. Foolish, naïve Sylves.

“I don't know,” Anereth said, feigning reluctance.

“Please? I'll make it up to you.” Sylves grinned. “I'll even let you refer to me as the 'Chose One' in the future without trying to kill you with the power of my glares.”

Anereth laughed. “Well,” he said at length. “If I get to do that just for the price of keeping a pretty slave with me for a few weeks... I suppose I'll have to help you this time, then.”

Sylves' face lit up. “Really?”

“Really. It's a bit boring all by myself here, anyway. Just don't expect me to do this sort of thing all the time now in the future. I won't if I'm actually busy.”

“Sure! I won't, I promise. But you're a lifesaver. Thank you so much. Isn't that great, Esares? You should say thank you, too.”

“Thank you, sir,” the slave said without looking up or otherwise moving. His tone betrayed no emotion.

Sylves patted the slave's head, smiling brightly at Anereth and making no effort to conceal his relief.

Anereth smiled back, thinking it would almost be a little sad to wipe that happy grateful expression off Sylves' face forever when he finally figured out the words that would be his ruin.

But alas, he had never sought to get close to him for the company.

Chapter Text

Esares knelt by his master's bed, waiting for him to change into dry clothes.

Esares himself was still drenched, but though that would likely be rectified soon, it wasn't like he especially minded. He wasn't a human afraid of a little cold and water, unpleasant as they were.

The things he feared were of a very different nature.

“You should also put on something else,” his master said once he'd taken care of his own wear, just as Esares had predicted.

“It's not necessary, master.”

The humans' Chosen One sighed like he thought Esares was being silly. That, too, did not come as a surprise. “Just take off your clothes. I'll find you something in a minute.”

And so Esares did, because there wasn't really anything else to do. Not that he was wearing much to begin with, perhaps because his master had hoped that would put his friend in a slightly more agreeable set of mind. Sadly, it appeared to have worked.

Esares removed everything but his underwear – which the rain had gotten to, as well, but this was already a ridiculous thing to make a fuss about. Besides, there was a real possibility that having Esares kneeling before him naked after a stressful afternoon would just distract his master from the actual purpose of this.

But of course, Sylves would not see it his way. “That, too,” he said, and Esares could hear him roll his eyes. “Really, are you making this difficult on purpose? I know you don't like Anereth, but he really is very nice to agree. He might not spoil you, but he won't be unreasonable, either, and it's just for a little while. So don't sulk about this.”

Esares didn't reply, but did remove his underwear. He disliked being so exposed, but he had gotten used to it a long time ago.

“Now fold the clothes and put them aside,” his master said, still exasperated.

Again, Esares obeyed the direct order.

After a moment, Sylves walked over to him. “Come on,” he said. “We talked about this.” Which was true, if you ignored the fact that Esares had been very clearly against this arrangement from start to finish of the talking in question. “It's better than the alternatives.”

For the human, maybe. Esares carefully bit his tongue.

“I'd rather stay with your sister, master,” he ground out after a while.

His master seemed puzzled, and a little annoyed. “I don't know why you dislike Anereth so much.”

“Because something about him isn't right and I would rather wait for your return in the dungeons than have him anywhere near m--”

“That's enough,” his master said, his voice hard in a way it usually wasn't. “I know I let you get away with a lot, but you won't insult my friend. Perhaps Father isn't completely wrong. I spoil you. Get on the bed.”

“Master--”

“Get on the bed.”

Very slowly, Esares obeyed.

“On your stomach.”

Apprehension filled Esares as he obeyed that order, too. Sylves didn't punish him often anymore. Even when he did, he usually wasn't genuinely angry – much more frequently, he was annoyed. Punishments were always humiliating and more often than not a little painful, but it had been a long time since he'd been worried about damage that would seriously affect him and take longer to heal than a few hours.

Well, he told himself, not without bitterness. Might as well get used to it, since Anereth Laverien would hardly turn out to be the squeamish sort.

His master rested his hand on Esares' back, the touch so unexpected that he couldn't keep himself from flinching.

“I don't know why you do this,” the human sighed. “I'm not exactly looking for excuses to punish you. But I've seen the dangers of keeping around an untrained demon.” His hand moved lower, and before he knew it, Esares was trembling slightly. “There now, I'll just use my hand. Six strokes, and then I'll stop if you beg me to. I want you to count out loud up until the sixth.”

As far as punishments went, it was a mild one, Esares supposed. It didn't stop the part of him he kept as far buried as he could from resenting it to his very core.

The first stroke came without further warning, and Esares jumped more from surprise than from the force behind it. “One.” His voice came out a little breathlessly.

The next hit was harder, but still the humiliation remained greater than the pain, and the same was true for the subsequent ones. He kept counting out loud, and trying to keep still.

After the sixth stroke, Esares stopped counting out loud, but he didn't stop in his head. After the fifteenth, even though the force of the hits hadn't increased any, he started feeling them down to his very bones.

He held out a while longer, because he hated begging. The human knew this and used that fact to remind him of what he thought of as Esares' proper place. It made Esares feel almost as disgusted with himself as with the mage. Even so, there was no way around it. He realized that, but he preferred to do it when the pain became great enough that it at least felt somewhat worth it.

Finally, after the twenty-fifth hit, he caved in. The pain still wasn't unbearable, not even close to, but he didn't want to put himself through torture, either. If this didn't get the desired effect, next time his master would get more creative. “Please, master,” he gasped, just as the hand came down another time. “Please stop.”

At least his master could be trusted to keep his word. He ceased immediately. “There. Was that really so hard?” His breathing was labored, but Esares had no doubt he would have kept going for another twenty-five strokes at least.

Esares didn't reply.

“You're so stubborn,” his master said, but the anger remained gone from his voice. Instead, he sounded almost fond as he brushed his fingers over Esares' ass.

Esares buried his face in the bedding, trying to stifle the little sound that escaped him.

“Do all demons find pain arousing?” his master asked curiously.

“Many,” Esares breathed out as his master gripped his buttock. “It-- it depends on the kind of pain and some other things, master. ”

His master kept fondling his ass a while longer, then patted it. “Maybe I was a little harsh. Come here.” As he spoke, the mage pulled up the covers and lay down next to him.

Esares made himself lie on his side, his back to Sylves, and inched a little closer while trying not to think about how the movement hurt, or how this made a different part of him feel something wholly other than pain.

His master slipped an arm around him, his hand caressing Esares' leg, his stomach, and finally sliding gently between his legs.

Esares gave up trying to distract himself from the sensation, then.

*

Esares awoke to his master kissing his throat. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, master.”

A hand carded through Esares' hair. “Still sore?”

Esares didn't know whether the mage meant from the strokes or the fucking or both, but the answer was the same in any case. “No, master.”

“Demon regenerative abilities really are very convenient.”

Esares thought that very much depended. When he had been free, he would have agreed in a heartbeat – the fragility of human bodies seemed bizarre to him, if a little fascinating, and imagining being like them in that regard was a frightening notion indeed. For a slave, however, fast healing could be a blessing as well as a curse.

Since Sylves wasn't one of the more sadistic owners and he'd never had another, Esares supposed for him it had always been the former, though there was a chance his initial 'training' after revealing himself to be a threat would have gone less painfully without it. For most humans, however, Esares had come to the conclusion their slaves' ability to overcome many injuries that to a human would be deadly, and the speed with which they did, only meant they had no reason to hold back. He wondered, sometimes, if envy was a factor aside from loathing and a natural inclination towards cruelty in their kind. After all, without the interference of their enemies, most of Esares' people didn't need to fear injuries or sickness and could live well over two centuries. It must rankle the humans who liked to think themselves superior.

In the end, he didn't comment on his master's observation.

“Are you still upset?” Sylves asked.

“No, master.” Of course he was upset. He was furious at himself for what he had become, for everything. And for making him this way, he wanted to do more than just snap this human's neck. “I'm sorry for making you angry.”

Sylves sighed, and caressed his back. Esares closed his eyes, hating both himself and his master more for enjoying the touch.

“I know you are, pet,” the mage said. “It's all right, we'll get there. Would you like to wash?”

“Please, master.”

He barely waited until Sylves dismissed him before fleeing into the bathroom.

*

Bathed and dressed, Esares knelt by the bed at his master's feet, leaning into the hand stroking his hair. Like always, it had not been possible to wash shame and disgust off himself with soap and water, but the attempt had left him feeling just a little cleaner, anyway. It made it less difficult to push the resentment back down and remind himself that this was all right, that it was bearable, that it could be so much worse.

It helped that he genuinely did enjoy having his hair toyed with. That, too, made it easier to pretend.

Even if he feared, like death, that one day he would no longer be able to distinguish between the act and who he really was.

“You'll behave yourself when I leave you with Anereth, won't you?” his master asked without pausing in his ministrations.

“Yes, master,” Esares said. After a moment, he raised his head from the mage's knee and turned to him, placing a soft kiss on his master's lips. It was, at least, an excuse to move and get rid of the strain in his neck. “I'm sorry I'm so difficult.”

“It's all right,” Sylves said, his fingers continuing to move through Esares' hair. “It's my fault, too. I've never really trained a demon before. We'll figure it out.”

Esares nuzzled the mage's hand, working to keep his genuine feelings regarding this concession off his face.

The pretense had been easier before he had attempted to kill Sylves – before he'd faced the repercussions for it. But then, at the time he had never expected his predicament to be permanent, so maybe that was more important in this equation than what Sylves had done in the name of taming him. Even if he failed, Esares had thought he would simply die, and that would be that.

He wasn't sure how much better this was; but he was alive, and he wanted to live. He wanted to see demons and humans go to war once more, and for his people to emerge victorious. He wanted for his kind to never have to worry about their most dangerous enemies ever again, and for those like him, for those suffering worse than him, to be free and untethered at last, the way they were meant to be.

“Are you scared Anereth will be rough?”

Still pressing his cheek to his master's hand, Esares said, “I've never been taken by anyone but you, master.”

“Really?” Sylves sounded surprised, but also pleased – as easy to manipulate as always. He paused. “But you just mean humans, don't you? You must've been with other demons.”

It wasn't much of a question, which was to be expected. Humans, after all, appeared to think demons did nothing but kill and fuck. “I--” Esares began, pretending to be reluctant to reply. “Yes, but that's different.”

“How so?”

Well, he'd actually wanted it, for one. “They were demons, master,” Esares said instead, as if that was answer enough. Which, to Sylves, it would be. He would probably assume he meant it had been inherently violent, or like animals rutting. Esares felt a twinge at fueling his master's prejudices, but it wasn't like he could make them any worse, or as if it mattered what the mage thought about the sexual habits of Esares' kind.

“Of course. Well, don't worry. It won't be anything like that with Anereth.”

No shit. Esares kept his expression meek and concerned with some effort. “I'm just worried it will hurt, master.” And really, that was perhaps the most truthful thing he'd said all evening.

“Oh, pet,” his master said, with more pity in his voice than Esares had anticipated. He really must have done a good job at sounding scared and pathetic. It was not, actually, an achievement he could manage to be proud of. “Come here.” Sylves patted his leg, and Esares obediently got up and slid into his lap. His master wrapped his arms around him from behind. “It'll just be for a few weeks. And Anereth is hardly brutal, no matter what you think. You trust me, don't you?”

“Yes, master.” By some definition of 'trust' that did not preclude the other person keeping you as a slave and thinking of your kind as not dissimilar to beasts.

“Then believe me when I say you'll be fine.” His master kissed the nape of his neck. “Would you feel better if I was there the first time?”

“I--” While he at least trusted Sylves to not be unnecessarily cruel about it, the last thing Esares needed was two humans fucking him at once, or taking turns. Just the thought made shame burn in his stomach. And it wasn't like it'd lead to Anereth being less likely to have him more violently or otherwise hurt him as soon as Sylves was out of the picture. “No, that's not necessary, master. I trust you.”

Sylves actually sighed in relief at that. “Good. It would be a bit awkward to invite him to that, with our history.”

“I can imagine, master.”

Sylves breathed a laugh. “Not to mention I don't very much want to watch him use you. It would be fine during, but as soon as I left I'd only imagine all the more vividly what he might do to you, your reactions. I don't like the thought of anyone else having you much more than you do.”

Esares, too, wanted to laugh, but he had the sense to swallow the urge. Breaking out into hysterical giggles would not be helpful at all. “I only want you, master.”

“You're so sweet, but I know how demons are. It's all right, I won't hold it against you.”

He really could not afford to break down into hysterical laughter. “Thank you, master.”

Sylves' hand trailed down Esares' stomach and into his pants.

“Master--”

“Shh. All that talk about you being with someone else has made me want to make the most of the time we have left. Spread your legs a little. Yes, just like that.”

“But, master, you'll miss di-- ah!”

“We still have twenty minutes, give or take. I think that's enough. Don't worry, I won't give my father an excuse to make a fuss again. Now, I think we should focus on more pleasant matters.” Esares drew a sharp breath as his master grabbed his balls. “I love the sounds you make.” After a moment of holding him like that, fingers gently kneading Esares' flesh, his master slowly withdrew his hand. “Strip.”

Esares did, getting up as he did so even though that had not been included in the order. It was easier this way, and he was hoping his master would just have him on the bed again.

He was disappointed. Once he was nude, Sylves beckoned him back into his lap. “I want to see your face. ”

Obediently, Esares didn't turn his back this time as he straddled the human.

“You're not hard yet,” Sylves observed, surprise coloring his voice. However, before Esares could make himself apologize, a smile appeared on his master's features. “Even your body is determined to be contrary today, it seems. But don't worry, pet, we'll fix that, too.”

His master kissed him, long and deep, and trailed his fingertips along Esares' spine at the same time, down to his ass. When he pinched it, Esares moaned into his mouth.

“Now that's much better,” his master said as Esares' arousal pressed against his own.

Esares squirmed while his master continued caressing and lightly twisting the skin of his ass. When he was finally ordered to fetch the oil from the drawer next to the bed, he anticipated returning into the mage's lap almost as much as he dreaded it.

He had barely resumed his position when a cool, slick finger pushed into his hole. However, he didn't gasp until it went out again and then back in, and curved. He returned to squirming, and when his master didn't chide him for it and instead added a second finger, abandoned self-control and started rubbing his crotch against the mage's with as much accuracy as he could manage, which in this position wasn't very much at all.

He ended up only making it worse.

“You're so beautiful,” his master said, and as Esares' movements became more frantic, those of the mage's fingers seemed to slow down.

Esares whimpered in frustration.

As if to reward him for it, the next time his master's finger slid out and back in, they went a little deeper. “If we had more time, I'd not let you come until you weren't able to do anything but make noises like that. But I guess we really should hurry a little.” This time when the man took out the fingers, they remained gone.

“Master--” Esares couldn't help how pathetic and needy he sounded.

The mage quieted him with a kiss. “Lie down on the bed and wait for me. Don't touch yourself.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Actually, don't even let the bed touch your cock. Raise your pretty ass up in the air for me.”

“Master, please, I need--”

“You need to wait for me on the bed.” His master's tone left no room for argument.

So Esares reluctantly slid off his lap, almost without thinking pausing once to press his crotch firmly against his master's knee as he did so.

The action earned him another slap on the ass, and even though it was a light one, for a second Esares thought he might come from it. Of course, he wasn't so lucky.

With legs shaky from arousal, he went past his master and crawled behind him on the bed. Then he lowered his head onto the blanket and raised his ass.

He didn't move for fear of forgetting himself and trying to rub against the bedding if he did.

His master took his time, or perhaps it just felt like that to Esares in his desperate state. But finally the mage knelt behind him and kissed the small of his back. “You're so good. Should I reward you now?”

“Please, master.”

“How should I reward you, pet?”

“I...” At his hesitation, his master grabbed his cock, and Esares gasped. “Please fuck me, master. Please let me come.”

“You're so lovely,” his master said just before he parted Esares' ass cheeks and pressed his cock against his hole.

“Please, master,” Esares repeated when the man didn't move.

This time his master responded to his request, but he did so painfully slowly. When he started pulling out again almost as soon as he'd entered him, most likely to draw this out like he had when using his fingers, Esares wriggled a little, hoping to further entice him.

And apparently that was all it took. Finally his master's self-control, too, appeared to break, and he was back inside Esares with a single swift thrust that had Esares letting out a string of small desperate sounds never meant for human ears.

Sylves didn't take him gently after that, and Esares came all the more quickly for it. His master kept going for another minute before spilling himself inside him.

As Sylves' cock slid out of him, Esares rolled onto his side, breathing hard.

His master too took a moment to catch his breath, then ruffled Esares' hair and got back out of the bed. “We don't really have time to cuddle and relax. Come on, let's make ourselves presentable.”

Esares wanted to disappear.

“Can't I...” He swallowed. “Can't I stay here?”

“Well... I suppose I could say you're being punished for something. No doubt Father would be pleased. I'd have to chain you to the wall though, in case the servants come in.”

Relief filled Esares. “That's all right, master. May I dress and wash up first?”

“Go on.”

“Thank you, master.”

Esares hurried to gather up his clothes and vanish into the bathroom. He'd still have welcomed the ground opening up and swallowing him, but if it meant getting out of dinner with his master's family, getting fucked a second time had probably been worth it.

He might as well have planned it that way himself. Esares pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, unable to fully contain a giggle this time.

This was his life now, and he had never heard a better joke.

Chapter Text

“What did the slave do?”

Sylves sighed. Of course his father would want to know. “It pertains to a private matter,” he said, slicing into what was left of his steak. “Do you really want the details?”

His father grimaced. “Just make sure it doesn't forget its place,” he said. “You're much too soft on it.”

“I'll be sure to remember your advice, Father.”

Next to his father across the table, Imeria huffed. “This again?” She flipped her hair over her shoulder the way she often did when she was exasperated. It was a gesture that reminded Sylves of how she stood out in their family – like her small stature and sharp angular face, her sleek black hair bore little resemblance to that of any of her living relatives. According to their father, she was almost the spitting image of her mother, a servant girl who'd died during the epidemic seventeen years ago.

“Can't the two of you just agree to disagree?” she asked. “It's Sylves' slave, Father. It hardly matters if he pampers him a little, if that's what he wants to do.”

Sylves smiled at his sister. He was still upset with the way she kept pushing to have Esares to herself 'just for one night', but there was a reason he used to call her his favorite sibling out of her and their two brothers.

Their father, however, was not as impressed with her defense of him. “It's a demon, Imeria. You don't know how dangerous they can be because the ones we and your friends' families keep are all very well trained and controlled, but the moment you let go of the reins, they will start looking for a way to rip your throat out with their teeth.”

Thankfully, or sometimes not so thankfully, Imeria took after their father if not in looks, then in that she was not easily swayed once she made up her mind about something. “That's a bit dramatic, don't you think? Esares is perfectly well-behaved, and even if he wasn't, it's not like he'd be able to do anything to any of us while he's wearing that collar.”

In truth, Sylves would not bet on that, which was why he paid so much attention to disciplining his slave. He'd not been anywhere so strict before the demon had tried to murder him in his sleep. Even if he had been wearing a faulty collar then, it seemed unwise to take any risks after such an incident.

For a demon, Esares could be rather clever, which made him more enjoyable to have around, but also meant he needed a firmer hand than most slaves Sylves knew. Given the opportunity and motivation, it wasn't impossible he might find a more roundabout way of doing a mage harm that would not conflict with the Timnestra collar's magic. And he wouldn't even need to succeed for the consequences to be disastrous – if he proved himself to be dangerous, by law Esares would have to be retrained by someone with the necessary certificate, or killed.

However, now that Sylves knew what exactly he was dealing with, he had the situation entirely under control. If there had been a time when his father's meddling would have been helpful, it had long passed.

“You're underestimating a demon's cunning and lust for blood,” their father told Imeria as he had a servant heap more of the salad onto his plate.

“Look, Father,” Sylves said. “I know demons can be dangerous. But I've completed Esares' training personally and I know what to watch out for. I simply enjoy spoiling him now and then. And what's the point of having a personal slave if you don't enjoy him?”

His father sighed and looked to the ceiling, as if asking the gods what he had done to deserve such unreasonable children. “One day,” he said, “your pet will try to bite the hand that feeds it, and then you'll understand what I'm talking about.”

Instead of replying, Sylves shoved a piece of fried potato into his mouth. His father didn't know, of course, that what he was predicting had already happened. If he did, Esares would have been put down the instant he found out.

It wouldn't have been fair, though. It wasn't Esares' fault that he was a demon, just like you could not blame a wolf for ripping apart sheep. It might be necessary to drive the wolf off or even kill it, but it would be misplaced to assign blame to it. And in the end, wolves in their domesticated form had many uses, and could even be taught to live together with sheep without harming them.

A demon was not much different. Left alone, all the great scholars agreed they could barely access reason, and didn't know to do much else than kill. But when tamed, they could serve a variety of purposes, including companionship. By nature, they would defer to those stronger than them, and were even capable of returning affection from a superior.

Since it turned out Esares had never been properly trained, of course he would not have been able to understand that there was no need to fight and kill Sylves for status, that deferring to him meant being safe and cared for.

They had rectified that. To get where they were now, Sylves had read books by many an expert and asked subtle questions relating to the subject to several of his teachers. He had even taken a handful of secret lessons from a professional trainer. In the end, Esares had turned out almost exactly as Sylves had imagined him to be when he'd first laid eyes on him, gracefully going to his knees before him despite the pretty silver chains binding his wrists and ankles, coyly looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes.

However, his father couldn't know that, and when he stopped to remind himself of this, Sylves was more annoyed with him than angry for harping on about the topic. So he took a deep breath and chose to follow his sister's suggestion of agreeing to disagree. He didn't respond to his father's comment, and was glad when the older man proved willing to drop the subject, at least this time.

They switched to more pleasant conversation after that, until Imeria excused herself and Sylves followed suit, lest she get any ideas if she passed by his room on the way back.

Not that he believed it likely he'd have remained seated at the table for much longer without this particular concern. Already his thoughts had been wandering, focused on his slave waiting for him in his room. Now that he had accepted Sylves' decision of leaving him with Anereth, Esares was back to his usual sweet self, and Sylves had missed the easy submission, the tenderness and familiarity and the sex, which really wasn't anywhere as much fun when his slave was sulking, so that Sylves mostly hadn't even tried for a significant portion of the week. Finally though they would be able to make up for that, and Sylves could already think of a few things he would like to do with his demon before he had to leave – many of them sexual in nature, but not all of them.

His father would probably never understand, and Sylves wasn't sure his sister would, either, but after not much more than a year and a half of having him around, he already couldn't imagine life without Esares anymore.

*

Once Esares was free of the chains again and had eaten some of the leftover food, Sylves had him take off his clothes once more and lie down on the bed on his back.

As soon as the demon obeyed, Sylves leaned over him and kissed him, and Esares immediately closed his eyes in contentment, letting him explore his mouth. Perhaps sensing the mood Sylves was in, he kept his arms limply at his sides, not taking initiative.

It was difficult to make himself pull away, but too much of this and Sylves wasn't sure he'd have the restraint to make this as fun as he had planned to.

So he sat back up and looked down at his slave whose eyes were still closed in bliss, and thought, not for the first time, that Esares was magnificent. He caught himself comparing him to the demons in the old stories written before the Great Wars, whose elegance and otherworldly beauty bewitched virtuous maidens and brave young men who encountered them during their travels and followed them into their lands – whom depending on the author's preferences they would then wed or drown.

Well, Sylves knew which kind of ending he liked better, though the idea of wedding a demon was of course quite silly. He thought even in the stories, it had probably just been an excuse to make the noble youth lying with the demon more palatable to the audience, since no one had known back then how a demon should be interacted with, or that like many wild creatures, they could be tamed and kept.

Sylves was glad to not have been born half a millennium earlier.

Esares' hair was spilled across the pillow, black like a raven's feathers and, Sylves knew very well, just as soft. His skin was smooth and unmarred, even though his old life would have been far from a peaceful one. And he would still look like this a decade from now, half a century from now – he could scar, of course, if someone went about hurting him with that aim and chose their methods accordingly, or if someone treated him brutally; but that wouldn't happen, and so nothing about his body would change.

He would not age the way humans did, not for a long time. Sylves had been surprised to learn Esares was actually a couple of years older than him – he would have sooner guessed that he was younger. It hadn't been very sensible to make assumptions, though.

Most demons, and pretty much all that were sold as and kept for company, aged at about the same rate or slightly slower than humans did, at least in appearance – when it came to maturity, opinions among experts differed, as a comparison was difficult, if possible at all.

Demons aged in a manner similar to humans up until a certain point, when they just... stopped. They stopped for a long time, decades or centuries, and then the process resumed at a not rarely accelerated rate. In Desarias and all other countries Sylves knew of who had a stable supply of slaves, they would then be put down within a decade or two, depending on what their owners used them for. He'd never seen a bed slave who looked older than thirty or forty, and even that was rare. Thinking about it, bed slaves may have the shortest life span of their kind, though with how long most demons retained their youthful appearance, it hardly seemed to make much of a difference.

Esares might still look like this when Sylves was an old man, and that was a strange thought. Strange, but also alluring, because this was a creature as good as touched by immortality, who for now did not age and did not catch human sicknesses and who could heal a broken finger within a day, and he was his.

He touched Esares' knee, ran his fingers up and down the demon's leg, and Esares shivered

Sylves was still tired from their last bout, but he had to leave in three days, and to be able to properly prepare he would likely end up giving Esares to Anereth a day early; which meant after this one, they would only have another day and night together left. If it was to make the best of that time, Sylves wouldn't regret a missed opportunity to go to bed early.

Besides, seeing the hungry way Anereth had looked at him when he'd greeted him at the doorstep had stirred feelings in Sylves he'd thought long forgotten, and he could come up with only one activity distracting enough to help him push them back down into the depths of his mind where they belonged.

Maybe he wouldn't take Esares this time, just watch his delightful reactions and enjoy his mouth, and perhaps, if his pet was good, return the favor in kind.

Esares looked worried when Sylves lifted the heavy shackles back up from the bedside table, but let his hands be chained to the bedposts without protest. He really was trained well.

“Legs apart.”

Esares obeyed with just a split second of hesitation, exposing himself to Sylves' appreciating gaze. The demon's cock was still flaccid, but that was a problem easily taken care of. Soft thick hair had started growing back around it, but that, too, was hardly an issue. Sylves would have had him shave again anyway before giving him to Anereth.

Like the last time the images had appeared in his mind, thinking of his friend and former lover fucking his slave left Sylves with a near primal urge to remind Esares that he was his, as if the demon was in danger of forgetting if he didn't.

Already Esares' cock was coming to life, and Sylves decided to speed up the process. Leaning forward, he blew a whiff of air on it. When Esares shuddered, he took the demon's length between his fingers, gently stroking it.

Esares made a small breathless noise, and Sylves kept at it until the demon's eyes glazed over and his legs gave the occasional twitch in their effort of holding themselves still and open. Then he removed his hand, bending down to lick along the underside of Esares' shaft, and Esares fisted his hands into the sheets and arched his hips with a sound that shot straight to Sylves' groin.

He loved how easy Esares was to arouse and tease. It wasn't like having a human lover, whom it usually took a lot more work to get into a comparable state. Ever since he'd first sampled a classmate's slave years ago, he had thought it would be nice to have something like that regularly, and fantasized about all the things he would do to his own demon once he finally had one. It had taken him a while to convince his father he was mature enough to be given a personal slave, but the wait had been worth it. Esares was perfect.

Some people castrated their male bed slaves as a matter of course, even though it almost always left them much less sensitive. Something about making them more biddable, and ensuring they wouldn't get confused about whose pleasure came first. Personally, Sylves thought those owners were missing out.

It also seemed rather mean – certainly, there should be no doubt in Esares' mind about who he belonged to, but if he were to get little or no pleasure out of their sexual encounters, that'd feel much too one-sided for Sylves' tastes. He wanted his slave to respect and obey him, but he also wanted him to like the things he did to him, unless they were intended as a punishment. And even then, he didn't mind if Esares enjoyed those a little, too, so long as overall they still were unpleasant enough to discourage him from acting out.

Not that he meant to judge all people who castrated their bed slaves as unfair. Demons could be hard to control, and different people had different preferences. Perhaps some just enjoyed having to work harder to make their slaves gasp and moan and beg for more. And Sylves supposed if he had gotten stuck with a really aggressive demon nowhere as receptive to training as Esares, castration would have been an option to help him settle down – but only as a last resort, not something that made a slave more desirable.

Just to see him squirm, Sylves gave Esares' cock another lick, this time focusing on the tip, before slowly engulfing it in his mouth; but then he stopped before his pet could do more than whimper, and caressed the area between Esares' thighs lightly with his hand instead.

“Master--”

“Do you want me?” Sylves asked, moving his hand upwards to slowly but firmly massage his demon's balls.

“I--” Sylves squeezed with enough force that it should be painful, and Esares gasped and shuddered. “Yes, yes, master, I want you, please--”

“Do you think you've earned me making you feel any better than this?”

“I-- no, master, but please, I'll try, I'll be good--”

“That's what you always say,” Sylves interrupted. He had meant it teasingly, but then a thought occurred to him that he couldn't get out of his head, and he said, “Will you tell the same to Anereth, I wonder?”

Esares jerked, and might have scooted away from him had Sylves' grip not remained tight. “Shh, I said I won't hold it against you.” And he didn't, but he couldn't stop picturing Esares begging for Anereth's cock. Hot jealousy coursed through him, mingling with arousal, because Esares was lovely and Anereth was beautiful and it was impossible to not feel more than envy at the thought of them enjoying each other.

“I'd just really like to know,” he continued. “Maybe we should test it, with someone else. I could ask Benred to come in. It must be boring, just standing guard all day, and I've seen the way he looks at you. Perhaps he could even bring a friend—”

“Master, please.”

“They'd split you in two, you know. But you'd probably heal within a day or two, so it's fine. I'd leave you tied for them like this, and have you keep your legs open until they were done looking. Then I'd give them the keys and they'd have you roll over, and you'd go on all fours for them like you do for me.” Sylves no longer knew whether he was speaking out of possessiveness or because while the thought of any of the guards actually touching Esares was the farthest thing from appealing, the mental image of it was a different matter.

And Esares seemed to feel the same way, because he was rutting into Sylves' hand, even as he shook his head frantically. Probably Esares didn't think Sylves would really do it, which was good, because he didn't mean to be cruel; if there was a sliver of doubt within his demon about the matter, however... well, Sylves was allowed to be a little petty, too.

“They'd not prepare you. One of them would rip into your hole, and the other would have your mouth. And you'd like it, wouldn't you.”

“N-no, master--”

“Don't lie. Do you think you could resist? They'd have you, and then they'd switch positions and have you again. You'd love it, and if you're so greedy, what should I do with you, pet?”

“I—I-- punish me, master?”

“Mh, that would be an option. It'd be that or giving you to them for good.”

“Please, master. Punishment.”

Sylves removed his hand from his pet's crotch and pinned down Esares' frantically twitching hips, keeping him still. “But how to punish such wanton behavior?”

“I-- I-- please.” Sylves didn't relent, and after a while, his pet tried, “You-- you could beat me, master.”

Sylves hummed, not moving.

“Or-- or-- you could fuck me.”

Sylves made a noise of amused disapproval. “So greedy, pet. We're talking about a punishment, not a reward. Perhaps I'd just give you to them for a week or so, so you'd appreciate me a bit more in the future.”

“Master.” His demon sounded endearingly alarmed.

Sylves patted his hip a little to reassure him, then trailed his fingernails along his thigh. “I could watch. Or perhaps join in.” He inserted his hand between Esares' legs again. “Have them hold you for me while I fuck you senseless.”

“Ah,” Esares gasped as Sylves resumed stroking his length. “Yes, master, please fuck me.”

Once more Sylves hummed, pretending to consider. “I think I'll have your mouth first.”

“Master,” Esares said, this time alarmed for a different reason, and Sylves chuckled.

He'd miss this in the weeks to come.

Chapter Text

“Master, please,” Esares tried one last time as they stepped onto Anereth Laverien's property.

“Hush, pet,” Sylves said, not without sympathy, but not like he was taking Esares' fear seriously, either.

And of course he wasn't. Slaves were there to serve, unable to be significantly harmed by their masters unless they chose to mistreat them on purpose. And Anereth Laverien could do no wrong.

Esares resented Sylves more than he could say for being so ignorant and arrogant and human.

But Esares was still wearing the humans' collar, and Sylves was still his master, and so there wasn't anything to do but shut up and trot obediently after him into his own undoing, head appropriately bowed.

“It'll be fine, you'll see,” Sylves said, patting his head without even really glancing at him.

Which was good, because he would not have been pleased at the uncharacteristically genuine expression on Esares' face.

There was nothing Esares regretted as much as having failed to kill this man.

But he was the one who had messed it up, so it was only fitting he was the one to bear the consequences. And if that meant having his concerns about being brutalized and tortured treated like a child's – or a dog's – fear of a routine visit to the healer's, then that, too, was probably a thing he deserved. If he hadn't failed, there was a good chance soon none of his kind would have had to suffer this kind of fate ever again. Because of his imprudence and hubris, though, there was no telling what the future held, and he might have doomed them all.

Certainly even humankind's Chosen One would not fall for the same ploy twice.

As he had when they last visited, his master's friend greeted them at the door, and Esares noted for the first time that he didn't seem to have any servants in attendance, or slaves. His family did, of course – Anereth, like Esares' master, came from a long line of mages and politicians, and which influential human families did not have other humans waiting on them, and what mage who could afford it did not at least keep one of Esares' kind as a symbol of prestige?

Anereth did, too – Esares knew that much, had seen him with slaves before when his master had taken him along to the Laverien family's primary residence once. However, Anereth had apparently not brought any of them with him to the capital even now that he'd moved out of the school dorms. Or perhaps he was still in the process of moving? That, at least, would explain the glaring absence of even human staff, which for a noble family's heir would hardly do.

Sylves had him kneeling on a cushion in the living room again, absently petting him as he talked with his friend about everything and nothing.

At last, the conversation moved to Esares. “He's eaten already and has been behaving himself all day,” his master said. “Not that he's usually trouble, but recently he's been a little... willful. I think he's a bit nervous about me leaving.” Esares reminded himself, once again, that hysterical laughter in slaves was generally frowned upon. Sylves went on, “Be patient with him, all right? It might take him a few days to adjust.”

“Because you spoil him?” Anereth sounded amused.

“Ugh, don't even agree with my father in jest. I don't want him to be miserable, but I promise I don't just let him do whatever, especially not after...” His master trailed off. “I know demons aren't puppies, trust me. And if you punish him for misbehaving, there's nothing wrong with that of course. I won't be surprised if he tests you at first. Just... be nice to him, too.”

“Of course, Sylves, don't worry. I wouldn't want to traumatize him, and I know how much you like Esares. I promise to take good care of him.”

Esares found himself involuntarily pressing closer to his master's leg.

“Thanks, it really means a lot. Just write if there are any problems.” Sylves grasped Esares' chin and lifted his head. “Be good for me,” he said, placing a quick kiss on the demon's lips.

“Master,” Esares said, and for the first time in months felt tears pricking his eyes.

His master frowned at him. “I'm sorry,” he said, but not to Esares. “He gets a bit silly, sometimes. As I said, I don't expect you not to punish him, but I think he really is nervous. I know you'll be fair and with a bit of strict kindness he should settle in quickly enough.”

Esares was trembling.

“I have no doubt. You just enjoy your trip, I'll look after him. And don't forget to bring me a souvenir.”

His master laughed. “From every city I pass through, I promise.”

Sylves got up, casually patting Esares' head as he did so. Then he went to hug his friend and say a proper goodbye.

Esares' breathing quickened. He couldn't do this.

Sylves was bad enough, but at least he was predictable, and wouldn't do anything he considered cruel, which really covered a range of things. He would not cut into Esares' flesh or take him dry or make him let other people fuck him – until now. In hindsight, the last one probably always had been more about possessiveness than anything. Even so, Sylves would not cause him injuries that took longer than a day to heal, and even that only if Esares committed what he considered a grave transgression. With Sylves, it was easy to avoid the worst.

Anereth was not like him. In the year and a half Esares had known him, the man had barely spoken a word to him directly, but Esares had observed him, like he did all powerful mages and all humans close to his master. Anereth was not honest the way Sylves was, and he was not friendly even to other humans. He had played cruel tricks on quite a few of his classmates, detracting from his popularity as a talented and studious mage. Once he had made a venomous snake appear to be a kitten and when another student had reached down to pet it, he had been bitten and a healer mage needed to be sent for.

Anereth did not mind being cruel, and he did not mind lying. Esares was sure that even for his own sake, Sylves would do better to be wary of him. Esares would be amazed if Anereth didn't care more about Sylves' power and influence than about him. There was something off about their relationship, and not from Sylves' side.

Esares didn't want to be concerned about that, didn't want to worry about his master's choice in friends and well-being, but he had to. Because now that he had been made a slave in more than name, Sylves was the only thing standing between him and a life much worse than the pathetic existence he currently led. He didn't know if he would be able to bear it.

He didn't know if he would be able to bear it even for just a few weeks.

He almost threw himself at his master's feet and begged him to reconsider, even though the punishment for humiliating him in front of his friend would have been far worse than a few strokes of his master's hand. But he knew there was no point, that the human would not change his mind no matter what he did, and so it just said a lot that he was tempted to try regardless.

After Sylves handed his friend the temporary ownership papers, Anereth accompanied his master outside while Esares remained kneeling. Some minutes later, he heard the door falling shut with finality.

He struggled to get his breathing back under control as the human approached.

Anereth stopped in front of him. “You never did like me, did you,” he said.

Even if the question itself hadn't made replying impossible, Esares would not have trusted himself to speak.

“I suppose it means you're smarter than your master. I'm afraid I lied about being patient, though. There's an essay I have to finish. When you're done panicking, come find me in the study. It's the second room to the left once you walk up the stairs.” A pause. “Did you understand that?”

It took Esares a moment, but he managed to find his voice. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Don't touch anything.” And the mage left.

Esares didn't know how long he remained kneeling on that cushion, willing his lungs to work properly, trying to convince himself that whatever Anereth did, he would not go overboard to avoid seriously upsetting Sylves, at least. It didn't help much. They both knew Sylves' interest in Esares' well-being only extended so far, especially after how Esares had acted just now. He should never have made a scene, not in front of both his master and someone whose opinion his master cared about.

When Esares thought he could stand again without his legs giving out beneath him, he made himself get up and find the study. It wasn't that he had stopped being terrified so much as that he had become too exhausted for his body to keep up quite such a taxing emotional state. He still wasn't getting enough air, however.

He walked straight to the stairs, easy to find at the end of the corridor the human had disappeared into. The floor and stairs were made of the same rich dark wood and the walls were decorated by paintings Esares didn't have the inclination to take a closer look at.

He was somewhat relieved to find the door to the study open. This way, he could be absolutely certain he had the correct room and didn't have to worry about making a mistake.

He hesitated before knocking, but really, even with the door open, for a slave there was only one acceptable etiquette for this, and so he did, very softly, before kneeling down with his head bowed and saying, “My lord.” His voice, too, had almost recovered.

There was the rustling of paper. “Come here.”

Esares did, perhaps a little slower than was acceptable. He felt unbalanced, dizzy.

He let his legs hit the ground again before he had entirely reached the desk and crawled the remaining way, stopping only when he was looking down at Anereth's black polished boots.

“You've not calmed down yet.”

Esares flinched. “I'm sorry, my lord.”

A brief silence. Esares wondered what would happen if he threw up on the noble's shoes.

“It doesn't matter. Look up at me.” When Esares failed to make himself move right away, the human tapped a cool finger against the underside of his chin. Esares' head jerked up immediately.

He was startled enough that he forgot to keep his eyes directed downward.

His... keeper? Minder? Hadn't changed from the last time Esares had gotten a proper look at him, except that perhaps his hair had grown a little. His features were still cold, his gaze still nigh impossible to read. He was slender, with skin several shades darker than most people's in the capital. It stood in stark contrast to his hair, whose coloring looked barely natural on a human – not gray or white, which would have been strange enough on a human little older than his master, but silver like that of the Kavneri who lived in the mountains.

Had it been possible for humans and Esares' own kind to have offspring together, Esares might have wondered if there had been such a child among the mage's ancestors. As it was, he thought it most likely someone in the man's family had been in a magic related accident, or perhaps it had been an experimental spell, enough centuries ago that no other traces remained.

Like cold water being poured over his head, Esares realized he had been staring, and he quickly lowered his eyes.

“Was it difficult finding such a pretty assassin among your people?”

Esares' heart jumped into his throat. He was surprised when he found he still could make words get past it. “I'm not--” But he didn't finish the sentence, even in his near mindless fear being able to see that it would be too blatant a lie.

“You're not what? Pretty?” Anereth sounded amused, which was better than angry, or menacing. “Do you prefer handsome?”

“I-- no, my lord. Whatever pleases you.” Esares could feel his pulse continuing to quicken. Would passing out be considered a smaller or a greater offense than throwing up on the mage's shoes?

“You're shaking,” the human said, a faint note of disapproval – or surprise? – in his tone.

“I'm sorry, my lord.” Perhaps passing out would be worth the punishment. At least while he was being punished, there wasn't much he could do to dig his own grave deeper – and Esares wasn't sure how metaphorical that expression even was in this case.

“A bit nervous,” Anereth said, and it took Esares a while to understand he was quoting his master. “He's as droll as ever, I see.” There was a pause. “I'll touch you now. It won't hurt, so try not to jump out of your skin.”

Esares held very still as Anereth lightly rested a hand on top of his head, before beginning to slowly brush his fingers through his hair. “Is this making it better,” the human said, “or worse?”

“I-- I don't know. My lord.” It had occurred to Esares to just say 'better', as that was most likely the answer the mage wanted to hear, and the one his master would simply have taken for granted. But if he lied and then ended up passing out or retching, after all, he doubted Anereth would be pleased.

“Well, tell me when you do.”

Esares took a shaky breath, trying to steady himself. “Yes, my lord.” He closed his eyes, hoping not having to look at anything would make it easier to pretend he was somewhere else, somewhere safe.

He did think the hand in his hair helped, actually. Being petted meant he wasn't being punished, and also, under normal circumstances, that he wasn't in very big trouble. Moreover, like most of his kind, he couldn't help but respond to physical contact. Having his magic bound tightly by the collar made him more sensitive, more at risk of having his body react wholly different from his mind, but even without it, he would probably have been able to let himself gradually relax into the touch.

“It's helping, my lord,” he made himself say when he was certain.

“Good. I'll keep doing it, then. I was, actually, not trying to frighten you witless.”

Esares stiffened, then forced his muscles to relax again. Being insulted was all right. Being treated like a spooked animal was better than being hurt for acting like one.

“And I wasn't trying to offend you, either,” Anereth said, far more perceptive than Esares would have expected, or liked. “I can see this relationship will take some work.”

With some difficulty, Esares managed not to cringe. “Please, my lord, I'll be good. I don't mean to be trouble.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” the mage said as his fingers wandered down Esares' cheek, and went to caress his throat. “It's not really what I was getting at, though. This needn't be so stressful for you at all. I'm not waiting for you to do something wrong.”

Esares tried to let the touch calm him, even as he placed little importance on the words. “Thank you, my lord.”

Anereth sighed, a hint of exasperation in the sound, but no real anger. “No matter. I still have work to do, so let's get you settled for now.” He withdrew his hand, and Esares was too worn out to hate himself for the flicker of disappointment. “Up.”

Esares obeyed, relieved to find that his legs were barely shaking anymore. Once Anereth, too, got up from his chair, he hurried to follow him.

He was led to a large bedroom a few doors farther down the hall. The carpet was a pale red, most of the furniture light blue or brown. Like in his master's bedroom, the wall across the door melted into a window towards the middle that could be covered by ornate curtains but wasn't currently. There were a handful of green potted plants standing in front of it, and one whose leaves were purple.

The walls were in great part covered by wardrobes and bookshelves, and an enormous bed was placed in such a way that Esares really hoped the mage would close the curtains when he fucked him. Somehow, he had his doubts about that, though.

On the bright side, it did not look like the sort of room an owner – temporary or otherwise – would want to get blood all over.

“I assume you're tired,” Anereth said. “You can sleep in the bed. There's a bathroom attached. You may use that, too. If it's an emergency, it's all right to come find me, but otherwise don't leave this room. Do you understand?”

He was going to be left alone and it didn't involve being chained up or locked in some cell in the basement. Even if it was just going to be a brief respite, Esares was happy to take it. He didn't even mind being asked to confirm that he had understood the very simple instructions like he might turn out to need the human to break them down further, to the kind of single word commands one would prefer to use with a dog. “Yes, my lord.”

“There's a jug of water and a cup next to the bed if you need any,” the mage added and then left, and when he even closed the door behind himself, Esares felt like maybe he could breathe again.

This was fine. Perhaps it wouldn't be that much worse than the usual, after all. Or perhaps Anereth just treated his toys with some care while they were still new, until he grew bored with them. That, too, would fit with his impression of the man.

Or maybe this mage was even more refined in his cruelty than Esares had given him credit for, enjoying showing his slaves a semblance of kindness before revealing the extent of his sadism.

Wherever this was going, though, Esares now had some time to himself. He would use it to recover, or if he failed to get his nerves back under control even after resting, he would at least enjoy this while it lasted; like he had tried earlier that day – with meager success – to enjoy what he knew might have been his last decent meal in a long time.

He went over to the bed, but then paused uncertainly. He should take off his shoes, but what else? His clothes weren't dirty, but his keeper might think otherwise. Even if he didn't, a body slave laying down in full attire in his owner's bed when he had been granted the privilege of resting in it might be taken as haughtiness, or a challenge. However, if he went to sleep nude and that was not what the human had intended for him to do, that would be humiliating in a way Esares could not put in words, but would resent with every fiber of his being.

In the end, he left on his shirt, which barely covered anything, anyway, and his undergarments. His pants he folded neatly and put down next to the bed, socks on top. He wasn't wearing any make-up except some powder, which had never gotten on his master's white sheets and certainly would not be visible on these light blue ones.

Once he'd laid down, his eyes fell on the jug, made from fine porcelain. He was thirsty, but not enough to pour himself any water from it. There was no knowing what was in it. Of course, if the mage wanted to drug him, then there was nothing he could do about that, but there was no need to risk doing it himself, all but of his own volition.

He wasn't sure whether he was allowed to pull up the covers, or rest his head on one of the two fluffy pillows. But he decided that if he wasn't, the human should have specified, since he was still determined to enjoy this while he could.

Wrapped into soft sheets and as content as he could be under the circumstances, Esares closed his eyes. Anxiety still making his stomach ache, he expected to lie awake for a while longer despite his fatigue; instead, his thoughts grew muddled almost instantly, and then they were gone.

Chapter Text

Esares woke to the bed shifting beneath him. Just slightly, but it sufficed to make him shoot up in alarm. He didn't know how he'd missed the sound of the door being opened, or the footsteps coming closer.

A hand pressed down on his chest; not roughly, but with enough force to stop him mid-motion. “Shh. Lie back down.”

It was the kind of thing his master might have said, which should have been reassuring, all things considered, but wasn't even a little. Despite this, as it would have had it been Sylves ordering him, his body turned pliant almost instantly, and he sank back down onto the bedding. Even when his conscious mind was still hazy, the rest of him knew there was no use fighting.

“It's late already,” Anereth said. “Did you need something?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then stay.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The mage slipped under the covers next to him.

There was still some space between them, and Esares carefully inched closer, until his hip touched the other man's. It was easy. He would just handle him the way he did Sylves. Demonstrate he was willing to please him, pretend to be eager to do so and content just being allowed a place at the humans' feet.

He swung a leg across the mage's frame and kissed him.

The reaction was so fast Esares didn't register through his panic what was happening at first.

When he could think again, he was on his back, the human above him. His left shoulder hurt from the force with which it was being pressed into the mattress. The mage's other hand was wrapped around Esares' throat.

Esares' breathing went shallow even though there was barely any pressure on his windpipe yet. He didn't move, though. Moving would be a provocation.

The human's grip on his shoulder relaxed, and his throat was slowly released.

Esares sharply sucked in air, though he hadn't really been prevented from breathing in the first place.

The mage looked down at him. “Don't do that again,” he said, calmly.

“I-- I'm sorry--” He cut himself off when the human moved, cringing, but no blow came, and no fingers tightened around his throat anew. The man simply got off him and lay back down at the same distance from him as originally.

“I'm not going to punish you. Sleep. Or try to, at least.”

“Y-yes, my lord.” Esares wrapped his arms around himself. “Thank you, my lord.”

There was no reply, and Esares closed his eyes. Falling asleep again any time soon seemed out of the question, but against all odds, he was unhurt and unmolested and he wasn't going to disobey and ruin it.

He would have liked to go to the bathroom, but that could wait till morning. He'd had to hold it for longer more than once.

*

Esares didn't know if it was him who'd awoken first or the mage, but at least he was fairly sure he hadn't overslept. That was a relief.

He didn't make to leave the bed, though, watching the human get dressed in a plain black robe embroidered with delicate silver streaks that matched his hair. He still needed to go to the bathroom, but didn't quite dare move without an order. Unlike with Sylves, he didn't know what he was permitted, here.

Finally, Anereth turned to him. “Do you want fruit, or bread and eggs?”

“My lord?”

“Do you want fruit,” the mage repeated in the exact same mild tone as before, “or bread and eggs?”

Esares still wasn't certain he understood. “I-- whatever pleases you, my lord.”

“Well. I think I can manage that.” Anereth looked him over, and Esares lowered his gaze. “There are fresh clothes on the bedside table. Come down to the living room when you're ready.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

Esares waited until the mage was gone, then all but ran into the bathroom. He had no idea how soon his minder expected him to be done, so after using the toilet, he quickly washed himself and then hurried to put on the indicated clothes. His socks and trousers from the day before were gone, either taken to be washed or thrown away. Most likely the latter. It wasn't like they were expensive by Anereth's or Sylves' standards, and with no servants around, if Anereth had wanted them cleaned, it would have made the most sense to tell Esares and have him take care of it immediately.

In either case, though, Anereth must have put them away during the night, before entering the bed. The thought that Esares had been so exhausted he hadn't noticed a mage going about his business mere steps from where he'd been sleeping was unsettling.

Not that it would have left him any less vulnerable had he been wide awake the instant the doorknob had turned.

The clothes he'd been given were surprisingly nice – certainly they were beautiful and meant to make him more pleasing to look at, but they covered his stomach and most of his arms and legs, exposing little more than his wrists and collarbone. The material was soft and comfortable, and while purple and turquoise were not the colors Esares would have chosen for the tunic and pants respectively, he was hardly going to complain.

The clothes also fit well, which was less surprising considering Sylves had given his friend Esares' measurements at the end of their previous visit, when Sylves had offered to supply a full wardrobe for the duration of Esares' stay and Anereth had waved him off, repeatedly insisting to take care of the matter himself. ”If I'm to have a cute slave follow me around wherever I go, I'm at least going to dress him up myself.”

Esares made a face as he remembered the words, hand lingering on the deceptively soft collar around his throat. But he couldn't hold on to the surge of resentment. Being treated like a fancy piece of ornamentation – or a doll – was hardly at the top of the list of loathsome things that had been done to him.

Taking one last look at himself in the bathroom mirror, it occurred to him that his hair, while not a mess, still looked untidy enough that Sylves would have heavily reprimanded him had he shown up like that anywhere outside his master's bedroom. He hastily combed his fingers through it, but when that didn't do the trick, he grabbed a petite brush lying next to the sink, hoping making use of it was covered by the earlier permission to use the bathroom.

Even though Esares thought he had been reasonably fast considering the clothes had needed to be laced in several places, when he arrived in the living room, the mage was already waiting for him. He made to kneel, but Anereth held up a hand. “Don't bother. Come along.”

Esares did, not without apprehension. The anxiety lessened when he realized he was being taken to a dining room – a small, barely decorated one made entirely of dark brown and black wood. It had no windows, the only source of light a chandelier powered by a spell that gave the long thin lamps a reddish tint.

There were fruits on the table – a variety of them – and also bread and eggs. When the mage stopped next to a chair, Esares knelt.

“You're very obedient for an assassin, aren't you. No, don't look like that. It's just an observation. Come up here.” The human patted the chair.

“My lord?”

The human just repeated the gesture.

Esares told himself that he had followed stranger orders, and crawled onto the chair.

Anereth grabbed one of the two plates in the middle of the table and put three eggs on it, a slice of bread, and finally onto a still empty spot a spoonful of blueberries and sliced pieces of apple. Then he set it down in front of Esares.

Esares stared in incomprehension.

“Now eat,” the mage said. “You don't have to finish if you're not hungry, but you may. There's no need to save anything for later.” He started filling his own plate. “Just take your time and try not to make yourself sick.”

“I...” Esares trailed off, knowing he wouldn't get out anything coherent if he tried. It wasn't that he wasn't used to being fed, or even to being fed things of decent and high quality. All of that was a regular occurrence.

But ever since becoming a slave, he had been made to have his food like one, regardless of the contents of the meals. He would eat in a corner of his master's room on the floor, usually leftovers, or be hand-fed delicacies at his master's feet if Sylves was in the company of others or feeling indulgent. Sometimes he was allowed to eat on the bed, but more often when he did, it was without permission, and though his master seemed to find it amusing when he caught him at it, there would always be some kind of punishment.

Not even before Esares had tried to kill him had Sylves ever invited him to sit in a chair at the same table with him and eat breakfast together like he might with an equal.

Anereth poured himself a cup of water, and then another one that he slid across the table to Esares, who was too flabbergasted to even summon the proper words of gratitude. The mage didn't seem to notice – or probably he noticed, but for whatever reason did not remark upon it.

They ate in silence, which was a relief, because it took Esares all his concentration just to chew and swallow, and had Anereth addressed him, he was afraid he might have choked.

The food didn't taste any better than normal eaten at a table, but it might have had Esares not been waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Anereth finished his meal at roughly the same time he did, and considering Esares hadn't exactly eaten speedily, he had to wonder if he had timed it like that on purpose, though he couldn't really see what the point of that would have been.

“Let's talk about the rules,” Anereth said not long after the last piece of apple vanished from his plate.

Esares bowed his head stiffly. “Yes, my lord.”

However, even though it felt like the food in his stomach had suddenly turned to lead, another part of him was relieved, and cautiously hopeful. If he knew what was expected of him, there would be more of a chance to avoid excessive pain and unpleasant surprises.

“How about you tell me what they are with Sylves, and then we'll see what is going to be different.”

Esares clenched and unclenched his fists nervously. “Yes, my lord.” But he hesitated, unsure where he should start, and what the mage would even consider relevant.

“Any details will do,” Anereth said, not impatiently, but after nodding, Esares hurried to reply anyway.

“I'm allowed to use the bathroom and drink water without asking permission,” he began rattling off the rules his master had laid down a week after he'd bound Esares' magic for good; the ones that hadn't changed significantly since. “I'm to stay off the furniture, unless told otherwise. I'm not to leave my master's room on my own. I may not speak unless spoken to, except if it's to request something urgent of my master. I may--” Esares stumbled over the words and stopped, trying not to fold in on himself as he remembered the previous night.

Then he shook himself. His eyes remained fixed firmly on the table as he continued, “I may initiate physical contact with my master, if we're alone. I may sleep in my master's bed at night, unless I've recently disappointed him. I may wear clothes during the day. I may beg during punishments, unless told otherwise.” Despite his best efforts, Esares' voice started shaking towards the end.

He glanced up through his lashes at the mage for the briefest instant, wondering if he should go on, but hoping not to have to.

“That's quite the list,” Anereth said after a beat.

Esares winced. “I'm sorry.”

“No, I told you to give me details. But that's certainly sufficient to work with. Let's see. There won't be any changes when it comes to going to the bathroom when you need to and keeping yourself hydrated. Use the one in the bedroom, though.”

“Yes, my lord,” Esares said, wretchedly glad to not be made to grovel for such basic necessities.

“You'll stay in the bedroom when you're on your own, or in the living room. You may move freely between the two during the day, but all other rooms are off-limits. You may come into the study if I'm there.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You'll wear clothes and sleep in the bed.”

Esares found it interesting, in a vague sort of way, that Anereth's wording made into an order what Sylves would have put as a favor. “Thank you, my lord,” he said even so.

“You won't initiate physical contact.”

Esares shuddered. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean-- I thought it would please you. I shouldn't have presumed--” Beneath the table, he dug his fingernails into his palms. “I'm sorry,” he finished weakly, because there wasn't an excuse.

He didn't know what had possessed him; he should never have even touched the human without being told to, not if he had been just any mage, and certainly not when he kept mentioning Esares' attempt at his master's life. It was a wonder Anereth hadn't taken the whip to him then and there, or used magic for the same purpose out of convenience.

Apparently the man had been right, and fear did make Esares stupid.

“You shouldn't have presumed,” Anereth agreed, “but I shouldn't have been surprised.” Esares was so relieved to have the human take part of the blame he barely felt a pang at the jab at his kind, or perhaps just at Esares. “Don't do it again, and we will just forget about it.”

“I won't,” he said quickly. “I promise I won't. Thank you, my lord.”

“As for the furniture,” Anereth said, “you can sit where you'd like when we're alone, I don't particularly care. However, I want you to stay away from my more personal belongings. No touching any papers or decorative objects and no opening drawers or wardrobes. If you're tempted, ask me. I won't hurt you for asking for something, but I will become unpleasant if you just help yourself to my things. Is that understood?”

Esares swallowed. He was used to taking liberties with his master's other possessions occasionally, because just the rush he felt at so small an act of rebellion was worth the risk of getting caught. However, Anereth was not Sylves, and if he failed to remember that, no doubt he would learn just what exactly Sylves' father meant when he said Esares ought to be disciplined properly. “Yes, my lord.”

“Do you have any questions?”

Esares bit his lip. “When you punish me, am I allowed to beg?”

The mage didn't answer immediately, and Esares shifted anxiously. Perhaps he should not have brought up punishments.

“I don't think that will be necessary,” the human said at last.

Esares stared at his empty plate and wrapped his arms around himself. Used to pleading with Sylves to appease him, if the pain got bad enough, he didn't think he could stop himself. He wondered if, should this mage decided to punish him for begging, that would change eventually, like he had learned not to struggle, or if he would just continue making things worse for himself until the end of his stay at this house.

Anereth clucked his tongue. “Look at me.”

Esares lifted his gaze, finding the human looking less irritated than he had expected based on his tone.

“I said I wouldn't hurt you for asking for something,” Anereth said. “Begging counts as asking.”

Releasing a shuddering breath, Esares looked down again. “Thank you, my lord.” And as always, he didn't actually feel grateful to have permission to beseech a human for forgiveness for whatever imaginary slight he might decide warranted punishment; but even though he tried not to be, he was thankful the mage had bothered to clarify.

*

Esares spent most of the day in bed. It had become a rare luxury to lie in one by himself for no other reason than because he wanted to, without having to worry about getting into trouble for it, and it wasn't like there was much else for him to do. He had permission to go down to the living room, but he wouldn't dare sit on the couch although he was apparently allowed to, and even if he did, it wouldn't be a more comfortable or exciting option.

Once in a while he got up, usually to look out of the window. He watched the birds, and sometimes the busy streets in the distance: people of all kinds going about their day, horses with blinders being led through the crowds, the occasional cat chasing mice or leaves. Other times, Esares just went to the bathroom, or walked around to keep his legs from going stiff.

Whenever Anereth came in, Esares got onto the floor and knelt, as was proper. He always greeted the man with apprehension, but he was no longer terrified; not for the moment. The first two times the mage had entered the bedroom, Esares had almost tripped in his haste to demonstrate that he had no intention of being disrespectful, or, as his master had put it, test him. Anereth had not commented on the lack of grace this had resulted in, but both times taken the time to crouch down and gently brush Esares' bangs behind his ears. He hadn't said a word beyond eventually telling Esares to rise, but the message was clear: he was pleased enough with Esares' conduct so far, and there was no need to act like a dog trying to placate a tiger.

Of course Esares wasn't so foolish as to take the reassurance as permission to behave in a manner that could be construed as disrespectful or ungrateful, but it convinced him that probably he wasn't going to be beaten within an inch of his life for a minor infraction while his keeper was in this sort of mood. With no servants around, the mage even brought him his food personally – still-warm meals that he must have cooked himself, too. They were plain, rice and vegetables and some chicken, but not bad at all.

Apparently for the time being the mage was too busy to deal with Esares much more than that, which wasn't all that shocking, considering Anereth had known Sylves would give him to him for even shorter than Esares had. However, some hours after it got dark, Anereth finally seemed to be done with his studies, and after changing from his robe into a more comfortable, lighter looking shirt and trousers told him to come down to the living room.

Esares was nervous as he followed the human, but succeeded in keeping his steps measured and his breathing close enough to normal that no one else should be able to tell the difference. He was starting to think there was a chance he could come out of whatever the mage might throw at him in one piece.

Perhaps it was simply a matter of not angering him. For all Anereth had proven himself to be more than willing to deal out disproportionate violence to those who drew his ire, it was generally understood the people in question had challenged him in some manner first. Which meant that so long as Esares acted meek and carried out all orders he was given instantly, there was, perhaps, not much reason to assume Anereth would be worse than any of his peers. And Anereth was fond of sex, more so than even Sylves from what Esares gathered, which meant that even though Anereth was unlikely to grow enamored with him the way his master had, if Esares could only please him in bed, that would go a long way in winning the man's favor.

Even so, Esares couldn't find it in himself to be particularly optimistic. Anereth might not have shown any sign yet of wanting to hurt him without an excuse, and there was even evidence he'd not take just anything as an excuse, either, as suddenly climbing on top of the man the previous night surely would have sufficed in that case. None of this changed the fact that Anereth was petty, with an inclination towards cruelty Sylves did not wish to see but that Esares found frightening, and little regard for what anyone thought of him who could not help him in the pursuit of his goals, whatever those might be.

Esares noticed the things his master missed, paid attention where Sylves didn't want to; did not come up with far-fetched justifications when Anereth did something too outrageous to be ignored. When Anereth had nearly killed another student in an assault disguised as a prank, Sylves had been quick to defend him – the victim had not just had a normal rivalry with Anereth, he had told anyone who'd asked, but actually harassed him, going so far as to break into Anereth's room to steal and dispose of important papers of his. Though Sylves had not admitted as much to the teachers, Esares knew there was no evidence for this other than Anereth's word.

With the Chosen One on his side and his own talent valued by the school, it had been all too easy for Anereth to spin his tale and have it believed by those whose opinion mattered most – he'd only wanted to be left alone, and hadn't known the snake was venomous. He had assured Sylves of this, and their teachers, and given the perfect impression of someone who was shaken to his very core because he could not believe, could hardly process, that had had endangered a classmate's life in a foolish prank.

But Esares knew Anereth had been aware of the snake's deadly venom from the start, because he and his master had been present during the incident, and before the injured student had reacted to the toxin, when Sylves had laughed at his friend's clever prank and casually made to pick up the snake, he had seen the haste with which Anereth had intervened, and the spell he'd quickly woven around his own hand like a glove before gripping the snake below its head. Esares had also heard the whispers – never spoken openly in his master's presence, but easily uttered in front of a mere slave expected to never act on his own – about how years previously someone had insulted Anereth's spellwork when transforming a table into a boulder, and later that day ended up in the infirmary because their hand had been crushed by a rock.

Perhaps Anereth did not relish other people's pain when he did not consider them to have crossed him, which meant Esares would be able to avoid being hurt at least some of the time. However, Anereth already considered him a potential threat, and even without that, mages always found fault within their slaves sooner or later.

Esares swallowed, and vowed to at least make it later.

“I thought we'd relax a little,” the mage said as he settled on the large white leather couch, and held out a hand to Esares just as he was about to kneel.

Barely hesitating, Esares took it, and let himself be pulled down next to Anereth rather than placing himself at his feet. Well, this was an invitation for physical contact, wasn't it.

He nestled against the mage, kissing his shoulder through thin fabric.

“No,” Anereth said, but his voice was so gentle Esares barely froze. “Not that kind of relax. Here, lie down.” He guided Esares so that he was lying stretched out on the couch, his head in the mage's lap, facing away from the human. Long fingers began combing through his hair. “Is this comfortable? Be honest. I'm trying to make you less frightened.”

“I... yes, my lord. It is.” And it was, if he ignored the fear of where this might still lead. “Thank you.”

Anereth didn't respond with words, just continued petting him.

Esares tried to make himself relax. It would have been easier had he dared to shift his weight a little once in a while, because soon the unfamiliar position and unnatural stillness of his body made his neck and limbs ache.

“You're stiff as a board,” Anereth observed after several long minutes.

Esares' whole body twitched, betraying his nerves even more clearly. “I'm sorry, my lord,” he managed, trying to make himself hold still, but at the same time to get his muscles to loosen, his fists to unclench.

He failed pathetically.

The mage removed his hand from Esares' head. “You can sit back up.”

Esares did, wrapping his arms around his legs and burying his head in his knees. “I'm sorry.” This was a disaster. He could pretend to want Sylves to kiss or fuck him, to be happy about it, but was too terrified to so much as act neutral about this mage playing with his hair. The human's hand hadn't even strayed. What would he do when Anereth finally touched him with a different intent?

Certainly not please him, he thought, digging his fingernails into his arms.

“Were you lying about me petting you making it better?”

Esares' head whipped up. “No! Please, my lord, I wasn't lying. Maybe-- maybe if I try again--”

“--you'd die of a heart attack?” Anereth finished for him, humor in his tone, but, surprisingly, not unkind. “Yes, I'm concerned about that, too. How about you tell me instead what's different now, then. I promise I won't punish you even if I don't like the answer.”

Esares didn't for a moment doubt that promise hinged on the displeasing answer not being too outrageous. Perhaps claiming to simply be tired would, while not very convincing a claim, be an acceptable response; meanwhile, saying he found the notion of resting in a human's lap like a cat or small dog disgusting would definitely earn him a slap at least.

However, while he did find the notion detestable, found everything about his situation detestable, the truth of the matter shouldn't be a particularly offensive one. And while he didn't know how to even start explaining, it calmed him somewhat to be given the opportunity, and that despite what the mage had said the day before, the man didn't seem to be in danger yet of running out of patience.

“I worry, my lord,” he said at last, quietly. “That I will displease you. By moving too much, or by...” He hesitated.

“Yes?” There was a pause. “Just be honest. It's easier when I don't have to play guessing games.”

Esares didn't know it was a wise thing to admit, but since he couldn't come up with a believable lie on the spot, there was hardly a choice. “By not reacting the way you want me to, my lord.”

“I see,” Anereth said, not angry or annoyed, but thoughtful. “I didn't think of it that way. Would it be better if I just had you lean against me, or would you still worry?”

Esares glanced at him in surprise, then quickly lowered his gaze. “I-- I think that might be better, my lord.”

“Much better, or marginally better?”

“I... I hope much better, my lord, but I'm not certain.”

Anereth hummed. “Let's try it, then. And you can move as much as you'd like.” He lifted an arm in invitation, and Esares settled against him once more.

The mage's arm wrapped around his shoulders. Esares managed to keep his breathing even and his muscles mostly relaxed; a feat that required less effort as time passed and nothing else happened, save for a hand once in a while patting his head.

He even shifted a bit now and then, adjusting himself to be more comfortable, and the human gave no indication of finding this bothersome.

They stayed like that for a while. Then, feeling bold and perhaps a little bored, Esares ducked his head under the mage's arm and lowered it into the man's lap again. He even risked a quick look up after a few seconds.

Anereth's lips were curved, his eyes less remote than the last time Esares had dared meet them. It was evident he wasn't displeased at all, and when the mage's hand descended to resume carding through his hair, this time Esares closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the sensation. He was being touched with care, and no sexual intent that he could discern. These days, like casually napping in a bed by himself, it wasn't a terribly frequent occurrence, and even when he received the same from his master, he could never forget all the other ways in which Sylves had touched him.

Anereth had not beaten or violated him yet. It made a difference, right then. And even after... maybe Esares would at least be able to pretend, after all.

Chapter Text

Anereth looked down at the demon in his lap, whose breathing had finally evened out completely and who hadn't so much as twitched a muscle since. He lightly trailed his fingers over the slave's shoulder, and when that got no response quietly whispered his name.

He wasn't terribly surprised to find that the demon had fallen asleep.

Anereth smiled, a little amused and very much pleased. Had he tried this a day ago, probably Esares would have ended up curled up on the ground hyperventilating, or doing something stupid, like bolting.

This was progress.

Idly, he twirled a strand of the demon's smooth dark hair around his finger, before letting it slide away again.

There were other ways of dealing with this, of course, but they were more risky, and a little distasteful. There was no telling if Esares could be made to cooperate through threats or torture, or how much of either would be necessary. Anereth could easily intimidate many a pampered noble and obnoxious classmate, but that was hardly a thing worth bragging about. He knew from books and lessons ways to cause demons specifically great amounts of pain in order to extract vital information from them within a short span of time, and techniques more psychological in nature often used when training a newly captured slave; however, that was all theory, and not the sort of intellectual knowledge Anereth couldn't wait to try and apply to the real world.

He wasn't throwing the possibility out completely, though. He had waited years for an opportunity to come along to use Sylves, and this was by far the best one that had presented itself. If he succeeded, he would hold greater power than he had ever imagined when he'd first involved himself with humanity's so called hero, and he wasn't about to let it slip through his fingers.

He knew perfectly well that Esares might not be lured in with caresses and niceties. Not because of any sense of loyalty towards his master, as his former lover would doubtless prefer to believe. He could not imagine the demon did not loathe Sylves. He had known freedom once, not long ago. Compared to many other mages, Anereth supposed Sylves treated Esares not badly at all, but this was like asserting that compared to a piece of paper, a twig made for a formidable weapon.

Anereth only had so much knowledge of how Sylves acted towards his slave in private, but he could make an educated guess, and probably his estimate would be based on a more generous assessment of Sylves' character than was warranted. As much as he would always roll his eyes in response to tales about the other mage's kindness and chivalry, the way Sylves had behaved towards his slave at his departure had taken him by surprise. If anything, he had expected to be told to be gentle, not to be encouraged to pair compassion with violence.

However, despite all of this, Sylves was still, almost certainly, not the worst option for a master, especially when it came to Esares. He was, and wasn't that cute and sickening, very much smitten with the demon. He would never kill or maim or sell him, or treat him as expendable or his well-being as inconsequential. With Sylves out of the picture, Esares' future would be wholly uncertain. For all he knew, Anereth might kill him on the spot once he got what he wanted out of him, because no one but Sylves would be so foolish and enamored to believe him harmless after what he'd already attempted, let alone once he actually succeeded at being a party in bringing about his master's demise.

For this reason if no other, Anereth didn't believe for a moment he could make Esares trust him. The second he asked him for the means to destroy Sylves, the demon would know what this was about, and that there wasn't anything Anereth wouldn't promise him to get what he wanted. Promises were easily broken, especially when made to a slave who lacked even the power to complain.

So Anereth didn't reject offhand the possibility of exploring other options in the future, but he had a rough idea of how he might make this work without resorting to more unsavory tactics that also had the inconvenient side-effect of burning all other bridges. What it came down to was offering just good enough an alternative to Esares' current way of existing that it would still be believable, while gambling on the likelihood that even though they could easily look worse, the demon found his current prospects for the future dismal and horrific enough that he would be willing to throw away what safety he enjoyed for even a small shred of hope for something better.

When he wasn't being treated simply as a bed slave, Sylves talked about the demon like a wild beast turned docile. While nothing out of the ordinary at all, looking forward to a lifetime of it must be bleak.

Anereth would use that. See what things Esares found hardest to cope with, and offer him a life devoid of them. Not freedom, not kindness that went beyond the absence of cruelty – if Esares had any sense at all, he would throw such a proposal right back in his face in hopes that he would survive Anereth's anger and be able to return to his former life, bleak and degrading but secure.

Anereth would not make an amateur's mistake and promise someone the stars and the moon who was already suspicious. Instead, he would offer only the courtesy of not treating him as much as an animal as Sylves did.

The demon stirred, looping an arm around Anereth's legs, then going very still.

And this was probably the greatest complication in Anereth's plan so far. The fear.

“Did you sleep well?” Anereth asked, keeping his voice soft.

Esares exhaled slowly. “Yes, my lord. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.”

Anereth gently placed a hand on the slave's head. “Well, don't hold back on my account in the future. I'll let you know if I want you awake while I pet you.”

Esares nodded jerkily against the mage's knee, his relief obvious. “Thank you, my lord.”

It wasn't that Anereth hadn't expected Esares to be at least a little scared of being left at his mercy. As far as Anereth was concerned, it would have been either that or resentful, if not both at the same time. However, he hadn't counted on the utter terror he had been faced with – on the demon nearly falling apart, to the point where for a moment Anereth would not have been surprised had Esares grabbed Sylves' leg and refused to let go.

Apparently, he'd underestimated just how little the demon cared for him.

Anereth had noticed Esares' discomfort around him, how he stuck just a little closer to Sylves when he was near, and how all color had drained from his face the first time Anereth had addressed him after Sylves had started bringing him to class with him again after the assassination attempt. He had noticed, too, that Esares wasn't so uneasy around humans or mages in general, but Anereth in particular.

He had thought Esares found him irritating, or disconcerting – because he had shown too much interest in the demon's attempt on Sylves' life, or because sometimes Anereth's lies fell a little short, and Esares was adept enough at the art of deception himself to have decided it was safest to distrust him in all things. However, when Sylves had dropped the slave off, it had quickly become apparent that it went much farther than that.

Since he doubted Sylves would have said anything about him to his slave to cause this level of fear, Anereth could only conclude that based on something he himself had said or done in the past, Esares expected him to deal out his very worst to him.

He'd worried at first that he had been too transparent, that if they paid enough attention, people could easily pick up on his intention to cut Sylves' life short and that this was what had happened. However, the possibility seemed less and less likely the longer he watched the demon. He wondered if he should just ask.

“You can get back up if you want,” he said, and Esares did almost immediately while murmuring his thanks.

The demon hovered next to him uncertainly.

“Stay on the couch for now. How was your day?”

Esares quickly glanced at him, as if to determine whether it was a trick question. “Pleasant, my lord.”

“Ah, when we're having a conversation, it's a bit tedious if you you have to tack on 'my lord' to every sentence. It's all right not to be so formal. Though I don't mind much if that's what you'd prefer. What did you do while I was busy?”

Esares shifted uneasily. “Rest, my lord.”

Anereth smiled at the demon, hoping to convey he wasn't trying to find fault with him, let alone intending to accuse him of laziness and reprimand him. “I'm sure you needed it. But I suppose I can't just have you nap whenever I don't have time.”

Esares stared down at his hands.

“If I had you do household work,” Anereth said, “what sort would you prefer?”

Another quick glance from the demon. “Household work? I've never-- I can cook a little, my lord.”

Well, this was interesting. “Cook? What kinds of things can you make?”

“I can make eggs and rice, and I could probably fry vegetables and some meat,” Esares said, carefully. “I've made fish before.”

Anereth hummed. “I'm not precisely an expert cook myself, so that should do until my little staff problem is solved. Do you want to try tomorrow?”

Esares was looking frightened again. “I'm really not very good.”

“I won't be angry unless you burn down the kitchen. It's just to see if that's something I want you doing, yes?”

“Yes, my lord.” Esares seemed only marginally reassured, and was again gazing down at his hands, clenched into the fabric of his pants.

Anereth sighed. “Why do you think I'll bite off your head if you upset me?”

Naturally, the question did nothing to settle the demon's nerves. His head snapped up and he stared at Anereth with wide eyes. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Anereth considered taking back his inquiry, since he'd rather avoid the demon returning to the way he'd been the previous evening. However, since he had only a limited time-frame to make this work and saw no use dancing around the issue infinitely, he decided against it.

“Not that it isn't endearing,” he lied, “but I don't quite see what I did to make you act like this. I realize you already had concerns about me before this, but I'm curious as to why. I thought it was just dislike, at first.”

Nothing like a bit of honesty to put someone already wary more at ease. Though under the circumstances, it probably made little difference.

The demon was still staring at him. “I wouldn't dare, my lord,” he managed at last, voice frantic. “I don't dislike you at all. Please, I can prove it to you, I--”

Anereth gently pressed a finger to Esares' lips. The demon's eyes were still wide. They were a striking color, one Anereth had never seen in a human, though in some other demons – yellow, like a cat's.

“I expect you to obey me, not to like me,” he said, lowering his hand. “I'm not so childish as to punish you for your feelings. But if you say it's only fear and not dislike, I'll believe that as well. Just tell me what you're so afraid of.”

Anereth knew it wasn't a very nice thing to ask, requiring the slave to either lie or tell him what would be a promising way to go about breaking him, if that was what he desired. It made him curious what option Esares would pick, and if he would be able to tell.

“You didn't do anything, my lord. I've never belonged to anyone but Lord Tevenra, so it's as my master said. I'm being silly, and troublesome. I'm sorry.”

Lie.

Or, no, probably the middle-part was entirely true. Anereth could see how just being handed over to anyone whose actions he could not predict might crack the slave's usually impressive composure and leave him rather a frightened mess. With this grain of truth, it was a convincing enough falsehood, if not for the fact that Anereth knew without a doubt that Esares had always found him unpleasant to be around.

“I know Sylves isn't the brightest savior humankind has ever had,” he said, “but do both of us a favor and draw a firm distinction in your mind between him and myself. I do not appreciate lies, by omission or otherwise.”

Esares flinched so forcefully he might as well have struck him.

“I don't care if you say you despise me like no other,” Anereth continued, “but don't lie to me. Now?”

“It's not– I—” Esares stopped, and he looked like he might cry. Anereth just waited for him to resume speaking. Finally, the demon straightened his shoulders and looked up. There were tears in his eyes, but also determination, or spite. “I know what your peers say about you, Lord Laverien.”

Oh. Well, that was a bit of a twist.

“Is that so,” he said. “Just to be safe, which part of my less than stellar reputation are we talking about?”

He found himself at the receiving end of a surprisingly heated glare. “The part where you break the bones of people who slight you, and cast spells that almost kill your classmates because it amuses you that one of them would confuse a deadly creature with a newborn kitten.”

“Ah.” To be honest, Anereth hadn't expected Esares to know much about that. Rather foolishly, he had assumed that even if he did, he wouldn't be terribly concerned, considering how one mage treated another tended to say little about how he treated a demon. However, in truth it was sensible of a slave to take it as a very bad sign if someone with power over him couldn't even be bothered to restrain himself around his equals.

And actually, Esares had been there during the incident with the snake, hadn't he? Anereth had almost forgotten. It had been shortly after Sylves had acquired the slave, prior to the botched assassination attempt; Anereth hadn't paid much attention to the demon, then. But he distinctly remembered Sylves catching him off-guard by trying to touch the snake just after it had bitten the intended target, and his own hurried interference.

Considering this, even without the rumors, it was more than possible Esares had seen enough to know Anereth had been well aware of the animal's venom when he'd placed the enchantment on it. Which meant he didn't just suspect like a portion of the student-body, he knew.

The fact that Anereth had successfully claimed innocence probably only added to the demon's fear, then. A fear that wasn't, at the end of the day, entirely unfounded. As much as Sylves liked Esares, if Anereth did decide to torture the slave for information, he was confident that so long as he went about the task with a modicum of care, he could convince his friend it had been a justified punishment for some offense or another – that he hadn't even done that much, and Esares was just overreacting. Though doing so would plant a seed of doubt likely to flourish with time, if Sylves lived that long.

Anereth considered the demon, who, backed into a corner, had chosen to confront him instead of cower, whose hands were barely shaking now as he returned his stare, and decided that Esares was not broken at all, but keeping himself together the best he could. It wasn't too surprising. Esares had been picked from possibly his entire people to try and kill their most dangerous enemy, hardly selected for his looks alone, and Sylves wouldn't have had the stomach – or awareness – to finish what he'd started and beat the defiance out of him. It was a small wonder he'd even bothered to try, instead of simply getting rid of a slave who had proven himself dangerous beyond belief.

Esares must have been very good fanning the flames of Sylves' infatuation.

There was nothing beguiling, though, about the fearful loathing in the demon's gaze now.

“I actually was very put off by the people in question,” Anereth said, as if it were perfectly common to cause grievous injuries to one's classmates if only they were off-putting enough. “And half the fun was that they could have fought back, if only they hadn't been so pathetic at their own craft. I do, in fact, not consider torturing slaves a recreational activity, though I'm sure I've been rumored to go about kicking puppies at least once.”

He reached out, not pausing as Esares closed his eyes in anticipation of pain. He wondered if he'd been told the entire truth even now, particularly since by pointing only to rumors, the demon seemed to deliberately not have drawn attention to his own observations regarding Anereth's knowledge of the snake's venom; but it was good enough. He tucked a strand of hair behind the slave's ear. “Has that explanation managed to reassure you a little?”

Esares nodded, but he was still keeping his eyes tightly shut.

Anereth retracted his hand, and after a moment, the demon swallowed and said, without otherwise moving, “I'm sorry for being disrespectful. I swear it won't happen again. Please don't--” He broke off.

“Please don't what?”

Esares swiftly shook his head. “Just... I'm sorry.” He opened his eyes at last, gaze directed firmly downward. “For lying, and for looking at you, and for-- please just take that into consideration. I won't do it again. I really won't.”

“If it was just looking at me, I wouldn't particularly mind,” Anereth said. “But that was rather disrespectful.”

Esares cringed even as he nodded.

“You did answer my questions, though,” Anereth said. “I think that should count for something. If you ask me to forgive you, I will.”

Esares' eyes darted up at him, then to his own lap again. No doubt he expected there to be more to it than that. “Please forgive me, my lord,” he said. His voice was barely audible.

“All right,” Anereth said.

Esares stared at him, before catching himself and lowering his gaze from Anereth's face to his chest. “I... my punishment?”

“I believe being so frightened should suffice as a punishment. You're forgiven. Sylves did ask me to allow you some time to adjust, after all.”

It was a bit ironic that this of all things was what made Esares' tears start flowing. Anereth patted his back, and when Esares made a little forward motion, pulled him into his arms and held him as he cried; heedless of whether the demon immediately clung to him in response because it comforted him or because it was exactly the sort of thing that would have made Sylves think of him more fondly.

This was going much more smoothly than Anereth had seen coming.

Now if only there wasn't a distant worry that he might be getting emotionally involved.

Chapter Text

Esares lay in bed, curled up under the covers with Anereth asleep next to him, and tried to process the events of the night.

He had been reckless, and foolish, and even Sylves would have beaten him so that he wouldn't have been able to move without pain until sunrise for the way he had behaved. If he was lucky, his master would have had him sleep on the floor next to the bed; if he wasn't, he would have spent the night chained to the wall, in a position too uncomfortable to be restful. And those were merciful punishments compared to what most other mages would have done if a demon attempted to stare them down and accused them of being ruthless and vicious. Lying had been the least of Esares' offenses.

He'd not been concerned about that at the time, though. Only when Anereth told him he'd had no intention of hurting him for the sake of it, that tormenting someone who couldn't fight back was hardly amusing, Esares had paused, and realized it was a possibility that wasn't entirely far-fetched.

There were certainly people who enjoyed bringing down those who were close to them in power, rivals, while having less interest in harming someone with no hope of ever matching them due to circumstances or ability. People like that were probably much rarer than the ones who treated worst those unable to retaliate, but Esares didn't doubt that they existed, and when he thought back, he could actually not remember ever having seen Anereth raise a hand to a servant or slave. Esares wasn't even sure he'd heard him raise his voice to one.

As this had occurred to him, he'd simultaneously realized just what exactly he had done. Seeing no way to avoid pain, he had lashed out, thinking that with the mage's line of questioning, the outcome would be similarly gruesome no matter what he said, so he might as well walk into it with his head held high. Only suddenly it was not implausible at all that Anereth had just insisted on an honest answer out of curiosity, and that he wouldn't have punished him harshly for speaking even an unflattering truth, provided he did so delicately. Instead Esares' rude response would have ensured exactly the treatment he had been so afraid of.

Had he spoken the way he had to Sylves' father, the man would have insisted to retrain him himself, and Esares would have made a run for it even knowing at best the attempt would result in his death.

Anereth had not decided he needed to have his training done over from scratch, though. He hadn't whipped or used a spell against him, hadn't threatened him or locked him away. What he had done instead couldn't even be called making him beg, and then he'd let Esares cry in his arms until he couldn't anymore.

Esares didn't understand.

Not for a moment did he believe the leniency had been extended to him on Sylves' behalf, no matter what Anereth might claim. For one, his master had heavily implied he approved of Esares being made to behave himself. But even aside from that, it would be obvious to anyone who knew the man that Sylves would be appalled and mortified were he to learn about the offense Esares had given his friend, and would punish him for it in Anereth's stead within the blink of an eye, much more harshly than if he himself had received the insult. Just thinking about the fact that his master might yet hear about what had happened made Esares' stomach clench.

However, even in the highly improbable event that Anereth was unaware of what Sylves' take on the situation would be, one thing Esares was still sure about was that Anereth did not, in fact, especially care what Sylves thought. Judging from the effort he put into keeping Sylves believing otherwise, Anereth would not, of course, want to do anything to alienate his so called friend; but seeing how Esares' master seemed to think the other mage hung the moon, that would be a difficult feat to achieve indeed.

So Anereth had chosen to act kind for his own reasons, and there really were only two possibilities. Either the man was toying with him, or for now he really did not have an interest in causing Esares pain. If he was fortunate, he was just a fun diversion to the man, safe so long as he could hold on to Anereth's favorable mood.

And the latter option actually seemed more likely. Anereth had not done anything that indicated otherwise, and he seemed to find his fear inconvenient, not enjoyable.

Esares did not want to risk falling into a trap, but he had no good reason to assume Anereth's malice extended far enough to engage in so elaborate a deception just to hurt a slave when he least expected it, instead of when he already dreaded what was to come. The human had been cruel to several of his schoolmates, but as far as Esares knew, what he'd done to them had never been something that would have taken much more than some hours of preparation, either. If anything, he seemed to grow bored with things and people nearly too quickly for that, which was another area of concern altogether.

And Esares could not help but hope that he would be fine, after all. That this would be unfamiliar and probably introduce some new unpleasant experiences into his life, but that it wouldn't be too much worse than what he was used to. That there might even be an up-side to it. Anereth didn't seem nearly so fond of talking as Sylves, or of painting himself as gracious and kind. While it lasted, it made having to obey him much less grating than Esares would have thought. If the mage still was like this when he started fucking him, Esares might actually be able to keep himself from crying during, something that with Sylves had taken him nearly a week to get under control after being put through his idea of training. The fact that Sylves had tried to comfort him had just made it worse, so he really hoped Anereth wouldn't do that should he fail to hold himself together.

He wondered if now that he would probably be able to better keep a lid on his emotions around the mage, Anereth would have him spread his legs for him right away. He wasn't terribly surprised he'd been left alone in that regard so far, actually. If Anereth found dealing with a panicking slave irritating, there was a good chance he would feel the same about fucking one.

It was a testament to what a miserable mess his life had become that this thought almost comforted Esares more than it frightened him.

*

Esares didn't sleep badly, but he didn't sleep well, either, and woke before Anereth. Slivers of light shone in from behind the large bedroom window's mostly closed curtains, and Esares surmised the sun must have risen at least an hour ago.

After dozing for a little longer, he decided given his conversations with the human the previous day, it should be all right to get out of bed without explicit permission in order to go to the bathroom.

So he did, and had some of his confidence leave him when he returned from the toilet to find the mage sitting upright in the bed, watching him. Had he woken him? Was he angry to have had his sleep disturbed?

But before Esares could apologize, the man said, “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

Esares didn't think there were hidden layers to the question, so he decided he likely wasn't in trouble. He went to his knees gracefully, but decided bowing his head would be too formal for the situation, and trained his eyes on a spot somewhere towards the end of the bed instead. “Yes, my lord. Thank you for asking.”

He'd had little doubt Anereth would be satisfied with this greeting, but still relaxed a great deal when the man gifted him with a small smile and gestured for him to stand. “How about you take your time getting ready? I have to go out later today, and I think it'll be best if you come along.”

“Out, my lord?” Esares asked cautiously. Back on his feet, he mostly kept his gaze averted, but stole a glance at the human's face now and then, since the mage didn't seem to be very strict about the usual etiquette regarding eye contact, and because it might make it easier to gauge what he was thinking.

“Just to collect some books I lent to a friend. Nothing to make too much of a fuss about, but still. You've not bathed yet since coming here, have you?”

Had he been supposed to? “I'm sorry.”

“Ah, no, I wasn't criticizing. You may do so whenever you wish, though, and now seems like a good time to start.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then go on. You may use the bathing oils, as well.”

Esares shifted nervously. “And the brush?”

Anereth tilted his head to one side. “You already used it yesterday,” he said after a moment, “haven't you?”

Esares winced and focused his eyes on the floor. “Yes,” he admitted, quietly. “Before coming to the dining room.” He didn't want to risk annoying the mage with excuses, but it couldn't hurt to try and call attention to the fact that it had been before he'd had it explained to him that he wasn't to touch any of Anereth's personal belongings. “I'm sorry.”

There was a pause. “I see,” the mage said at last. And then, “Come here.”

Esares did, not shaking or struggling for breath, but with his heart hammering in his chest. He stopped next to the head of the bed, and the mage held out his hand to him. Hesitantly, Esares took it, letting himself be pulled onto the bed.

“I appreciate your honesty,” Anereth said, and Esares wondered if he knew that he'd only brought the subject up because he didn't want to get caught doing something wrong later, which in this case seemed inevitable. “I told you you could use the bathroom, though. That includes the brush. What do you think would happen if you'd made a mistake?”

Esares' hand tensed in the mage's grip. “I don't know, my lord,” he answered, and at this point he really had no idea at all.

Anereth hummed. “If you do something forbidden behind my back and then admit to it without being forced to, I won't make things difficult for you. I don't want you so scared you'd try to keep things from me. It's quite the hassle.”

Esares nodded jerkily, not looking up. “I understand.”

“Good.” The mage released him. “Then go take that bath now. There should be a towel next to the tub. I'll pick you out something to wear.”

“Thank you.” Esares rose and made to turn around, happy to get away, but then stopped. “Should I close the door, or leave it open?”

Anereth seemed to consider this for a moment. “Close it,” he said then, “though obviously don't lock it.”

Esares nodded. “Of course.” Relieved, he hurried off.

While waiting for the tub to fill, he took a look at the bath oils. There were about half a dozen; that was nice. Sylves only ever had one or two, which meant that even when Esares got to choose, half the time he didn't like either option. He preferred the ones that smelled like flowers or fruits, rather than perfume or herbs.

It wasn't that he absolutely couldn't stand very many fragrances, though, which he was glad for – there were quite a few of his kind with a more sensitive sense of smell, and he doubted the ones in a position similar to his own got away with using only plain water to bathe in any more than he did.

In the end, he picked a red bottle that smelled like cherry, and perhaps raspberry. He poured a generous amount in the water, since most humans liked their bed slaves smelling of either bath oils or lotion or perfumes and there'd been no word yet about him being supposed to put on one of the latter.

Sinking into the warm water, Esares felt some of the tension of the last few days drain out of him. His situation wasn't looking so terrible, all things considered. If he just played his cards right, this arrangement might yet be prevented from turning into a nightmare. He closed his eyes, and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the comfort he had half-expected to have to do without for several long weeks.

They snapped back open when Anereth came in less than half a minute later, putting down the promised clothing on a small stool opposite of the tub. Esares watched him anxiously, but the mage barely acknowledged him.

When the human left without even really glancing in his direction, shutting the door behind him, Esares leaned back against the bathtub with a small sigh and relaxed.

He stayed in the warm water a little longer than strictly necessary, beginning to feel confident that he could get away with that much. He didn't push his luck, though, and lost no time drying himself and brushing his hair. Finally, he got dressed in the clothes the human had left, not much different from those of the previous day, except for the colors – both shirt and pants were a deep red like wine, with some gold-thread added here and there as decoration.

Not long after he had put them on and stepped back into the bedroom, Anereth came to get him. Esares obediently trailed after his minder to the dining room, curious and a little worried. Now that eating at the table had become a realistic possibility, Esares found he would have a hard time settling for the floor instead – though of course he knew better than to protest should Anereth decide to revoke that particular privilege, or to only grant it to him sporadically.

He didn't have to settle for the floor. In fact, breakfast went much the same as it had the previous morning; only this time Esares didn't have to be told twice to sit in the chair rather than next to it, and filled his own plate with the bread and eggs, and generally appreciated this little bit of freedom. Though he would have liked having his meal in the bedroom by himself even more – perhaps even if he'd been made to do so on the floor.

“Come with me,” Anereth said when they'd finished eating, not even bothering to put away the dishes, or to have Esares do it.

Esares followed him into the study, kneeling down next to the man behind the desk without having to be prompted, gaze lowered. The polished wooden floor was cool and not especially comfortable.

“I need someone to try a spell on,” the mage said.

Esares tensed, but said, hoping to keep his voice even, “Yes, my lord.”

Anereth tilted Esares' chin up with one finger. “Nothing painful,” he said. “I'd ask my friend later, but I'm afraid she doesn't have the patience. Besides, if I can make it work on you, doing the same with a human in the future should be child's play. I just need you to hold still and let me work.”

Esares swallowed and nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“Relax. At worst you'll be bored. Here, sit in front of me. A little closer. Now look at my face and don't move. Perfect. Let's see...” The mage glanced at something on his desk for a few seconds, then back to Esares. His expression was contemplative. Finally, he laid his hand on Esares' cheek, and began gently trailing patterns along his skin with his fingers.

The magic seeping into him tingled, though that was probably just a side-effect of the collar and not an attribute of the spell itself, and it only got uncomfortable when Anereth moved on from the sides of his face to his nose. As the mage had promised, even then his touches were still far from painful.

“Tell me if you need a break,” Anereth murmured, somewhat absently, just before transferring his attention from Esares' nose to his eyes. Esares closed them obligingly, by then having figured out that the spell being practiced on him was a glamour, and no longer very worried about more than some neck or leg pain from remaining in this position for too long. It was complicated and dangerous magic to actually change someone's appearance, but weaving an illusion over it, while only slightly less complex, never led to gruesome results unless something – or someone – in the environment responded badly to the false image presented.

Since no one was around but the mage casting the spell, Esares should be quite safe in that respect.

Anereth spent more time on Esares' eyes than he had on the rest of his face so far, which was to be expected, since he had to work through the eyelids. Eventually he moved on to Esares' forehead, though, and to his chin, and finally his lips. The last was a little of an odd sensation, but Esares remained still, certain that this was about the least loathsome way of pleasing a human there was.

“Done,” Anereth said at last, removing his index finger from the corner of Esares' mouth. “You may get up now.”

Esares did, ignoring the stiffness in his legs.

“I wanted to see how well I'd do with the details,” Anereth said. “I didn't try to make it last long, so it should wear off on its own soon enough. If you want to take a look, it'd be best to hurry.”

“Thank you,” Esares said, not sure whether that had been a suggestion or an order given in a very roundabout fashion, but deciding that it didn't matter. “Should I come back after?”

“No. I'll find you when we need to leave. You have half an hour or so.”

Esares bowed his head and made his way to the bedroom.

In case Anereth asked him about it later and because he was actually curious, upon his arrival there he immediately went into the bathroom and studied his reflection in the small gold rimmed mirror over the sink. The eyes staring back at him were a muted green rather than a bright yellow. His face appeared more angular, his nose broader. His lips meanwhile seemed to have become smaller, though at the same time fuller. The mirror image's skin above the throat seemed rough and wrinkled, and Esares couldn't help touching a hand to his own cheek to feel the contrasting smoothness.

His face looked like that of a wholly different person, and not at all like that of a bed slave. Esares found that vaguely entertaining, having expected the mage to try and make him fit his tastes more, even knowing the image wouldn't stick for long. Now he rather doubted that had happened.

He also looked odd, considering the face in the mirror did not match the rest of his body very well at all.

He remained standing there gazing at his reflection for long enough to watch the illusion fade. First went the green eyes and wrinkles, then the shape of his nose and lips morphed back into the familiar. Once the process started, it didn't take longer than a minute for Esares' face to return to its usual state

All the while, he could barely sense the magic at work. He missed being able to feel even the smallest amount on his skin, in the air around him. And he missed making his appearance change himself – not just to people's eyes, but in truth. He had even learned to take on the form of some animals, which wasn't a common talent in his clan, but he'd had a knack for it, and Sinieru had taught him. Sinieru, who had wanted him to show him how to use a sword in turn, who had called him an idiot when he'd agreed to go after the humans' Chosen One, who had kissed him goodbye while crying.

Esares wondered how he was, and whether anyone had told him what had happened; whether he thought him dead. He hoped so. He hoped no one not involved in Sylves' attempted assassination directly had managed to keep tabs on him after he'd botched it, that they all believed Sylves had simply struck him down, like Esares had expected he would.

He did not wish anyone who cared about him to know what he had become. If he was never going to see those he loved again, he wanted them to mourn him and move on.

Esares tore his gaze from his reflection and went to curl up on the bed.

*

As he accompanied Anereth on his errand, Esares rather wished the man had left him behind at the house. Even if it had meant being locked up or kept from moving around too much by heavy chains, he wasn't sure it would have been a less pleasant alternative.

Being taken outside had its perks, but Esares hadn't yet been able to develop a taste for it. He liked the fresh air and not being cooped up in a human home and if it was up to him, he'd happily spend the nights outside under the stars instead of in the beds of those who considered him a pet at best; but he loathed to see the humans' capital thriving, their mages and nobles having his own kind wait on them and sometimes dealing out punishments in the middle of the street, his people being treated like servants or beasts or toys.

He walked a few steps behind Anereth, head bowed, and while following along with his eyes on the ground was hardly dignified or practical, he had long since decided it was for the best. It meant he missed much of what was going on around him, and that was usually a good thing, whether what he failed to notice was someone gawking at him or one of his kind being walked on a leash like a dog.

It had become fashionable again in recent months to do the latter, and Sylves had tried it a few times, as well, but had finally declared it annoying and silly to constantly have to keep Esares' leash in hand. Esares had been secretly relieved, and was glad to find that Anereth seemed to be of a similar opinion – either that, or he had at least decided to save that particular humiliation for another day.

They hadn't walked for too long yet when they left the more busy parts of the city behind, at which point Esares started to appreciate the outing a little more. The sun was warm and gentle, and the light breeze carried the smell of hyacinths and fresh bread.

Another short while and they arrived in a narrow cobbled street on which just a handful of people went about their day, and only the occasional carriage passed through. High narrow houses stood on each side of the road with some distance between each other.

One of them turned out to be the home of Anereth's friend – it looked no different from the rest, pastel blue in color and a fenced little garden in front of it. Or well, Esares thought as they stepped closer, the flora said garden contained was a little unusual, considering all the flowers and trees he recognized had magical properties. And was that a false orchid?

Esares felt the prickle of powerful magic on his skin as they stepped onto the property, and almost instantly the door was opened by a young woman with olive skin and yellow hair tied up in a bun, the way it was commonly worn by servants. She was a little shorter than Esares, and clad in a simple blue dress.

“Lord Anereth,” she said, despite her swift appearance seeming caught off-guard. She gave a bow that was slightly hurried, then smoothed out her dress as if she wasn't quite sure what to do with her hands.

“Vanette,” Anereth said, neutrally.

“I'm afraid the lady is... ah, well. I know it's terribly rude of me, but maybe you should wait here.”

There was a sound like an explosion from inside the house, and Esares jumped.

Vanette winced. “Lady Avendras sent her a new book, imported from Nevestren. About... changing one element into another? She's been--” an extended pause as the woman seemed to search for the right word-- “practicing all morning.”

Esares glanced at Anereth, who didn't look disconcerted in the least, or even surprised. “Is it dangerous to go in?”

“Well, no,” Vanette said. “But it's loud, and sometimes the barrier she's erected around the basement isn't quite enough and a vase falls off a table or a painting off the wall.” She looked embarrassed.

“We'll come inside, then, if that's all right. It's hardly out of the ordinary in our craft. Though I admit I know few other people who do this kind of thing at home.”

Vanette laughed, a little nervously. “Well, our lady is very dedicated. Please come in, then, Lord Anereth. And this is...?” She trailed off.

“Esares,” Anereth said. “I'm looking after him for a friend.”

It was as polite an introduction as Esares could have hoped to get. The collar around his neck, the color of his eyes and the way he carried himself all gave him away as a demon easily enough. Usually, people didn't inquire into who he was at all. As the servant of a noble who was also a mage, this woman must have known he was a slave the instant she laid eyes on him, yet she had as good as asked his name. Esares couldn't help but like her a little for that, even if there was a good chance she'd merely been curious about where and when Anereth had acquired him and wanted to avoid appearing nosy.

They followed her inside into a sparsely decorated little room that didn't look very luxurious at all, but to Esares seemed more inviting than most of the human homes he'd been in, perhaps all of them. There were three small dark leather couches arranged in an incomplete circle, with a plain wooden table in the middle. Daylight streamed in through a number of petite white windows, and the green carpet looked so soft it shouldn't be much of a hardship to kneel on it.

Most importantly, there were further magical plants in every corner of the room, some more beautiful than others, but all vastly more interesting to Esares than the statures or paintings wealthy humans usually liked to adorn their houses with. They varied in size and color, from purple with big blue leaves to small and green and only distinguishable from weeds by subtle difference in their shape. Esares wondered if they were protected by additional spells or if their owner was risking them following the example of the vase and painting her servant had mentioned – that would be an incredible waste.

Anereth seated himself on the couch furthest from the door and Esares knelt down in front of him, ignoring the pang of regret that came with not being able to investigate any of the plants. Above all, he would have liked to go back out in the garden and admire the false orchid, because unlike the flowers in this room, it wasn't just useful or uncommon, but so rare he had only seen one once before. He had touched the plant back then, though he wouldn't dare this time – not just because that would hardly be received well by the humans, but because he worried about what might happen.

Like some plants lured in small animals to devour their flesh, false orchids attracted other beings with magic reserves to partake in those. They weren't dangerous to any but the magically weakest human mages and demons, since they fed slowly and could not trap anything bigger than a wasp, and even a being ignorant of their true nature would quickly notice the plant draining them so long as it was capable of rational thought. Only someone with so little power to spare they were at risk of fainting on top of one within seconds would have to worry about losing their life to the sweet smelling flowers. They could even be used quite safely to remove the influence of malevolent spells from someone.

Esares worried less for himself than for the false orchid were he to come into direct contact with it. He had never heard anything about how the plants interacted with a Timnestra collar, but he thought there was a good chance they wouldn't get out of the encounter in one piece. Esares' magic could not leave his body, so he saw only two possibilities: either the plant would not react to him at all, or it would attempt to feed off his reserves anyway and be thwarted by the collar, which might well end in the destruction of the plant. Distantly, he wondered if, were someone to collect a large enough amount of the rare pink and white flowers and put them onto the collar all at once, even such powerful magic would be broken down and absorbed by the false orchids after some time.

It wasn't all that likely, he decided after a moment. Timnesra collars were created in the city they got their name from, the meeting place of the Ivariney. They were the most powerful and skilled human mages, and once a year would work in groups of four or five on the collars, weaving spell after spell into them, for, or so it was said, seven full days and nights. The amount of false orchids necessary so they would be able to stand up to the mages' efforts might be big enough that they would be just as likely to kill the collar's wearer as to free them. Besides, Esares had no idea how the plants interacted with each other, if perhaps they would have the same effect on one another as they would on any other magical entity. He would have liked to know. Not because he thought it had any real chance of saving him from his fate, but because he was curious, now.

Sometimes it were the small things like not being able to research into a matter that interested him that made Esares feel more hopeless than any deliberate punishment.

After providing Anereth with tea, the servant went beyond the standard rules of politeness and also brought a plate laden with various sweets. She warned the mage that it might take her a while to fetch the lady of the house, and apologized for the delay in advance before she left.

“Do you want any?” Anereth asked once she was gone, ignoring a faint trembling in the walls that this time at least wasn't accompanied by the sound of something being blown to pieces. Esares didn't need to turn to the man to know he meant the sweets.

Esares quickly debated his answer. One the one hand, being granted food outside Anereth's own home almost inevitably meant he would have to let the mage put it directly into his mouth, a notion which made Esares uncomfortable, more so than the same did with Sylves. On the other hand, rejecting the offer was not the way to go about pleasing Anereth, and the cookies and pralines and marzipan all looked appealing in themselves.

“Yes, please,” he said.

Anereth took one of the cookies and held it to Esares' lips, which the demon slowly parted. The cookie was small and sprinkled with pieces of chocolate and despite the manner in which he had to eat it, Esares very much enjoyed it.

The mage fed him a praline next, and then another cookie. As he took the latter, Esares tried nibbling the human's fingers a little, and when no objection came, he took their tips into his mouth along with the marzipan he was offered after and lightly sucked on them.

Sylves might have half-heartedly reprimanded him for not having picked the right time and place, but more likely, he would have simply enjoyed the act; perhaps he would even have taken things a little further, considering the servant had closed the door behind herself.

With Anereth, it seemed like it would be one of the last two options at first, but after a few seconds the mage retracted his hand and patted him on the head with it instead. “Just eat,” he said.

Esares wasn't sure whether there was a reproach in that, but if so, at least it wasn't a very emphatic one. He assumed Anereth was happy enough with Esares' attempt at endearing himself to him, but unwilling to allow it to amount to anything in a friend's home.

From Sylves, Esares knew the human might pick up where they'd left off as soon as they were back in private again. The possibility made Esares nervous, but he had done what he had in the full knowledge that it would likely speed things up. It didn't matter much, in the end, whether Anereth took him as soon as they arrived back in the man's home or at night when they went to bed or if he would wait another day; what was important was making the mage not want to hurt him, which with how things were going shouldn't be all that difficult.

Had it been Sylves, Esares might have pushed a little to see how serious he was about wanting him to stop and given it another try or two, because the punishment if he received one would have been more for Sylves' enjoyment than to hurt Esares. With Anereth, however, he didn't try his luck, and obediently returned to focusing on the food, which he would have hated to not get to savor anyway. The chocolate cookies in particular were so good he would have liked to take some with him to eat at his own pace later.

When he began to feel full, he buried his face against the mage's knee, nuzzling it, and was rewarded with a hand stroking the back of his head again.

This wasn't so different from playing to Sylves' weaknesses, after all.

Esares saw no reason to move when there was a knock at the door. He assumed it would be followed by Vanette coming back into the room to report on her progress or announce the lady of the house, but instead a second later, the door was thrown open, and Esares, startled, stared at the woman standing in the threshold.

“My lady,” Vanette said from behind her, sounding scandalized.

The noblewoman didn't seem bothered by Vanette's protests as she strode into the room. She was roughly a head smaller than her already not exceptionally tall servant, with thick black hair that looked like she'd just been caught in a tempest and skin the color of acorns. She wore a green and purple robe that seemed expensive, but somewhat worn down.

“Anereth,” she said as she stopped a few paces from the other mage. It seemed like she was trying to stare him down, which shouldn't have been all that effective considering she was only on eye level with him because he was seated, but going from what Esares had heard of her so far and the look on her face, he wouldn't have been surprised if she was about to set the couch on fire under her visitor.

And perhaps Anereth thought so, too, because he removed his hand from Esares' head and held it up in surrender. “Ksielle,” he said. “It's nice to see you.”

“Why is there a demon in my house?” the noblewoman asked, and Esares really didn't like how this was going already.

“I apologize,” Anereth said. “I wasn't aware that would bother you.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, was I unclear when I switched dorms and stayed in yours for a week because my roommate insisted on getting herself a slave for her birthday?”

“Oh, yes, there was that,” Anereth said, and didn't sound like he'd actually forgotten at all.

“And weren't you the one making fun of people for not even being able to go to school without someone at their beck and call day and night?”

“Ah, but that was two years ago, I have rediscovered the joys of slave ownership since! And I thought you might want me to sha-- no, no, don't do that, I was joking, Evynera above.”

The noblewoman had her arm outstretched and begun drawing patterns in the air with her finger. And Esares was fairly sure he had, indeed, recognized a symbol for fire in the beginnings of the spell.

“How often do your jokes cause people to not want to painfully throw you out of their house?” As she spoke, the woman paused in casting the spell, but did not dissolve the foundation already drawn.

“At least half the time? I'm just here to get my books and then we'll be back on our way, I promise.”

Ksielle glared at the man. Finally, she lowered her arm. “Vanette, would you fetch them?” she asked without turning around.

“Ah-- yes, my lady,” the servant said from behind her, unease evident in her tone.

“And take your time,” the noblewoman added. “I'm not finished here yet.”

Vanette looked between the two mages unhappily for a moment, but then gave Anereth an apologetic glance and made her way out of the room.

Ksielle's gaze left Anereth and wandered to Esares, who froze.

The woman frowned as if confused, then her eyes widened a little. “Isn't that Sylves'... ?”

Being recognized wasn't all that unexpected, considering how well-known his master was; however, most people with enough interest in and access to the Chosen One to remember what his slave looked like were ones Esares remembered seeing around Sylves. He had no recollection of this woman, though.

“Yes,” Anereth said. “He couldn't take Esares with him on his travels, so he asked me to look after him until his return. You know I'm bad at saying no to him.”

“Only when it comes to one thing,” Ksielle said, rather crudely. “Well, even if he's his, I'm not going to make an exception. The only place I'll hang around demons is the battlefield.”

“Of course,” Anereth said. “I'm enormously sorry for offending you.”

The noblewoman narrowed her eyes, clearly not impressed. She moved her gaze from her fellow human to Esares again, who immediately lowered his own to the floor.

When she just kept looking at him, he wondered if she was waiting for him to speak. Eventually, he ventured, “I'm sorry, ma'am.”

The woman snorted. “You're hardly the one at fault. I almost feel sorry you have to deal with Anereth. The gods know what I'd do if I had to spend a day with him and no method of shutting him up.”

“Do I hear the pot calling the kettle black?” Anereth said. “At least I only have about a quarter of the school despising me, while most of the rest are quite charmed.”

“Because you've fucked them, or they're Sylves' sycophants.”

Clearly, Esares thought as he didn't manage to entirely resist the urge to stare, this noble was not one for mincing her words.

“No, I think that's only about another two quarters. Meanwhile, you're the one who's had her classmates ambush and try to permanently disfigure her.”

Ksielle shrugged. “I'm not sure how much I'd care had they succeeded. I got out of it with an apprenticeship, they most certainly didn't. And if the whole school'd come after me, I'd still be less insufferable than you.”

Esares watched the woman out of the corner of his eye, curious now. Apprenticeships were given in the country of Desarias to promising mages, usually after they had finished their regular schooling around the age of twenty-five, and never before they finished their obligatory lessons, which was generally the case three or four years earlier. The purpose was to prepare them for leadership positions both in the military and in more political settings, as well as to allow them to enter highly specialized fields. It was nearly impossible to become a reputable healer mage or produce enchanted weapons for the nation's soldiers without having enjoyed the personalized guidance of someone respected in the craft.

Since a mage would never take more than two apprentices at once and often only one, and the commitment could last up to a decade, they tended to be extremely picky in whom they taught, and only exceptionally skilled mages above the age of thirty who acquired the necessary permit were even in a position to mentor someone in this way. Consequentially, the position of an apprentice was much sought-after, and seldom obtained.

Ksielle seemed young, though perhaps her height featured into that perception – even so, Esares would be surprised if she was more than a year older than his master. To be offered an apprenticeship possibly right after she'd finished the basics of her education, she must be very powerful, or very knowledgeable. Not that the two weren't often closely connected.

Anereth laughed, soft and untroubled. “I yield. But are you sure you want to throw me out already? Who knows when we'll get another chance to catch up.”

“Actually,” Ksielle said slowly, “are you free two days from now?”

“Why?” Anereth sounded suddenly suspicious. Which made sense, considering he'd almost been attacked and was still in the process of being not too politely expelled from the premises, and this was rather an odd change of tune.

“Because there's a dinner party, and I need a date.”

There was a pause. “But you're dating.”

“Yes, and she does not need my family's scrutiny.”

“But I do?”

“Oh please. You still owe me for when you had that stalker--”

“Do not speak of him.”

“--and I put him on ice for you. Do you know the fit my mother had?”

“I told you he was a relative of the archduchess'.”

“Distant.”

“Not distant enough. There was a reason I left him be.”

“Too bad, I helped you, so you owe me. The party starts after sundown. I'll come by your house and then we can take a carriage together.”

“You realize I'd have to bring Esares?”

Ksielle's expression darkened for a moment, but then she just said, “Necessary evil.”

Privately, Esares hoped his minder's blatant lack of enthusiasm meant he would refuse to go. At best, having to accompany Anereth to this party would be uncomfortable and boring. At worst... well, Esares would rather not think about that.

There was a pause. “It's Maliren's party, isn't it.”

“Yes.”

Esares shot Anereth a sidelong glance. The man looked like he'd bitten on something sour. “He's so dull.”

Ksielle gave her fellow mage a flat stare. “I distinctly remember you sleeping with him.”

“That was also dull.”

“Dear gods, are you whining to me right now about your past failed sexual exploits?”

“Calling it a failure is a bit harsh,” Anereth said. “He did manage to hold off reciting poetry to me until after. Come to think of it, calling him dull might also be a bit harsh. I imagine when you're not trying to sleep it could be entertaining.”

It was a good thing Esares was well-practiced at maintaining a blank expression while the humans around him chatted with each other about a variety of topics, because while he might not have entirely succeeded this time, he did manage not to choke on air, at least.

“That's fascinating,” Ksielle said. “Now stop trying to distract from the matter at hand.”

Anereth sighed. “Who from your family is going to be there?”

“Just my cousin. Really, if it's you she might not even mention it to anyone else. No one is going to believe you're going steady, let alone with a woman.”

“Still,” Anereth said, absently resuming petting Esares, who was too focused on the conversation to care either way, but leaned into the touch nonetheless. “Wouldn't it be easier to just go on your own?”

“U-huh,” Ksielle said. “Do you know how many suitors I've had since Lady Rivenmeras took me under her wing? About thirty too many. I'm not going to attend a party with some of the most ambitious people in the city by myself.”

Anereth made a sound that was half irritated, half resigned, and that was when Esares knew the man had not decided in his favor. He suppressed a grimace, but really, he'd expected it.

“Fine,” Anereth said. “But I get to borrow that new book of yours the moment you're finished with it.”

Ksielle smiled. “Done.”

Vanette returned a few minutes after, and seemed taken aback by her lady's suddenly much improved mood and manners. Or perhaps by the fact that none of the furniture had been set ablaze. She recovered quickly, though, and handed Anereth his books, before offering to show him to the door.

As they were escorted off the noblewoman's property, Esares stole a last lingering glance at the false orchid in the garden. If he were free, away from this place, he would take the form of a panther or crow and roam the forests in search for one. Maybe Sinieru would accompany him – more skilled at the art of shapeshifting, he had many more guises to choose from, but he preferred to pick an animal similar to Esares' form when they went exploring together. It would be fun, and Esares decided when they finally found one, he might try to take the false orchid home with him and replant it there.

It was a foolish dream, more unreachable than the flower before him. Even so, Esares clung to it until in a lively street that passed by a park and a theater, he looked up to see a girl too young to have been captured in battle stumble as her master yanked her leash, and it became too painful.

Chapter Text

Esares sat on the sofa in the living room, watching as Anereth sorted the small stack of books he'd brought back from his friend's place into a row of pale wooden shelves across the room. Anereth had carried them home himself, which was fairly unusual as far as wealthy humans accompanied by a servant or slave went, though not unheard of. Mages in particular sometimes treated their books like they would turn to dust if so much as a single scratch or crumpled page marred them, and so might prefer to not let them out of their hands, even if it meant an inconvenience. It didn't surprise Esares that Anereth should be one such mage.

“I'm going to take this up to the study,” Anereth said as he finally turned to him. He had put all the books away except one. “Wait here.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Watching the human go, Esares carefully stroked the smooth material beneath his hands. The couch was certainly more comfortable than the floor, despite the carpet or any thick cushion he might be given. He'd cautiously taken a seat on it when Anereth had told him to make himself comfortable, just to see if the mage had meant what he'd said about being all right with Esares using the furniture freely as long as no third party was present.

There'd been no reproach and in fact no visible reaction at all. It was reassuring and disquieting all at the same time.

Esares was starting to believe that he really could do this. From what he'd seen so far, Anereth wasn't so bad at all. He had shown no interest in causing Esares pain just for the sake of it, and had repeatedly expressed that he found terror an undesirable quality in a slave. At the same time, he didn't appear prone to losing his temper the moment things didn't go his way. In someone so calculating, perhaps that shouldn't come as a surprise. Certainly the mage could cheerfully trade jabs and insults with a peer and not take out his anger on the slave at his mercy after. The human had not shown so much as a spark of discontentment since they had left the noblewoman's house, and while it wasn't completely impossible Anereth would come back into the living room with a whip in hand, Esares doubted it.

He was more concerned the mage might have a different sort of stress relief in mind. He hadn't changed his opinion on there not being much of a difference in whether he was fucked by the man now or later or the next day, but he was in a weary sort of mood that would make it harder to appear eager, and even without that, he couldn't help being apprehensive. He had no idea what Anereth would be like in bed. Well, with a slave, anyway – certainly Sylves had not had any complaints.

Would he be rough, uncaring of whether Esares was in any pain during? Would he enjoy hurting him for sexual gratification, even? Maybe not so much he'd consider the risk of making Esares too afraid to think straight even outside of bed high, but enough that he'd not recover within a few hours? Or would he be more like Sylves – trying to make Esares feel good, too, or at least to make the experience no more uncomfortable for him than necessary?

At this point, all bets were off. The only thing Esares was considering more and more unlikely was that Anereth would damage him to the extent he wouldn't be able to move for the rest of the day. Which was good, but only went so far in putting him at ease. He wasn't even sure what he'd prefer.

Not outright cruelty, of course, but he might find it easier to bear if the human were at least honest in treating him as an object to be used for his enjoyment. Sylves' false kindness more than anything made Esares feel like there was something wrong with him, like his master would not treat him the way he did if it wasn't somehow justified. In his mind, Esares knew that wasn't so; in his heart, there were times when he forgot.

He needed Sylves to adore him, so there wasn't anything to do about that; but with Anereth, at least in the sheets it would suit him fine to be treated with something more akin to indifference.

Esares glanced up warily when the mage returned.

“What's on your mind?” the man asked as he sat down on the couch next to him.

“Nothing, my lord,” Esares said reflexively, and then wondered if he would be reprimanded for not speaking the truth again.

But Anereth only said, “Is that so,” and looked at him with his head tilted to one side, as if considering something.

Esares only dared return his gaze for a few seconds, then lowered his eyes again.

“You're used to attending parties with Sylves, aren't you?” Anereth asked.

Oh. Esares had not expected this kind of conversation, though he should have. It wasn't unusual at all for wealthy humans to bring their slaves to various social gatherings, but to have one misbehave would be embarrassing, especially for a mage.

“Yes, my lord,” Esares said. “My master often attends parties and usually has me accompany him.”

“Then I assume we don't have to go over how you should act.”

Esares bit his lip and remained silent, but shot Anereth a quick meaningful glance, and after a beat, the mage prompted, “What?”

“I know how my master wishes me to act, my lord,” Esares said carefully, looking at the man from beneath his lashes. “But I assumed you would have different preferences.”

Luckily, Anereth didn't seem offended by his forwardness. He sounded curious, not angry, when he asked, “In what respect?”

“Ah,” Esares started, delicately. “You... said not to initiate physical contact, my lord.”

“That would be different, wouldn't it,” Anereth said.

“Yes, my lord.”

Anereth hummed, and took a strand of Esares' hair between his fingers, sliding it between them. “We'll relax that rule, then. I don't want you suddenly on top of me, but something like leaning against me is fine.”

“What about...” Esares trailed off, staring at his own hands in feigned abashment.

“Yes?” Anereth released his hair.

“What about kissing you?” Esares asked, trying to think of something that would make him blush, but these days, it was rather a hopeless endeavor. So he ended up keeping his face turned downward instead, picking at his sleeves in an impression of shyness.

“Are you saying you want to?”

Esares glanced up, expression coy, before immediately averting his gaze again. “Only if it pleases you, my lord.”

He didn't get quite the reaction he had been aiming for when Anereth laughed. “Oh, I like you. It's a wonder you didn't succeed in killing Sylves. I can't imagine he suspected.”

Dread shot down Esares' spine, and he scrambled away from the mage with wide eyes. “My lord--”

“Don't be that way,” Anereth said, his mirth barely appearing to have lessened. “I think it's impressive. And I don't mind at all if you try to charm me. Here.” He patted the spot on the couch next to him that Esares had left empty when he'd fled to the edge of the piece of furniture; as if he had any chance of escaping pain if the mage chose to inflict it.

Heart pounding, Esares crawled back over. He kept his head bowed, and remained still with some effort when a hand was laid on top of it, stroking lightly.

“You were just trying to please me,” Anereth said. “There's nothing wrong with that. I assure you if I'm actually angry you'll know.”

Esares shuddered – whether from relief or fear, he wasn't sure. Carefully, he lowered his head further, resting his forehead on the mage's thigh.

“I suppose I shouldn't tease you,” Anereth said, raking gentle fingers through his hair. “Even if you did incur my wrath, though, it wouldn't be the end of the world. I promise I've never caused lasting damage to a slave, or even come close.”

That claim, if nothing else, did make Esares feel better. “Thank you, my lord,” he said softly.

He hated this – that he couldn't even take it for granted that the man petting him had never maimed someone helpless, and that now that he'd been told this and saw no reason to disbelieve it, he still had to wonder what other things Anereth had done.

“Do you want to go lie down for a bit?”

Esares hesitated, but it seemed a genuine offer. “I'd like that.”

“Go, then,” Anereth said and ceased touching him. “I'll wake you when I have need for you.”

Esares sat up straight and moved back a little, before bowing his head once more. “Thank you, my lord.”

As he retreated upstairs to the bedroom, it occurred to him that he hadn't asked about other things that were important when attending parties. The most important one being whether he was expected to let himself be taken by anyone but Anereth.

The uncertainty left him feeling queasy, but then, knowing the answer might not necessarily be better, and so he didn't pause in his steps.

*

Esares didn't know how long he slept before Anereth came to get him, but he surmised it had been more than an hour at least, considering the sun was no longer shining into the bedroom nearly as brightly. It was unexpected – he'd not even really felt tired when he'd lain down, but drained in a manner that had nothing to do with a lack of sleep. He'd only been glad to be by himself again.

He'd nearly forgotten he was to try his hand at preparing a meal, and after anxiously following the mage down to the kitchen, he listened intently to his explanation of where to find what. The fact that he apparently was to decide himself what to make did not help ease his nervousness.

“Don't look so worried,” Anereth said after showing him where he kept the salt and spices. “I only require you to try. If it tastes awful I'll have you clean it up and then we'll have something else. Nothing will happen.”

Esares swallowed. “Yes, my lord.”

“I'll leave you to it, but don't hesitate to come to me if there's a problem, or to call if it's urgent.”

Esares nodded dumbly, and the mage didn't wait around until he could manage a more proper reply.

Cautiously, Esares went to to work. Anereth didn't have it entirely right. He was worried about the food he ended up making not fitting the mage's tastes, but even more, he feared making an error that was more difficult to fix, like dropping something breakable or letting something boil over and marring the small bright room in which everything looked new and spotless.

Esares decided to make something simple – rice and vegetables with a bit of minced beef. It would be hard, probably, to make that taste terrible. He got out the cutting board from the shelf where Anereth had told him it was and procured the ingredients from the small white cabinet next to it, kept cool by the kind of complex spell most people didn't bother with when they could simply pay servants to ensure fresh food was always available.

He started with the eggplant. After he'd cut it into small mostly even pieces, he reopened the cabinet and grabbed another, since looking at the vegetable now that it was sliced up, just one of its sort no longer seemed quite enough.

The farther he got in the preparations of the meal, the more Esares' fear faded. It was a bit ridiculous to worry about destroying the kitchen. He'd never done it before, as long as it'd been.

Even so, Esares was miffed. If the mage insisted to refer to him as an assassin – which was, actually, entirely correct –, couldn't he at least be logical about it? Sylves did not believe Esares to be very rational in regards to hypothetical attempts at murdering him, and even he'd had the sense to not let Esares prepare his food after almost dying by his hand.

Not that Esares could do much with the loathsome collar around his neck, inhibiting him from directly harming any creature that possessed even the slightest bit of magic.

He wondered if Anereth's faith in the Timnestra collar was simply that much greater than Sylves', or if the man had seen through him so thoroughly that he knew if Esares was going to kill a mage and seal his own fate, he would make sure it was the one he had given up his freedom to dispose of in the first place.

Esares managed to finish cooking without incident, not so much as spilling a few grains of rice on the counter. He got out two plates and cups and set them down on the small white kitchen table. He didn't think that was too forward, considering how meals had gone so far, and even if that assumption turned out to be wrong and Anereth had suddenly decided to make him eat at his feet, the mage's reaction to Esares' mistake would be important information. He no longer believed any minuscule misstep would cost him more than he could handle.

He wasn't actually sure Anereth would want to eat in the kitchen rather than in the dining room or somewhere else, but if the mage had a different preference, Esares would just have to move the dishes. He'd not been given permission to enter any other room that seemed a likely choice on his own, and he didn't see the harm in setting this table instead of waiting around for orders. In the worst case, he didn't expect this sort of miscalculation to earn him more than a patronizing remark.

After laying out the cutlery, he filled the food from the pan into a plain white porcelain bowl and placed it in the middle of the table, along with a jug of water. Then he quickly rinsed the pot and pan before going to get Anereth.

Surprisingly, the man wasn't cooped up in his study, but reading a book in the living room. When Esares knelt and informed him he'd finished preparing the meal, the mage put aside the text, the corners of his mouth lifting, and stood.

“I already prepared the table in the kitchen, my lord,” Esares said tentatively. “Is that all right?”

“Yes,” Anereth said, and offered him his hand.

Esares took it after a moment of hesitation, murmuring his thanks.

Even though Esares had set the table for two people, as they arrived in the kitchen, he remained standing uncertainly, carefully watching Anereth. He knew he was walking a fine line making assumptions.

“Sit,” the mage said once he'd taken a seat himself, and Esares did, still a little nervous.

Anereth put almost equal amounts of food on both plates, and Esares wondered, a little fatuously, if it was because he believed that if the late lunch turned out to not be edible, at the very least Esares should suffer the consequences no less than he himself.

He actually wouldn't have put such a motivation entirely past the mage, though then, much like Sylves, Anereth had always given him rather generous portions until now; unlike Sylves, he'd even let Esares fill his own plate during breakfast, not saying anything about how much he was allowed to have – though Esares had been careful to not take more than what he'd been given the morning before.

Esares picked up the fork, but didn't eat yet, pretending to have his eyes respectfully directed downward while he tried to observe Anereth's reaction to the food through quick covet glances. Even knowing he would probably not be punished for failure, he did not want to disappoint the mage, more so because it felt like the first time anything of significance had been asked of him. And even though he'd tasted the food a few times while making it and it had seemed fine to him, there was no telling whether the human would think so as well.

Despite his efforts, Esares didn't manage to see enough of the mage's expression to be able to tell anything from it; but shortly after the first bite, Anereth looked up at him, catching him staring.

Esares almost dropped his fork, but before he could apologize, the human smiled. “It's good.”

Esares relaxed, and was taken aback by how much the compliment gratified him. It was just a meal, and not one that was difficult to make, or that he had wanted to make.

But it was something he had created with his own two hands, and when was the last time he had been complimented for a genuine achievement, rather than for his looks, or something more degrading?

Well, he supposed being called 'impressive' for tricking Sylves counted. That had been much more unsettling than gratifying, though.

“Thank you, my lord,” Esares said, and somehow speaking the words was harder when he actually meant them.

He set to eating as well, then, more eager than he should have been to see for himself how the food tasted after the last adjustments he'd made to it. And it was nice. Maybe he could still have added some more spices, but he wasn't sure Anereth would have appreciated that, and at the very least, he didn't think the meal was inferior to the ones the mage had prepared the day before.

It was ridiculous to be pleased with himself for that, but he hadn't cooked anything in a long time, and he had, not entirely rationally, expected something to go wrong.

“May I ask you some questions?” he ventured after a few minutes of eating in silence, eyes properly downcast. Anereth had given him no reason to assume harmless inquiries would be met with harsh punishment, and now that he'd fulfilled the man's expectations, it seemed like a good time to test that theory.

“Go ahead.”

Esares stole a quick glance. Anereth's eyebrows were raised slightly, but he looked intrigued, not displeased.

“You said you were going to hire servants later?” He knew there was a risk of the human assuming his question was motivated by laziness, but he really was curious about the lack of staff and at this point, he'd rather find out how tolerant Anereth was or wasn't sooner rather than later. For now Esares was still a novelty, which meant mistakes would likely be forgiven more quickly.

Besides, there was little he hated as much as working under wrong assumptions.

“Yes,” Anereth said simply, then paused to eat a piece of tomato. “I don't usually enjoy having strangers around,” he continued when he'd finished, “so I hesitated to employ anyone. Finally my mother insisted to send people from back home. They should arrive any day now.”

Esares nodded, glad to have asked. He wouldn't have liked being surprised by the servants' arrival. He wondered how many there'd be and what their duties would encompass, and whether they would have any authority over or opinion on him.

“Is my presence disturbing you, my lord?” he inquired, more to appear to be considerate of the mage's feelings than because he genuinely cared. He was a little curious, but at least he could be fairly certain Anereth was not so bothered by him he would make him suffer for it. And he obviously didn't seem to mind touching him.

“Not particularly.” Anereth smiled. “It takes a bit of getting used to, but all in all, I'd say I'm quite happy having you around.”

Esares' stomach clenched. “I'm glad.” He took a deep breath, lowering his fork. “About the party...”

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering, my lord,” he said, suddenly feeling a little lightheaded. “Do you-- I mean, should I expect to--” Whatever had made him believe it was a good idea to bring this up now?

“I've not bitten you yet,” Anereth said. “Ask.”

“Will you give me to other people?” Esares blurted out.

“Sylves asked me to not leave you alone with anyone else,” Anereth noted instead of answering him.

Esares bit his lip. He should quit while he was ahead, really.

He forced down the fear and frustration. “I understand, my lord.”

“Do you?” Anereth asked mildly. “Look at me.”

Esares' grip on the fork tightened, but he obeyed almost without delay.

“I won't hand you over to anyone,” Anereth said, “and I won't share you with anyone. Have you been worrying about that since I agreed to go?”

There was no sign of anger or impatience on the human's face, and Esares stopped clutching the fork. He exhaled slowly, keeping his eyes trained on Anereth's.

“Not the entire time,” he said, quietly. Had Anereth been anyone else, he would have claimed to not have been very worried at all, to be resigned to the fact that it was his role to serve his betters.

He might have added that he'd only been scared whoever'd get to take him to bed would be less kind than Anereth. It was the sort of thing Sylves would have wanted to hear, had he been less possessive a master. As had been the case when he'd given him to Anereth, he would be sympathetic to some anxiety over the specifics, but ultimately believed Esares should be content to please others if only it meant pleasing him – that it came to him naturally.

Esares was used to saying whatever was necessary to live up to the image of an adoring, if slightly willful pet that Sylves was all too happy to take at face value, and nothing would have been easier than to assure the man before him he would have been content to do whatever he wished. What stopped him was the knowledge that at best, Anereth would find it amusing, and at worst he would punish him for the blatant lie.

And Esares was foolish, because he should be racking his brain over how to fix that, terrified of the threat of losing what little control he still had over his life; and he was. But he also felt like some of the weight of his enslavement had been... not lifted, never lifted – but lightened. Apparently he had his own ego that wanted to be satisfied, because even if being seen as a creature of instinct was safest, was what he had exploited the best he could all this time, it made him feel like he was suffocating. And being seen as capable of elaborate deception, as at least smart enough to not forget his position simply from being allowed at the table, even being acknowledged to have planned out Sylves' death... despite knowing how dangerous it was, it made him feel like he could breathe.

He was not an animal or a toy or a pet happy to lick its master's boots for a pat on the head. If only it weren't for the collar, he would kill those who thought themselves his betters, who would hurt him and his kind out of arrogance and malice, and it would be his choice, not the thoughtless act of a beast. That this man seemed to understand that on some level was as exhilarating as it could be damning.

“Considering I'd still not be entirely surprised if you fainted from fear if I kissed you,” Anereth said, “passing you around at parties seems rather cruel, even as a punishment.”

“I wouldn't--” Esares began, but then cut himself off, because he certainly didn't mean to suggest he should be passed around at parties.

“No, I suppose not,” Anereth said with a smile. “I'm sure you'd kiss back very prettily, now. Even so.” A pause as the human drank a sip of water. “Don't forget your food.”

After a beat, Esares slowly resumed eating.

He couldn't say, when it came down to it, whether things were going well or terribly.

Chapter Text

Esares was bored.

That was never a good thing. Esares had a habit of not acting in his own best interest when bored.

There had been a distinct advantage to being terrified out of his mind, he thought – namely that a lack of entertainment had never occurred to him as something he would have liked to complain about. A lack of entertainment had been exactly what he'd wanted, and he'd soaked up every minute of peace he could find before the strike of what to him had seemed inevitable.

Anereth didn't seem inclined to rip him apart like a cruel child might rip the legs off a fly one by one, though, and so far hadn't required much else from him, either. In fact, it was almost like the man had no actual use for him at present at all - which should have been a relief, but honestly was a little irritating.

Before Anereth had returned to his study after lunch, when they had still been seated, Esares had asked his leave to clean up the dishes, and the mage had cocked his head at him with a smile. “Ah, yes, I can't just have you prepare meals, now can I.”

Esares had swallowed the first response that had occurred to him, which had been, 'You can do whatever you wish.'

Instead, he had kept silent and waited for the man to continue.

Esares wasn't entirely sure what he'd expected, though considering Anereth's meaningful tone of voice, it had seemed quite clear to him that touches more intimate than a hand in his hair would be involved. It had been rather anticlimactic, then, when the mage continued, giving a ridiculously short list of things Esares was to see to.

He was to be responsible for lunch and dinner for the time-being, and to keep the bedroom and living room clean and orderly. Which they already mostly were, but Anereth didn't seem concerned about that. As what had nearly appeared to be an afterthought, the mage had shown him where the cleaning supplies were kept – a small closet near the stairs that led up to the study. Soon after, the mage had left Esares to wash and put away the dishes, though not before essentially telling him to do whatever he wanted once he was done, within the set limits.

And so here Esares was, sitting on the bed, doing absolutely nothing.

Apparently Anereth was still busy with his studies, and where Sylves would have had Esares keep him company and taken occasional breaks that more often than not ended with either both of them naked or Esares on his knees between his master's legs, Anereth intended to focus on his work entirely; probably right up until dinner, and Esares wouldn't be surprised if Anereth went back into his study as soon as his plate was emptied then, too.

If Esares was lucky, it would mean Anereth had less time to fuck him in the weeks to come, but probably the man'd be done with whatever project kept him busy soon enough and then he would enjoy in full the novelty of having a slave available day and night. Perhaps Esares would have nurtured some minuscule hope he would be left alone in that regard after the near obligatory sampling, that his keeper simply wasn't very interested in sex or that Esares wasn't what he wanted in a bed slave, but clearly his looks appealed to the mage, and if there was one thing Esares knew about Anereth without a doubt aside from that he was deceitful, it was that he was about as celibate as a man who intentionally moved in next to a brothel.

It wasn't entirely a bad thing, though. Being liked by Anereth for pleasing him in bed was much better than not being liked by him at all. Esares almost looked forward to it – imagining the man on top of him might sicken him, and the first few times he might stay in the bathroom afterwards for as long as he safely could, but then there would be no more uncertainty of what awaited him, and he would get used to it, just as he had gotten used to it with Sylves. He would lie back for the mage and beg him to fuck him, or take his cock quietly if that was what he preferred, or if Anereth was the kind to enjoy such games, Esares could pretend to struggle and plead for him to stop.

Esares fought down a grimace. It was ridiculous to get upset about it, really. No matter how much all of these options and especially the last one made his stomach roil, none of them were truly any worse than what he allowed Sylves to do to him day after day; and while Anereth might well be more rough with him, Esares didn't think he would go out of his way to hurt him during sex. Even if he did – well, it was still far better than what Esares had expected coming here. All there was for him to do was to get it over with, and then it would be fine.

In the meantime, though, Anereth seemed content to keep him like a cat, or perhaps a canary, albeit one who could cook and set a table. Esares was to simply wait around all day in the areas of the house assigned to him until his minder deigned to bestow some attention on him.

And it wasn't a bad situation at all, for a slave. He was fed and clothed and, so far, unharmed. He was allowed to take naps in the bed or lounge around on the couch – well, technically, anyway, Esares wasn't planning to get caught doing the latter; but probably he wouldn't be punished too harshly even if he did something like curl up on it and fall asleep, if he would be punished for it at all.

Sylves' father would be appalled by the liberties he was enjoying, even more so since he'd not even done anything yet to earn them; not that Faveran Tevenra thought a demon should be able to earn the privilege of eating at the same table as a human in the first place. Even Sylves himself would probably be uncomfortable if he heard about this, though of course he wouldn't say anything, since that would mean criticizing Anereth, which the man did rarely enough even when his so called best friend wasn't doing him an enormous favor.

For a slave, Esares was very lucky to receive this treatment from Anereth, just like for a slave, he was very lucky to have Sylves for a master. The problem was that a slave's luck could still easily be a free person's worst nightmare, and that Esares was terrible at resigning himself to his fate.

Not that being bored was a nightmare. Having too much time to think, however, came closer, and just sitting around doing nothing was maddening. It was maddening enough that after punishing him for the dozenth time for doing something clearly ill-advised when he'd been left to his own devices, Sylves had made sure to either keep Esares occupied when he was on his own by assigning him duties usually left to the human servants or by giving him something to do that was actually fun, like teaching one of the hunting dogs to wave or another one to turn on its own axis on command. Esares very much preferred the latter, considerably rarer sort of task, but if he was honest, either was better than just waiting around being bored.

Well, though there were also the times Sylves simply made sure Esares couldn't get in trouble – that was definitely an alternative he could do without.

Reminding himself that he did not know how Anereth punished and that it wasn't impossible he'd not take another unrestricted step in the coming weeks if he proved himself unable to heed simple boundaries, he pushed aside the thoughts about how it would be interesting to explore the house, to just stick his head into a few of the many rooms and corridors he wasn't allowed in and hopefully learn more about what sort of person Anereth was that way; the treacherous whisper at the back of his mind that tried to convince him that it might even help him in the future to do so, because of course he needed to know as much as he could about the man under whose power he now was.

Instead, when he got up he brushed his hair for the third time that day, cleaned some crumbs off the small table in the living room that had hardly been noticeable in the first place, arranged the blue and red cushions on the couch more neatly, and finally went to the closet with the cleaning supplies. Dusting some of the furniture in the areas of the house he was allowed in seemed like a sensible activity – more sensible than sitting around doing nothing or getting himself flogged or worse, in any case. There wasn't much dust to be seen, but definitely some, and there was no reason to let it collect until it became harder to miss if he was the one who'd have to clean it up anyway.

So he set to work, starting with the bathroom and progressing to the bedroom, where he restricted himself to cleaning the windowsill and bedside table, as he could barely manage to detect a single speck of dust anywhere else. The stair railing, meanwhile, wasn't quite as spotless, but he wasn't exactly meticulous cleaning it even so, concerned he might disturb Anereth.

In the living room, there were a number of surfaces that definitely could do with a little dusting. Esares started with the already mostly clean table he'd rid of the crumbs earlier, then went to take care of the shelves. He began with the two empty ones near the corridor that led to the stairs, and stopped when he'd progressed to the small row of bookshelves in front of the wall facing the couch. They were made of what might be maple wood, light in color and small and elegant in design, and next to them was a colorful tapestry Esares only now realized depicted various human deities.

Glancing at it, Esares easily recognized Evynera, carrying the shield resembling a scroll she was usually depicted with, and the god of healing Samerion, holding herbs as he often did in paintings in one hand and something that might be a salve in the other.

Esares hesitated. Would dusting the books count as touching the mage's personal belongings without permission? However, he had been ordered to keep the room clean. But then, dusting books might well not have been on Anereth's mind when he'd given that instruction.

It would probably be safer to leave them be, Esares decided. He peered at them. With the exception of one bookcase that only seemed to hold texts dealing with abstract magical theory, they were precisely the kinds of books one would expect a noble to keep in his living room: traditional epics and poems in one shelf, historical and philosophical works in another, and one more for whatever other subjects their owner wanted to demonstrate a personal interest in that probably didn't actually exist.

Even so, Esares was curious. He had always liked books, and been rather fascinated by human ones ever since he'd first started learning to read them as a child. It was an interest that within his clan had earned him the occasional odd look. Though many demons who'd grown up free were proficient in human writing for strategical reasons, Esares had met only a handful of others who enjoyed doing so.

Suffice to say there'd not been a tremendous amount of variety back home when it came to available reading material composed by the enemy. His people had their own poems and their own recordings of history. They were most often passed down orally, though, with a single written version of the most important ones stored away somewhere safe. Long fictional stories were a more common sort of text, but in his clan and many others, most of the ones from before the war had been lost. As a result, the stories by his own kind he'd read were depressing more often than not, a longing evident in even the most hopeful and cheerful tales for the old times when their kind had been free and blessed by the dragons.

Esares was drawn to human literature for a number of reasons, but the most important one was probably how far much of it was removed from his own reality. Unfamiliar ballads and myths, old texts from many centuries ago when there had barely been contact between their races… they, too, were reminders of all his own people had lost, but even so, it had usually been easy for him to wave such thoughts aside as he immersed himself in the foreign tales.

It helped that where it did not repulse him, human culture itself fascinated him. Their political systems seemed so complicated and strange, the differences between the various human countries almost absurdly great when the people within them distinguished themselves so little from each other in terms of appearance and ability. For all that it would not sadden him to see their cities and empires razed to the ground, in a different place, in a different time, he thought maybe it would have.

Before he had left his people, the majority of the most interesting human books Esares had ever encountered had been the ones brought to him to help him prepare for his mission. As Sylves' slave, he had come across more intriguing looking human texts than he'd ever dreamed of; but for a slave to be allowed to touch them was unthinkable, unless it was to carry or hold them for his owner.

He'd expressed an interest in one of his master's books once – about the life of a famous poet –, and Sylves had laughed like he'd said something silly. When he'd tried again, he had been silenced with a kiss. “Even if you could understand it, it'd just bore you,” his master had said, and pulled him to bed. Ridding Esares of his shirt, he'd added, “Here, let me take your mind off it.”

Esares shivered, swiping the memory aside.

Trying to prevent his mood from darkening, he studied some of the different titles he could make out in the bookcase whose contents didn't limit themselves to just one or two subjects. There was a text about different painting styles and one about wines, and, a bit more unexpectedly, an old recipe book. What caught Esares' eye, though, was a book called “Wondrous Plants of the World”. It was of a deep dark green, the letters on its spine proclaiming its title large and golden. Was it, perhaps, about plants that could be used in spells or possessed magic of their own?

He reached out his hand, catching himself just before making contact with it. He really wanted to know. Perhaps there would be a chapter on false orchids – they were, after all, very rare and highly coveted. There were things Esares wondered about them, and he would also like to find out whether humans possessed different knowledge about the plants than what he'd learned from his people.

He looked over his shoulder. Anereth was nowhere in sight, and probably he wouldn't be back to tell him to make dinner for at least another hour. Even if he did come down, Esares should be able to hear him walking down the stairs well before he wouldn't be able to avoid getting caught.

Esares grabbed the book and opened it. There wasn't anything about false orchids in the index at the beginning, but a chapter about rivermias existed, who changed any insect that landed upon them into another. They were almost as rare as false orchids, though not as useful, and he'd never encountered someone who'd seriously studied them.

As he read, he remained standing in front of the shelf, just in case Anereth returned and he had to put the book back quickly.

He'd just arrived at the first truly interesting part of the chapter, about why it might be that flies especially found themselves drawn to the flowers while bees and butterflies rather appeared to avoid them, when the mage's voice came from behind him, almost causing him to drop the book in fright.

“Have I been too tolerant?” Anereth's tone was deceptively mild. “There's very little I have demanded of you, so far, and yet the moment I turn my back you do this?”

Esares whirled around. “My lord--” he blurted, clutching the book in his hands tightly as he stared at the mage.

Anereth's stood not far from the doorway, arms folded in front of his chest. His expression was cool, and there was a hard glint in his eyes that made Esares want to back away. Only the bookshelf directly behind him stopped him.

He understood at once the mistake he'd made. Anereth enjoyed complex spells. Using one to quiet his steps, perhaps even one to make sure he would know if Esares took his books or things in general without permission, would not be a chore to him; or at least, not enough of one to deter him. Esares would have been able to sense such spellwork in the air like smoke, once; but he no longer could reliably detect enchantments even when he touched them, not if it they were weak or subtle or when he was in a house saturated in magic.

It might be that this had been a test from the start. It might be that Anereth had simply wanted to be sure to know when someone, anyone, took out one of his books, as many of them could not have been cheap. It was even possible Anereth had decided on a mere whim to go and see what his slave was doing when he thought himself unobserved.

It didn't matter. Esares had been careless, and Anereth had learned that it had taken the slave in his custody little more than a day to disobey a clear and very simple order – as the human had noted, one of few he had been given. What made it worse was that Esares had done it after Anereth had been as kind to him as could be expected from a human. It made it seem like Sylves had been right – like Esares was overstepping his bounds to see what he could get away with because Anereth had not been very strict with him.

Humans always made their slaves' actions about themselves, their ability to control them. Though in this case, it was admittedly even true that Esares would not have taken the book had he still been too terrified to move without an order.

He shuddered at the thought of the mage rectifying this.

Tearing his gaze away from Anereth's icy one, Esares dropped to his knees, carefully putting the book down next to him before touching his forehead to the dark blue carpet. He didn't speak, since there was no good way to explain himself, and even if there had been, Anereth would hardly have cared to listen to it. That left him with the option of desperate pleas and frantic apologies. Esares decided to save them for later, when his words would be carefully picked instead of hurriedly thrown between himself and pain. If he groveled, it would be to reduce his punishment, not delay it.

“Were you planning to read this in secret?” Anereth asked, and of course it was an unnecessary question, meant to do nothing but make this more drawn out and painful.

Esares' fists clenched. “Yes, my lord.”

“And perhaps do it again in the future, if you'd succeeded?”

His whole body tensing, Esares said, “I don't know, my lord.”

“I really dislike anyone helping themselves to my things while I'm otherwise occupied. Do I need to keep you chained in the bedroom?”

Remembering the first few weeks after trying to kill Sylves, Esares flinched. “No,” he said, keeping his voice soft and quiet when he wanted to scream. “Please, my lord. I'm sorry. I won't do it again.” And he wouldn't, now that he knew it might be nearly impossible to not get caught, and that Anereth would be furious if he did.

He had made a graver error than he'd imagined. He had not realized... but he should have. Anereth had put off hiring servants until now because he liked his privacy. Almost the first thing the man'd told him upon his arrival had been to not touch anything. Whether the importance he placed on having his space and belongings left alone was related to his studies or simply his personality or because he had something more to hide than an inclination to be dishonest and vicious, Esares didn't know; but it would not surprise him at all if it was the last scenario that applied, now that the possibility had crossed his mind.

He suddenly was very sure there had been an enchantment on the book he'd taken out, or on the shelf, and that there were many more on other objects in the house.

“I'll believe you're sorry, at least,” Anereth said, crossing the distance between them with slow, still silent steps. Esares curled in on himself just a little, but held his position, trying to concentrate on the feeling of the prickly texture of the carpet beneath his fingers, the way it made his forehead itch. To think of anything but how Anereth would retaliate.

The mage bent down, burying a hand in Esares' hair, and for once there was nothing gentle about the touch. Closing his fist, Anereth yanked, and though Esares had been jerked around by his hair more roughly a couple of times before, it was still an unexpected and painful enough sensation that he winced.

Even so, he didn't lift his head until the human repeated the action and said, “Look at me.”

He let his head be tugged upward, then, his eyes rising to meet the mage's. Not sure what Anereth would like to see on his face, but deciding a blank look probably wasn't it, he didn't try to hide his terror.

“Please,” he said.

Anereth just looked back at him, gaze inscrutable.

Finally, Esares' hair was released.

“Please what, I wonder?” Anereth said, no longer with an underlying edge to his voice, but his now thoughtful tone no more reassuring. “How do you suggest I punish you?”

Esares focused on taking slow even breaths. “However you wish,” he said, and swallowed. “My lord.”

Anereth smiled. “Yes, but what would you prefer?” He laid a hand on Esares' cheek, and Esares instinctively started to turn his head away, before stopping himself mid-motion and closing his eyes instead.

“Ah, that's a bit of a mean question, isn't it,” Anereth said, stroking Esares' chin with his thumb almost gently. “I'll decide, then.” He retracted his hand, and Esares reluctantly opened his eyes. “Head back down on the ground.”

Esares obeyed. The quivering of his legs was probably well concealed by his position, but the trembling of his hands at each side of his head would be difficult for the mage to miss, and he wondered if it pleased the man, or irritated him.

“You'll stay here like this until I have time to deal with you,” Anereth said, and Esares bit his tongue to keep himself from asking – begging – the man to just get it over with. This wasn't Sylves, who would take pity on him even when angry, and who'd almost certainly not make him wait very long after such a plea.

He had no doubt Anereth had every intention of making the wait little easier to bear than the punishment that would follow.

Esares wondered what it would be. Caning? The whip? Though a spell seemed more Anereth's style. Perhaps that was another reason he meant to not punish him right away – he might have to look for a suitable one first, or several.

A hand touched his shoulder, and Esares jumped. Then he quickly pressed his forehead back to the floor and dug his fingernails into the carpet, willing himself to keep still even as he wanted nothing more than to flee.

Anereth trailed his hand down Esares' back, then up again. “Don't work yourself into a state,” he said, softly. “I told you making me angry would not be the end of the world, and I did mean it. You'll be fine within an hour.”

Esares shut his eyes again. An hour. That should be fine. Still painful, but bearable. Nothing he wasn't used to, unless the mage knew a spell that would hurt him without causing actual damage – but even then, a truly agonizing one should take longer to recover from than that. “Yes, my lord,” he said quietly. “Thank you, my lord.”

He startled a little when Anereth patted his head. “You'll be fine,” the mage said again, tone light. Then he rose, and after returning the book to the shelf left.

Esares remained where he was as he had been bidden, not moving except to ball his hands into fists to stop them shaking.

He no longer knew what to expect. He had been certain Anereth would pick the sort of punishment bound to make the discipline Sylves would have meted out in the same situation appear kind in comparison. It had seemed inevitable for Anereth's ruthless streak to show itself clear as day, considering how thoroughly Esares had crossed him. Just taking a book would have been bad enough, considering humans as a whole preferred to pretend demons could, if technically read, then at least not comprehend more than the most simple of their writings. But he'd disobeyed an explicit order only just given, and if Anereth really was as particular about his possessions as it seemed...

But now before leaving, Anereth had as good as made an effort to not be cruel, and Esares wanted to take that as a sign there really was no reason to panic. Being made to await his punishment was not at all merciful, but with the assurance that the mage did not intend for it to be overly harsh, that he'd not catapulted himself out of the man's good graces entirely, it wasn't an unbearable torment, either. Surely the fact that Anereth had gone out of his way to make him feel better at all meant there was no reason to think he had ruined everything with this.

Esares worried, though. That he had missed some hidden meaning in the human's words. That he was being toyed with, after all. That even if the punishment itself wasn't going to be especially terrible, Anereth would decide to keep him chained up in the future as a precaution. If he really had something to hide Esares could stumble upon, or even just if he especially loathed having his privacy infringed upon for more ordinary reasons, it wasn't unlikely at all.

And then there was the dread that slithered down Esares' spine at the thought of any punishment at all.

Up until a certain point, Esares could stand pain. He had been trained back home to endure it, in preparation for both the battlefield and for his mission. They hadn't known how Sylves would treat his slave, and Esares had not wanted to go unprepared.

What he hadn't steeled himself against was the humiliation – of failure, of being just another slave willing to do almost anything to keep himself alive and in one piece; of being treated nothing like a person and hurt or tied up at his owner's whim.

Even when Esares was beaten for an infraction in such a way that the pain was negligible, there would always be the shame, and the resentment he could not allow to let show. How dare the human lay a hand on him, like he had any right to dictate Esares' actions? How dare he hurt him for disobeying when even the ones who were justified in telling Esares what to do never would?

But because Esares knew there was no changing the ways of humans – the scorn they held for his kind and their penchant for violence –, he always ended up with only himself to blame. If only he had not failed his mission. If only he had left killing Sylves to someone else, someone who would have succeeded in bringing about the man's death. If only he had not fought Sylves so hard afterwards and pretended to have been broken sooner; if only he had not disobeyed this order or that; if only he had smiled a little more sweetly, cried a little more prettily. If only he had an idea how to tear the collar from his throat and plunge a knife into his master's heart.

It would be like that now, too, only it would not be his master making his chest burn with loathing for his tormentor and himself, and that was worse. He'd been punished a handful of times by someone other than Sylves – a servant entrusted with the task, one of his master's brothers, a friend of the family he had inadvertently offended. It was always more difficult to bear. Because he knew Sylves and could read him and his moods; but also because it was only Sylves. There was nothing the man could take from him anymore, no shred of dignity left for Esares to lose in front of him that had no been torn from him already – not unless Sylves suddenly changed and acted like someone else altogether.

With other people, though, it hurt more. It made Sylves' judgment of him feel more real, more right, even though Esares knew it wasn't. And even then, it had never been like this, with someone who if Esares' body reacted to the pain one way and the rest of him another might just like Sylves take that as an invitation.

It was a foolish thing to shed tears over, because it had only ever been a matter of time. But Esares realized he had grown attached to the illusion of being treated by this mage like... not an equal, but not a beast or pet, either. Perhaps like favored human slaves were treated, in countries where those still existed, by masters who had the semblance of a conscience.

Like Sylves might treat him, if only Esares were human.

A sound escaped him that he wasn't sure was a laugh or a sob, and he cut it off before he could find out, and wept in silence.

Chapter Text

This time when Anereth entered the room, Esares had been able to hear him coming.

Esares' tears had dried, and his face would no longer have betrayed any sign of them, had he not deliberately made himself cry a second time when Anereth had taken too long to return. It had been easy in the mood he'd still been in, and though he didn't like letting those who held him in disdain see his tears, if he had to live with having shed them over something so asinine as losing something he had never wanted in the first place, he would at least get something out of it. A lighter punishment, or the information that Anereth was not moved by crying. Either would be worth the indignity.

Staring at the dark blue carpet his forehead was still resting on, Esares listened as the mage walked some steps into the room, then settled on the couch. The whole time the human had been gone, Esares had barely dared shift his weight, but now he made sure to keep himself completely motionless. It didn't matter that his neck and back hurt from the uncomfortable position, from having held it for what had probably been over an hour, and that even his arms and legs ached. He knew it was a negligible pain, quickly forgotten in the face of the one that would follow.

Even so, it was difficult not to look up. Had Anereth brought with him physical tools to discipline him? Esares half dreaded, half hoped he had. He could think of few reasons the mage might prefer to punish him elsewhere that did not bode ill for him. And if Anereth was going to use a spell instead of a more traditional method, there was no telling how it would hurt, what it would do to him.

At least the whip was familiar.

Esares' hands were still now, his breathing slow and its rhythm almost normal – he wasn't terrified, but cold had seeped into his veins and he wished time would stop.

Anereth didn't address him immediately, perhaps trying to gauge the effect the long wait'd had on him. Esares wished he knew the man like he did Sylves – knew what he would be looking for so he could give it to him.

“Come,” the mage said at last. His voice carried no particular emotion, giving away nothing.

Esares obeyed, lifting his head from the ground, but not his hands and knees. He wasn't sure he would be able to stand easily, and anyway, it would not make for the same picture of despondent repentance; might be taken as presumptuous, even.

So he made his way over to the sofa on all fours, and when he stopped focused his gaze on a spot somewhere in front of Anereth's shoes.

The mage looked down at him for a long moment, then grasped his chin. Esares barely flinched, and met Anereth's gaze just in time to see surprise flicker across the human's face.

“Have you been crying?”

Esares dropped his eyes as if ashamed. “I'm sorry, my lord.”

Anereth considered him. Then, sounding more curious than anything, asked, “Do you cry when Sylves punishes you?”

Esares kept his gaze trained on the edge of the couch. “Not usually, my lord,” he said honestly.

“What do you expect me to do to you? Ah, that's another mean question, isn't it. Even so, I'd like for you to tell me.”

Esares wondered if the renewed crying had really been such a good idea. “I don't know, my lord,” he said. And added in a quiet voice, still keeping his words truthful, “I don't imagine it will be pleasant, though.”

“That would rather defeat the point,” Anereth agreed, humor in his tone. Esares resisted the impulse to clench his fists.

He waited for the spark of anger to extinguish before murmuring, “Of course, my lord.”

“I really don't want you touching my things without permission,” Anereth said, repeating his earlier assertion of the same. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” The mage released his chin. “The hour's up. Go to the bedroom, rest a little. Perhaps wash your face, perhaps drink some water. When you're done, come back down and make dinner. Nothing complicated – just porridge will do, or a salad.”

Esares did look back up, then. “My lord?”

Anereth calmly returned his bewildered gaze. “I don't think I need to hurt you to make you understand that I could,” he said. “And that I will, if you turn cheerfully disobeying my orders into a habit. I'm doubtful of the educational value of pain in this case, though. Clearly you did not expect to get caught, so what you thought would happen if you did was secondary, yes?”

The mage paused, but not for long enough that he could have been waiting for a reply. “I don't feel like devising the kind of punishment that would have deterred you even so,” he continued then, tone mild. “So this past hour will have to suffice. Take it as a warning, or a reminder. Do not mistake me. If this happens again, it will be the last time you moved freely in this house.”

Esares swallowed, heart racing. “Yes, my lord.”

“Why that book?” Anereth asked abruptly.

“I--” Esares started, but had not actually managed to gather his thoughts before opening his mouth. Thrown by the question, by the notion that he was not going to be hurt, he had no idea how to respond.

“It's an interesting choice,” the mage said, tilting his head a little to one side. “Or did you just pick it at random?”

“No,” Esares said quickly, still not knowing what to tell the man, but struck by a sudden urge to explain himself. It took him a moment to realize he did not want Anereth to think he'd just taken a book and read through it without caring about, or understanding, its contents.

It shouldn't matter. Anereth's opinion of his intellect was of little consequence – even if Esares did try to explain himself to him, the mage might simply disregard his words, or find them just as displeasing as the fact that Esares had touched one of his books in the first place. Honesty in this matter was unlikely to win him anything, and in the worst case might make Anereth change his mind about what an adequate punishment would be for what he'd done.

However, in the end, what made Esares hesitate was only in small part the possibility of angering the mage. By now, he thought it more likely that if the man did not like what he had to say, Anereth would tell him to be quiet, or perhaps ridicule him, and leave it at that.

It worried Esares to find that he wanted to avoid that nearly as much as being hit.

He'd already denied the most simple alternate reason he could have given for his actions, though. He briefly considered claiming he'd picked the book not at random, but based on its coloring, and the graceful golden letters on its spine – but it wouldn't be a very convincing lie; not spoken to Anereth, who would actually bother looking for one.

And even if Esares could have changed that, he couldn't say he wanted to, and that was perhaps the most frightening thing about it.

“Tell me,” Anereth said. It was very clearly an order, but the mage's tone was neither impatient nor threatening, and after a moment he added, “There's no wrong answer.”

Esares drew a deep breath.

“I wondered,” he ventured tentatively. “About false orchids.”

He steeled himself.

But Anereth only said, “Ah. I did notice you seeming quite taken with Ksielle's plants.” He fell silent then, looking at Esares as if he was waiting for some additional piece of information.

“I always--” Esares began without thinking, then cut himself off, surprised at himself for having wanted to dredge up the past in front of a human. “I like plants,” he corrected himself

He half expected Anereth to question him on what he'd first meant to say, but was thankfully spared having to come up with a credible lie, or a smooth change of subject he doubted he would have managed under the circumstances, when instead, the man asked, “Any plants?”

This time Esares only hesitated for a moment. “Magic ones.”

The corners of Anereth's mouth crooked. “I see. Well, I understand the allure, at least. I told you to come to me if you found yourself tempted to touch anything you weren't supposed to, though, didn't I?”

Esares didn't think it was an accusation. Despite this, or perhaps because of it – because the human sounded, if anything, bemused –, he looked away, frustration and irrational shame coiling in his gut.

“You expected me to ask you for books, my lord?” he asked, and if he couldn't quite keep the bitter sarcasm out of his tone, well, it wasn't like his question could have been mistaken for a mere factual one even without it.

Angry and scared and curious all at once, he returned his gaze to the mage, who to his surprise did not look at all offended by having the flaw in his thinking pointed out to him, any more than he appeared embarrassed.

“Not precisely,” the human conceded, “but it does seem the safer course of action, and it's not impossible I would have indulged you. You didn't think so?”

Esares frowned, looking away again, down at his own knees. He weighed his options. “I just wanted a quick look,” he said finally, deciding that if Anereth was inviting him to explain himself further, he might as well take the opportunity. Thinking it more and more unlikely a single wrong word would condemn him, he found himself wanting to see how the mage'd react to the truth.

And perhaps... well, he'd not had a genuine conversation with anyone in a long time. It would be nice, to be able to talk to someone who actually cared what he thought, cared about why he did what he did, even just a little. It didn't matter if Anereth was merely interested in his motives the way he might be interested in the workings of an unfamiliar spell – at least Anereth would actually want to understand the spell, and not just make baseless assumptions about it and then take them for facts.

“I wasn't really-- I just wanted a glimpse,” Esares continued. “A chapter or two. I didn't want to be told I was just being silly, or to make you angry.” Suddenly aware of how that could be taken, he added, hastily, “I realize how I behaved was unacceptable. Of course it was your right to point out my foolishness. I didn't think. I'll be better.”

Esares nearly slumped in relief when Anereth reached down and gently brushed back his hair. “I don't expect mindless obedience,” the mage said. “Just obedience. There's nothing shocking about you having wanted to do this despite anticipating my disapproval. It's actually disobeying that's the problem. Let's see that it won't happen again, yes?”

It was as lenient an approach as Esares could have hoped for; he didn't know why it still left him feeling discontent, almost disappointed. “Yes, my lord.” Not wanting to think about it, he closed his eyes and leaned into the hand still caressing his cheek.

“You really are charming,” Anereth said, though his tone did not match his words. Esares almost thought he sounded regretful.

He opened his eyes, suddenly uneasy. “My lord?”

“Never mind,” Anereth said, pulling back his hand and sitting up straight. His voice was light now, and Esares wondered if he'd only imagined it seeming so different before.“Go upstairs for a bit, and then make dinner when you're ready.”

After a beat, Esares bowed his head in acknowledgment of the order.

He moved backwards a bit before slowly rising to his feet. His legs felt weak, and as he made his way out of the room, it seemed like there was hardly a muscle in his body that didn't hurt at least a little. That was all the pain he would suffer for his transgression, though, and so it was almost nothing.

A reminder, Anereth had said. An unnecessary one, Esares thought, because he had never forgotten, not for a moment. He had just miscalculated, and acted foolishly. The moment he had understood the extent of the mage's displeasure, long before he'd been left kneeling on the floor, he would already not have done it again.

If this was what it took to soothe Anereth's ire, however, then that was fine with Esares. It was probably one of the least degrading punishments he had ever received for a worse infraction than oversleeping or failing to scold the most mischievous of the dogs for jumping into his master's bed.

Ironically, that made it perhaps more effective than an ordinary beating would have been. Esares wanted Anereth to see that his chosen method of discipling him had been enough, that he did not need to be more cruel or creative to get his point across; so that if Esares made another mistake eventually, or was perceived by the mage as having made one, he had a chance of getting away with another warning, or something close enough.

And maybe, Esares mused, his steps slowing as the thought occurred to him, there was one more way to encourage Anereth to continue choosing lenient punishments in the future.

*

Esares followed the mage's suggestion of washing his face and drinking a few sips of water. He also brushed his hair again, made sure his clothes still looked nice enough, and finally lamented the fact he had no powder or kohl to put on. He was glad he'd not been able to do so in the morning either, though. The powder would probably have been all right, but painted eyes and crying rarely went well together.

He almost felt a little embarrassed at his second bout of tears as it was. He was quite certain now Anereth had been planning to not hurt him physically from... well, maybe not from the start; but from the moment he'd touched Esares' shoulder and attempted to calm him, maybe. Letting the man see the red blotches on his face had probably been entirely unnecessary.

Though Esares couldn't be sure. Anereth had been interested in the fact he'd been crying, and while Esares didn't think it too likely it'd helped his position any, he couldn't see how it could have damaged it, either. So there might have been an advantage to it, after all, and if not then it'd simply not made a difference. Anereth hadn't voiced any doubts as to the sincerity of his tears, at least, which meant it should be a safe enough tactic to try again should it come to that.

Knowing that in itself was worth something, and so he didn't actually regret his slightly humiliating and probably not strictly necessary attempt at reducing his punishment.

When he decided he was sufficiently presentable, Esares went back to the living room, where Anereth was reading a scroll on the couch. The man looked up over its edge when Esares approached.

“I'll go make porridge now, if it pleases you, my lord,” Esares said softly, with his eyes downcast.

“Go on,” Anereth told him, and Esares bowed and did.

They ate the rice porridge nearly in silence, though Esares found the mage was watching him more closely than usual, looking thoughtful. It was a little unsettling, but he didn't get the impression Anereth was contemplating methods of inflicting pain or even just wondering whether to keep Esares locked in the bedroom from now on, so he managed to enjoy his food at least a little despite the scrutiny. It helped that noticing his renewed reluctance, Anereth hadn't hesitated to invite – well, order – him to the table.

Once they were finished and Esares had washed the dishes, he returned to the bedroom ahead of the mage. He took off everything but his tunic and undergarments, put the clothes neatly aside, and lay down on the bed. Anereth had said he would be done with his studies for the day 'in a bit', so he waited.

It was perhaps half an hour before the mage stepped through the door Esares hadn't bothered to close. He shut it behind himself, then also took off most of his clothes, barely even acknowledging Esares' presence. It would have made Esares nervous, but the mage always treated him rather with indifference when he was otherwise preoccupied, so really, if anything he was relieved. He didn't know if he'd be able to bring himself to do what he was about to if Anereth had struck up a conversation instead, or even just spoken a few banal sentences to him.

More uncomfortable still would have been the realization that they'd had the same idea, since then it would no longer have been Esares' place to do anything beyond what he was told. As much as he'd told himself it wasn't all that likely, he couldn't deny having been concerned about the possibility.

However, as Anereth didn't address him one way or the other, it was a simple thing, really. If he passed up this opportunity, he might not get it again.

After the mage pulled up the covers and just before he could turn off the lights, Esares slid out of the bed and onto the floor.

Anereth's brows furrowed. After a moment, he propped himself up on his elbow and watched Esares with rather a curious air.

Esares took a deep breath and lowered his eyes. He wanted, needed, to do this on his own terms. “My lord,” he said, burying his fingers in the pale blue rug he firmly fixed his gaze on. “I've caused you trouble more than once already, and you've been nothing but kind to me.” Compared to Sylves, to any other mage Esares had interacted with for longer than five minutes, it was even true. “I would like to repay you.”

“Would you now.” Anereth's voice was soft, almost a purr. Even so, it had a sardonic edge to it that was just short of mocking.

Esares bristled, then bit his tongue. He paused uncertainly.

Finally he looked up and said, “You said it was all right to try and please you.” Esares had meant for the words to sound meek and confused; instead they came out frustrated and reproachful.

He was less surprised than he should have been when Anereth didn't seem affronted, but smiled as if Esares had made an unexpected joke. “That I did,” he admitted. And after a moment added, “It would please me if you came back to bed.”

Esares pushed away the flicker of annoyance and did as bidden, sitting down with his legs folded under him on the lower end of the bed, just inches from the mage.

Though they would have been ambiguous in another context, there was no mistaking Anereth's words for something other than a dismissal. It only added to Esares' irritation. He was tired of waiting, of not knowing when the mage would use him and what it would be like. More importantly, right then he felt like he could go through the motions with minimal disgust. That would hardly last.

He would put himself in a far better position if he offered, and managed, at least this once, to feign enjoyment convincingly enough for even Anereth to not question it.

“Are you still angry with me?” he asked, this time managing to keep his tone soft and demure.

“No,” Anereth said, as Esares had been fairly confident he would.

“Then please, my lord, let me thank you.” Esares would have laid a hand on Anereth's thigh beneath the covers for emphasis, but knew better. Instead, he made his voice sweet and cajoling, “I'll make you feel so good. Show you my gratitude. I'll do--” He stumbled over the words, but only briefly-- “I'll do anything you want, my lord. Please.”

When he finished speaking, Anereth looked at him in silence for a long while.

“Your skill is terrifying,” the mage finally declared. His tone was bland, and not at all terrified; which was good, Esares supposed, though what he'd been going for had been more along the lines of 'husky with desire'.

“I...,” Esares began, but what was there he could respond with? He couldn't very well thank the human for the questionable compliment, but it wouldn't be much less perilous to deny there had been any skill involved in the first place, since clearly Anereth was disinclined to satisfy himself with pretty lies – even while half naked and in bed.

“I'm not sure what you're trying to do,” Anereth said, “but what I want is still for you to lie back down and go to sleep.”

“But--” Esares started again, and once more broke off, biting the inside of his cheek. He could not believe he was one step from arguing with a mage over the man's refusal to fuck him.

Anereth watched him, gaze contemplative. At last, he sighed. “'Would rather be cleaning the toilet' is not, precisely, my type.”

Esares stared at the man in shock and dismay. “I-- that's not--” Unable to either lie or tell the truth, he settled for, “What I want to do most right now is please you, my lord.”

Anereth's mouth quirked. “Yes. And if you could please me just as well by cleaning the toilet, that's what you'd pick, no?”

Esares shook his head fiercely, eyes wide, but did not dare speak aloud the denial that he knew would ring hollow.

“It's a terrible turn-off to be second choice to a toilet,” Anereth said, very seriously, except that was an entirely bizarre way of putting it, and absolutely nothing about the mage's tone or expression suggested an implied reprimand or threat.

“I-- but my lord, I'm a demon.”

The mage raised his eyebrows, and yes, Esares was sure now he was amused. “Is that supposed to make it less unflattering?”

It should have seemed a dangerous line of conversation, but to his own astonishment, Esares felt only a little apprehensive, and very much exasperated. “What I meant,” he nearly snapped, “is that people don't usually complain about us being unresponsive.”

“I suppose so,” Anereth said after a beat, still with a telltale curve to his lips. “But that just makes losing to the lavatory all the more pathetic, don't you think?”

Scarcely able to comprehend he was having this conversation, Esares crossed his arms. “Are you saying you're worried about me deciding your sexual prowess is inferior to the company of a toilet?” The words were out of his mouth before he could think, but he hadn't had time to regret them yet when Anereth laughed, light and with not a hint of malice.

“Well, I'm sure I kiss better than one,” Anereth said, and Esares didn't even know what to feel about that particular statement, except that it sort of made him want to hit the man. “So that will have to be enough to salvage my pride. Besides, I have it on good authority that I am more attractive than most toilets.”

“Most,” Esares repeated, and lay back down, giving up.

“And my smile is also much nicer.”

Esares took the pillow and put it over his own face.

“Is everything all right?” Anereth asked in false concern.

Esares lifted the pillow just enough to say without the words being muffled, “I think I know what your friend meant now.”

Anereth was silent for a moment. “Well,” he said then, the word underlain by a sigh. “Ksielle usually has the right idea.”

Esares wondered what that was about.

After Anereth extinguished the lights with a wave of his hand, Esares put the pillow under his head again instead of above it. Feeling bold, he said, “My lord?”

“Yes?”

“What if it was someone who just really liked cleaning toilets?”

Anereth snorted and turned away from him.

For a moment, Esares felt entirely too pleased with himself. Then he remembered who he was and who Anereth was, and the ghost of a smile that had crept onto his face vanished.

Esares nestled into the covers, heart pounding. He no longer had any idea what to expect at all, and maybe, just maybe, that wasn't such a bad thing. Regardless, there was still little Anereth could not do to him if he so chose, and apparently the thing Esares had assumed the man would most value him for was nowhere at the front of the human's mind. He would do well to not make any more missteps as big as his last, lest Anereth decide he was more trouble than he was worth.

If things truly remained as they were, though, that could be... nice. Esares was still almost certain Anereth would fuck him eventually, that he was just giving him some more time to get used to him and then he'd be happy enough to go along with Esares' performance, if only he put on one that was convincing enough. The thought that regardless of the time and place, he'd have to pretend to be having a good time, would likely have do so in every instance, made Esares grimace in the darkness. But then he sighed silently, the burning distaste fading into dull resignation; it likely wouldn't be much else than a more complex version of the ordinary. Anereth was... interesting, at least, and so far had been perfectly reasonable as far as mages went. And his sense of humor might take some getting used to, but Esares didn't dislike it.

If he could drop just some aspects of his usual act for the rest of the day, could be treated like he genuinely mattered just a little while he stayed with Anereth, Esares didn't think he'd mind too much if he had to manage a better act in bed when the time came. Maybe Anereth would even be willing to forgo some activities Esares especially detested, and not hold a grudge over it, or insist that he could make him like them just because he could get Esares' body to react. Maybe...

Well, he would just have to wait and see, wouldn't he? There was no use getting his hopes up if he might just have them crushed later.

For now, he would simply be glad that being under Anereth's power seemed to be turning out nothing like he had imagined it would be. Anereth was still dangerous, still much too perceptive and much too difficult to read; but even so, if given the choice, Esares no longer would have asked to be allowed to remain in the Tevenra household until Sylves' return.

Chapter Text

Kneeling, Esares gently rapped at the already open door to the study. “May I come in?”

He could hear the mage set something light down on his desk.

“Yes,” Anereth said then, and Esares approached with his gaze lowered. If he followed etiquette exactly, he would have stepped around the desk and knelt down again at the mage's feet, because a bed slave was rarely supposed to be standing when the one he was serving wasn't, and of course Anereth should not have to peer over his furniture to be able to see him properly.

However, the mage didn't seem tremendously concerned with formalities, and Esares had an inkling he would find it tiresome if Esares adhered to them too closely. Depending on how this went, Esares would only ask a single question. It would cost Anereth less time if Esares could just bow and turn on his heel then to leave the room.

Esares made sure to keep his steps slow and his posture submissive, though. His head was bowed, his upper body tilted forward slightly. His hands were clasped in front of him, and he stopped a respectful distance from the mage.

Although it seemed safe to assume Anereth did not hold a grudge over his offense the day before, under no circumstances did Esares want him to think he had not learned his lesson. In his every action since they'd gotten out of bed less than two hours ago, Esares had done his best to appear grateful and contrite; though not scared, because Anereth had not behaved in a very frightening fashion at all, in the end, and Esares didn't think he could get away with pretending otherwise – or even wished to.

“What is it?” Anereth asked. His tone was neutral, which meant at least Esares was unlikely to have greatly disturbed him.

“I have a request, my lord,” Esares said.

“Yes?”

Esares licked his lips. It was the only outward sign of nervousness he allowed himself. “May I stay here with you for a bit?”

There was a pause. “Why?” Anereth sounded curious and a little puzzled, and Esares managed not to shift uneasily.

“I'd like to, my lord,” he said quietly.

“Is that so,” Anereth said. He fell silent again for a moment, and Esares felt the weight of his gaze on him. “Get yourself a cushion from the living room, then.”

Esares smiled and looked up. “Thank you, my lord.”

Anereth waved him off in apparent disinterest, which did nothing to dampen Esares' spirits. He went and got the cushion, and then knelt on it in the spot Anereth indicated, almost directly in front of the mage, though slightly to his left.

Anereth picked back up what he must have been reading when Esares interrupted him – a small thin book that looked like it had seen many more years than the one holding it.

As he read, the mage absently petted him. It wasn't as nice a sensation as when the man actually paid attention to how he touched Esares, but it wasn't unpleasant, either. Esares leaned against the human's leg and closed his eyes, trying to find this more enjoyable than boring.

It didn't really work, but it wasn't too difficult to keep still and quiet. It helped that this was where he wanted to be. If Anereth had no intention of fucking him for the time being, but found his appearance pleasing and evidently enjoyed touching him, then for now seeking out the man's company and caresses was the best way Esares could think of to preserve Anereth's goodwill. The fact that he didn't have to worry too much about the contact suddenly turning far from innocuous actually made him feel rather at ease with his act, where usually he would have had to swallow his revulsion.

Esares also rather liked Anereth's study. The smell of old parchment and the lighter scent of the paper of more recently produced books clung to the air, and pretty silver ornate lamps were placed in every corner of the room. A large chandelier that matched them in style hung in the middle of the ceiling, and now that he wasn't preoccupied with cold terror or an order not to move like the last times he'd been kneeling in this room, Esares wondered if its light was linked to that of the lamps through intricate spellwork.

Other than the lamps, there was little ornamentation: a handful of figurines in the shapes of cats and birds and dragons made from glass and ivory that decorated various surfaces in the room, and a painting depicting an autumn forest hanging on the wall behind Anereth. These items, too, were compelling to look at, but when it came down to it didn't interest Esares much. Instead, he had to keep himself from letting his gaze wander to the walls on either side of the mage's desk, which were lined by bookshelves made from dark polished wood.

Esares would have given much to be allowed to take a closer look at them, particularly since the vast majority of the texts no doubt dealt with magic in some form or another. Despite their proximity, though, they were as unreachable to him as the chandelier, as the sun in the sky, and nothing good could come of craning his neck to gawk at them.

Instead, when he didn't just keep his eyes closed, for the most part he fixed them on the pale plain desk in front of him. Esares assumed it also held some objects of interest, but unfortunately he would have had to be standing to confirm this theory. As it was, he could only gaze up at a book lying on the desk's edge. Its spine revealed the promising title “A History of Talismans”.

As he looked at it, wistfully wondering at its contents and that of all of the other texts mere steps from him, Anereth leaned down and caught his gaze, and Esares dropped his eyes with a jolt.

“You're fond of books as well as plants, I assume?” Anereth asked, his tone giving away nothing.

“I'm sorry, my lord,” Esares said, pressing his face to the mage's thigh. Usually a bed slave asking forgiveness would have followed the gesture up with a kiss, or at least a nuzzle, but with Anereth, less might actually be more; especially since Esares hadn't forgotten how his last impromptu attempt at kissing the mage had gone. “I swear I was just looking.”

Anereth gently rubbed the nape of Esares' neck. “Of course. I don't expect you to make the same mistake twice.” There might well have been a threat in the words, but they were spoken softly, and when the mage's fingers moved on to caress Esares' throat between the underside of his chin and the collar, they little more than ghosted over his skin, tickling him; not the sort of touch one expected to accompany a threat.

“I'm just curious,” Anereth continued, pulling back his hand. “And a little sick of this book.” As he said this, he put the item down on the desk. “Distract me. Tell me something interesting about yourself.”

Wryly, Esares thought that Anereth's idea of a study break was very different from Sylves' indeed.

“You think my opinion on human writing is interesting, my lord?” he asked, not lifting his head yet. Partly because he really wouldn't mind Anereth touching his neck once more the way he had, but also because there was the spark of an absurd hope in his chest, and he would rather the mage didn't see his face as that was stomped out.

“Very,” Anereth said, and Esares froze.

He waited for the mage to elaborate, perhaps say something to indicate he was hoping to get a good laugh out of whatever Esares might have to tell him. But Anereth didn't add anything more, and finally Esares looked up, trying to gauge the man's expression. He knew he was staring, but couldn't bring himself to care.

Anereth tipped his head to the side. “I take it Sylves doesn't find your opinion on books interesting?”

For an instant, Esares' lips twisted into the mockery of a smile, before he caught himself and schooled his expression. “No, my lord. He doesn't.”

“And that upsets you?” It wasn't much of a question. Rather, it sounded as if Anereth had already drawn this conclusion from Esares' response, but was surprised by it.

Esares tensed. “I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be--”

“Troublesome?” Anereth interrupted. Esares twitched, but then held still as the mage rested a hand against his cheek. “I'd actually prefer it if you didn't worry so much about that. A conversation is bound to be tedious if you constantly watch yourself. Nothing bad will happen if you make an innocent mistake. There's no need to hurt you if simply telling you to not do it again would be just as effective, no?”

Esares leaned into the mage's hand, relieved. After a moment, though, it occurred to him that this wasn't nearly as helpful a piece of information as he would have liked, and he bit his lip. “How--” he began, but then broke off, because there was no need to push his luck.

“It's all right,” Anereth said, brushing back Esares' bangs. “You may always ask.”

“Thank you,” Esares breathed. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. He didn't entirely trust Anereth's assurance, didn't trust 'always' really meant always, but there was no way to find out for certain, other than by putting his words to test.

He looked at the man's chest rather than at his face as he asked, “How will you decide whether the mistake is innocent, my lord?” He kept his voice soft, hoping that might prevent his words from being taken as impudence.

“Ah,” Anereth said, no particular emotion in his tone. When Esares risked a glance upwards, though, the mage was looking at him like he had said something interesting, not insolent. “That's a fair question. I might misjudge you, of course. But to reduce the likelihood of that, when I'm not certain, how about for now I'll decide in your favor. We'll see how that goes, but I won't change the rules without telling you beforehand. Will that make you a little less skittish?”

Exhaling, Esares gave a small nod. “I believe so, my lord.” He turned his head and touched his lips to the mage's hand, not quite a kiss, but close enough that it should convey gratitude just as clearly.

Anereth pulled away, but didn't look displeased. “So. You like to read?”

“I used to, my lord. I've not... my master believes there are better things for me to do.”

“Of course he does,” Anereth said, voice wry. “And you've never disobeyed him?” The like you did me went unspoken.

Esares curled his fists, but thought Anereth really might just want to know out of curiosity. Even so, it was dangerous ground. “Not in this, my lord,” he said quietly. “There wasn't much of an opportunity. At my master's home, if a servant had caught me at it and reported to his father...” He trailed off, shuddering.

He knew, instinctively, that the head of the Tevenra household would view a demon reading his master's books in secret as the height of presumption. The man had warned Sylves a few times that if he could not control Esares, he would find a professional slave trainer and make sure he did it for him; being found so much as touching one of Sylves' books without permission would have been one way for Esares to make sure the threats did not remain threats.

“Ah, yes,” Anereth said. “Lord Tevenra the elder isn't one to extend leniency to slaves, is he. I can imagine that would not have ended well for you.”

Esares nodded without looking up. “And at the dorms, if my master had walked in with a friend who'd then also have seen me behave in such a manner, he would have been furious, and none of the school books he left lying around ever even looked that interesting, so...”

Esares gnawed at his lower lip, knowing he was listing all the wrong reasons for obedience as far as a human would be concerned; but Anereth already knew he was not some meek thing with no thoughts of its own, and had repeatedly declared himself to care more about Esares' actions than his motives. Under the circumstances, this much honesty seemed like a safe enough method for figuring out where he stood; particularly since Esares didn't have a lie handy that would have sounded better than the truth.

“And I left exactly the wrong book within your reach, didn't I,” Anereth said, and Esares thought there was a hint of humor in his tone.

Esares ducked his head. “I don't think I would have risked it for any of the others,” he admitted after a moment. It at least was less lacking in reverence a response than a simple 'yes, my lord' would have been.

“Well,” Anereth said, reaching down to run his fingers through Esares' hair. “Don't worry about it. Next time you want something, you'll ask, and then we won't have a problem.”

More grateful than he wanted to be, Esares settled against the man's leg again. “Yes, my lord.”

Anereth went on petting him. It really was much nicer when the mage wasn't distracted. “What else do you like to read about?”

“Many things,” Esares returned after a beat. “There were some novels that I liked.” He paused. When Anereth didn't say anything, he took that as an invitation to elaborate. “One was about a girl who was a thief, but then magic chose her, and in the end she became the queen's personal healer. Another told of a prince who wanted to slay a dragon, but then something happened, I don't remember what, and he disguised himself as a merchant and traveled to an enemy country.”

“I think I know that one,” Anereth said.

Encouraged by this reply and the absence of a reprimand or demeaning comment, Esares went on, “I read a book about... the essence of things once. Philosophy? It was about the nature of death and the nature of beauty and the nature of magic. The author tried to answer the question why the most dangerous spells are often the most compelling in appearance. It was interesting.”

“You've read Lemerion?”

Esares glanced up at the surprise in the mage's voice. “I think that might have been the author's name, my lord,” he said. He couldn't help feeling a little apprehensive, but Anereth's expression wasn't disapproving. Rather the opposite – beneath the surprise, the mage seemed intrigued.

“What else?” Anereth asked.

“I... I suppose I like biographies, my lord.”

“Biographies?”

Esares looked away self-consciously. “I don't know that much about human history and cultures, so. They're more exciting than the regular history books I've tried.”

“You really like reading, don't you,” Anereth said.

Esares cringed. “I'm sorry.”

“For liking to read?”

Even though the mage still sounded curious and at worst amused, Esares folded in on himself at the question. “And for talking so much.”

“But I told you to talk,” Anereth said reasonably. There was a pause. “I'm expecting a bit much, though, aren't I? You may leave if you'd prefer.”

Esares stiffened. When the mage grasped his chin, however, he instantly forced his muscles to relax, not resisting as the man made him lift his head.

“I'm not displeased,” Anereth said. “But clearly this is difficult for you and I need you to not be exhausted later.”

Esares returned the mage's gaze warily. “May I ask what will happen later?”

“Of course you may,” Anereth said lightly. “I wasn't planning to attend any parties any time soon, and we can't have you going to the one tomorrow without a single piece of jewelry or trace of makeup on you. So we'll buy some things.”

Esares' mouth opened in a silent 'oh'. After an instant, he managed to come up with a more adequate response and said, “Thank you for telling me, my lord.”

Anereth let go of him. “If there are other items you deem necessary but haven't seen around, by the way, now would be a good time to mention them.”

Not knowing what to do with that remark, Esares looked down at his own lap, fists clenched at his sides.

“There's no need to overthink this,” Anereth said, gently trailing a finger along the helix of Esares' ear. “You can say you want a stable full of horses for all I care. You won't get it, of course, but nothing worse than that would happen.”

Esares worried his lip. “Maybe lotion, my lord?”

“All right,” Anereth said, moving on to slowly stroke the top of Esares' head.

Since the mage seemed to be waiting for him to say more, after a few seconds Esares ventured, “And perhaps a comb?”

“All right,” Anereth responded again.

Esares tried to think of anything else that was half-way realistic, but couldn't. He glanced up at the mage, only hesitating for a moment. “How about just half a stable full of horses?”

The corners of Anereth's mouth lifted. “I can find you one to pet if that will make my refusal less disappointing.”

“Well, I wouldn't mind if you did, my lord.”

Anereth chuckled. “I'll see what I can do. For now, you can get some rest.”

Esares was quiet for a moment. “Would it be all right for me to stay?” he finally asked. “Not to talk, maybe, just...” He looked away again, fidgeting.

“Why?”

“There's not much else to do, and I... I like this,” Esares pressed a little closer to the human to emphasize what he meant by 'this'.

“Do you?”

“I do. I'm not trying to-- to get you to do anything else, my lord,” Esares said, and it was mostly true. He wanted Anereth to like him well enough to think twice about seriously hurting him, but if for now he could have that without needing to sleep with the man, he would happily take that while he could. “It's natural for most of my kind to crave touch.”

“I know,” Anereth said, clearly responding to the last statement. He removed his hand from Esares' hair and once more slid it over Esares' throat, his collarbone, the back of his neck. Esares closed his eyes, almost frightened by how much he enjoyed the mage's touch, except he was too content to be frightened, too starved for physical affection from someone whose hands on him did not make him want to vomit.

Anereth's nails gently scraped the skin between his shoulder blades, and a noise escaped Esares that he really, really hadn't planned on making.

Instantly the pleasant haze vanished, and Esares jerked up his head to stare at the mage, mortified.

Anereth blinked down at him once, then smiled, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Should I stop?”

Part of Esares wanted to say yes, or at least something neutral that would also discourage the human from continuing. Because he might not get the opportunity again. Because he knew Anereth was touching him not as a person, but as a a pet, and Esares loathed drawing any kind of enjoyment from that. Because Anereth might order him to undress or to take him in his mouth at any moment.

But the rest of him wanted to see where this was going, for better or worse. More so because rejecting Anereth even indirectly was clearly the less beneficial course of action.

“Please don't, my lord,” he said. “I'll be quiet.”

“That'd probably be for the best,” Anereth said, lips still curved. “You're a bit too charming, I'm afraid.”

Esares' face felt suddenly hot, and he buried it against Anereth's thigh as the mage resumed caressing his neck and the area just below, his hand moving in and out of Esares' tunic in a pattern that wasn't quite predictable.

As Esares got used to the sensation, it quickly faded from nearly overwhelming into a more low-key pleasantness. If he'd been sitting on a couch instead of kneeling on the floor, there might have been a chance of him falling fast asleep even though he wasn't very tired; as it was, he didn't even doze off once, though only barely.

Beyond the caresses, nothing happened. Anereth kept his touches light and undemanding and confined to areas of Esares' body someone familiar might reach for in casual conversation without the conversation ceasing to be casual. Well, mostly – Esares certainly couldn't think of a reason someone might lay a hand on his throat during small talk.

Eventually, Anereth returned to his book, and when asked whether he still wanted to stay, this time Esares chose not to. It really was terribly boring to just kneel there while the mage barely paid attention to him, more so because he hardly dared to move for fear of disturbing Anereth. And his legs had begun to hurt.

Esares rose and made to leave, then paused. “My lord?”

Anereth glanced up from the half-opened book. “What is it?” he asked patiently.

“Thank you. For all of this.”

“It wasn't exactly a hardship,” Anereth said.

Esares didn't know if the mage believed his gratitude was genuine; but since he was barely sure it was himself, he supposed that was all right.

Chapter Text

Walking through the marketplace with Anereth, Esares found it somewhat ironic that even at the side of this mage he would have fought tooth and nail to not be handed over to had he believed it could achieve anything but make things worse, he managed to look to all the world like the very definition of a pampered pet.

Like the last time Anereth had taken him outside, he wore fine well-fitting clothes and no chains, even the kind meant to be primarily decorative many of Sylves' friends liked to put on their slaves. The leash that could have been attached to his collar also remained mercifully absent, and Esares himself moved with the confidence that came with knowing he was unlikely to be yelled at or harmed or threatened at any moment; though of course he kept his gaze directed downward, and acknowledged any comment or order from his minder as respectfully as he knew how.

There weren't many orders, though, to the point where it was another thing people were bound to notice. Anereth largely let him do as he wished, allowing him to so long as it was practical pick whatever he liked from the stands and shops existing in abundance in this part of the city, and trailing along behind Esares more than the other way around.

It was a rare thing for an owner do. Esares had certainly never witnessed it – not like this. While it was, in some circles, not uncommon to once in a while indulge a slave by letting them choose at their own discretion the makeup or clothes or jewelry they were going to wear, it was generally understood a slave given this privilege was a favorite of a very generous master. And even then, unless the slave's freedom to decide what his master bought him was restricted to a single store or stall, it was customary for wealthy owners to just send them out with a servant or two.

Esares knew the only reason Anereth was doing otherwise was that he currently did not have any servants, but the people they encountered did not have access to this piece of information, and so assumed Esares was extraordinarily cherished by the man they took to be his master. Anereth did not bother to correct them on either account.

This afforded Esares a treatment by most shopkeepers and vendors that was almost cordial. Not polite, because there was nothing polite about being talked to like a mixture of small child and toy and dog, but Esares had learned to take what he could get – or at least he had done away with the urge from what felt like a lifetime ago to respond to offhanded condescension with a set of choice words regarding the vastness of human ignorance and the contempt he held for those who flaunted it.

Though making sure to appear appropriately humble and reluctant, Esares didn't need a lot of convincing to start picking out items he liked. He knew Anereth didn't lack money, and judging from how he'd insisted on buying Esares a whole new wardrobe for no reason other than because he could, he was unlikely to get angry over the cost of this piece of jewelry or that. Of course Esares was careful to not appear to be taking advantage of the mage's generosity, because that was more likely to go over badly, but the risk of this happening was already reduced greatly by the fact that Esares was getting things that were, at the end of the day, for the benefit of Anereth and his peers more than for Esares'.

Not that Esares didn't enjoy being the one to choose them. For one, while he didn't like having to make himself more appealing to the eyes of humans, he did, in theory, like makeup. It wasn't used widely in his clan, but it was in several of those they interacted with regularly, and Esares had always thought it was pretty. There was also the added benefit of being able to safely avoid cosmetics whose smell he didn't like if he was the one to choose them, which he had found was a concern especially when it came to lip dye. Most importantly, however, Esares appreciated being able to decide because it meant he was not being dressed up like the manikins in the shops' windows.

And since this shopping trip was for a special occasion, the fact that Anereth seemed content to just let him pick what he liked without even seeming to pay too much attention meant he trusted Esares to actually make good choices. To be able to tell himself what did or didn't look good on him. There shouldn't have been anything remarkable about that, but Sylves always had very clear ideas about how Esares should look for any official or semi-official social gathering, and at most he'd offer him some alternatives to choose from.

It couldn't just be that Anereth didn't have faith in his own taste regarding matters of beauty, either, or that he simply couldn't be bothered. He could just as well have had a professional pick the items out. Besides, judging from the few parties Esares had seen him at, Anereth was one of the last people who could be accused of being ignorant as to the proper use of makeup.

Anereth had restricted Esares' options when it came to clothes, which was to be expected, since he had already purchased more than a dozen outfits days ago. It made sense he didn't intend to buy any additional ones.

Esares didn't mind too much, though. The shirts and trousers the mage had shown him before they'd left for the marketplace all had seemed acceptable, several of them even nice – as nice as clothing he would never have worn of his own volition could be –, and none unsavory or likely to be uncomfortable. There'd been a dark blue brocade tunic that had caught Esares' eye, with butterflies and flowers embroidered on it with silver thread, as well as a matching pair of pants. So far, it was the outfit Esares intended to go with for the party, though depending on what complementary accessories he did or didn't find, he might need to reconsider.

First they visited an elegant shop dealing in jewelry and hair ornaments, the most promising one they came across within fifteen minutes. What it lacked in size, it made up for with quality, and Esares instantly found a hair pin he liked – red and silver, with a delicate butterfly design. He also picked a red silk hair tie and, in the same color, soft artificial flowers the size of coins, made to be woven into hair with some effort.

The shop also had a small assortment of brushes and combs. Most of the latter were richly decorated, and in some cases Esares suspected this diminished their practical use, but he easily found one that suited him regardless, light purple, with thick teeth spaced wide apart and small intricate carvings adorning the handle.

With those items assembled, he cautiously asked Anereth if he wanted him to get anything else, hoping to get out of having to wear a necklace or bracelet, which he always found a bit uncomfortable, or earrings, which would require getting his ears pierced again, since the holes in his earlobes had closed mere days after he stopped wearing any – even though he'd had them for some months already then. It wasn't an unusual thing to happen with his kind.

Anereth considered his question for a moment, then shrugged, saying it should be fine.

Esares' mood was quite good as he followed the mage out of the shop some minutes later.

For makeup, Esares chose a light powder that matched his skin tone almost perfectly, as well as another one more reddish in color. He then from the same stand picked a dark kohl pen, and from another vendor got a kohl paste in a small box and a fine brush the size of his little finger to go with it. The brush was crafted nicely, and should make evenly applying the kohl to his eyelashes a simple enough endeavor.

The final item he planned on obtaining was lip paint, but he had trouble finding one he liked. They all were either too garish or, in a few cases, smelled awful. He told Anereth this when asked, and the mage smiled in a manner that didn't make it clear whether he thought Esares' explanation silly or humorous for less patronizing reasons, and instructed him to keep looking, then.

And so Esares did, because the worst that could happen, he was fairly sure, was Anereth at some point interrupting him and just picking the lip dye out for him, which would be unfortunate and annoying, but not an outcome Esares wouldn't be able to stand. And well, he was sort of having fun.

They turned some heads as they went. There were a number of other slaves about in this part of the market, but most of them were simply carrying their owners' bags, and the rest, too, probably weren't going from stall to stall looking for just the right kind of makeup as their owners or handlers followed patiently along. Not that Esares observed any of them too closely – just stealing glimpses was a breach of etiquette, and besides, it would only spoil this to pay more than a minimum of attention to how his people were being treated all around him. Gritting his teeth and focusing his attention elsewhere was another thing he had learned since losing his freedom, though recently it seemed to be becoming more difficult with time, rather than easier.

After a while it occurred to Esares that there was an additional reason he and Anereth got so many looks. The color of the mage's hair alone would be enough to draw attention. Esares hadn't noticed before, but now that he carefully glanced at some of the people who passed them, there were definitely those staring more at Anereth than at him.

Esares looked at the mage out of the corner of his eyes. Anereth was probably well aware of the effect the coloring of his hair had on people who'd never seen anything like it, or at least not on a human; but he didn't appear to care. Well, he would be used to it, and anyway, Esares had trouble picturing him caring much about random people in the street thinking he looked interesting, or odd, or exotic.

And these days, Esares could almost match the mage in his indifference in this regard, even when the attention he had to deal with was of a much more demeaning kind. He could even smile gratefully at the vendors who spoke to him with a coo in their voice as they helped him, and do so without wanting to stab them in the heart. It had taken him long enough, but he had become quite adept at not giving a damn.

Or so he thought, until a tall young clerk in a shop that specialized in items meant to enhance slaves' looks decided to take a shine to him. “He's beautiful, sir,” he told Anereth with barely contained excitement when asked to assist Esares. “Where did you get him?”

“I'm afraid he's not mine,” Anereth replied easily. “I'm taking care of him for a friend.”

“Oh, I see,” the clerk said, his exuberance not diminished in the slightest. “Going to make the best of your time with him, then? We'll be happy to help you with that! Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Just some lip paint. It seems he's a bit picky, though.” There was a faint note of amusement in Anereth's voice.

The clerk gave Esares a curious glance. “Well, I'm sure we'll be able to find one that suits him.”

“I'm sure you will,” Anereth said.

Taking the hint, the clerk turned to Esares after a moment. “Come on, then, darling.”

Esares fought down a grimace at the term of endearment. “Thank you, sir,” he said softly, keeping his eyes on the floor.

“So well-behaved,” the clerk praised. His tone reminded Esares of his own when he'd been amazed Dekas, Sylves' favorite dog, could walk backwards in a circle on command.

Swallowing a sigh, Esares followed the man across the room.

He tried to concentrate on the lip paint, and it would have been all right. He had become used to human arrogance and the casual condescension it entailed. The clerk talking to him as if he were a particularly clever dog while offering comments and suggestions on what he should have Anereth buy for him was hardly shocking, and even being called 'darling' or 'honey' in every fifth sentence wouldn't have been that difficult to ignore.

Except the human insisted on making smalltalk.

So Esares gave his name, because the man asked, only to never hear it out of the clerk's mouth. Instead, he got to listen to how he was stunning and lucky to be with someone as generous as Anereth, and surely his master was just as kind. He learned the clerk's name was Ileras, and that the one thing he perhaps liked more than the sound of his own voice was talking about demons, and what he thought of them. In particular he enjoyed speaking about the slave of his girlfriend's friend, an unlucky woman who'd been taken captive during one of the brutal skirmishes that had been frequent occurrences at the country's borders over a decade ago. She was also, apparently, not up to Ileras' standards.

“Lyfera's had her over a year now,” the clerk told him with a reproachful shake of his head, “but she's just not adjusting very well. Flinches when spoken to, doesn't say a word unless there's absolutely no way around it, and even then she stammers. Looking at her, you'd think Lyfera was abusing her, when really she's barely ever slapped her despite how clumsy she is. I'd call her ungrateful, but I suppose she can't help it she's not very bright.”

“That's very generous of you to say, sir,” Esares said, ignoring the taste of bile in his throat.

Ileras looked pleased. “I know they say bed slaves are the dumbest, but I can't say that's my experience. It's obvious at a glance you're much smarter than that silly girl.”

Esares smiled and thanked Ileras for the compliment, and wondered how it would go over if he in the same sweet voice asked the human to please do him a favor and walk in front of a galloping horse.

Esares was almost tempted, just to see the look on the clerk's face. He half-believed Anereth would even find it funny, to some degree. It just wouldn't stop the mage from doing his best to make sure Esares would never dare embarrass him in public again.

And so he bit his tongue, and merely stopped responding both with words and polite noises of interest. He kept up the smiles, though he no longer put any effort into making them appear genuine.

It took Ileras a while to notice. Only when he told a story about his neighbor's cat that had been supposed to be funny but that Esares had only half-listened to and responded to with nothing but a bland smile, the clerk stopped and frowned. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course, sir.” Normally, Esares would have thanked the man for his concern in another sentence; instead he pretended to be too focused on the dark purple lip paint he was inspecting to be paying attention properly, only looking at Ileras out of he corner of his eye now and then.

The human's frown deepened.

He didn't resume speaking, though, so Esares returned the purple lip dye to the shelf and turned his back to the clerk to pick up another one. It was one of the two he liked best so far. Both his favorites were light, a red only a shade or two darker than the natural color of his lips. This one smelled like strawberry, the other didn't smell like much at all, but according to the clerk tasted like rose hip. The latter actually sounded a little more appealing, as it might be marginally less likely to encourage humans to kiss him, should Anereth permit friends or acquaintances to do that much. However, it was also the one of the lip dyes Ileras had recommended, and Esares was feeling spiteful and petty.

“Thank you for your help, sir,” he said to the man, and turned to him with the strawberry lip paint in hand. Keeping his head slightly bowed, he looked at the clerk from beneath his lashes.

“You're welcome,” Ileras returned. His voice and expression were uncharacteristically lacking in emotion, and Esares was fairly sure he would usually have tacked on a 'darling' there. Clearly he was still off his balance, trying to figure out what had happened, or perhaps not even sure anything had happened at all.

Enjoying his confusion, and knowing it was the only way to go about snubbing him that was remotely safe, Esares put a little more effort into his next smile as he said, “I should return to my lord now.”

“Of course,” Ileras said blandly.

Esares did not wait for the man to start moving first. It was customary for a clerk or anyone else assisting a slave with something to afterwards hand him back over to his master – or his master's representative – personally, but when the slave's handler was present in the same building in the same room, it was a tradition that could occasionally be overlooked. Sylves liked it when Esares hurried back to him as quickly as possible after picking something out for himself, enthusing to his master about how much he liked it, and could they please come back and get something else another time?

Anereth would probably not regard him with a similarly fond expression should Esares throw himself into his arms in exaggerated happiness at having found lip paint that he'd probably be able to wear without an accompanying scowl on his face; however, he also didn't think Anereth would mind Esares acting in front of Ileras like he couldn't wait to return to his keeper's side.

So he quickly made his way over to the mage, who was standing a good thirty paces from him, half hidden behind shelves and looking at items hanging on the bright white wall in front of him.

Esares' steps slowed as realized what they were. These items weren't for making a slave look more appealing – or, well, he supposed the owners who put leashes and thin decorative chains on their slaves often did so because they considered the resulting image to be attractive. The crops and whips and paddles, though, available in a number of sizes and colors, certainly had a different purpose altogether.

Though Esares knew there were those who considered the marks they left behind beautiful, as well.

He stopped two steps behind the mage, hesitating. “My lord?” he ventured after a moment.

Anereth turned to him, and Esares couldn't tell whether the man had already been aware of his presence before he'd spoken, or had been too deep in thought to notice his approach.

The mage smiled at him. “Did you find something suitable at last?”

“Yes, my lord.” Esares paused, his gaze lingering on a cat o' nine tails high up on the wall, small and gray and almost elegant in design, if a tool meant for torture could be elegant. He swallowed. “Did you want to buy anything else?”

Anereth briefly followed Esares' gaze. “No, I was just looking. If you're done, we can go.”

Esares nodded, more relieved than was rational, considering he had no idea what implements for punishment the man might already possess; not to mention the fact that Anereth always had his magic at his disposal.

He exhaled slowly, following Anereth back to Ileras, who hadn't moved far from where he'd attempted to chat Esares' ears off.

As the mage paid for the lip paint, the clerk shot covert glances at Esares. Finally, he fixed his gaze firmly on Anereth and said, brow creased, “Sir, if I might speak with you for a moment?”

Esares' heart skipped a beat, but he managed to not let his surprise show, nor how unhappy he was with this turn of events. He could not believe his bad luck.

He'd not, technically, done anything insolent – not as far as anyone could say for sure without knowing, beyond a doubt, that he'd intentionally let a carefully practiced mask slip, rather than merely been inattentive and distracted. It was a fault either way, but only the former had any realistic chance of prompting a shop assistant to criticize the behavior of a wealthy customer's slave.

Esares had, of course, counted on Ileras strongly suspecting something was amiss. He'd just not expected him to be vindictive enough to risk embarrassment over it; possibly even his job, should Anereth not take to the offered information kindly.

Or perhaps, Esares thought as he felt the clerk's gaze on him, the man actually thought he was being helpful. That he would spare Anereth future humiliation this way, or even that he was doing Esares himself a favor, like it would be doing a dog a favor to point out grave flaws in its training to its master before they could no longer be fixed. It would fit with the man's clear lack of desire to have Esares listen to what he had to say; the cowardice he showed when Esares shot him a brief look, and he immediately glanced away.

Esares suppressed a snort, and mostly stopped his lips from curling in disgust.

Anereth regarded Ileras, expression faintly puzzled, though curiosity quickly became the dominant emotion on his face as he looked between the clerk and Esares. “Fine,” he said, as if he was doing the clerk a favor.

Anereth wordlessly rested his gaze on Esares, who bowed his head and followed the implied order. He moved just far enough away that it would be clear he was no longer within earshot, and waited.

He was angry, but not scared – not really. Nervous and resigned were more accurate terms for what he was feeling.

He'd not done much. It should be a swift punishment, an offense quickly forgotten. That was, of course, if Ileras told Anereth nothing more than the truth, and Anereth did not look back at Esares' earlier indiscretions and see a beginning pattern that warranted firmer interference.

Esares gnawed at his lower lip. That was something he'd very much like to avoid. Even so, he couldn't quite manage to regret his actions. He didn't think Anereth would be any harsher than Sylves would have been under the same circumstances, at least, and painful and degrading punishments always awaited sooner or later. He may as well receive some of them for doing things that actually mattered – to him if to no one else.

Despite this, he carefully watched Anereth as the man listened to the other human, trying to figure out how much trouble exactly he was in. He was disappointed, though not tremendously surprised, when he couldn't even begin to make guesses based on the mage's posture or expression. From afar – and probably also from up close –, he looked entirely relaxed as he conversed with the clerk.

He still seemed perfectly calm when he made his way back over to Esares at last. “Come on,” Anereth said in a voice that told him nothing, and walked past him.

Esares fell into step behind him, forcing himself to not glance back over his shoulder at the clerk in the futile hope that he would be able glean something vital from his body language.

“You know what he wanted to talk to me about, don't you,” Anereth said as they stepped out of the shop's dark ornate door, and it was more of a statement than a question.

“I believe so, my lord,” Esares answered anyway, making his voice soft. The air had cooled while they had been indoors, the hardly noticeable breeze that had kept coming and going since early morning replaced by a gust of wind that had Esares brushing loose strands of hair back from his eyes.

“So would you agree you've behaved inappropriately?”

Esares remained silent for several heartbeats, though in the end, there was only one sensible answer. “Yes, my lord.”

“You really are quite troublesome,” Anereth said, and though there was an undercurrent of amusement in his tone, Esares' heart sank into his stomach.

“I'm sorry, my lord,” Esares said, and flinched when the mage wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

“Ah, in reasonable doses it's actually entertaining. We'll talk about this later, but mostly I'm curious what you were thinking.” Before Esares could force the stiffness out of his muscles, the mage leaned closer until his breath tickled Esares' ear and added, very quietly, “I advise you not to find out what I'll do if you ever act like that in front of anyone who matters, though.”

Esares would have jerked away, but he had been taught better than that. Instead he held himself very still, and barely dared exhale in relief when an instant later, the human released him.

“I'm not angry,” Anereth said. “Do you want to go back, or did you want to get anything else?”

Esares hesitated. This outing had ceased to be fun a while ago. Even so... just this once, he would like to delay his punishment, perhaps.

“I forgot about the lotion. May I just get that, my lord?” He paused. “Somewhere else?”

“Certainly.”

Esares tried to take comfort in the fact that clearly he had been right and Anereth did not care very much he'd behaved less than amiably towards Ileras. Whatever punishment he received, whatever method the mage might choose to inflict pain, it would be little more than a formality – another reminder. Esares was almost sure now it wouldn't hurt that much; perhaps it wouldn't even be very humiliating.

It was ridiculous, then, that he found himself going from stand to stand, looking for the lotion that was just right, even though he couldn't have cared less, and despite never having had many criteria for it beyond a pleasant smell. After speaking to the fifth vendor, he finally picked one with a rose fragrance.

Though Anereth seemed in no hurry still, Esares was too surprised by the extent of his patience to want to test it further. Besides, despite the sinking feeling in his gut, he was calmer now; that was all he had been waiting for, in the end.

Best to get it over with.

*

Esares sat on the edge of the bed, waiting for Anereth to re-enter the room. Perhaps he should have knelt instead, but he couldn't bring himself to when he doubted the mage would call him on it. He'd not been given any instructions except to wait. If Anereth wanted him on the floor, he would tell him, and he wouldn't tolerate disobedience, then, but he also wouldn't make a fuss about Esares not having adhered to a command that had never been given.

That much Esares was fairly confident in.

He should demonstrate his willingness to make up for what he'd done, though, his awareness that he'd made a mistake and would be, should be punished. He couldn't risk Anereth thinking he'd forgotten his position, needed a harder hand.

Esares' lips twisted as he remembered Sylves' words, the earnest tone in which they'd been spoken, over and over again in the course of weeks, months, a year.

There wasn't a lot he wouldn't do to prevent Anereth arriving at the same conclusion.

He could not stand the thought of awaiting his punishment kneeling after the last time, but there were other ways to show his acceptance. Slowly, but with steady fingers, he loosened the laces of his tunic, and within a minute the piece of clothing lay folded on the floor in front of him.

He could have taken off the rest of his wear, too, because there was no guarantee it was his back Anereth would wish to strike. But again Esares could not make himself suffer the indignity when it might well not be necessary, and so he remained as he was, head bowed, but sitting upright on the bed. Now and then he shivered slightly, because the wind had started blowing quite fiercely just before they'd arrived back inside and not slowed down since, but that hadn't stopped Anereth from opening the bedroom window just by a margin and leaving it that way.

The door creaked, and Esares bowed his head a little deeper as Anereth stepped through, shutting it behind himself.

For a moment, there was silence as the human neither moved nor spoke. “I believe I told you we'd talk,” he said then. “Not that I wanted you to freeze.”

“I have no excuses, my lord,” Esares said, quietly.

“You've not even asked yet what exactly I was told. He could have lied.”

Esares had considered the possibility, of course. “From your reaction, I doubt it, my lord.”

“How would I know, though? Either way, you could claim he did.”

Esares swallowed. “Would you believe me?”

“Perhaps.”

Esares chuckled humorlessly. “Either way, it wouldn't be worth the risk, my lord.”

“Even though I agreed to decide in your favor if I had any doubts?”

Esares paused, actually taking a moment to think about that. “Perhaps if he had lied, I would try to defend myself by pointing that out, my lord,” he said then, meaning it. He wrapped his arms around himself. “I don't think he did, though.” And he was not foolish enough to claim otherwise, not when it was such a small matter, and when the person whose mercy he was at was so shrewd.

“No, I didn't think so, either,” Anereth said and slowly approached. “Lie on your front.”

“Yes, my lord,” Esares said, and was frustrated with himself when the words came out as a mere whisper. He moved immediately, though, and with all the grace he could muster, which he didn't think was too little even though his every muscle ached from how taut he had pulled them.

Anereth sat down next to him on the bed, laying a hand between Esares' shoulder blades. The mage's touch was only slightly warmer than the temperature of the room, but that wasn't the reason Esares shuddered.

“Since I said we'd talk,” Anereth said, “no, since that clerk said he wanted to speak with me alone, you've expected me to beat you, haven't you.”

It wasn't a question. Esares curled his hands into the bed sheet, trying to calm himself. “Will you use magic, my lord?”

“I didn't say that,” Anereth returned mildly. “Although...” His hand glided down Esares' back as he let the word hang in the air. Esares could feel the spell beginning to form like a deep intake of breath at the start of a speech.

He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing this would likely not hurt more than being struck, would perhaps even hurt less than any physical tool the mage might have used instead, and even so unable to take the uncertainty.

Heat emanated from Anereth's fingertips as they moved in small near-circles, not scalding yet, though it would take only a moment to adjust the spell's strength; and for all that Esares had been hurt too many times to count, he had never been burned. He considered begging, considered pleading for the mage to pick any other punishment at all, but that would reveal a weakness, and there was no telling whether Anereth would listen, even if Esares half-suspected the mage saw this as no more severe a punishment than the more traditional alternatives.

If he was going to beg, though, it would be wiser to wait until it actually started hurting; just a moment of the pain couldn't be so bad, there was no need to let the mage know the mere thought of having his skin burned terrified him, or to increase the risk having his fear laughed off. Besides, the smartest thing would be to grit his teeth and bear it. Perhaps it really wouldn't be so bad, he just wished the human would hurry up, surely making him wait for this after saying he didn't begrudge Esares his actions was just a bit unfair even by a mage's standards, and--

“Breathe,” Anereth said. “Whatever do you think I'm doing?”

With a start, Esares realized his body had turned rigid, his breathing shallow. So much for not revealing weakness. “I'm sorry, I--” He broke off, digging his nails into the bedding. “Please, would you consider not using magic to... for this, my lord? I'm not accustomed to it.” The mage's hand stilled, and Esares cringed. “I'm sorry.”

“You mean you're not accustomed to having spells used to hurt you?”

Esares nodded tersely, though he knew with his face against the mattress from the outside it might not look like much of a nod at all, and said, “Yes, my lord.”

Anereth didn't reply right away, his hand warm and motionless against Esares' skin as he appeared to consider his plea. Esares barely dared to twitch a muscle.

“I'll remember that for the future,” the mage said at last, removing his hand from just above the small of Esares' back. “But right now I wasn't planning to do you harm. Here.” A single finger traced Esares' spine, starting from just beneath the nape of his neck. It took Esares all his self-control to hold still.

Reaching the middle of his back, Anereth stopped and pressed his palm to Esares' skin again, the warmth of the touch unnatural, but not uncomfortable in any physical sense.

“I wasn't going to do much more than this,” Anereth said. “If you think it'll just frighten you more now, though, I won't insist.”

Esares exhaled shakily. “I don't think I understand, my lord.”

“I must confess I'm rather interested in trying spells on you. Not ones meant to torture, though – just spells. And since you did seem cold...” Anereth trailed off, and from his tone, Esares suspected if he twisted his head around to look at the man, he would find this explanation followed by a languid shrug.

For a heartbeat, Esares wasn't sure what he was feeling, whether he was feeling anything at all. Then a laugh escaped him – a choked, incredulous sound. “You were-- do you think this is funny?” And he didn't care that he was being disrespectful, that he was making into painful retaliation what would have been less than nothing.

Because he realized now that he could not do it, could not perform this hazardous balancing act between mere pet and whatever else it was Anereth had been treating him as. He would slip up sooner or later, would drive himself mad trying to prevent what could not be avoided – or had he already? He must be mad to let Sylves touch him, to let any human touch him.

He propped himself up on his hands abruptly, jerking away from Anereth in the same motion.

Anereth watched him, and though the astonishment flickering over his face came and went so quickly it could have been the product of Esares' imagination, the way he had completely stopped moving was not. The mage's arm was still outstretched, hand now hovering in the air in front of Esares. It was obvious this was not something he had seem coming.

Esares glared at him, daring him to reach for him again.

He'd been prepared to jump up from the bed and avoid the human for as long as he could, determined to see this through now that he had started it; but when Anereth did the opposite of what he'd expected, pulling back and doing nothing else but watch him, he had no idea how to react.

“You're a mess, aren't you,” Anereth said, like one might observe that the night is dark and leaves are green.

Esares curled his fingers into his palms, eyes narrowed.

“I'm not going to chase you around the room like a scared rabbit,” Anereth informed him, matter-of-fact. “I'll simply wait for you to calm back down or exhaust yourself attempting to do something foolish, whichever happens first.”

Esares set his teeth. It was a long moment before he could make himself speak. “What will you do to me?”

“Nothing gruesome.” Anereth tilted his head to one side, smiling. “Submit to what I have in mind and find out – how about it?” He posed the question as if it were a challenge.

Esares shifted away from him further, but averted his eyes. He should not be surprised the mage could make light of this. Without even lifting a finger, before Esares had even thought of defying him, Anereth had already won.

With the collar around his neck, there was nowhere for him to run where he wouldn't be found, no way for him to even defend himself. All he could accomplish was to vent some of his anger and put off paying the price until Anereth's patience ran out. A single spell would be all it took to bring Esares down, though depending on how that went, his minder might lose some of his furniture in the process.

Esares found he had no wish to go that far. He'd done what he'd wanted, or what he'd thought he'd wanted. He didn't actually know. If Anereth would make him scream for this, that was to be expected, whether or not he was actually angry beneath the unconcerned facade. Esares did not, however, have any desire to make the man want to take him apart piece by piece.

He hugged his arms around himself, even though he was no longer cold, and slumped forward over his own lap. “Do with me as you wish.”

“I'm glad we could come to an agreement,” Anereth said mildly. “Give me a minute. Considering how all of this went down, I don't think delaying your punishment would end well.” He stood. “In the meantime, put your shirt back on.”

Anereth left to get whatever tools of discipline he might prefer, and Esares carefully didn't think about how this day had seemed to be going so well, before spinning more and more out of control. Instead he focused on how at least after this, he would have vivid memories to remind him of where exactly he stood with this mage, lest he ever find himself at risk of forgetting again, even for just an instant.

He moved slowly and only to pull his tunic back over his head, and didn't look up when Anereth returned and stopped in front of him. “Hand,” the mage ordered, and Esares held out both, still not looking at the man.

The manacle closing around his left wrist a moment later didn't come entirely as a surprise. Sylves still tied him down for punishments, sometimes.

“Move closer to the headboard,” Anereth said, and Esares did, letting the mage chain him to it.

The chain was longer than expected, and Anereth fastened it quickly, without instructing him to lie down first. Finally Esares looked at it more closely from beneath the curtains of his hair. It was very long, actually, and not especially heavy. There also was a soft material on the inside of the cuff, and his other hand remained free.

This was strange.

He glanced up at the mage, wary, but also a little curious. He had no energy left to be afraid.

Anereth looked down at him. “You'll stay here until I decide otherwise. Maybe some hours, maybe until tomorrow when I need you to get ready for the party. That will be the extent of your punishment.” A pause. “I remember your reaction when I mentioned the possibility of leaving you restrained. I assume, though, it's not an issue with this time-frame. Am I wrong?”

“No, my lord,” Esares said softly. “Am I allowed to have water?”

“Yes.” Anereth was silent for a moment, gaze trained on Esares, appearing to contemplate him. Then he said, “I will bring you food, as well. And if you need to go to the bathroom, I will release you for that. You simply won't get to move around as you please.”

“Thank you,” Esares said. He should be relieved, but he felt hollow.

“Try to sleep,” Anereth told him. And added, as if he had read his mind, “You'll feel better.”

There wasn't much to do but follow that order, too.

Chapter Text

Esares didn't look up as Anereth set down the plate on the bedside table. Remaining curled up under the covers wasn't exactly the respectful thing to do, since despite being restrained, he was perfectly capable of at least sitting up and kneeling to greet the mage. He couldn't bring himself to move, though, and Anereth didn't seem inclined to call him on his breach of etiquette. Certainly he hadn't said anything about it the previous times he'd come in to check on him – or about anything else, for the matter.

Despite trying, Esares hadn't been able to fall asleep; not for longer than a few minutes at a time. He was simultaneously tired and wide awake, struggling to make sense of what had happened. When he'd stopped feeling numb, fear slowly crept back in. For once, though, it was not Anereth or the idea of punishment that scared him, but his own emotions, his own actions. What had he been thinking? Nothing, apparently. He'd just acted, logic and consequences be damned, and when had he gotten so reckless and stupid?

He was lucky to still have the skin on his back.

Esares couldn't believe Anereth hadn't even hit him. At the same time, he wasn't sure he'd have cared if he had, and that... wasn't right. He was supposed to care if somebody hurt him.

It was Sylves' fault he'd gotten like this. It was the mages' fault, the humans' fault.

It was Esares' fault for not being able to carry out a simple mission.

“Eat,” Anereth said.

Esares remained motionless. There was a faint hope that the mage would assume he was asleep and leave, though he hadn't closed his eyes before the man had entered, and he didn't dare now, since probably Anereth was perfectly aware he was awake and probably it would be painfully obvious what he was doing if he pretended otherwise now.

“Esares,” the mage said, more sternly, and it struck Esares that this might be the first time the man had addressed him by name. His gaze briefly flicked in Anereth's direction.

He didn't lift his head, though. The mage was standing a few feet from him, and much of Esares' face was hidden by his hair and the pillow. He couldn't be sure the human knew he was awake.

Anereth didn't address him a third time, but instead stepped closer and reached for him. Esares flinched back so violently he surprised himself, and was even more taken aback when the mage didn't grab him the more roughly for it, but stopped.

“I won't have to touch you if you do as I say,” Anereth told him. His voice was gentle, but the implication of his words was not. “Sit up.”

Not wanting to be dragged upright, Esares did. He wanted to apologize for not having done so sooner, but wondered how often he could claim to be sorry for something he could just as easily not have done in the first place before Anereth tired of it.

He bowed his head instead, hands clasped in his lap.

“Better,” Anereth said. “I won't force you to eat, but you'll have some water.”

Esares kept his gaze trained on his knees. “Yes, my lord.” The words came out quiet and slightly hoarse.

Anereth placed the white porcelain cup from the bedside table in his hands, nearly filled to the brim, and Esares mechanically brought it to his lips and drank. First just a small sip to obey the order; then he took a couple of larger, more eager gulps. He'd forgotten he had been thirsty.

“It's been three hours,” Anereth said when Esares lowered the by then more than half empty cup again. “You're still like this?”

Esares' hands tightened around the porcelain. “Forgive me.”

Anereth sat down on the edge of the bed. “I'd prefer an explanation to an apology. I understand you were frightened, and angry, but beyond that, I'd have to guess.” A pause. “I don't feel like guessing.”

“I wasn't--” –angry. A lie he would have had a hard time making Sylves believe under the same circumstances, let alone Anereth. Esares broke off, considering his words.

Many humans would respond to detecting anger directed at them in their slaves by endeavoring to beat it out of them. Anereth had told him, though, that he would not hurt him for his emotions, and to an extent, Esares believed him. When picking punishments, Anereth would be more concerned about the fact that Esares had defied him than about what he'd felt at the time.

Even so, Esares could not afford the man determining there was some underlying problem that needed to be addressed to ward off more outrageous behavior in the future. Esares knew very well what it meant when a mage decided a slave under his power had forgotten his place.

“I know I had no right to be angry,” he said to the cup in his hands, voice barely more than a whisper. “You were being kind.”

“Was I?” Anereth asked.

“You were just...” Esares trailed off. What was it the mage had been doing, exactly? Experimenting on him with a benign spell? “You didn't hurt me.”

“No, I just let you think I was about to. Being kind wasn't my intention.”

Esares bowed his head further. Of course the mage had been displeased with him to begin with. And now he'd gone and done this, and he didn't know why Anereth was even bothering talking to him, or why he'd not dealt with his disobedience in the conventional way yet.

He stared down at his hands. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you ask all these questions? Why this punishment? Why don't you just--” Esares broke off and bit his lip.

“Are you complaining I've not beaten you?”

Esares' grip on the cup tightened. “I'd rather you beat me than grow annoyed with me, my lord.”

“I'm not annoyed,” Anereth said mildly. “And I don't see how causing you pain is likely to fix this, unless, I suppose, my intention was to break you.”

Esares cringed.

“It's not,” Anereth said. “I quite liked you the way you were. I can be patient, if that's necessary.” The mage held out his hand, and Esares after a moment took the cue and handed the cup back. “I expect a modicum of cooperation, though.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Talk to me.” Anereth put the cup back on the nightstand. “What has you this upset?”

Esares hesitated. Though he knew by now Anereth and Sylves were very different, he had trouble wrapping his head around the fact that this mage would rather speak with him and analyze the reasons behind his actions than remind him of the consequences of disobedience as swiftly as possible, before even considering any additional course of action. It wasn't that he couldn't see Anereth of all people taking the time to look for the root of the problem before attempting to correct a slave's behavior – but he didn't understand why he would bother in this case, when Esares meant little to him, wasn't even his, and would just need to keep himself better in check for three or maybe five more weeks to not cause Anereth any further trouble.

It made no sense to Esares that Anereth should care whether or not he actually fixed the issue, when suppressing the symptoms for a while should work just as well for his purposes and was unlikely to require anywhere near the same effort. Unless, of course, he'd really found Esares' behavior so far that pleasing – which seemed to be what he was saying. Esares thought he'd messed up a few times too many for that to be feasible, though, especially since he'd not even been given the opportunity to truly please the man.

Or was this, perhaps, simply Anereth's response to having been caught unawares by Esares' behavior – a sort of scholarly interest in what had happened, a desire to figure out what he'd missed? Or maybe a mixture of both. Despite everything, Anereth didn't sound like he'd been terribly unhappy with Esares' conduct otherwise.

It was a comforting thought, and Esares held on to it. Still, he had no idea how to handle the mage's question.

“I don't know what to tell you, my lord,” he finally said, hoping to at least demonstrate he wasn't simply defying the human's order.

“Just speak,” Anereth said. “There's no need to worry about whether or not I'll like your answer.”

A chuckle was out of Esares' mouth before he could stop it, ugly and bitter. He looked up to see the human blink at him in surprise.

Esares quickly averted his gaze again, biting his tongue.

“Yes?” Anereth asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing,” Anereth repeated, in a tone as if Esares was a child claiming the cookies had eaten themselves.

Esares' fists clenched. “I'm not feeling well, but I'll be fine. I won't be disrespectful again.”

“So you say,” Anereth said. “But those were two incidents in one day, and I won't risk something like this happening again, especially when next time might be more inconvenient. Tomorrow, for example.”

Esares looked up at the mage, scandalized by the suggestion. “I wouldn't-- I'm not stupid.” He had done his share of foolish things in the past, and he couldn't say preparing to dodge Anereth for as long as he could had been the worst of it, but never would he intentionally make the man lose face in front of his peers. He didn't fancy broken bones, or knocked out teeth, or whatever else the mage was capable of if sufficiently provoked.

“No,” Anereth agreed easily, and very slowly reached for him. Realizing the man was closely watching his reaction, Esares forced himself to relax the best he could, making no move to evade him and keeping his expression blank. Instead of letting his fingernails dig into his palms like he wanted to, he pressed his hands flat to the mattress.

Anereth rested his knuckles against Esares' cheek. The touch was light and cool, and should not have made Esares' skin crawl. “You're scared, and angry, and just this makes you want to bolt,” the mage said. “But you're quite clever, aren't you?”

Esares' gaze slid to the side. “Are you mocking me, my lord?”

“Not at all.” Anereth dropped his hand. “You're a skilled actor, and perfectly capable of thinking things through. What I believe you aren't is the epitome of emotional stability.”

Esares' blood ran cold. “My lord—”

“It's not surprising,” Anereth continued, unconcerned. “Though I see now I underestimated the extent of it.”

“Please, my lord, I'm not feral.” Even as he spoke, though, Esares realized his behavior since having been placed under Anereth's power had been more than a little erratic. It was exactly the sort of conduct that would, if it went on long enough even after threats and punishments, make a human label a demon out of control, unpredictable, and thus not fit to be a personal slave; possibly even unsuited for menial labor.

Normally, it could mean the slave would be put down, though that was more often than not seen as a waste, considering the demons in question usually didn't pose much of a risk to their tormentors due to the collars around their throats, and often weren't even actively rebellious. The preferred alternative was to use them for magical research.

Esares had seen the results – had he not hated the enemies of his kind before, he would have then. He remembered horror, and helpless fury.

And while he knew Anereth couldn't sell him, couldn't condemn him to that kind of fate, he was also very much aware that Anereth himself was a mage, with an interest in testing spells on demons, and the sort of moral compass that allowed him to make an attempt on a classmate's life because he found him obnoxious.

If Anereth came out of this conversation thinking Esares was a liability... he might just stop treating him like more than a beast, or he might do worse than that. Esares didn't know, and had no desire to find out.

“I didn't say you were,” Anereth told him. There was a short silence, in which Esares held himself very still, his body aching from the tension in it. “I've never seen a demon who was truly feral, and you're certainly not going to be the first. You can stop looking like the deer in front of the wolf.”

Esares took a shaky breath. “I'm sorry.”

“Do you still think my punishments will be that much worse than Sylves'?”

“It's not—you've been very fair, my lord.”

“I'm glad you think so, but that doesn't answer my question.”

“I-- no. Yes.” Esares hugged his arms around himself. “I don't know.” He looked up, meeting the mage's gaze for the briefest instant before quickly lowering his head. “I don't want to know.” He dug his fingernails into the skin above his elbows. “I'm sorry.”

He was falling apart, and he needed to stop.

“No, don't be sorry,” Anereth said. “You're doing well. Go on.”

Go on? What was he supposed to say?

Esares closed his eyes. “Please,” he said. “Just tell me what you want from me.”

“Want from you?” Esares thought there was an odd note to the mage's tone.

“How can I prove to you I won't do it again?”

“Ah,” Anereth said. “I'm afraid you can't.” Esares stiffened, but the human went on, “It's not something to get worked up about, though.”

Esares looked at the mage. “You think I might insult or disgrace you at any moment, and I'm supposed to not worry about it, my lord?”

“That's an exaggeration. Besides, I'm not going to punish you for what I think you might do, so it hardly matters.”

Esares averted his eyes, letting his arms fall loose at his sides. “May I speak freely?”

“Yes.”

Esares straightened, and met the human's gaze again. “You keep saying I shouldn't be concerned about your opinion on me regarding this matter or that, but it's impossible. You must know it is. I need, I want to please you.”

Anereth looked back at him without speaking for a moment. “I understand,” he said then. “You're overthinking things, though. You do please me.”

“This pleases you?”

“Not this.” The corners of Anereth's mouth lifted. “But at least you aren't boring.”

Esares glanced to the side. “You're strange.”

“Am I?” Anereth's smile grew more pronounced. “Let's try this again. Why were you rude to that clerk?”

Esares curled his fingers into his palms, the muscles of his shoulders going taut enough to be painful.

“Come now,” Anereth coaxed. “Unless you want me to speculate.” There was a pause. “Was it a whim? Should I make you go apologize?”

Esares' whole body jerked. “Please don't,” he whispered.

“I won't if you tell me.”

“He said something. I overreacted. I'm sorry, I won't do it again.”

“What did he say?”

“He--” Esares cut himself off, and turned away. What was the best possible outcome of this if he told the mage? Anereth deciding he was ridiculous or over-sensitive and agreeing to let it go this time?

Perhaps he should just remain quiet, even if it would irritate Anereth, and hope the man would be satisfied once Esares asked the clerk's forgiveness.

But something in him revolted at the idea of having to kneel and grovel in front of that human. Just the thought made him want to hurt Ileras, or Anereth, and he couldn't make himself keep silent.

“You won't think it's a good reason,” he said instead.

“That's fine,” Anereth told him, not unkindly. “I'm asking for an explanation, not a justification.”

Esares worried his lip. “He talked a lot,” he said at last. “He was bothering me before, and I knew he was of little consequence to you. I-- I usually don't-- I've never embarrassed my master at a social gathering, and I wouldn't embarrass you. Even if my reason was silly, please believe that.”

“All right.”

Esares wasn't sure Anereth was sincere, but he was mostly convinced the man would keep his word and not punish him as a preventative measure based on whatever lingering doubts he might have regarding Esares' ability to behave himself in public. More likely, he would wait for Esares to prove him right, and then choose the kind of punishment guaranteed to work as a deterrent.

Esares took a deep breath. “He started talking about a friend's slave,” he said. “About how she was stupid because she was frightened. Then he tried to turn it into a compliment towards me.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “I got angry. I'm sorry.”

After a moment, Anereth asked, “So you were attempting to get back at him?”

Esares hesitated. “Yes.”

“I see.” Anereth's gaze was assessing, and Esares avoided meeting it. “It's hardly silly,” the mage said at last. “Inappropriate, but not difficult to understand, all things considered.”

Esares looked at him, startled. “My lord?”

“You won't do it again.”

“No.”

“Good. It's not your job to inform humans of your opinion on their behavior, whether or not you believe you're being subtle.”

Esares lowered his eyes in hopes of hiding the sudden flash of loathing. “Of course, my lord.” His voice came out strained, but otherwise devoid of emotion.

“Ah, I fear I might be the one annoying you,” Anereth said, sounding amused of all things. “It's a simple fact, though.” Esares held his tongue and didn't look up, aware that the human was closely watching him.

“However,” Anereth continued, “you may inform just me of your opinion, and let me deal with the situation as I see fit.”

Esares wasn't sure he was following. “Deal with it?” he asked.

“Yes,” Anereth said. “For example, I might have reminded that clerk he was there to assist you, not to practice his conversational skills.”

Esares blinked. “He'd not have been any happier.” The opposite was more likely – because Ileras would have known what had happened, and having a slave complain about him to his master would have humiliated him; more so if the slave in question had appeared pleasant and well behaved to him before.

“Probably,” Anereth agreed. “And he wouldn't have been able to soothe his wounded pride by telling me about your misconduct, either. Alas, it's too late for that now. I might go back to complain about him, though. He strikes me as awfully unprofessional.”

Esares stared at the mage. “Are you-- do you mean that?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

Because Ileras had been perfectly polite to Anereth, as far as Esares could tell. Because thoughtlessly chatting away at a slave was hardly a grave offense. Because Sylves would never even have taken Esares' complaints seriously, let alone caused someone trouble over them who'd so helpfully and discreetly brought a flaw in his slave's training to his attention.

“Do you think,” Esares said, carefully, “he said anything wrong?”

Anereth tipped his head to the side. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“I think he's a fool,” Anereth said. “And should keep his prattle to himself.”

Esares released a breath he hadn't known he was holding, and dropped his eyes. “Thank you.”

Anereth placed a finger under Esares' chin in a featherlight touch. Esares didn't flinch or freeze this time, but merely lifted his gaze.

“You're afraid of being hurt with magic?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Before,” Anereth said. “What kind of spell did you think I was going to use on you?”

“I thought--” Esares paused and, unable to continue looking the mage in the eye, glanced to the side. It seemed almost ludicrous now. “I thought you might intend to burn me, my lord.”

“I wondered,” Anereth said, and brushed his thumb across Esares' cheek. “I would not burn you to teach you a lesson. I won't use painful spells as punishments.” He retracted his hand. “You may tell me if something is too much.”

Esares' stomach clenched, and he kept his gaze averted.

Of course Anereth noticed. “What is it?”

“Noth-- It's not worthy of your concern, my lord.”

“Is that so,” Anereth said, and he sounded entirely unimpressed.

Esares knew he would not be able to avoid answering this time, too, but neither could he explain how even the lightest beating would make him want to throw back up the contents of his stomach, how a spanking would make him want to curl up in bed and cry. How afterwards he would want to break Anereth's wrist every time he touched him.

He settled on a half-truth. “I just-- I frighten easily, my lord. I don't know when to tell you.”

Anereth's response was immediate, “Always tell me.”

“You'll think I'm exaggerating.”

“I'll think you wouldn't bother speaking up if it was unimportant,” Anereth said. “I know you're worried about trying my patience. Even if you did, though, it's not my habit to be cruel to slaves just because I find them tiresome. I'd be more likely to ignore you.”

Esares did find that comforting, though not as much as he would have liked. He exhaled slowly. “All right. I will tell you.”

Anereth smiled. “Good.” In a familiar gesture, he tucked back a strand of Esares' hair.

Esares leaned into the touch, closing his eyes, and let his cheek rest against Anereth's palm.

It was a while before the mage pulled away his hand. When he did, Esares opened his eyes, and said, “May I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“You've had other slaves, haven't you? Ones you owned?”

“I have,” Anereth said.

“What happened to them?”

“I didn't see the point of bringing them with me to the capital.”

Esares had figured as much, but it was still disconcerting to hear. “So you sold them?”

“No,” Anereth said. “I gave them to my sisters. I only owned two slaves, so it wasn't difficult to arrange.”

Esares took a moment to digest that. “Your sisters,” he finally said, hoping he wasn't being too forward. “Are they kind?”

Anereth smiled as though finding some humor in the question. “Kinder than me,” he said. And then, “I assure you there's no need for you to worry on my former slaves' behalf.”

Esares' pulse quickened, more from embarrassment than fear. “I didn't mean--”

“I understand why you asked,“ Anereth interrupted him, quite gently. “Are you feeling better now?”

Esares relaxed. “Yes. Thank you, my lord.” He paused, demurely lowering his eyes, and bowed his head. “I'm sorry for overreacting.”

Anereth took hold of his chin, making him lift his face. “You're a bit more fragile than I anticipated,” he said. “But that's hardly your fault. I'll be mindful of it.”

“Thank you,” Esares said. He didn't know how he felt about being called fragile, but there had been no scorn in the human's voice, at least; in fact, Anereth was being... surprisingly kind.

Anereth smiled and stood. “I'll be back soon,” he said. “Consider eating at least a little of the food.” And he left.

It worried Esares somewhat that the man could go so easily from threatening to gentle, but when too many other humans were just as quick to go from calling their slaves terms of endearment to slapping them hard across the face, he supposed he should just consider himself lucky. Anereth didn't act from anger without thinking, and appeared to have quite liberal views on what a slave should be permitted and how transgressions should be handled.

Anereth did not, Esares thought, care about any theory prescribing strict sets of rules demons should be made to adhere to lest they forget who was in control – neither the way Sylves' father did, with almost fanatic fervor, nor the way Sylves himself did, driven by a near unshakable faith in his instructors' and books' teachings and an underlying fear of what would happen if he ever relaxed the reins too far. Instead, Anereth cared about his own observations, his own findings, and about results.

Esares half suspected now that Anereth went about training slaves much like Sylves went about training dogs, and he found that funny, so funny he wouldn't be able to stop laughing if he started. Sylves would never punish a dog for acting out of fear, or begrudge it responding less than pleasantly to a provocation. He did not believe a dog would become unmanageable simply from being allowed on the furniture once too often. Because a dog was a domesticated creature by nature, while a demon's first instinct was to kill whatever humans he could.

Well, Sylves wasn't entirely wrong about the last part. The number of demons who would hesitate to rip a human to pieces on sight if given the chance was small, and dwindling by the day.

Esares certainly wouldn't. Well, if it was a child, or perhaps someone else completely helpless-- even so, he hated them all.

He took the plate from the bedside table. The chain connected to his wrist rattled softly, and his gaze was drawn to it rather than the rice and mushrooms. It was thin and silver, and almost pretty. He frowned at it. It was degrading, and uncomfortable – though, surprisingly, the sensation of the manacle against his skin itself wasn't so bothersome. It wasn't very tight, and there was that soft material between the metal and his wrist, perhaps leather.

It was not the kind of cuff usually used to punish slaves. Even if it was just for sex, he doubted too many owners bothered with attempting to make the restraints comfortable. Sylves didn't.

Esares scrunched up his nose. Well, he didn't think he minded if Anereth was eccentric.

He took the fork and started eating.

He still wasn't really hungry, but he knew Anereth would like it if he had some of the food, and he actually enjoyed mushrooms. Though they didn't taste as good cold, but he couldn't very well ask Anereth to heat them back up for him.

Esares snorted softly around the fork at the idea.

By the time Anereth returned, Esares had eaten about half of the meal and placed it back on the night table.

He assumed the mage had been to his study to read up on one thing or another, considering the amount of time he'd been gone and the fact that he'd brought a book back with him.

Anereth's gaze immediately fell on the plate. “I'm happy you decided to have some.”

“I like it,” Esares said, quietly. “Thank you for bringing it.” He raised his eyes from the plate to meet Anereth's. “And thank you for today. I enjoyed visiting the shops, and picking things out. I didn't mean for it to end like that.”

“There's always the next time,” Anereth said, and Esares appreciated the confirmation that he'd still be taken on casual outings in the future. “Besides,” the mage continued, “I probably jinxed it.”

Esares didn't attempt to hide his confusion.

Anereth's lips curved. “After all, I did promise you a horse to pet, and then forgot all about it. It was most negligent of me.” He held out the book to him.

Esares looked at it blankly.

Then his brain kicked back into gear, and he tore his eyes from the all too familiar title to stare at Anereth. “My lord?”

“You wanted to read it, no?”

“You're giving it to me?” Esares asked, incredulous. “Now?”

“Well, obviously it's not a reward for misbehaving. But you're hardly going to assume it is. Though I could be wrong, of course – in that case, do correct me so I can take it back down to the living room.”

Esares went on staring.

“Oh my, did I break you, after all?” Anereth's eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Don't worry, of course this is really part of my ploy. If I give this to you now, the next time you do something you weren't meant to, I can take it away again, and it will be much less dramatic and time-consuming than flogging you.”

It took Esares a while to get his vocal cords to function. “I don't think it's supposed to work like that,” he said faintly.

Anereth smiled. “No, I don't suppose it is. But conventions are so dull, don't you think?” When Esares didn't reply, or move, the mage's expression turned a little more serious. Even so, he shrugged, and sounded perfectly unconcerned when he said, “I was already planning to let you have it. Since you've done as I asked and explained yourself, there's no reason to not do so now.”

“I'm being punished,” Esares said, entirely unnecessarily, except from his behavior he could have sworn the human had forgotten.

“That's why you're going to have to read it right here.”

“You're not making sense,” Esares said. “My lord.”

“Just take it.”

Esares didn't. “It's no longer going to be a very unpleasant punishment,” he pointed out instead – appalled at himself for arguing with the mage about this, but wanting to understand what the man was thinking, and unable to believe it would really be as easy as reaching out and taking the book. There had to be a catch.

“I don't care,” Anereth said.

“Like you don't care this chain is padded?” Esares shot back, holding up his manacled wrist and very much aware of the nearly hysterical note that slipped into his tone at the end.

Anereth smiled as if he'd relayed the most quaint little anecdote. ”I can't say I purchased it with you in mind.”

Esares felt his cheeks heat up, and looked away.

“Take it,” Anereth repeated, and this time, Esares did.

He stared down at the book. “I may read it?” He sought Anereth's gaze again. “For however long I like?”

“Yes. And perhaps you may pick another one when you're done.”

Esares pulled the book closer reverently, and after a moment carefully pressed it to his chest, as if that would protect it from the possibility of Anereth changing his mind and taking it away again. “Thank you,” he said around a sudden lump in his throat. “I-- thank you.”

Anereth offered him another smile, though this one seemed softer to Esares, or perhaps just more pleased. “You're welcome.”

Esares' gaze returned to the book. If this was the treatment it would continue to afford him, he wondered if perhaps being used by Anereth wouldn't even make him want to retch.

Well, no. It probably still would.

It might feel like a small price to pay, though.

Chapter Text

Esares spent all evening reading, and he would have continued for the better part of the night, except Anereth eventually returned to the room with the intention of going to bed. Esares almost wanted to stay up badly enough to ask if he might be released and allowed to continue reading in the living room – almost. Anereth scared him less now, but he still wasn't that reckless.

Anereth did release him even so, and didn't chain him back up when Esares returned from the bathroom. Esares thanked him, and thanked him again for the book, and still lacked the audacity to plead with him to be allowed to remain awake downstairs, although he'd not even have minded if that had meant being restrained again.

Instead, after crawling under the covers next to the mage, he inched closer to Anereth until there was barely any space between them left, and asked, eyes trained on the human's, “You still don't want me?”

Anereth smiled. “My standards have not, peculiarly enough, changed in the past twenty-four hours.”

“I wouldn't mind,” Esares said quietly, and it was one of the smaller lies he'd told to a human on the subject.

“Careful, you will make me blush,” Anereth said, smile stretching into a grin. “Get some rest.”

Esares did not know how to handle this man.

“I'm truly grateful,” he told him again after a pause, even as his muscles slowly relaxed with the growing certainty that he was not, in fact, about to be taken up on his offer.

“So I gathered. Well, it's a good book.”

“You've read it?”

“I make it a point to read all the books I own,” Anereth said. “That is, except the one about geology. And the one with the baking recipes. Ah, and that awful poetry collection – a gift from Maliren, you see. He has no taste.”

Esares blinked. “I... see.”

“Of course you do. Everyone does, except him. It's why this party is going to be a pain.”

“But,” Esares said, hesitantly. “You used to... get along?”

“I thought he was entertaining,” Anereth said. “At first.”

Esares bit his lip. “Do you think I'm entertaining?”

Anereth seemed taken aback. “Don't compare yourself to him.” But he didn't say it in the way that made it a mage's expected response to a demon equating himself to a human. “You're much less irritating. More likable.” The human's lips twitched. “Prettier, too.”

Esares found himself bemused by the praise, and by Anereth in general. “You don't even want to bed me.”

“But we are in bed,” Anereth said. He smiled in the way people did when they were being deliberately obtuse and hoping to be especially obnoxious about it, and Esares found himself with the unexpected urge to slap a hand over his own face and groan.

He resisted.

Finally Anereth said, “I don't need to sleep with you to appreciate your looks.” And continued, the corners of his mouth still curled, “I find you quite beautiful, and very interesting. I won't start complaining about you any time soon.”

Esares snorted softly. “Thank you,” he said. I think. He didn't speak the last part, but was sure he didn't need to for the sentiment to be conveyed.

Anereth smiled. “Come here,” he said, patting the mattress directly next to where he lay.

Esares froze.

“I won't hurt you.”

Physical pain wasn't what Esares was worried about. Even so, he took a deep breath and forced his limbs to move, closing the last bit of distance between himself and the mage.

“Nothing will happen,” Anereth said. “Turn around.”

Esares obeyed, arms trembling faintly despite his best efforts to calm himself. He clasped his hands and held them close to his chest, keeping as still as he could.

“I appreciate you're trying so hard,” Anereth said. “I'd rather not send you into a panic again, though. I'm not going to harm you. Even so, if you're that frightened, you may move away, and I'll go to sleep and not hold it against you.”

Esares swallowed hard, but didn't even have to think about it. “No,” he said, licking his suddenly dry lips. “I won't-- I'm nervous, because I'm not certain what you plan to do. But I believe you, and I-- I would be happy to pay you back for some of your generosity.”

“All right, then,” Anereth said. The mattress shifted slightly, and the air felt cool against Esares' skin when Anereth tugged aside the covers.

A moment later, the muscles in Esares' neck pulled taut as Anereth placed his hand just beneath the collar. The mage's nails lightly scraped his skin as Anereth moved his fingers downwards, then sideways under Esares' tunic, trailing them along his shoulder.

Esares shuddered, but fear was only a small part of the reason.

Anereth's hand glided halfway down his spine, then, inch by inch, back up again. Esares hissed and arched into the touch.

Anereth paused and leaned in closer. “If you want me to continue, pull up your shirt.”

The fact that it wasn't really an order made it easier to obey.

Once Esares' upper body was laid bare, Anereth resumed his ministrations. They were gentle, almost teasing, and predictable in that they restricted themselves to Esares' back and neck and shoulders, never going past his sides, or the small of his back. Esares told himself this situation was little different from when he had knelt in Anereth's study with his face pressed into the man's thigh, enjoying his attentions, but it didn't stop him feeling vulnerable in a way he hadn't then, from both wanting this more and being more frightened by it.

He could focus on all the ways this might end in pain, on how easy it would be for Anereth to just hold him down and take him – on how he wouldn't even have to, because even terrified and not having been given the time to mentally prepare himself, Esares had been trained better than that.

Or he could push those worries aside and concentrate on the sensation of Anereth's hand on his back – surrender to his own nature, hoping that Anereth was just being whimsical, his actions not leading up to anything he had only minutes ago said he still had no interest in.

In the end, Esares chose the latter. Experience had already shown that with Anereth, even the sorts of touches that summoned goosebumps to his skin need not be the prelude to anything further; and while Esares believed things could easily go either way this time, when nothing alarming happened for long enough, he at least decided he would probably get a warning if Anereth had already changed his mind about fucking him, and that it wouldn't just consist of a hand slipping between his legs.

So he allowed himself to relax, to not think, to enjoy being caressed in this manner. There was no point clinging to the wariness and fear when it would leave him just as powerless.

“If I were to use magic now,” Anereth said after a long while, jolting Esares back to reality, “would you get frightened again?”

Esares twitched, a show of nerves he didn't manage to suppress as Anereth's index finger trailed down his shoulder in an idle zigzag pattern. “Might I ask what kind of spell it would be, my lord?”

“I was thinking the same as earlier.”

Esares hesitated. “I'm not cold.”

“That's not what I asked.” There was a pause. “If you'd mind that much, just say so.”

Anereth's voice was matter-of-fact, and his touch remained light and unfaltering. Esares didn't think being refused would make him angry, even if it would not please him.

That was reassuring. “No, I-- please go ahead, my lord. I won't be frightened.”

Despite his words, he felt himself go rigid as the movements of Anereth's hand changed to the same ones that had made him think he was going to be burned before – small half-circles, interrupted by the occasional more complex shape being drawn on his skin.

He took measured deep breaths, trying to relax as Anereth's fingertips gradually went from merely unusually warm to the unnatural temperature of a hot bath.

What if Anereth did burn him, though? By accident, or because it had been his intention all along. Elaborate punishments involving mind games weren't unheard of – what did he really know about the man, aside from that he was dangerous?

He was being irrational. He knew he was being irrational. To begin with, what was the likelihood of a mage's mind games involving letting his slave read a book for hours?

But as vehemently as he told himself this, he couldn't slow his heart hammering in his chest, couldn't get air into his lungs past the sudden terror.

“Please-- please wait.”

To his surprise, Anereth not only did, but pulled back his hand almost instantly.

Esares shuddered, and wrapped his arms around himself. “I'm sorry,” he gasped, trying to get his breathing back under control. “I didn't think this would happen.”

“It's all right,” Anereth said in a tone like silk. “You did well telling me when it did. Let's stop here.”

Esares couldn't bring himself to offer trying again. He clenched his fists. “Are you disappointed?”

He started when the covers were pulled back up over him. “I'm pleased,” Anereth said, voice still gentle. “Get some sleep.”

After a beat, Esares tugged his tunic back down. “Thank you. I... I don't think I could do much, right now, but if you wanted me to use my mouth, that would--”

“Sweetheart,” Anereth said. “Go to sleep.”

Esares hugged the covers close to himself, exhaling. “Yes, my lord.”

He was too relieved to even begrudge the human the endearment.

*

Esares woke lying closer to Anereth than he was used to, the sunlight streaming into the room letting him know it was already morning. This surprised him somewhat. While it wasn't that he felt as though he hadn't rested, he didn't feel like he had gotten a full night's sleep, either.

He wasn't sure if it was him who'd woken first or Anereth, but by the time he was fully aware of his surroundings and looking at the mage's face to see if he was still asleep, Anereth was already gazing back at him. Esares instantly tensed a little, though he knew there was no reason to. Anereth was hardly going to choose now to change his tune and have his way with him.

The human smiled. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Esares returned quietly, unsure whether he should get off the bed and kneel as would be proper.

Anereth answered his unspoken question by reaching out and stroking his hair. “Take your time making breakfast. I'll be busy for at least an hour.”

“Yes, my lord.”

After watching Anereth leave the room and close the door behind himself, Esares hesitated for a moment, then went to draw himself a bath. It had been a while since Anereth had given him blanket permission to do so, and he was a little nervous making use of it now without asking the mage to reconfirm first, but it was a well-calculated risk. He didn't think Anereth would have any objections, and if he did, Esares still didn't think he would be angry; whatever his reaction was going to be instead, though, it would give him important information. Anereth might be indifferent, or pleased, or he might be dissatisfied Esares hadn't let him know beforehand. Esares would adapt his behavior accordingly in the future.

He took the clothes Anereth had laid out for him the night before and placed them on the stool next to washbasin. The pants were a pale green, the shirt blue with red leaves embroidered on it. He took the gray towel hanging over the edge of the tub and put it on on top of them, and poured just a little of the bathing oil with the fruit fragrance into the water.

The lotion Anereth had bought for him already stood next to the bathing oils, and the comb had been placed by Anereth on the small pale surface above the washing basin, just below the mirror.

Before he went into the tub, Esares closed the door to the bedroom, but didn't turn the key.

He bathed without hurry, enjoying the warm water as he always did when nothing unpleasant awaited after. Anereth was busy, and even if he came back to the bedroom for some reason, there was a decent chance he would still not come into the bathroom and disturb Esares.

He didn't. Esares washed and dried himself in peace, and afterwards meticulously applied the lotion, taking particular care to rub it into the skin of his arms and throat, even as he didn't quite manage he patience to spread it evenly across his back. He would use some more of it in the evening, just before leaving for the party.

Finally he combed his hair. The longer he was in the bathroom by himself, the less he worried about Anereth chiding him. The warm water had probably helped, but he also couldn't think of any reason the mage might disapprove. At least this way, Esares' hair would be sure to naturally dry before they had to go.

And indeed, when they finally had breakfast together, Anereth didn't have a word of criticism for him. On the contrary – he made it quite clear he was happy with Esares' initiative.

“I did have some concerns you might just spend all day in bed reading,” he said, “and that I'd have to take your book hostage to even get you to wash before the party, let alone bathe.” The light in the mage's eyes was teasing.

When Esares smiled and ducked his head, it wasn't entirely an act.

There wasn't much talking after that, as Anereth's thoughts appeared to be elsewhere, and Esares wasn't about to try and keep a conversation going. Still, it was a companionable silence they lapsed into more than an uncomfortable one. They ate the bread and cheese and fruits, and then Anereth released him to spend the time until lunch as he wished.

At first Esares couldn't have been more happy, certain he was in fact going to spend the morning over his book. However, when he returned to the bedroom by himself to continue reading about the magical properties of Cylirian fennel, he found it difficult to concentrate on the words on the pages.

Esares was surprised to discover that rather than just feeling distantly disgusted by the prospect of the upcoming party as would have been usual, the idea of it left him restless and queasy. Soon a tight knot had formed in his belly that refused to uncoil.

There was nothing concrete he was worried about. Sylves went to a different social gathering every week, if not several, and almost always took him along. While Esares had rather loathed them all, there had never been problems – none that resulted in him being punished in any remarkable way, at least. Esares knew how to keep his head down when it mattered, usually. He knew to not react to anything ignorant or repulsive he heard or saw, to not cringe away when someone unfamiliar touched him, to never draw attention to himself unless it was by being perceived as especially obedient or beautiful or devoted to his master. Despite how off-balance he had been feeling since being left in Anereth's care, he didn't think he was likely to make some horrible blunder.

Instead, he found himself fretting about everything and nothing. Likely more people than usual would be interested in him, since at least some of the guests were bound to recognize him and bring up the topic of his illustrious master. That was fine, since Anereth did not plan to let any of them take Esares to an empty room or corridor and use him. Most likely there'd be less intimate touches, the kind even Sylves permitted when someone asked to take a closer look at his slave, but Esares was well familiar with those. There might be some less casual physical contact – kisses, even some groping; but he was fairly hopeful Anereth would shield him from the worst of that, too.

He did have some doubts, of course. He could not predict how Anereth would treat him in public. There was no telling what would happen if someone the man liked took an interest in Esares, or someone especially influential. Esares had noticed Anereth had a habit of sticking around powerful people. There was also the matter of alcohol – large quantities of wine tended to change someone's behavior, and not rarely allowed them to forget assurances given, especially to slaves.

Even this uncertainty wasn't an entirely new one, however. Sylves had come dangerously close a few times to going along with the advances of someone intent on having Esares involved in the sex. Once a man making such a suggestion had himself owned a slave and planned to bring him into bed with them as well, and Esares had seen his own fear reflected on the other demon's face, and known if Sylves agreed he would defy him and be punished.

Likely more than one or two people would express an interest in having him this time, and that was an unsettling thought. Still, considering Anereth in addition to not seeming the type for sudden radical changes of mind would be going to this party with his friend in the guise of a date, Esares saw no reason to be more concerned about that particular source of danger than usual. Except Anereth was still rather a mystery to him, while he'd had nearly two years to watch Sylves, to learn to read him and conclude that at the end of the day, the likelihood of the man actually letting anyone else have him was negligible.

It occurred to Esares, eventually, though, that even if he'd been going to the party with Sylves and not Anereth, he would have been this uneasy about it. Perhaps more uneasy. Because right up until the moment his master had told him, he had not expected Sylves would ever leave him so utterly at someone else's mercy. And if he had misjudged his master so badly once, what did that say about his chances of avoiding more unpleasant surprises in the future?

Esares had counted himself relatively safe from most humans not because he believed Sylves would keep them away from him out of any genuine affection or concern, of course – he was not that naive, didn't think he ever had been in his life. In a twisted sort of way, Sylves cared about him, that much was true; Esares knew this because he had carefully cultivated it, watched for it, used it. He also knew Sylves would only ever see him as a demon.

To a human, a demon was by definition little different from a beast.

Not any kind of beast, even, but one that needed to be kept on a short leash. In Sylves' mind, someone hitting a defenseless slave was not abuse, nor was whipping one, or starving them for a few days. A demon would heal quickly, after all, and could go without food longer than a human without any ill effects. All that mattered to someone like Sylves was that the slave could avoid the discomfort or pain by behaving himself, and that he was hurt with the goal of teaching him a lesson, not for fun or to instill terror.

In this way, cruelty became punishment, the act of inflicting humiliation or pain a necessary component of enforcing obedience. Obedience, in turn, was necessary because there was hardly a mage who wouldn't be willing to swear on all their human gods that given any significant amount of freedom, demons were dangerous, bloodthirsty, violent; a danger to both themselves and humans.

Humans had elaborate theories on this that Esares had chosen not to research into more than he'd deemed absolutely necessary for his task. The books dealing with the topic were not, by any means, the kinds of books he liked to read.

Still, he'd learned enough. The philosophers Hyvendran and Kimleran wrote that even the meekest slaves when pampered could turn from docile to vicious in an instant, like a lamb changing into a tiger. Kimleran, who'd written fifty years later than his peer, didn't even bother with attempting to present actual evidence for this claim. Hyvendran, on the other hand, referred to hundreds of cases throughout history where magic-infused collars, not as refined back then, ceased to function properly, leaving the demons previously bound by them free to access their powers as they wished. In most of these instances, the author cautioned, the slaves had gone after the lives of their owners at the first sign of weakness.

It felt like it had been in another lifetime that Esares had read this, and still he felt the same bubbling rage remembering as he had back then, the same desire to seek out Hyvendran and end him where he stood, even as he knew the man was long dead already. He did not know if humans had always been like this man, thought like him, or if Hyvendran and those whose opinions aligned with his had made it so by spreading their ideas.

If he was fair, the latter was probably more likely. Esares didn't feel like being fair, however. The results were the same, and with each day he'd spent amongst them, he had come to despise the enemies of his kind more. They would subjugate his people, exploit them, violate them, and then use their victims' anger at this treatment as justification.

Sylves was just like that. Unlike many other masters, he might not think of Esares as replaceable, might not get furious at him for crying or begging or seeming unhappy when they were alone, but any sign of being less than adoring of the man who owned him would still be taken as Esares forgetting his place and needing to be disciplined.

Similarly, under most circumstances, Esares saying he did not want to have sex with someone would mean nothing to Sylves. He would simply not believe it, unless there was a very specific reason, like the person in question being cruel by Sylves' own narrow standards. In Sylves' mind, in the mind of any human Esares had ever heard speaking on the subject, it was as good as impossible to rape a demon. Their philosophers had theories about this, too.

So Esares had never counted on Sylves' fondness of him affording him protection from being hurt by or forced to lie with strangers, but he'd had a great deal more confidence in his possessiveness. Then his master had given him to Anereth, and not even bothered to ask his friend to not let other people use Esares, just to not leave him alone with them because that could hurt Sylves.

Esares still had a hard time wrapping his head around it. He almost felt betrayed, except for a betrayal to be possible there would have needed to be trust. The only trust involved had been in his own ability to read people.

Perhaps that was what kept gnawing at him, though. A large chunk of what remained of his confidence in himself had been eroded in the span of a few days, when it had become clear he would not be able to sway Sylves and instead was only succeeding at making him annoyed with him. Aside from questioning how well he was able to predict how Anereth would act once surrounded by peers, he could not help but wonder what similar social gatherings would be like in the future, in Sylves' company. Was handing him over to Anereth just the beginning? Or was it because it was Anereth, and Sylves was as smitten with the man as Esares had ever seen him?

Esares wasn't looking forward to finding out.

In light of this, the evening that lay ahead, the uncertainty and agitation about how it would progress, felt like a small taste of the more far off future.

When noon came and Anereth ordered him to make lunch, Esares hadn't come far in his reading at all. He was angry at himself for that. Here he was, having access to a book again for the first time in over a year and a half, and instead of finishing the chapter he'd already started on the previous day, he had wasted precious time spacing out; re-reading sentences and whole pages he'd caught himself not truly processing, and only making himself more unhappy and anxious in the process.

He made stew, because Anereth had suggested it, which meant it hadn't been a suggestion at all, even if Esares had a hard time guessing what the man would do were he to prepare something else instead. He put a pitcher of water and a plate with soft dark breads next to the steaming pot in the middle of the table, and fetched Anereth from his study.

Anereth complimented him on the stew, and said, “While you're here, those servants my mother is sending are going to be even more superfluous than I expected.”

Esares looked down at his own bowl. “I'm happy to please you.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, my lord.” But his voice came out clipped.

“This is so unconvincing it can't even be called a lie.”

Esares tightened his grip around the spoon.

“It's all right,” Anereth said. “I'm not going to try and pry your every thought from you.”

Esares expelled a breath. “Thank you.”

They continued eating in silence for a while.

When both their bowls were nearly empty, Anereth said, “Ksielle is going to arrive in a few hours. You should be ready by then.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You realize I expect there will be no incidents.”

Esares hunched his shoulders, and said again, “Yes, my lord.”

“However,” Anereth said, “if at any point there is a problem, you will let me know.”

“There won't--” Esares began, but the mage held up his hand, stalling him.

“I trust you'll be able to find a way to get my attention without causing a scene. If you do, I will take you outside to catch some air, and I won't care if the problem was an urge to glare at someone or a leg cramp. In fact,” Anereth added after a beat, lips curved, “any reason to escape Maliren and the company he keeps for some time is a good one.”

Esares just looked at the mage for a moment. “You're very kind,” he said, softly.

Anereth smiled fully, then. “Well, if you keep saying so, I suppose I must live up to the assessment.”

Esares searched for signs in Anereth's expression that the man was accusing him of having been attempting to manipulate him with his words, but couldn't find any.

Still uncomfortable, he tried for a change of topic. “Will you still want me to cook once you have servants, my lord?”

“That depends. Would you like to?”

Esares was no longer used to this kind of conversation, where his likes and dislikes appeared to actually matter.

He debated his answer. It wasn't like he hated cooking, and preparing meals was certainly better than having nothing to do. He wasn't sure what the servants would think of that, though, and what he would think of them. And if the alternative was having more time to read...

He was already not doing much to serve Anereth, though.

“I wouldn't mind,” he said therefore, after a pause. “And I'd like to be useful.”

“We'll decide once they arrive, then.”

Esares nodded, content with that, and after murmuring his thanks finished his soup.

Once he did, Anereth said, “I might not keep you with me all night.”

Esares' heart skipped a beat, but then calmed again. The mage's most likely implication was nothing sinister, as much as Esares wasn't used to it.

“The slave quarters, my lord?”

“Yes.” And then, in a voice holding nothing but curiosity, “Will that be a problem?”

“No,” Esares said. Anereth's gaze was speculative. Esares swallowed. “My master never-- but it's not a problem, my lord. I would tell you if it was.”

Esares clenched his hands under the table to keep them from shaking, and hoped Anereth would not notice and decide he was lying this time, too.

He wasn't. What he was feeling was much closer to anticipation than dread.

Anereth regarded him a moment longer, then propped his elbow up on the table and rested his chin in his palm, and said, “Good.”

Esares relaxed, though his pulse only picked up in pace. Being left in one of the rooms prepared at every upper class social gathering for the guests' slaves would mean being alone with others of his kind. He could barely remember the last time he had spoken more than a few words to another demon.

He was a little surprised that it seemed likely he'd be given the opportunity now. Sylves had asked Anereth to not leave him alone with anyone. He had meant, Esares knew, anyone, because his master's behavior over the past year and a half had made that very clear. For all that he had convinced himself Esares cared about him, he had definite concerns about Esares spilling his secrets – under duress or out of ignorance, or perhaps part of Sylves was actually sensible enough to see that a more likely reason would be if not hatred, then at least spite. Despite his master's omissions on the subject, Esares assumed Anereth could guess at the scope of Sylves' misgivings. Still, it was a reasonable interpretation in the circles of mages and nobles that anyone did not include slaves.

Esares wondered if Anereth had understood Sylves' meaning perfectly, and simply didn't care.

“I'm sure you're even less thrilled about this party than I am,” Anereth said, smiling, “but let's make the best of it, shall we?”

Esares had always found it puzzling how enamored Sylves was with the man, when Anereth clearly did not return his feelings, and frequently sought companionship elsewhere. They had so little in common to begin with, and Anereth drifted from one lover to the next like wind passing through someone's fingers.

Sylves would frown when he saw Anereth kissing someone else in an half-empty hallway, or watched him lean down to someone at a party and whisper in his ear before retreating with the newest target of his affections to a more private location. Still Sylves wanted him, and after years still compared other potential partners to him, all of them falling short. Esares no matter how hard he tried had not been able to understand his infatuation.

Now he thought he could see it. If Sylves to his own people was like the sun, warm and grand and admired by those basking in its light, Anereth to those ensnared by him must be like the moon, cool and unaffected but bright and compelling in its own right. Or like a candle flame, drawing in moths to their own deaths.

Esares glanced away from Anereth's smile. “Yes, my lord.”

“One more thing.” Esares focused his gaze on the mage again, and Anereth continued, “Would you like to eat dinner here?”

Esares sat up straight, staring at the man across from him.

“If I said yes?” he ventured after a moment.

“Well,” Anereth said, “there'd be no need for you to eat dinner there.”

Esares opened his mouth, and closed it again. While not everyone had the inclination or patience to hand-feed their slaves complete meals, he'd never heard of someone giving his slave the opportunity to opt out of it based on the slave's preference. And this wasn't about a private dinner, either.

Carefully, he asked, “Have I displeased you in some way?” And then had to suppress a wince at his own phrasing, because at the top of his head he could think of several ways.

Anereth didn't point out the flaw in his wording, however. “Not at all. This is me showing an interest in what you would prefer.”

“Because I'm 'fragile?'” Esares asked, and when the words were out of his mouth had to suppress another wince. He used to be much better at keeping the bitterness out of his tone.

“Come here,” Anereth said.

Esares rose stiffly, his gut clenching as he obeyed. “My lord--” he began when he stopped next to the mage, but Anereth cut him off.

“Kneel.”

Esares was on the ground instantly.

Anereth cupped his cheek, and he held himself very still.

“I'm asking,” the human said, “because I imagine this is not the most comfortable position to eat dinner in.”

Esares shakily drew in air as Anereth slid his thumb across his cheek, before slowly relaxing into the touch. “I didn't mean to sound ungrateful.”

“You sounded upset, which isn't wholly the same. It's a bad day to be having trouble reining in your tongue, though. I don't mean this as a reprimand, or as a threat, but are you quite certain you can manage to go the entire night without snapping at anyone?”

“Yes,” Esares said, quickly. “Yes, please, I won't disappoint you.”

Anereth regarded him for a while. “I won't do anything to take away your ability to talk if you say no, in case that's what you're worried about. It would be odd to send you to the slave quarters right away, but nowhere as much of an issue as having you speak out of turn in polite company.”

A spell to inhibit his tongue or vocal cords for the duration of the party was exactly what Esares had been worried about. It wasn't an uncommon way to silence a mouthy slave – typically as a punishment, but not always –, or even just to demonstrate oneself capable of performing complex magic on a demon that didn't wear off within minutes. It was considered an admirable show of talent where a gag would have been viewed as gauche, and he'd given Anereth an excuse to try his hand at it when the mage had never needed any.

Hearing Anereth declare himself to have no interest in it let him breathe much easier.

Even so, Anereth thinking him too volatile to keep with him in the presence of anyone more important than a clerk wouldn't be good.

“I won't disappoint you,” he repeated, more firmly. He held Anereth's gaze.

After a moment, Anereth smiled. “All right.” A brief pause. “You can practice your manners on Ksielle, then. Frankly, I don't particularly care if your behavior is less than flawless around her, and neither will she.”

Esares blinked. “She already dislikes me,” he said, hesitantly. “My lord.”

“She dislikes having you around. You'll already be around, though, so there's little you could say or do to make it worse.”

Esares thought this was a phenomenally unhelpful piece of information. He didn't say as much, but he also didn't bother schooling his expression.

Anereth seemed to find it amusing. “Yes, like that. I'm sure she'd barely even notice.”

Esares huffed, and the sound turned into a quiet chuckle, and perhaps it was a notch higher than it should have been. He bent forward and pressed his face to Anereth's thigh.

Anereth barely paused before beginning to slowly comb his fingers through Esares' hair. “It's all right to relax a little. I don't need to be your enemy.”

And the trouble was that Esares almost believed him.

*

In the end, Esares had a small dinner about an hour before Ksielle was due to arrive – salad with bread and oil. He would still receive some food on his knees out of the mage's hand at the party, because that was the kind of thing he would be there for, but it wouldn't need to be much, and at the same time, he'd not have to go hungry if Anereth by the end of the party had other things on his mind than making sure the slave attending him received a full meal.

Though Esares couldn't say he usually had much to complain about in that regard. Sylves was, if nothing else, good about making sure Esares didn't go hungry, provided he wasn't being punished. Sylves never forgot. Well, he had exactly once, because he'd passed out drunk before he'd gotten around to remembering, and then he'd actually apologized for it in the morning. It had been sweet, really – like having someone shove you down the stairs frequently and without remorse, only to then have them turn around to plead forgiveness for stepping on your toes.

Unlike Anereth, though, Sylves wasted no time deliberating how having to eat at his feet like a spoiled lapdog might make Esares feel, and certainly he never let him eat before taking him to attend a social event where food was served. Because Sylves often just fed him an entire meal out of his hand, and because even when he didn't, he liked Esares actually being hungry when taking delicacies from his fingertips. There was also the popular tradition of not letting slaves eat before their masters, lest they forget who was in charge. No doubt Sylves had some concerns about that, even if he didn't always stick to custom the way his father did.

Being with Anereth was different, and Esares was beginning to appreciate that.

He especially appreciated it when he started getting ready for the party, and after putting on the blue brocade outfit with the silver thread as well as the kohl and powder and lip dye, he got annoyed trying to braid the small red flowers into his hair. It had been a while since he'd gone with a similar hair-do, and after twenty minutes he was still far from getting it too look quite right.

When Anereth came into the bathroom to check on him, instead of reprimanding him for taking too long or rolling his eyes and returning to his own preparations, he gave Esares' handiwork an appraising glance and asked, “Should I help you?”

Esares was so surprised it took him a moment to find his voice. “That would be very kind of you,” he said, carefully.

Anereth smiled and led him back to the bedroom, and proceeded to braid the flowers into his hair while sitting behind him on the bed.

Of course it was easier doing it on someone else, but Anereth still proved remarkably adept at the task, and unlike Esares didn't have to start over once, instead making steady progress.

Eventually Esares said, hesitantly but without making much of an attempt to keep the astonishment out of his voice, “You're very good at this.” It wasn't exactly common for human men in Desarias to do much with their hair, though Esares supposed it could be different outside the capital. Anereth was from Enalyr, which was rather a long way off, near the border to the country of Halethion.

“Well,” Anereth said, “I do have two sisters, and a mother who is quite happy to use me as their private entertainment.” The words were spoken lightly, with an undercurrent of fond amusement.

“Oh.” Esares was quiet for a moment. “Would it be too forward of me to ask why you haven't gone to see them, my lord, since it's the holidays?”

“It's not too forward. There's no particular reason, though.” The mage's hands paused in his hair for the briefest instant before he added, “I'm just a little busy.”

“I see,” Esares said, still curious about Anereth's family now that the topic had come up, but unsure whether asking more would be overstepping his bounds.

As he had quickly realized after finding himself under Anereth's power, Esares didn't know much at all about what the mage was like in private, and his knowledge of Anereth's family life was practically non-existent, for all that Sylves had taken him along to the Laverien estate once. He'd already been aware then Anereth had two sisters, one younger and one older – though they hadn't been home when Sylves had visited. Esares also knew they were both mages, and that Sylves liked them, and apparently used to talk with one of them about dogs frequently enough that Anereth to this day made jokes about it.

Anereth's mother was a widow, and as Esares understood it had been for at least as long as Sylves and Anereth had known each other. During Sylves' visist, she'd not acted overly affectionate towards her son, but as the head of a noble house, with a guest around that was to be expected. All Esares really knew about her was that Anereth had inherited a good portion of his looks from her, including the color of his hair, though hers had some black streaks in it; and that she had treated Sylves with the reserved cordiality any guest of a noble house was entitled to, but not like a savior to be revered or treated with special warmth. Sylves had sung her praises the entire three days of their stay.

“Would you tell me about them?” Esares ventured after taking a long moment to gather his courage. He wasn't very worried about Anereth getting seriously angry at him, which was the only reason he asked at all, but he'd still rather not be told to shut up, even if there was a good chance Anereth would word the order more politely.

It was a while before Anereth replied, long enough for Esares' heart to start pounding in his chest. But then he said, “If you want. What would you like to know?”

“What are they like?”

“Terrifying,” Anereth said, without even taking any time to think about it. “Especially Valithia.” A pause. “She once fed my shoes to the neighbor's goat because I refused to show her the spell she wanted.”

Esares gave a surprised little laugh. “Your shoes?”

“My favorite shoes,” Anereth said, and his tone had Esares pressing a hand to his mouth to keep his grin from turning into another giggle.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Esares said, trying for an earnest tone that he missed by a hairbreadth. Then he tensed, because he wasn't certain he was permitted to speak this freely, and he didn't want Anereth to become displeased with him due to what he might perceive as cheek.

“So am I. Alas, Valithia was not. She worried, though, that the goat might get a stomach ache. In the end, we had to invite the neighbor over to tell her the goat did in fact not eat the shoes, but merely chewed them up, and would be just fine.”

Esares managed again to suppress his laughter, though the shaking of his shoulders easily gave him away. “Why does your neighbor have a goat?”

“It's a house goat.”

Esares did laugh out loud, then.

“Her name is Pumpkin,” Anereth said.

“Your neighbor sounds interesting.”

“Oh, he is.” Anereth removed his hands from Esares' hair. “There, all done. If you want to hear more tales of my suffering at the hands of evil sisters, remind me another time.”

Esares turned around to the mage and bowed his head. His mirth was back under control, though he couldn't quite banish the smile from his lips even as he demurely looked up at Anereth from beneath his lashes. “Thank you.”

Anereth smiled back. “You're welcome.” He rose. “I should also be getting ready. I assume you'll manage the rest on your own?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Anereth nodded and went, and there really wasn't much left for Esares to do. He carefully inserted the red and silver pin he'd left lying in the bathroom into his hair between the flowers, and used some more of the rose scented lotion. Then he waited, too anxious to spend the time until Anereth's friend's arrival reading.

Ksielle didn't show up until the sun was already beginning to set. When she did, she looked nothing like she had when Esares first met her. Her dark hair was done up in an artful braid, and though single curly strands were breaking out of their bonds here and there, this seemed deliberate and gave the style a certain personal charm. She wore black and blue kohl around her eyes, and lip paint that was a reddish brown, a shade darker than her skin.

She was clad in a long emerald dress as fine and immaculate as any other noblewoman's, with a matching necklace around her throat, and Esares couldn't imagine a stranger would suspect her of spending her free-time in her house's basement, blowing things up to satisfy a peculiar scholarly interest.

Anereth, meanwhile, looked fairly unremarkable next to her, the color of his hair notwithstanding. Esares had seen him invest more effort in his appearance on other occasions, sometimes even just for class. There was some dark kohl around his eyes, and that was about the extent of his ambition. Certainly, the red and black robe Anereth wore was beautiful and no doubt it had been expensive, but that amount of extravagance was nearly the bare minimum necessary to avoid getting odd looks from other guests.

Well, Esares thought, why bother with elaborate makeup or jewelry or an elegant fan when you had a slave for ornamentation?

Esares carefully did not frown where he knelt on the ground in the middle of the living room, though when Anereth and Ksielle stepped closer and he bowed so low he could be sure they wouldn't be able to see his face, he wrinkled his nose a little.

“I don't know how you stand it,” Ksielle said. “It's so impractical, I get annoyed just watching. Get him off the floor, will you.”

“It's not that impractical,” Anereth said. But then immediately added, “Esares, stand.”

Esares rose, quick but graceful, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“People should just get dogs,” Ksielle said, striding past him and seating herself on the couch.

“I'm quite certain Sylves already has dogs,” Anereth returned, tone vaguely amused.

“Well, then perhaps he should have stuck to them.”

Anereth chuckled and joined his friend on the sofa. “Ah, but if he had, I wouldn't have had the luck to get to know Esares.” Then, clearly directed at Esares, “Come here.”

Esares did, kneeling down again next to Anereth and leaning against the mage's leg when Anereth reached down to run his fingers through his hair. He held still and let himself be petted, trying to pretend he was not the subject of discussion. It wasn't a particularly dangerous line of conversation, and so it really shouldn't have been so difficult to tune out.

He could feel Ksielle's eyes on him as she said, “Yes, that would have been a tragedy.”

“I'm glad you agree.”

“What do you plan to do with him when you inevitably fall into bed with whoever has bad enough taste to play along?”

“My, but we're on a date. How could I possibly?”

“Just don't leave him with me,” Ksielle said.

Anereth laughed. “I would never. Though it would make for an interesting breakup.”

Ksielle snorted. “My cousin would love it. He asked me to watch his slave, and then he went and fucked Malire--”

“Make that anyone else, would you.”

“Oh, but it's rude to make the host jealous.”

“Is that going to be my defense? Yes, I broke her heart, it's true, but you see, I was just trying to be polite.”

“It's perfect,” Ksielle said, very seriously. “We should do it.”

“Only if you get to be the one to fuck Maliren,” Anereth said.

“Breaking your heart in the process?”

“Precisely. I will even throw in some sobbing.” Anereth stopped petting Esares to clutch his heart, and say, rather dramatically, “She just wanted me for my knowledge of obscure theories about the interaction between spells that consume oxygen and Naderian talismans.”

“If you cry all over my cousin's new dress while you're at it, I'll consider it,” Ksielle said. “I can't wait to formally introduce you, by the way.”

“She must be quite horrible.”

“She borrows books from me and then loses them. Once she spilled tea on one.”

“I don't want to have anything to do with her,” Anereth said.

“Too bad. Oh, but if you did break my heart, she would never ask you for a book. She's not disloyal.”

There was a pause. “Well, I suppose if we made it someone other than Maliren...”

Esares didn't think Anereth was being entirely serious, or at least he was fairly sure he would not leave him with Ksielle while he went and fucked anyone. There were the slave quarters, though, and Esares thought he had a good idea now of why exactly Anereth might want to leave him there.

He felt a little uneasy about it, probably because there was always the possibility of a lover of Anereth's taking an interest in him, as well. Looking at it rationally, though, it wasn't something to be too concerned about, since if he was safe anywhere in such an event, it would be the slave quarters, far away from any bed in which Anereth might be made to change his mind.

In the meantime, Esares found himself actually interested in what Anereth and Ksielle would make of their pretend relationship. It was the one aspect of the party aside from the slave quarters he was rather looking forward to, instead of dreading. Or perhaps it wasn't even about their false relationship – Esares appreciated Ksielle's bluntness, her total lack of enthusiasm for discussing him or Sylves in any detail, even as he became more and more convinced he'd do well to stay out of the woman's way.

If she was done comparing him to dogs, he didn't think he would mind spending most of the night listening to her and Anereth's banter.

Chapter Text

Nearly from the moment Maliren greeted Anereth and Ksielle in the entrance hall of his family's estate, Esares could see why Anereth had wanted to avoid the man. Apparently he had not been informed of who it was Ksielle would bring, and was positively delighted to find out. He didn't bother being too subtle about it, either, despite Anereth having come as someone else's date.

Which in itself was perhaps not something everyone would consider a grave character flaw, particularly since Anereth wasn't exactly known for a strong inclination towards long-lasting exclusive relationships, or a romantic interest in women. However, once in a while Maliren looked at Anereth like he made the seasons turn and the flowers bloom, and it was not difficult to envision him breaking into poetic avowals of love. Esares had a hard time imagining anyone not finding that irritating, at least if they didn't return the feelings.

To his mild surprise, Anereth handled his fellow noble's infatuation with perfect grace, acting flattered, even charmed. Had Esares not heard the way he spoke of the man behind his back, he would have believed Anereth welcomed the attention, or at least didn't mind it. The only evidence that something was amiss was the smile lingering on Ksielle's lips throughout the whole interaction, as though she were enjoying a private joke.

Despite Anereth's offhanded comment about Esares' looks being preferable to that of his former lover, Esares didn't think Maliren would be considered unattractive by most, even plain looking. He was tall, with high cheekbones and long blond hair curling at the tips, and a bright dimpled smile that seemed to grace his features more often than not. The pale blue robe he wore emphasized the advantages of his figure. If Anereth truly considered Esares to be 'prettier', then that was probably due to a specific preference, perhaps regarding hair color or height.

Maliren's attire also made it clear he was a mage and not merely a noble. This raised some questions, as seeing him, Esares recognized the man from several social events his master had attended in the past, but not from Sylves' classes. Which meant either Maliren was several years older and studying vastly different material, or he was primarily home-schooled, or he was so quiet and reserved in whatever classes he did share with Sylves that he had simply escaped Esares' notice.

Somehow he doubted the latter was the case.

Wherever Maliren learned his craft, though, what was certain was that he didn't interact with Sylves much, including at social gatherings. Esares had never even heard his name before two days ago, or if he had, he'd not had cause to remember it.

“Oh, what's this?” Maliren asked when he was done relaying, for the third time, how pleased he was to see Anereth and and how much he liked Ksielle's dress. “Which one of you is it who got themself a pretty little slave at last?”

Esares was kneeling two steps behind Anereth and Ksielle, not more to the side of one of them than to that of the other. Now that he'd become the subject of conversation, he kept his eyes carefully on the smooth white marble, no longer attempting to steal subtle glances at any of the mages from beneath the curtain of his hair.

“Neither, actually,” Anereth said, a little hastily – perhaps, probably, his companion had been about to make her opinion known on the idea of her having acquired a slave. Esares had an inkling the mere notion offended her, whatever her problem with demons might be exactly. “I'm taking care of him for a friend.”

“Which friend?”

“Sylves.”

Esares had to suppress a grimace, because he would have preferred no one knew. But of course that had never been feasible – there would be those among the guests who recognized him, and they would mention it, and then everyone would be made aware anyway.

“Sylves?” Maliren sounded taken aback, and intrigued. “Now that you say it, I think I have seen him before. But I thought Sylves barely ever lets his slave out of his sight? I remember everyone talking about it not long ago.”

“Ah,” Anereth said, “he's very fond of Esares to be sure, but responsibilities got in the way. Farelia and Larserez don't allow entrance to slaves, and in Srient Esares would have needed to be branded. Sylves was better off leaving him behind.”

“Of course,” Maliren said in a tone of sudden understanding. “And if he had to arrange for him to stay with someone else, it makes sense he'd ask his best friend. Can I look at him?”

“Certainly,” Anereth agreed easily. “Esares, raise your head.”

Esares did, but kept his eyes demurely lowered.

“No wonder Sylves likes to keep him to himself,” Maliren said. “You don't happen to be interested in sharing him, are you?”

It wasn't an unexpected question, though Esares hadn't been prepared to hear it quite so soon. He kept his expression blank with some effort.

“I'm afraid I can't say I am.” Anereth sounded matter-of-fact, if vaguely apologetic. “I suspect Sylves might disapprove.”

Not having expected Anereth to cite Sylves' feelings as a reason to not let other people sample him, Esares had to keep himself from looking at the man out of the corner of his eye. He would have liked to know whether Anereth really did think Sylves would mind, or was just using the most convenient excuse to avoid offending anyone. Since he himself was quite certain his master would have specified if he didn't want anyone else having sex with Esares, however, he was inclined to believe Anereth would have arrived at a similar conclusion.

“Too bad,” Maliren said, but his tone was only a little disappointed. “It's all right to touch him, though?”

Esares couldn't keep himself from tensing.

“Considering who he belongs to, I plan to tell people no when they ask, or I'll be busy all night letting everyone pet him,” Anereth said. “Since it's you, though...” He trailed off.

“Thanks.” It was obvious Maliren was pleased, and Esares was suddenly completely certain Anereth knew Sylves cared little about who did what with Esares in his absence, but was simply very adept at telling people what they wanted to hear from him – even when he was turning them down.

Ksielle snorted. “If you're going to be busy here for much longer, I think I'll be going on ahead. Please excuse me.”

“Ah,” Maliren said, but Ksielle had already swept past him. When the sound of her footsteps faded, he asked, clearly concerned, “Did I offend her?”

“Oh no,” Anereth said. “Ksielle's like that. I'm sure she just wanted to find her cousin. I believe they've not spoken in a while.”

“That's good, then. If I may ask, how long have the two of you been...” Maliren cleared his throat.

“Not very long,” Anereth said. “Less than a month, actually.” Well, it wasn't strictly a lie, Esarses thought. “You weren't interested in her, were you?”

Maliren laughed. “I wasn't. I didn't think you would be. Not to make assumptions, of course, but I've never seen you make eyes at a pretty woman before.”

“What can I say?” Anereth's voice was light. “I can't resist someone who can quote Mirenze's Theory on the Divine and the Arcane in her sleep.”

“And here I tried to woo you with poetry.”

“Well, it was very nice poetry,” Anereth said, and managed to sound like he actually meant it.

Maliren cleared his throat again. “So.” He turned from Anereth to Esares. “His name is Esares?”

“Yes,” Anereth said.

Maliren stepped forward, and Esares braced himself.

Maliren crouched down and took his chin in hand, tilting it higher. Having little doubt the man wanted to see his eyes, Esares briefly met his gaze, before quickly looking down at the floor again. Maliren ran a hand through his hair, and then, very lightly, a finger over his lower lip.

Esares didn't move.

“He's very well-behaved, isn't he?”

“Oh yes,” Anereth said. “Astoundingly so.”

“So has he managed to change your mind about getting yourself a slave?”

“Not really. I like him, but that's hardly a reason.”

“Come on,” Maliren said. “You'd like another slave, too.”

“Maybe.” However, Anereth's tone made it clear that either he was doubtful of this, or that he did not consider it a sufficient reason to change his mind.

Maliren sighed, absently trailing his fingers along Esares' upper arm. “I don't get it. They're not that much work.”

“I can't say that's my experience,” Anereth said. “Besides, I don't see the point.”

“The point,” Maliren said, “is that they're cute, and very enjoyable. And well.” He grinned. “I can't say I've ever had a human lover with their stamina.”

“My,” Anereth said, “I didn't know you were dissatisfied with my stamina.”

This startled a laugh out of Maliren. It turned a little awkward towards the end. Esares fought to keep his face expressionless.

“Anereth,” Maliren chided, that same laugh still in his voice.

“Ksielle isn't dissatisfied with my stamina.”

“Anereth.”

“Or so I think,” Anereth continued, undeterred. “I should probably ask her. Come on, Esares.”

Rather startled, but relieved to get away from the other human who was still touching his arm, Esares bowed to Maliren, and when the man removed his hand immediately stood and went over to Anereth.

Anereth was smiling at Maliren. “Did you want to come along?”

“You're not actually going to ask her, are you?” Maliren sounded distantly horrified.

“Would I ever do that?”

“Just say yes or no, Anereth.”

Anereth laughed. “But where would be the fun in that?” He gave a little wave and turned, and with Esares at his heel left Maliren standing in the hallway.

When they rounded the first corner, Anereth caught Esares' eyes and gave him a sly smile, an invitation to share the joke. Esares just stared at him, befuddled.

Anereth didn't seem bothered, simply focusing his gaze ahead again.

Esares tried to do the same, unable to tell whether Anereth unsettled him more or his own reactions. He didn't know when just being treated by someone as more than an object or animal had become enough for him to feel comforted – almost as though he had someone on his side. There should have been familiar bitterness steadily bubbling beneath layer upon layer of forced calm and deference, but there was only the faint echo of it, a dull discontentment easy to ignore in the face of the oddity that was this man.

Anereth had let the other mage touch Esares, talk about him like a thing, but... he half believed when it came down to it, there was a sense in which Anereth respected him more than he did Maliren.

Just the possibility of it meant more to Esares than it should.

They passed several servants, but Anereth paid them no heed, and brushed off the ones who stopped to ask if they could help him. Turning down their assistance went against etiquette, but Anereth, as was becoming more and more clear, was not one for etiquette. Probably he knew the building like he did his own family's house, or at least the parts of it that would matter during a public occasion, and some more.

As was customary, the room in which dinner would be served was also the room in which the guests were going to pass the time until then. So far, about a dozen mages and nobles had arrived. They were sitting in small groups on couches and armchairs near the walls. A good distance from all of them in the middle of the room stood a large mahogany table, surrounded by matching chairs with black flat cushions on them. Tableware including wine glasses and cutlery had already been laid out.

Many of the guests had slaves kneeling at their feet, heads either bowed low or resting against their owners' legs, depending on whether they were being ignored or petted. Esares spotted several who had silver and golden chains binding their wrists, but few who wore them around their ankles or were leashed.

Esares would have liked to see if he recognized anyone, but he only allowed himself a few short glances, otherwise fixing his gaze firmly on the light wooden floor.

He followed Anereth to where Ksielle sat alone with another dark haired woman, presumably her cousin. Esares got a proper look only at her heeled shoes and the lower part of her dress. Both were dark blue and gave the impression her outfit was no less luxurious than Ksielle's.

“There you are,” Ksielle said.

“I apologize for the delay.”

“No need,” Ksielle returned, with no sign of her earlier impatience. “It gave us some time to catch up. Rylera, this is the Lord Anereth Laverien, my companion for tonight, and hopefully many more like it. Anereth, this is the Lady Rylera Balevares, my cousin and dear friend.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” Anereth said. “I've heard quite a lot about you from Ksielle.”

Rylera rose from the couch both women were seated on. “I can't say she's been as forthcoming with tales of you with me, but I'm pleased to make your acquaintance nonetheless. Did Tiliera ever mention me?”

“Oh yes,” Anereth said. “You graduated the same year, didn't you?”

“Yes. We weren't close, but I was still sad she didn't stay here in Nuvaria. I think she could have gotten an apprenticeship at the school.”

“I'm afraid my sister never quite took to the capital. She seems to be doing well in Oleren, though.”

“Still,” Rylera said. “Perhaps if she'd given it more than a year, this city might have grown on her, don't you think? I'm sure Oleren is perfect for researching curses and enchantments, but it's so...”

“Remote?” Ksielle suggested.

“Yes! I wouldn't be able to stand it.” Rylera stopped, and added hastily, “Of course there's nothing wrong with it, but it's just so different. Surely you understand?”

“I do,” Anereth said, a smile in his voice. “I also find her choice of residence quite peculiar. Though then, I suppose she thinks the same of mine.”

“Family,” Rylera said with an air of exasperation.

Ksielle snorted, and Rylera sat back down. Anereth seated himself in an armchair across from the two women.

When Esares knelt down next to him, Rylera said, “I'm surprised you brought a slave. Didn't Ksielle give you grief over it?”

Anereth casually smoothed a hand over Esares' hair. “Only a little.”

“You'd think she'd have gotten used to them considering it's been ten years since she came to the capital, but I guess when you spend all day burying yourself in books, you might fail to notice you're no longer in some small border town.”

“I'm sorry,” Ksielle said, “that I maintain people should make up their minds about whether demons are our enemies or pets, or else we might as well go to war with kittens.”

“It's called domestication, cousin.”

“You mean like when our ancestors went to war with wolves, fought them on and off for centuries, and finally put magic leashes on them?”

“Close enough.”

“Dear gods,” Ksielle said.

Rylera ignored her. “So, I'm really curious. Does she get jealous of him?”

“I'm afraid I can't answer that,” Anereth said. “Or she might get cross with me.”

“I'm already cross with you.”

“Perhaps we should switch to topics of conversation that won't make my girlfriend want to murder me.”

“There are no such topics,” Ksielle said.

Apparently determined to demonstrate that this was not the case, Anereth asked her about her progress with the elemental spells she had been trying to get a hang of.

Ksielle took some time to reply, but once she did, she seemed content to go along with the change of subject. Soon she and Anereth were chatting about how tricky it could be to refamiliarize oneself with an area of magic after neglecting it for a long time in favor of others, and the difficulty of transforming a thing into one whose nature was contrary to it, like water into fire or fire into ice.

Esares had assumed Ksielle was only so quick to relent and have an amiable talk about magic with Anereth because she enjoyed learning new spells and the theory behind them like she did little else, the same way Esares used to be able to talk about magical plants or a compelling piece of literature for hours and not grow tired of it. However, it soon became apparent that Rylera was not nearly so pleased to find herself in a debate about whether it was, in theory, with an unrealistically high number of powerful mages dedicated to the task, possible to change a large lake into a mass of lava.

Her cousin's displeasure did not seem to bother Ksielle, and in fact, she got more and more detailed in her arguments the clearer it became that Rylera would have rather been talking about anything else. Anereth acted like he didn't notice.

Finally, Rylera left in a huff, remarking that the two of them deserved each other and that she would find herself someone more fun to talk to.

Anereth and Ksielle stopped their discussion as soon as she was gone.

“Well, she's not that bad,” Anereth said.

“Not unless you're related to her.”

“Do you really think there's a realistic chance she won't mention me to your parents?”

“A decent one,” Ksielle said, unconcerned. “If she's not aware of your reputation already, someone'll fill her in. Besides, I'm still for that dramatic breakup.”

“I'll think about it.” Anereth sounded amused.

They then resumed talking about magic, though this time it was about which books on the subject they had recently read or heard about that were especially interesting or helpful, or in some cases, full of factual errors.

Anereth mentioned a book he found particularly rich in information about the differences in how various human countries approached magic, and Esares distantly wondered if he might be allowed to read it once he was done with Wondrous Plants of the World, or if anything actually discussing spells continued to be far out of his reach. He didn't think it could hurt to ask, though

After what might have been half an hour, Maliren joined them, addressing Anereth and Ksielle a little awkwardly and appearing relieved when Ksielle invited him to sit with them. She went so far as to apologize for her earlier rudeness, which Maliren quickly assured her wasn't necessary.

“Finally everyone's arrived,” Maliren told them. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” Anereth said.

“There's one guest, though...” Maliren spoke quietly, though Esares didn't think anyone was close enough they could have overheard, except perhaps the occasional servant passing by. “I should talk to him, but to be honest, I don't know how.”

“Why is that?” Ksielle asked.

Maliren's voice dropped even lower. “I don't actually know him. He's transferring here from Thynien.”

“Thynien?” Ksielle sounded surprised, which was understandable. Thynien was the capital of Halethion, one of the three countries directly bordering on Desarias. Relations between Halethion and Desarias weren't bad, but it hadn't always been like that, and from what Esares gathered, there was still definite room for improvement.

“Yes. And not just that, he's supposed to be under the patronage of their royal family. I couldn't not invite him, but now he's sitting there in a corner all by himself and I don't know how to approach him.”

“Their royal family?” Anereth's tone was light – a bit too much so, Esares thought.

“Don't ask me, I'm just repeating what I've heard and that's not much. I've spoken maybe twenty words with him.”

“Then you should change that, shouldn't you?”

“You're not being helpful,” Maliren said, and Esares thought had he been talking to anyone else, he would have sounded annoyed, instead of just unhappy.

“Should I hold your hand?”

A beat of silence. Maliren coughed. “Fine, wish me luck.”

“I have full confidence in your abilities,” Anereth said.

Maliren went, and whatever he finally talked about with this transfer student, he didn't return to inform Anereth and Ksielle of it. After some more conversation about books between the two of them, servants began carrying in silver platters and pitchers with wine and water, and everyone moved to the table.

On his knees between the chairs of Anereth and Ksielle, Esares finally got to look at the other people in the room more closely. He quickly noticed that Rylera had chosen a chair nearly as far away from her cousin and Anereth as possible, though it might have been a coincidence rather than evidence that she was still angry. In total there were perhaps a dozen and a half mages and nobles seated at the table, all dressed in finery.

The majority of them had slaves with them. Their attires also were without exception extravagant, though on average a lot less fabric had been used in their creation. All the slaves had their heads bowed, even as some like Esares cautiously glanced around, perhaps out of curiosity, but more likely to look for familiar faces among the other slaves and because it could never hurt to be aware of one's surroundings.

There appeared to be slightly more male slaves than female ones, which meant there was a good chance most of the guests were male, as well. It was possible there were simply more owners than usual present who had broken with tradition, rendering this estimate false, but from what Esares could see of the clothes of the guests, he thought this rather unlikely.

Esares did spot some slaves he recognized: a tall wiry man with brown hair much shorter than most owners considered fashionable, and a fair-haired woman who always wore a complicated looking braid in the shape of a heart that neatly framed the rest of her hair. Only a little to Esares' left, facing him there was also Nykan, who had delicate features and long chestnut hair, and a beautiful singing voice. He belonged to Belyen, one of Sylves' friends.

There were the servants bringing the food and beverages, dressed in elaborate white and gray fabrics that covered almost every inch of them, and slaves who followed behind them to assist them serving at the table. The table slaves' clothes were more colorful, and left less to imagination – long sleeveless tunics that stopped before they reached the slaves' knees. Aside from the tunics, the only visible things they wore were accessories and makeup. At some parties these slaves would have undergarments beneath the tunics, and at others they wouldn't, and this was a popular topic of debate once the guests got drunk enough, until someone inevitably took it upon themselves to check.

These slaves belonged to the household of the host and the reason they were assisting the guests with trivial matters wasn't that there weren't enough servants to do the same. As the party progressed, mages and nobles who hadn't brought their own slaves or simply wished for some variety would begin to pick from them, and take them to more private areas of the estate.

As always, Esares tried not to think about how it must feel to have to stoically carry plates and pour wine while awaiting this fate, or about how many of the demons kneeling next to their masters and mistresses were expecting the night to end in a fashion that was similar enough. He had always been lucky, when it came to this. There was more often than not some uncertainty when he found himself at big social gatherings, but not enough to inspire terror, or dread.

Dinner consisted of several courses. Anereth fed him a few pieces of yellow and red pepper from the first, and some bread and honey smoked salmon from the second. Esares simply took them and ate, not thinking Anereth expected or wanted him to put any particular sensuality into the act. At first he was a little worried he might have misinterpreted, but Anereth showed no signs of this being the case, and once in a while gave Esares' head a casual pat – not something a person displeased with their slave tended to do.

There were a number of conversations going on around the table, with Anereth and Ksielle largely talking among themselves when they spoke. Esares got the impression Ksielle wanted to be at this party no more than Anereth did.

There were some people very much interested in talking to the two of them despite their evident lack of interest, though.

When one of them managed to pull Ksielle into idle smalltalk, Belyen appeared to take that as his cue. “I was surprised when Sylves said he would have you watch Esares for him.”

“So was I,” Anereth said.

“How is that working out? I didn't think you had much experience with slaves.” It was a statement just short of rude. Some of Sylves' friends did not care very much for Anereth, who was closer to Sylves than any of them probably ever would be despite having broken his heart.

“Oh no,” Anereth said, “I'm just lazy. But if it's for Sylves, I'm willing to put in the necessary effort.”

“Well, I guess Esares wouldn't be difficult to handle.”

“Your slave is?”

“I didn't say that,” Belyen replied, irritably.

Below the table, just in Esares' line of sight, Nykan twitched.

“It seems I misunderstood. My apologies.”

“Anereth is actually quite good with slaves,” Maliren said from farther down the table, perhaps feeling the need to intervene in case Belyen was not prepared to let the matter go. “During the test where everyone's supposed to get information out of a demon who's been ordered not to say anything, he was one of three in his class who succeeded.”

Esares' stomach twisted. He knew what test Maliren was talking about. It was primarily meant as a demonstration of how difficult it could be to force information out of a demon determined not to give it, and the school slaves used for it were all highly motivated to keep silent. When Sylves had participated months ago, like a handful of others in his group he had given up quickly, later going on a rant about how he did not see how it was justified to hurt slaves for doing as they had been told.

To hear that Anereth had not only kept at it, but was one of few who'd actually succeeded in getting the slaves to talk, was deeply disturbing. Esares hadn't thought-- but he should have. Anereth had proven that he was capable of a great many things, if he wanted to be.

“I heard he cheated,” a woman whose voice Esares didn't recognize inserted herself into the conversation.

“Oh?” Belyen was predictably interested in this assertion. “Did you drug the slave?”

“I wouldn't have passed if I had,” Anereth said, tone perfectly cordial.

“Then how did you cheat?”

“I don't know what I did to make you doubt my integrity,” Anereth responded, mournful.

“I don't know why anyone would need to cheat,” a man somewhere near Maliren said. “I've not taken that class yet, but my brother said it's pretty easy if you have half an idea of what you're doing and know some handy spells. They're just demons. I think the problem is that most people are too soft on them.”

“And you think that's a bad thing?” The woman from before. “They are told not to give up the information, it's not like they're being defiant on purpose. And then if you manage to torture it out of them, they get punished by the professor later. How is that ethical?”

“It's not about being ethical. Sometimes you have t--”

“Perhaps this isn't the best discussion to have over dinner,” Maliren interjected. He sounded somewhat hesitant.

“You were the one who brought it up. But fine, let's not go too deeply into it. I'm just saying, people spoil their own slaves, and then wonder why they can't pass a simple exam, or why their slaves misbehave.”

The woman snorted. “I'd rather have a slave who misbehaves sometimes than one too terrified to breathe.”

“Yes, Pyreris, and that's why your girl has been caught glowering at people.”

“I'm sure they dropped dead on the spot.” The woman – Pyreris – couldn't have sounded more unconcerned. “I disciplined her for that, like I always do when a slave has earned it, but within reason. You, on the other hand, are well known to overreact. What happened to Myan, by the way?”

It took Esares a moment to recognize the name, but then he suddenly realized who the man arguing in favor of outright torturing slaves was – Felir Owandra, a noble of high rank and decent magical ability, and one of the few people who not only didn't get along with Sylves, but couldn't be bothered to even pretend otherwise. One thing he and Sylves strongly disagreed over was where the line between punishment and cruelty was to be drawn.

There were many people who like Felir expected their slaves' behavior to be impeccable, but even for a mage, Felir was extreme in how he dealt with it when his expectations weren't met. Myan had embarrassed him by asking him to reconsider when Felir had told him to go with friends of his to entertain them privately after a party. Felir had then for weeks offered him to anyone who might be interested, and afterwards no one had seen Myan express anything but eagerness to please ever again.

“He's at home,” Felir said, and now that he knew who he was, hearing him speak sickened Esares. “Probably sleeping soundly. I brought this one because I'm training him for a friend. Much like Anereth, actually.”

“I'm afraid Esares is already trained,” Anereth noted mildly.

“Come on, you can't tell me there aren't any problems. Sylves almost thinks giving a slave a stern look is abusive.”

This mischaracterization, of course, did not sit well with Belyen. “Just because he's not an ass like you--”

“Gentlemen,” Maliren said, a little helplessly.

“There are no problems.” Fingers slid into Esares' hair, and he stiffened. After a moment, Anereth withdrew his hand again. “Unless you count me being terribly easy to distract from things I should be doing that do not involve pretty slaves.”

Maliren laughed, and grasped onto the chance to steer the conversation back into less hostile and controversial territory. “Aren't most of us. Though I suppose it's different in Halethion.”

“Ah,” a man Esares hadn't heard speak before said. His voice was soft. “I suppose it is.”

“Kylerith, was it? Is it true there are no personal slaves in your country?” Pyreris asked.

“There are some towns in the south where they have them, but for the most part, yes.”

“It's so difficult to imagine!”

“Is it?” Kylerith sounded curious, and a little hesitant. “There are cities in Desarias where it's the same, isn't it? Where demons aren't even allowed in at all?”

“Yes, but that's already strange enough, and most of them are a far way off. The capital without personal slaves, though... I can't even picture it.”

“Can't you?” Ksielle joined the conversation. Esares hadn't noticed her extracting herself from her chat about flowers and exotic fruits with the heir of the Ksyron family.

“Try not to follow Ksielle's example,” Reores Ksyron said, good-naturedly. “She's lived here since forever and she's still avoiding slaves like they might bite her.”

“Yes,” Ksielle said, “that's exactly what I'm worried about.”

“Isn't your mother also from Halethion?” Maliren asked.

Esares had assumed he was addressing Ksielle, but it was Anereth who replied, “Ah, yes. She came to Desarias a long time ago, though. I can't say we've ever even been to visit.” A pause. “Is the weather there really that much more pleasant than here? She complains about it to this day.”

The transfer student from Thynien laughed. It sounded somewhat startled. “I don't think I've been here long enough yet to say. Where is your mother from?”

“Glerim. She lived in the capital for a while. Do you like Nuvaria so far?”

“It's a beautiful city.”

“We usually have more pleasant dinner conversation,” Anereth said.

Another laugh, this one definitely startled, and vaguely uncomfortable. “It's just a bit different from home.”

“Don't worry,” Maliren said. “You'll get used to it in no time. Well, not unpleasant topics being debated at the table, hopefully; but personal slaves really are very useful. Have you considered getting one yourself?”

“I've not thought about it.” Kylerith's tone was as uneasy as his laugh had been. “But I plan to go back to Thynien in a year or two, so probably not.”

“Two years is a long time,” Belyen said. “You could always sell them then. I mean, there are school slaves you could rent, or you could just borrow one once in a while, but it's not the same.”

“Or you could just find other things to do,” Ksielle threw in.

“Don't listen to her,” Belyen said. “She thinks anything that doesn't have to do with spells and involves more than a minimal amount of fun is a waste of time. If you do decide to get a slave and need help picking one out, let me know. We could go together.”

“That's,” Kylerith said. And continued, haltingly, “A very generous offer.”

Anereth clucked his tongue. “Belyen, really. He's barely just arrived. Perhaps give it a few weeks before you try to talk him into adopting customs half the scholars in his country frown upon.” And then, to Kylerith, “Don't mind them. Are there any classes you especially look forward to?”

Belyen grumbled under his breath, but didn't object to the change of topic, perhaps having realized he had in fact made Kylerith uncomfortable. Maliren, predictably, also voiced no complaints, and people proceeded to talk about their favorite subjects and teachers, as well as those they loathed the most. About half-way into this exchange, Esares noticed Anereth was showing an unusual amount of interest in what Kylerith had to say, going out of his way to keep him engaged in the conversation.

Kylerith, meanwhile, lost some of his earlier unease as this continued, speaking for longer periods of time, with less tension in his voice and shorter pauses between sentences. He no longer seemed to pick every word with care.

By the time dessert arrived, it was obvious to Esares and probably half the people at their end of the table that Anereth was flirting with Kylerith, who himself appeared perfectly oblivious. Well, Anereth did have a date sitting next to him, who was acting like nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

Which Esares supposed there really wasn't.

Esares meanwhile found himself rather annoyed, because how nice Anereth was having fun after having had the gall to act for days like this party was the worst thing life could inflict on someone. It didn't help that Esares' knees hurt and his legs felt distantly numb, and that Anereth was feeding him blackberries, which he disliked.

His mood improved somewhat when dinner finally ended, and the guests went back to the couches and armchairs, where they proceeded to chat in small to medium-sized groups. Anereth's primary conversational partners remained Ksielle and Kylerith, who Esares thought compared to most their peers weren't so bad, because at least they didn't seem inclined to insist on spending the night talking about Esares like he wasn't there, or on paying him any mind at all. They also didn't bring up slaves other than him.

Esares eventually took the opportunity to sneak looks at Kylerith to have a face to match his voice to. He appeared to be about Anereth's age, with thick brown hair that went just past his shoulders and features as fine-boned as any bed slave's. His skin was the color of raw umber, slightly darker than Ksielle's and bound to stand out in Desarias' capital, though not so much as to be likely to attract impolite glances – at least from anyone unaware of his place of origin.

His discomfort around slaves was probably going to draw much more attention. He caught Esares looking at him once, and instead of angrily frowning at him or commenting on it, he turned his head away so quickly as though he had done something wrong. Esares had barely had the time to freeze. Kylerith did not glance in his direction again.

Since Kylerith clearly found his presence disconcerting and Ksielle had deemed it a 'necessary evil', Esares endeavored to make it easy for them to ignore him. He didn't nuzzle Anereth's hand or thigh as he would have done with Sylves, and he certainly did not half crawl into his lap playing the part of the needy pet, though he'd not really planned on doing that anyway. He just leaned slightly against him and let his eyes fall shut whenever Anereth absently stroked his hair.

Talking with Ksielle and Anereth, Kylerith seemed not overly enthusiastic about discussing abstract magical theory, but happy enough to contribute to arguments about the importance or negligibility of prudence when experimenting with volatile spells, as well as to chats about often trivial differences between Desarian and Halethionan magecraft.

The conversation was as interesting and unoffensive to Esares as he could have hoped. It was also short-lived. As he had expected, people soon began approaching Anereth about him, asking whether they could take a closer look, and in several cases subtly or not so subtly inquiring into whether they might do more than that.

Every time tension coiled in Esares' gut, and every time it drained back out of him when Anereth turned them down, citing the same reasons he had given Maliren: it would take too much time to let everyone who wanted to inspect or pet Esares; Sylves had told him to keep Esares close; yes, this or that request did not technically disallow for the possibility of him still keeping Esares close, and it wasn't that he wasn't intrigued, but Sylves likely wouldn't be happy if people got more intimate with his slave while Anereth was responsible for him than Sylves himself would have permitted.

Most took the rejection gracefully, or at least pretended to.

Not Felir.

“Don't tell me you spoil him as much as Sylves does,” the man said, scornful.

“So what if I did?” Anereth asked, idly twining a finger around a strand of Esares' hair.

“Perhaps you're not so well-informed since you don't keep any yourself, but you're not meant to pamper demons. At best they'll try to walk all over you, at worst they'll turn downright dangerous. They can't think you're afraid to put your foot down.”

“It must be exhausting,” Anereth said, “to feel threatened by slaves.”

“It's not about feeling threatened,” Felir snapped. “It's no different than with other pets. Sylves never shuts up about his dogs, but somehow he refuses to see the obvious similarities. If you never take a bone from your dog and show it that it doesn't get to object, one day you'll walk too close to it while it eats and it will growl.”

“Actually,” Anereth said. He released Esares' hair from his finger. “No, I don't even know where to start. I do hope you own no dogs.”

Felir spluttered in indignation. Anereth casually patted Esares' head.

“Fine,” Felir finally said. “If you're so certain you know better, how about a contest, to see which slave is more obedient?”

Esares wondered if perhaps he should just have asked Anereth to send him to the slave quarters immediately, after all. Or at least immediately following dinner.

“Is he serious?” Anereth asked.

“I think he is.” Surprisingly, it was Kylerith who said this in an exceptionally dry tone.

“Not just the two of us, of course,” Felir went on, undeterred. “Everyone who's brought a slave can participate. It will be fun.”

“Except for people like me and Kylerith,” Ksielle said, “who will be bored out of our minds.”

“I'm sure Maliren could provide a different room for this competition.”

“I can't claim to be terribly interested,” Anereth said.

Felir scoffed. “Well, you're free to duck out, there's no point if you already know you'll lose. I'm going to ask what everyone else thinks of my idea.” He strode off.

Esares cast a reluctant sideways glance towards Anereth, who still didn't seem perturbed, but did look thoughtful.

He hated parties.

Chapter Text

Like a good slave, Esares rarely looked anywhere but the parquet floor and Anereth's legs while Felir strolled from one corner of the room to the next, speaking with the people he passed on the way.

Esares' careful adherence to etiquette did not stop him from being painfully aware of what the man was doing, and of the fact that if more than a handful of people had expressed disinterest in his plans for the night already, Felir would have either given up by now or sat down with some of them to try and convince them first. He was, after all, doing this to show up Anereth, and that wouldn't work if any big number of people refused to get involved in his contest.

Esares had glanced at Felir for long enough when the man had spoken with Anereth to know that the slave he himself had brought wasn't with him, so most likely he had left him with friends or acquaintances somewhere in the room, or with one of the servants. Felir'd hardly have gone and brought him to the slave quarts just for this.

“If he can convince the others, are you going to stay out of it?” Ksielle asked.

Anereth hummed. “It'd make somewhat of a bad impression if everyone else participated, which I'm sure Felir is counting on. I suppose I'll wait and see how it goes.” He rested a hand on Esares' neck, which had gone taut. “I've certainly not changed my mind about not having Esares do anything Sylves might disapprove of.”

Which was a roundabout way of letting Esares know that whatever happened, Anereth was not likely to tell him to let people grope him, or worse. Esares expelled a shaky breath. If it was just going to be things like kissing any of the other mages, or even letting Anereth himself do more than that... he would be able to handle it, somehow.

Esares shifted and leaned his forehead against Anereth's thigh, a gesture of gratitude more genuine than not. The mage's fingers gently stroked his scalp.

“Are contests like that common?” Kylerith asked.

“Not really,” Ksielle said. “Even in Nuvaria, people don't usually get that inane.”

“Sometimes at parties like this the guests play games where their slaves have to fulfill certain tasks,” Anereth added. “But it's mostly done for fun.”

“When the guests are much more intoxicated and easily amused than they presently are.”

“Ah,” Kylerith said, and Esares suspected he had trouble picturing it.

Esares envied him for that. Sylves only once in a blue moon joined the kinds of games being described, and when he did, the orders given to the slaves were rarely more damaging than hopping across the room on one foot. There were more repugnant versions of this pastime, though, and for all that Sylves had no interest in participating in those, he had little problem watching, consistently keeping his hands on Esares as he did.

Esares fervently hoped Felir's idea would be shot down.

Of course it wasn't. No more than half an hour could have passed when Maliren came to inform them of this, and to try and cajole Anereth into joining the contest. He also attempted to get Ksielle and Kylerith to come along as spectators, brightly informing them that most of the other guests who hadn't brought slaves and all of those who had but didn't feel like participating would do the same. Ksielle's response was predictable and decisive, and Kylerith, perhaps encouraged by this, gave a firm refusal of his own. Maliren accepted their decisions readily enough, but proved more persistent with Anereth.

Finally Anereth consented to at least participate in the planning, saying he would think about it while he did. Esares hated the prolonged uncertainty this decision entailed for him, but told himself that at least it was better than outright agreement.

The slaves who were expected to prove their obedience weren't meant to be present for the discussions that would determine the specifics of the contest, and Esares remained with Ksielle, who didn't say anything but, “Naturally,” when Anereth asked this favor of her, but apparently wore an expression that made Maliren apologize to her three times before they left. As anxious as he felt, Esares was almost tempted to sneak a look.

Once Maliren and Anereth had along with most of the other guests retreated to another room to discuss, Esares risked raising his eyes and looking around again, this time at some length, and with less subtlety than he would usually have employed. Ksielle might notice, but according to Anereth, that wouldn't matter much. There was also Kylerith, but Esares' impression was that anything to do with personal slaves made him so uneasy he preferred to pay less than no attention to them. Even if he did notice, and did realize it was unacceptable behavior, the probability of him actually doing anything about it was so low Esares was willing to take the chance.

The other slaves whose owners had left them behind were all kneeling to the left of the door Maliren and the others had disappeared through, with two of the servants having been assigned to watch them. Only three more guests were left in the room, one of whom was Ksielle's cousin. She sat half the room's distance apart from them with another woman, who unlike Rylera had a slave kneeling beside her.

There was also a man, dressed in gray and red silk – he was not as far from where Esares knelt as Rylera and her companion, but definitely not within hearing range of Ksielle and Kylerith, or Esares himself. His clothing, a formal shirt and pants, suggested he was a noble, but not a mage. He held a half-empty glass of wine in hand, and his eyes were on the slave refilling it.

When the slave made to step away, the noble's hand brushed his ass, almost as though by accident. The slave immediately froze.

The noble turned his head in the direction of Ksielle's cousin, then in that of Ksielle and Kylerith. Esares reflexively lowered his eyes, then immediately regretted it, though probably it made no difference.

Having assured himself no one was watching, the noble returned his hand to the slave's ass, where this time it lingered, and then squeezed. Another furtive glance. This time Esares didn't look away, but the human's hand remained where it was. Esares didn't know for sure whether the noble hadn't noticed Esares' eyes on him, or simply didn't care, but suspected the latter. It wasn't like he was doing anything that could get him into actual trouble. His behavior would be considered vulgar, since it might disturb the other guests, but other than that, he wasn't doing anything wrong by the humans' standards.

The slave being molested kept himself still as a statue. He could have stepped away, and most likely the noble would not have wanted to cause a scene, but there was nothing stopping the human from complaining about the table slave to Maliren later then, or worse, taking him into an empty room once the party neared its end and making him pay himself.

The noble's hand slipped below the table slave's tunic, and Esares returned his gaze to the ground and tried to pretend there wasn't one of his people being violated mere steps from him.

Less than fifteen minutes later, the noble had the slave next to him on the couch, a blanket draped over both of them, and there was no doubt what was going on beneath it, even though it was mercifully impossible to track the movements of the noble's hand through the thick fabric.

Another ten or fifteen minutes, and when Ksielle's cousin and her conversational partner left the room, presumably to join the rest of the group after all or to have some alone time, the noble clad in gray and red followed suit. Unlike Rylera's company, the reason he approached one of the servants at the door was not to leave the demon following behind him in his care.

The noble left with the table slave at his heel. Though it was highly irregular to do so this early in the night, all that was required for someone to legitimately use a table slave in someone else's house was to inform one of the household's servants beforehand, or of course to let the host know directly.

The expressions of the other table slaves standing about were all carefully blank.

Ksielle, meanwhile, wore a frown when Esares darted a glance at her face. And despite her blatant dislike of him, he thought out of all the humans in attendance save Anereth and perhaps Kylerith, he really found her the least unpleasant.

This impression deepened when some time later when he was no longer feeling sick, but merely queasy, both Ksielle and Kylerith proved kinder than expected when a servant offered them snacks and sweetened juice from a silver plate. They accepted the juice, and after the servant placed two delicate glasses on the small tables next to the couch and armchair, Kylerith said, hesitantly, “Isn't it possible Esares is also thirsty?”

Esares startled. He had assumed Kylerith, rather like Ksielle, preferred to act as though he wasn't present.

Ksielle huffed. “If so, it's Anereth's fault.” But then she actually tapped Esares' shoulder, and after a moment of being too surprised and uncertain to move, he raised his eyes to her chin. “Do you also want juice?”

Esares quashed the nervous impulse to gnaw at his lower lip. He had some doubts, 'If it would please you' was an answer Ksielle would appreciate.

He said instead, cautiously, “I would be grateful, ma'am.”

Because he'd not had anything to drink for hours, and there was no telling when he'd have another opportunity to rectify this if Anereth decided to join Felir's game, or even just to stick around to observe. And because perhaps it would wipe the taste of bile from his throat.

Ksielle let the servant give her another glass, which she held out to Esares as soon as the woman left. “I hope you weren't expecting me to feed it to you.”

Esares barely hesitated before accepting. “Thank you, ma'am.” He lowered his gaze.

Only when he took the glass into his hands did he realize they were shaking.

He brought the juice up to his lips and drank, hoping the humans wouldn't notice.

It was a vain hope.

“What's wrong?” Kylerith asked, and he actually sounded concerned in addition to alarmed.

Ksielle was glaring down at Esares. “Yes, what's wrong?”

Esares hunched his shoulders and didn't reply. There was no good answer. It was only fortunate none of the other guests were around to pick up on his lack of composure; not that he thought Anereth would be happy about Kylerith in particular bearing witness to Esares' failure to control himself.

“I'm going to kill Anereth,” Ksielle said.

Esares managed not to wince. He would have preferred Anereth didn't find out about his slip-up from someone furious about it – or at all, but that would have been an unrealistic outcome to keep his fingers crossed for.

“You think he's responsible?”

“He's responsible for me having to deal with this.”

Normally Esares would have waited to speak until one of the humans addressed him again, but technically he had been asked a direct question, and Ksielle was glowering at him as though trying to will a frustrating problem out of existence. “I'm fine, ma'am,” he said. “Sir. I'm sorry for causing you trouble.”

“It's not trouble,” Kylerith said without missing a beat. Esares blinked at him, and Kylerith flushed.

Esares lowered his eyes and pretended not to notice.

“It's not trouble caused by anyone but Anereth,” Ksielle corrected, irritation coloring every word.

Esares bit back another apology.

There was a short silence, during which Ksielle continued glaring at him. “Just drink your juice,” she finally told him. “And tell us if you need anything.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, relieved she hadn't pressed for an explanation.

Soon the humans went back to talking about spells and classes – some of the very few topics that seemed to interest Ksielle –, and Esares was glad to be left alone again, though he couldn't say he particularly disliked attention from the two of them. Not that he appreciated Ksielle snapping at and complaining about him, but the way she did it made him less uneasy than anyone else cooing over him, and Kylerith apparently was so unused to being around demons his first instinct was to treat Esares much like anyone else, which was... bound not to last long, but refreshing in the meantime. If Esares had the choice, however, his first preference was to be ignored.

Even though he did enjoy the juice.

The longer Anereth remained gone, the more likely it became he had decided to go along with Felir's idea. Esares wished he had asked Anereth to send him to the slave quarters as early as possible when he'd had the chance, or at least subtly gotten his attention after Felir shared his plan so Anereth would have taken him outside for a moment as he had said he would. Esares could have told him then that there were relatively harmless things he might not be able to bring himself to do, like kissing another slave for the humans' amusement; and that even if he managed to make himself obey especially unpleasant orders for the sake of not embarrassing Anereth, he couldn't promise to appear unfazed as he did, or happy.

When one of the guests who'd left with Anereth came in together with a pale-haired female servant and they led away one of the slaves waiting near the door, Esares' gut churned, and when another owner appeared roughly twenty minutes later with the same servant to collect her slave, Esares' already barely existent optimism plummeted fast.

This time the servant took little more than ten minutes to show up again and did so by herself, taking with her a light haired slave who got to his feet so quickly as though the floor had caught fire beneath him. Esares thought he might be the demon who had been with Felir, but wasn't sure. The next time the servant returned, she was accompanied by a tall woman with long brown hair Esares after a moment recognized as Pyreris.

Seeing Felir had managed to rope her in, Esares mostly gave up hope the man'd had less success with Anereth.

His heart still leapt into his throat when after one more repetition of this pattern, Anereth actually came to get him, the servant who'd tagged along to fetch the other slaves at the mage's side.

“Thank you for watching him,” Anereth said.

Ksielle snorted. “Don't think we're not going to have a chat about this. I don't remember volunteering. In fact, I remember the opposite.”

“I'm terribly sorry. Towards you as well, Kylerith. I hope we can continue talking later.”

“Of course,” Kylerith said, but his voice sounded somewhat clipped. It might have concerned Esares if he'd not had more immediate problems on his mind.

Anereth looked down at him. “Come on.”

Esares briefly bowed to Kylerith and Ksielle and got up, and concentrated on walking like someone whose legs didn't feel like jelly.

He thought they might give in when the humans stopped in front of a dark wooden door a little further down the hall, and Anereth took out a blindfold.

“It's all right,” Anereth said. “Hold still.” He stepped behind Esares and fastened the dense purple fabric over his eyes.

Esares stood rigid.

Anereth came back around to his front. He was gentle when he brushed back Esares' hair, but Esares had to fight not to shake off his hand.

“I won't punish you if you do badly,” Anereth said. “But try to have a little faith.”

Esares did not, generally, think it was wise to extend any trust to a human. He knew a number of them meant well, but he also knew how worthless the good intentions of someone who saw you as too far beneath him to be considered a person were. Had Sylves asked him to have faith in him, it would have done exactly nothing to slow the hammering of his heart, to make him feel less like he wanted to bolt, because the implied promise not to let Esares come to any harm would have hinged on Sylves' definition of the word.

He didn't fully trust Anereth, either. He wouldn't be shocked if the man yet proved himself no better than Sylves, in his own way. He certainly had a greater capacity for calculated cruelty. But... Esares trusted him, mostly, to not gravely hurt him by accident. Without intending to.

Anereth took his hand, and Esares' fist slowly uncurled in his grip. Backing out of this contest would have been embarrassing for the mage, but Esares didn't see why it should matter enough to Anereth to want to lull him into a false sense of security and then do something terrible to him, or let someone else do something terrible to him. The whole reason Felir had started this was that Anereth had kept Esares from being treated like an especially rare beast in a menagerie, or a table slave.

“May I, my lord?” the servant asked, quietly.

“Certainly.”

Esares flinched when there were suddenly hands on his face. Then he realized the servant was checking the blindfold. He took a breath and didn't move, understanding that the woman was harmless, and that her function was to make sure none of the participants would be able to cheat. Still, he couldn't help clinging to Anereth's hand a little more tightly, hoping that this was all the touching by a stranger that would be involved in this contest, but rather doubting it.

The servant stepped away, apparently not having found fault with the way the blindfold had been tied. Esares would have been surprised if she had, considering he was able to see nothing but black and didn't feel the cloth shift even slightly when he moved his head.

He heard the servant open the door, and Anereth led him through. Esares carefully put one foot in front of the other, a part of him he had no control over expecting to walk into something or stumble over an obstacle and fall, even as the rest of him was quite certain Anereth would neither want that nor let it happen out of carelessness.

“Stay,” Anereth said once the door shut closed behind them, and let go of his hand. Esares suppressed an irrational impulse to lurch forward and try to hold on to him.

He heard Anereth walk away, his unhurried steps echoing off the walls. Lighter, quicker steps followed – the servant getting out of the way of whatever was going to happen.

It was an uncomfortable, vulnerable feeling to know there were over a dozen humans in the room with him, watching him, but to not be able to see them or even guess at where they stood or were seated. Someone could be gawking at him from three paces away and he wouldn't be able to tell.

It was also unsettling to not know what the room he was in even looked like. Originally this was a concern at the back of his mind, not as pressing as not knowing from where he was being watched or what might be required of him. However, it became a more acute worry when Anereth, from somewhere far away in the direction Esares was facing, told him to, “Walk forward until I tell you otherwise.”

Esares took a hesitant step, and then another. He forced his arms to stay loose at his sides instead of extending them to make sure there was nothing but air in his way. Probably Anereth would not let him walk into anything. If he did, probably that would have been his intention. Discovering there was something blocking his path would not change the order Esares had been given.

He made himself walk faster, less haltingly, though he couldn't entirely suppress the instinct towards caution. He stopped, for an instant, when he stepped from hard and unyielding ground onto something more reminiscent of brittle wood. It was a tilted surface, and, as he quickly realized as he proceeded, led upwards, like a ramp. It went higher and higher, and Esares could sense definite traces of magic in it.

His steps slowed, but didn't cease. He didn't think the wood was actually brittle. And most likely the ramp wasn't so narrow a wrong step to the left or right would result in broken bones. He told himself the magic in the thing was more likely to stem from safety measures than to cause it to fall apart on the mages' whim.

Finally the ground beneath his feet was even again, but it was a small relief. He didn't know how high up he was, and he didn't think he would have liked to take the blindfold off right then to find out – unless it would have remained off. A few seconds after he thought this, he changed his mind, when he realized that now there were empty spaces in the wood he treaded on, at first small ones, then ones big enough he wasn't sure he wouldn't be able to fall through if he made a mistake. He would have really liked to take a look and make a more well-informed estimate, then.

He picked his way across slowly, carefully, and as this became more difficult decided most humans wouldn't have been able to keep their balance and get to the other side unscathed. He felt unsteady, like he would misstep and fall at any moment, and his ears were filled with the sound of his own frantic heartbeat; but it was just fear, not terror, and he repeated to himself that nothing bad could come from this. Either – and this wasn't very unlikely – Anereth had been sincere in reassuring him, in which case there was nothing to be frightened of. Or he hadn't been, in which case this would result in Esares learning that he had gravely underestimated the man's ruthlessness, and it would be better to find that out now than later, even if the price were a few days of pain.

He didn't know what to do, though, when at last an empty space in the wood did not seem to connect to anything at all. He felt around with his foot for where the gap ended, but found nothing.

Stomach tightening, he took a step back, and another. Was he supposed to leap?

“I didn't say jump,” Anereth's voice drifted up to him, far-away but clear. “Walk.”

Esares stepped forward again, and swallowed. He tried finding something to walk onto again, but was unsurprised when he found nothing. Walk. Esares could manage 'a little' faith in Anereth's interest in his continued well-being. He wasn't sure 'a little' sufficed for this.

But if obeying would result in broken bones, not obeying would result in angering someone who wanted Esares to come out of this with broken bones, and who'd misled him about it. Even so, he wasn't sure that thought alone would have been enough to motivate him, since it was still hard to imagine Anereth doing the opposite of what he'd claimed and punishing him in a manner worse than a fall from this height, whatever this height was.

Instead Esares thought of how careful Anereth had been so far to not hurt him in any way that truly mattered, and had a hard time picturing the mage going to that trouble only to then render all of it moot for the sake of entertainment, or to prove something to someone whose opinion he seemed to barely take seriously. He thought of the woman – Pyreris – whose views on hurting slaves for no reason seemed similar to Sylves' and who evidently also had her slave participating. And there was Belyen, who might not be entirely in agreement with Sylves or Pyreris, but who also wasn't senselessly cruel. Whether or not he intended to have his own slave compete, Esares was almost sure he would have returned to the dining room early on in disgust were grievous injuries par of the course with this contest.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward, not allowing himself to pause, to think about it any further. He went over the structure's edge in one swift movement, and fell.

The air got stuck in his lungs as he rushed downward. He couldn't exhale any more than he could cry out in surprise or fear. He had half-expected to land on solid ground almost immediately, and his heart seized up in terror when he didn't.

Then suddenly he was lying on his back, the surface beneath him soft and uneven, and he could breathe again. He knew, within seconds, that he would be hard-pressed to detect scrapes or bruises on himself, let alone a broken bone. Whatever he had landed on would have cushioned the fall enough that he might have gotten away with sprains and other minor injuries, but it hadn't even come to that, because there had been no impact. Like the high up structure he'd treaded on, the soft material beneath him was drenched in magic.

He sat up, shaky and able to feel the rapid throbbing of his own pulse against the inside of his skin, but unhurt.

Steps came towards him, and he held himself very still.

“Well done,” Anereth said, his voice too neutral to fit the situation.

Esares leaned forward and bowed gracelessly, not trusting himself to speak.

Anereth gripped his jaw with one hand and removed the blindfold with the other. Esares blinked against the brightness, trying to keep his gaze directed downward at the same time.

“Not that much of a disaster, was he?” a woman asked from some distance away.

“I guess he did better than I would have expected.” Felir's voice, sullen and reluctant.

“As I said, he's already trained.” Anereth's tone was light. He gestured for Esares to move off the odd fluffy surface that had stopped his fall.

Esares carefully crawled down onto white marble. He thought if he tried to stand he would end up flat on his face, and had to swallow down rising bile.

At least he could almost keep his eyes open for five seconds again without blinking rapidly.

“That may be true, but clearly you can't have done much wrong since getting him.” The woman again. Esares realized it was Pyreris.

“Thank you. Your girl also did quite well. Nynel, was it?”

“Yes. Despite what some people believe, she's perfectly sweet.”

“When she's not glaring at people,” Felir said.

“That was once half a year ago.”

Footsteps coming towards them. Esares recognized Maliren's light blue robe when it entered his view. “Now, now,” the man said when he'd reached them. “This is a friendly competition, remember? And none of you has cause to be dissatisfied so far, I believe.”

The light no longer hurting his eyes, Esares took the opportunity to steal a look at the wooden construction he'd jumped down from. It made for a less daunting sight than he had imagined.

It stretched from somewhere towards the middle of the long narrow room to perhaps fifteen paces from its end, and Esares doubted he would have been able to fall through any gaps in it. All things considered, it also wasn't that high up – the ceiling was several feet further from the floor in this room than in the hallways or dining room, and Esares must have walked just below it, but that was still closer to the ground than he had imagined. He might have broken a leg or both had he landed on solid ground, but probably not more than that excepting the possibility of an extremely unfortunate landing.

He wondered if one of the spells worked into the wood was an illusion meant to make the entire venture feel more dangerous – the ground further away, the size of the gaps in the material bigger. Such magic that relied on emotions rather than sight was complex, but with so many well-learned mages involved, it was a possibility. Going by the power coursing through every inch of the wood so clearly even Esares' dulled senses had no trouble picking up on it, the entire thing might have been created from magic.

Esares fixed his gaze on the ground again just as Felir snorted and said, “I don't know, I thought this one hesitated pretty long,”

“And yours didn't?” Pyreris asked.

“Not that long. And he's not mine.”

“Esares doesn't belong to Anereth, either,” Pyreris said.

“The difference,” Felir told her, “is that I don't claim the slave I brought is done being trained.”

“Yes,” Anereth said, “I am sure Sylves desperately needs a slave who will jump from high places blindfolded without a second's hesitation.”

“How can you so completely miss the poi--”

“Why don't we just continue?” Maliren interjected loudly. “Anereth, get Esares off to the side, would you? I'll ask Symna to fetch the next one.” Increasing the volume of his tone further, he added, “Velnia, how about yours?”

“Why not,” responded a feminine voice from what was at the very least fifteen steps away.

Esares cast a covert glance past Anereth to where the woman who'd spoken and roughly a dozen other humans were sitting in dark red armchairs somewhere towards the middle of the room. A few had slaves kneeling next to them on the floor, most didn't. There were also two demons positioned in front of empty seats with their eyes firmly on the ground – from context, Esares gathered they were those of Pyreris and Felir, though he'd not looked at them too closely before. He did think the slave who had the misfortune of being at the mercy of Felir was the one the servant had brought in on her own before, however.

Pyreris' slave was lean and long-limbed, a woman with dark short hair and a certain self-assuredness about her. Her head was bowed just low enough to be proper, and her posture, though well within the realm of the acceptable, fell short of impeccable in a way that matched less with an innocent oversight and more with a deliberate refusal to bend her arms any further than just this.

Felir's slave – or the slave he was instructing for a friend – was nothing like her. Their frames might have been similar enough, but that was about the extent of the similarities between them. His hair was pale and went past his shoulders, and he seemed to be making himself as small as possible. It was hard to tell at just a glance, but Esares thought he was trembling faintly.

Esares focused on the space between Anereth's shoes again.

He did not think he could walk. He did not think he should try. He was feeling lightheaded and queasy and perhaps he should not have had that juice.

“Come on,” Anereth said.

Esares opened his mouth – to stall, to apologize, to beg to be given a moment longer to recover. Instead he threw up on the pristine marble, missing Anereth's boots by the width of a finger.

There were some gasps, but most people in the room made no sound at all, and no one said anything for a long while.

Esares himself only stared, too mortified to plead forgiveness.

“That is disgusting,” Felir finally declared. Behind him where most of the other humans were seated, a few murmured what Esares was sure was their assent.

He clenched his fists, the taste in his mouth making him feel sick all over again.

“My apologies,” Anereth said – contrition in his tone, but not the utter embarrassment that would have colored Sylves' in the same situation. He might have sounded the same had he misremembered the name of someone's distant relative. “I fear I was a little thoughtless agreeing to participate. Esares is quite sensitive, and he's already having a hard time being separated from his master.”

Under different circumstances, Esares might have found that claim funny. As it was, it only made him shudder.

“Poor thing,” Pyreris said. “Maliren, how about you tell Symna to get someone to clean this up?”

“Yes, of course,” Maliren returned, and hastened to do just that.

“And perhaps we should take a break,” Pyreris continued. “Obviously Anereth will have to see to him.”

“No need,” Anereth said. “As enjoyable as this has been, the sensible thing for me to do is clearly to miss out on the rest. I'll make sure Esares is feeling better, and then I'll rejoin the others. Ksielle is probably already annoyed with me, anyway.”

“If you're sure,” Pyreris said, reluctant.

“You wouldn't be having this problem if he weren't so pampered.” Felir's voice was filled with disdain.

This, apparently, was too much for Pyreris. “Oh, would you stop it,” she snapped. “First our slaves are rebellious because we don't terrorize them enough, then it turns out they're perfectly obedient, and suddenly not being as cruel to them as you'd like makes them soft instead of dangerous. I've had it!”

“It seems to me she has a point,” Anereth said. “In any case, I should get going. Can you stand without throwing up again?”

Esares' entire body had gone tense, but after a long moment he managed to shift his weight slightly, and say, “Yes, my lord.” His voice came out as scratchy as his throat felt. When he tried to tack on an apology, it failed him altogether.

He got to his feet with some effort, and managed not to wince when Anereth grabbed his arm. It wasn't that the touch hurt, but it also wasn't gentle, and Esares wished, desperately, that none of this had happened.

It had, though. Anereth half kept him upright and mostly steady, half dragged him along. He asked a servant to show him to the nearest unoccupied room.

Esares wondered, in a strangely detached sort of way, what would happen when they got there. Was Anereth angry, or just disappointed? It was hard to imagine the man would blame him. Even Sylves wouldn't have, though he might have scolded him a little on principle. But then, it was dangerous to assume Anereth would always be the more understanding out of the two. Esares remembered the conversation about the test the man had passed that Sylves had willingly dropped out of within the quarter of an hour and called cruel, and grimaced.

And even if it was just disappointment... Esares had claimed over and over he would not humiliate Anereth. How was he supposed to look him in the eye after this?

Well, but it had never been his place to do that in the first place, had it?

The servant led them to a room near the building's entrance, small but luxurious. Its purpose was clear even without the petite jar on the nightstand next to an on only slightly bigger pitcher of water. The jar's contents were hidden beneath an ornate lid, but Esares knew it would be either oil or grease within. Under the circumstances, though, he wasn't very worried about Anereth getting tempted, a few glasses of wine or no.

Anereth guided him to the bed and put a hand on his shoulder. Esares took the cue and sat.

Near the door there was a small table with a water bowl and a small stack of kerchiefs. Anereth went over and took one. He dipped it into the water and returned to gently clean Esares' face, seating himself next to him.

Esares closed his eyes. Just disappointed, then.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Don't be sorry.” Anereth dabbed the cloth along his chin and mouth, clearly intent on disturbing the makeup as little as possible. “You did what I asked of you.”

“I didn't meant to shame you.”

“Don't be dramatic, either,” Anereth said.

Esares opened his eyes and looked down at his lap. At least he'd managed to not get his clothes dirty.

Anereth put the kerchief down on the bed. “I miscalculated.” He took Esares' chin between thumb and index finger. “It's not important.”

Esares refused to meet his gaze, and stayed silent.

Anereth sighed and released him. “I see Ksielle is not the only one cross with me.”

Esares stiffened. “I'm not--” He drew a deep breath, turning his head away. “I've humiliated you. I wanted to please you, but I--” His voice cracked.

Anereth reached out and stroked his cheek. “There's nothing you did wrong. Do you think there is? No, don't answer that. You were perfect right up until I pushed too far. I suppose it's a little embarrassing everyone could see I made a mistake, but it's my mistake.”

Esares shook his head, at a loss. In that moment, he almost preferred Sylves' brand of kindness – it might make his skin crawl, but at least he knew what to do with it.

“I had juice, my lord,” he finally said, haltingly. “While you were gone. If I hadn't--”

“Unless you are a particularly skilled seer, I'm certainly not going to blame you for having had something to drink when you were thirsty. I'm rather amazed Ksielle was considerate enough to get you something, though.” Anereth let his hand fall away from Esares' face. “Did you ask her to?” Esares strained to hear chastisement in the question, but the mage only sounded curious.

“No,” he said softly, eyes still directed to the side. “Lord Kylerith did.” As a slave, it would have been proper to use the man's family name, but Esares hadn't caught it.

“Oh? And here I thought he was doing his best to ignore you exist. I wonder what further surprises he has in store.”

Esares didn't really have anything to say to that. Personally, he'd rather not find out. Kylerith seemed all right as far as mages went so far, but that was unlikely to last once he got more used to local customs.

He'd prefer to not witness that change, and how quickly it might commence.

“Don't think I'm faulting you for anything,” Anereth said. “You did better than most of the others, and I think Felir found that quite vexing.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “He expected you to refuse me.” A pause. “I wasn't sure what you'd do.”

Esares swallowed. “Then why did you have me participate?”

Anereth shrugged. “Whatever the result, it would have been difficult for it to look worse than me not joining them. Belyen actually took me aside and insisted I defend Sylves' honor.” An eye roll, then a pause. “And I suppose I was curious.”

Esares shot the mage a sidelong glance. “Whether I would disobey you?”

Anereth smiled. “It makes me sound so callous when you put it like that.” He tucked a strand of Esares' hair back behind his ear. “But yes.”

Esares bit his lip, trying to push down the resentment.

“How are you feeling?” Anereth asked.

“I'm all right, my lord.” Esares hesitated, and added, “Could I have some water?”

“Of course.” Anereth stood and moved to the other side of the bed to pour him a small glass.

“Thank you,” Esares murmured when the mage handed it to him. He was not surprised Anereth had gotten up to fetch it for him, but it still felt strange. Sylves, too, could be generous, but Anereth was being nice to him almost as a matter of course, to the point where Esares was beginning to simply expect it, in situations where he had no prior experiences with the man he could glean said expectations from.

It unnerved him.

Esares drank slowly, afraid of making himself sick again although his stomach appeared to have settled. The cool water soothed his throat, and washed away most of the foul taste of vomit that had lingered on his tongue.

“I was thinking now would be a good time to take you to the slave quarters,” Anereth said. “Though if you're too unwell to stay there comfortably, tell me.”

“No, I-- that wouldn't be a problem, my lord, but--” Esares broke off, unable to think of a way to put his thoughts into words that would not come off as presumptuous, or pitiful.

“Yes?”

Esares stared down at the drained glass. “I just-- I know this is not something I can make up for, my lord, but I'd still...” He dug his free hand into the sheets, frustrated with his inability to phrase this. “I'd still like to try. If you kept me by your side for some time longer, I--”

“There's nothing to make up for,” Anereth said. “You've done nothing that reflects badly on me. On Sylves, perhaps, but I doubt anyone but Felir would think so. Even if there was a genuine issue, what is your fault supposed to be – doing as I told you? Having had some juice?”

Esares had no answer to that. He knew he hadn't done anything he could reasonably be blamed for, and it was fortunate that Anereth agreed with this assessment. It did not change the fact that he had done about the least attractive thing he could have, with most of the party guests as witnesses.

He kept his eyes on the glass. Anereth looked down at his bowed head for a long moment, then reached out to grasp his jaw.

A moment later, Esares almost flinched back in surprise when soft lips pressed against his forehead, the contact light and brief.

“You've not displeased me,” Anereth said, still close enough that Esares felt the warmth of his breath on his skin. “I can't say I regret having an excuse to extract myself from Felir's idea of fun. It's not how I'd like to spend my night.” He tilted up Esares' chin, and Esares, feelings slightly off-balance, met his gaze. “Let me take you to the slave quarters. Chat with someone, have a nap. Try to enjoy yourself. I don't think we'll leave early.”

Esares realized his heart was racing. He almost feared if he spoke, the words would end up a croaky whisper, but his voice only came out a little quiet when he said, “Yes, my lord.”

Anereth smiled and stroked his head, and Esares, shocking himself with his own boldness, leaned forward and buried his face in Anereth's chest.

Anereth's hand stilled, and Esares tensed beneath it, well aware he was moving on shaky ground, even if Anereth had given him leave to initiate some physical contact.

But then Anereth simply began sliding his fingers through Esares' hair where no ornaments were in the way, placing his other hand lightly between the demon's shoulder blades.

With Esares still holding the empty glass, the position could have been more comfortable, but it hardly mattered. He breathed in the scent of Anereth's robe, sweet and slightly spicy, a subtle perfume barely noticeable from a distance. Anereth still liked him – well enough to comfort him, almost fuss over him. And there were... well, there were strings attached, but Esares thought it might be nice to belong to him. Nicer. Something else than this miserable shadow of an existence.

He closed his eyes and tried not to think.

*

Before bringing him to the slave quarters, Anereth let him use the bathroom. While the mage waited outside, Esares took the opportunity to thoroughly rinse his mouth, and to wash his face properly along with the ends of his hair. While he wasn't sure the latter was necessary, he still felt disgusting.

Cleaning his face, Esares took care not to smear the kohl, but ended up mostly rubbing off the powder. He hoped it wouldn't matter much at this point, and was relieved when Anereth didn't comment.

Esares had half expected to be the only one in the room arranged for the party guests' slaves for a while, but when one of the two servants Anereth had left him with showed him inside, there was already someone there, curled up on one of a number of small couches distributed throughout the room.

Esares slowly stepped closer, not wanting to wake the other demon if they were asleep. Behind him, the door was closed with a soft click.

Even without the rare chance of being alone with others of his kind, the slave quarters were not a bad place to be. Regardless of the household's usual rules and customs, they were always made reasonably comfortable for the slaves of guests. Anything less would be considered rude to their owners, and possibly a sign that the host could not afford to spare the expenses. There were light snacks and water, and comfortable furniture, and servants who ensured nothing was amiss, and that no one bothered slaves they had no claim to.

The servants also were supposed to frequently check in on them and make sure none of the slaves behaved in ways their owners would not approve of, but Esares preferred not to focus on that.

The demon on the couch did have his eyes closed, but just as Esares was about to turn away and sit down somewhere else, he cracked one open. Esares was startled to find that it was red, like blood or wine. He took in the other demon's dark curly hair, his sharp narrow features and wiry frame, the pallor of his skin. He didn't think he needed to ask his clan.

“Who're you?”

Esares shifted, suddenly self-conscious. Was it possible to forget how to talk to someone who was your equal?

It didn't help that he could count the occasions he had chatted with one of the Vaskla on one hand.

“I'm sorry for waking you,” he tried at last, voice a little raspy.

“I've slept all day,” the other slave said and sat up. “There's no loss.” He peered at him. “I don't think I've seen you before.”

“No, I don't think you have,” Esares said, and stopped. He hoped he could avoid the conversation turning to his master, at least for a bit.

The man on the couch grinned. “Yes, I believe I'd remember.” He scooted to the side to make room, and folded his legs under himself. While Esares sat down, a little awkwardly, the Vaskla said, “I'm Lykis.”

“Esares,” he introduced himself. “You've been here all day?”

“Not here,” Lykis said. “My master's friends with the host. Lord Hevilir. He left me here before the other guests began arriving, since my skill set's pretty singular, and looking meek and docile isn't it.” He was grinning again.

Esares had seen Lykis' master a few times before this evening – he wasn't a mage, but a very wealthy noble, and he'd had a slave with him on all of those occasions, but never the same one twice. Esares had not paid him much attention in the dining room or after, but he didn't think he'd had someone attending him this time, which in retrospect was odd. This explained it.

“Singular?” Esares asked, even though he could probably guess.

“The fun kind. Well, for him, but sometimes he lets me bite him, and then I imagine ripping open his jugular and sucking him dry in the way that is fun for me, and that's actually pretty nice.”

Esares blinked. That was... well. Not a coping mechanism he was intimately familiar with, but maybe also not so different from how he'd handled those first weeks with Sylves, when he had told himself that soon enough the man would be dead and his humiliation over.

“Was that too crude?” Lykis asked.

“No, I just-- I don't often talk to other slaves.”

“It was too crude,” Lykis decided. “And stupid. I once had another slave report back to his master about something I said.” He grimaced. “Some humans might have had me killed for it.”

“But not the kind of humans who'd want one of your clan for a bed slave.”

Lykis smiled, a show of sharp fangs. “Just so.”

“Why did the other slave tell on you?”

Lykis shrugged. “Maybe he didn't like me. Maybe he actually bought into the humans' bullshit. He didn't say, but I keep seeing more and more who...” He shook his head. “The ones who were captured young know so little. I can't stand it, how they get into their heads.”

Esares laid a hand on Lykis', who turned his around and intertwined their fingers. It was perhaps one of the worst things about living under the humans' thumb – watching his own people get trapped by their lies and misconceptions, twisted by them. He himself was not what he once had been.

Esares shuddered to think of what would be in fifty years, a hundred years, two hundred. Unless they found a way to turn the tide, the most likely outcome was that his kind would disappear. First their pride, already a shriveled thing, then their beliefs, their traditions, their cultures. And then they themselves, because it was nearly an impossible feat to make a demon carry to term an unwanted pregnancy, and who would want to see their child be raised as a pet for humans to keep?

Esares would never not hate himself for not cutting Sylves' throat when he'd had the chance. Taking his powers would have been the best outcome for his people by far, and it would have ensured Esares' own survival after the deed, but when Sylves had woken, he should have abandoned the original plan. Instead he had overestimated his own abilities, and all of his kind were paying the price for it, even if they didn't know it. He wondered what Lykis would think, if he was aware they would have had a real chance at throwing Desarias into disarray, perhaps even of taking it, if only Esares had been less of an arrogant fool.

“So,” Lykis said, clearly trying for a flippant tone but not entirely succeeding. “Why did your master ditch you?”

“My master isn't currently in the city.” Esares felt a little bad for avoiding going into detail about that, but Sylves was about the last thing he wanted to talk about. “His friend left me here because... well, he was going to anyway, later. But then I got sick, and so here I am a little early.”

“Sick?” Lykis' grip on his hand tightened. “Are you all right now?”

Esares smiled. “Yes. I just...” He sighed. “I didn't make the best impression.”

Lykis frowned. “Did he punish you?”

“No.” Esares hesitated, not sure how he could explain.

“Yell at you?”

“No. He wasn't unkind about it. But I still...” He trailed off.

However, Lykis nodded as though he had finished the sentence. “You still inconvenienced him.”

Esares let out a breath. “Yes.”

“How long are you staying with him?”

“Some more weeks. It's been less than one.”

“Dragons, I think I'd lose my shit if my master went on a weeks long vacation and left me with whoever,” Lykis said. “But I guess it depends. Tesran is very low-maintenance. Just fuck him when he wants to be fucked and the rest of the time he mostly leaves me alone. I assume it's not like that for you.”

Esares laughed, a brittle thing. “No, low-maintenance is not what I would call my master.”

“He's not the clingy sort, is he? They're the worst.” Lykis paused. “After the plain sadists, that is.” His gaze narrowed.

“It's not like that,” Esares said quickly. Lykis looked like he was thinking about killing someone again, and it was a little disconcerting, considering just being caught with that expression on his face could get him whipped.

Lykis' stare lost some of its hardness, but he still looked suspicious. “Who is it?”

When Esares took too long to reply, Lykis' face immediately darkened again. It was understandable. There were some people, like Felir, who were well known for their cruelty, and of course Esares would have reason to be reluctant to divulge his master's name if he were one of them.

He sighed, pulling his hand back. “It's Sylves.”

Lykis stared. “Sylves? As in 'the Chosen One' Sylves?” When Esares didn't say anything, he shook his head. “Are you serious? I wondered what poor sod-- I would go mad being so close to him all the time and not being able to snap his neck.”

You have no idea, Esares thought. And said, “I don't like talking about him.”

“Aw, come on, you can't tease me like that. Is he really that great or do they just want us to believe that? There was a rumor once that he levitated a house--”

“It was a dog house,” Esares said. “And his friends spread the rumor as a prank.”

Lykis gaped at him for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed. “I thought it was an exaggeration, but that's even more ridiculous than I imagined. My master was in awe when he heard.”

“How long have you belonged to him?” Esares asked, hoping to change topics.

“Half a year, give or take. He's boring. Yours, though--” Lykis stopped when Esares made a face. “You really don't like talking about him, do you?”

Esares looked away, and gave a vague shrug.

“Come on, I didn't mean to upset you.” Lykis took hold of his hand again. “We can talk about something else. Or not talk at all. Are you sure you're not still feeling sick?”

“Yes,” Esares said. But he relaxed, and leaned against the other demon. Not talking sounded good, just for a while.

Lykis seemed to understand. He let go of Esares' hand and instead threw an arm around him, resting his cheek against the top of Esares' head.

The tension left Esares in one drawn-out breath, and he didn't move or speak for a long time, letting the warmth of another body wrapped around his own comfort him.

*

The night progressed quickly, too much so for Esares' liking. He spent most of it on that couch with Lykis, holding hands, embracing, just being. When they talked, they kept the topics mostly light. He did learn some more things about the other demon, though: he was only a decade older than Esares, and had been enslaved for three years longer. He'd changed hands frequently in this time, enjoyed by the bored and especially wealthy as an exotic novelty and then discarded.

Lykis' current master had taken a more long-lived liking to him, though, and in over half a year had not once expressed any serious interest in selling him. His master used him for sex more days of the week than not and occasionally gave him to friends for a night or two, but Lykis was fairly all right with this, in so far as one could be all right with being treated as an object for someone else's pleasure. He had his own room, which few bed slaves could say, and no one really cared what he did as long as he wasn't actively rebellious. His master did not expect, or want, him to act sweet and adoring.

It was such a contrast to living with Sylves that Esares had trouble imagining it.

Esares finally recovered enough confidence in his stomach to have a few strawberries and bits of watermelon. Lykis, meanwhile, touched none of the food, and Esares wasn't surprised – Lykis would be able to digest it, but he had never seen one of the Vaskla enjoy what to others would be a regular meal or snack when they were hungering for true sustenance. From how Lykis' gaze sometimes lingered on Esares' wrists, on his throat, before he caught himself and pointedly looked elsewhere, Esares doubted he'd been given any blood in the last twenty-four hours; or if so, then nowhere near enough to sate him.

Esares wondered how many humans whose slaves' dietary needs inconvenienced them, or disgusted them, went out of their way to give them more to eat than the bare minimum to keep them alive and somewhat healthy.

Other slaves were brought in, but Esares found he did not know how to approach them. There was Felir's slave, who huddled in a corner, looking terrified to even be alive. A tall woman with long white hair had entered along with him. She spent all her time talking to him in tones low and soothing, and gently rubbing his back. She acknowledged Esares and Lykis with a nod, but her manner made it clear she sought no interaction with them beyond that – and while Esares would have liked to help, he didn't think doing so was in his power. He worried, even, that part of it might be his fault, because Felir could not stand him, could not stand Sylves, and the way Anereth had handled that would not have improved his mood, even if Esares had given him something to gloat about, in the end.

There was a slave, nervous and wide-eyed, who looked at Lykis as though he expected him to jump up and eat him any moment, and Esares thought if either of them walked over to the man, he might faint from terror. Two women seemed to know each other well, paying attention to no one but each other, hugging, talking, retreating behind the furthermost couch where no one would be able to see what they were doing.

Lykis watched them disappear behind it and turned to Esares. “Can I kiss you?”

Esares wasn't surprised by the question. He only hesitated for a moment before saying, “Yes.”

Lykis slid forwards and pressed their lips together. The kiss started out soft and careful, and turned urgent within seconds.

It had been a long time since Esares kissed someone simply because he wanted to. It was nice, and he wanted it enough that he wasted no time worrying about whether or not he was allowed to. It was unlikely Anereth would flay him over a kiss.

He did not want to think about Anereth.

Lykis trailed more kisses down his throat, fleeting and tender, and Esares leaned back against the couch and closed his eyes. Then Lykis tugged at his shirt, exposing his shoulder, pressing his lips to the crook of his neck, and Esares realized that anything more than this would be too much.

He jerked back and turned away his head. “Sorry.”

Lykis sighed, the volume of the sound exaggerated. “Too bad,” he said. “You're really cute. Oh well.” He pulled away and lay down, placing his head on Esares' thigh. “Tell me about that book with the princess you mentioned?”

Esares smiled, and did, and wondered how long someone like Lykis could survive slavery.

Chapter Text

It was long past midnight when Anereth came for him. Esares carefully untangled himself from Lykis, trying not to make it obvious he was still half-asleep through clumsy movements. He would have slid onto the floor and bowed, but was stopped by Anereth's outstretched hand.

Esares took it with some gratitude.

“My lord,” he murmured as Anereth helped him up, eyes downcast.

He was a little anxious. He didn't think Anereth would mind him having gotten close to another slave, or read anything undue into it. Still, he knew Sylves would have, and he was used to anticipating Sylves' moods.

There was also the fact that he only knew so much about Anereth, and that the human'd had wine, and that Esares had caused him embarrassment earlier.

“How are you feeling?”

“I'm well now, my lord, thank you.”

Anereth smiled. “I'm glad to hear that,” he said. “Ksielle already went home. We really should get going, as well.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Did you want to say goodbye?”

Esares turned his head to follow Anereth's gaze. He would have liked to give a proper farewell to Lykis, but was fairly sure that was not Lykis' preference.

He highly doubted the other demon was truly asleep. The Vaskla were known for sleeping like the dead during daylight hours, but at night it was said there was no person or creature more alert. And that might be an exaggeration, but from what Esares had seen and heard during the rare instances he had interacted with those of their clan, he didn't think it could be much of one.

Lykis had lain down with him, and perhaps the constant state of hunger he was being kept in meant he had indeed still been tired, but even fast asleep it seemed unlikely he should have missed Anereth's approach, let alone Esares extracting himself from their embrace, or the conversation going on right next to him.

That he hadn't sirred, then, near certainly meant he didn't want to have to deal with Anereth. Esares could understand that. Even if it would just be having to kneel before the mage and speak to him with deference if asked any questions, it was a debasement that might never lose its sting.

“No, that's all right,” Esares said. “Thank you.”

But it was strange, Esares thought as he followed Anereth out. He certainly didn't like having to kneel to Anereth, but he also didn't hate it. Not in the way that made him wish he could claw the collar from his skin and rip out the man's throat, or in the way that made him wonder if it wouldn't have been better had Sylves simply killed him that day.

He wasn't sure what to feel about that. He wasn't sure what to feel about Anereth.

It would be better if he could make himself like him, though. Easier.

In the carriage, Esares tentatively leaned against Anereth, and when no reprimand came rested his head on the mage's shoulder. Anereth gently patted his head, and when Esares glanced at him, he was smiling.

Yes, it would be easier – at least until this was over and Sylves returned to get him; but by then, stopping to like Anereth should be easy, as well.

Esares tried not to dwell on that.

He dozed off a few times on the way back to the mage's house, and in the end, Anereth had to wake him a second time when they arrived. Esares apologized for that, contrite.

The corners of Anereth's mouth lifted. “Don't most people find that sort of thing endearing?”

“I'm not sure, my lord,” Esares said, and hesitated. “But you don't strike me as 'most people'.”

Anereth's smile grew. “Ah, but I do find you endearing.”

Esares glanced away, caught off-guard.

Anereth helped him out of the carriage, which was unnecessary but exactly what a favored bed slave could expect, and kept a hand on Esares for most of the way up to the bedroom. Esares tried not to squirm.

No twenty minutes later, Anereth was lying in bed on his back, watching Esares step towards him with an unreadable gaze.

Having just removed all the makeup and hair ornaments, it made Esares feel more self-conscious than it otherwise might have. Gingerly, he sat down next to the human.

“Did you want me to do anything, my lord?” He avoided Anereth's eyes as he spoke, training his gaze on the mage's bare chest instead. It did not help the dryness of his mouth

“No.” A pause. “Well, there's something you can do tomorrow.”

The wording and tone didn't make it sound much like the kind of thing Esares had been thinking of. “What is it?”

“Don't wake me. Make yourself breakfast, read your book or sleep in yourself if you want. Just try to be quiet.”

Esares blinked. “I-- of course, my lord.”

“I won't be angry if you wake me,” Anereth said. “Just try not to.”

“Yes, my lord,” Esares returned, still rather bemused, but appreciating the mage's attempt to reassure him. “Thank you.”

“Me and wine,” Anereth said, “actually don't get along so well.”

Weakness to alcohol was not a trait Esares had thought to attribute to Anereth, and neither would he have believed the man the type to speak of it so plainly. Though then, perhaps he wouldn't have if he were sober.

A smile stole itself onto Esares' face before he could stop it. He clamped down on it as soon as he noticed, but Anereth was already arching his eyebrows at him by then. Esares' heart skipped a beat.

“You can smile,” Anereth told him mildly. “My pride will only be a little damaged.”

“Sorry.”

“If it makes you feel better, you can keep apologizing to me for innocuous things, but you're allowed to have emotions, and they needn't be convenient to me.” Anereth's lips twitched slightly. “Not that 'inconvenient' is how I would describe your smile.”

Esares was quiet for a moment. Then he asked, taken aback by his own brazenness, “How would you describe it, then?”

As he had hoped, Anereth didn't appear to mind the bold question – the mage breathed a laugh. “I'm not Maliren, so I'm afraid the answer is 'not at all'.”

“I think,” Esares said slowly, “I would find it very odd if someone wrote poetry about my smile.”

“Mostly he just quoted,” Anereth said. “It was horrible.”

“I can imagine that.” Esares thought of the way Maliren had talked to Anereth, of how he had touched Esares' face, his arm... of the table slave unlucky enough to catch one of the guests' interest early. His lips twisted. “I don't like him.” Then he wondered what had possessed him to say that.

But Anereth just looked amused again. “I would be surprised if you did. Well, don't worry, if I have my way, you're not going to have to put up with him again any time soon.”

Esares bit his lip. “If I ever... misspeak,” he said. “Worse than-- Will you give me a chance to correct myself? Not if I insult anyone, or disobey an order, but--”

“I wasn't lying when I said I'm lazy,” Anereth interrupted. “Besides, it's not my problem if you talk badly about Maliren where no one else can hear you. You could call him an ass and I don't see how it would be my concern.”

Esares stared. “Wouldn't you be worried I might say the same about other humans behind their backs if I did?” he asked, unable to help himself. “That I'd forget my place?”

“I think,” Anereth said, “that it would be very difficult for you to forget. Lie down, will you? I'm too tired to be having a proper conversation.”

After a moment of hesitation, Esares pulled up the covers over himself and slid closer to the mage, not quite lying down yet. “Would it be all right... might I--”

“Whatever you're asking, I'm inclined to say it's fine as long as it's not going to prevent me from sleeping.”

Esares drew a breath and lowered himself onto the bedding, curling up against Anereth so that his back was nestled against the mage's side.

“You're in a cuddly mood tonight, aren't you,” Anereth said, and his fingers ghosted through Esares' hair.

“Only if it doesn't bother you, my lord.” Esares thought his pulse was going more quickly than was entirely warranted. Anereth didn't seem likely to do anything worse than ask him to move.

“It doesn't bother me. Did you just want this?”

“I...” Esares stopped, considered. There seemed to be a bearable limit to how wrong this could go. He adjusted his position slightly, and cautiously rested his head on Anereth's upper arm. “Is this all right?”

“And I thought you were charming before. Yes, it's all right.” A pause. “You don't need to ask to do this in the future. Use your own discretion.”

“But I can ask?”

“Yes, you can ask.” Anereth shifted, and the lights went out. “Let's get some sleep now, yes?”

Esares pressed the tiniest bit closer to the mage and closed his eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

And he didn't rest as comfortably as he had with Lykis, and for a long while couldn't prevent himself from tensing a little every time Anereth moved; but when he did fall asleep he slept soundly, and dreamed about warmth and safety and home.

*

It was strange to wake with Anereth's arm draped over him. Unsettling, because he was a human and had the power to do nearly anything to him; but not stifling, because Esares no longer thought Anereth was likely to ever grab him and take him by brute force, and because he had not done anything at all to him so far.

He wondered if being used by someone wouldn't be so bad if the one who did it treated you almost like a person.

He took Anereth's arm and as carefully as he could placed it on the mattress instead, then quietly left bed. Anereth barely stirred, and Esares thought that probably he hadn't overstated his poor tolerance for wine.

It crossed his mind that this would be the perfect opportunity if he wanted to explore the many areas of the house he wasn't allowed in, or even just to sneak into Anereth's study and see what kinds of books he had there: but the idea never made it into anything more than a fleeting thought. Esares had made the mistake of breaking Anereth's rules because he thought himself unobserved once, and he wasn't about to do it again – not when he had so much to lose, and when he was almost certain Anereth had set up an impressive number of wards to protect his privacy.

Instead Esares made himself some bread and cheese for breakfast, because Anereth had given him permission to do that, and then picked up his book again, starting at the beginning of the chapter he'd not managed to fully focus on the last time he had attempted to read it. He would have liked to bathe, but thought it better to wait until Anereth was awake. For one, he might easily disturb him, but also there was no towel laid out in the bathroom yet, and rummaging through Anereth's closets and drawers in search for one was a horrible idea.

Esares read in the living room, and got through two chapters before deciding he might as well make himself useful. As long as he kept Anereth happy with him, “Wondrous Plants of the World” wasn't going anywhere, and there might be more reading material waiting once he was through with it, which wouldn't take him much longer – he hadn't checked, but he didn't think there could be more than two or three chapters left.

He set the book down on the nearest surface and went back to the kitchen, where looking over the available food more carefully he made a mental note to tell Anereth they were starting to run a little low. After some consideration, he made rice porridge, because it would still taste all right when cold. It was hard to say how much longer Anereth was going to sleep. Then Esares peeled an orange and sliced an apple, and placed both the bowl with the porridge and the plate with the fruit on a small tray that he carried up to the bedroom.

He tried not to make noise as he placed the tray next to the water pitcher on the bedside table, but when he straightened and turned, Anereth was in the process of sitting up.

Esares dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “My lord.”

“Breakfast in bed? I can't say I expected this.”

“Was I too forward?”

“No, it's quite sweet, actually. Come here.”

Esares got up and sat down on the spot of the bed Anereth had patted.

Anereth looked at him for a moment, head tilted slightly to the side. Then he asked, “Did you eat already?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And you're no longer feeling sick?”

“No, my lord, I'm fine now. It was just--” Esares averted his gaze. “Just the fright.”

“We'll try not to have a repeat of that,” Anereth said. “Was the rest of the night fine, though?”

“Yes, I-- it was nice, my lord. Thank you.”

“I should just have left Felir and his contest be,” Anereth said. “It was almost as distasteful as he is. And he had other ideas that might have managed to match up.”

Warily, Esares asked, “How so?”

“You don't want to know.”

Esares was silent for a while. “If he had gone with one of those ideas, would you have...” But then he snapped his mouth shut, suddenly aware he was speaking much too freely.

Anereth's hand came towards him, and he squeezed his eyes shut on reflex; but it just settled on his head.

“Really, I'm hardly going to hit you after you brought me breakfast,” Anereth said, his voice gentle, with the faintest trace of humor in it. “And what did I say about punishments?” He raked his fingers across Esares' scalp.

Esares swallowed. “I-- that you won't use them excessively?” That should be a safe answer that could be inferred from what little the mage had said on the subject, shouldn't it.

Anereth hummed. “Essentially. I'm not going to hurt you when I could just as easily correct you with words. I'm not going to slap you in the middle of a conversation. If I do punish you again, it will almost certainly be because you intentionally disobeyed an order, and even then, I will be very careful not to make you more skittish in the process than you already are. You're quite safe.”

Esares had his doubts about that. He looked away.

“You weren't actually speaking out of turn,” Anereth said. “When we're alone, it won't hurt to assume you have leave to say what you wish unless I tell you otherwise.”

Esares clenched his fists. “What would you do,” he said quietly, “if I insulted you?”

He startled when Anereth laughed. “Be very surprised.” Esares waited. Eventually the mage said, “That would depend on the insult. Why, would you like to give me one?”

His entire body rigid, Esares looked up into sparkling eyes.

“Don't worry so much,” Anereth said. “It should be very difficult for you to genuinely offend me. Just do what I tell you to when I tell you to, and about any issues that arise we can talk.” A pause. “As for your original question, several people were quite adamant about refusing to participate – or watch – if Felir went with any of his initial suggestions, and yes, I was one of them. I believe you should at least get that much protection for serving me.”

Esares really would have liked to ask again what Felir had wanted to do exactly, but Anereth was probably right that he'd regret hearing the answer. He swallowed. “Thank you.”

“I think I'll have breakfast now.”

“May I bathe while you do?”

“Of course,” Anereth said. “There are fresh clothes in the wardrobe next to the window.”

Esares stood. “Could I also have a towel?”

Anereth gestured towards a shelf near the bathroom door. “Uppermost drawer.”

Esares bowed slightly. “Thank you, my lord.”

Once he was bathed and dressed, Esares hesitated, then put on some powder and kohl. When he returned to the bedroom, the bowl and plate on the tray were empty, but Anereth was still in bed, and although not asleep didn't look like he planned to get up any time soon.

Esares sat down on the edge of the bed again, head and eyes respectfully lowered. “My lord.”

“I appreciate you bringing me breakfast,” Anereth said. “But I don't really require anything else of you right now. You can go read your book if you want. Unless you've already finished?”

Esares shook his head. “Not yet. I would like to stay, though.”

Anereth rolled onto his side and raised his eyebrows at him. “More cuddling?”

Esares glanced to the side. “I would like it if-- but if it's inconvenient...”

“No.” Anereth took Esares' wrist and tugged lightly. Esares obediently slipped into bed and under the covers, and the mage wrapped his arms around him from behind. “Is this comfortable?”

“Yes.”

Esares wouldn't have been surprised if Anereth had done more than just hugged him, then, but he didn't. As time passed, the steady sound of the mage's breathing grew soothing to Esares, his hold on him reassuring rather than restricting. He knew he could ask to be allowed to leave any time and would probably not face any consequences for it. He even dared to adjust his position to make himself more comfortable.

Then he felt the proof of Anereth's interest in him against his ass and froze.

It didn't take him long to recompose himself, though. This wasn't unexpected. Anereth was still making no move to physically force him. It was simply the time to do what he had known he would need to.

And maybe it really wouldn't be so bad. It had to be better than with Sylves.

He shifted again, pressing up against Anereth's erection almost as if by accident, then turned around and propped himself up on one arm. He met the mage's gaze only briefly, not long enough to gauge anything from it, before slowly lowering his mouth to Anereth's chest.

He kissed it, and kissed it again, and as he trailed his lips downwards noticed how the rhythm of Anereth's breathing altered – an almost imperceptible hitch in it here, a slightly too-deep inhale there.

He ran his hand along Anereth's stomach and reached for the fastening of his pants.

Warm fingers encircled his arm and stopped him in his tracks.

“This is not,” Anereth said, “the kind of thing you should do without asking.”

Esares jerked. “I'm sorry--”

“Shush.” Anereth maneuvered him back around. Esares was rigid beneath the human's touch, but moved with it as well as he could, not wanting to chance fear being mistaken for resistance.

Anereth's finger traced the edge of Esares' collar. “I prefer my sexual partners to not be terrified of me. In fact, I prefer them aware that I would not consider them worthless to me if they stopped sharing my bed. So as charming as you are, I'm afraid you're just not a good candidate.” Anereth let his hand slide away from Esares' throat, brushing aside damp hair as he did.

Then lips were pressed to the nape of Esares' neck, soft and dry; and gone again as soon as they had come. “Don't take it personally,” Anereth told him next to his ear. “I need to be able to say I have some standards.”

Esares was still frozen, but no longer for the same reason. He had thought he had at least a rough idea what he was dealing with, despite everything. Now he wasn't so sure anymore.

“But,” he said, voice hoarse and barely getting past the lump in his throat. “I am worthless to you if you don't-- what good am I to you?”

There was a long pause in which Anereth neither responded nor moved. “Well, you bring me breakfast to bed, for starters,” he said then and gently stroked Esares' head. “Sleeping with me is not a requirement for me finding you useful, or likable.”

Hysterical laughter bubbled out of Esares. “Do you tell that to all your bed slaves?”

“See,” Anereth said, still petting him. “You just spoke out of turn and nothing happened.”

Esares tensed, recognizing the reprimand for what it was, however mildly delivered.

“I'm telling this to you,” Anereth said. ”Because I understand you have very limited options for keeping yourself safe. Making Sylves desire you is about the only way you can exert some control over what he does to you, no?”

Esares sat up, breath catching in his throat.

Anereth reached for him again, but he scooted away from the human's touch, barely worried about seeming disrespectful, or insolent – he moved as far away from Anereth as he could without leaving the bed, and kept his back turned to him. He could not not let the human see the panic in his eyes.

“I wasn't accusing you of anything,” Anereth said.

Esares didn't manage to get words out for a long time. Finally he said, voice hardly even a whisper, “I'm not trying to control you.”

“That isn't wholly what I implied.”

“I know what my role is. I'm not--”

“Of course,” Anereth interjected, softly. “All I'm saying is that you don't want me to hurt you, and that you try to act in such a manner that I won't want to hurt you. Do you deny that?”

It felt like a trick question. “No.”

“Good.” Anereth's hand settled between Esares' shoulder blades. Esares' muscles would have pulled taut at the contact, except they already were. “What I'm letting you know is that it's all right not to try so hard. Let me take control in a way you don't let Sylves.”

“Please, I--”

“Or don't,” Anereth said, removing his hand. “But it seems quite the waste of nerves. I'm never going to react like him.”

More hysterical laughter climbed up Esares' throat. He managed to swallow most of it. “The thought had occurred to me, my lord.”

“It doesn't mean I will hurt you more.”

“That thought had also occurred to me.”

Anereth slid up behind him and leaned over his shoulder, resting his chin on it. “I do look after those I'm responsible for. There are things I expect, but you don't have to work to make me care about your feelings, or to ensure that I will continue to do so.”

Esares was stiff all over, and kept his face averted.

Anereth sighed and moved back. “Do you know where the tea is?”

Esares had trouble processing the non-sequitur. “Yes,” he said when he finally succeeded, and was glad the crack in his voice was small enough that the mage might miss it.

“Make some. For yourself, as well. Wait for me in the kitchen.”

Esares stood, relief warring with a renewed wave of anxiety. It didn't seem like this conversation was over.

He did feel, though, that continuing it anywhere but the bedroom would be an improvement. He was fine, Anereth wasn't being unkind. He just needed distance, some time to think... he couldn't think when Anereth touched him.

“Yes, my lord,” he said and after the first couple of carefully measured steps more ran than walked out of the room.

*

The tea was in the same shelf as the plates, one compartment higher. There were, as he now realized, two types: a pale one that smelled like ginger and what might be lemon, and another, nearly black one whose fragrance was reminiscent of flowers.

Esares brewed one cup of each, so that Anereth would be able to pick the one he preferred in case his lack of specification had been an oversight and not the result of indifference. When he was done, he placed the cups on delicate saucers in the middle of the table and sat down in one of the two chairs facing the door.

Having something to do had been calming, but now his heartbeat resumed much of its previous speed. There wasn't anything in particular he was scared of. Anereth had been nothing but lenient with him, friendly, even, and that seemed not about to change.

He couldn't help but believe that the mage's ability to see through him augured ill for him, though. Probably it was the price of being viewed by a human more like a person than a beast. Sylves would never suspect him of elaborate manipulation, because even if he believed Esares capable of it in theory – and Esares had his doubts about that, despite their history –, to him it was all a matter of teaching his slave better.

For Sylves, acknowledging that Esares was trying to control him in any meaningful sense at all would mean to acknowledge that he himself was highly incapable as a master, or Esares impossible to train.

Anereth, though... well, to begin with he clearly didn't view Sylves as very capable; or at least, Esares was pretty confident he viewed himself as more capable. Anereth had also talked like there was nothing especially irksome about the idea of Esares denying him complete surrender, safe for it keeping Esares on edge.

It wasn't like he could just make himself believe Anereth had his best interest at heart, however – though somehow Anereth appeared willing to accept that, as well. To an extent, anyway. Esares didn't know what more the mage might have to say to him on the subject.

He also didn't know what to make of what Anereth had already said.

He could understand the mage not choosing a heavy-handed approach with punishments. Sylves also preferred to use the carrot over the stick, safe for the times when he clearly enjoyed spanking Esares, or tying him up and then spanking him. It was still a constant state of having to watch himself. Sylves did not like caning or whipping him, but in Anereth's place, he already would have done so more than once in the course of the past few days.

Anereth wasn't just showing a disobedient slave mercy, either. Esares would have known what to do with that. Sylves, were Anereth anyone else, would say the man was actively encouraging bad behavior. Esares would say he was acting more concerned with making him comfortable than with ensuring his compliance.

That was odd, but Esares could still somewhat fit it into the framework of human behavior he was familiar with. There were a number of owners who would care if they knew their slaves were unhappy, and if they genuinely believed it. Esares had no doubt Sylves would, though it was a twisted sort of concern that meant nothing to him, and did him little good.

If he tried, Esares could tell himself that Anereth also was like that, only he was more observant than many other humans, and less afraid of the consequences should he be too lax in his discipline, and that this made all the difference.

Anereth actually seemed steadfast in his refusal to bed Esares, though, and that... that was hard to fit into the picture. Disconcerting.

Esares didn't know if there was something he was supposed to do, to make his pretense of not minding it, of wanting it, more convincing. If Anereth was waiting for him to do better.

He had a hard time seeing it in the human's actions, though. Anereth had not done anything to him when he had been intoxicated. He hadn't touched Esares when Esares had practically thrown himself at him the next day, almost first thing in the morning. Or he had, Esares thought wryly, but not in any way that had been repulsive, or demanding, or threatening. He had just given, and not taken.

Humans did not do that for their slaves.

That Esares wasn't even his took it out of the realm of the strange and bewildering into that of the downright bizarre.

So he tried all the harder to make sense of it. Anereth did not, personally, keep slaves. He had, but he no longer did. The explanation for this he frequently gave his peers was that he did not see the point, and that owning a slave took more effort than he was willing to make.

It should have meant Esares needed to worry about the mage considering him a bother – perhaps pretty and enjoyable to fuck, but also a persistent drain on his time and patience; something to be tolerated and make the best of only because he could not get rid of it. Especially with some of the difficulties Esares had caused him, if this estimate were correct, his stay with Anereth should not be turning out much more pleasant than any realistic alternative he could think of.

If Anereth always treated slaves the way he did Esares, though... that would be another way of looking at it. Owning someone was easy when you were content to use them and throw them away. It would take more effort if like so many humans with personal slaves, you wanted to think of yourself as a good owner, who was benevolent or at least fair. And if you wanted to treat someone you owned like a person, even just a little bit...

Esares certainly wouldn't want to own a person. But then, he also never would attempt to, or be all right with anyone he knew and cared about doing so. Anereth certainly seemed happy enough to go along with the status quo, and Esares was probably giving him too much credit with this line of thought.

Still. If Anereth considered him anything like a person, was it really so unfathomable he would not want him in his bed as an unwilling participant, coerced no matter what he said by virtue of the collar around his throat?

Esares grimaced. It certainly was difficult to believe, when he looked at his personal experiences with humans, the treatment of his people at their hands in the course centuries; and at the fact that Anereth had owned not just one slave before, but two, quite possibly even subsequently, because having more than one personal slave at a time for anyone so young would be considered crude bragging by his peers and elders.

But... perhaps Anereth had taken his time with them, enough to convince himself they were willing. Or maybe, Esares thought, suppressing a snort, he had just owned them to try spells on them. He almost wouldn't put it past the man – too bad he would hardly have needed more than one slave for that, owned simultaneously or not, and that it was exactly the kind of thing a young mage could simply rent slaves owned by his school for.

That he had taken it very slow with those slaves was a possibility, though. It was obvious a lack of desire wasn't the problem, and Esares also didn't think he was doing anything horribly wrong. Anereth could have subtly but clearly pointed him in the right direction if he wanted him to do anything in particular, rather than... very gently telling him he hadn't the interest, to no real fault of Esares' own.

Esares didn't think he should let his guard down, because even if Anereth might be sincere now, he could always change his mind – being able to break promises without consequences was the prerogative of people who owned other people. Trusting Anereth's word on this and then being betrayed would be so much more painful than it would be to have the mage break a promise Esares had never expected him to keep in the first place; and so expect him not to keep it he would. But... maybe he could at least trust that if Anereth didn't change his mind on this, Esares' position would be no more precarious for it. Or at least not much so.

Even to a human, he could be worth more than how eagerly he spread his legs for him, couldn't he?

He jumped a little when Anereth walked into the kitchen.

The mage sat down across from him and tilted his head to one side, the expression on his face expectant. At first Esares thought he was waiting for him to pick up where they'd left off, to tell him some of what he had been thinking about – but he didn't see how that made sense, considering he couldn't exactly have given the impression of having much to say. Then his heart skipped a beat as he wondered if Anereth was displeased that he had sat down at the table without explicit permission and was waiting for him to realize his error and correct himself.

But before he could act on that assumption, he noticed Anereth's pointed look at the cups in the middle of the table, and ventured, “I didn't know which sort you would prefer, my lord.”

“I like them both,” Anereth said. “Which is why I have them. You pick one.”

Esares hesitated just for an instant before reaching for the pale ginger tea. “Thank you.”

Anereth took the other cup. “I know just not expecting the worst from me is a lot to ask. We don't need to talk about this if you don't want to. However, you may speak freely about whatever you would like until we leave this table, and I won't chastise you.”

Esares swallowed. “Whatever I would like?”

“Yes.”

He glanced up, and realized that Anereth's hair was as damp as his own. So he had bathed while Esares waited, and not bothered to use magic to dry his hair, or at least to apply the spell for very long.

Because he had not wanted to leave Esares waiting?

“I don't know what to say, my lord.”

“That's also fine.”

Esares bit his lip. “You're not going to have sex with me?”

“No.”

“What if I want you to?”

“I would be very flattered,” Anereth said, “if you told me so and I believed it. But alas, I'm afraid my ego does not quite reach those heights.”

“How would I convince you I'm sincere?”

“Well,” Anereth said, “I hear there are certain potions whose side-effects include an exaggerated sense of self-importance. It's not my area of expertise, but you could try giving me one.”

Esares opened his mouth, and when he couldn't think of anything to reply with forgot to close it again.

Anereth smiled. “Don't worry about it. We'll see where this goes, yes?”

“But,” Esares said, and stopped. Anereth patiently waited until eventually he continued, “How can I repay your kindness just by making your meals and brewing tea?”

“That's downplaying your role a little, isn't it? But there's nothing to repay. I treat you how I wish to treat you.” Anereth held his gaze. “Which is not like someone who has to earn every shred of kindness.”

Esares' throat felt clogged. “It's more than just a shred, though. I-- you let me read.”

“It's not like it costs me anything.”

Esares gave a choked laugh. “It wouldn't cost Sylves anything, but he still doesn't--” He caught himself, and looked away.

“Sylves is an idiot,” Anereth said.

There was no acceptable response to that, so Esares didn't try to come up with one.

“If I want to fuck someone,” Anereth said, “there are a dozen options. Pretending to want me to use you is hardly the most valuable thing you have to offer me.”

Esares looked down at his hands. “Then what can I offer you?”

“Oh, I can think of several things.” Anereth smiled slyly. “For one, maybe we'll yet get you to the point where you won't start hyperventilating when I attempt certain harmless spells on you.”

“I-- that would please you?”

“Very much so.”

“I can do that, my lord.” Esares worried his lip and reluctantly raised his eyes. “Just. Maybe not on my back?”

“Sounds like a reasonable compromise,” Anereth said, warm humor in his eyes.

Esares glanced down at the table. “Perhaps that would be one way I could also serve your friends, my lord?” He fidgeted in his seat a little. “I know they would have preferred it had I not been there, last night.”

“It's an offer I don't dare relay to Ksielle, but I have to admit I'm curious what Kylerith would say. I did invite him to come visit, and he seemed inclined to oblige.”

“I would be honored to serve him,” Esares said without raising his gaze, “in whatever capacity you wish.”

“I'm sure you would.” Anereth reached across the table to rumple his hair. “I'm also sure if you told him that he'd bolt. Actually, it might be funny.”

Esares' eyes flicked to the mage's. “This is really fine?”

“More than fine.” Anereth picked up his tea cup. “There's nothing I want you to be doing at this juncture that you aren't. Should I tell you the tragic tale of how Ksielle and I broke up?”

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Esares' lips. “Please.”

“Well you see, we had a public disagreement about whether my spellwork is or isn't reminiscent of that of a particularly inept professor who taught for exactly six months years ago and then was let off in dishonor.”

Anereth paused to sip at his tea, and went on, ”A nice gentleman actually defended me, it was very adorable. I then in front of half the guests including dear Rylera dragged him off to have some fun with. I think she and one or two other people might actually have been shocked.”

Anereth looked like a cat fondly remembering the recently deceased canary.

“Was it Lord Kylerith?” Esares asked, unexpectedly curious.

“No, he left early. Also, I don't think he would have taken my side over Ksielle's. He seemed to have some misgivings regarding my treatment of you.”

Esares looked down guiltily, remembering his inability to hide the shaking of his hands when taking the proffered juice from Ksielle, and the humans remarking on it.

“I--”

Esares was interrupted by someone rapping on the door to the house, the sound loud and clear, echoing from the walls in a way only magic could account for.

He jumped.

Across from him, Anereth looked surprised, but rose smoothly. “I hope you know I wasn't chiding you,” he said and quickly patted Esares' head.

“I do, my lord.”

Nervous for reasons entirely unrelated to his misstep in front of Kylerith, Esares followed the mage out of the doorway.

“It was actually one of the more interesting conversations of the night,” Anereth said as they crossed the living room. And then, “Wait here.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Esares lowered himself to his knees a few paces from the corridor leading to the front door, just far enough that he would not be blocking the path of Anereth and whatever other humans might be with him when he returned. Had he been concerned with making the best possible impression, he would have chosen a spot closer to the center of the room, but this was still acceptable, and would make it much easier to overhear what was being said at the door.

Esares wondered, not without concern, who it might be. Clearly Anereth had not been expecting anyone, so the possibilities ranged from a neighbor hoping to borrow a book or kitchen ingredient to someone who had attended last night's party who as soon as they had sobered up had for some reason decided they needed to go see Anereth. Or it could be the host.

Anereth was expecting servants sent by his mother, though, wasn't he? So that was perhaps a more likely option.

Esares wasn't sure what he'd prefer. Ksielle would be all right – she wasn't nice, except for a mage she really was. Kylerith also wasn't a person he was very worried about, at least for the moment. He'd rather not have to deal with Maliren again, though. And if it was the servants... well, Esares supposed that depended on the servants, but if their presence was going to mean he'd have less freedom to move around or that he'd have to contend with taunts and scornful looks, then he would rather they remain absent for a while longer.

He strained to hear what was going on down the corridor. And he missed the sound of the door being opened, but Anereth's voice was easy to understand as he said, tone closer to shock than anything, “What are you doing here?”

“Visiting.” The other person sounded feminine and young and not exactly pleased. “Since you're apparently above that.”

“I've been busy.”

“With what, a book enchanted so you can't take it out of this house? A paper that will burst into flame if you attempt to continue writing it outside the capital?”

The door did not close as quietly as it had been opened.

“Please tell me you at least didn't bring Ryminis.”

“I'm eighteen, you know, not twelve. Of course I didn't bring Ryminis. People here are used to the most fancy expensive slaves – they'd faint if they just glanced at one so terrible.”

“I wasn't worried about them fainting.”

“Well, it doesn't matter. I left her with Mother, so catastrophe averted – can we go back to me berating you now?”

“Actually,” Anereth said. “Just do me the favor and come in for now, would you? I was kind of in the middle of something.”

“In the middle of something?” The girl, who Esares was almost sure now was Anereth's younger sister, sounded indignant.

She did follow Anereth to the living room with little further protest, though, and Esares quickly bowed low to the ground when he realized this.

The girl stopped somewhere towards the doorway. “Who's that?”

“That,” Anereth said, “is Esares. Esares, lift your head and meet my sister properly, will you.”

Esares sat up, but kept his eyes focused on his knees.

“Esares?” Valithia repeated. “You mean Sylves' slave? Is he here?”

“No. It's a long story.”

“Is that why you haven't shown your face?”

“I'd like to say it is, but it actually came rather as a surprise.”

“Huh.” Valithia took the last few steps to Esares and crouched in front of him, tilting her head to get a better look at him. Which was a bit silly, when she could just tell him to look up instead, but who was Esares to judge? At least she hadn't just grabbed him by the jaw.

As she leaned close to him, he caught a brief glimpse of the girl before averting his gaze further. There was no obvious family resemblance between her and Anereth – her features were rounder, her hair devoid of any trace of silver Esares had been able to detect. It was black instead, and fell in uneven waves down to her shoulders. She wore a dark purple dress and a worryingly delighted smile.

“He's as gorgeous as Kyenne,” she said. “Maybe more gorgeous. Mind if I borrow him later?”

Esares froze. He decided he really did not like younger sisters of humans under whose power he was. He especially did not like that Valithia, unlike Imeria with Sylves, had asked like she expected the answer to be affirmative. She had seemed much more harmless when Anereth had relayed stories of her and shoe destroying house goats.

Esares unsuccessfully tried to swallow against the dryness of his throat.

“If I say yes now, he might just faint,” Anereth said.

There was a pause. “What, haven't you told him anything about me?” Valithia's tone was just short of scandalized. “I paint.”

And Esares felt like maybe he could breathe again. Then he realized the woman had been addressing him, and that he had utterly failed at masking his terror.

“Sorry, ma'am,” he managed.

Another pause. “Why did I get stuck with Ryminis again?”

“Because you're the only one who can stand her?” Anereth suggested, which Esares thought was uncharacteristically snide of him, whatever it was about this Ryminis that had him and his sister agreeing she was a failure as a slave.

“You tolerated her well enough when you refused to give her to me.”

“You were thirteen.”

“And very responsible.”

“I was actually there, you know,” Anereth said.

“More responsible than you. How old were you when you got Kyenne, fifteen? Sixteen? I'm never going to outdo that mess.”

Esares glanced at Valithia, intrigued and a little uneasy. He would like to learn more about how Anereth usually treated slaves, or had in the past, but at the same time the prospect had his stomach in a tight hard knot.

Valithia looked like she would be all too happy to expand on the subject, radiating smugness.

“Do we really need to talk about this?” Anereth asked.

“You started it. Anyway, can I borrow him?”

“If I can convince him not to have a panic attack over it,” Anereth said.

Valithia lightly poked Esares' arm. “You're not going to have a panic attack over it, are you?”

Esares exhaled, only a little unsteadily. “No, ma'am.”

“See!”

Anereth sighed. “I'm going to talk about it with him. Esares, would you leave us for now? Go get your tea and take it to the bedroom.”

Esares needed a moment to gather himself, but then swiftly bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

He got to his feet, keeping his head lowered, and took two small steps backwards before turning around and obeying the order.

His mind lingered, though, on Valithia, and what her presence might mean for him. Less freedom, probably. If he was lucky, Anereth wouldn't treat him too differently while she was around, but some things were going to change. Certainly Anereth wouldn't want a slave sitting at the table when he ate meals with his sister.

Valithia also was a source of danger. If she didn't like him, or complained about him, there was little chance of Anereth not siding with her and blaming Esares – and Valithia didn't seem like someone who would be reluctant to make demands of her brother's slave, or to express opinions on his behavior. That she was already interested in him, even if perhaps for benign reasons, did not bode particularly well.

Aside from this, though.... if he wanted to find out more about Anereth, Valithia also presented a unique opportunity. There was much about Anereth Esares didn't know, but that his sister would, and that the two of them might be talking about right that very moment.

In the end, Esares only stayed in the bedroom long enough to drink his tea.

Chapter Text

The tea had been sweet and still warm and calmed Esares' frazzled nerves somewhat, but his heart was still pounding when he stepped back out of the bedroom and towards the stairs.

He knew it was risky, but he might never get a chance like this again. Probably Anereth would talk with the sister he'd not seen in months about any number of topics, including Esares, including Valithia's own slave who used to belong to Anereth.

There were too many things about Anereth that puzzled Esares. They were things that made him want to believe he was about as safe with the man as he could possibly be with a human, except he couldn't, because none of it made sense. What mage let a slave eat at his table and talk back to him and read books, and didn't even fuck him? Anereth spent more time joking with and comforting Esares than getting any actual use out of him, and that was not how any of this was supposed to work.

Anereth might not end up chatting with his sister about why exactly he wasn't using Esares, but they were very likely to speak about matters that gave insight into Anereth's thoughts on him more generally, and that would have to be good enough.

Esares knew, of course, that he could not get caught trying to listen in on them. Even though Anereth had not technically ordered him to remain in the bedroom, that was not an excuse that would go over well. The implication of the mage's words had been clear.

Which was why Esares hesitated when even after positioning himself as close to the stairs as he could without risking being seen from below, the humans' voices didn't carry to him. It wasn't entirely unexpected, though, as the living room was still rather a far way off and Anereth and his sister would hardly be engaged in a shouting match. The lack of proximity at least meant Esares had a good chance of not being caught even if he ventured downstairs, unless he was very unlucky and one of the humans decided to head right towards him without warning for some reason.

So he went, and was surprised when even as he came to a halt just short of rounding the corner to the living room, there was nothing to be heard at all.

He paused, waited. Almost turned back around. But... he needed to know what it meant for Anereth to treat him the way he did. And even if he did get caught, well, that would just show him whether Anereth's word could be trusted, wouldn't it? He'd claimed his punishments would not be cruel.

Eventually he would earn himself a true correction anyway, regardless of how well things seemed to be going – so at least this once he might as well take the chance over something worthwhile.

Feeling lightheaded with his own daring, Esares craned his neck to look around the corner. The living room was empty.

Esares stepped inside and released a breath. No one. He walked forward, though already disappointment was beginning to drown out fear and excitement. He was willing to risk being discovered walking about when he'd been told not to, but not sneaking into any areas of the house he had been explicitly forbidden from entering, and that on top of this had a high probability of being warded. He didn't think Anereth would keep him chained in the future as he'd threatened just for leaving the bedroom, but breaking two orders at the same time seemed a terrible idea.

He tried to tell himself that maybe this was for the best, that he'd only have gotten into trouble had Anereth and Valithia actually been within hearing range – but still disappointment prevailed. It was what made him linger long enough to hear Valithia's raised voice: not loud enough for him to make out any actual words, but definitely coming from the corridor that led to the kitchen.

And Esares wasn't completely forbidden from entering that one.

His feet carried him there almost automatically, and he only stopped when he could make out Anereth saying, “--did write to her.”

“You're not supposed to just write to your sister when it's her birthday!”

“I'll go see her eventually.” Anereth didn't sound fazed by his sister's outburst.

“Why not now?” Valithia demanded.

“Well, for one, there's Esares to consider.”

At the mention of his name, Esares' heartbeat spiked.

“Just bring him,” Valithia said. “Where's the problem?”

“It'd be a hassle,” Anereth returned. “Besides, what do you think Mother would say if I left just as the servants she sent arrive? If you departed from them in Celnon, even if they travel very slowly, they'll be here the day after tomorrow at the latest.”

Realizing he was, at least not yet, going to be the subject of discussion, Esares' pulse calmed somewhat again, though his fists were clenched.

“Why are you making up excuses?” Valithia asked.

“They're not excuses.” There was a sigh in the words. “Really, did you just come to yell at me?”

“I came because I missed you,” Valithia said. “But clearly the feeling isn't mutual.”

“That's not true. I'm very happy to see you.”

“Well.” Valithia sounded both angry and flustered, now. “Perhaps show your face more often in the future, then. You know I can't come here easily, and Tiliera is worse than you. I have other things to do than worry about the two of you, you know.”

“I shall improve my behavior,” Anereth said, voice filled with fond humor. “How are things at home?”

“Fun now that Tiliera and Kyenne are around, but otherwise boring. Mother barely has time, and Ryminis-- is well, Ryminis.”

“Boring is not the word that comes to mind.”

“It does get boring when you have to be around her all day every day. Well, sometimes, other times it's just exasperating. Can you believe she insisted I take her with me? Insisted.”

“I can,” Anereth said, and sounded like he wished he couldn't. “So what did you do?”

Esares almost thought he'd misheard when Valithia said, rather sullenly, “Bribe her with meat.”

Anereth laughed. “You're a horrendous slave owner.”

“I don't want to hear that from you,” Valithia said.

”But someone has to tell you. Well, as long as you don't try to give her back to me.”

“Ugh, no way – you'd both be so annoying about it. Though right now it'd be easier to not have a slave at school. I didn't tell you about that yet, did I?”

“Tell me what?” Anereth asked, tone curious.

“This girl died in a magical accident. Only it wasn't immediately fatal, but no one was there when it happened but her slave, and she didn't go to get help. Not because she couldn't or anything, but because apparently she didn't want to. There are rumors she bragged about it afterwards, I don't know if it's true, but anyway, everyone is in hysterics.”

“Of course they are,” Anereth said. “Confronted with the possibility that their dear pets might want them dead.”

“And so now you have these two factions, the one that's constantly telling everyone to discipline their slaves more, and the one that hands out leaflets on how to properly bond with your slave and how to correct appropriately. And the first group is awful and the other is a little creepy and Ryminis collects their leaflets and reads lines from them to me at random. Does she want me to get embarrassed for humanity? Because at this point I think I am.”

“School life in Nuvaria is nowhere near this exciting.” Anereth said this as though it were very regrettable.

“It's not funny!”

“Well, you could try bribing her with meat so she stops.”

“I hate you. Also, people will look at me strangely if I purchase any more meat than I already do. On the bright side, Ryminis wouldn't let me die, because then where would her food come from?”

“Have you considered going into professional slave training?”

“Ha ha,” Valithia said. “Why is Sylves' slave with you, by the way, and not with a trainer? Or with his family for the matter. You don't even own a slave yourself anymore, or act like you can be bothered with them in general, I'm pretty sure. I mean, Esares's cute, but not that cute.”

Esares wondered if he should be offended.

“Sylves had some concerns about leaving him at home, and about the integrity of a stranger. He's a little more famous than most clients your average slave trainer will come across, after all.”

“Huh,” Valithia said. “He's worried about them becoming privy to details about his personal life?”

“Apparently. And I can't say he has no reason to be – people love talking about him, after all. ” Esares thought he detected the faintest hint of annoyance in Anereth's tone.

After a pause, the man went on, “Speaking of Esares, I should probably go check on him. I'll be back in a moment, all right?”

“Fine--” Valithia said, and more words followed, but Esares didn't wait until she finished speaking.

He whirled around and walked as fast as he could while keeping his steps reasonably quiet, almost tripping over his own feet once, but quickly recovering and continuing on his way.

He'd almost made it through the living room when the sound of someone loudly clearing his throat stopped him in his tracks.

Very slowly, Esares turned around.

Anereth hadn't entered the living room yet, but regarded him from several paces behind the doorless threshold separating it from the narrow corridor at whose end lay the kitchen. His arms were crossed in front of his chest, and he did not look pleased.

The mage made his way over to Esares without haste. “Care to explain?”

Esares stared at him for a long moment, then blurted out the first excuse he could think of, “I was looking for you.”

Anereth arched his eyebrows.

Esares tried hard to come up with a reason he might have wanted to come find Anereth, or why he might then have thought better of it and all but run for the stairs; but his mind went blank.

He took a deep breath, and looked down. “I was curious.”

“Well, I'll give you credit for not lying to me,” Anereth said. “Much.”

Esares winced.

“Go back to the bedroom,” Anereth told him. “And this time actually stay there.”

“Yes, my lord. I'm sorry.”

Esares turned, but froze when a hand was laid on his shoulder.

“I will punish you for this.”

Esares swallowed. “I know, my lord.”

“I will punish you, not torture you,” Anereth said. “Go on.”

Esares tried to find comfort in the mage's assertion, but didn't quite manage it. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

Heart thudding in his chest, he resumed towards the bedroom. He had thought that even if he got caught, he wouldn't regret eavesdropping on the humans, but suddenly he was no longer so sure; and it wasn't only because he didn't think he had learned anything too useful at all.

*

At least Anereth didn't make him wait for long.

Esares' muscles had barely begun aching when the mage entered. He was kneeling next to the bed, only the width of a hand from the light blue rug whose comfort he had deliberately forgone. Something in him went cold when Anereth closed the door behind himself and locked it, but he didn't look at the human beyond his dark leather shoes, keeping his upper body close to the ground.

Even just three days ago, Esares would have been shaking and trying to quell the urge to beg for mercy. Now his pulse and breathing were accelerated, the hands pressed to the floor in front of him cold and clammy, but he was in no danger of babbling, or crying.

He had far overstepped his bounds, blatantly disobeyed orders, but... he didn't think Anereth had changed his mind about not wanting to break him.

Even if Esares had all but thrown his generosity back in his face.

Anereth walked past him and sat down on the bed. “Turn to me. Look up.”

Esares shuffled around so that he was facing Anereth, then raised his eyes to the mage's knees.

“I shouldn't be surprised,” Anereth said. “Of course given sufficient motivation and no equivalent deterrent, you will disobey me the moment you think you might get away with it.”

The words stung. Not because they weren't mostly true, or because Esares was ashamed that they were, but because they were the words of a master about to correct his slave. Sylves might have said something close enough in the same situation – probably had before.

The reminder that his master and Anereth weren't so different, at the end of the day – not when it came to this – hit him like a slap in the face.

He hadn't been asked a question, and there was no use for denials in light of his actions, so he stayed silent.

“What's the punishment you hate most, save for ones involving spells?” Anereth asked.

Esares tightly clasped one of his hands around the other, unsure whether Anereth was asking because he would want to employ that form of punishment or steer clear of it, or if the question was meant to test him somehow.

“The whip, my lord,” he eventually replied. If one discounted the punishments Esares would have to go into more detail to name than he was comfortable with, it was the truth.

“And after that?”

“I don't know. Perhaps canes.” When Anereth didn't say anything, Esares decided he either wasn't satisfied, or was giving him time to add more just in case he wanted to. He flexed his hands. Whatever Esares told him, the mage would then be able to use against him. There would be no taking it back, no way to stop him.

But... Anereth already knew one of Esares' biggest fears. If he did want to destroy him, he already had the perfect starting point, and no smaller weakness Esares might reveal about himself would change that.

Being forthcoming might pacify the mage somewhat, please him. Perhaps more importantly, Esares wanted to know what would happen if he handed Anereth a dagger when the man had reason to be angry.

“Being hit while restrained,” he said, quietly. “Anything to do with gags. Being-- being humiliated.” He realized, belatedly, that the list of things he hated done to him was too long for it to be realistic to hope Anereth would stay away from all of them.

“I didn't expect you to be so honest,” Anereth said. “But that was all true, wasn't it?”

Esares kept silent. He also didn't fidget, or raise his eyes. He simply waited for what the human would do with the information.

“Come here,” Anereth finally said.

Esares did, crawling just close enough to the mage that it would be easy for the man to touch him if he wished.

“It's fine, I wasn't asking to make your life miserable.” Anereth reached out to place a hand on his head, and Esares' gut clenched. He could have had just this, if he hadn't gone and ruined it. Just gentle touches, reassurances. Who was to say Anereth would have ever lost patience in the relatively short amount of time Esares was staying with him? It wouldn't have hurt to try a little harder.

For Anereth, it might still be the same once the punishment was over; but for Esares it wouldn't be, couldn't possibly.

When he had expected Anereth to torment him for trying to secretly read his book, Esares had realized for the first time just how harrowing even an ordinary punishment from this man could be, simply because it meant that much to him that Anereth had not been treating him as just a slave. It was worse than that now. He had come to enjoy that Anereth did nice things for him, and acted concerned over him, and had become someone Esares actually expected to help if he came to him with a problem more than he expected him to laugh it off, or belittle him for it.

He hadn't known how attached he had grown to the illusion of kindness until it dawned on him what it would mean to have it ripped away.

And then there were tears in his eyes, and he was trying to blink them away, furious at himself. No need to worry about someone else humiliating him. He was doing a fine job of that himself.

“Are you-- sweetheart, I'm not thinking of doing anything that is worth crying over.”

“I'm sorry.” Esares said, and then quickly closed his mouth before a sob could escape.

Anereth dropped his hand from Esares' hair. “You're always sorry,” he said, but his voice was very gentle, and he took to carefully drying off Esares' tears with the sleeve of his robe.

Which made it harder for Esares to retain some semblance of composure, but he at least managed not to make any noise.

“I need to remember to be more to the point with you,” Anereth said. “You seem to have quite the vivid imagination. You're not just trying to make me take pity, are you?”

Esares tensed, but Anereth tenderly brushed his cheek with the back of his hand, and it didn't seem likely he was in additional trouble for not keeping his emotions better under control. Still, he wanted to laugh. Of course out of the two times Esares had responded to the prospect of Anereth punishing him by crying, Anereth would voice suspicions of him doing so as an appeasement tactic when he wasn't.

Esares swallowed convulsively. “Please, my lord, I'm not.”

“Ah, it doesn't matter.” Anereth was still stroking his cheek. “Either way it would mean you're terrified. But I did tell you taking back my book would be much simpler than flogging you, didn't I?”

Esares froze. “I-- you'll take it back, my lord?”

“Yes. Since you very deliberately defied my order, but beating you would feel too much like kicking a kitten.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Esares had thrown himself forward, burying his face in Anereth's lap. “Please beat me.”

“Didn't the mere idea have you in tears just a minute ago?” Anereth sounded actually puzzled.

To Esares, though, it was simple. There was a high chance he would make more mistakes in the weeks to come. Either Anereth would physically discipline him then, anyway, or he would keep removing privileges.

Just the prospect of perhaps never touching a book again was as painful as nearly anything a human had ever put him through in the name of punishment. The possibility of losing every bit of freedom Anereth had given him one by one, though... that was devastating.

“I won't cry again,” Esares promised. “Please?”

There was a long pause. “You like reading a lot, don't you?” Anereth asked, as though he didn't already know this.

Esares clenched his fists at his sides. “Yes, my lord. Please, you can use whatever instrument you wish, I won't give you trouble.”

“Even a whip?”

Esares went tense all over, but said, “Yes.”

“I'm not going to,” Anereth said and gently stroked his fingers through Esares' hair.

Esares sagged in relief that quickly intertwined with dread. He wished he had at least finished the book he had been given. Being allowed to read others in the future had been something he'd looked forward to, but there had always been some uncertainty, some doubt. He'd been fully convinced he'd be able to finish the one Anereth had already handed to him, though. In retrospect, it had been foolish, and he shouldn't for a second have acted like Anereth couldn't take it back at any moment.

He pressed his face to the human's thigh, and asked, aware that his tone had taken on note of desperation, “May I-- is there a way for me to earn it back?”

Anereth didn't reply at first, just continued to pet him, perhaps considering it. Then he trailed his hand down Esares' cheek and curled it around his chin, making him lift his head.

Esares was no longer crying, but that didn't make it easier to hold the human's gaze. Had his makeup run? He hoped too much of it hadn't gotten on the mage's clothes.

“How would you suggest you do that?” Anereth asked, and his tone was difficult to read, but Esares was fairly sure he was getting at something specific with his question – and oh, was that the game they were playing?

Esares dropped his gaze. Glanced back up again. “I don't have many skills, my lord,” he said quietly and licked his bottom lip. “But I would be happy to use the ones I do have to please you.” He hesitated, and added, “I want to.”

Anereth smiled. It was a smile that almost made Esares think he had read the situation correctly, if it weren't rather crooked around the edges. “I'm not sure how to feel about the fact that apparently you think I'm playing hard to get,” the human said. “I'm not telling you to pretend to want me to sleep with you more convincingly.”

Esares dug his nails into his palms and gnashed his teeth. He was sick of not knowing what Anereth wanted of him – whether he wanted anything at all right then, or was just taunting him.

As though sensing this, Anereth said, “You can earn it back by behaving, and being patient.“

Not sure what this meant, but pathetically hopeful, Esares said, “My lord?”

“You'll be here for at least three more weeks,” Anereth said, his hand making its way back into Esares' hair again. “I wasn't going to punish you infinitely.”

Esares stared at the man. “I-- it's a temporary punishment, my lord?”

Anereth offered him a smile that almost seemed a little sad and said, “I was planning to keep it for three days and then give it back, but now that almost seems a little excessive. How about we make it just today, and add another, lighter punishment in lieu of the other two?”

Esares released a shuddering breath, melting into the human's touch as he lightly dragged his nails across the nape of Esares' neck. “Please.”

Anereth hummed. “How do you feel about blindfolds?”

“I-- I don't know, my lord. The longest I've worn one was yesterday.”

“Do you find the idea of having one put on you again distressing?”

“A little.” Esares bit his lip. “But not-- not especially, my lord. Not more than any other punishment or... part of a punishment.”

“Good. I believe I have something in mind, then. It won't be too comfortable, but it shouldn't be very humiliating, or painful. It won't require anything I said I would not require of you. Can you wait to find out until tonight without fretting?”

Esares nodded dazedly, having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that this mage was discussing his punishment with him, and would apparently make adjustments based on Esares' input and feelings.

It was still a punishment. The thought of it still filled Esares with helpless frustration, and some fear. Yet he no longer wished he could vanish into thin air, and he no longer was sure it would have to change everything.

“Thank you, my lord,” he said, almost meaning it, and lowered his head into the mage's lap again.

Anereth slowly combed his fingers through Esares' hair. “How long were you listening?”

Esares twitched. “I--”

“You don't have to say,” Anereth interrupted when he hesitated. “But I would like it if you told me.”

Esares balled his fists, and took a measured breath. “Since you spoke of writing to your other sister, my lord.”

“I see. That's quite a while.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Well, in this case, you actually should be,” Anereth said, but a moment later he was tenderly brushing Esares' hair out of his face. “It's really a side-effect of you growing more comfortable around me that was to be expected.”

“My lord--”

“It's not a bad thing. Well, not mainly. I really can not have it, though, do you understand?”

Esares swallowed, and said quietly, “Yes.”

“I know you don't like that I'm the one who makes the rules, but that's the way it is. And I don't take it as a personal insult when you choose to ignore them, but I will give you incentive to not do it again.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If you tell me a punishment is more than you can bear, I will not use it.”

Startled, Esares looked up at the mage. “My lord?” He knew he had permission to tell Anereth, clear instructions to do so, even, but this was a grand promise. Too grand, Esares thought.

Anereth didn't seem to be of that opinion, though. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “You're the only one who can tell me with any surety whether you can handle something, no?” He paused. “I think you have been quite honest with me not just right now. And that you have extended me your trust on several occasions. Since I have less reason not to believe what you tell me than the other way around, the least I can do is take your word when it comes to this.”

“That's--” Esares began, and broke off. His throat felt clogged, as though he might start crying again if he continued.

Anereth smiled. “Obviously if you were to claim you can not stand being apart from the book you wish to read for a single day, we might need to have a talk.”

Even though the mage was clearly teasing, Esares swiftly shook his head. “I won't lie to you about this, my lord. I swear it. I-- I might not always be sure, but--”

“That's all right,” Anereth said. “Just tell me that, then.” A pause, and another smile. “Of course, I would prefer it if you didn't give me cause to punish you at all.”

Esares ducked his head, clamping down on another apology, and trying not to be angry at the implication that Anereth punishing him was Esares' fault, as though his actions robbed the man of all choice in the matter.

Anereth patted his head. “If I stay here much longer, Valithia will start complaining. Not that she doesn't usually complain.”

“Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, my lord.”

“Of course. Ah, I promised Valithia to also talk to you about keeping her company.”

Involuntarily, Esares stiffened.

“She really just wants to draw you,” Anereth said. “And chat your ear off. Of course, that is in itself quite horrible. Still, she's not going to harm you. Unless you tell me you would be in danger of fainting or hyperventilating, I will have you put up with her to save myself from her whining.”

My master told you not to leave me alone with anyone else, Esares thought, the accompanying surge of resentment surprising him. But there was no point telling Anereth what he already knew. This only confirmed Esares' suspicion that at the end of the day, what Sylves did or didn't want mattered little to the man.

He looked away. “I'm happy to serve, my lord.”

“Oh yes, positively thrilled, I'm sure,” Anereth said. Still, he seemed satisfied. “I will get you when I'm done speaking with her. If she does give you an order you're not sure I would approve of, you may ignore it and come to me, but probably you will just find her very annoying like everyone else.”

Esares didn't say anything. As if it was as easy as giving Anereth's instructions precedence if it came to that. Valithia could accuse him of lying, and then who was her brother more likely to believe?

Still, she had sounded harmless enough. Someone who seemed perfectly happy to choose bribing her slave over disciplining her wasn't all that likely to turn right around and do something terrible to him.

He told himself this over and over after Anereth left the bedroom, but it didn't do much to get rid of the sinking feeling in his stomach.

Chapter Text

The carpet laid out in the guest room Valithia had settled in was white and soft, and the only thing about his surroundings Esares dared lay his gaze on.

Anereth patted him on the head – like a dog, Esares thought, uncharitably – and stepped back. “I will leave you to it, then. Don't harass him.”

“As if,” Valithia scoffed. “Just go read some boring school book, or whatever it is you do here all day.”

“That's actually a good idea,” Anereth said, sounding amused. “I think I'll do that.” And then he was out of the door, pulling it shut behind him.

“I swear he lives to annoy me,” Valithia said.

Esares waited, trying not to fidget.

“You actually eavesdropped on us?”

Esares winced. He hadn't been entirely sure she knew, though it wasn't a surprise. He lowered his forehead to the ground. “I'm sorry, ma'am.”

“This will never not be strange,” Valithia said. “Come on, sit down somewhere properly. The armchair, or the bed. I'm just quickly going to finish unpacking.”

Esares hesitated for a long moment, but Valithia didn't even seem to notice, already on her way to the other end of the room. Finally Esares got up and went over to the armchair, positioned somewhere towards the middle of the room with its back against the wall. Just looking at the bed made him queasy.

Which was unfortunate, because it was now in his direct line of sight.

When he lifted his eyes, anyway. But he didn't have quite the level of self-discipline to keep them solely on his lap while he waited. Besides, he'd rather not let his thoughts drift, which they were bound to do if he had nothing more interesting to focus on.

While it was hard to ignore the bed entirely when darting glances around the room, there were other things to draw his attention. Like the leather bag lying on the floor several paces to Esares' left. From the looks of it, Valithia had only brought the one item to transport her luggage in, big enough that she would almost certainly have applied spells to it to make it lighter. If she intended to stay longer than a week, though, it was still quite small. He wondered if this meant she would be leaving again soon, or whether she'd left some of her luggage with the servants she'd initially traveled with.

Esares' stomach cramped when he thought of the possibility that she would remain in Anereth's home longer than he himself.

While Valithia was busy relocating items from the bag to elsewhere in the room, Esares continued covertly inspecting his surroundings. It was a nice room, homely and spacious, though rather plain in terms of furniture and decoration. He'd passed it numerous times in the past week, as it lay close to the stairs in the lower part to the building – but the door had always been closed, so he'd never glimpsed its inside before.

“I don't think I have the energy right now to do much more than a quick sketch,” Valithia said. Her back was to him, and she pulled what appeared to be several bright folded dresses from the bag as she talked.

Esares didn't respond, because he couldn't think of anything to say, and Valithia didn't seem to expect differently. She removed another bundle of clothes from the bag, and with it a small wooden board and a hair brush. She put the brush on the bedside table and the fabrics into the wardrobe. Then, the wooden board still in hand, she returned to the night table and grabbed a stack of paper, along with the long dark pencil lying on top of it, and turned to him.

Esares quickly lowered his eyes to his hands.

“Ready?” Valithia asked.

“I think so, ma'am.” He hesitated. “Although...”

“Although?”

“I'm... I'm not entirely certain what you need me to do, ma'am.”

“Nothing, actually. Well, don't move too much, but it doesn't really matter.” A brief pause. “And it would be good if you made sure I can actually see your eyes.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Esares said, raising his gaze a little. “Thank you.”

Valithia sat down across from him on the lower end of the bed. “This room needs a desk,” she said. “Oh well. So, since you overheard, I want you to know I am a perfectly capable slave owner and my brother is just an ass, thank you very much.”

This was not starting out well. Esares opened his mouth, closed it again. How to agree with the first part of her statement without also implying he shared her opinion of Anereth? Finally he settled on, “I am sure you are, ma'am.” Then he worried about whether he'd used the right tone of voice, or whether she might think he was being sarcastic.

“He's the one who couldn't even stand being around Ryminis,” Valithia said. “You don't have to call me 'ma'am' all the time, by the way. It's so weird when slaves are actually well-behaved. I mean, it wasn't when I was used to Kyenne, but now it's--” She gesticulated with the pencil. “Anyway, in the end he was very happy to give her to me, so he really doesn't get to talk.”

Esares shifted nervously. Did she want him to say something? It would be difficult to do so without either giving offense to her or Anereth.

“Do you have siblings?” the woman asked suddenly.

Esares blinked. It was not a question humans usually asked his kind. “No, ma'--” He remember too late to leave out the usual form of address, and had to cut himself off. Valithia hadn't told him to not use it at all, but at least he should demonstrate her words had registered. “I don't have any siblings,” he finished.

It wasn't exactly personal information about himself, either. Few in his clan did.

Valithia made a thoughtful noise and folded her legs beneath herself. Placing the paper on the small board in front of her, she began drawing. “What did Anereth say to you about me?” she asked after a while.

Esares really wished he were somewhere else. “I-- he didn't say much, ma'am.”

She looked up at him shrewdly. “He did say something, though,” she said. “And you don't want to tell me.”

Caught, Esares glanced away.

“You think he'd be angry?” Valithia asked.

Esares was quiet for an instant, then said honestly, “I don't know.”

“But you did know he'd be angry if you eavesdropped.”

Esares cringed.

“Oh well,” Valithia said. “I guess the temptation was just greater. I'm actually not gonna tell him if you say anything unflattering about him to me, though.”

Esares was never going to take that chance, but wasn't foolish enough to say so. “Thank you.”

Valithia returned to focusing on her drawing – for a little while, anyway. For someone who was going to only quickly sketch him because she didn't have the energy to attempt something more elaborate, Valithia was amazingly talkative.

At first it put Esares on edge, because he half-expected her to keep trying to push him into saying something that was likely to get him into more trouble than he already was in. It quickly became apparent, though, that she was perfectly happy to carry the conversation by herself.

Unlike Anereth had predicted, Esares didn't find it annoying. As he became reasonably confident Valithia was, at least currently, not inclined to unleash her temper on him, he found himself relaxing into the armchair, and rather interested in what she had to say. She didn't really tell him anything too helpful about Anereth directly, but apparently the kind of slave he disliked was one who would filch any dish involving meat left standing around unsupervised.

That was... well. Esares didn't know what to make of it, honestly, but he was getting the impression he wasn't in much danger of ending up on Anereth's bad side for any of the same reasons Ryminis had.

He also learned Valithia found most of her classes terribly boring and had nearly no interest in magical theory at all. The only subject she expressed any enthusiasm for was illusion magic; other than that, it sounded as though she did the bare minimum amount of studying necessary to achieve passable grades – not much like her brother at all. It was more something Sylves might do, if his teachers let him get away with it.

Unlike Sylves, she didn't prefer social events to her lessons, and complained about those, as well. Apparently they were stuffy and boring and who wants to spend all night talking about fashion and slaves and politics and the weather?

Now this at least was a sentiment Esares rather shared – not that he ever got to talk about those topics.

He found himself comparing her to Imeria. Sylves' sister also didn't care too much for classes or about whether Esares' behavior was entirely proper, and wasn't as taken with social gatherings as her brother. She didn't really have Valithia's interest in chatting away at him, though. She liked to talk about him instead, which was also the main topic she focused on when she did speak to him. That, and how unfair it was that Sylves didn't let her have him. So Esares supposed Imeria and Valithia both liked to complain about their brothers, but for very different reasons.

Naturally, Esares liked better the one of the two who had so far not expressed any interest in having him warm her bed. One time Valithia did call him over to her, and Esares went woodenly, heart seizing in his chest; but she only showed him the half-finished drawing, which even Esares could tell was well done and looked quite a bit more impressive to him than what he pictured when he heard 'quick sketch'.

After this, Esares slowly grew more confident Valithia did in fact not currently have sex on her mind. Perhaps she wasn't comfortable sharing a slave with a relative, or strongly preferred women. Perhaps she wasn't feeling like sleeping with anyone after such a long journey. Or maybe she was as odd as her brother, and simply thought there were better uses for a bed slave – like drawing him.

Esares usually wouldn't have been about to question his luck, but in this case it was a little maddening. Disobeying Anereth had earned him nothing but more riddles, and a punishment he distinctly wasn't looking forward to, and one should think he'd at least be able to get some clues from the man's overly chatty sister now that he'd ended up alone with her against his wishes. Instead, she just kept adding to his confusion.

“I hope you're not too bored,” Valithia said not long after she'd had him look at the state of her drawing. She'd been quiet the past five minutes or so, concentrating on adding to it.

“Not at all, ma'am. Thank you for your consideration.”

“I should ask Sylves if he wants to trade you for Ryminis.”

Esares shifted, uncomfortable. It wasn't as though he believed Sylves would actually agree to such a proposal were he asked, or even believed belonging to Valithia would be a definite step down. He just didn't like being talked about as a thing to be traded for another.

It only made it slightly better that he was fairly sure Valithia had been speaking mostly in jest.

“Not that he'd say yes if he's smart,” Valithia said. “Or that Ryminis would play along. And I suppose you don't like me that much, either.”

Esares jolted. “It is my honor to serve you,” he said, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Well, but of course you like Sylves better, right?”

Esares stared at her. He'd not judged her quite so naive.

Then he sharply reprimanded himself, because he wasn't being much better. She was a human, and a mage, and she was also very young. Or no – not young; sheltered. Of course she expected him to adore his master, even if from what had happened at her school she would know there were demons who did not.

Sylves was still Sylves, after all. Just because Anereth wasn't in awe of him like most everyone else didn't mean his position as the Chosen One would mean nothing to Anereth's little sister, either.

Lowering his gaze, Esares said, softly, “He's my master.”

There wasn't an immediate response. When he glanced up, Valithia was squinting at him. “I'm not sure whether that's a polite yes or a polite no. Probably a yes? Sylves seems nice.”

“My master is very generous.”

“You know what, talking with Ryminis does have one or two advantages over talking with you. No offense.”

“None taken, ma'am,” Esares said, and thought Ryminis sounded like someone he would have enjoyed meeting. It was too bad Valithia hadn't brought her; though if Anereth took issue with her, perhaps it was for the best. He preferred the people who had near absolute power over him in a good mood.

He considered asking about her, and about what precisely her history with Anereth looked like. That would be overstepping, though, not to mention if Anereth heard about it, he was unlikely to appreciate Esares making inquiries about him behind his back. Esares already was in enough of a precarious situation for the time-being, and he was fortunate Anereth hadn't reacted more badly to being defied so brazenly.

Esares just had one more reason to regret his actions, then. He could have used this opportunity to try and gather information and hopefully it would have been more fruitful than listening in on the humans had turned out to be, but now he could no longer risk it. He might be able to ask Anereth himself about Ryminis later and get at least some answers, but probably he was going to be a lot less eager to talk about the subject than Valithia would have been.

And what almost interested Esares more was the other slave Valithia had mentioned – Kyenne. Anereth's first slave, like Esares was Sylves' first. He wondered what 'mess' Anereth had made of things that Valithia believed she wouldn't be able to surpass. Yet it would be too forward to ask Anereth about that for sure.

Valithia finished drawing him a short while later. It was undeniable now it was a skillful picture, all finely-rendered lines and accurate proportions, and when she asked his opinion, Esares told Valithia he admired her talent not just because it was the only response he could reasonably give. Still, he found it silly his compliment brought a pleased blush to her cheeks, as though he would have been able to say anything other than what she wanted to hear. Though perhaps also a little endearing. She really was unexpectedly naive.

Once she'd stored the drawing safely in a thin folder in her bag, Valithia accompanied him to the study to find Anereth – who promptly sent Esares to make them a late lunch while Valithia remained to talk with her brother.

And Esares wasn't surprised when once he was done preparing the rice and vegetables, Anereth told him to go to the bedroom to eat, but that didn't stop the bitterness welling up.

*

Esares spent most of what remained of the day by himself in the bedroom. Anereth didn't even tell him to make dinner when the time came, but simply brought him some bread with cheese and butter, perhaps because there wasn't exactly an abundance of kitchen ingredients in the house anymore. Or perhaps it was part of his punishment – with nothing to do but sit around and wait, Esares certainly regretted having had the book taken away, even if it was just for one day.

By the time Anereth returned to the bedroom with the apparent intention of staying there for the rest of the night, locking the door behind himself, Esares had almost begun to look forward to his punishment, because at least being disciplined was something to do other than thinking about his life, which... just wasn't an especially good thing to think about.

When he actually sank to his knees before Anereth and pressed his forehead to the floor in the customary position of a slave awaiting correction, though, he wished Anereth could just have forgotten about him and spent the night reading in his study, or talking over tea with his sister. Doing anything that wasn't punishing Esares.

Perhaps he should just have asked Anereth to take away the book for a few more days as he had said he'd originally intended. Esares would hate the precious lost time for reading, but was it worth going through whatever Anereth had in mind? Even if it wasn't terrible...

“Get on the bed,” Anereth said, with so little inflection to the words he might as well have made an offhanded comment about the night sky visible through the window.

“Yes, my lord.” Esares got up, then in front of the bed hesitated. “How--”

“Sit for now. Look at me.”

Esares did, and couldn't help flinching when Anereth walked up to him.

“I did tell you some of what this punishment will not be,” Anereth said. “It will also not be me doing anything to you while the only reason you don't try to run is because you're more terrified of the consequences than you are of what I'm planning. I will postpone this if necessary. I will give you an alternative if you ask me to, though it will not be objectively more pleasant.”

Anereth put a single finger beneath Esares' chin, tilting it up just slightly. “This is about giving you a reason to try harder to obey me next time, not about cowing you into submission.”

Esares wasn't sure he understood the difference, or very convinced there was one, but he could grant that usually humans went about these things a little differently.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Anything you want to say?”

“No, my lord.”

“Do you need to go to the bathroom?”

Esares bit his lip. He did not find that question reassuring.

He drew a breath. “No, my lord.”

“Then lie down on your back, and don't move.”

“Yes, my lord.” Esares did as bidden, and for a moment everything felt strangely surreal and far away, except for his heart hammering in his ribcage.

Anereth stepped around him. Esares focused on the white ceiling, a speck of dust just above his head; the most minuscule dent in the material.

There was the sound of a drawer being opened next to him, then the clinking of metal. Esares' breathing stuttered. He forced himself to lie still, to not look.

He managed to keep this up while the manacle was closed around his right wrist and the chain fastened to the headboard. Then Anereth's hand brushed his ankle, and he recoiled, sitting up before even realizing he was disobeying an order again.

Anereth responded to his wide-eyed look by sitting down at the end of the bed, putting the chain down in his lap. Another two lay next to him.

“Please,” Esares said.

“Please what?” Anereth asked, and his tone was kind, but Esares suddenly was reminded of the last time the mage had spoken the words to him – when he had yanked up Esares' head by the hair because Esares had taken his book without permission.

He flinched from the memory.

“Please don't hurt me,” he said and closed his eyes, unable to take how pitiful he sounded.

And it was pitiful. He had begged Sylves to stop hurting him more times than he could count, but never to not do so in the first place – not in general; not as though he could hope for his master to not hurt him at all, in any way.

Anereth wasn't trying to give him a harsh punishment, wouldn't do anything to him half as bad as what Sylves had done to him before. So why couldn't he stand the thought of it?

“Shh,” Anereth said, and very slowly rested the back of his hand against Esares' cheek. Esares pressed into the contact almost frantically, and Anereth gently rubbed his knuckles across Esares' skin. “I said this isn't supposed to be painful. You told me you don't do well being hit while bound, so I certainly won't. Should we stop for now?”

Esares shook his head. He didn't want to have to start over the next day, and to have his gut twist into a tight knot every time he thought of it until then.

He opened his eyes, cheek still pressed against Anereth's hand. “I will be all right, my lord. Thank you for asking.”

“Ah,” Anereth said, and Esares thought he actually looked hesitant. The moment passed, however, and when he blinked Anereth appeared perfectly at ease again. “Can I continue?”

Esares averted his gaze, but nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

He lay back down without Anereth's prompting, and this time didn't move as Anereth chained first his legs and finally his other arm to the bed. His wrists were tied wide apart from each other, his ankles, mercifully, closer together. The manacles were all padded, and Esares had to fight not to giggle hysterically.

Of course fear of the consequences isn't going to be the only reason I don't try to run, his brain supplied helpfully, when I won't even be able to stand.

Anereth opened another drawer. Just after Esares could hear it slide closed again, the human said, “Lift up your head.”

Esares did, and oh yes, there was the blindfold. A long red piece of thick fabric that he let Anereth tie around his head without protest, even as he could feel his pulse speed up enough to easily compete with a bird's.

“There,” Anereth said as he gently pushed him back down. “That was almost the hardest part. Now I want you to listen.”

Esares swallowed. And swallowed again, because his throat still felt too dry to speak. It didn't help, but when he tried, he managed a quiet, “Yes, my lord.”

“What is going to happen from here is that you will not move and you will not speak. There are two exceptions to this: if you need me to release you for any reason, or if something is wrong but not quite that severely. Telling me in those cases is not optional. If you're not sure whether I would want to hear, you will also tell me.”

Esares took a while to process this, questions flitting through his mind. Not move for what? What counted as there being something wrong? Should he be comforted by Anereth's apparent commitment to not doing him lasting harm, even non-physical lasting harm, or should he worry whatever alternative Anereth might give him if Esares said he couldn't take this would be no better at all?

His lips parted, but then he remembered he was not supposed to speak, and stopped.

“You can still talk now,” Anereth said.

“I-- you will release me if I ask you to, my lord?”

“Yes. Scaring you half to death is not something I have an interest in. You have some problems with restraints, no?”

Esares couldn't help pulling against the shackles on his wrists slightly. “Some, my lord,” he admitted, a near-whisper.

“You're doing very well, though,” Anereth said. “Even if you end up asking me to let you go, I will take it into consideration that you tried. If you feel yourself beginning to panic, it's not worth trying to grit your teeth and endure, do you understand?”

Esares exhaled, and afterwards the rising and falling of his chest slowed a little. “Yes, my lord,” he said. “Thank you. I-- I'm sorry for disobeying you.”

Esares flinched when Anereth touched his forehead, but only because the contact came without any warning. He quickly settled as the mage slid his fingers across his temple, and tucked stray strands of hair behind his ear.

“I think,” Anereth said, trailing his finger down Esares' cheek, along his jaw, “it's best that we're getting this out of the way now. You have expressed more than a little concern as to what will happen if you cross me. I promise finding out will not be all that horrible.” He retracted his hand. “All right?”

Esares still wasn't completely sure where this was going, but his voice was almost steady when he said, “Yes, my lord.”

He was beginning to think that this really couldn't be so terrible. Being bound was nerve-wrecking, made him feel like pain and humiliation would come any moment no matter what Anereth had said, because that was how these things went, and a mage's view of what would be cruel towards a demon would always be severely skewed. The blindfold only heightened this sense of helplessness, and being forbidden from speaking made it worse still, because he wouldn't be able to ask questions, or beg.

Except he could always ask Anereth to stop, and there was no good reason to believe Anereth would go back on his word and not listen if he did. And if Anereth wouldn't hurt him through spells or physical means while he was like this, and would not touch him more intimately than he had just now, then what truly fearsome possibilities did that leave? Clearly the chains and blindfold were in themselves a big part of the punishment – Esares had to wonder if there even was anything worse to it.

He could feel the bed shift as Anereth rose, and then again a minute later when he sat back down somewhere near Esares' feet.

Esares waited with bated breath, but nothing happened. He strained to hear something that would give him a clue as to what Anereth was doing, but for a while there was only the occasional faint rustling of cloth. Then a sound like a page in a book being turned. Suspiciously like a page in a book being turned.

A few minutes later, there was that same sound again, and this time Esares was sure of what he was hearing. It was just as well Anereth had ordered him to be silent, because he didn't think anything less would have sufficiently motivated him to press his lips together and not let a single huff of laughter escape past them. For the second time that day he felt tears against his eyelids, but this time they were born from mirth. Surely they were. Wasn't it funny that he had been terrified of Anereth reading a book?

He wondered if Anereth thought it was funny, too.

Esares supposed there could still be something more to come, something actually worth being afraid of, but he couldn't think of anything that made sense. He didn't believe Anereth would deliberately make him wait; not this time, not anymore. He remembered the man's 'warning', kneeling on the floor for an hour thinking he would be beaten, degraded, perhaps tortured through the use of magic, but not knowing when. If that had been a slap on the wrist, then how could this be meant to be anything else?

It wasn't worse. It could hardly even compare, despite how difficult it was to focus on anything but the feeling of the cuffs against his wrists and ankles – the fact that if Anereth wanted to do anything to him now, Esares wouldn't even be able to cringe away, for all the good that'd do him.

He had expected a true punishment to be more sickening, even coming from Anereth, especially coming from Anereth. He hadn't thought he could bear Anereth punishing him because that, at least, would be no different from any other human punishing his slave; even with the concessions Anereth had already made, in his heart Esares had doubted their significance. But this... Esares didn't know what this was.

Was it because Anereth thought of him as unusually delicate? Esares frowned beneath the blindfold. He didn't think he was. Despite Sylves, he was still-- he could still cope with fear, with pain. He did not think he was damaged any more than most others of his kind in a similar position were damaged.

Was Anereth misjudging him, then? Or did he always deal out punishments like this, with thought, and some genuine compassion? Perhaps last time had been the exception, because Esares had been just a stranger to him then, a bother, and now... well, he did keep saying he liked Esares.

Esares stopped. Oh. Oh. And he wanted Anereth to like him, didn't he? Not just because it was safer, not in the way he wanted Sylves to like him – he wanted Anereth to actually care, to think good things of him, to not view him as foolish or fragile even when that might benefit Esares. He wanted to be treated as more than a pet, but beyond that...

He wanted Anereth to like him.

Esares lay there, bound by the chains Anereth had put on him, unable to see anything but the black of the blindfold Anereth had placed over his eyes, not allowed to speak or move, and let this sink in.

He was weak, wasn't he? Like a dog happily performing tricks for table scraps.

But even tied down and unable to see, placed in as vulnerable a position as he'd ever been in physically, he felt in far less danger than he did unbound with Sylves anywhere near him. He was, in fact, quite certain Anereth would not hurt him while he was like this, or touch him in any manner that would make him feel dirty in a way water could do nothing about.

And despite having some trouble keeping his breathing even and his mind from lingering on unlikely what ifs, he couldn't help but think that at least Anereth was decent enough that he wouldn't just leave him like this if he did panic; that asking was all it would take to be let go. That Anereth would take it seriously if he said it was too much. Probably Esares could still beg him to just keep the book for a day or two longer instead and Anereth would accept that as sufficient punishment.

This wasn't bad, though, and Esares really wanted to read again in the morning. And maybe to please Anereth. An aching back and limbs and a stiff neck were things he could live with. And his skin below the manacles felt a bit raw, but they were padded, and it was more of an annoyance than actual pain. He told himself he was fine.

And he mostly was, for a long while. He was sure more than half an hour had passed by the time he could no longer deny he was having difficulty keeping the fear at bay and his breathing under control.

Sylves had tied him down like this many times. Without the blindfold, and often also without the chains on his legs. He preferred that Esares kept them wide apart, and did so of his own accord. He had bound them after Esares tried to kill him, though, and kept him in a position all too similar to this one for days, before at least removing the shackles from his ankles.

Esares had spent weeks largely chained to Sylves' bed if not the nearby wall, in a variety of ways, being trained. His master had started with the whip, and progressed to mostly hitting him with the paddle or his bare hand by the end of it; and it had been Esares who had coaxed Sylves into fucking him again, because he had been that desperate for it to stop.

And once he tried to convince Sylves he had learned his lesson and was sorry and would never dream of harming him again, it had been easy. Sylves didn't enjoy hurting him, not like that; and what he would have enjoyed even less was accepting that Esares couldn't be tamed, couldn't be made to want to be owned by him. Despite all evidence to the contrary, his master had never said anything to indicate he had even once considered that Esares might have meticulously and without a shred of remorse planned his death for days, weeks, months.

Because Sylves cared about him, had all but fallen for him at first sight – and why wouldn't he have, when Esares had devoured all information about the Chosen One's tastes his people had been able to come by long beforehand, and known exactly how to play his cards?

And so making Sylves forgive him, convincing him he adored him and wanted him and hadn't meant it, had been as easy as talking once Esares managed to bend his pride that far. Except it had made him hate himself more than failing to kill Sylves in the first place, and it had revolted him, and he loathed every second of pain and humiliation that had led up to it, and he hated chains, he hated them, he--

Esares drew a gulp of air, releasing it again as slowly as he could and feeling like most of it hadn't even reached his lungs. Was he sure he wouldn't panic at this rate? Anereth had ordered him to speak up if something was wrong, and it wouldn't please him to find Esares had disobeyed him yet again, which he would if Esares started really struggling to breathe, or trembling.

He had nothing to gain from waiting until he could no longer hide that he was having difficulties. Still... he wanted to see this through to the end, so that the punishment would be completely over and Anereth satisfied. And he wasn't terrified, not really, not of anything that was actually happening. He was just... thinking too much.

Reminding himself Anereth had told him to let him know if anything was wrong at all, Esares decided to just try a small request. Or at least, he hoped it was small.

“Could you-- could you talk to me, maybe? Just.” He swallowed, took a deep breath. “Just for a bit.”

“No,” Anereth said, and for a moment, Esares' heart stopped. But then the man continued, “We're done here.”

A hand was laid on Esares' ankle, cool and light.

“No,” Esares said, almost trying to jerk away from the touch, except it was hard to forget he wasn't supposed to when his legs were chained in place. “I can--”

“Quiet.” The word was spoken softly, almost without emphasis. Still Esares fell silent immediately, realizing he had as good as talked back to Anereth, and worrying the mage was displeased by this.

Anereth freed his legs, then slid forward on the bed and removed the blindfold. While Esares blinked and fought to get used to the sudden flood of light, Anereth took off the cuffs on his wrists, as well.

By the time the mage had put the shackles and blindfold back into the drawers they had presumably come from, Esares' eyes had mostly adjusted, only stinging a little when he didn't blink every few seconds.

“Well?” Anereth asked, looking down at him expectantly.

It wasn't clear permission to talk, but it very much seemed like an order to do so. Esares wet his lips. “Thank you for being merciful, my lord. I apologize for having caused you trouble, for defying you, for spea--”

“Ah, no,” Anereth interrupted, his expression one of surprise. After a moment, a slightly rueful smile appeared on his features. “I meant: what do you think of your punishment?”

Esares stared, confounded. “What do I think?”

“Yes.”

“I...” Esares paused. It was evident Anereth wasn't looking for expressions of gratitude anymore than he had been asking him to grovel. An actual opinion, then. Esares considered this, and decided, why not? “It wasn't cruel, my lord, or harsh.” He lowered his eyes to the human's chin. “I would want to avoid it in the future, but it's not... as you said, it's not something to cry over.” Realizing how his words might be taken, he hurriedly added, “It did make it clear I did something wrong, though, my lord. It is an incentive to behave. It just--” He floundered.

“Wasn't as horrible as you expected?”

Esares closed his eyes, but only briefly. He'd had enough of seeing only darkness for a while. “Yes, my lord.”

“Good. This wasn't intended to be a severe punishment, but.” Anereth paused, regarding him. “While I can make things very uncomfortable for you should I ever get the impression you're disinclined to learn from your mistakes, I will not aim to be more cruel.”

Esares bit his lip.

“What?” Anereth asked.

Esares looked anywhere but at the human. “You said before that you would keep me chained, if I-- I know it's not cruel, but--

“Oh no, it is cruel. It certainly would be cruel to you. Do you want to sit up?”

Esares exhaled. “Please.”

“Go ahead, then.”

Anereth waited as Esares braced himself on one hand and lifted his upper body off the bed. There wasn't a muscle that didn't ache from being held still so long. It hadn't been more straining than kneeling for an extended period of time, though; at least the mattress was soft.

He folded his legs under himself, fixing his gaze on his lap and resisting the urge to rub his wrists.

Finally Anereth said, “I was being harsh. If I could not trust you to behave yourself, I wouldn't leave you out of my sight, but the involvement of chains would be minimal.” When Esares chanced a glance, the human's lips were just curving into a smile. “Not that I think any such thing is going to be necessary.”

“I'll do better, my lord,” Esares said, quietly.

“You asked me what I would do if you insulted me,” Anereth said, and Esares tensed. “The truth is, compared to this I do not care. If you're curious about something, ask me – be impudent, snap at me if I refuse to answer or ask five more times if you must. It's not important to me that you always mind your tongue. But do not snoop. I refuse to cede my privacy in my own home.”

Esares inhaled sharply, avoiding the mage's eyes. He'd not thought of it like that. He knew Anereth valued his personal space in a physical sense – rooms Esares was denied access to, belongings he wasn't supposed to touch. He'd also known Anereth would not take kindly to Esares listening in on a private conversation of his. He'd not quite connected the two, though. He'd not believed himself to be doing something that would gain him Anereth's ire just as much as taking his things without permission – as calling him names, or more so.

He bowed his head, fists clenched into the fabric of his pants.

“Do you want some time alone?” Anereth asked, and it was so strange, because he hadn't even hurt him. Sylves expected him to be grateful for less merciful punishments, and certainly didn't offer to leave him be afterwards.

“No. I-- can I just go to the bathroom, my lord?”

“Of course.”

Esares stayed in the bathroom longer than necessary. He took his time washing his hands and face, and after turning off the water for a while just looked at himself in the mirror. At his arms that he'd unconsciously wrapped around himself, the colorful clothes Anereth had bought for him, the collar around his neck that looked so flimsy and harmless, but kept him from everything he had been.

Was this all there was for him now? Obeying others' orders, being punished if he didn't; being grateful when someone treated him with a modicum of kindness and respect.

The worst thing was that he thought it wouldn't be so bad, if it were just this. He would still be a slave, still never see those he loved again – still have to do the humans' bidding and put on a pretty smile while they debased and killed his people. But at least he would be more than someone's pet. At least he would not be alone in every way that mattered.

Esares knew that it was weak, and selfish, but he wanted someone to care. Someone whom he could talk to, and touch, and who wasn't so many miles away he might as well live in a different world.

So when he returned to the bedroom, he knelt down next to Anereth, and nuzzled his thigh, and thanked him, and when Anereth put his book aside to play with his hair, he closed his eyes and relaxed into the gentle ministrations. And he regretted, for the first time, that Sylves was too fond of him to ever sell him.

Chapter Text

“Here.”

Esares forced himself to take the book from Anereth slowly and with his head bowed, rather than snatching it from him as quickly as possible. “Thank you, my lord.”

“Tell me when you're done with it.”

Involuntarily, Esares' grip on the book tightened. He kept his eyes on the deep green cover and the golden letters standing out against it rather than on Anereth as he said, “Yes, my lord.”

“You may do as you like until Valithia gets up. She's a bit picky, so no sense making breakfast beforehand.”

Esares considered asking Anereth what he was going to do until then – but the only good reason to do so would be if he planned to keep the man company should that be a possibility, and he didn't really feel like it.

He just wanted to read, and to be left alone. As cordially as Anereth treated him, he still was someone who would punish him if he behaved in a manner he disapproved of; just not violently or necessarily at the first offense. Being around him meant having to watch himself, even if to a much lesser extent than would have been ordinary, and at the moment, Esares felt exhausted just thinking about it.

As soon as Anereth was out of the room, Esares made himself more comfortable on the bed and opened the book where he'd left off. He noted his hands were trembling slightly, but there was no one around to see, and so it didn't matter. He hungrily devoured every word, blocking out the thoughts of I could have lost this and sooner or later I will lose this.

There were only a few dozen pages left by the time Anereth told him to come downstairs. It really had just been two more chapters.

“What, we can only have rice porridge or cooked eggs?” Valithia asked shortly after Esares entered the living room.

“There's also salad,” Anereth said.

Valithia made a face. “Who eats salad for breakfast? Actually, who eats salad, period? I guess I can live with the porridge, but without fruit it's so bland.”

“Porridge, then,” Anereth said, ignoring the complaint. He looked at Esares, who took the cue and with a shallow bow retreated to the kitchen.

When he had the rice and milk simmering on the stove, Valithia joined him. “Do you always cook for my brother?”

Esares turned to her, eyes downcast, and tried not to shift nervously. Valithia had been nice enough to him so far, but she'd also for the most part not required him to contribute much to the conversation. He preferred it that way. It greatly reduced the likelihood of him saying something wrong.

Though messing up with this particular question seemed improbable, at least. “Usually, ma'am.”

“Do you also cook for Sylves?”

Esares glanced up at Valithia, surprised. A personal slave cooking for his owner once in a while wasn't unheard of, but it almost sounded like she was asking if he did so regularly, and that would just be odd.

At least Anereth was living on his own without any servants, so a personal slave being responsible for the kitchen work made some sense in that situation, and was probably the least peculiar thing about it, really. Sylves lived in his family's estate, though – what reason could he have for wanting a bed slave to act as a cook? Even at school, there were plenty of servants available to prepare and deliver meals.

Though maybe that was different where Valithia studied.

“No, I only--” Esares began, but broke off. He had prepared food for Sylves exactly twice, roughly a week before he'd tried to kill him. It couldn't without some imagination be called 'cooking', though, and anyway, bringing it up would merely invite more questions; the kind that might not have easy answers. “No, ma'am.”

Valithia hmm-ed. “So for a previous owner? Or was it before you'd had one, for yourself or--” Esares tried not to react, but he'd not expected the woman to inquire into his past again.

Being asked about non-existent siblings was one thing – this was another. The moment he said yes, it had been before, she was almost certain to pursue that line of questioning.

He couldn't prevent his expression from closing off, his body from going stiff. Why did she even care?

Valithia watched him through narrowed eyes. “Never mind.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean--”

“Don't,” Valithia cut him off, and Esares winced and snapped his mouth shut. He'd known this would not go smoothly. “I'm not great with people, but even I can interpret that look. I didn't mean you have to tell me anything.” She looked frustrated, but perhaps not with Esares.

He bit his lip, unsure how to proceed. The truth was that he'd rarely had a need to cook while he'd been with his clan; only when he'd traveled somewhere alone, or with Sinieru.

He'd not gone out on his own often.

“It wasn't for another owner,” he said softly, gaze directed far to the left of the human's face. He hoped this response would satisfy her somewhat, while still conveying he was indeed uncomfortable with the subject. Of course, whether or not that was a reason to drop it was up to Valithia. Esares certainly wasn't going to ask her to.

Valithia considered him. “You don't like talking about before you became a slave?”

Esares kept his eyes on the table behind her. “It doesn't come up a lot, ma'am.”

“I guess,” Valithia said, slowly, “it must be be difficult. Since you can't go back.”

Esares opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say. He had thought she would assume, like Sylves, like Imeria, that he preferred the current state of affairs. That his past was what troubled him, and not the fact that it was lost to him.

It was also painful, to have someone put it so matter-of-factly. Because it was true – as long as his people didn't succeed in rising up and striking back at their enemies, there was no chance of regaining his freedom. And even if they did manage to take Desarias in Esares' lifetime, he might never return to who he had been.

Because he'd changed too much, but also because to remove the collar, long years of research might be necessary, or one of the humans who had made it would have to divulge the information of how precisely it had come into existence. The only alternative was for someone powerful enough to destroy it through sheer force; but the Ivariney were shrewd.

The Timnestra collar was deemed one of the safest options for rendering a demon harmless in part because there was no way for anyone not familiar with its inner workings to remove it that didn't have an incredibly high chance of killing the wearer. The Ivariney had never made a secret of this feature of the collar's, and Esares' people had confirmed their claims through bitter experience.

Esares couldn't go back.

“Great,” Valithia said, “now you're looking even more upset. What did I say this time? I didn't think I'd ever say this, but just ignore me, all right? I talk too much.”

Esares didn't know what to make of this woman or her brother. Was this the part where he assured her she hadn't done anything wrong and that he'd just gotten lost in his own thoughts, and apologized for it?

He couldn't bring himself to.

So he just stood there, head bowed and fingernails digging into his thighs. So much for staying in Valithia's good graces.

What would have made sense was if she had snapped at him or left the kitchen in a huff, or if she'd done both in short succession. Instead she said, “Look, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you. I'll help and set the table, all right?”

Esares stared at her.

“What?” Valithia asked, and it sounded defensive. “I can set a table.”

“You don't have to--”

“Well no, but I didn't have to make you feel bad, either.” And she came up next to him and began rummaging through the cupboards.

Esares knew he should stop gaping at her, but it was proving a little hard to pull off.

Only when she'd finished assorting the tableware he caught himself and tried again, “Please, let me--”

“You're already making the porridge. As I said, just ignore me.”

Not believing there was much of a point in attempting to stop her a third time, Esares watched as the woman made off with the dishes, presumably heading for the dining room.

After a long moment, he turned back to the porridge, stirring it a few times. He hoped Valithia's idea of an apology wouldn't cause problems for him. Though he couldn't imagine Anereth getting too angry over it. Though-- Esares started. She'd taken three bowls and spoons and glasses, hadn't she?

Well this was uncomfortable.

And strange. Maybe he was jumping to conclusions, as a result of having spent too much time with Anereth. Perhaps she was taking one of each item upstairs for him. Or he supposed not the bowl, that wouldn't really make sense – but she might place it in the dining room for now so that he could fill porridge in it there once he carried the pot over, and then take it upstairs.

That would still be incredibly considerate, but not entirely bizarre. Yes, that had to be it.

He could only half convince himself, though, and almost asked when she returned to get two small pitchers with juice and water respectively. In the end, he bit his tongue and told himself it would be fine – there was no way a human, who was also a mage and a noble, would expect him to seat himself at the table along with her family. Really, it was less absurd to think she was intending for him to eat in a corner on the floor.

Not that that seemed likely, either. No, she knew he'd had his meals in the bedroom the day before, and so of course she would keep to that.

He regretted his wishful thinking when he finally carried the rice porridge over to the dining room and found the table had indeed been set for three people.

Anereth and Valithia were already seated and engaged in conversation about one thing or another. They looked up when he entered.

Esares lowered his head and didn't glance at either of them as he put the pot down on a pad on the table. Maybe if he pretended not to notice the third bowl and glass, he could avoid making things awkward.

He backed up and made to turn around, but Anereth's hand on his wrist stopped him. “Sit.”

Esares' gut twisted, tense with the knowledge that Anereth did not actually want him there. He let the man tug him towards the chair next to him, though, and obediently sat down in it.

Valithia smiled at him. It looked friendly, but suddenly he wasn't so sure. She wasn't trying to get him in trouble, was she?

“You look like we're going to eat you and not the porridge,” Anereth remarked, keeping his hand on Esares' arm.

Esares twitched. “I'm sorry.”

Anereth regarded him. “Is something wrong?”

“No, my lord.”

“Come with me for a moment.”

“The food will get cold,” Valithia said.

“We won't be long.” Anereth stood, still holding on to Esares.

Esares mechanically followed him to the living room. He wasn't scared, exactly, but he found it difficult to guess how displeased Anereth was with him.

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly when they stopped. “I know I should have done it myself, but I--”

“Relax,” Anereth said and released him. “I didn't bring you here to scold you. I just want to know what has you so jumpy.”

Esares looked away, biting his lip.

“I know Valithia lifting a finger is shocking,” Anereth said, “but odder things have happened. She didn't do anything to frighten you, did she?”

“No, my lord,” Esares assured him quickly. “Lady Valithia has been very kind.”

Anereth's gaze was assessing. “Is it still because of the punishment, then?”

“No, my lord, it's not anything important, I'm sorry for troubling you, I will--”

“Esares. Just tell me.”

Very quietly, Esares asked, “Must I?”

Anereth sighed. It sounded annoyed.

Esares flinched.

“No, if it's not important, you don't have to,” Anereth said. “But if you don't tell me, I can't fix it. And more likely than not, Valithia will take it upon herself to find out what the issue is instead, and then we both can deal with her prying.”

Esares almost grimaced. He would concede that at this rate it was going to be an extremely uncomfortable breakfast, if nothing else.

And there wasn't any sense irritating Anereth, was there?

It wasn't really a big deal. He would just be stating the obvious. It was silly that he didn't want to hear it confirmed outright, as though it made a difference.

Looking anywhere but into Anereth's eyes, he said, “I know you don't want me to sit with you.”

Anereth tilted his head to one side. “You know something I don't, then.”

“You don't have to be nice about it. I'm not--” Esares balled his fists. “I'm just sorry for bothering you.”

Anereth regarded him, gaze speculative. “You're actually upset about this,” he said, “aren't you.”

Esares set his jaw and averted his eyes. He was frustrated with himself for being so transparent, and more so for letting the matter get to him in the first place. Had he deluded himself that much?

He was a slave, not a guest. It might suit Anereth's whims to permit him at his table when they were alone, but you did not have members of your family dine with your toys. Or pets.

“And you were upset about it yesterday, too,” Anereth said.

It wasn't a question, and so Esares just kept glaring at the closest wall.

He tried not to tense as Anereth grasped a strand of his hair, sliding it between his fingers. “I said I like you. You're not a bother, and there's no reason why you shouldn't eat with us.”

“But yesterday--”

“Yesterday I wanted to speak with my sister. But everything's still the same. You don't have to hide away in the bedroom during meals.” The mage dropped his hand.

Esares carefully watched Anereth's face. “Won't it be strange?”

“I don't see how. It's just Valithia. Unless you'd prefer to eat by yourself?”

“No, I-- thank you.” He took a breath, uncurled his fists. Bowed his head and looked at Anereth through his lashes. “I don't know what I did to deserve such kindness, but I'm grateful.”

“I almost think you're serious,” Anereth said. “Really, Sylves is pathetic.” Esares blinked, caught off-guard, but Anereth didn't pay it any heed. “Come on.”

Esares wished he understood this human a little better. He followed him back to the dining room, silently musing on whether Anereth viewed letting Esares eat at the table with him as something other than a privilege, after all. He had a hard time, at least, imagining Anereth making him have whole meals on the floor, regardless of how well Esares did or didn't please him; so maybe he considered eating together more of a default than a favor to be granted when he felt like it.

It was a nice thought. Overly optimistic, maybe, but nice.

And if he enjoyed that Anereth had repeatedly indicated disapproval of Sylves' treatment of him, well, there was no harm in that. He was well aware that Anereth still regarded him far from as an equal, and that he didn't need a human's opinion to validate his own. It was only natural, though, to want someone agreeing with him about something important once in a while, wasn't it?

Even no longer believing himself to be intruding, and despite it being what he could now admit he had wanted, eating with Anereth and Valithia was rather an uneasy experience for Esares. It was true that neither of the two seemed to find his presence at the table strange, but Esares certainly did. He tried to picture himself eating like this with Sylves and Imeria, or one of their brothers, and it was like trying to imagine a dragon giving away all treasures they had claimed, or one of the Ivariney declaring they would abandon their position to use their gift for farming instead.

Anereth and Valithia mostly talked among each other, eventually arguing about whether they ought to go to the market. Anereth was in favor of waiting until they had servants to send, declaring he had to get some benefit from having them in his house. Valithia wanted to go out immediately, unwilling to have a plain salad or more rice for lunch.

“Fine, I'll just go by myself, then,” she finally told her brother when he refused to budge.

“If you insist.”

“But going alone is boring, and I'd have to take a carriage or ask directions, and--” She stopped.

Esares had a bad feeling. Reluctantly, he glanced up from his bowl – and yes, Valithia was looking at him.

He froze with his spoon lifted an inch from the bowl.

“You're not going to take Esares,” Anereth said with reassuring certainty.

Valithia glared at her brother. “I don't see why I can't. Why not ask him?”

“Because I'm the one who will never hear the end of it if it gets people talking. And does he look like he wants you to ask him?”

Valithia swiveled her gaze to Esares again. He didn't move and barely allowed himself to blink, and hoped his expression leaned more towards 'person very uncomfortable with being dragged into the center of an argument' and less towards 'cornered rodent'.

Valithia frowned and returned her attention to Anereth. “All right, but I don't understand why we can't just all go. It's not good for you to stay inside all day. And it's not good for Esares, either! He can't very well go for a stroll if he feels like it.”

This time it was Anereth whose gaze slid to him. Esares lowered his spoon, and tried to sink into his chair.

Suddenly eating in the bedroom on his own seemed perfectly appealing.

Anereth turned back to Valithia. “Fine.”

Esares did a double take.

Valithia, too, was visibly caught off-guard. “Really?”

“Clearly you're very determined.”

“I am,” Valithia said, firmly. “So can we go right now?”

“How about you finish your food first?”

“But--”

“I don't share your enthusiasm to jump up from the breakfast table and run straight out the door. I have things to do before that, and so does Esares – the table and kitchen aren't going to clean up themselves, for one. We'll leave in an hour. Of course, you could always make a list of the things we need in the meantime. I don't want to have to go a second time because you forgot your favorite dessert, whatever that currently is.”

“Strawberry cake,” Valithia said without missing a beat. “You know what, I think I'll actually do that. Just don't expect salad to be on it.”

“Don't worry, I'll remember to get that myself.”

“Ugh,” Valithia said. “And you wonder why you never got along with Ryminis.”

“I don't wonder.”

“Didn't you try to feed her an apple once?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know how we're related,” Valithia said.

“Are you telling me you've now also developed a terrible loathing for apples?”

“No, but I don't try to give them to anyone. Who does that?”

“A normal person?” Anereth suggested.

“You'd think so. And that's why she hates you.”

“I'm heartbroken,” Anereth deadpanned.

“Just don't think I'll have any of that salad.”

As Valithia finished eating – the only one with any porridge left in her bowl –, Esares couldn't help his thoughts dwelling on Ryminis. It sounded like she not only greatly enjoyed meat, but had a diet that mostly consisted of it. There were a number of clans for whom that would be typical, like the Falmir and the Uvinar, but Esares couldn't come up with any whose members were popular with humans looking for personal slaves.

The Falmir had long conspicuous claws that regrew within a day when clipped, and razor sharp teeth whose color and shape tended to not appeal to humans, just as the thick fur that covered most of their bodies. The Uvinar fit with human standards of beauty more easily and rarely looked intimidating, but their skin gave most outside their clan who came into contact with it rashes, and their saliva was toxic to humans and some other demons.

Similar reasons disqualified any other clan Esares could think of as a somewhat likely option. Though he didn't know all the minor ones, who like his own clan weren't too often talked about. And well, if members of Ryminis' clan possessed traits that generally made humans consider them ill-suited for the life of a personal slave, then that might account for Anereth's obvious dislike of her, and Valithia's related complaints.

It was too bad he couldn't just ask. But even if he were able to work up the courage, and even if Valithia or Anereth proved willing to answer, they probably wouldn't be able to tell him anything overly helpful; only whether Ryminis had physical qualities that would usually make her undesirable as a personal slave. And despite this theory's ability to explain some things, it was still a rather unrealistic one, because then why would she have been sold as one?

Which meant most likely Anereth and Valithia would have exactly no answers to give him were he to ask about Ryminis' clan. It wasn't like humans cared much about the complex cultures of Esares' people, or as though their slaves were commonly eager to share information about their friends and family with them. Even harmless things they might say would just get twisted by their enemies, and be met with disregard if not scorn and ridicule – so why bother speaking up at all?

Esares was almost sure now he regretted that Valithia hadn't brought Ryminis with her, even if it would have irritated Anereth.

Esares wondered if he should be concerned that Valithia had said Ryminis hated Anereth. On the one hand, hating someone who saw you as a thing to be bought and sold, and had owned you, was only natural, regardless of the specific circumstances. On the other hand, it was also only natural to at least attempt to hide it if that person still had power over you, which in this case Anereth as Valithia's brother certainly did.

Of course, Valithia might well have been exaggerating, which would make what she had observed about her slave just hints of dislike, or discomfort. Even so, she'd spoken as though Ryminis disliked Anereth in particular, and as though Anereth would be well aware of this already.

That was a little disconcerting.

After clearing away and washing and drying the dishes, Esares went to find Anereth in his study. As expected, he was alone; though he didn't have a book in hand like Esares had anticipated, but a single piece of paper roughly the same size as one.

“What is it?” the mage asked as he looked up from it.

Esares shuffled into the room. “It's nothing urgent, my lord. I could come back another time if I'm disturbing you.”

“Try to stop worrying about that, would you. What did you want?”

Gaze respectfully lowered, Esares took a few more steps. “I just wanted to ask, my lord. You said... you said nothing's changed, but I'm not clear what the rules are now that--”

Anereth put down the piece of paper and waved him over. Esares stepped around the desk and knelt next to him, expecting the hand that slid into his hair a moment later. He leaned into the touch, letting it soothe some of his worry. Anereth liked him, to an extent actually cared about his feelings. Valithia's presence complicated things, but didn't change that.

“The rules are the same,” Anereth said. “You don't have to pay Valithia any mind. Unless, of course, she's talking to you. In which case it would be rude to ignore her, though I'd be sympathetic.”

Esares didn't manage to make his lips curve at the joke, but it did serve to loosen the knot of anxiety in his stomach somewhat. He buried his face against Anereth's thigh. “I may still eat with you, my lord?”

“Yes.“

“And I may still use the furniture, and go to the living room when I wish, and-- and read there?”

“Yes. And if you were no longer allowed to, and I'd forgotten to inform you, I'd certainly not blame you.” Anereth stopped petting him and hooked a finger beneath his chin, making him raise his head. “I didn't scare you that badly, did I?”

“No, my lord, I just... I don't want to displease you.”

“You won't. Not by accident, not in any way that really matters.” Anereth let go of Esares' chin to gently run his thumb over his cheek. “I'm quite taken with you.”

Esares hesitated, then carefully stretched to press a lingering kiss to the line of the mage's jaw.

When he pulled away, Anereth lightly pushed him back down. “I'll be in trouble if you keep being this charming. I might get you that stable full of horses, after all.”

Esares smiled slightly. It was different, to have someone say things like this who recognized his act for what it was, or at least a big part of it. Who'd had words of admiration specifically for his ability to pretend.

Who might express appreciation for a kiss to the jaw, but would let it end there.

“Did you want anything else?” Anereth asked, caressing his face with the back of his hand.

“No, my lord, thank you.”

Anereth helped him up, which since Esares' legs were feeling fine made little difference for how easily or comfortably he got off the ground, but as far as dismissals went was a courteous one.

When Esares was almost at the door, Anereth stopped him by calling his name.

He turned back around, curious rather than anxious. “Yes, my lord?”

“Will you tell me how you found 'Wondrous Plants of the World' once you're done with it?”

Esares blinked; then a smile stole over his face that he couldn't have tempered if he'd wanted to. “I would be glad to.”

Anereth smiled back, and maybe a day from now or ten, he would do something to make Esares loathe the air he breathed. He was a human, and thought of Esares' people as property to be owned, and so it seemed inevitable.

For now, though, Esares decided to try and forget about that. There was nothing waiting for him in the foreseeable future after this; nothing but Sylves' twisted affection that made Esares' stomach turn when he thought of it, more with every day that passed.

He would have this, and deal with the fallout when he had to.

Chapter Text

Esares had imagined the walk to the market would be uneventful and quiet; a little dull, maybe, but mostly relaxing until they arrived in the livelier parts of the city. Anereth and Valithia would talk with each other, or Valithia would talk and her brother would offer the occasional teasing remark, and neither of them would pay much attention to the slave trailing behind them.

None of these expectations turned out to line up with reality.

After leaving the house, Esares had maybe a minute in which he tuned out any nearby humans the best he was able and tried not to feel bitter that he could never go outside as he wished. Instead he tried to enjoy the fresh air that was neither too warm nor too cold, the gentle rays of sunlight that made it past a slightly clouded sky onto his face, and the sight of a flock of small brown birds perching on two adjoining rooftops.

Then Valithia slowed her steps until she was walking next to him rather than beside Anereth. Esares noticed belatedly, the realization jolting him out of his reverie.

“What do you like to eat?” Valithia asked without preamble, and Esares blinked at her very slowly.

“Ma'am?” he ventured, having no idea what she might be aiming at with that inquiry.

“What sort of food do you like? I'm sorry, I don't usually need to make shopping lists for anyone but myself.” Esares only now noticed the woman had a small pad of paper in hand, and a pen. “Ryminis isn't really one for variety, so I mostly know the stuff she likes by heart. But you don't peg me as a raw pig liver and overly spicy steak kind of guy. Correct me if I'm wrong, though.”

Esares stared, unsure how much of that had been meant in earnest. Eventually he remembered he was not supposed to look the woman in the eye, let alone gape at her like she was some strange apparition trying to communicate with him from a different plane, and lowered his head so fast his neck strained.

He almost tripped over an unevenness in the pavement.

“A favorite dish?” Valithia pressed. “A favorite snack?”

“I'm fine, ma'am,” Esares managed with some effort. “Thank you.”

“It's good you're fine, but that's not the same as not having food you especially like, right? I mean, I'm sure my brother didn't just feed you rabbit food, but does he even have sweets? Or well, I guess if your favorites are vegetables that's also fine.” Valithia said the last part like it physically pained her.

“I'm really fine, ma'am,” Esares assured her, and caught himself. He tried again, “There's nothing I need, thank you.”

Valithia frowned. “I just want to know what you like.”

“I--” Esares stopped, at a loss. He looked to Anereth, hoping for the man to intervene. Wherever Valithia's idea to buy food for him specifically came from, it was not something that was done, and Esares couldn't give her what she wanted without appearing to take advantage of some misguided idea of kindness that must be driving her.

Sure, a favorite snack – that alone would not have been such an odd thing for her to want to get him; though not typical, either, since she didn't have much to do with him at the end of the day. He would still have worried about Anereth thinking him greedy or ungrateful if he accepted, but he might have taken the risk.

Wanting to casually put his favorite dishes on a shopping list, though... that showed it wasn't just generosity lying at the core of her actions, but naivety. Valithia obviously wasn't aware that an owner was not supposed to do that for their slave, let alone someone else's, and so asking for any item at all from her would look bad for certain.

Refusing her, though, was just as much of an ill-advised idea.

Anereth glanced over his shoulder and met Esares' gaze, and his expression was difficult to read. He'd not been walking so far ahead it was likely he'd not been listening to the conversation, but he didn't show any signs of being bothered by it.

At first Esares thought he'd just turn his attention back to the road and stay out of it, but then the man stopped walking long enough to fall in step beside him, and Esares released a breath.

Anereth didn't involve himself in the manner he had expected, though, when he said, “You should tell her. But don't say salad.”

Valithia huffed. “He can say salad.”

Esares had no idea what was going on. “I'm not-- there's not much I dislike.” Valithia was looking displeased again. Quickly Esares added, “But I like fish. Or beef and vegetable stew.” He only added the latter because Anereth seemed to enjoy the dish, and so if either of the humans didn't care for fish, it would hopefully be an alternative that kept them both happy.

Esares did like stew, just not especially.

Valithia scribbled on her pad. “Great! Anything else you like? Maybe sweets, or fruit?”

Esares glanced at Anereth, who gave him an encouraging nod, a faint spark of humor in his eyes.

“Strawberries, oranges.” He hesitated. “Chocolate cookies.”

Anereth still looked vaguely amused and perhaps even interested, so Esares didn't think he'd said anything wrong.

“What el-”

“Don't fluster him,” Anereth said. Which, at this point, seemed a little hypocritical, but Esares was just relieved to finally have the man come to his aid. “He won't starve just because all of his favorite foods aren't in the house.”

“But why does it fluster him? It's just food. Surely Sylves gets him food – he should be used to it.”

Annoyance shot through Esares, and something more uncomfortable; as though the emotion was barbed around the edges, digging into him on its way out.

“It doesn't matter,” Anereth said. “If he wants to tell you more, he can do so even if you aren't hounding him. Didn't you say you wouldn't harass him?”

“I was just trying to be nice.” Valithia sounded sullen.

“And I'm sure he appreciates it.”

“I do,” Esares quickly assured them. “I didn't mean--”

“It's fine,” Anereth interrupted. “Valithia simply has no tact.”

“I have tact,” Valithia grumbled. “When people aren't being weird.”

“Which by her definition just so happens to be never.”

“I hate you,” Valithia said.

With a chuckle and a pat to Esares' head, Anereth picked up his pace again, and Esares slowed his own until he was back to walking three steps behind the man.

Valithia made to catch up to her brother, then paused. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Before Esares could come up with a reply, she turned from him and drew up next to Anereth.

Esares thought she was the weird one.

*

Esares didn't often get to look around the section of the market where most of the food stalls were. Sylves almost always sent servants when he required something from there, unless he already happened to be in the vicinity when it occurred to him he could do with some apples or figs or pastries.

As most wealthy humans were in this habit, there were hardly any slaves present in this part of the market aside from him. Mainly Esares was glad for that, because it meant he didn't have to see any of his people being walked around on leashes while he was there. It did make him feel a little out of place, though, which wasn't helped by the fact that their little group was odd looking enough to give some people pause.

It was difficult to tell what Anereth made of that, but Valithia seemed perfectly oblivious, or otherwise perfectly unbothered. She went from stall to stall, buying a little of this and some of that, with both Anereth and Esares following her around obediently. Sometimes Anereth picked something out from a stall, too, like milk and lettuce, but mostly he just helped Valithia carry her purchases.

That was an another oddity that no doubt accounted for some of the looks they drew. Less than half an hour into their little shopping trip, Anereth and Valithia were holding two bags each, while Esares carried none. Valithia had struck Esares as rather, well, sheltered and spoiled; yet asking him to take her bags didn't even seem to occur to her. And Anereth... who knew what Anereth was thinking.

He was debating whether he should offer to assist them when Valithia stopped in front of a stall selling bakery products, everything from bread to cake.

She turned to Esares. “You like strawberries, so do you also like strawberry cake?”

Esares threw a look at Anereth, who once again seemed neither surprised nor irked by his sister's bizarre behavior.

When he didn't interfere, Esares said, a little haltingly, “Yes, ma'am.”

She squinted at him. “You mean that, right? You don't have to humor me.”

Esares' heart skipped a beat. “No, ma'am, I--” He stopped, drew a breath. Continued a little more firmly, “I do like it. I've not had any in some time, but it's one of my favorites, as well.”

Valithia's face lit up. “Good, because I don't think I'd have managed to finish one all by myself. Knowing Anereth, he'll just have one tiny piece.” She promptly let the vendor wrap up the biggest of the strawberry cakes, and then had the tall blond woman fill a small paper bag with chocolate cookies.

Pressing it into Esares' hands, Valithia said, “Anything else?”

It took Esares a moment to get out a response as he tried not to stare again. “No, ma'am. Thank you.”

This time when he stole a glance at Anereth, there was obvious laughter in his eyes.

*

They were just about to head back when Valithia remembered she also needed to get school books.

“Couldn't you have thought of that before we bought all this?” Anereth asked.

“Well, I wanted to get them when I'm back home, but I honestly have no idea what good books for an essay about the history of battle magic are. And getting Tiliera to come shopping with me is a chore. Besides, it seems like something you'd know more about – these days she's all mystical potentially lethal artifact this, mystical almost certainly lethal artifact that. Pretty please?”

Anereth's sigh was long-suffering, and no twenty minutes later they stood in front of a small cozy looking shop that specialized in magic related literature. Esares had been inside with Sylves once, though usually his master got his books in one of the two shops on school grounds. He actually didn't remember much about the visit, because Sylves had been unhappy with him at the time for some reason Esares didn't recall, and he'd kept his gaze firmly on dark wooden tiles the entire time, preoccupied with ensuring his master would not find further fault with him.

“Esares can wait here with me, right?”

Esares wouldn't even have particularly minded, but for once Anereth was disinclined to indulge his sister. “No, it would be troublesome if anyone recognized him. I've told about half the important people in this city I'm not leaving him alone with anyone who's not Sylves, so they'd get even more nosy than usual. We won't take too long.”

Valithia made a noise of displeasure, but let them go without protest once they'd put their bags down on the ground. Of course, Esares' bag was only the size and weight of about two dozen very delicious chocolate cookies, and he tried not to feel too silly or lazy placing it on top of one of Anereth's much heavier ones.

The humans could, of course, have made their bags lighter through the use of magic, but that would have taken more work than a simple shopping trip warranted, particularly when they could just take a carriage back. So the logical thing for them to do when they didn't have any servants with them would have been to make Esares take their purchases, or at least the majority of them – not the customary use of a bed slave, but under the circumstances far less peculiar than the alternative.

His tentative offer to help the humans carry, though, had only been met with yet another pat on the head from Anereth. Which was always a bit of an irritating gesture, but in this case barely registered to Esares as demeaning.

In the end, Esares had spent the walk to the bookshop awkwardly, but not discontentedly, following after the humans while snacking on chocolate cookies, since apparently that was the way to go about pleasing Valithia. He thought, rather fatuously, that being her slave must be quite the experience.

The inside of the bookshop was a little hot, but that was the only complaint Esares had about it. He instantly fell in love with the unmistakable smell of books old and new that permeated the air, and the fact that there were no other customers around was an added bonus. Surely Anereth wouldn't mind if he took a closer look at a text here and there.

As Anereth searched for the books Valithia needed, Esares followed along, but stopped from time to time to very quickly read a book's title.

“Let me guess, you quite appreciate this detour?” Anereth asked just as Esares stepped away from a text called Potions for the Connoisseur.

The mage's words were clearly spoken in good humor, and Esares offered a slight smile. “I'm not unhappy with it, my lord.”

“You can look around if you want.”

The smile grew. “Thank you.”

He went, and there was no, Don't go too far or, Don't touch anything as though Esares had the good sense of a donkey. Esares had never considered having a favorite human before.

There were a lot of books whose titles intrigued him, but only one he stopped in front of and couldn't make himself move past. Like all the texts it shared its small shelf with, it had been placed to display a beautiful cover – golden and silver dragons on red background, and golden letters proclaiming the title: Song of Two Dragons.

It was a well-known book in Desarias, rather a classic, albeit one that had run out of popularity in recent years. Sylves' father possessed a copy, though Esares doubted he'd ever read it, as did Belyen.

The book, Esares knew very well, told the story of a dragon who fell in love with a human, and tried to change her very being to be with him. But the human body she created for herself couldn't bear the strain of her magic and within a year began to fall apart, bit by bit from the inside.

Her human lover pleaded with her to return to living as a dragon, but by then it was already too late, and the dragon told him she wouldn't leave him even if she could. In the end, the man – some kind of king or prince – begged the gods to take his life instead, and Lifilis the Goddess of Fire and Life was so moved by their love for one another she restored the dragon's true form, and turned her lover into one of her kind as well so they might always roam the skies together.

What fascinated Esares about the book was not the story of the lovers, though the depth of their feelings was certainly touching, but the fact that many details of the tale appeared to match with what Esares' people knew about the dragons of old. Goddesses and gods appeared that humans rarely ever spoke of, if at all. To add to the mystery, the author of the book was unknown, though of course people had come up with all kinds of theories about them, and at several points the work had been wrongly attributed to various famous human writers.

Esares had back home studied texts talking about it, and listened intently on the rare occasions one of Sylves' friends or teachers had mentioned the story, but he had never actually read it for himself.

He stood there for a long while, hating that the book was right in front of him and that still he couldn't even open it to read a single page, because the shopkeeper and by extension Anereth would not take to that fondly.

“Something catch your eye?” Anereth asked when he finally came to get him.

“Sorry.”

“I said you could look around. Which one is it that has you taking root here?”

“I... the one up highest, my lord.”

“Song of Two Dragons? I've never read it.” A pause. “Do you want it?”

Esares stilled, then whirled around. “My lord?”

“Do you want it?”

Esares looked at Anereth with wide eyes. “I--”

“Ah, no, let me rephrase that: Do you like it?”

“Yes, my lord,” Esares said, quietly. “I like it.”

Anereth took a copy out of the shelf, putting it on top of the books he was already holding with one hand. “We should hurry, or Valithia will have a lot to say about our tardiness. Never mind we're only here because of her.”

Esares was too flabbergasted to fully process the words, let alone come up with a response. Anereth didn't wait around for him to recollect himself, but proceeded to the front of the shop to pay for the books. Esares followed him in a haze.

He couldn't help but think that there had to be a catch to this, that Anereth would expect something in return. But even if that ended up being the case, Esares was pretty sure he did have a favorite human, now.

*

It took a while to sort their purchases from the bags into their proper place in the kitchen once they returned, but even Valithia helped, and so it didn't take as long as it could have. Finally they went back to the living room, where Valithia took her books out of the remaining bag – the single one that Esares had carried to the house, discounting the one with the cookies – and retreated to her room, announcing she was going to take a nap.

Anereth picked up the bag with the remaining book and held it out to Esares.

Esares took it slowly. “Thank you,” he said. He stepped forward, and tilted up his head to kiss Anereth's throat.

“Much too charming.”

Taking this as encouragement, Esares rose up on his toes and pressed his lips to the corner of Anereth's mouth.

“Don't tempt me, now,” Anereth said. “I will have to take a cold bath.”

Esares slid a little lower again, nuzzling the curve of the mage's neck. It was fine if Anereth turned him down. Perfect, even. But he had to offer. “I want to thank you, my lord.”

“I believe you already did.”

“Did I?”

“If you try to pay me back, that rather defeats the point of a gift, no?”

Esares stopped, and tentatively leaned against the human. “Do you like me that much?”

“I like you enough that if you ask me for something, I'll sooner give it to you than not,” Anereth said.

“Why?”

“Let's see.” Anereth put a hand on the small of Esares' back, lightly trailing his fingertips upwards over the thin white fabric of the tunic. “You're very clever, very pretty, slightly murderous--” Esares tensed and shifted away, but Anereth just moved his hand back down at the same pace. “No, none of that. I find it quite appealing. I have bad taste in men, you see.” He grinned. “But really, it just makes you more interesting. And I suppose you must be quite selfless and brave as well, to have ended up in this position. Or did you do it for glory?”

Anger kindled in Esares' chest and he stepped back. “I didn't do it for glory,” he snapped, then froze.

“No, I didn't think so,” Anereth said, closing the distance between them again to tuck a lock of hair behind Esares' ear as though nothing had happened. “It's a shame. I almost feel bad for being glad to have you here. But ah, what an unpleasant topic for me to bring up. I ruined your mood, didn't I?”

“You-- I don't know what you're saying.”

“I'm saying it's a gift, no strings attached, no expectations. I'm saying you can ask for things you want, and not worry about whether I will view you saying you like cookies and oranges as impudence.” Anereth tilted up Esares' chin with one finger, holding his gaze. “I'm saying it pleases me to give you what you want, not to have you falling over yourself to thank me after.”

Esares swallowed. “I don't understand. This is not-- shouldn't I be giving you what you want?” He added, belatedly, “My lord.”

“Of course. How fortunate what I want is for you to be reasonably content.”

“Reasonably,” Esares repeated. What other human would agree it was reasonable to gift a slave books, 'no strings attached'?

“It's not unreasonable to want to read something you like, no?” Anereth asked.

“I don't think so.”

Anereth smiled. “Neither do I.”

Esares averted his gaze. “It's still very gracious of you to let me. To buy me a book just like that.”

“Well, I considered getting you something more traditional like cookies, but what choice did I have after Valithia beat me to it?”

Esares hesitantly returned Anereth's smile. “Thank you,” he said again.

This time when the mage patted his head, Esares closed his eyes, thinking that coming from Anereth, maybe it wasn't such a condescending gesture after all.

*

“May I ask you,” Esares said that night, curled up against Anereth in bed, “why you don't own a slave yourself anymore?”

Even as he spoke, he marveled a little at feeling comfortable enough to express his curiosity on the subject, in general but also right then in particular. He was wearing nothing but his underpants, and much the same was true for Anereth, and those weren't circumstances under which he'd usually want to draw attention to himself.

Yet he didn't feel unsafe, or particularly vulnerable, and in fact the only reason he'd been able to make himself speak up at all was that until he'd actually opened his mouth, he'd been about as relaxed as he was going to get with the Timnestra collar around his throat and a human in the immediate vicinity.

Anereth glanced at him and after a moment put the book he had been reading down on the night table, slipping the long blue bookmark back between the pages as he closed it. He had his pillow propped against the headboard, and was sitting with his back against it.

Esares was a little nervous to disturb him, and with such an audacious question at that, but it had occurred to him that in addition to telling him he didn't have to watch his words too closely when they were alone, Anereth had never so much as given him a sharp look for asking a genuine question.

He figured that if Anereth didn't want to answer or was irritated by the inquiry, he would just tell him so, and then Esares would apologize and let the matter go, and that would be that. Probably he wouldn't even get snapped at.

“Why, don't you think laziness is a sufficient reason?”

The question was asked mildly, and Esares took a moment to think about his reply. “I don't know. It's just... you have been very kind to me, and patient. So I wondered.”

“I'm not patient,” Anereth said. “Though being saddled with Sylves, I can see how you would think so.” He regarded Esares, taking in his expression. “What, you disagree?”

“I would not be so bold as to contradict you, my lord.”

Anereth smiled. “What if I said no field of study is as tedious as botany?”

“I wouldn't contradict you, my lord,” Esares said. “Only doubt your wisdom in silence.”

His daring was rewarded when Anereth laughed. “Ah, how tragic to be a fool and never know it. At least keep up the incredulous looks, then, so I may take the hint.”

“Of course, my lord. I live to please you.”

“And you think I could dislike you. How boring it was to not have you around.” Esares bit his lip. Anereth smiled. “Which, I suppose, brings us back to your question. I'm not actually patient, though.” He paused. “Did you already forget when you first arrived and were all but breaking down in a panic, and I went to finish my essay?”

Esares averted his gaze. “I didn't forget, my lord. But that was once, and I-- I was hardly in a state to make conversation.”

“All the more reason to not just leave you alone. But see, that's what I do. I avoid problems if they can be avoided, and sometimes even when they can't. What's the point of buying myself a slave with who knows what history, when I barely have any use for one?”

Anereth waited until Esares was looking him in the eye again, then went on, “I like you, and I meant it when I said you don't need to worry about being a bother, but my motivation to go to a training facility and pick out some random slave for no reason other than that I can is precisely zero.”

“Oh,” Esares said. “But...” He hesitated.

“Yes?”

“You already had slaves. Did you give them away because they had-- too much of a history?” The phrase only left a slightly less foul taste in his mouth than the term people usually used: behavioral problems.

There was a short silence as Anereth rearranged his pillow and lay down on his back. “That's certainly one way of putting it”, he said finally.

Esares waited. When nothing more was forthcoming, he asked, ”Did you have a use for slaves before, then? Or did you just...” He broke off, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Purchase them because I could?”

Esares took a measured breath. “I don't mean any disrespect.”

“Of course you don't,” Anereth said. “They were gifts.”

“Oh.” Esares didn't ask from whom. That would be too forward, and besides, there was only one person he could think of for whom it would be socially acceptable to buy Anereth slaves as presents, at least without consulting him first.

Or well, Esares supposed the involvement of a more distant relative than Anereth's mother was also a possibility, if a very faint one. Other than that, though... he knew of instances where young nobles with too much money took a slave from their family's household and gave them to a close friend as a prank, but Anereth didn't seem the type to keep such friends, or to sign any papers while drunk.

Carefully Esares said, “Wouldn't there be advantages to having a slave, though?”

“Like people such as Felir and Belyen not making comments about my lack of one?”

“For example.”

Esares thought Anereth must receive rather a lot such comments. Other than Ksielle, he knew of no other mages or nobles in Nuvaria who could afford a personal slave but stubbornly refused to get one. Not too uncommonly, a young noble's parents kept them from acquiring a demon until they were a certain age or finished a certain class, especially the more traditional ones like Sylves' father, but most everyone moving in the circles Anereth did wanted a demon; and pretty much all of them had one by the time they finished their mandatory classes unless their families lacked the means.

To the citizens of Desarias, personal slaves were signs of power and wealth. They were expensive, and keeping them under control was considered an accomplishment, especially among mages. It was why they usually kept their first personal slave for years and just borrowed or rented others if they grew dissatisfied or bored with them – unless they were extremely powerful or extremely popular, a mage selling their first slave early might give rise to speculation about their reasons for getting rid of them.

Not keeping a slave at all, on the other hand, would probably go over better for a young wealthy mage than selling them again after a month or two, but would still invite talk. And in the case of Anereth, that was not even the whole story; though from what Esares had heard, it appeared to be what most people assumed.

Obviously Anereth didn't advertise the fact he'd owned slaves previously, and two at that, because then it would look even odder that he no longer kept one. Still, people could always find out, and even without that, those like Belyen and Felir had opinions about what not owning a slave said about a mage.

Lazy or not, if there were no other problems, Esares would have thought Anereth valued his reputation highly enough to put up with even a slave he had no use for.

“Some people actually do get a little annoying about it,” Anereth said, half rolling onto his side so they were facing each other. “And I can't deny there would be benefits – particularly when it comes to mastering new spells.” Esares had to remind himself that the mage meant painless, innocuous ones. “But not enough to make me reconsider.”

“And you can rent school slaves for trying out spells, anyway,” Esares ventured, “can't you?” The system was mostly in place for mages from less wealthy families who couldn't afford purchasing a slave themselves, but it was also used by others for a variety of reasons, including mere boredom, so there wasn't much of a stigma attached to falling back on it.

It certainly seemed a sensible option for someone as interested in practicing his skills on demons as Anereth seemed to be, if he was currently for whatever reasons disinclined to purchase a slave for his personal use. Yet Anereth made it sound like it wasn't a comparable alternative.

Was he speaking of casting spells on demons that were supposed to last for hours or even a day, thus making regularly renting slaves for it almost as inconvenient as keeping one long-term? Or perhaps in Anereth's case it would raise some eyebrows to make use of a school slave, because people would wonder all the more why he didn't just get one of his own.

“I can,” Anereth said. “And it would be very helpful, but I find constant flinching and uncontrolled shaking a bit distracting.”

Esares frowned. All the school slaves had good reason to be afraid when called to serve someone, no doubt, but from what he had observed, they were generally more subtle about it than that. Though... it would usually be bad for them to be rented by someone who wanted to experiment with spells, wouldn't it?

Their lives were wretched to begin with, even compared to those of many other slaves. Their best hope was one of the students taking a liking to them and buying them from the school; otherwise they were most likely to spend their lives being used for not only servant duties and sex, but the most unpleasant kinds of spell testing.

That, and demonstration purposes in class, which in many cases would just be humiliating, but could also be agonizing. Like when students were encouraged to torture them to get them to talk about something they'd been forbidden from speaking of.

Esares carefully steered his thoughts away from the fact that Anereth had done just that, and in such a way that it had gotten him what he'd wanted when almost everyone else in his class had failed.

He couldn't help his mind lingering for a second, though, on the question of how the slave who'd cracked under Anereth's methods of interrogation had been punished afterwards.

He shivered.

Anereth was watching him with an air of curiosity. Esares balled his fists under the covers, attempting to pull himself together.

“Because it makes applying the spells harder?” he asked, a hint of resentment creeping into his tone. He tensed as soon as he finished speaking, but felt no desire to take back the words.

His impertinence would probably anger Anereth, but should at least distract the mage from asking questions about the turn Esares' thoughts had taken.

“Even that is charming,” Anereth said. “I'm in trouble for sure.”

Esares blinked at him.

Anereth gave a lopsided smile. “Why, of course the reason it's distracting is that it makes applying the spells harder. Because I have no patience. As I told you.”

Esares needed a moment to recover, then drew his brows together. “You weren't supposed to use this to try and win the argument.”

Anereth laughed.

It was a nice sound, devoid of even a trace of irritation. Esares relaxed hearing it.

Anereth was capable of cruelty, but also of the opposite, and it wasn't cruelty he'd shown him. Esares had never for a moment thought Anereth hadn't hurt one of his kind before – even when he'd not yet heard about him torturing a slave for the sake of his grades or image. It would be difficult to find a wealthy human in Nuvaria, even the entirety of the country, who hadn't caused a demon suffering.

Maybe Ksielle, or Kylerith. Though who knew? And even then, if Esares factored in indirect harm, he had trouble seeing how there would be a significant number of exceptions, including among the less powerful and influential people who had little to do with slaves at all. They, too, were as far as Esares could tell wholly content to let their social betters keep demons enslaved and subdued, and if anything would envy them possession of them.

He'd never entertained illusions about Anereth being completely unlike any other human all right with the subjugation of Esares' people. The best he could hope for was the man being kind to him, and he was that, beyond anything Esares had ever expected from someone who held his figurative leash. He shouldn't let irrational emotions jeopardize that.

If he could manage being around Sylves without constantly challenging him, he shouldn't have so much more trouble controlling himself around Anereth, who was nowhere near as blatant in his bigotry.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I know I... overstep. I'm not good at not letting my mouth run away with me in a real conversation. But I'll try, and I can speak less if you tell me to.”

“Would that inability to control your tongue have anything to do with your dislike for gags?”

Esares could feel his heartbeat quickening. Only the fact that nothing about Anereth's tone or manner suggested he was contemplating utilizing one to teach Esares a lesson kept him from losing his composure.

Anereth was just curious. Esares knew him well enough by now to be almost sure.

“Yes,” he answered, quietly. “My master prefers them over beating me.”

“But you don't?” Anereth asked, as so often more perceptive than Esares was comfortable with.

“I hate them,” Esares said. Even now, it was difficult to admit outright, though he had already suggested as much when Anereth asked him about punishments he especially dreaded.

If the mage wanted to use his distaste for gags against Esares, a feeble denial that it existed at this point wasn't going to stop him. Clearly Anereth remembered his original admission well enough.

And Esares did detest gags. He didn't think he would be able to pretend otherwise if Anereth were to give them a try – not when there was a good chance things would go less unpleasantly if he came straight out with the truth.

As Sylves had found out quickly enough, just the threat of having a gag shoved in his mouth was an extremely effective motivator towards better behavior for Esares; because he loathed the sensation of having them in his mouth, and not being able to even plead forgiveness, and, maybe worst of all, the way they made it difficult for him to swallow and the drooling they tended to cause. Since their use didn't result in injuries or anything that really qualified as pain, though, his master had few qualms about employing them as punishment unless Esares went down on his knees and begged.

'Hate' seemed like too weak a word for what he felt for those things. Or Sylves.

Anereth didn't comment immediately. Finally he said, “Are you worried I might resort to them if you speak out of turn a few times too often?”

Esares glanced to the side. “A little.”

“There now,” Anereth said, and Esares startled when the man took hold of his hand, gently rubbing his thumb over the sensitive skin of the underside of his wrist. “Gagging you never occurred to me. After all, you say such interesting things.”

“And insolent,” Esares reminded him, but his voice wasn't as tight as it might have been, and his eyes slipped shut even as he spoke.

“It's a fine line. In private, it's not a problem when you come down on the wrong side of it. You like this?”

Instead of answering, Esares buried his face in the man's shoulder.

“Honestly, how someone couldn't wish to see you content is beyond me,” Anereth said, sliding his fingers along Esares' arm. Finally he moved on to Esares' side, and the small of his back, and Esares pressed closer to him, mortified a moment later when he realized Anereth would definitely be able to tell now in what other way he had reacted.

Anereth didn't remark on the erection nestled against his thigh, though, and just continued what he had been doing, which was nice, but maybe a little too much so.

Esares shifted uneasily, torn between enjoying this rather a lot, and thinking he wouldn't be able to take much more of it without doing something he'd regret.

“All right?” Anereth asked softly, fingertips ghosting up Esares' spine.

Esares opened his eyes. “Yes—no—I--” The fingers stopped moving, just rested against his skin, warm and reassuring. “I'm sorry, this is--” He took a deep breath, mustered his courage the best he was able to. “Could you maybe just...” But he felt foolish asking; it was silly, and presumption, and even Anereth might not appreciate being told what to do with him in this situation, or not to do, regardless of whether he worded it as a request.

“Yes? Don't get shy now.”

Esares shuddered, and forced the words out in a rush, “Could you maybe just hold me?” He shut his eyes again as soon as he finished speaking, heart in his throat.

“Sweetheart,” Anereth said, taking his hand off the arch of Esares' ribs and placing it on the back of his head instead, combing through the strands. “Of course I can. Do you want to turn around?

Esares nodded, relieved, and did as bidden. Anereth's arms wrapped around him from behind.

“If you just want to go to sleep,” the mage said, “you can say that, as well.”

“No, I-- this is nice. Thank you. I just--”

“You don't have to explain. It's perfectly fine.”

Esares laughed, a small, choked sound. “You're so kind.”

“Only because I'm too lazy to deal with the consequences of being otherwise. Naturally.”

This time Esares' laugh lasted longer, though it still came out rather choked, and it was actually a bit difficult to stop, considering the joke hadn't been all that funny; but he probably wasn't crying, so he considered that a victory.

Chapter Text

The servants arrived early in the morning. Esares stayed in the bedroom as per Anereth's instructions while the mage greeted them and got them settled.

Esares waited over an hour for Anereth to finish, but he wasn't upset about it, or terribly nervous as to what the presence of more humans in the house would mean for him. He was starting to think he actually was quite safe with Anereth, and that even if he were to face more restrictions with the servants around, he'd still have it comfortable enough.

At the very worst, he would have to eat in the bedroom by himself after all, though Esares actually had his doubts about that. More likely, he'd just have to do his reading exclusively in the bedroom from now on, and maybe help the servants with their chores. And perhaps they would treat him coldly or with blatant condescension while he did; but he was used to that, and with Anereth acting towards him the way he did, the prospect hardly fazed him. As long as he didn't step far outside his bounds, what could they do to him?

Though it would still be best to be cautious. While having Anereth's favor was insurance, a slave being disliked by servants living in the same house as him could easily get ugly. Esares had seen it with one of his master's father's slaves – the head servant had disliked her for not being as respectful towards him as he thought she should have been, and she's lasted all of two months in the Tevenra household before being sold.

So even if probably Anereth would listen to Esares' side of things in such a situation, he didn't plan to let that become necessary. It was just nice to know a lot of things would have to go wrong before Anereth's servants could pose a threat to him, even if they were to decide they detested him.

He took a bath while he waited, and put on some light makeup, and finally sat down on the bed and continued reading “Song of Two Dragons”. He'd finished “Wondrous Plants of the World” the previous evening, after listening to Valithia rant about an extremely strict teacher she hated for nearly the entirety of dinner. Anereth had teased her about boring Esares, but Esares actually hadn't minded – and not just because true to her word, she had shared her strawberry cake with him earlier.

Not that he'd contradicted Anereth. He still wasn't quite that confident in the man's indulgence of him.

Though maybe he almost was. They'd talked about “Wondrous Plants of the World” later, and Anereth had listened to his review of the book intently, assuring Esares that it had been a long time since he himself read it, and that he was interested in whatever he might have to say about it.

So Esares had told him all that came to mind, first haltingly and avoiding the man's eyes and expecting to be interrupted and dismissed with a pat on the head any moment; then with a steadier voice and nearly convinced Anereth in fact cared about his disappointment that there had only been a few sentences on false orchids, or his delight at finding several paragraphs about nightingale flowers, which bore a resemblance to their namesake in shape and coloring, but whose smell was so repugnant people used to make up stories about it causing actual birds to fall out of the sky.

Anereth had let him talk, and asked questions that spoke of genuine interest, and occasionally he'd given his own opinion about something. Like blue cherries – they were a powerful potion ingredient, but it turned out Anereth's dislike for their taste rivaled his sister's for that of salad. Apparently he had once refused to drink a potion in class because they'd been one of the main ingredients. Meanwhile, Esares had quite enjoyed the cherries' sourness the one time he had tried them.

He'd felt secure enough to disagree with Anereth about the taste of valuable potion ingredients, at least. And about Halethionan starflowers. The thorns were a bit annoying, and they did indeed take forever to grow, but Esares still liked them – they were elegant, and smelled nice, and could enhance the power of many a spell and potion. Anereth thought they weren't worth the trouble when usually there were plants with comparable properties that were easier to raise and keep.

It had been a fun argument to have.

And Esares had never thought he could be so happy to bicker with another person over something insignificant. It hadn't for a second felt dangerous, though, and Anereth had encouraged him to continue speaking his mind the whole time, and he could probably have done it all night if Anereth hadn't eventually declared they should go to bed. Though falling asleep in the mage's arms hadn't been unpleasant, either.

Esares knew things were going too well for his luck to be likely to last, but he wasn't going to let that stop him from enjoying himself in the meantime.

And at least for the moment, Anereth was making that quite easy for him. When the man finally returned from dealing with the servants, Esares had just started on a new chapter. He quickly memorized the page number and set “Song of Two Dragons” down on the night table, and Anereth seated himself next to him on the bed and explained to him in detail what the servants' arrival meant for him.

Which apparently was: not much at all. He was to help them with their chores if asked, but that was nearly where it ended. As he had hoped and largely expected, they were not to punish him, or even seriously scold him. He could speak with them if he wanted, but Anereth actually made it a point that he didn't have to let them ramble on at him. Esares wasn't just going to turn around and leave while they talked to him, or at him, but it gave him pleasure to be told he could.

He wondered, briefly, if Anereth had informed him of that last bit with the incident with the lip dye and Ileras in mind. Either way, it was thoughtful of the mage to make his expectations so clear.

He was still to eat with Anereth and Valithia. He even continued to be allowed to sit on the couch in the living room when he wanted, and to read there. That gave him pause.

“Won't they think that's odd?” he asked, cautiously. He liked retaining this particular bit of freedom, but there was nothing stopping the servants from talking about it to other people, including to Anereth's mother. And if she was even half as traditional as Faveran Tevenra...

“Hardly,” Anereth said. “They're used to Ryminis.” He spoke the name like it was a stand-in for 'the most terrible slave imaginable, whom her owner bribes instead of punishes'.

And... well. Esares didn't voice any further concerns, only silently mourned the fact that he might never get to meet her.

The introductions when they commenced were brief, which Esares appreciated, since they were a little uncomfortable. Not because the servants gave any sign of being dissatisfied with his role or presence; but because being introduced as someone's property to people who saw him as a cute pet at best was just never going to be an enjoyable affair.

There were only two servants, which was at least one less than Esares had expected based on custom. Barring Anereth, the comparatively few of Sylves' noble friends and acquaintances whose main residence was not at the same time that of their parents all employed a cook, someone to take on odd jobs around the house, and a valet who served them more closely. The latter might not have much to do depending on what duties the noble's personal slave was given, but they were still kept around on principle. Many times, the cook was also assigned an assistant or two, or there might be an extra servant to take on a particularly time-consuming task, like gardening.

Anereth's mother had only sent him a cook and someone whose function seemed less well-defined. The cook was a gray-haired and severe looking woman who by the time Esares got there had already taken over the kitchen, and was in the middle of preparing a breakfast much more elaborate than anything Esares would have been capable of.

There was a lot of fruit involved, and waffles and powdered sugar, and if it tasted anything as good as it looked, Esares didn't think Anereth would miss his own meager culinary skills – a thought that bothered him a little more than was rational. Anereth introduced the woman to him as Milara.

The second servant was called Oliar and when Esares and Anereth entered the kitchen had been busy assisting Milara by chopping strawberries. He appeared somewhat younger than Anereth, and had short dark hair and an easy smile, though it turned a little awkward when he moved his gaze from Anereth to Esares and nodded a greeting.

Esares bowed once to each servant, deeper than he would on any other occasion.

“Maybe he'll assist you with lunch,” Anereth said as Esares straightened again.

“Another pair of hands wouldn't hurt,” Milara returned, and that was that.

The breakfast did turn out to be delicious, which Valithia appreciated most of all. She spent much of the meal talking about her enjoyment of it, and eventually repeated her praise to Oliar when he joined them in the dining room to inquire if any of them wanted a second helping.

Esares would have liked another waffle, but when Anereth repeated the question to him, making it clear he was included in the offer, he lowered his eyes and quietly declined. More than ever, he felt out of place sitting at Anereth's table, with other humans waiting on him as though that was where he belonged.

Esares supposed in the eyes of everyone else in the house he might, simply because Anereth had said so. And Valithia probably had been of the same opinion from the start – though she wouldn't have been the one to talk to the servants about it.

All Esares could think was that Sylves would have enjoyed hand-feeding him the waffle under the table.

He suppressed a shudder, and found his appetite had gone.

A short while after Oliar left, he asked, “May I be excused?”

Anereth's gaze as it slid to him was assessing, but he said, almost immediately, “Of course.”

Esares dipped his head and stood.

*

“I forgot to ask if you wanted me to help with the dishes,” Esares said later when Anereth came to find him in the bedroom. “I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to get out of it.”

“I know that.” Anereth sat down at the edge of the bed, next to where Esares knelt on the mattress. He had been lying down until the mage entered. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, my lord. I just-- wasn't feeling well.”

Anereth considered him. Finally, he patted his thigh. “Come here.”

Esares slid over to him, knowing what was being asked of him with the gesture. He placed his head in Anereth's lap and closed his eyes as the human began petting him.

This was fine. Not very demeaning, considering he was fairly sure Anereth was just trying to comfort him. It was harmless; well-intentioned.

But he didn't feel like being touched right now.

He wondered what would happen if he just pulled away, refused the command. Maybe not much. Anereth would be irritated by the disrespect inherent in the action, but he might not take it personally. If Esares asked him for permission before moving, he might not be unhappy with him for it at all.

Esares debated this for a while, then opened his eyes to stare at the light blue rug on the floor and made himself say, “My lord?”

“Yes?”

Esares chewed his bottom lip, glad he had his back turned to the mage. It was easier to keep the anxiety out of his voice than off his face. “May I please get up?”

Anereth's fingers stopped carding through his hair, and Esares curled in on himself just slightly.

“Of course.” Anereth removed his hand from his head. “It wasn't my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

Esares sat up, bowed his head. “I know, my lord.” Going by the mage's matter-of-fact tone, he didn't think it was necessary to deny he had been uncomfortable. “Thank you.”

“Will you tell me what's wrong?”

“It's just--” Esares said and stopped. “It's so different.”

“From being with Sylves?”

Esares lowered his head further. “Yes.”

“Not in a bad way, I hope.”

Esares laughed. “Do you have to ask, my lord?”

“I suppose not. Did he never have you join him for breakfast at all?”

“Not at the table.” Esares paused. “Well, a few times, before-- he wasn't always so particular about it. But it was never like this.”

“Before you tried to kill him, you mean?”

Esares cringed. “I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to say that to me.”

“I know you think I'm an assassin.”

“You're still denying it?”

“I just don't understand,” Esares said, ignoring the question. “If you think I'm an assassin, why are you so kind to me?”

“I told you it's part of the charm.” Anereth smiled. “Besides, what reason do I have not to be? I'm not the one you tried to kill.”

Esares averted his eyes. “Aren't you worried I might?” For all the pride they took in being able to subjugate Esares' people, humans always made a fuss when a slave wasn't sufficiently docile for their liking, and quickly got hung up on what ifs.

“While wearing the Timnestra collar?” Anereth asked. “Not especially.” He sounded as unconcerned as he was claiming to be. “There's maybe one among a thousand that malfunctions, and usually not in such a way that you could even hope to try and harm me, let alone without ending up dead yourself. And if you did find yourself capable of killing someone, I don't see why you would waste the chance on me. I've not been that bad, have I?”

“No,” Esares conceded, still not looking at the mage. If he were smart, he would stop here, though not before assuring Anereth he could never conceive of killing him; of harming any human at all, because he had learned better. What if by continuing to speak as he had, he made Anereth change his mind?

But he wondered what was going on in the human's head in the first place. Besides... Anereth would have put some thought into his treatment of him, wouldn't he? He'd never forgotten what Esares had attempted, and so Esares wouldn't be reminding him.

He dug his nails into the bedding. “Wouldn't it be better to be safe, though? My master doesn't think I'm an assassin, but even so--” He bit his tongue.

Anereth startled him by laughing. “Be safe how? I don't think whipping you would make you want to kill me less. Nor have I heard forcing assassins to eat breakfast on their hands and knees is likely to deter them. So I think we're doing quite well. Unless you disagree?”

Esares took a shuddering breath. “You talk like I'm a person.”

“Well, you're not a dog. Though I assume even Sylves is aware of that. After all, I'm sure he'd never dream of cowing a dog into obedience.” Anereth reached out and lightly curled his fingers around Esares' chin, making him look at him. “What did he do to you?”

Esares swallowed. “I don't know what you mean, my lord.”

“I thought after failing to kill him, you would mostly just have returned to playing your part to keep yourself as safe as possible. Before all this, I didn't think Sylves could have broken you, or made a serious attempt at it. But now I wonder. How did he punish you?”

Esares jerked from the mage's grasp.

Anereth made no move to stop him, only watched him with a too sharp gaze.

“Forgive me,” Esares said, casting his eyes down. When Anereth remained silent, he added, “My master punished me as he saw fit.”

“And how was that?”

Esares pressed his lips together.

“Tell me something about it,” Anereth pressed. “Anything.”

“I don't want to.”

“You don't want to.”

Esares wrapped his arms around himself. “I know you'll have to punish me for disobeying,” he said, hoping accepting the correction and taking the blame for it would defuse the situation somewhat. “But please don't be angry.”

“I'm not angry. Look at me, would you?” When Esares did, the mage went on, “I'm not thinking about punishing you, either. You're just upset. I find punishments don't usually improve that.”

Esares expelled a breath, shoulders sagging. “Thank you. I really-- I'm not being difficult on purpose.”

“Is that what Sylves thinks?”

Esares lowered his gaze to the mattress again. “Sometimes, my lord.”

“That's funny, when he called you trying to kill him in his sleep instinct.”

Esares winced reflexively, but found he rather agreed with the sentiment – it was funny. Or would be, if Sylves just did him a favor and dropped dead so he would never have to hear him speak like that again.

“So you think I'm being difficult due to instinct?” he asked, carefully.

“I think you're difficult because you were free, and now you are not. And because you still wish you could kill him, don't you?”

Esares folded his hands on top of each other in his lap to hide the fact that they were trembling. “I wouldn't dare.”

“You hate him,” Anereth continued as though he hadn't spoken. “And how could you not, when he did this to you?” He gestured towards the collar.

“He spared my life,” Esares said, and the words tasted like acid on his tongue. “It was mercy.”

“Mercy.” Anereth's smile was cold. “As if he didn't just like owning you too much. If you had been any less successful in making him fall for you, even Sylves wouldn't have hesitated to run you through and we both know it.”

There was nothing false about the mage's words, but that he had the gall to speak them like this, to talk like he knew anything about Esares, or what it was like to be nothing but a plaything at the Chosen One's mercy, powerless to even tell him no, rankled him.

Anereth could state what should be obvious to anyone with half a brain, but he knew nothing.

“So what?” Esares asked, dismay turning to fury within an instant. “What do you want me to say? That I wish he were dead? That I dream of wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing every time he touches me? That I hate you too, all of you--” He pressed his hands to his mouth and jumped up from the bed.

“Go on,” Anereth said.

Esares shook his head mutely, taking a step back. He wanted to run, to cry, to disappear.

As soon as he could grasp a coherent thought past the fog of panic, he dropped to his knees instead. “I'm sorry. Please, I didn't mean it, I'm so--” He cut himself off when Anereth rose, cringing and pressing as close to the floor as possible.

“I know Sylves and I define liking someone a little differently,” Anereth said. “But when I tell you I am fond of you, you may assume I won't do anything to you that warrants this. Besides, I said your feelings aren't something I will punish.”

Esares stayed as he was, trying to get a hold of his breathing, and to stop shaking.

Anereth crouched down in front of him on the rug. “I pushed too much. And when you were already upset, too. Let's forget about it, yes?”

But Esares couldn't forget about it. Because Anereth wouldn't, no matter what he said, no matter whether he punished him for this or not.

“I didn't mean it,” he repeated. “I'm grateful to you, my lord, I really am, I wasn't thinking--”

“Shh. Enough. We're fine. You like being here all right, don't you?”

Esares swallowed. “Yes, my lord. I like it very much.”

“Then that's good enough.” Anereth got up, and held out his hand to him.

Esares didn't take it.

He weighed his options. He could continue pleading forgiveness, though Anereth didn't seem to want that, and so it would be rather pointless. The problem wasn't that Anereth might punish him right there and then, since evidently he had no intention of doing so, but that Esares had told him he hated him, in the same breath in which he'd told him he hated Sylves and wanted him dead, and now he couldn't take it back.

How could he have been so stupid? Why could he never keep his mouth shut the moment he didn't feel the ever present threat of punishment hanging over his head as acutely as usual?

He had to swallow an ugly chuckle: maybe he really was better off being hit and debased for misbehaving. What good was being treated kindly if it only spurred him to tie a noose around his own neck?

Though Anereth seemed strangely indifferent to the revelation, especially since he claimed to like Esares. Sylves would have--

He didn't want to think about what Sylves would have done.

Above him, Anereth sighed. “Sweetheart, if I beat slaves for disliking me, you would have known on the first day. I am going to do precisely nothing, except wait for you to get back up.”

Esares closed his eyes. How he'd behaved the first day, or even the second, couldn't really be compared to the current situation. Anereth hadn't done much for him then, but now a week had passed in which the mage had been nothing but gracious to him. He had been as nice to him as a human had ever been, and not done anything truly damaging to him at all, and Esares didn't owe him his affection or gratitude for treating him with some semblance of genuine decency, but Anereth wouldn't think so.

Even if he was telling the truth and had no intention of hurting him for what he'd done, which Esares had a hard time believing, Anereth would look at him differently from now on, and that was not a good thing.

“Esares. Look at me.”

Esares only obeyed because he had no choice, barely succeeding in holding back tears. Punishment or no, he had ruined this.

“Nothing will happen,” Anereth said. “Do you think it offends me that you hate me? I already wondered if you might. I'm not shocked, and I won't act a lover scorned. What I expect of a slave is to obey me, and preferably to not bore me to death – not to worship the ground I walk on.” A pause. “And it might be fun to see if I can get you to hate me a little less, in time. Much more interesting than mindless adoration, don't you think?”

The mage's eyes were crinkled, his lips slightly curved.

Esares gaped at him, before he caught himself and schooled his expression into something a tad more respectful.

It hit him, after a moment that felt like an eternity, that aside from the obvious, Anereth and Sylves were unlike one another in one very significant way he'd not fully considered before. They both gave him orders and expected them to be obeyed, and they both liked to compliment and pet him, but the actions did not come from the same place. Sylves wanted him to be his in every way, mind and body and heart; Anereth had only ever expressed appreciation for him being 'pretty' and 'interesting' and 'charming'.

Anereth liked him because he considered him entertaining, and from the sound of it, it might not run notably deeper than that. Esares would have expected to at least be miffed to hear it, but found he didn't really mind, since apparently it kept him from being demanding in the manner masters usually were, or controlling beyond the bare minimum of what was to be expected. If it meant he honestly wasn't angry at Esares for saying something as outrageous as he had, Esares would be a fool to complain.

He wanted more than Anereth's indifference, but he had that, and although he was weak and craved things beyond what he should from someone who considered him a lesser creature, he wasn't a stray dog who lived for the love of the first person to pet instead of strike it. He'd not fallen that far. He didn't need Anereth to cherish him, certainly not the way a master did a favored slave.

If Anereth's feelings for him were shallow enough that Esares' careless words hadn't been able to hurt them, to hurt his pride... that would be a relief, and nothing else.

“I don't hate you,” he said after a long stretch of silence, somewhat calmer now that it was dawning on him that Anereth genuinely might not want to harm him for what he'd said; on a personal level might not even care.

Esares did, though, and he wanted Anereth to know he didn't think of him at all the way he did of Sylves – mostly because Sylves had made sure he would always hate him more than words could express, and didn't deserve being compared to anyone Esares didn't fantasize about ripping to pieces with his bare hands.

But also because what he felt for Anereth was much more complicated than that.

Lowering his gaze to the ground, he continued, “Not like-- I resent you, sometimes. I hate being afraid. But you've treated me very well. And I am thankful.” And he was aware he shouldn't be, shouldn't have to be, but it was the truth nonetheless.

He didn't know how he expected Anereth to react to his confession, only that he didn't think offering some honesty could make this any worse, and that it might mitigate his error a little, grave as it had been.

When he glanced up, Anereth's was looking at him with a perplexed expression on his face. It quickly morphed into something softer, and his lips curled into a smile. “Is that so,” he said. He bent down and offered him his hand again.

Esares took it with his head bowed. He wished he could stop trembling.

“There's no need to be frightened,” Anereth said as he helped him up. “Your feelings at least are your own.”

Esares kept his eyes on the floor. “I'm grateful,” he repeated, just above a whisper.

Anereth brushed his thumb across Esares' wrist. “Of course.”

Esares shut his eyes, as though not seeing would make this all go away. “I'm sorry for snapping at you.”

“Don't worry about it.” Anereth released him. “I knew you'd not enjoy discussing Sylves.”

Esares was quiet for a long moment. “Not enjoying something isn't an excuse for disrespect,” he said then, “is it?”

“It is when it's as unpleasant as the subject of him.” It was silly, Esares thought, that Anereth's casual disdain for Sylves made him feel better about his slip-up; as if one mage disliking another, or even scoffing at his treatment of his slaves, meant anything much at all in a context like this.

“I'm really sorry,” Esares repeated, opening his eyes only to try and stave off the tears he could feel beginning to gather. His head was still lowered, and he hoped that would be enough to keep Anereth from noticing as long as he regained control over himself quickly.

“It's not the first time you've said to me what technically you shouldn't have. It's never gone over too badly, has it?”

Esares was, logically, quite certain Anereth was trying to reassure him, but all he could focus on about the statement was that Anereth had been incredibly lenient with him. He had been lenient with him, and in return Esares had told him he hated him, in the same breath in which he had declared he wanted Sylves dead, and it was no better as though he'd spat in his face.

How could Anereth not think him ungrateful and spoiled, and volatile? Any human would.

He lost the battle against the tears. Maybe he did hate Anereth. He didn't actually know. He just wanted to be back with his people, but he couldn't, couldn't even talk to other slaves when he wanted, and there was only Anereth, and Sylves, and it was like this because he'd made a terrible mistake, and he had only committed more since, and he didn't know how not to, when what was asked of him was to behave as the humans' plaything.

“I just keep making you cry, don't I,” Anereth said softly, almost contemplatively. He reached for Esares' shoulder, but stopped just short of making contact. “Better not risk making you more upset.”

Esares watched through the curtain of his hair as Anereth pulled back his hand, confused. Did the mage think he would dislike it if he touched him now? Like before when he'd played with his hair, perhaps?

He wouldn't, though. Or at least, he didn't think so. Anereth trying to soothe him that way, like his verbal assurances, was evidence he'd not messed up irreparably. Esares didn't think he was currently capable of feeling anything but relief at it.

Though the unexpected show of consideration had nearly the same effect. He rubbed his face, hoping to recover some of his composure.

It was vexing. He didn't use to cry so much. Not with Sylves, discounting during his initial 'training' and instances where he'd done it deliberately; and certainly not before.

It irked him that apparently he'd become so desperate for someone to treat him with a little kindness rather than the twisted mockery of it that getting his wish could reduce him to this.

Though maybe it was also because Anereth never reacted badly to it, even in the sense of patronizing him for it, or kissing his tears away while telling him he was beautiful.

Anereth turned and went back to the bed, sitting down on it and gesturing for Esares to do the same. Then he waited, with ample patience he claimed not to possess, until Esares' tears had fully subsided before repeating, “You did nothing that would make me wish to hurt you.”

Esares swallowed against the lump in his throat, with meager success. “Did I do something to make you think less of me?” He already knew the answer, no matter what Anereth might claim. He just wanted to know how bad it was.

“Well, you said you like blue cherries. That does give me pause. But it's a flaw I'm willing to look past.”

A wet, incredulous sound escaped Esares that might have been either sob or chuckle. “Please don't joke about this.”

“But I already told you – I never expected you to not dislike me at least a little. No matter how content you are here, there will always be places you'd rather be, and you could certainly do without me ordering you about. It's only natural.”

“It's natural for me to want to serve my betters,” Esares said, woodenly. Then anxiety swept through him – if taken the worst way, his statement could be seen to imply Anereth wasn't his better.

“It's natural for you to want to be free,” Anereth said, and lifted a hand to Esares' collar, the most fleeting of touches. “But I couldn't give you that even if I wanted to.”

Esares jolted. “You don't,” he said, without thinking, without worrying that he was overstepping again. He was openly staring at Anereth, and didn't care.

“Probably not. But we'll never know, will we? Because it'd be a pointless question to ask.”

Esares narrowed his eyes. “Surely you would know.”

Anereth smiled. “Would I? Tell me if you want something to drink, by the way. Maybe some tea?”

Esares held Anereth's gaze a moment longer, then turned away, giving up. He didn't know anything anymore, and his head hurt, and Anereth made no sense and everything was a mess. He swiped a hand across his forehead. “If I were to ask for something to drink right now,” he said, “it wouldn't be tea.”

He wondered if Anereth would appreciate his quip under the circumstances – a question that was answered when the man gave a short, light laugh. “I'm afraid I don't have anything in the house strong enough to be likely to get a demon drunk. Or enough wine. Something for Valithia to put on her next shopping list?”

Esares snorted quietly, and kept his gaze averted. He really had no idea what situation he was in – what kind of person was Anereth? What did he believe, about demons, about Esares, about anything?

“Will you do something for me?” Anereth said suddenly.

Esares reluctantly turned to him again, and looked up from underneath his lashes, wary. “What is it, my lord?”

“There's this spell I wanted to try...”

Esares relaxed a fraction, even as the worst case scenario flitted through his mind: that Anereth was angry, enough so that he was willing to break his promise of not hurting him with magic, and to try lulling him into a false sense of a security beforehand.

The thought would have seemed more plausible twenty minutes ago. “Of course, my lord.”

Anereth smiled and gestured for him to move so he was facing away from him, and after a quick explanation of what sort of spell it was and an acquiescing nod from Esares changed the ends of his hair into straw and flower stems and back.

Anereth didn't speak much while he did it, concentrating on his task, but he took care to only really touch Esares' hair, and for once didn't pet him, and sometimes softly asked him unimportant questions, like what his favorite color was.

By the end of it, Esares' hands were no longer quivering, and his heart had descended from the top of his throat to somewhere towards its lower section; and as much as he told himself he couldn't be certain Anereth was being truthful about not begrudging him his actions, he had a hard time summoning back any of the terror he'd originally felt remembering his careless words.

Chapter Text

A day and a half after Esares blew up at Anereth, he was still in perfect health, and still what he wouldn't be surprised to find was the most well-treated slave in the city. He'd not yet helped the servants with their chores, despite it being about the only work that had been assigned to him. Instead, he'd spent most of the time since the incident reading, and lazing about in bed.

Anereth had made himself very clear as to where Esares stood with him after what had transpired – which was essentially the same as where he'd stood with him before, only there was more fussing involved.

And it was fussing. Anereth had all but confined him to the bedroom for the rest of the day, but Esares couldn't have mistaken it for a punishment if he'd tried. The mage had personally brought him what remained of his cookies from the kitchen, along with some tea, and eaten part of both remaining meals upstairs with him; and after dinner Anereth had given him a book about potion brewing that contained a chapter on blue cherries as well as several paragraphs on Halethionan starflowers. In case Esares ever wanted to take a break from reading about dragons, he had explained, and smiled at the demon's bewilderment.

Esares felt like he was caught in some bizarre but blissful dream. He'd said the unthinkable to Anereth, and instead of punishing him for it or even just getting angry at him, the man treated him like Esares had come down with a human illness like a cold and needed bed rest and cheering up.

It took Esares until they went to bed that night to realize Anereth had also continued to avoid touching him. Which... as a gesture made Esares' heart swell, but in practice was neither necessary nor how things could work between them long-term. Anereth would grow tired of it, and Esares didn't have anyone else he could seek out to fill his need for physical contact. And for the most part, he liked Anereth touching him. It was only the problems involved in telling him when he didn't that caused him discomfort.

So when Anereth had turned off the lights to go to sleep, Esares had cuddled up to him, and Anereth had wrapped an arm around him and carded gentle fingers through his hair until Esares dozed off, and afterwards that, at least, had been back to normal.

In the morning, Anereth had asked him where he'd prefer to have breakfast, and after a moment of surprise and another one of deliberation, Esares had picked the dining room, and he'd not left the table early this time. So what if he was sure Anereth's servants thought him a coddled pet? Their ignorant opinions mattered nothing to him.

It had been hours ago that he'd reached this decision, and now as noon rolled around, Esares still found himself so indifferent to what Oliar and Milara might think of him that he didn't hesitate to offer to join them in preparing lunch. He suggested it to Anereth privately, of course, because it was the mage's prerogative to keep treating him like he was made of glass for some days longer if he liked.

His lips twisted wryly as he waited for Anereth's reply, so that he had to catch himself and school his expression. What was he to this mage, beyond a fun temporary diversion? And yet he acted like this towards him, when Sylves claimed to care about him deeply and did nothing but wear away at him little by little.

He'd thought Sylves was about as good as a human, as a slave owner could be, which was still quite horrendous, but about the best someone of his standing could ever have amounted to. So it had been no surprise, then, that his master believed himself a shining beacon of righteousness and benevolence, though he would never say so outright, because far be it from the Chosen One to be immodest and boastful.

Yet Sylves even fell short of what little credit Esares had given him, and had turned out to be far more cruel and callous than someone who barely even pretended to be concerned with his ideals of goodness and honor.

He truly was pathetic, and knowing this gave Esares dark satisfaction.

“You may assist them if you want to,” Anereth said after a moment. “But they've been doing fine, so it's up to you.”

Esares hoped he managed to soften the smile that slipped onto his face quickly enough for it to not be taken the wrong way. “I would like to help, my lord,” he said. “Thank you.”

Anereth nodded, and accompanied him to the kitchen to inform the servants, keeping a hand on Esares' shoulder while he did. Then he left him to his work.

Esares wasn't sure about Oliar, since he stood with his back to him in front of the counter and only gave him the quickest of nods before returning to whatever he was doing, but Milara seemed pleased to have him there.

“Chop these.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Esares said and took up the knife that had already been placed on the cutting board to the woman's left.

Milara watched him slice the already peeled potatoes into roughly even pieces for a while, then returned to her own task of gutting the fish she or Oliar must have bought from the market earlier that day.

Esares wondered if Valithia had anything to do with that. It seemed likely. She'd insisted on getting fish during their shopping trip, too, even as Esares had continued to assure her he was perfectly happy eating whatever she and Anereth preferred.

Esares hadn't told her then that no matter how much he liked most fried fish, he'd gladly forgo it if he was the one who had to prepare it, since he'd barely know what he was doing, and it would get messy. It was pure luck Valithia that day had gone with one that'd already had its innards removed; unless she'd actually been that thoughtful.

Even so, Esares couldn't say he was particularly proud of how the salmon had turned out. It had been edible, but certainly no delicacy. Though Anereth hadn't said anything negative about it, and not even Valithia had complained.

Esares had his doubts about Anereth's assertion that she had no tact.

He could chop potatoes, though, and do the same with the tomatoes and leeks the cook gave him after, and he was a little miffed that she kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye to make sure of this. He wasn't an expert cook, but he'd been doing fine for a week without anyone supervising him before she came along.

Apparently Milara wasn't the only one skeptical of his ability to complete basic kitchen tasks, though. After some time, Oliar came over to him from the other end of the kitchen with the dough he was preparing for dessert, and while watching him with badly concealed curiosity sprinkled flour on the counter next to Esares to resume kneading it there.

“Hey,” the man greeted, not managing the casual tone he had obviously been aiming for. It came out nervous instead, which was just odd.

“Sir.”

“You doing all right? Tell me if you need help with anything.”

“It's just chopping vegetables, sir.” Esares' voice was tight, but he didn't really care. Only the previous day he'd told Anereth he hated him and would love to choke Sylves to death, and Anereth hadn't batted an eye, so sounding a tad irritated when talking to his servants was hardly going to end in disaster.

Though it would be troublesome if Oliar felt so offended he developed some kind of vendetta against him. Humans were prideful, when it came to how demons spoke to them. Not having a high rank among their own kind did little to mitigate that.

If Oliar called him on his insolence, he'd best apologize. He frowned down at the leek he was holding, and cut into the stalk with a little more force than perhaps strictly necessary.

“Right,” Oliar said. “Of course, I just-- never mind. Sorry.”

Esares finished halving the leek and looked up at the man, bemused. That wasn't the reaction he had anticipated, at all.

The servant didn't return his gaze, but intently stared down at the dough while shuffling his feet.

Esares didn't quite manage to feel bad, but was willing to accept Oliar had maybe just been trying to be nice. Probably, since he'd even apologized – humans weren't in the habit of doing that when dealing with slaves.

So he said, more lightly, “If I do need help I'll let you know, sir. Thank you.”

At this Oliar raised his eyes to Esares', expression first surprised, then pleased, and maybe even a little relieved.

Esares ducked his head and returned to focusing on the leeks.

About ten minutes later, Valithia poked her head into the room. “Esares, could you come here for a moment?”

“Of course, ma'am.” He'd been mostly done with his task, anyway.

Though he wondered what she could want. Hopefully not to interrogate him more about his food preferences.

He quickly rinsed his hands before joining her in the hallway.

“I wanted to ask,” Valithia began. “I have a friend who's in the city on vacation, and I was going to invite her over the day after tomorrow. Would you mind?”

Esares blinked at her. “Shouldn't you ask your brother that, ma'am?”

“I'm going to,” Valithia said. “If you're all right with it.”

Esares felt like he was missing something. “I'm... I'm not sure what this has to do with me, ma'am.”

She made a face, and it took Esares a moment to realize it was probably due to his repeated use of the title. He'd been a little more casual with her after that strange shopping trip, and the strawberry cake.

“Well, you're living here at the moment, right? And she might want to see you if she hears you're Sylves' slave.”

“I...” Honestly, what was up with this woman talking about trading him like an object one moment – joke or not – and then doing things like this? Incredibly kind, considerate things.

Was this how they treated slaves where she went to school: buying them all their favorite foods as a matter of course, and seeking their permission before inviting friends over?

Hardly.

“That's fine, ma'am,” he managed at last. “You don't need to ask me.”

Apparently that had been the wrong thing to say. Valithia's eyes narrowed. “Of course I need to ask you. I'm not rude.”

Esares wisely kept his mouth shut.

Valithia threw up her hands. “I give up. Why are people so weird?” She paused, then leaned forward, peering at him. “You're sure it's fine?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Because it really wasn't his place to dictate who she could or couldn't invite. But also because he was pretty sure that friend of hers would be expected to keep her hands to herself, and he could live with being ogled, or cooed over.

Though it would be annoying.

Still, even if he couldn't really have said no, Esares found that he liked that Valithia had asked. It was nice she seemed to genuinely care, though if she owned him, her naivety would scare him. It was one thing to trust that she was safe to be around, and another to be reliant on her to protect him from anyone else.

He thought if somehow Sylves had left him with her instead of her brother, it might have been fine, too, but he would have begged her not to drag him along to any parties, or perhaps outside at all; and he would have been concerned, then, had she wanted to invite a guest.

“All right,” Valithia said. “Maybe she'll bring her slave. I've actually never met her – her parents don't allow her to take her to school, and we're not that close. But I'm sure she's friendly! Her name's-- Ailar, I think? Don't hold me to it. Anyway, I should probably let you get back to cooking.”

Esares hesitated, but when she began turning around said, “Thank you for asking. It's very thoughtful of you.”

Valithia paused to beam at him.

Esares watched her go, thinking about how he now knew what the name of the slave her friend might bring probably was, while still having no idea what Valithia's friend herself was called. Usually it would be the other way around at the end of a conversation like this. Except conversations like this didn't ordinarily happen.

He returned to the kitchen with a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. 'Weird' indeed.

*

“I assume it's a good book?” Anereth asked later that day as he seated himself next to Esares on the bed.

Esares put 'Song of Two Dragons' down in front of him on the covers and looked up. Thanks to having had little else to do but read since last morning, he was already through well over half of it. “I think so, my lord.”

“You seemed taken with it from the beginning. Have you read it before?”

Esares hesitated only for an instant. “I'd read of it, my lord. Summaries, and theories about it. I've always wanted to read it for myself.”

Anereth smiled. “I'm glad you finally get to do that, then. Is it all right to ask what's so interesting about it?”

“Of course it's all right, my lord.” Esares paused and thought about it for a moment, not sure how he should explain. “I don't know how much you know about it.”

“Not much, really. It's about dragons, and the author is unknown, and it's a love story.”

“It's not--” Esares bit his lip.

The corners of Anereth's mouth curved. “Yes?”

Esares fought the urge to lower his gaze. “It's not mainly a love story.”

“Oh?”

Encouraged by Anereth's curious tone, Esares said, “Some people have argued that it is, but it's not a popular view, at least recently. The text focuses much more on the mythological aspects, and on the differences between dragons and humans, and--” He stopped, realizing with a wince that he was rambling, and that it could be taken as lecturing the mage. “Sorry.”

“No, it's interesting. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to hear the answer.”

Esares looked away. “I always say too much.”

“If anything, you don't say enough. Do you want me to remain ignorant on the subject forever?”

From another human, Esares would have suspected sarcasm despite the teasing tone. Coming from Anereth, the question made him smile slightly. “Of course I will tell my lord whatever he wishes to know.”

“Will you?” There was something in Anereth's voice he couldn't decipher, an undercurrent that seemed at odds with the levity of his previous question. When the mage continued after a moment, it was gone. “Go on, then. What sort of mythological aspects?”

Esares took a few seconds to decide where to best start, then said, “For example, there is a lot about the goddesses who watched over the dragons. Ilynith the Goddess of Wisdom and Air, and Lifilis the Goddess of Fire and Life. The book talks about their love, too, but there's more about how they created the dragons, and guided them, until Ilynith retreated from the world.”

“Didn't both of them do that?”

Esares blinked. Ilynith and Lifilis weren't deities humans usually concerned themselves with. “Yes,” he said when he got over his surprise. “But Lifilis did it much later and hasn't yet when the story takes place.”

“Ah. It had something to do with the pinnacle of the war when she did, hadn't it?”

“Yes. The last of the firstborn dragons was slain, beloved by the one who gave her breath,” Esares recited the old lore. “Lifilis poured Argarae's blood into the sea where the Senendris dwelt, and they answered her call, and half of them left their home and became of fire. But Xyr the God of Change and Water was incensed, for he had not been asked, and to appease him and because her heart was broken, Lifilis separated herself from the world and her creations.”

Esares almost let his eyes dart away from Anereth's face again as he finished, embarrassed to have gone into so much detail when the man had only asked what had probably been a casual question. But the mage had listened without giving any sign of wishing to interrupt him, and had watched him intently until he finished.

“Well, that's certainly a more interesting account than the one I'm familiar with,” Anereth said. “Perhaps I should spend more time studying mythology.”

“I think it would be difficult for your to find books telling this version of events,” Esares said, carefully.

“I have no doubt about that. People here tend to shorten it to, 'and then their cruel and bloodthirsty gods abandoned our foes and we proceeded towards victory'.”

Esares made a face.

Anereth's lips twitched upwards. “Just having to sit through Sylves' classes must be immensely frustrating.”

“Sometimes.” Anereth raised an eyebrow. “A lot of the time,” Esares amended.

“Maybe I should read 'Song of Two Dragons' at some point, after all,” Anereth said. “I'd hate to miss out on one of the few sources on the topic that aren't worthless.”

“I'm surprised you haven't yet,” Esares ventured. “Isn't it a popular work?”

Anereth smiled. “Contrary to popular belief, I've not read all popular books.”

Esares glanced to the side, abashed. “Of course, I just meant--”

“No,” Anereth interrupted, “you're right, it's quite infamous in some circles, and I'm not usually one to stay away from infamous books. But I didn't think I would enjoy it.” A small shrug. “I don't care much for dragons.”

Another piece of information Esares hadn't expected. Few humans regarded dragons too fondly, of course, but as far as he could tell, most at least held some fascination for them. No doubt this played a role in their persistence in trying to enslave even the descendants of Argarae – they would try it in all the rare cases they managed to capture one, and always it would end in meaningless slaughter.

“May I ask why, my lord?” Esares asked.

“Well, they seem quite terrifying.”

Esares caught the glint of humor in Anereth's gaze, and debated whether he should try a second time. Probably Anereth had deflected his question because he didn't want to answer it seriously, though. Or maybe there was no particular reason. Still, if he'd wanted to tell Esares more, he would have, and it wasn't like it was important.

He decided to let the matter go.

“My lord?” he said.

“Yes?”

“You wanted to use a heating spell on my back, before.”

Anereth tilted his head to one side. “Yes. We were going to try it again elsewhere on your body, weren't we? I suppose now wouldn't be a bad time, if that's what you're getting it, though I'm in no hurry.”

“I did want to suggest doing it now,” Esares said. “But I've been thinking... I believe it would be fine on my back, too.”

Anereth's expression was assessing. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be, my lord. I knew you were kind before, but... I was still scared.”

“And you're not scared now?”

Esares looked away, pushing down the worry that he might have misjudged Anereth, and that despite everything, the man would see it as a problem if the slave in his keeping wasn't afraid on some level of what he could do to him. “Not very,” he said.

“I'm glad to hear it,” Anereth said, and when Esares looked at him he was smiling. He tentatively smiled back.

He bit his lip. “If I ask you to, will you stop?”

“Of course. I did last time, didn't I?”

Esares slowly let out a breath. “Yes.”

“We don't have to do it, but if you want to give it a try, you can just make yourself comfortable.”

Esares nodded. He moved the book from the bed to the night table, and pulled his tunic over his head. After placing the garment on the floor, he lay down on his stomach, head resting on the pillow.

Anereth pressed just a finger down between his shoulder blades, following the curve of his spine and tracing half-circles and more ambiguous shapes on his skin as he did. The touch was cool at first, but didn't remain that way for long.

Esares had imagined the panic would come over him again like a wave, and he would have to struggle against it, remind himself the entire time that Anereth had no reason to deceive and hurt him. Instead, there was only the echo of terror, little more than a memory. His breathing was slightly shallow, and his heartbeat coming a little too fast, but he didn't feel a need to get away, or much of a desire to.

This only became more true when Anereth switched from trailing just one finger across his back to three. Instead of frightening him, their warmth was a welcome one, seeping into his bones and muscles, chasing the tension out of them bit by bit.

It wasn't unlike having a hot water bottle on his back. A moving, very pleasant feeling hot water bottle. The thought made Esares smile.

“This is all right?” Anereth asked, not pausing in the movements of his hand.

“Yes, my lord.”

Anereth pressed his palm down on the small of his back, and Esares closed his eyes with a quiet sigh.

By the time Anereth spoke up again, Esares' mind had become sluggish, and only when he painstakingly forced it back into gear to process what the man was saying did he realize he had been on the verge of nodding off. “I have to say I'm surprised this is how you take to it. I'm pleased, of course, but... is it that different from last time?”

Esares didn't hurry to answer, enjoying warm fingertips caressing his side. “It is, my lord,” he said at last, softly. “To me it is. And you stopped, then, when I-- it changes things. That I know you will end this if I ask you to.”

“I suppose I should have been clearer about that before,” Anereth said, and Esares shivered as his nails gently scraped his lower back.

“Maybe,” he said when Anereth returned to laying his hand flat against his skin, sliding it upwards slowly. “But it wouldn't have been the same as seeing it.”

“Ah. Perhaps it couldn't have been avoided, then.”

“Perhaps.” Though it would have helped, Esares thought privately, if Anereth had explained himself the first time he had attempted this, rather than letting Esares think he was about to be punished.

Not that there was any use dwelling on it, or much to do about it now.

Anereth rubbed warm fingers along his shoulders and neck, stopping only briefly when they reached the collar and then gliding down and sidewards again to start over. Esares didn't try to hold back the small noise of enjoyment that pushed past his lips, a little more blatant than a sigh this time.

“Well, I'm happy it's behind us,” Anereth said. “This is a much better look on you than terror.”

Esares shifted uneasily. Anereth said things to him that more than skirted the edge of flirtation all the time, but sometimes he wasn't so sure how to handle them. By now he mostly thought Anereth was just amusing himself, but in moments like this he couldn't help a slither of doubt.

The most unsettling thing was that he couldn't say how much he'd mind if Anereth did mean something by it. Clearly Anereth wasn't simply going to take what he wanted if it was so. Apparently he wasn't much inclined to take Esares up on any half-hearted offers he might make, either. So what was the worst that was likely to happen?

Probably Esares would have been concerned if his stay extended longer than a few weeks. In that case, there were manifold reasons why Anereth might eventually become tired of keeping around a bed slave he wasn't fucking. He wasn't going to be with the mage that long, though; which also meant he had other problems to worry about. Compared to going back to Sylves, even the thought of Anereth using him wasn't so nauseating.

Too bad he didn't get to choose.

Though maybe... maybe he could get Anereth to borrow him from time to time, at least. That wasn't so far-fetched. Evidently Sylves didn't overly mind his friend having Esares, and chances were his master was going to be quite busy now that he'd completed the core part of his education and politics were beginning to catch up with him; and it would be discourteous of Sylves to deny Anereth use of Esares after leaving him with him when it had been convenient, should Anereth profess an interest.

And that wouldn't be so terrible, would it? Probably Esares wouldn't even have to have sex with Anereth too often, and would be allowed to express preferences, and even to not be in the mood, as long as it wasn't so frequently that Anereth decided he was a waste of time. It'd probably only really become important once the man started showing signs of getting bored with him, whether that was sooner or later. Until then, Esares could probably get away with a lot.

And if it meant retaining in some form even half of what he had now, like the opportunity to once in a while read a book, or to talk with someone and say more than what he thought the other person wanted to hear... Esares wouldn't regret paying that price.

When Anereth's hand stopped for a moment in the center of his back, Esares turned around. Anereth pulled away a little, surprise written on his face, though he remained bent over him.

Esares hesitated, then reached out a hand, making sure to leave Anereth enough time to stop him if he wanted to in lieu of asking permission. He cupped the mage's cheek and held his gaze while he braced himself on his other arm and leaned up, eyes half-lidded.

Anereth made no move to stop him or meet him halfway, and Esares halted just short of placing his mouth on his, the mage's breath feeling as hot against his skin as his touch had just moments ago.

“I find myself somewhat bemused,” Anereth said, the words vibrating against Esares' lips. “I'm quite sure this was not that sort of spell.”

Esares smiled. “If you mean the kind of spell that'd make me want to kiss you, my lord, I think that is debatable.”

The corners of Anereth's mouth lifted and he put his hand over Esares', gently guiding it away from his face. “I see.” He moved back an inch, and instead of pressing his lips to Esares' pressed them to the tips of his fingers. “Perhaps it was half as enchanting as you, then. Alas, it would only end in heartbreak.”

Esared looked at his hand, wrapped in Anereth's. “How so?”

Anereth smiled and released him. “Why, clearly my undying love would be unrequited.”

Esares snorted, letting himself fall back on the bedding. “You're the one who keeps turning me down, my lord.”

“Oh, but I only accept beautiful men's advances when I'm not serious about them.”

Esares thought he should probably be annoyed, but actually wasn't. “Of course.”

Anereth grinned, and Esares felt strangely light, considering he had no idea how to ensure the man wouldn't return to being indifferent towards him once the arrangement between him and Sylves reached its end.

Maybe it was that his back still felt pleasantly warm, and that his skin tingled with the ghost of Anereth's magic and careful touches. And that part of him liked Anereth turning him down, even if logically what mattered more than any temporary degradation or revulsion was to cement the human's interest in him.

The person he had been a week ago would have tried harder, under the same circumstances. Or at least, would have been more frustrated by the rejection, more worried about what it would mean for his future. He would have convinced himself it didn't matter how Anereth touched him, as long as it did not especially hurt – after all, Sylves used him all the time, often more than daily, so what did it matter?

But Esares had grown accustomed again to not being treated like a toy for someone's sheets, and he had no more wish to give that up than he wanted to lose access to books and conversations in which he could speak his opinions with minimal fear and the expectation that they would be taken seriously. The only difference was that he had no hopes of retaining the former, and so could only cling all the more tightly to the latter.

“Did you want to continue the spell, then, my lord?”

“No, I think that's enough for now,” Anereth said. “Maybe another time.”

“That would be nice,” Esares mumbled , some of his earlier drowsiness flowing back into him now that his head was once more resting on the pillow and there was nothing requiring him to stay alert. “May I sleep? And help in the kitchen later?”

Anereth brushed back Esares' bangs with a smile. “Yes, sweetheart, you may sleep, since you assisted me so valiantly. Don't worry about the kitchen.”

Esares hummed in contentment and closed his eyes. “Are you sure it would be unrequited?”

Anereth chuckled. “And here I thought the way to your heart was through that stable full of horses, and perhaps your own library.”

“Mhh, that too.”

A laugh. “Pleasant dreams.”

Later, Esares wasn't sure, but he thought he might actually have been sleepy enough he repeated the words back to Anereth.

Chapter Text

Anereth thought he could get used to being greeted by an armful of pretty demon first thing in the morning.

When he'd woken, Esares had already been up, combing his hair in the bathroom with the door open. Anereth had lingered in bed, not quite willing to throw off the warm covers yet, and content to watch the demon work to untangle one knot after the other. There'd seemed to be three or four in total, and once he got rid of the last, Esares had run the comb through long dark strands one last time before putting it down next to the sink.

Then Esares had glanced towards the door and seen Anereth was already awake, sitting upright in bed.

Anereth wouldn't have been surprised had the demon frozen and dropped to his knees on reflex, but instead Esares had only appeared startled for a moment, before smiling brightly and making his way over to him with unexpected enthusiasm.

Only when he arrived next to Anereth had he slid to his knees. “My lord,” he'd said, gaze barely lowered and still smiling. “May I join you?”

And Anereth had smiled back, and offered his hand, and now a few minutes later he lay on his back with Esares all but wrapped around him, head on Anereth's chest.

Anereth raked his fingers through damp soft hair for a moment before saying, “If you do this, I can't guarantee I'll ever get out of bed.”

“That's fine by me, my lord.”

Anereth chuckled, and moved his hand to the crown of Esares' head, gently rubbing his scalp. Esares made a small noise of appreciation and tightened his hold on him.

The demon smelled faintly of cherry, and was wearing nothing but the dark brown undergarments Anereth had laid out for him the previous morning in the bathroom, along with proper clothes and a towel, so that Esares wouldn't have to come to him should he want to bathe at any time during the day, or put his old clothes back on afterwards.

“So this is what you're like when you're comfortable?” Anereth asked. “Please never ask me to buy you a small town.”

Esares craned his neck and kissed the base of his throat. “A castle will do, my lord. With a library, and secret passageways.”

Anereth huffed a laugh. “What do you want with secret passageways?”

“I don't know yet,” Esares said, “but I'm sure I could think of some things.” He inched forward, and very lightly nibbed Anereth's ear.

“And here I wondered what yesterday was about. So you want me to buy you a castle, and in return you'll try to seduce me in secret passageways in the future rather than in bed?” Esares looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, and Anereth smiled. “I can't say I'm not tempted. What if it's haunted, though? I hear most castles are.”

“Well, that would be a problem,” Esares said, dipping his head again to nuzzle Anereth's neck. “I can't in front of ghosts.”

Anereth laughed in surprise and delight. “Which you would know from experience, I assume?”

“Mmm-hm.”

“Well, I could in front of a ghost, if he were handsome. I could with a ghost--”

Esares let out an unenticing snort, a gust of air against Anereth's shoulder. “You turn me down, but not ghosts?” Then he went suddenly still.

Because he was afraid Anereth might not turn him down this time? He wasn't sure what the demon was doing, or had been doing the previous day. Was he testing him? Trying to secure his position?

Did Esares even know what he was doing?

Anereth grasped Esares' shoulders, which were stiff, and gently pushed him back. It wasn't, perhaps, the most well thought out course of action, as Esares moved with him more readily than expected, and ended up sitting on Anereth's crotch, which... well, he'd never claimed to be unaffected by the demon's efforts.

Not that Esares should be surprised, considering it wasn't the first time; and before Esares hadn't even done anything with the aim of arousing him. Still, he'd not reacted too well then, and Anereth didn't expect him to now.

“Of course,” he said before Esares' expression even shifted. “Since I wouldn't have to worry about falling for a ghost.” He smiled and patted the mattress, and under his other hand he felt some of the tension drain out of Esares' shoulder just before the demon slid off him.

He cradled Esares' cheek, running his thumb over smooth skin. “I won't hurt you.”

Esares turned into the touch, closing his eyes. “I know, I-- I know you would be gentle, even if you used me. I just--”

Anereth dropped his hand and watched the demon struggle for words. He'd thought part of him would be remorseful when he finally killed Sylves, that he would feel, at least for an instant, like the betrayer his former lover was sure to see in him, even if it was really Sylves' own fault, because he should have known better.

Now he didn't think he would feel anything save satisfaction. Anereth had befriended Sylves for his own gain, all those years ago, but he had been drawn to him, astonished someone so powerful could care so much. He had marveled at his easygoing kindness, his foolish honesty, his fierce sense for justice; at the fact that he was taken so much with Anereth of all people... until he had stepped back, and realized that for a little while, he had been just as blinded by the vision of the Chosen One as everyone else.

That had been six years ago, and he'd only felt revulsion at his error since – but never before had he thought he would enjoy witnessing Sylves draw his last breath. He'd liked him, once. He'd used him, spied on him, but he had liked him.

He'd not thought, then, that Sylves could teach someone he needed to carefully justify an aversion to being raped.

Sylves had not been the only naive one.

“I told you,” he said when it looked like Esares wouldn't find what he wished to say any time soon. “Sex isn't what I want you for.” And now that he had Esares this close to where he wanted him, perhaps he should stop making remarks that might, if he kept them up, give a different impression.

But at this point it would probably seem odd. And perhaps he enjoyed flirting with the demon a little too much.

He did have troublesome taste in men.

Not that he was in truth worried about falling for Esares. But oh, he was charmed.

Esares exhaled audibly, opening his eyes. “Yes, my lord. But... I'm just nervous. I wouldn't-- I might like it if you did.”

“Now what's this about, really?”

Esares glanced away. “Nothing. It's how I feel, and I thought you should know.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

Esares sought his gaze again, and this time held it. “I'm a demon, aren't I? I like sex. And I like you, and I know you wouldn't hurt me. So is it really so strange?”

The sad thing was that it would probably have sounded wholly logical to the majority of people Anereth could think of at the top of his head.

“It's very strange,” he said. “And I'm curious why you find it necessary to try and convince me otherwise.”

After a long moment in which Esares didn't move, the demon folded his arms over his chest. “I don't. I'm just saying that I would enjoy sleeping with you, if you wanted to make use of me that way. It's of course up to you, my lord, but you seemed to care about my opinion in the matter, so I--”

“Stop.”

Esares fell silent instantly. His fingers dug into his upper arms.

Anereth watched him, gaze sharp. His first instinct was to press the issue. Esares was obviously lying, and rather terribly at that – doubtless the demon was aware of that himself by now. That he still refused to admit it meant whatever was going on wasn't a small problem, at least in his mind. It might get in the way later, and if only Anereth knew what it was, he could hope to squash the issue before anything came of it.

But in his position, he couldn't push without demanding an answer, because both he and Esares knew the ways Esares could tell him 'no' were limited, and the fact that the demon didn't want him to continue asking was already clear. To persist would be to back him into a corner, giving him the options of lashing out and risking punishment, admitting he had lied and also risking punishment in addition to being forced to explain something he evidently had no wish to, or shutting down.

And no matter which Esares picked, it had the potential to set their relationship back much further than Anereth's ignorance as to what troubled him.

“I do care about your opinion,” he said therefore. “And I'm flattered. I still prefer the people I sleep with less skittish. And not thinking I'm using them.” Regardless of whether he actually was. “So let's just go on as we have been, yes?”

Esares looked unhappy, but didn't reply, and merely avoided his gaze.

Anereth sighed. “Sweetheart, I quite adore you. Must I acquire you that castle to prove it?”

Esares gnawed at his bottom lip. He glanced at him, and away again, seeming to debate something. “Do you?” he finally asked, gaze settling on the headboard of the bed. “Or am I just a diversion? After this, will you still--” He cut himself off, turning away.

And things started making sense.

Anereth had been so focused on exploiting Esares' desire to be recognized and treated as something more than the Chosen One's pet he'd not spared a lot of thought to what Esares was expecting to become of that after Sylves returned. Which was quite the oversight, considering his whole plan hinged on Esares' reluctance to part with the comparative kindness Anereth had shown him since Sylves brought him here.

He supposed he'd expected it to not matter so much to Esares in the greater scheme of things, if as the demon assumed all Anereth could offer him in the long-run were the occasional nice word or the even more infrequent book to read. Surely if it were only that, it would pale in comparison to all the time he would be spending serving Sylves; a flimsy bandage clumsily wrapped around a mortal wound.

Except people could live through grave suffering for mere moments of happiness sprinkled through it, and Anereth had been foolish to think Esares would go on resigning himself to what his life had been for far too long now until he dangled a grand hope in front of him, rather than grasping for a smaller one himself.

Luckily, though, he could work with that. Once Esares started to believe his life had improved permanently rather than temporarily, to a meager but to him significant extent, he'd be all the less willing to return to how things had been.

After a moment of deliberation, Anereth took Esares' chin and gently turned his head towards him. The demon refused to look at him for a moment longer, then gave in.

“When this is done,” Anereth said, “I will still care. I won't just give you back and never think of you again.” It was startling, how little he had to lie to Esares to effectively pursue his aims. Sylves had made this very easy for him, and perhaps he should thank him for that.

Esares' lips parted, but before he could reply, there was a knock on the door.

Anereth released the demon and tugged the covers back over himself, and Esares' legs and waist. “Yes?”

The door opened, and Valithia stepped into the room, already dressed in her day clothes. She gave the interior a cursory glance before resting her gaze on Anereth. “Are you still in bed? I thought we said we'd leave early.”

“I was under the impression that for you, this is early,” Anereth said, surprised to see her and not Oliar or even Milara. When left to her own devices, Valithia tended not to get up until four or five hours after sunrise.

“Well, who knows how long it'll take me to find Hylis' relatives' house? And I'm not going to stay at the market for just a few minutes this time.”

Trust Valithia to not do things half-way. And to exaggerate her grievances – thanks to her scatterbrained approach to getting her school books, they'd spent at least an hour at the market last time.

Anereth sighed. “All right, I'll be down in fifteen minutes. You can tell Oliar to start breakfast.”

“Perfect! Don't be late.” Anereth felt like he'd woken in a strange alternate world where Valithia was punctual and a morning person, while he was the one who barely got anywhere on time.

His sister made to turn around, then stopped, looking like she was noticing Esares for the first time. Or like it for the first time occurred to her she should do something about it. “Morning. Sorry, I was a little-- anyway, did you sleep well?”

Esares smiled at her, and since a day or two ago he managed to do so without looking like he expected Valithia to grab and strangle him any moment, though right now it was evident she'd caught him off-guard. “Yes, ma'am, thank you. I hope you slept well, too.”

“I did. Do you want me to bring you anything from the market?”

Esares' expression instantly turned uneasy. “I--” He stopped. From the look of him, he did so not because there was something he fervently wanted but didn't dare ask for, but because he'd already learned arguing with Valithia was futile; especially for someone who wasn't in a position to do much arguing in the first place.

Before Anereth could help him out, Valithia suggested, “Maybe some more cookies?”

Esares appeared relieved, which wasn't surprising. For once, Valithia was displaying some awareness of his plight, and making an attempt to minimize it. Gifting a slave cookies wasn't too peculiar, and Esares knew there'd been no negative consequences for him last time.

His eyes darted to Anereth, but only briefly; then he refocused on Valithia, the corners of his mouth lifting. “I've almost finished the ones you gave me, and I do like them, so in case you come across any I would appreciate it. Thank you.”

Valithia nodded in satisfaction.

When she was gone, Esares asked, “Was that all right, my lord?”

“Of course. And she can buy you whatever she wants, short of a puppy. Are you sure you're all right staying here?”

Esares smiled. “Yes, my lord. Thank you, but you don't need to worry. I'll just read.”

Anereth leaned forward, kissing the top of Esares' head. “Have fun, then. We should probably hurry, or Valithia will eat all the waffles by herself just to spite me.”

“Well, I already combed my hair, my lord.”

Anereth thought Sylves must really have no sense of self-preservation leaving the demon with him, because if he hadn't already been planning to kill him, just to retain possession of Esares he might have changed his mind.

“Cheeky,” he said. “You'd best be careful, or I might mess it up again – actually, I think I already did.”

Esares raised a hand as if to check, or smooth his hair back down, then stopped. “Unless you won't let me join breakfast if my hair's in less than perfect condition, my lord, I think I don't actually care. The books won't complain.”

Anereth laughed, deciding he quite liked this side of the demon. If he did keep him indefinitely after getting rid of Sylves, perhaps he should worry about falling for him. “Fine,” he said, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “Spend your day with atrocious hair. But at least put on some clothes.”

“I can't believe that's the one order concerning my clothes you've given me, my lord,” Esares said, even as he obediently trailed after him to get his pants and tunic from the bathroom.

And oh yes, Anereth would be loath to give him back.

*

“Why is he like that?”

Anereth turned away from the carriage's window to look at his sister. “Like what?” he asked, though he already knew the answer. It was almost as obvious as who she was referring to.

The only surprise was that Valithia was only bringing it up now. Anereth had expected her to broach the subject sooner, seeing how she rarely kept her thoughts to herself for long when something bothered her. And this had been eating at her for days now, no question.

Judging by her choice to voice the issue the moment they were out of the house and by themselves, perhaps she had been worried about Esares eavesdropping again, or otherwise overhearing.

Tact was not her strong suit, but she also hated hurting people. She always made an effort.

Valithia frowned. “Just...” She made a vague gesture with her hand. “Nervous. Jumpy.”

“Slaves do tend to be a bit skittish. It's not unusual.”

“Kyenne's not skittish.”

Anereth raised an eyebrow.

Valithia crossed her arms. “He's not skittish like that. He actually holds conversations with me, and doesn't expect me to bite off his head for it.”

“He's known you since you were ten.”

“He's not that skittish with other people, either.”

“Are you sure? He likely would be if Tiliera dropped him off with a stranger.”

“She wouldn't do that, though. And Sylves hasn't with Esares, either. You're still friends with him, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Anereth said. “But we don't see each other as often as we used to, and when we do he doesn't necessarily bring Esares. Besides, I hardly engage in idle conversation with my friends' slaves.”

“He's never left him with you before?”

“No. Or anyone else that I know of, for the matter, unless you count servants and his family. So it's hardly surprising Esares should be spooked. Any slave would be.”

“Ryminis wouldn't,” Valithia said, but it was a half-hearted objection.

“If you left Ryminis with anyone other than Mother, I would be spooked. You can't compare Esares to her.”

Valithia sighed. “Still. If he's that scared, Sylves shouldn't have made him stay with you. Or he should have tried harder to make him less scared before he did. It's not right.”

Anereth smiled. “I'm sure Sylves did his best,” he lied. Though was it really a lie when Sylves himself no doubt believed it? There were philosophers who would claim he couldn't help the way his pitiful mind worked, even if Anereth was disinclined to agree with them.

There were enough people eager to make excuses for the Chosen One's shortcomings already.

Valithia looked unconvinced. “You think so? Apparently he doesn't even feed him properly.”

“Valithia, most people hold that feeding slaves properly doesn't necessitate going out to buy each and all of their preferred foods.”

“Well, of course. I get it'd be impractical to do it for all the household slaves. But Esares is Sylves' personal slave, and I thought he cared about him. So I don't understand why Esares looked at me like I'd grown horns and three tails when I just wanted to know what he likes to eat.”

“It's just not something people spend much time thinking about. It's not really about Sylves.”

“For me it is. I thought he was nice.”

“Don't jump to conclusions,” Anereth said. “It's only food, and you heard Esares – he's nowhere as picky as you. Or Ryminis. You can't treat your relationship with her as a measure for anything.”

Valithia pursed her lips and didn't reply. Anereth knew his argument had not impressed her, though evidently she had trouble formulating a response at the moment, like always when she'd not entirely put her finger yet on what it was about a situation that bothered her.

She would get there, in time. Most of her experiences with slaves were limited to the ones in their family. She didn't live in Nuvaria, where slaves were everywhere and impossible for a person of high standing to not interact with regularly in some fashion – even Ksielle had to tolerate the ones used in class, and let table slaves serve her food and wine at parties, and listen to people as they went on and on about their personal slaves, often divulging information about the methods of punishment they employed, or casually lending them out to their friends for sex.

If in the capital personal slaves were pets and toys, back home they could be more easily compared to furniture. Extravagant, quite costly furniture. People had them, and brought them up in polite conversation from time to time, and people observed and judged them, but they weren't really paraded around to show off, or loaned out to anyone but friends of the family. Halethion's border was close enough to Enalyr that some of their reservations regarding personal slaves had carried over.

Deltrin, the nearby city in which Valithia attended school, wasn't that different, though people did care about their slaves' appearance there more, and kept bed slaves with greater frequency. Still, they looked upon personal slaves with more caution than they did in Nuvaria, and they had picked the school for Valithia they had because in it, slaves were largely supposed not to leave their owners' rooms. Ryminis in public for any extended period of time was a disaster waiting to happen.

Valithia was probably particularly removed from the realities of slavery even compared to most of her schoolmates from a similar background. Social skills had never come to her naturally – she took more after their late father there than she did after their mother. Despite her outgoing personality, she did not make friends easily, and she didn't care much for crowds. The unfortunate truth was that she probably spent more time talking to Ryminis than she did to anyone else.

And then, of course, there was the fact that she wouldn't easily be able to invite people into her dorm room, with Ryminis there. Just another thing that isolated her from her peers.

It nearly weighed on his conscience that he had given her to his sister, but Valithia had wanted it that way, and pestered him for months until he finally caved in. It wasn't as though there had been many alternatives, and since she'd taken to Valithia as much as Ryminis was probably capable of taking to someone, Anereth would grudgingly admit having her around his sister had its uses.

He still held no fondness for her.

At least she'd refrained from putting ideas into Valithia's head, though. The last thing he needed was his sister going on a campaign for the better treatment of slaves. And as soon as she was ready to see that many people she admired acted far outside her personal moral convictions, it was what she easily might do. She wasn't one to keep quiet about her opinions, after all.

In theory, Anereth could live with that. In a year or two, if everything went according to plan, it probably would do little harm, even if he expected his sister would only end up getting more frustrated in the process. But right now, any negative attention on their family would be an inconvenience at best, dangerous at worst.

Anereth planned to succeed in taking Sylves' power, in which case he needed the Ivariney to accept him as Chosen One in his stead – and though they'd not have many other options, they had some. In the case that he didn't succeed... well, it wouldn't come to that, but he would rest easier knowing that if it did, he might avoid dragging his family down with him. He'd moved out fully, and limited his contact with them as much as he'd been able to without being obvious about it, and it was incredibly irksome Valithia had just barged in and trampled on all his efforts.

He should have seen it coming, though. Patience was not in Valithia's nature – and unlike Anereth, she had not taught herself to act as though it were. Of course she'd not simply accept him putting off visiting again and again.

So the most he could hope for now was that she'd not actively ostracize herself for at least another year or so. Or start speaking ill of Sylves. Which really, would have the same effect if she did it publicly, but it'd also pose a problem if she went and confronted him privately instead.

Of all the people Anereth lied to, he felt maybe worst about it with Valithia, because it was so easy, and she never suspected, and he tried to keep it to a minimum, but the moment she touched upon a risky subject, falsehood upon falsehood fell out of his mouth, and it was as simple as breathing.

Some big brother he was.

“You should be nicer to him,” Valithia said suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

“You should be nicer to Esares,” Valithia repeated. “You shouldn't have punished him.”

Anereth couldn't say he'd seen that coming. “You don't even know how I punished him. I assure you he came out of it quite fine.”

“That's not the point,” Valithia said, glaring at him. “I know you wouldn't hurt him, or I'd have said something then. I should have. He's so-- you should be nice.”

“Do you think he's gotten more jumpy?”

Valithia's brow wrinkled. “No.” There was a short silence. “The opposite. A few times now he's seemed almost relaxed when I talked to him. It highlighted the difference.”

“So I can't have been doing too badly, can I?”

Valithia's glower had lessened, but she still seemed far from happy with him. “I guess.” She paused as the carriage gave a slight jolt. “That doesn't prove you did everything perfectly, though, does it.”

Well, she wasn't wrong.

Anereth smiled. “Ah, I suppose. Perhaps I should listen to you, then.”

Valithia gave him a suspicious look. “You should always listen to me, but since when do you admit it?”

“In that case, I take it back.

Valithia scoffed. “Anyway. If I don't get to make him give me a list of all the things he likes because it would be harassing him, you don't get to punish him, because I don't see how that's any better.”

“I see. That almost makes sense. If I feel the need to punish him again, I suppose I could just make him spend a day with you.”

“Ugh,” Valithia said with emphasis and turned away from him, scowling at the window with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

Anereth smiled and also returned his attention to the scenery passing them by. Valithia's logic truthfully wasn't so faulty. Of course, the point of a punishment was to be unpleasant, but it could be argued it was rather hypocritical of him to cause Esares such distress and then chide Valithia for far less.

He couldn't have Esares snooping, though. Or give him more cause to suspect that everything Anereth had ever said to him had been a lie once he asked him for the means to destroy Sylves. A master who'd never punish him would sound too good to be true, even more than one who never forced him.

Anereth was already walking a fine line. With how well Esares responded to gentleness, it was hard not to give it to him. He hoped that while the extent of it might ultimately increase Esares' mistrust of him, it at the same time provided him with enough additional incentive to comply with Anereth's plans to at the very least make up for that, because it left the demon with more to lose.

However, for the sake of credibility Anereth would have gone on being harsher about punishments, at least, had he not worried about pushing Esares too far. As things stood, even an ill-considered threat had the potential to cause tremendous damage, and that was not a risk worth taking if he didn't have to. From the start, he'd wanted to use the demon, not break him; and now he wanted things beyond that.

It all would have been much simpler had Esares turned out to be just the cunning and hardened assassin Anereth had expected – not undamaged by Sylves' treatment of him, of course, but also not emotionally vulnerable beyond the minimum of what Anereth's plans required. He would have been able to focus on presenting himself as a better option for a master than Sylves, and how precisely Esares felt about him would have been none of his concern, so long as once Anereth told him of his ploy, the demon made a calculated, pragmatic choice to aid him. Anereth didn't think it would have been difficult for him to maintain an attitude towards the slave akin to indifference, then.

Yet for all that Esares was cunning, and for all that Anereth had to question how much of what he saw was genuine and how much was manipulation of Esares' own, their relationship had far bypassed casual, and he couldn't help but want to give the demon something better than the mere courtesy of not cutting his throat when he was done with him. Which was foolish, because if his plans succeeded, he would be the Chosen One, and Esares wanted the Chosen One dead. And even if he'd been robbed of the ability to do anything about it directly, obviously Esares was still able to leak information about his target to those who shared his goal – such as Anereth, but also those of his own kind he was actually loyal to.

At the end of this, the smart thing would be to put him somewhere under the supervision of some servants and forget about him. Or to kill him alongside his master – but collared, Esares didn't pose enough of a threat that Anereth had ever seriously considered it. Sylves was ridiculous to be afraid of Esares physically harming him, and absurd in how he handled it. If he was so concerned Esares might yet strike out against him despite the collar, instead of tying it around his throat he should have plunged a knife into his heart. But he'd been thinking with his cock.

Or no, that was too generous. He'd not been thinking, period. He'd only refused to let go of a slave he had grown fond of.

Kyenne had asked him not to become attached to him, once. Anereth had thought he understood then, but he hadn't really – not like he had come to understand watching Sylves. There was little more revolting than a master's love for his slave.

It was a selfish, dishonest thing. And Anereth was in ample possession of these qualities himself, but at least he didn't delude himself into thinking there was anything pure about them. He could act kind, or he could be ruthless, but he did not mix the two up and call it doting affection.

He'd also never raped someone; which shouldn't be a fact that could grant him moral high ground over someone he used to think of as a much better person than himself. Someone whom he had not loved, but--

Well, it didn't matter. He would kill Sylves because it would get him what he wanted, and then he would see what he did about Esares; and he wouldn't kill him, and he might not lock him away somewhere, but he would also not keep a lover for a pet, or a pet for a lover.

The specifics could wait until he was at least sure Esares would willingly play along with the gist of his scheme. And he would get the demon there. Because the only alternative was violence, and while he had less qualms torturing a slave for information than he had using comparable methods to punish one for disobedience, it still wasn't a prospect he found appealing – particularly when it came to Esares. Anereth refused to even consider having romantic feelings for him, but if the charge were having gotten attached, he had no illusions about what the verdict would be.

Did it matter, though? He was not about to simply give up on the power killing Sylves could supply him with. Especially when to refuse him, Esares would first have to be made aware of his intentions, and Anereth was not going to simply let the demon walk away afterwards to throw his lot in with Sylves. It would be difficult for Esares to use the knowledge of Anereth's duplicity to hurt him without drawing Sylves' suspicion and wrath himself, but this wasn't the kind of thing Anereth could afford to take chances with.

And at the end of the day, leaving Sylves alive would be doing neither himself nor Esares any favors.

He still avoided thinking in much detail about how he would handle it should Esares decide Anereth was not to be trusted and that he would be better off telling him nothing. Caring about someone you before anything else meant to use as a means to an end was tricky, and Anereth had gotten out of practice. He carefully filed away all information on Esares' fears and weaknesses as they revealed themselves to him – being subjected to painful spells, gags, the whip, being humiliated – but the more he learned, the more bitter a taste did the idea of using the knowledge against the demon leave in his mouth.

However, things seemed to be going quite nicely, and Anereth decided he could afford to not worry about worst case scenarios unless he had some reason to suspect they would come to pass.

For now, he'd accompany his sister in exploring the city, because the sooner she had enough of it, the sooner she would leave; and it would be unwise to proceed with his plans while she was sleeping under his roof.

And when she went to her friend's place to invite her for the following day, perhaps he would seek out an acquaintance of his own, because Esares was alluring, and Anereth wasn't used to having sex as rarely as he had in the past week and a half even when there weren't pretty demons crawling on top of him in the mornings.

There'd been Riliar at the party, and an old friend some days before Sylves had dropped Esares off, and that was the entirety of his recent sex life, which was just sad. It was beginning to become a tad difficult to fall asleep at night with Esares pressed up against him, so now seemed a good time to rectify that.

First he would have a different kind of fun, though. There was a shop he needed to revisit, and an overly chatty clerk who needed to be informed of what his job did and did not entail.

For all he knew, Esares had already put the incident out of his mind; but no one could accuse Anereth of being one for simply letting things go.

Chapter Text

It was odd, Esares thought. Two weeks ago, he would have given anything to be left alone an entire day to read, and take the occasional break only for cookies or a nap when he felt like it. Now although he'd looked forward to it, he quickly grew restless.

He was more than three-fourths into “Song of Two Dragons” already, and realized he didn't want to finish it yet, even though he no longer doubted he would be allowed to pick another text to read afterwards. He still had the potions book Anereth had given him the other day for no reason safe to improve Esares' mood, and he supposed he should finish that first then, but he only really cared about what it had to say about various herbs and trees and flowers mentioned, not its actual core subject.

When he'd gone through it last evening, he'd found himself unexpectedly bored by long-winded descriptions of potions that he either already knew how to make and sometimes better, or would never have needed even if he were still free, such as ones for healing minor injuries. He wished Anereth had given him something a little more advanced; though perhaps that was greedy, considering the mage had clearly just handed the book to him because it dealt in more detail than was probably usual with some plants Esares especially liked. It had been an extra, a nice gesture on top of even greater kindness.

Still, Esares didn't know what to do with it now that he'd already read most of the parts that interested him, and with a bit of a guilty conscience he left it lying on the bedside table. He tried to catch some additional sleep for lack of more appealing options, with no success worth mentioning.

By the time noon arrived, he was bored enough that when Oliar checked in on him and asked if he wanted to eat anything in particular, he didn't stop at demurely assuring him whatever he and Milara made would be fine. Instead he added, just as the man was about to step back out of the room, “May I help?”

Oliar stopped. “It's not necessary.” He turned to face Esares fully once more and smiled. “Thanks for offering, though.”

“It isn't that I thought it was necessary, sir. But I don't really have anything else to do, and I would like to help, if that'd be all right.”

Oliar looked surprised for a moment, then gave another smile, though this time it seemed unsure. “Lord Anereth didn't say anything about whether it was.”

“I don't believe he'd mind. Please?”

Oliar hesitated. Esares widened his eyes a little, and slowly and deliberately bit his lip. He was fed up enough with lying around staring at walls that a few lines out of the pitiful pet act appeared a small indignity to suffer through if it could gain him a respite.

As he had half-expected, his performance worked. After a few seconds, Oliar relented with a sigh and another uncertain smile. “I'll ask Milara. I don't think she'll say no, but if we get in trouble, I will say it was your idea.”

Esares smiled back. “That's all right, sir. Thank you.”

Milara didn't say no, and less than fifteen minutes later, Esares was helping the two of them make stuffed peppers – Esares had expected something slightly simpler under the circumstances, but wasn't about to complain. The filling of rice and various vegetables they were preparing seemed like it would taste delicious once it was done, and the more time he spent working in the kitchen before he had to return to the bedroom, the better as far as he was concerned.

When Anereth had first told him of the servants, Esares had thought he would avoid them as best he could once they were there, but his reasons for this plan had become all but void. He no longer believed accidentally offending Anereth's staff would have consequences beyond their demeanor towards him cooling, which meant he didn't have anything to lose by seeking them out. And he'd expected interacting with them would be uncomfortable and awkward, and it was, a little – but Milara barely had words to spare for him, and Oliar was friendly but also kept the small talk at a tolerable level, and Esares didn't really mind being around either of them now that they no longer seemed to question his ability to cut a leek or tomato into roughly even pieces.

He could easily think of company he'd prefer, but even more effortlessly he could conjure up images of people, of servants from the Tevenra household, who were much less pleasant to share a space with. Like Semnar. Esares made a face as he remembered working with the man. Sylves had made him help the aging servant with his chores because Esares had been annoyed at just sitting around doing nothing for much of the day and responded by annoying his master in turn, and by the end of the whole thing, Esares had decided he would have preferred a regular punishment.

Semnar's duties focused on garden work, and Esares should have been thrilled to assist him, because the Tevenra household's garden contained a number of rare magical flowers, and Esares even rather liked most of the non-magical ones in it. Except Semnar's attitude towards slaves was about as bad as that of his master's father, and he'd acted the whole time as if Sylves were making him walk his pet grub, wrinkled nose and disgusted looks and all.

Semnar had also told Esares he was too stupid to be trusted to help with the weeding, because he might pull out a plant instead that was actually valuable – as though there were any expensive plants in the Tevenra estate's garden that looked remotely similar to weeds.

So even if Milara and Oliar might think he had the brain capacity of a small bird, Esares could live with it so long as they kept their mouths shut about it.

Oliar actually seemed to be making an effort to be polite to him, saying 'please' and 'thank you' a lot and more than once apologizing when he thought he'd been going on for too long about a topic, like how troublesome he found preparing most meals involving eggplants, because on his own he never got them to taste quite right. Esares was fine with him rambling a little now and then, and supposed the man's attempts at courtesy were nice. They certainly were more than he usually got, from humans.

At some point Milara left finishing the filling to Esares and Oliar and started to clean up around them, telling them she needed room to prepare some fruits for dessert.

When the two of them were almost done and had proceeded to actually stuffing the peppers while Milara had taken to peeling oranges, Oliar said, “What's the Chosen One like?”

Esares started, though really, he should have expected the question. People always wanted to know about Sylves.

That didn't mean he had to like it. “He's the Chosen One, sir,” he said. “Doesn't everyone know?” He kept his tone neutral, and gave his expression traces of puzzlement.

“The stories, sure. But I meant... in private?”

“I suppose he's just like the stories say, sir,” Esares told the man, not interested in having this conversation.

“He hunts dragons?” Oliar returned, voice filled with humor.

Esares couldn't hold back a snort. “Not when I'm present, sir.”

Oliar grinned. “So which stories are true?”

Esares lowered his gaze back to the peppers, although both he and Oliar had stopped filling them. “It's not proper for me to talk about my master behind his back, sir.”

A short silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Esares could see the human worrying his lip. “Just general stuff?” he finally tried again.

Esares realized he found being questioned about this by Oliar even more aggravating than he found strangers doing it. The servant could ask Anereth all about the Chosen One, if he so dared. Instead he came with his curiosity to someone who could, in theory, get into more trouble for not humoring him than Oliar could for bothering Anereth.

Under the precise circumstances, Esares still didn't think he had much to lose from offending Oliar other than the servant's affable behavior towards him, but found that was enough to give him pause. He wanted to tell the man to mind his own business – not in so many words, but clearly enough he would be forced to take the hint. Except that would mean next time Anereth and Valithia went out, Esares would have to stay by himself the whole day; and otherwise too his interactions with Oliar and quite possibly Milara would become a lot more strained in the future.

He wouldn't be hurt if they treated him with disdain, but he'd hate it, and loathe them, and it would infringe on what he had here. He didn't need another steady reminder of his position – the collar around his throat was doing that job fine all on its own, and as much as he wished it, being able to end this talk of Sylves quickly wasn't worth adding glowering servants to it. Even if that was about all they could do.

He resumed stuffing the peppers to buy time, and took a breath. He could pretend. He was good at pretending. How often had he convinced people he lived for Sylves' pleasure and approval?

“My master is generous and kind,” he said.

“Lady Valithia says he's obsessed with dogs. Is that true?”

“He does like them very much, sir. He has five.”

“Five, really?” Oliar looked at him with wide eyes for a moment, before seeming to realize Esares would end up doing all the work at this rate, and haltingly joining him again in putting the slightly mushy rice and vegetable mixture into the peppers. “What kinds of dogs?”

“Four hunting dogs and a mutt, sir. Though his father helps him take care of them, and the mutt also belongs to his sister.”

“And they do tricks?”

“Yes, sir.” Esares smiled a little despite himself. Some of those tricks he'd taught them. More often than not on Sylves' behalf, because his master had wanted to keep him busy and out of trouble, but even then it had been fun.

The dogs couldn't help who their master was, anymore than he could. Esares liked them, and missed them when he was at school with Sylves, often with nothing to do but wait around for his master to return from a class or social outing when he got left behind in the dorm.

He especially missed the small mutt, Nela. She always begged when someone had food, and tried to sneak into the bed when she thought no one was looking. When the probability he'd get caught was low, he gave her bits of meat or egg from his meals, and let her cuddle in bed with him. Nearly from the start Sylves had been on to him, but he didn't do anything about it but half-heartedly warn him as long as Esares didn't do it right in front of him, or let him find conspicuous amounts of dog hair in the bed.

“You also like dogs?” Oliar's voice tore him from his reminiscence. When Esares glanced at him, the man was watching him curiously.

Esares realized he was still smiling. “I suppose I do, sir.” Really, the lack of dogs was about the only complaint he had about staying with Anereth. Too bad a puppy also happened to be the one thing Anereth had explicitly told him he would not let his sister buy Esares. Sensible, but too bad.

“I didn't know demons liked dogs,” Oliar said, and Esares barely kept from giving him a scathing look.

“Well, I do, sir.” He only put the slightest emphasis on the 'I'.

“Right. Do you have to add 'sir' to every sentence? It makes me feel weird.”

Esares did shoot the man a less than polite glance, this time. It made him feel 'weird'? Like he was talking to a slave, perhaps? Well, Esares also felt weird chatting with humans, but he didn't have the luxury of forgetting what they were, ever, unless he was fine with courting pain.

“My apologies,” Esares said. And tacked on, before he could stomp out the burning urge to be contrary, “Sir.”

“Uh,” was Oliar's eloquent response.

Esares looked at him in inquiry, doing his best to give the impression he'd made a mistake out of habit and not realized.

He waited for the reaction. Either Oliar would fall for it and hopefully let the matter go, or he'd see through him and get angry, or he'd not be sure what was going on and probably get angry anyway. The last time Esares had done something like this, it hadn't ended so well, but Oliar was not Ileras, and even in the unlikely case that the servant followed the clerk's example and told Anereth about it, Esares couldn't imagine the mage doing much more about it than telling him to not act this way again. He wasn't doing anything very out of line, and no one outside Anereth's household would ever hear of it, unless Oliar or Milara had a bizarre desire to antagonize their powerful employer over essentially nothing.

“Never mind,” Oliar said at last, and to Esares' surprise seemed flustered as he heaped cheese on top of the last of the newly filled peppers. His cheeks were pink. “I think we're done. Thanks for helping.”

That was... much more gracious than Esares had expected. He stepped back from the counter. ”Thank you for letting me help.” He left off the 'sir' this time, not sure if the man would notice, but wanting to at least be polite back when Oliar kept surpassing his expectations.

Considering he'd never expected much from humans in the first place and only grown more jaded over the course of his enslavement, that didn't take much, but it was still a nice surprise, and didn't happen often.

Well, it didn't use to happen often. Ever since stepping foot into this house, he'd rarely been treated by people like he had anticipated, and never worse.

Apparently Oliar did notice the absent honorific, and evidently he really wasn't about to hold a grudge, because he all but beamed at him. “I think Milara can take it from here. We'll let you know when they're done, all right?”

“All right. Thank you.”

Again Oliar looked much too happy at his response, and Esares had to keep himself from shaking his head in bafflement.

He returned to the bedroom in much better spirits than he would have believed possible after a conversation about Sylves.

*

Esares spent most of the time until lunch flipping through the potions book, rereading a number of the sections that had interested him. It wasn't exciting, but it was something to do. When the food was finished, he didn't go down to the kitchen to get it – because rather than just informing him lunch was ready, Oliar brought it up to him: two stuffed peppers, with some of the rice that had been left over from making the filling arranged next to them. There was also an additional plate with peeled oranges and sliced peaches.

“Sorry,” Oliar said after setting everything down on the night table. “I guess it's strange eating here by yourself...”

Esares offered him a small smile. “It's fine. Thank you.”

And honestly, it was fine. He would have preferred eating with Anereth, or even Anereth and Valithia, but sharing a table with their staff would have been more uncomfortable than having lunch by himself, especially since he couldn't tell whether Milara was always so aloof or if the way she hardly even talked to him had to do with him being a demon.

When he finished eating, he brought the dishes down, and he would have washed and dried them himself despite Oliar's feeble protests, had Milara not put her foot down. “I'm not going to tell Lord Anereth you did any more of our job than you already have,” she informed him and held out her hand.

Esares ducked his head and surrendered the tray.

He managed to take a short nap, and finally picked up “Song of Two Dragons” again, because as much as he wanted to savor the book, not having anything to do was beginning to drive him up the wall; and besides, he had limited time to read as many texts as possible before he had to go back to a life where getting caught skimming a single page would cost him dearly. He might, hopefully would, get more opportunities to read eventually, if Anereth took to borrowing him from his master; but it wouldn't be the same, and it also wasn't something he could afford to count on.

He did think Anereth enjoyed being kind to him – even believed the man when he claimed he was more than just a diversion to him, because the human had treated him with incredible forbearance and consideration thus far. But at the end of the day, Esares was a slave, and Anereth was a mage and did not own him. If he got distracted by his studies or the political ambitions all mages from noble families had in abundance, or didn't speak to Esares for a few weeks or months for other reasons, Esares would soon lose whatever relevance he had to the man's life. It would be out of sight, out of mind, because Anereth did not need him, even if Esares needed him; he had no illusions about the disparity in their relationship, both in terms of simple power and in their level of investment in it.

It took him a while before he could focus on the book.

He got through about half a chapter before Oliar returned, knocking and then after a beat coming in without Esares having to say anything, because it was not for a slave to decide whether a servant could enter the bedroom of the one they both served. It was already the height of politeness that the man had knocked at all. Esares didn't know whether it had been Oliar's idea or Anereth's order.

Esares put the book aside and regarded him curiously.

“So I know this isn't really something I should be bothering you with, but do you happen to know a Lady Ksielle Avendras?”

Esares blinked. “She's a friend of his lordship. Why, what about her?”

Oliar stepped into the room and closed the door behind himself. “Well, she's here, and she's refusing to leave.”

Esares hoped he didn't look as confused as he felt. “Refusing to leave?” Then he added, because it had only just occurred to him, “I didn't hear the door.”

Oliar shrugged. “Don't ask me how that works. I assume you'd not be able to hear the knocking in Lady Valithia's room either. Maybe also not in Lord Anereth's study.”

Esares blinked. He wasn't completely surprised: most mages, and many people who weren't mages but could afford to hire one, used spells that announced visitors, and they often didn't want the magic to disturb them while they worked or rested – usually when they had servants to receive their guests for them. In that case, the spells tended to be altered accordingly.

Esares had just assumed Anereth wouldn't have built this constraint into the magic when he'd first weaved it, as there would have been no servants in the house then. Though it was still likely he hadn't, and that Esares had simply missed him rectifying this in the past few days.

Oliar went on, “Fact is, this Lady Ksielle is here, and she's not pushed her way in, exactly, but she's threatening to wait outside until Lord Anereth gets back, and I figure that'd be bad, what with her being a noble and already seeming pissed and the sky looking like it's gonna rain. So, you think we can let her in?”

Esares needed a moment to collect himself. Oliar sounded like he was just going to follow his verdict if he said 'yes' or 'no'.

Had a servant in the Tevenra household asked him something like this, Esares would probably have suspected him of trying to relieve himself of the responsibility by shoving it on Esares instead. But even then, Faveran Tevenra would likely have let go a servant who relied on the judgment of bed slaves to do their job; Anereth would be about as disinclined to accept such an excuse, if not for the same reasons, and about a hundred times less likely to unleash the bulk of his anger on Esares should he be dissatisfied with where he found his friend upon his return.

And color him naive, but Oliar didn't strike Esares as someone quick to play these sorts of games. He decided giving his honest opinion should be all right.

“It's not for me to say, of course,” he began, taking his time picking his words because it couldn't hurt to be prudent. “But she and Lord Laverien seemed close.”

There was also the concern that if she got irritated enough waiting in front of the house, she might start throwing around spells – he didn't say that, because it would be far out of line for him to run his mouth about the noble's fondness for destructive magic or the fact that she didn't seem to shy from using it to make a point. However, as much as he wasn't certain what he thought of having Ksielle in the house while Anereth was out, or what Anereth would think of it, he didn't fancy the alternative.

Oliar nodded. “We'll let her in, then. I don't want to be responsible if she catches a cold or something. Milara can keep her company.” By this he likely meant: keep an eye on her. Anereth would be displeased if Ksielle were to wander his home at her leisure, no doubt. “Thanks.”

He slipped out again. Esares wondered what Ksielle might want to appear unannounced and insist on waiting around for Anereth to come back, which might happen any moment now or not until the middle of the night.

Well, he'd find out eventually. There were too many possibilities and not enough information for there to be any sense in guessing. He returned to his reading, and though he was a bit uneasy with Ksielle's presence downstairs, this time he didn't find it too difficult to concentrate.

Roughly half an hour later, Oliar was back. “Evynera and her maidens help me, she's gonna glare a hole into the wall,” he said as soon as he'd shut the door. “Or my head, if I ask her if she wants tea or a snack one more time. She can't shoot fire out of her eyes like Nimsera the All-Seeing, can she?”

This startled a laugh out of Esares. Nimsera was a holy woman of human legend, known for her good judgment and deep learning, and her penchant for destroying all that was abhorrent to her with a single glance. Many depictions of her bore a faint resemblance to Ksielle, now that Oliar mentioned it. Only Ksielle wasn't eight feet tall, and didn't float instead of walk, and, Esares was fairly sure, in fact did not shoot fire out of her eyes.

She did have her spells, though. Even if he continued to think mentioning this wouldn't be helpful or compatible with basic etiquette.

“Not that I'm aware of, sir,” he said, and made no effort biting back his grin now that he'd already revealed his amusement. “I don't suppose there is anything I can do to help?”

“I doubt it, sadly, unless you want to go there and ask her to leave and come back later. I'm seriously scared she'll be here for hours before the lord returns. When we very carefully voiced this concern, it didn't seem to bother her.”

Esares more and more wanted to know what had brought Ksielle here. That she was persistent in pursuing a goal she'd set her mind to didn't shock him, even this persistent, but he suspected she ordinarily had much better things to do than spend half a day sitting around in Anereth's living room with his servants hovering about. Like reading books on magical theory, or blowing her basement to smithereens.

He bit his lip. “I could try to talk to her.”

Oliar's eyes widened. It was evident he'd not been serious about his suggestion, though there was a hopeful glint in his eyes. “If you could get her to come back later or tomorrow, I'd be all for that, but I don't think she'd listen. And I mean, having her sit there isn't terrible, it's not like she's doing anything. Except, you know. Scowling.”

Esares shrugged. “I might at least be able to find out what she wants.”

Oliar was looking at him as though he'd announced his intention to fight off a small army. “Are you sure? It'll be a bit of a breach of decorum for you to try, and she seems just a little bit terrifying.”

Esares realized, belatedly, that Oliar wasn't just unsettled by Ksielle's behavior, but meant it when he said it scared him. He believed, therefore, Esares should also be afraid of her, and possibly more so.

It was odd, because he could see, when he thought about it and his own first meeting with the woman, where the servant was coming from; but he actually didn't find Ksielle frightening at all. Or well, that wasn't right, he feared her just by virtue of her being a human who'd been told most of her life people like him existed for her benefit and pleasure. He couldn't think of many nobles who scared him less, though. She considered him an annoyance and an inconvenience, but she'd shown no signs of wishing harm on him for it, and he was quite sure a reluctance to offend Anereth had little to do with it.

She'd even been nice to him, sort of, getting him the juice and telling him to let her and Kylerith know should he need anything else. She was forthright, not rarely to the point of rudeness, but she was... not someone he figured enjoyed hurting slaves, any more than she enjoyed having anything to do with them at all. He could easily see her telling him to get out of her sight, but he doubted she would harm him, or tell Anereth to punish him for disturbing her.

Anereth's reaction when he found out was really what he was most worried about in this equation. He'd been the one to tell Esares his behavior around Ksielle only concerned him so much, though, and even if he turned out to be displeased enough by his initiative to decide on his own it warranted punishment... Esares believed he could take it. Was quite sure he could, all things considered.

“I think it would be fine, sir, if you let me,” he said. “I'll tell Lord Laverien it was my idea. And I'll do my best not to bother Lady Avendras.”

Oliar didn't reply immediately, seeming torn. “If you're sure,” he said at last. “I'll talk to Milara, so if anything happens she'll have your back. She's probably going to tell me off for this, but as things stand it's just too weird. What if they only get back after nightfall? You never know what might come up. So if you could get her to leave, or even just find out what she wants...”

Esares slid the covers off himself and stood. “I'll try.”

“Just come down in ten minutes or so,” Oliar said. “That way it hopefully won't seem like we're ambushing her. Even if we kind of are.”

The part of him that deemed humans immediately untrustworthy observed that if Esares came down by himself later, it would be much easier for Oliar to escape blame should something go wrong. Had he currently been answerable to Sylves and not Anereth, Esares would have made up an excuse and retracted his offer – if he'd made it at all.

Instead he said, “All right.”

After Oliar left, Esares used the time he needed to wait to make sure his clothes weren't wrinkled and to comb his hair, which he'd not even looked at since he'd left the bathroom in the morning. He was confident Ksielle cared more about what the weather was like in the faraway country of Cylir than about his appearance, but that didn't justify looking like he'd just fallen out of bed. So much for spending his day with atrocious hair.

His lips tugged up into a smile as he remembered the conversation he'd had with Anereth on the subject. No, he didn't think seeing what Ksielle wanted was a terrible risk.

When he got to the living room, Esares didn't glance for longer than a second at Milara, who'd positioned herself near the door that led to the kitchen. He made sure to keep his eyes on the floor and the hem of Ksielle's dark blue dress as he approached her, and then bowed deeply, an arm's length away from the couch the noble was perched on. He should have knelt, but knew it would irritate her.

“Ma'am,” he said, rising a little to maintain a shallower bow until she addressed him.

“Esares.” He started, not having expected Ksielle to acknowledge him by name when above all she considered his kind a nuisance. Her tone was impatient, bordering on annoyed, but there was surprise beneath that.

Esares was surprised with himself, when he stopped for a moment and regarded his decision more objectively. What he was doing didn't feel dangerous, and there were reasons for that, but he'd stepped far outside social norms by seeking out Ksielle as he had, without orders, with no task to fulfill but the one he had given himself.

The boldness of the act almost frightened him, except he liked it, liked having made the decision.

Esares straightened, and he had never stood more confidently in front of a human who could hurt him with little effort and few consequences.

“What do you want?” Ksielle asked, and now there was only displeasure in her voice, but not beyond what Esares had anticipated.

Esares trained his eyes on a spot near the edge of the couch, an inch to the left of Ksielle's knees. “I wanted to ask whether everything is all right, ma'am.”

“It's not,” Ksielle said, even more blunt than Esares had seen coming. “It's also none of your business.”

Esares didn't need to be looking at the woman's face to know she was glaring at him. He ducked his head.

He'd been prepared to deal with Ksielle's usual brusqueness, but she seemed to be in a foul mood.

“My apologies,” he said, taking a step back and giving another bow. “I shouldn't have disturbed you.”

He waited a moment, and when there was no response made to leave. His gut was wound tight, and in the back of his throat there was a lump he couldn't swallow past.

He still was not afraid of her. He still did not dread Anereth's reaction to his blunder, though he'd prefer neither the noblewoman nor the servants told the man of his folly. He was angry at himself for having miscalculated, and Ksielle's rebuff stung like salt in a wound. Why had he even tried? How had he thought this would go?

However, just as he was turning on his heel after backing up a few steps, the woman said, “Wait.” Esares obeyed before he'd even made the conscious decision to. “You've recovered from Maliren's party?”

Esares' gaze swung to the human's face on its own volition. Her brow was creased, her full lips pursed.

“I-- yes, ma'am,” he managed, letting his eyes slide sideways again. “Thank you. I'm sorry you had to concern yourself with my-- difficulties.”

“I'm sorry I had to attend the whole thing. And Anereth was an idiot, humoring Felir. It's his fault I had to concern myself with anything at all. Kylerith spent most of the night worried about you, you know.”

Esares blinked, caught off-guard. He had, in fact, not known; nor would it ever have crossed his mind as a possibility, despite Anereth mentioning the man had been displeased with his handling of Esares.

It was... baffling. More so because in all his time wearing the Timnestra collar, he'd never needed someone worrying about him less than while in Anereth's care. Felir's idea of a contest had been terrifying, and what had happened after Anereth removed the blindfold humiliating, but all in all, it hadn't been such a bad night. Just getting to meet Lykis – to talk to him, and seek comfort from him and try to offer some in return – had been more than worth it, even if they might never see or speak with each other again.

Kylerith, a mage and noble who'd exchanged about all of two sentence with him, worrying about Esares over essentially nothing seemed absurd, but it also warmed something in his chest.

“I wasn't aware,” he said. “When you speak with him again, would you relay my apologies to him, as well, ma'am, and that I am well?” He avoided using Kylerith's name because he still didn't know his family name, and putting only his first name after his title would be another breach of etiquette. He thought he'd made enough of those for the day.

Ksielle snorted. “I doubt it'll make a difference. We heard all about the contest afterwards from Felir, you know.”

She most definitely was referring to Esares throwing up in front of everyone. He winced.

“People are all so full of shit,” Ksielle said. “I'm full of shit. I shouldn't even be talking to you.”

Esares didn't know what to say to that.

Before he could figure it out, Ksielle went on, “Not that I care at this point. This is the worst week.”

This time she didn't add anything more. Esares was still unsure how to proceed, but ventured, “I understand you don't wish to tell me what brings you here, ma'am. I'm afraid, though, my lord might not return before evening, or he might be even later. He didn't say when he would be back.”

Ksielle frowned unhappily. “Yes, his servants mentioned that. Since when does he have servants, anyway?” Esares opened his mouth, but she cut him off, “No, I don't care. What I care about is not sitting here forever. You think it's likely?”

“Ah... I think it's a possibility he won't be back until after dark, ma'am,” Esares said. “Would you prefer to perhaps leave a note?”

Ksielle caught his eyes, and narrowed her own, making Esares' heart skip a beat. “Are you trying to shoo me back out, too?” she asked.

Esares' lips parted, but no words came out. His heart was too loud, its rapid beat echoing in his ears.

“You are,” Ksielle said, the words underlain by unsettling certainty. Maybe Esares was scared of her, after all. “I'm being that much of a bother, aren't I.”

She stood, and Esares shrank away.

Ksielle glowered at him. “I'll be back later. Anereth better not come home drunk or with his newest fuck, because I'm running on two and a half hours of sleep and my cousin is a menace and I will blow something up. You can tell him that.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Esares said, barely a stammer in his voice now that he realized attacking him had never been on Ksielle's mind.

The noble gave a sharp nod and made to turn away, then stopped. “You're doing fine?” she asked.

Esares knew his bewilderment was written on his face, but couldn't help it. ”Yes.” Ksielle looked skeptical. Having no idea what she could be aiming at with her question, he added, honestly, “It would be hard for me to be doing better, ma'am. Lord Laverien has been nothing but kind to me.”

“Except when he made you jump down from some dozen feet up in the air, you mean?”

Esares knew he was giving her an odd look now. He wasn't surprised it would bother Kylerith, even while he marveled at how much it had apparently bothered him. Ksielle hadn't made the impression, though, of someone who'd have much of an opinion in the matter, beyond wanting no part of it.

Was he missing something?

“I wasn't hurt, ma'am,” he said. “And Lord Laverien took good care of me afterwards.” He hesitated. It wasn't as though he was fine with Anereth having made him participate, and he was under no obligation to defend the man's actions any further. He'd said what was expected of a slave who knew his place and to be grateful for whatever mercy he received.

Yet Anereth had never acted towards him like just any master, and it bothered him that Ksielle might think otherwise. It seemed to him Anereth might genuinely care about her opinion, in a way he did not about most people's.

“It's about the most unpleasant thing he has ever asked of me,” he added. “Which says less as to how bad it was and more about how my lord treats me. Your concern gratifies me, ma'am, but I am well.”

Ksielle regarded him. Esares flicked his gaze up from her chin to her eyes, which were hard, before quickly lowering it again. He'd said something unnecessary, hadn't he? Of course Esares was of little consequence to her.

He just didn't understand why she kept asking questions that seemed to imply otherwise. Was she doing it on Kylerith's behalf? That seemed excessive.

“Good,” Ksielle suddenly said.

Before he could glance up and try to gauge her expression, she whirled around and strode out of the room. Milara, whose presence Esares had almost forgotten, hurried to catch up. Escorting a guest to the door was hardly a job for the cook, but then, nothing about this situation was typical.

As soon as he was sure Ksielle was gone, Esares let himself sink onto the couch. His legs felt weak, and his heart was pounding again. There were about a hundred ways this could have gone wrong, as had become extremely clear to him when Ksielle had called him on his real motives.

He didn't know if he was furious with himself for his badly thought out stunt, or proud.

Chapter Text

Esares was glad Ksielle had left when she did, because while Valithia returned in the early afternoon – and after giving him the cookies she'd promised promptly went to her room for a nap, presumably to make up for having gotten up early –, Anereth indeed stayed gone until nightfall.

When he did return, the first thing he said to Esares was, “I hear you had a busy day.”

Esares sat up, the bed's thick covers shifting beneath him. He'd been too warm to pull them up over himself, and he'd not felt like undressing when one of the servants or Valithia could have come in at any moment. “Are you upset with me?”

“Do you think I am?”

Esares looked away. “I understand if you are.”

“I'm not upset with you,” Anereth said. “Oliar and Milara had nothing but praise for you.”

“Milara?” Esares didn't try to hide his surprise.

“Well, she wasn't as elaborate about it. There were no complaints, though. From Milara, that's the same thing.”

Esares didn't know what to make of that. He had thought even Oliar would have some words of criticism for him – nothing too serious, but something. And he'd expected Milara would at least not look kindly upon him having dealt with Ksielle without consulting her in the matter first. Oliar had implied she wouldn't be happy about it when he'd accepted Esares' offer to help.

“So you don't think I did anything wrong?” he asked, carefully.

“I wouldn't go that far. Would you have acted the same if it had been anyone but Ksielle?”

Esares thought about it. “Maybe Lord Kylerith.” He really needed to find out the man's family name. Not that he believed Anereth cared much how he referred to Kylerith in private. If he did, he could just have corrected him last time, after the party – which would have carried the advantage of Esares by now having the information.

“You're reckless,” Anereth said and crossed the distance to the bed, seating himself on its end.

Esares crawled over to him and rubbed the side of his face against the mage's shoulder. He smelled of soap, and chamomile. Esares wondered where he had been; though in a general sense he could guess.

“But you're not angry?” he pressed.

“No.” Anereth laid a hand on Esares' head, trailing it down to between his shoulder blades and then up his throat. “Except maybe with Ksielle. Did she say what she wanted?”

Esares closed his eyes. He had to force himself to keep paying attention to the conversation. “Not in any detail, my lord.”

“And more broadly?”

Esares took his time answering. If Anereth wanted a speedy response, he shouldn't be doing what he was with his finger behind Esares' ear. “Something about her cousin, and not having slept much. I don't think I should repeat he words, though she asked that I do. She was angry about something.”

“By all means, repeat her words. I know how Ksielle is – I promise not to be scandalized.”

“Ah, well, she said her cousin was a menace, my lord. And that...” Esares paused, grasping for words that would put the rest slightly more diplomatically than Ksielle had, while still conveying her meaning. “That she hoped you would come home sober and without company. She mentioned blowing something up in case you didn't.” He didn't think there was a way to phrase the last part more delicately without distorting the message, considering chances were high the woman had been speaking literally.

Anereth laughed. “Ah, she's such a delightful person. I used to think that if my mother ever insisted I marry, I might have to ask her the favor. It would either have been a blissful partnership or we would have killed each other. Though I'm afraid from Ksielle's side the odds would have leaned much towards the latter.”

Esares tried to imagine the two of them wed, and his mind went blank.

The corners of Anereth's mouth twitched. “Should I ask what you're thinking to make that face?”

Esares barely hesitated. “Well, if you married her, you would be expecting to have children together, wouldn't you?”

Anereth let his hand drop from Esares' face, his body trembling with laughter. “Oh dear, Evynera have mercy. We couldn't keep a kitten together. I would forget to feed it and Ksielle would trip over it every morning as she made her way to bed half asleep after spending all night very scientifically setting things on fire.”

Anereth's laughter was infectious, and Esares joined, leaning against him. The mage's hand returned to the crown of his head.

“Let's never speak of this again,” Anereth said at last, “it's terrifying. Was your day pleasant, aside from Ksielle threatening to blow up the house?”

Esares grinned. “I don't think she'd blow up the house, my lord. There are books in it.”

“That's true, and I feel less concerned already.”

Esares pushed his face into Anereth's chest and smiled against the dark fabric of his robe. “Yes, my lord, I had a pleasant day. What about you?”

“Me as well.” The mage gently stroked his head. “I even brought you a gift, though I have to say it's not a book this time. Or cookies.”

Esares moved back, and surprised himself when his heart gave an excited leap, though he couldn't think of anything aside from a book he truly wanted, not counting something unattainable like a dog or rare plant.

Still, he was curious. And, it dawned on him, happy that Anereth had thought of him. “You brought me something?”

“It's entirely traditional this time, I'm afraid.” Anereth reached into his pocket and procured something small and bright.

A hair pin, Esares realized as the man held it out to him. Gold with deep red gems worked in, and shaped to resemble a number of small intertwining flowers.

“Thank you,” he said as he took it. “It's beautiful.” And it was, and although it could not compare to a book and was in fact an extremely traditional gift to a bed slave, to the point of making Esares a little uneasy, it was still a gift, and he didn't have to fake the smile he offered in return for it.

“There are two more just like it. I have no idea how much you care for things like this, but perhaps it helps that I got them by ruining a certain meddlesome clerk's morning.”

Esares looked up at Anereth's face, bewildered, but when he thought he understood his eyes widened. “Ileras?”

“Yes, that was his name.” Anereth smiled. “I told you I might go back to complain. I hope you're not disappointed you missed it.”

Esares was quite content never having to hear Ileras' voice again, but that wasn't what he was stuck on. “You actually went?”

“Why, you didn't think I was lying, did you?” There was a glint of humor in the mage's eyes.

“You said you might, and I-- it's not like he did much. I didn't-- I can't believe you even remembered.”

“Ah, so you didn't think I was lying, you assumed I had the attention span of a goldfish. That's better.”

“My lord!” Esares exclaimed, indignant. If he weren't absolutely certain Anereth was teasing, he would be halfway into a panic. Did the man have to make jokes like that?

Anereth chuckled. “Honestly, though, he pushed you into being rude to him by being an oaf, and then he told me so I could hurt you for it, and I might never have seen you more miserable than that evening. Of course I didn't forget.”

“It's not that I don't appreciate your effort, my lord, but.” Esares bit the inside of his cheek. “He wasn't worse than most people, you know.”

“I know. There's a limit to how many people's morning I can ruin, though.”

Esares snorted, closing his hand around the pin that suddenly didn't feel much like a traditional gift at all. What he wouldn't give for a peek into Anereth's mind. “Thank you,” he repeated, the words not more genuine than the first time, but coming from a different place, deeper within himself.

Anereth smiled at him. “I hear if we want any hope at having dinner in peace before Ksielle makes her return, we should do so now. I already asked Milara to prepare something small. I'll change and then we will go downstairs, yes?”

“Yes, my lord. I-- may I--” Esares faltered. Anereth's expression was expectant, curious. He wasn't sure if he'd have been able to make himself ask had it been anything else. “May I at least kiss you to show my gratitude?”

The corners of Anereth's mouth lifted, and after an instant he leaned forward. Esares shut his eyes, sinking the fingers of his left hand, the one not holding the pin, into the bedding, but carefully keeping the rest of his body pliant and unmoving. He tried to quench the nervousness. It was ridiculous to be anxious over a kiss.

Anereth's lips brushed his, and he immediately opened for the mage; but no tongue delved in, and nothing else that made sense happened, either. Anereth's mouth barely covered his before it was gone again.

After a beat, Esares opened his eyes, aware the confusion on his face was blatant.

“I won't object if you want to do this every time I terrorize someone on your behalf,” Anereth said. He was smiling again. “You said something about 'most people'?”

Esares buried his face in his hands. “This is not what I-- won't you even kiss me properly?”

“Are you saying my performance was inadequate?”

Dragons help him, Esares was going to hit the man if the collar didn't stop him. Which it would. So really, that was the only reason he didn't, and merely lifted his face from his hands instead.

After a long moment of contemplating the question and his own annoyance, he said, “Maybe I am.”

Satisfaction coursed through him when incredulity passed across Anereth's features, and didn't leave him even as mirth quickly became the dominant emotion on the mage's face again. “Oh? Well, better not repeat it, then. That's too bad.” He made to rise.

Without thinking Esares grabbed his hand. Anereth's expression was in equal parts surprised and puzzled, but there was not a hint of irritation, and that was what gave Esares the audacity to narrow his gaze at him and say, “It's not fair. I asked if I could kiss you, but then you kissed me, and so now you can't just act like I got my wish. Either let me kiss you, or tell me no.”

Anereth blinked at him. “That's... an interesting argument.”

“It's a correct argument. So? What is your answer, my lord?”

Anereth was looking at him like he'd never seen him before, and did not respond, and Esares decided to emphasize his question by sliding forward until he was half in Anereth's lap, one hand on each of the mage's shoulders, albeit one of them still curled around the hair pin.

“And you call me unfair?” Anereth asked. “I don't often have to turn down beautiful men while they are climbing on top of me.”

“I don't often have humans turning me down to the point where I want them to not, just once. That's unfair, and so I'm justified climbing on top of you.” Esares didn't even know what he was doing. He didn't much care right then, either.

Kissing Anereth could only work to his advantage, but perhaps more importantly, he felt like if he did this, maybe he would understand Anereth a little better, understand better what he was dealing with. And he was angry that so far he did not, and frustrated, and maybe he did kind of want to kiss the man for no reason at all, and for a dozen reasons. Because it would be his choice. Because he found he liked catching him off-guard. Because he enjoyed kissing, and there was no one else around to do it with, and so at least this once-- it might be a long time before he kissed someone of his own volition again.

Deciding to take Anereth's words about climbing on to top of him to heart, he pushed forward – not abruptly, and Anereth could easily have shoved him off, or told him to stop. Instead the mage let himself fall back onto the mattress, and looked up at him as though Esares had switched from speaking one language to speaking another – one of the old tongues most mages studied but never used in conversation –, and he needed time to adjust to the change in grammar and vocabulary.

Esares wasn't about to wait until he recovered and found some way to turn this into yet another jest. His hands were still pushing against the mage's shoulders, and he lowered his head so his hair fell against Anereth's cheeks, and then he lowered it further, breaking eye contact only to put his mouth on the mage's.

He was careful. He didn't think he had misread the situation, but he couldn't afford to take any more chances than he already was – he'd gotten this wrong once before, and ended up with Anereth's hand around his throat, even if the circumstances had been different then.

The kiss was barely one at all, at first. Esares only initiated, and waited, and after a long moment that had just been beginning to grow tense, Anereth kissed back.

The response was still soft, still close to being chaste; Esares was the one to change that, and to when Anereth showed no signs of being offended by his continued proactivity dart out his tongue. Anereth's lips parted with the tiniest hesitation, and Esares slipped his tongue between them.

Esares had never liked kissing a human before, hadn't thought he could, but this was nice. First his tongue was in Anereth's mouth, and then Anereth's was in his, and then it was hard to tell the difference.

They kissed until Anereth broke away by tilting his head sideways, and Esares took the opportunity to draw in air, panting. He gazed down at the mage whose breathing was also coming quicker, and whose face was flushed, and realized that perhaps in addition to his other motivations, he didn't dislike kissing Anereth, in particular. He'd never dwelt on it before, but Anereth was handsome, with round cheekbones and long lashes, and his silver hair that made him look not very human at all. And there was something about taking him by surprise, about getting under his skin.

Anereth didn't move, only returned his gaze with dark eyes that were slightly glazed, and in that moment, despite the danger inherent in what he was doing, Esares was not afraid of him at all.

So he didn't know why when Anereth reached for his face, he grabbed the man's wrist as best as he could without dropping the hair pin, stopping him just before he could make contact with Esares' cheek.

They stared at each other.

After a while Esares shook himself, and let his hand fall away. Anereth looked perplexed, much like when Esares had quite literally thrown himself at him, but just as had been the case then there was nothing about him that suggested displeasure, and Esares ignored his heart hammering in his ribcage and gazed back in a manner he was sure could pass for calm.

He realized he could enjoy kissing Anereth, but only on his terms, and only if the man kept his hands to himself. Even if it was just Esares' face, or the back of his head... they were actions that carried Sylves' shadow, in bed with a human he was kissing.

And he should be able to ignore it and perform the motions, focus on pleasing Anereth, because that was more important in the long-run, would be the smart thing to do, but.

But.

He did not want to ruin this for himself, did not want to destroy part of what Anereth could offer him, even if it might increase his chance of being able to retain the rest. Not yet.

“Can we just kiss?” he asked, quietly.

Anereth's head tilted to the side as he dropped his arm. “I thought we were done kissing.”

Esares didn't know how he'd fallen prey to that misconception. “I wasn't.”

Anereth laughed. “This is worse than you asking me to buy you a small town. Please get off me, would you, so I may pretend to have some good sense and self-control.”

Esares didn't have to try too hard to look insulted. “How is letting me kiss you bad sense?”

“Let's see. Earlier today you were petrified at the thought of doing anything like this, yet decided to try and convince me to sleep with you, because apparently you think that is how you will counteract my presumed attention span of a goldfish. I wonder why this could be a terrible idea.”

Esares scrunched up his nose, now definitely offended. “I'm not afraid of kissing you, my lord.”

“That's certainly nice to hear--”

Sensing the dismissal in the mage's tone, Esares narrowed his eyes and forged on, “I like kissing people. You believe that I can like you playing with my hair, and holding me, so why should you think I'm lying about this?” He paused, and realized he might have had an easier time being convincing if he hadn't given Anereth some bullshit about how he liked sex and therefore would like being fucked by him just this morning.

Well, excuse him for having to lie through his teeth about these things so often it was hard to believe there were situations involving humans where he didn't need to.

It didn't give Anereth the right to wave off whatever Esares had to say about his own preferences and feelings – especially when the man was inconsistent about it.

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” Esares said, with less heat, but still some. His left hand had curled into a fist, and he was being careful not to not tighten the other's grip on the hair pin beyond what he was sure it could withstand. “I'm not saying I want you to do anything else. In fact, I just let you know I don't, that I don't even want you touching me while we-- but I do want to kiss you.”

He became aware he was trembling, and cursed himself for it. He was nervous speaking this way to Anereth, interrupting him, and maybe he was even scared; but he also knew Anereth would not slap him, or punish him in any way that would make him regret this. Yet his body acted like he was not sure of that, of himself, undermining his words.

The look in Anereth's eyes as they widened and then held Esares' wasn't one of pity, though, nor was it one of disdain, or outrage.

“Ah,” the man said. “You make quite the convincing case. Still, I'm doubtful this is the right time--” He broke off when Esares leaned down, stopping barely an inch from his face.

After a stretch of silence, Anereth sighed against his lips. “I feel like a reluctant maiden in some fairy tale. Fine, fine, I yield, just this once.”

Taking his cue, Esares dipped down, kissing Anereth with every intention of proving he had meant what he'd said. He was still shivering, but it was so faint he couldn't be sure the mage noticed, and it didn't stop him from laying claim to the man's mouth.

Anereth did not complain. He kissed back with similar fervor, and at one point his hand made a small upward motion. He aborted it immediately, but Esares noticed, and took it as an excuse to grab Anereth's wrist again, pressing down on it.

He might, after some seconds, have worried that that had been too forward, but judging by how Anereth made no move to free himself, and the way his tongue in Esares' mouth only got more insistent, it seemed safe to assume he'd not crossed any line.

Esares could have continued like this for a while, if a knock on the door hadn't torn him from his enjoyment, and made him sit up so fast he almost fell off Anereth.

Anereth raised his eyebrows at him, clearly conveying: still sure this was the right time? How he managed to look so superior and smug when a moment ago one glance at his face had made it evident he'd been just as lost in the activity as Esares, he didn't know.

Esares hurriedly slid off him and combed his fingers through his hair.

Anereth sat up, not bothering to do the same, though his hair would probably have benefited more from the act. “Yes?”

Oliar entered. He looked between them once, but to his credit maintained a blank expression. “Dinner has been ready for some minutes, my lord.”

“We'll be right there. Thank you.”

Oliar bowed.

After he left, Anereth turned to Esares. “Can I touch you now?”

Esares took a second to place the hair pin on the night table now that it was within easy reach and he no longer had to worry about Anereth thinking better of what they'd been doing in the meantime. “Yes.”

Anereth rested the backs of his fingers against Esares' cheek, sliding them downward in a gentle caress. They were cool, the contrast to the temperature of Esares' face pleasant.

“I must inform you there will still be no castle,” Anereth said.

“Are you saying all my efforts were in vain? That's mean, my lord, you should have told me before I climbed on top of you.”

Anereth smiled. “Why, if you had warned me, I would have.”

“You're even saying it's my own fault? You break my hea-- ahh.” Anereth's index finger was behind his ear again like it had been before the gift and the kissing, nail scraping across sensitive skin.

“Come again?” There was amusement in Anereth's voice.

“Never mind. You're forgiven if you do that one more time.”

Anereth grinned, and obliged, and Esares closed his eyes in bliss.

“We should get going, though,” Anereth said after a few seconds, withdrawing his hand. “Or dinner will either get cold or interrupted by Ksielle.”

Esares opened his eyes to give Anereth a sour look, at which the mage chuckled. “No matter how charming you are, I'm hungry, and you have to admit it would be rude to let Milara and Oliar's efforts go to waste.”

Esares would admit that. At last he dragged himself out of bed with minimal grumbling.

“When did you turn into a cat, anyway?” Anereth asked as he followed suit.

Esares gave the question some consideration. “I think it was right before I pounced on you, my lord.”

Anereth laughed. “Well, that explains it.”

*

Ksielle did interrupt their dinner, though Anereth and Esares had already mostly finished by the time the knocking resounded through the house, while Valithia was in the middle of her second helping of rice and fried mushrooms.

She remained seated while Oliar went to the door, and Anereth to the living room. The mage had Esares kneel next to the sofa while he himself received Ksielle a little further into the room.

Esares had half-expected Anereth would wish to talk with his friend alone, since she'd already been in a bad mood before and having Esares there would either make no difference or make it worse. However, Anereth either didn't care or had decided that because she'd not destroyed any furniture when Esares had spoken with her earlier, his presence wasn't going to be an issue.

That was all right with Esares. Ksielle wasn't a dangerous or unpleasant human to be around, comparatively, and this time with Anereth there the situation couldn't have seemed safer; and although he didn't much care for having to kneel at the mages' feet for this, he was curious enough about what Ksielle wanted to discuss with Anereth so urgently that he did it without even feeling very resentful.

When they sat, he leaned against Anereth's leg, and enjoyed the calming sensation of the mage sifting his fingers through his hair. He could feel Ksielle's gaze on him, but didn't return it, or let it prevent him from leaning into the touch. Fortunately, she refrained from comparing him to a dog this time.

Once Anereth had sent off Oliar asking him to keep Valithia entertained, the man said, “I think I can count the times you showed up in front of my door unannounced on one hand. Should I be concerned?”

“I need a small favor.”

The fingers in Esares' hair stopped moving. “A small favor so important it has you harassing my staff?”

“I didn't even know you had a staff.”

“That's not actually a reason to terrify them.”

Ksielle scoffed. “I did nothing, except tell them that no, thank you, I don't want to come back later. If they wanted me gone that badly, they should have been clear.”

“Like when they had Esares go down to talk to you?” Anereth asked, and resumed petting him.

A faint rustling of cloth. Out of the corner of his eye, Esares saw the woman had crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Yes. It's not often servants make slaves politely suggest to me that I leave. If that wasn't a sign I'd far outstayed my welcome, I don't know what would have been.”

“You must excuse them. They were only worried you would have to wait for me all day. A worry that was entirely justified – I just came back a little while ago.”

“So they did send him?”

“They said he volunteered,” Anereth returned, in a tone like it didn't matter to him either way. He looked down at Esares, though, and his expression was expectant.

“I did, my lord,” Esares confirmed, taking care to keep his voice soft and unobtrusive, as a slave should when the one he was serving had company. He doubted Ksielle cared too much, but as she usually preferred being able to ignore slaves, she might appreciate his effort at least slightly.

“There you have it,” Anereth said, returning his attention to Ksielle.

Ksielle turned out to be less satisfied with that answer, however. “Why?”

Esares glanced up without thinking, meeting her piercing gaze by accident. He chose to not avert his eyes after, though, and when Anereth didn't intervene said, voice once more quiet, “There seemed to be no harm, ma'am.”

Ksielle snorted, but it didn't sound very derisive. She raised her eyes from Esares' face to Anereth's. “You have kylzar roots, don't you?”

“Yes,” Anereth said slowly, as though trying to make sense of the sudden change of topic. “There are some left over from Professor Dilkit's assignment. Why?”

“They're even more difficult to get a hold of on short notice than I remembered, and I'm going to have a terrible fever by tomorrow morning. If I can't find kylzar roots, I'll have to use spider berries, and then my week would really be ruined. There's no good counter potion for anything involving those.”

Anereth's hand had slowed in its ministrations while Ksielle spoke, and now once more rested motionless on top of Esares' head. “Are you saying you intend to give yourself an illness? Even one you'd not be able to get rid of for days if it came to that?” A pause. When Anereth continued, Esares assumed Ksielle's silence or expression had answered the question for him, “I do hope this isn't your way of getting out of another party, because I'd sooner agree to accompany you a second time, pretending to be thoroughly sorry for my previous conduct.”

Anereth's tone was light, and Esares found it hard to tell how serious he was being.

“No one would buy that,” Ksielle said. “Not even my cousin. And no, it's worse. After she had to attend Maliren's party without one, Rylera let her friend talk her into getting herself a new slave. As though the last one wasn't enough of a disaster. And she's going to be picking her out tomorrow, and guess who got to choose between agreeing to come with her and having her write home about how mean I've supposedly been to her since she walked past the city gates?”

“Oh my. Your parents are still unhappy with you for refusing to recommend your brother to your mentor, aren't they?”

“Yes. They think I don't value my family highly enough these days.” Ksielle scoffed. “Never mind Lady Rivenmeras wouldn't take a recommendation for Leniaz seriously coming from me, and that she's said she doesn't want a second apprentice. Or that my brother is an asshole. I can do without Rylera adding to the drama.”

“That does sound like a dilemma,” Anereth said. And added, his palm against the top of Esares' head still not moving, “Are you sure this isn't a bit of an extreme course of action, though? Even using kylzar roots, the side-effects--”

“If I go with her, I'll end up strangling either my cousin or one of the trainers,” Ksielle interrupted. “I let myself be dragged to a training house once and never again, because those places are a disgrace. So no, it's not an overreaction. I just need you to sell me those kylzar roots and then I'll be out of your hair.”

Anereth sighed. “Look, I'm not telling you to go with her – I only wondered if there might not be a less drastic solution.”

“Like what?” Ksielle asked. “I didn't jump straight to this option, you know. I considered claiming I already made plans with someone, because she couldn't fault me for that. But with whom? Elerne would be plausible, but Rylera doesn't know about her and I'd like to keep it that way. There's my mentor, but she's out of town until the end of the week, which Rylera is aware of. And I could have said I'm meeting with a friend, but that would only have made her reschedule, unless I wanted to profess to be participating in an extended sleepover.”

Ksielle folded her legs. “Had I not barely been awake when I answered the door, I might have tried convincing her I have a trip planned, but it's a bit late for that now. If I'm lying in bed with a fever, though, Rylera won't have the restraint to wait for me to recover, just as she didn't want to wait for Jerla to return from her parents', even though she's the one who put the idea into her head in the first place.”

“Ah,” Anereth said. “I suppose I said something unnecessary. She's persistent, isn't she. And I assume just having someone else vouch for the authenticity of your illness wouldn't be enough?”

“You'd be correct. I doubt she'd think I'd resort to a potion, but if she can't see what's wrong with me she won't believe a word, whether coming from me or Vanette or anyone else. Unfortunately, she's not half as gullible as she is annoying.”

Anereth hummed, and Esares closed his eyes as the man began carding his fingers through his hair again. He still liked Anereth's touch much better when the man's attention was wholly on him and what he was doing, but he found if he tried, he could derive some pleasure from this, too. Doubtless he preferred focusing on it over concentrating on the talk about slave trainers, and humans who were so excited about purchasing one of his people they bothered, and even blackmailed, their relatives over it.

“Of course I'll give you the roots if you're sure,” Anereth said after a moment. “As a gift, too. But please tell me you're going to at least have Elerne check on you.”

“I swear you sound like my mother. The worst that could happen is me getting the actual flu, you realize that?”

“The worst that could happen,” Anereth said, “is the potion reaching boiling point too fast or cooling down too slow and the roots turning toxic.”

“Yes, yes, every decade or so a careless student looking to get out of an exam dies of this, I am aware. I'm also not a fool or complete amateur, thank you very much.”

“Where potions are concerned, compared to Elerne you are.”

“Oh please, you don't even like her. Don't start singing her praises now.”

“It's only a fact,” Anereth said. “And it's not that I don't like her. I merely find her musings on the subject of my hair mildly disturbing.”

“My girlfriend is not going to steal your hair and turn it into a potion ingredient.” Ksielle asserted this like she had done so many times before, and could scarcely believe she was doing it again.

Esares pressed his face against Anereth's thigh, trying to pass off his laugh for a somewhat noisy exhale. He had some doubts he succeeded, but didn't think it mattered much – especially when Anereth curled his fingers into his scalp in a way that wasn't unpleasant at all.

“Clearly you're biased.” Anereth's hand idly trailed down to Esares' neck. “She could claim it fell off by itself right into her cauldron and you'd believe her over me.”

“Because I can tell an honest person from someone who's not.”

“You wound me,” Anereth said.

“For your information, Elerne was going to come by later tomorrow anyway and I certainly did not cancel on her for my cousin's sake, even if I'm bitter I'll probably spend most of our day together in bed and not in a fun sense. So will you give me the roots without an accompanying lecture now?”

Anereth's fingers made their way down to the space between Esares' shoulder blades and then up to his hair again, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Maybe it was for the best the man was only absently caressing him. Esares wouldn't want to enjoy himself too much with another person present.

“As you wish.” There was humor in Anereth's voice. “No need to trouble Oliar, either. I'll fetch them if you give me a minute.” He dropped his hand to Esares' shoulder and gave it a gentle push, and when Esares obligingly moved away from his leg rose.

Anereth didn't tell him to wait, but it was implicit in the lack of an order to follow. Esares kept his gaze on the ground as the man took a step away from the couch.

But then Anereth stopped and turned back around, and when Esares lifted his eyes to see why, they fell on the mage's outstretched hand. Trying to not look as befuddled as he felt, he took it and let the man help him up.

“I think I'll steal away Esares already,” Anereth said. “There's no need to have him keep kneeling here and let an uncomfortable silence descend.”

Naturally, Ksielle made no objection, and Esares bowed to her with his hand still in Anereth's before letting the man lead him upstairs. Only when they arrived in front of the study did Anereth release him.

“I'll try to get Ksielle to stay for a cup of tea, so that hopefully Valithia won't kill me for not introducing my friend to her,” the man said. “I doubt Ksielle will be here long either way, but if you're tired you may go to bed already.”

Esares smiled, appreciating the consideration. Though he wasn't really tired, and would have been interested to see how Valithia and Ksielle got along, since their personalties in many respects appeared to run contrary to each other, he would prefer to not kneel on the dining room's cold wooden floor while the mages all had tea together.

He didn't feel all that strongly about being seated at Anereth's feet while he talked to a friend in his living room who paid close to no attention to Esares, but kneeling next to the table while Anereth and others leisurely drank tea and perhaps ate snacks was a different matter. That would make him feel like a dog. And, he realized with some surprise, he would find it all the more humiliating in front of Valithia.

“Yes, my lord,” he said. “Thank you.” He stood up on his toes, and placed his mouth on Anereth's.

It wasn't much of a kiss, though not due to a lack of trying on Esares' part. Anereth responded for maybe a second, then grasped his chin and held him in place as he moved back.

His fingers slid across Esares' lower lip. “Let's not.”

Esares blew a stream of air through his nostrils. “Why do you have to be so difficult, my lord?”

Anereth laughed. “Ah, but people who aren't difficult are boring.” He retracted his hand and gestured towards the bedroom. “Off with you.”

“Are you going to go back to refusing to kiss me at all? Because I might take that personally.”

“Oh, I will still kiss you,” Anereth said, and bent down to press his lips to Esares' cheek. “Since I do adore you.”

Esares turned to him in exasperation. “Will you still let me kiss you? The way you did earlier?”

“I don't think I should.” Esares narrowed his gaze and opened his mouth, but closed it when Anereth reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “But we can talk about that another time. For now let me return to my guest, yes?”

Esares considered ignoring the not-quite suggestion and trying to argue anyway, but after a moment complied – if not without first releasing an audible sigh.

He would give the mage, Esares thought as he closed the bedroom door behind himself and made for the bed, that a human sharing heated kisses with a slave was generally a terrible idea, if the human cared about the slave actually wanting to be kissed. Because really, how would he know?

A slave had about a thousand reasons to lie to his owner, and anyone with similar power over him. And some were worse liars than others, but even the worst actor might put on a convincing performance once a month, once a year, once in his life. Esares would not kiss a slave, if he were in Anereth's position.

But if he were, he also would not hand-feed a slave or share a bed with one or tie one up and blindfold him as punishment.

Esares ran his hand over the silken covers. He could understand someone who did those things and was fine with treating others as property drawing a line somewhere – most humans seemed to, and he counted himself unbelievably lucky that Anereth appeared to have similar reservations in regards to whipping or raping him as Sylves did in regards to breaking his bones, or letting strangers hurt him.

Still, when it came to kissing, Anereth's reluctance struck him as rather more arbitrary; perhaps it would have seemed less so if Esares abhorred kissing, or abhorred kissing humans – but he didn't, only considered the latter moderately unpleasant as a rule and not even that in this particular case. Certainly he preferred kissing Anereth over being punished by him even slightly, yet the mage didn't seem to care so much about that. In light of this, he found Anereth's qualms in the matter more vexing than anything.

Kissing the mage should make it much easier to keep the man's interest, and Esares had liked it fine – most of all had liked that it had been his idea. Anereth had only gone along with it; and though it wasn't as if there'd been nothing in it for him, what the mage's actions had amounted to in the end was letting Esares have his way. Esares could get used to that.

So he was a little miffed Anereth appeared to have other ideas on the subject.

At the same time, the whole experience left Esares rather marveling at the mage's treatment of him. Not that he hadn't been before, but... he'd never had a human be this respectful of his wishes, or considered it a possibility. A demon kissing a human so and then asking him not to touch him would almost universally be deemed a tease. What master would take such a request seriously?

This one, apparently. And now Anereth was doing rather the opposite of demanding more from him, and for all that Esares found his renewed change of heart inconvenient and irksome, part of him also felt safer for it. He wished, more fervently than ever, that Anereth could be his master. There would be no comparison to Sylves. If it were Anereth, Esares thought... well, he didn't think he could be happy with it, or even content. He would still be a prisoner, sill be degraded, still have to watch his people suffer all around him. But he was almost sure he would be able to cling to hope and bear it.

He could not bear even the memory of Sylves' hands on him.

Chapter Text

Considering how things had been going, Esares had been looking forward to a reasonably pleasant day when he got out of bed, but it didn't seem to be working out that way.

First he had learned Valithia's friend would not be accompanied by her slave when she came over. According to Valithia, Hylis' parents were 'annoying' about the demon, and had turned out to not have let Hylis bring her with her on vacation, just as they insisted Ailar remain at home when her mistress was away at school. Esares hadn't realized how high he had gotten up his hopes until they came crashing down in disappointment. He supposed he should have asked Valithia about the matter earlier, as soon as she'd gotten back from Hylis' place the previous afternoon; but he hadn't realized he cared this much. There was no guarantee he'd have gotten to talk with Ailar whether her owner took her along or not, and from the start he'd tried telling himself that.

Then Anereth had declared his intention to visit Ksielle, which wouldn't have been a problem, except he wanted Esares to stay behind, and was doubtful he would be back before Hylis arrived. To say Esares was worried about having a mage unknown to him in the house with just Valithia and two servants there to look out for him would have been an understatement.

So he was anxious and upset, and ended up rather trying Anereth's patience as a result. He asked him several times if he could come with him in the hour or so the mage waited for Oliar to get back with word from an acquaintance he meant to visit before Ksielle.

Each time Anereth told him no, finally curtly and with an undercurrent of irritation in his voice. Esares hesitated after that, but tried once more when Oliar returned and Anereth prepared to leave.

“May I please come?” he asked, inching forward to the edge of the bed where the mage was putting on his boots.

“No,” Anereth said. He finished tying the laces and turned to face him. “Honestly, will you ask another four times before you believe that I mean it?”

Esares bit his lip, looking away. “I just want to serve you.”

“Of course you do. I have some business to attend to before I drop by Ksielle's, though, and no intention of taking you along. As I believe I told you half an hour ago, and half an hour before that.”

“You're just going to have sex again,” Esares said, extremely sure of this even though Anereth hadn't stated it outright, and annoyed the mage would leave him to fend for himself over it.

The sideways glance Anereth threw him was cool.

At once aware just how far out of line he was, Esares wrapped his arms around himself, hunching forward. “Sorry.”

Anereth sighed. “I assume you're not just concerned about Valithia and Hylis chatting your ear off. Milara and Oliar will be there, though, and I talked to Valithia. You'll be perfectly fine.”

Esares averted his gaze. “Yes, my lord.”

“You could think I'm telling you to step into a cage with a bad tempered bear. Look at me. Should I forbid Valithia from disturbing you altogether?”

Esares had to fight not to glance away again. He didn't know how to respond. If he said yes, at best Valithia would be disappointed she'd not get to show him off to her friend; at worst, Hylis might still be able to convince her to go against Anereth's word. Even without this second possibility, though, an unhappy Valithia meant Anereth wouldn't be pleased, either, and with how little the man had asked of him, refusing to do this was--

Anereth cupped his cheek. “Will it help if I tell you that if Hylis so much as tries to pet you, you have permission to excuse yourself and walk away, and ignore her if she attempts to stop you?”

Some of the tension flowed out of Esares, and he turned into the touch. “I think so, my lord.” He'd prefer there being no possibility such a thing would become necessary, but evidently that was too much to ask for.

As though knowing what he was thinking, Anereth said, “I'm confident Valithia or Oliar will step in before that, and the one time I met Hylis, she seemed quite harmless. But this way you will be fine even if I turn out to be wrong.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you. I'm sorry I-- I shouldn't have--”

Anereth silenced him by brushing his fingers across his lips. “It's enough to apologize once. I would rather you tell me if you're frightened. I do have to get going, though.”

He stood, and Esares bowed his head and bid him a pleasant morning, and received a hand tousling his hair in response.

He still wasn't happy, but his nerves had settled somewhat; and by the time there was a knock at the door to the bedroom, the dread he felt at what it probably meant had shrunk to a heavy feeling in his stomach. His mood improved further when no one came in for what might have been a full minute, until it occurred to him to call out a hesitant permission to enter.

The door opened. “Hey,” Valithia said. “Can I introduce you to Hylis or is this a bad time?”

Esares smiled at the show of courtesy. “It's not a bad time, ma'am.” He put away the potions book he'd been more staring at than reading and stood.

“Great! She's really curious about you, so she'd have been disappointed otherwise. I told her you might be busy, though.”

Esares' lips twitched. “Thank you. But I would be honored to meet your friend.”

He'd told worse lies, and, he thought as Valithia smiled back at him, for worse reasons

“You don't have to stay long,” she said. “And I'll be there the whole time, all right?”

Warmth trickled through Esares, and what remained of the knots in his gut loosened. “Yes. Thank you.”

They went to the living room together, and after they entered it didn't take Esares long to determine that even without Valithia and Oliar there, he probably wouldn't have needed to worry as much as he had.

Hylis was a tall dark haired woman of a rather different disposition than Valithia, though not in the sense that she sought to do Esares harm. The worst thing about her was probably her obvious infatuation with Sylves. Esares found it distasteful, but had put up with worse in that department, too.

When people so taken with humanity's hero got the opportunity, they often couldn't wait to put their hands all over the Chosen One's slave. Hylis, however, proved to be much more interested in gushing about Esares and his master than getting handsy, and Esares could appreciate that. She did ask if she could touch his hair, but only shyly and after ten minutes of enthusiastically talking at him about nothing more sinister than her admiration for Sylves' skill at horseback riding and battle magic, and by then Esares had already judged her to not be much of a threat.

Before Valithia could get out a word, and pretending to not have seen the shake of her head, Esares said, “Yes, ma'am.” He even gave Hylis a little smile, and lowered his head in invitation.

He did not like her petting him, but he also didn't mind much; less than he did listening to her singing Sylves' praises. And Valithia was kind to him, and he took some pleasure in doing this for her, when he would not for the man who owned him without an order, and the threat of punishment it carried.

Hylis only ran her fingers through his hair for a few seconds. When she drew back and he straightened, her cheeks were pink. “It's lovely,” she said.

Esares offered her another smile, before glancing down as though abashed.

Aside from being treated entirely as the object humans saw in him, Esares' only real concern getting presented to Valithia's friend had been that she might try to interrogate him about Sylves. People generally asked about his master's tastes and habits when they got the chance, and Esares felt prepared for the usual, but the worst were the ones who wanted to be given private information about Sylves and his family, like where the younger of his brothers went to school.

Ordinarily, it wasn't too much of an issue, since Sylves rarely was more than a few paces away when theses types of inquiries were made, and Esares was under standing orders to extract himself from that sort of situation as fast as possible. Usually Sylves didn't even blame him if he accidentally offended someone in the process.

With Valithia, though, Esares couldn't have been sure she'd back him up against her friend, or realize he needed her to; and he doubted Oliar was willing to interfere with Hylis so long as she didn't do anything that went against Anereth's explicit instructions. Esares would have had to outright refuse to answer, then, or flee back to the bedroom and take his chances at explaining himself to Anereth later.

Luckily, however, it didn't come to that, either. The only questions Hylis had for him about his master were when Sylves' birthday was, and what his favorite sweets were. Neither piece of information was one Esares had reason to maintain secrecy about.

As Valithia had promised, she didn't ask for much of his time. Her friend pouted a little when after what might have been less than half hour, she told him he could go, but even Hylis didn't seem truly perturbed, or surprised. Esares remembered Valithia had told her he might be 'busy', and once again the thought amused and warmed him; only she would near openly declare Esares' preferred ways of passing the time to be more important than her guest's wish for his presence.

He returned to the bedroom altogether happy with how things had gone, though Hylis' genial manner made him regret more that he wouldn't get to meet her slave. They might well have been allowed to talk among themselves, perhaps even the whole time until Hylis left.

He almost wished Anereth attended more parties. There should be plenty in the holidays, and even if a good number of them were bound to be smaller and more exclusive than Maliren's, Anereth should have no trouble getting invitations to most of them, or finding someone who already had one to go with.

However, Esares only almost lamented Anereth's lack of interest in parties. Even being sent to the slave quarters eventually wouldn't be worth having to suffer the likes of Felir, and being forced to helplessly watch as his people were groped and used for entertainment, and led from the room to be raped.

He grimaced and tried to shake off that train of thought. He only began to feel better after taking a warm bath, though – for which he locked the bathroom door, not caring that technically he didn't have permission –, and then he grabbed “Song of Two Dragons” from the night table to return his mind to more pleasant matters.

He read the last chapter, which he'd saved until then. He had decided he would ask Anereth for another book after, even if he'd not truly finished the potions one yet. The chapter ended with a poem about the power and beauty of dragons, and the unyielding love burning within them for not just each other but all of creation. Esares thought of the real dragons, and his heart ached knowing all that they had lost, and all that they still might. He wished he had been there to see it when they roamed the skies unchallenged.

He jumped when there was a knock at the door. Unlike his sister, Anereth did not wait for Esares to respond before entering, and Esares told himself he wasn't disappointed by this, and that anything else would have been ludicrous considering it was the man's own bedroom.

“My lord,” he said, returning the book to the bedside table.

Anereth closed the door and made his way over to him. “I assume you've had no trouble?”

“No, my lord.” Esares tried to find any sign in Anereth's appearance that his assumption had been correct and he'd been with a lover, but his black robe embroidered with silver thread looked as immaculate as it had in the morning, as did his hair, and he didn't smell of any unfamiliar bath oil or soap.

If anything, there were still traces of the mild cinnamon perfume he'd put on in the morning, and Esares knew for a fact he'd not taken it with him to Ksielle's place and wherever else he'd been.

Anereth smiled. “Good. And you didn't work yourself into a state, either?”

Esares frowned at him. “I don't panic at the drop of a hat, my lord.”

“I didn't mean to imply you did. You were nervous, though, and so I worried about you.” The mage joined him on the bed. “That's not so much of an affront, is it?”

Esares glanced away. “No, my lord.”

“Your misgivings made sense.” Anereth stroked Esares' chin with his thumb. “I would like you to understand, though, that while you are here, your safety will always be at the front of my mind. I wouldn't willfully leave you at the mercy of a stranger.”

Esares still didn't look at him, but nodded. He could believe that. Anereth was many things, but careless was not one of them. Esares wouldn't blindly trust his judgment, but the probability that he'd accidentally let him be harmed in his own home seemed low, when Esares considered the matter calmly.

As for doing so intentionally... Esares had a hard time believing himself entirely out of danger from a beating, should he manage to gravely displease the mage; but he also found it bizarrely difficult to imagine Anereth hitting him, and he figured he might have to do something truly extreme for it to come to that, such as intentionally embarrassing the mage in front of a peer, or throwing his books across the room.

Since he was planning to do no such thing, Esares did, indeed, have little real fear for his safety in these walls.

“I wasn't thinking,” he said.

“Are you cross with me?”

Esares made himself meet Anereth's gaze. “No, my lord.”

“No, of course you're not.” Anereth's tone was wry.

“I will be if you keep doubting what I tell you, my lord.”

Anereth arched his eyebrows at him, before chuckling. “You find me quite infuriating, don't you?”

“Yes. But I might be persuaded differently if you kiss me. On the mouth, properly.”

A laugh, this time. “I will keep that in mind.”

Esares wrinkled his nose, but didn't press further. “Is Lady Avendras well?” Ksielle had been polite enough to stay for tea after receiving the kylzar roots, but from what Esares had heard only for exactly one cup – a span of time during which she'd not grown tired of reasserting her irritation with her cousin.

Though apparently she'd also managed to hold a debate with Valithia about illusion magic in-between, which was a bit more surprising.

“She's miserable,” Anereth said, “but that was to be expected. The potion seems to have worked as it should and Vanette is keeping an eye on her until her girlfriend gets there. She can take the counter potion in a few hours. I doubt there's reason to be concerned.”

“But you were,” Esares said.

“Yes,” Anereth conceded. “I realize it's only rarely that someone dies from a potion involving kylzar roots anymore, but even some experts in the field have ended up with permanent ailments because they didn't pay close enough attention. Of course, negligence is not a flaw I would attribute to Ksielle's spellwork or potion brewing, but...” The mage trailed off.

Esares considered this. “You care about her a lot, don't you?”

Anereth blinked at him, then smiled. “I suppose so. She's a rare kind of person.”

Esares nodded slowly, certainly agreeing on that front. And well, he didn't dislike her, either.

“I'm glad there's no problem,” he said.

Anereth gifted him another smile. “I think Valithia will have Hylis stay until well past nightfall at least. She's thinking of taking most of her things to Hylis' family's place tomorrow evening, and then leaving with them the day after when they end their vacation. They'd be able to travel most of the way back together.”

“Oh,” Esares said, and was surprised by how much he regretted hearing Valithia would likely leave soon.

“She wouldn't have been able to stay for much longer, anyway, if she wants to spend some more time with Tiliera before she has to return to her work. But while Valithia makes up her mind, I thought it wouldn't hurt to get out of the house. I won't be surprised if she makes Hylis sleep here yet, and it's a bit awkward with her friend around, no?”

“I suppose so, my lord,” Esares returned, cautiously.

Anereth's lips were curved. “I didn't take you with me this time, but I hope to make up for it by doing so this evening.”

Esares furrowed his brow. “You're going to Lady Avendras' again?”

Amusement flickered across Anereth's face. “No, I don't think she or Elerne would thank me for it. I thought it's been too long since I've been to see Tesran Hevilir, though.”

The words took a moment to register; then Esares' eyes widened, his heart thudding against his ribs. Excitement warred with the fear that he might have misheard, or not deduced correctly what Anereth was getting at, though really both possibilities seemed unlikely. Still...

“Lord Hevilir, my lord?” He tried to keep his voice neutral, but knew he did not succeed.

“Yes. You enjoyed his slave's company during Maliren's party, didn't you?”

“I-- yes, my lord, but-- I didn't know you and Lord Hevilir were friends.”

“Distant acquaintances.” The corners of Anereth's mouth lifted. “Or well, maybe 'distant' is misleading. We have gotten quite close, a few times. I expect to spend the night.”

“And I may come?”

“Of course. That's more than half the point. I hope you want to?”

Esares was gaping. “Of course I want to, my lord! I-- you're doing this for me?”

“Well, judging from previous experience, I will be reasonably enjoying myself as well. But I wouldn't ordinarily have chosen to seek him out. We've barely spoken in a year.” Anereth took a strand of Esares' hair and wrapped it around his finger. “You seemed quite upset to hear Hylis couldn't bring her slave, though, and it occurred to me you might appreciate someone else to chat with.”

Esares continued to stare at the mage for a moment longer, then barreled forward into his chest. Anereth made an 'oof' sound, but when Esares wrapped his arms around him did the same in turn, stroking his back.

“Thank you,” Esares said, holding on to him. “Thank you.”

“I told him you would come, and you will be able to stay with his slave the entire time. Lykis, yes?”

“Yes.” Giddy joy was rising in Esares, nearly clogging his throat. He was happy he would get to be with another demon again, and happier still it was Lykis. And Anereth cared enough to have arranged it.

“I hope you'll forgive me for making it a surprise,” Anereth said. “To be fair, I wasn't completely sure it would work out.”

“Right now there's not much I wouldn't forgive you, my lord. And nothing about this could require it.”

“I'm glad you are so pleased.” Anereth's hand was still on his back, and now gave it a gentle pat. “I was a little worried you might think it too much of a hassle.”

Think it a hassle? How could he? Of course, he would have to enter another noble's house, and kneel to him and act demure and as though he had no greater purpose in life than to do the humans' bidding; but all of that was painfully common, and for once Esares would honestly benefit from it. He would have volunteered to go there on a leash with his hands fashionably cuffed, or even to wear a gag on the way if that were what it took. Although...

He moved back a little. “I won't have to do anything, will I?”

Anereth brushed back Esares' bangs. “No. Well, I assume Tesran will want to look at you, and it would be difficult to keep him from touching you in the most general sense. But certainly I won't let you kiss him.”

Esares snorted softly. He hesitated, biting his lip. “What about Lykis?”

Anereth tilted his head to one side. “Doubtless if Tesran is hoping for a show, he will be disappointed. Or are you asking whether I will let you kiss your friend?”

Esares swallowed. “Both?” As soon as the word was out of his mouth, he cringed. He could all too well picture Sylves' reaction to him asking if he was allowed to kiss someone else – especially when 'kissing' had come into the line of conversation as little but an euphemism.

It didn't help that he already had kissed Lykis, and that should Anereth for any reason forbid him from doing so, he didn't know whether he should confess to already having done it in the past. It might be wisest. He didn't want to have to worry about the possibility of Anereth finding out later himself in that case.

Esares doubted Lykis would have told his master, but Esares hadn't mentioned to him he'd not asked permission, so it might somehow have come up, because Lykis wouldn't have seen any reason to keep quiet about it. Maybe he'd even just said something to another slave in the household, who then might have told Tesran.

It still seemed improbable, but far from impossible. And Anereth had let him know early on any offense would go over much better if he just straight up admitted to it. Esares didn't think the mage would be terrible angry about the matter, either. Surely he'd not punish him by having him stay behind, at least.

Or would he? Anereth was not Sylves, but he did keep saying he adored Esares. So if he should forbid him from kissing Lykis, wouldn't it be because when it came to this, he wasn't so different from his master?

“There now, don't look like that,” Anereth said. He reached out slowly, as though worried anything else might spook Esares, and pressed his palm to his cheek. “You may ask me anything. What are you thinking?”

“I just--” Esares stopped, and looked away.

“I won't tell you not to kiss him. Or anything other than kiss him, for the matter.” Anereth smiled. “That would be quite rich of me.”

Esares didn't think so, considering not permitting those you owned the same liberties as yourself was rather how slavery worked. He wasn't sure he'd even have managed to be outraged had Anereth ordered him not to kiss Lykis; certainly he'd not have managed to be had he forbidden him from having sex with him, considering Esares had half-expected such a command and didn't think he would even be able to if he wanted.

He didn't bother pointing any of that out, though.

He considered admitting to already having kissed Lykis just in case, but decided against that, too. He didn't think Anereth would be truly displeased with him for not having asked permission beforehand, but there was no need to chance it. Even if the mage did find out later and was angry with Esares for purposely keeping silent about it, Esares didn't think anything too horrible would happen, if he wasn't angry about the original transgression; but right now Anereth could take away what he'd only just promised him.

Or perhaps not, Esares didn't think Anereth was that cruel, but if he wanted to be firm, he might postpone it, and then something might come up and it might never happen; and Anereth would apologize to him for it, but that wouldn't bring back the opportunity to see Lykis again.

And there was a small chance he could put Lykis in an uncomfortable position if he said something and Anereth later mentioned the matter to Tesran. Especially if Lykis hadn't.

No, there was no sensible reason to bring it up.

“Thank you,” he said instead. And added, trying for a flippant tone he almost achieved, “Since if you won't kiss me anymore, I might have to go looking elsewhere.”

He relaxed when Anereth laughed. “How foolish of me to drive you into the arms of another. Alas, the alternative would be to fall for you utterly, and then where would that leave me?”

“With your tongue in my mouth?” Esares helpfully suggested.

Again Anereth laughed. “You need to stop with the terribly convincing arguments.”

Esares smiled. After a moment he said, “My lord?”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry I was rude earlier.” His imprudent remark on Anereth's private affairs had turned into an uneasy memory almost immediately despite the mage's relatively mild reaction; but in light of what Anereth had actually been doing, it made him wince.

Anereth patted his head. “As I said, one apology is enough.”

Esares nodded and leaned against him, letting the mage run gentle fingers through his hair and then down his throat, and it struck him that he perhaps was a little too comfortable with the idea of kissing Anereth again. Esares was fine with liking him, in a distant sense – for treating him considerably nicer than he needed to and a lot more like a person than a pet, and for providing such decent company Esares for the most part had come to enjoy his presence much more than his absence.

He was still a human, though. Someone who for his own reasons might not currently own any of Esares' people as property himself, but who condoned his family and friends and acquaintances doing so. Someone who might go to great lengths just to brighten Esares' mood, but who would also put a slave through agony if it could improve his grades or social standing.

Esares could like him for being better than others of his kind, but he could not like him, the way one might an ally or friend or-- He simply could not. What kind of fool would that make him?

He felt himself tense, and a moment later Anereth pulled away and looked at him, fingers curled around Esares' shoulder. “Something the matter?”

Esares mutely shook his head and pressed his face to Anereth's chest again, closing his eyes as the mage carefully ran his hand up and down his back.

Later. He would think about it later.

Chapter Text

Lykis' master lived at the outskirts of the city, in a dark sprawling mansion that was clear at a glance must be his family's main residence. There were two guards stationed at the entrance to the large walled in garden, and the cobbled road leading up to the house was lined by neatly trimmed red and pink rose bushes.

Esares couldn't detect any magical plants, which wasn't so surprising, considering Tesran was not a mage, meaning quite possibly his parents weren't, either. Most of the time mages married amongst each other, and in that case it was rare for their children to be without magical talent. Much more common was the opposite scenario, where two people without magical abilities had a child who turned out to possess the gift.

This was also why when there were unregistered mages who chose to keep their abilities secret, they almost always came from families in which magic did not run strong: people would simply keep too close an eye on someone whom they would have expected to have magical talent yet claimed to be without it. Or well, maybe not anymore, it would make less sense now; but Esares knew during the Great Wars, mages hiding their abilities in hopes of avoiding being sent to the front lines had at several points been a serious issue for humans.

Despite being excited for his reunion with Lykis, Esares had to suppress a yawn as they neared the house. He didn't feel entirely awake yet. After learning he would get to see the Vaskla again, he had passed most of the afternoon in bed, as he didn't intend to waste much of the night sleeping when he could instead spend it talking to a friend. He'd not even gotten around to asking Anereth for a new book yet.

He had taken the time to carefully make himself presentable, though. He had applied more of the rose scented lotion he'd not taken much from after his earlier bath, and once his skin had no longer been sticky he had put on a long red brocade tunic decorated with gold thread. He had picked it out himself from the options Anereth made available to him. The tunic had large flower blossoms embroidered on its back and front, and smaller ones adorning the broad sleeves, which went up to the heels of Esares' hands. In between the flowers, there was the occasional dragonfly depicted.

After getting dressed, Esares had tied back his hair with the silken band he'd acquired along with the hair pieces he'd worn to Maliren's party, a slightly darker red than the tunic. He had shaped it into a ribbon, and decorated the crown of his head with two of the golden pins Anereth had gifted to him the previous evening.

Finally Esares had gone for the makeup: painted his lips to match his attire, drawn black lines around his eyes, made his lashes appear longer and darker, given his cheeks a slight blush. At no point had Anereth said anything about how he expected him to look, but that just meant he had some leeway, not that a bit of scented lotion and a pretty tunic would be enough to impress Anereth's old lover, or that Anereth didn't care what Tesran would think.

Esares preferred to think of it as trying to impress Lykis.

Not that Lykis struck him as overly concerned with beautiful outfits or makeup, but... he just really wanted someone who cared about him to think he looked nice, for once without anything more important than Esares' ego depending on the judgment

And if despite this, he'd felt a spark of pleasure when Anereth gave the result of his efforts an approving smile, well, he did need the man to find him attractive; and no one could fault him for enjoying the novelty of a mage openly admiring his looks without taking this as cause to treat him as a mere object to suit his desires.

At the end of the cobbled road winding through the garden lay a large wooden door with an obsidian knocker in the shape of a bird of prey. Anereth rapped it twice, and shortly after a servant guided them inside. They passed through wide airy corridors of pale wood and white marble, finally climbing up a broad set of granite stairs. Esares kept his eyes on the ground the whole time, and as a result found himself unable to tell whether the people occasionally scurrying past them were servants or slaves.

Almost as soon as they left the stairs behind, they stopped as someone rushed towards them, and a moment later Tesran Hevilir said, “Anereth! I'm sorry, I would have received you downstairs, but I didn't want to keep you waiting.”

Esares went to his knees and bowed his head without even chancing a single covert glance at the man. It was important Lykis' master liked him. Esares wasn't going to have this be the last time he got to meet up with his friend, no matter if he had to hassle Anereth about it.

“That's fine,” Anereth said. “I hope we're not early?”

“Not at all, your timing is perfect. I just got a little caught up in a letter I was reading, or I'd already have been in the foyer. Mirn, you can go.”

“Yes, my lord,” the servant said, a lean man with graying hair whom Esares had caught only the briefest glimpse at from behind. He didn't look up now, either, to see Mirn return the way they'd come from, but heard him go.

“This is Sylves' slave?” Tesran asked. “I didn't want to bother you last time when everyone was crowding you, but he's even more eye-catching up close. May I?”

“Of course.”

Esares reminded himself that this was so he would be able to speak with Lykis, and it made it easier to force his body to relax as Tesran grasped his jaw and tilted up his head.

Esares kept his gaze trained on the man's dark brocade pants.

“Oh, he is exquisite. What's your name again, sweetheart?”

Esares didn't mind Anereth calling him the endearment, but coming from this noble, it sent a wave of irritation through him.

“Esares, sir,” he said, making his voice soft and quiet.

“Ah, yes.” Tesran ran his fingers along the side of Esares' face. When the human's thumb brushed his lips, Esares parted them suggestively. It took Tesran a moment to return to stroking his cheek. “Esares. Sylves has had you for over a year now, hasn't he?”

“Yes, sir.” A year and a half, but Esares didn't specify. There was a fine line between volunteering information and being seen as correcting his betters.

“And he still keeps you all to himself,” Tesran said. “I have to feel a little bad for you for that. Your kind's not made to be faithful.”

Esares thought this was a little funny, coming from a lover of Anereth's.

“It is my honor to serve my master, sir.”

Tesran laughed. “Yes, yes, naturally. But I bet you don't mind being with Anereth for a change.”

There was no good reply to that, so instead of saying anything, Esares deliberately gnawed at his lower lip, glancing up very briefly, then letting his eyes dart away again.

It was the first look Esares had gotten at Tesran in a long time, and the first one in general from such a short distance. He frequented some of the same circles as Sylves, but the two of them weren't closely acquainted, and unlike many others of his station, Tesran had never shown an interest in changing that. The noble's light brown hair was much shorter than Esares remembered it, and he'd never before noticed Tesran's eyes were the same shade of blue as Sylves' sister's. He wore a dark green silk shirt that hugged his figure, and black kohl around his eyes.

Nearly as soon as Esares' gaze returned to the hems of Tesran's pants, the man gave another laugh, this one delighted. “Aren't you a sweet thing.” He reached around Esares, passing his hand along his braid. “You're sure we can't have him join us?”

“I'm afraid Sylves wouldn't appreciate it,” Anereth said. “Besides, I promised Esares he'd get to spend the time with Lykis.”

“It's hard to believe he wants to.” Tesran's hand traveled back from the ends of Esares' hair to his face. Esares concentrated on leaning into the touch rather than away from it like he wanted to. “Just looking at him I can tell they have about nothing in common. Or maybe that's why? Though it's usually hard to get Lykis to touch another demon. He's so whimsical.”

Esares carefully did not scrunch up his face at the insinuation that he wanted to be with Lykis so the other demon would dominate him in bed.

Did humans ever get their minds out of the gutter?

“Is he?” Anereth asked.

“Oh yes.” Tesran withdrew his hand from Esares' face and straightened. Esares exhaled quietly.

“I told you he's not what most people look for in a personal slave, and I more than meant it,” Tesran went on as he turned to Anereth. “He's good for sex, but everything else... well. I even contacted a trainer, but her very helpful final suggestion was to cut off his balls, which would ruin him for what I actually want him for and probably halve his value. So, attitude problems it is.”

Once again Esares managed to keep his face blank, though this time it took more effort.

“I suppose that's why so many people complain about slave trainers not being worth the money spent on them,” Anereth said.

Tesran snorted. “You can say that again. I just wanted to work through some annoying but harmless behavioral issues, not turn around his entire personality, but she didn't seem to get that. Wanted me to change how I interact with him completely, down to the way I have sex with him, can you believe that? It's not like I was ever that bothered by his occasional insolence. If I want cute and eager to please, I can just go to one of the household slaves.”

“He sounds interesting,” Anereth said.

“He definitely is that. And tell me if you ever want to borrow him – I don't have a problem with sharing.”

“I'll keep it in mind.” Mirth underlay the words.

Tesran stepped away from Esares. “Well, come along, you'll see him in a moment. Just don't expect much in terms of behavior. It's not audacious, but--”

“Don't worry,” Anereth interrupted, good-natured laughter in his voice. “I'm quite superficial when it comes to slaves, didn't you know? If they have a pretty face that's already enough.”

Tesran chuckled. “You won't be disappointed, then.”

Esares trailed after the humans, trying to not let his annoyance at Anereth grow into anger. It would be just a little unfair under the circumstances. The man wouldn't even be here having this conversation if it weren't for Esares.

Though Esares doubted it was a rare occurrence for Anereth to make demeaning comments about demons. And he didn't know how many of them the mage would truly mean, but wanting to spare himself trouble or desiring to get along better with his peers was hardly an excuse, either.

Esares no longer kept his eyes entirely on the ground after they rounded the first corner, eager to spot Lykis.

They passed through windowless but well-lit corridors, finally stepping into a spacious sitting room whose walls were decorated with colorful paintings and artfully designed tapestries. Two expensive looking red carpets covered most of the floor, deep in color and with intricate patterns woven through them in gold and yellow. In the room's center there was a large glass table beneath an ornate chandelier, with opposing dark leather couches on the longer sides.

To the right of the further one knelt Lykis, eyes dutifully on the ground and giving no sign that he had noticed their entrance. He was dressed in black and light blue, with a single flower-shaped hair piece adorning his lowered head. His dark curls spilled about his shoulders, a stark contrast to the exposed white skin of his arms and shoulders.

Lykis still didn't stir as Tesran made himself comfortable on the couch next to him.

Esares forced his own gaze down to rich red fabric and knelt across from him, just as Anereth took a seat across his acquaintance. He tried to keep himself from stealing more glances at his friend from beneath his lashes, but found he couldn't help himself.

“This is Lykis,” Tesran said, patting the Vaskla on the head. “Lykis, greet Lord Laverien.”

“Sir.” Lykis bowed, and Esares could see why he'd said appearing meek and docile was not one of his skills. The only things about him that suggested submission were the word, the motions – the fact that he kept his face turned down. His posture however was stiff, and not in a way that hinted at shyness or nerves; certainly not in combination with the edge to his tone.

Anereth acted as though he didn't notice. “I already got a quick look at him at Maliren's party,” he said. “Though he was asleep at the time. He's even more beautiful than I thought. And he has red eyes?”

“Yes. Look up.”

Lykis did, and when his gaze met Esares' for the briefest moment, the corner of his mouth lifted; but then as soon as it had come the almost-smile disappeared, and the unfaltering stare the man directed at Anereth was just short of insolent even in light of the order he had been given.

Unlike Esares, he wore no makeup, save perhaps a very subtle powder.

“Pretty,” Anereth said.

“You think so?” Tesran asked. “I agree, but a lot of people seem to find them off-putting.”

“I can't say I'm able to relate. And it strikes me a fitting color. You said he drinks blood?”

“Yes.” Tesran did not sound happy about this fact. Which wasn't all that surprising, considering based on his previous observations, Esares had already guessed Lykis' master supplied him with less food than the Vaskla needed. Possibly only what was strictly necessary to keep him alive and passably healthy, if Lykis' state at the party had been the rule rather than the exception. Lykis hadn't said anything, but the signs had been difficult to miss.

Yet although he had to some extent seen this coming, Esares barely fought down a scowl as Tesran continued, “Fitting it may be, but sometimes even I could do without the reminder. It has a certain appeal in theory, but outside of very specific contexts... I watched him eat once and that was quite enough. So I can't blame people for finding him creepy.”

“Creepy, really? Well, I suppose not everyone can be as superficial as me.”

Tesran laughed. “I'm no better. My parents and even my aunt now keep bugging me to get rid of him since he's unruly, but I can't claim to have considered it in earnest yet. I've never enjoyed a slave this much. I really hope you decide to sample him some time. He's fun, and if I'm lucky it might improve his manners. Most people I give him to aren't terribly firm with him.”

Lykis didn't react to this – but then, he'd told Esares before that it wasn't uncommon for his master to lend him out for short amounts of time. He was still looking at Anereth, though he had lowered his eyes from the mage's face to his chest – not disrespectful, but only arguably proper deference.

“And you think I would be?” Anereth asked.

“I think at least on occasion you could be bothered to. If nothing else he marks quite beautifully. Though those of my friends overly concerned with that rarely seem to find themselves interested in him, and the rest... well, I'm in no position to fault them. I can't seem to come to enjoy the process myself for the most part, and much like them get focused on the merits his attitude does have in certain circumstances. A fact the trainer thoroughly scolded me for. I think you'd have less problems there.”

“Perhaps,” Anereth said. “But I tend to get side-tracked by other things entirely. Which I remember you scolding me for.”

Tesran snorted. “I still can't believe you. When a slave pours scalding tea all over you because he didn't pay attention while disobeying me, you're not supposed to get fixated on him having greater healing abilities than average or whatever.”

“'All over me' is an exaggeration,” Anereth said. “Most of it got on him – and yet there were no burns to show for it. It's out of the ordinary even for a demon. How could I not have been curious?”

“Mages! I get some of you like to study them like a mathematical formula, but aren't you supposed to be more sensible about it?”

“I can do sensible, but not when I'm trying to have a good time,” Anereth returned, voice filled with humor. “Hence you shouldn't get your hopes up in the event that I take you up on your offer. Do you still have that slave, by the way? He was your parents', no?”

“Yes, we still have him. And he no longer gets dramatic about people touching his wrists, either. I've even taken him to a party once, and we've used him as a table slave a few times.”

“I'm glad he's worked out so well for you,” Anereth said after a beat.

“And you still haven't purchased one?” Tesran asked.

“What can I say? I find keeping up their training quite tedious.”

“Really? I thought you of all people would be able to have some fun with it.”

“Ah, but there are things that cease to be fun when they become a serious affair. It's no secret I have little interest in mixing pleasure with responsibility.”

“Huh, I never thought of it like that,” Tesran said. “If anything, I assumed you were concerned about getting bored with having the same slave over and over. I worried about that with my first slave, and it wasn't totally unjustified. Though not being a mage, keeping him for a year was enough to avoid too many strange looks when I sold him, and with Lykis I doubt anyone would care. Not that it matters at the moment.”

“You know me well – I quite doubt a slave would be able to hold my interest in the sheets. Though with that at least I always thought one with appeal beyond that might do.”

“You mean like one with increased healing abilities?” Tesran sounded amused.

“For example.” Esares knew without raising his eyes that Anereth was smiling.

He didn't move when the mage casually ran a hand through his hair. The touch didn't startle him, but in light of the subject of discussion wasn't welcome, either, and with Anereth he didn't see too much of a reason to pretend the opposite.

The mage withdrew his hand after a moment.

The conversation slowly drifted from sex and slaves to less uncomfortable topics – the wind and rain that would likely become a near daily nuisance soon, a relative of the queen's who had taken a liking to one of the horses bred by Tesran's aunt; easy banter about mages' obsession with their craft.

When Esares was relatively sure neither of the humans was paying him or Lykis much mind, he covertly looked at the other demon, hoping to catch his eyes again – and discovered Lykis was already attempting the same.

Lykis gave him a grin, quick and wide enough to show off his fangs. Esares instantly felt some of his muscles unclench that he hadn't even realized were taut, and smiled back less subtly than he had intended.

He hurried to school his expression and glanced down, then very carefully at Tesran. The noble still wasn't looking at him or Lykis. Esares released a breath.

When he gazed at Lykis again, the other demon had returned his eyes firmly to the floor, and after a second Esares followed his example. They could talk later – hopefully for many hours.

At some point Tesran rang for servants to bring tea and snacks. The servants, much younger than the one who had met them at the door, brought a platter of glazed cakes and an elegantly crafted green and golden tea set. After placing the items on the table, they bowed in unison and left.

Anereth fed Esares bits of cake from his hand, which had been obvious would happen the moment snacks got involved, because anything else might have suggested to Tesran Anereth was displeased with Esares. Even so, he found himself oddly ill at ease taking the morsels from the mage's fingertips with Lykis there watching.

And he was watching, now. Esares was aware of it before he even looked at him out of the corner of his eyes. And when he did, just after taking another piece of cake from Anereth, Lykis was not only staring at him intently, but had an undeniable frown on his face.

Esares was reasonably confident Lykis did not think less of him for this, but was if anything indignant on Esares' behalf; yet couldn't help the sudden heat in his cheeks nonetheless.

Thank the dragons Anereth didn't expect him to lick his fingers clean, or to do anything but eat. And not just because it would have been that much more humiliating – Lykis was already unhappy enough with the situation to be neglecting caution, expression downright thunderous by the time Esares shot a surreptitious glance at him again.

To their luck, neither of the humans seemed to notice. Or rather: Anereth didn't seem to notice. Tesran certainly didn't, seeing how he was much too busy complaining that he couldn't hand-feed Lykis, because it made him sick. It was Esares' turn to frown. He was fairly sure the human wouldn't be having that problem if he cared to give Lykis enough of the food the Vaskla actually needed first.

By the time Anereth and Tesran saw it fit to retreat to the latter's room, Esares was even more glad to see them go than he had originally anticipated – which said something, considering he had been burning with impatience to be alone with his friend nearly all day. He'd not expected to get so furious at Tesran, or so irritated with Anereth, or so worried about Lykis' ability to keep his emotions in check.

He murmured a soft “yes, sir” when Tesran ordered them to behave as he got up from the couch, followed by a blander “yes, master” from Lykis.

Esares received a pat on the head and a fleeting smile from Anereth; then the humans made their way out, leaving the demons on their own.

Chapter Text

There was a span of time after the humans exited the room during which neither demon moved or spoke; until in one smooth motion Lykis rose to his feet and stretched.

“Finally,” the man said. “I thought they'd never shut up.”

Esares stood as well, mouth curving. He quickly and perhaps unnecessarily dusted off his clothes. “Luckily they always do, in the end. Even if half the time it doesn't feel like it.”

“You can say that again. I almost like fucking this one because it reliably dissuades him from speaking. And since he doesn't want much more from me anyway, this was probably the longest I've had to listen to him all week.”

Initially Lykis' voice had been lowered, but he didn't end on that note. Esares couldn't help a nervous glance at the door, shut though it was. If someone were standing in front of it, he wouldn't be shocked if they could make out at least some of the words.

Lykis followed his gaze and grinned. “Don't worry. I'd know if someone got near it. Most of my senses have suffered a little, but that I can still tell.”

Esares relaxed. “Must be convenient.”

“Very.” The other demon plopped down on the couch.

Esares took a step towards him, then stopped. “Are we allowed?” he asked, even though he suspected he already knew the answer.

“Nope.” When Esares continued to hesitate, Lykis added, “You're not planning to stay on the floor, are you? I'll know before anyone comes in.”

“No, I just---” Esares cut himself off. What was having him worried? Yes, Anereth would hardly appreciate Esares utterly disregarding the perfectly common house rules of another noble, even if he himself didn't care to restrict Esares' access to any furniture. However, the man had absolutely no reason to use magic to sneak up on him here, which meant if Lykis said he'd hear it in time if someone approached them, Esares had no reason to doubt him.

He sat down next to Lykis, who smiled at him.

“When Tesran chased me out of bed telling me you'd be here, I wondered if I was awake yet,” Lykis said. “I wasn't sure we'd meet again, let alone so soon, and like this. How did you manage it?”

Esares gave a smile of his own. “I didn't. I was as surprised as you. Lo-- Anereth came up with the idea on his own.”

Lykis blinked at him. “Really? Did you just tell him you liked me and he decided to arrange this as some sort of reward? That's a new one.”

“I didn't even say anything. I mean, he did see us at the party, but--” Esares stopped. Actually, he had never told Anereth Lykis' name, had he? And as far as Esares knew, Tesran didn't take his personal slave with him to parties at all. Even dropping him off in the slave quarters last time had been rather an exception. And if Anereth and Tesran hadn't had much to do with each other in a year...

“Have you ever met Anereth before?” Esares asked.

“Normally I'd say I can't tell you for sure because the humans are all starting to blend together at this point, but I doubt I would have forgotten this one. Is that his hair's natural color?”

“Yes,” Esares said absently. Did that mean Anereth had seen Lykis with Tesran before, but Lykis hadn't seen him, or had Anereth secretly inquired into who Esares had spent time with? He could easily have asked Maliren's servants responsible for the part of the slave quarters Esares and the other slaves of guests had been staying in, but for Esares to not be aware of it, he would have needed to do so before coming in to get him.

It was a disconcerting possibility. Esares supposed there were worse things Anereth could do than keep tabs on him to give him a nice surprise when an occasion came along. Even so...

“Is something wrong?” Lykis asked, brows drawing together in concern.

Esares summoned a smile. “No, just thinking. I don't know why Anereth did this, but humans say not to look a gift horse in the mouth, don't they?”

Lykis smiled back. “I'm reluctant to put stock in anything humans say, but with this I certainly see no reason to complain. That is, as long as they don't tell us to entertain them later.” The corners of his mouth dropped, and twisted on one side.

“I don't think we have to worry about that.”

“Oh?”

“Anereth isn't... I don't think he'd be interested.”

“Now you have me curious. Are you saying he doesn't do more than one person at a time? But he might still want to watch. Or well, Tesran did mention he's not big on sharing you, because of your master, right? Guess the Chosen One has to be good for something. Then I assume he counts having you perform for someone else as sharing you?”

“That's-- I wouldn't really put it like that, but—” Esares bit his lip, not knowing how to explain. “It amounts to the same thing.”

“Well, that's a relief. I would have gotten in trouble if they wanted us to fuck for them. Not that it's the fucking I'd have a problem with.” Lykis flashed him a smile. “So I guess I only have to worry about being called away from you for a little. I can live with that.”

“No, I meant-- I don't think that will happen, either.”

Lykis tilted his head to the side. “Not his type?”

Esares let out a gust of air. “Something like that.” Surely Anereth wouldn't be more inclined to rape Lykis than he was to rape Esares, would he? Even if Lykis probably would not seem 'skittish'. Even if the mage'd not shot the idea of borrowing Lykis for sex down entirely in front of Tesran. Surely it had only been talk.

“Well, I'll be hopeful then,” Lykis said. “I'd enjoy spending the night with just you.”

Esares' eyes flicked away. “I think I would like sleeping with you, you know. Only—”

“Only humans ruin everything. Yeah, I get it. I wasn't meaning to bring it back up, and besides, sex isn't the sole thing on my mind. You know I'm a cuddler.”

A smile spread over Esares' face. “And a good kisser.”

“Why yes, that too,” Lykis said, and leaned forward to press his mouth to Esares'.

The kiss they shared was tender, until Esares caught the other demon's bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled lightly. Lykis opened scarlet eyes and moved back for an instant to grin at him, before returning the favor. Esares decided he liked those fangs of his.

He thought he could have tried sleeping with Lykis, or if not that then something close enough – but not here, where they could be interrupted by a human at any moment, and be it just a servant looking to clear the table.

“Tell me if I smear my makeup,” Esares said when they split apart and he rubbed at his eye without thinking. Anereth might consider it more of a joke than an offense if he greeted Tesran or his staff looking like some sort of strange woodland creature at any point, but that didn't mean Esares would wish to suffer the humiliation.

“I will,” Lykis said and paused. “Is it bad I think it looks good on you?”

Esares' lips stretched into a broad smile. “No. I don't mind putting it on much, especially-- I'm glad you like it.”

Lykis grinned and dipped down, kissing his chin and trailing his mouth lower from there. Esares made a small noise in the back of his throat and let his eyes flutter shut, and Lykis buried his face in the crook of his neck.

“This is where I usually have to promise people not to bite them.”

Esares snorted a laugh, mostly because the possibility had never even crossed his mind. He'd been entirely focused on the pleasant sensation of Lykis nuzzling his throat. “Can you still do that with the collar?” he asked after a moment, curious.

He remembered Lykis had spoken about biting someone before, though the question hadn't occurred to Esares at the time – probably because the context had been Lykis' desire to suck all the blood from Tesran's body, and Esares had been rather blindsided by the other demon being so forthright about it. Now he wondered. He didn't think he himself would be able to break any magical being's skin while wearing the Timnesta collar; and he wasn't sure about a human without the gift like Tesran, either.

“Very shallow bites,” Lykis said, lips ghosting up Esares' neck. “If I think of it as sustaining myself.” When he reached Esares' jaw, he pressed his mouth to it more firmly, and kissed his way back down. Esares closed his eyes with a low hum of contentment, tipping back his head to give the Vaskla easier access. “It makes it messy,” Lykis finished when he reached Esares' collarbone, before gently sucking on the skin there.

Esares drew a sharp breath. “Do other demons really worry about you biting them?”

“Well, it depends,” Lykis said. He peppered a few more kisses along Esares' throat, then sat back up, and Esares was a little disappointed to no longer have the warmth of his mouth on his skin. “I really don't get much of an opportunity for this anymore, and a lot of those who weren't free for long never had dealings with my clan. So they tend to be wary, especially if they listened to the humans talk beforehand. There was one, though, a household slave of my first master's – he wasn't fazed at all. He was the one who let me find out I can still drink from another.”

“You must have been close,” Esares said. “Where did your first master live?”

“Farl, near Timnestra.”

“Oh,” Esares said. “So I guess you've not seen him since?”

A twist of the Vaskla's lips, quick and bitter. “It would make no difference even if he'd lived next door. Kamir was old. One hundred and fifty. Our master didn't hesitate long when the first wrinkles appeared on his face. What's the use of an aging table slave? He didn't bother trying to sell him one last time, either.”

Cold settled in Esares' gut. “I'm sorry.”

“One day the dragons will fly again, and we'll rise and take apart these collars, and I will tear out the throat of every human who presumed to own us.”

There was conviction behind the words, and they stirred something in Esares. Feelings he tried to not forget, but sometimes did. “I wish I could kill Sylves,” he said.

Lykis laid his hands on top Esares'. “Someone will. The prophecies say the Chosen One is to battle dragons, don't they? Both their version and ours. So they must return.”

“They also say he can strike them down,” Esares said, subdued.

“The wording is that he has the power to, not that he will. In our version, anyway, and it was passed down from the Pimidey. Humans have no seers as powerful as theirs. Your so called master can be struck down just like the dragons – easier than the dragons. There's only one of him, after all.”

“There might not be a lot more dragons, either.” It wasn't that Esares had given up hope for his people's survival and victory – if he had, he wouldn't know how to keep going. In his darkest hours, he had come up with scenario upon scenario of how the humans' downfall could come about.

He was afraid, though – they had been at a disadvantage for a long time now, had lost every major battle in well over a century. What if all their continued struggling, all their desperate efforts were in vain, born only from wishful thinking?

Esares believed, fiercely, that they were not beaten. Yet it was the nagging doubt he'd not been able to shake off since failing to take out Sylves that enveloped his mind now, and guided his words.

It didn't help that Esares had never like some others thought the dragons would swoop down and bring them salvation just like that. He wouldn't have taken matters into his own hands if he had.

Lykis shook his head. “There must be. They were too many to be simply gone, and too powerful. They have to be biding their time, like Chirarn in the Fading Mountains.” Chirarn was the only dragon whose whereabouts were roughly known: once every few years he appeared before one of the southern mountain clans, and spoke to them.

Esares wished he could be as optimistic as Lykis about the fate of the remaining dragons. It occurred to him that perhaps that had been exactly what he'd been hoping for bringing the matter up – that if he listened to Lykis' response, some of the other demon's confidence would rub off on him, extinguish his own fears.

If that had been his unconscious and selfish motive, though, it wasn't working. The dragons born from the sea who had disappeared might indeed just be hiding, making plans or simply awaiting the right time to rejoin the world like legend said; but there were also rumors that large numbers of them had been killed at the height of the Great Wars due to a trap laid by Halethion, or taken captive, which with a dragon amounted to the same thing. Personally, Esares had a hard time believing only one of them out of several dozen would have shown himself in nearly a century if most of them were alive and well.

“I hope you're right,” he finally said, which was the truth, at least.

“If I'm not, we can still win. And we will, because I'm not going out like this.” Lykis took a breath. “But let's not talk about humans.”

Esares looked down on the other demon's pale hands on his. They were trembling, as were his arms.

He elected to ignore Lykis' last sentence. “You're starving. Aren't you?”

Lykis went very still for a long moment, even getting the quivering of his arms to cease, and Esares thought he might get angry at him for calling attention to his troubles, or at least refuse to answer. But then his hands slid down from Esares' and curled into themselves, and he slumped.

“What he gives me might be enough to sate a newborn babe,” Lykis said. “But no one older. I barely wake when the sun goes down anymore, and when I do I feel like my stomach is eating itself. I can live like this. I have before. But I will get weak, and sick, and it makes me despise him even more. Every time he takes me to bed now, I have to bite my tongue at the end to not tell him I've never had a worse lay.” The shadow of a smirk. “It's close enough to the truth, too.”

Esares' reached out and joined their hands again. Fury on behalf of his friend surged through him, and worry.

Esares knew what could happen to a slave who became sickly. As demons, they did not usually fall ill, but besides malnutrition, they were not immune to physical injuries as well as some magical ailments – especially with the collars; especially when they were already in bad shape. Even if what Lykis said was true and his life wasn't in immediate jeopardy from being starved, it could put him at risk.

Dragons, just the fact that it made him irritable easily might.

“All because he doesn't like the way you eat?” Esares asked. As petty as humans could be, he'd thought they could at least be trusted to try and protect their own interests. Tesran didn't seem to want Lykis to become frail and less 'fun', or to chance causing long-term damage that would result in him losing money.

Lykis gave a half-shrug, accompanied by an ironic twitch of his lips. “I don't think he realizes the gravity of it. He seems to believe I'm just being a glutton and complaining about not getting snacks when I bring up the matter. Well, I'm not going to fall on my knees and beg. Perhaps unlike the last idiot he'll figure it out before he finds my performance lacking. Though who knows, maybe he'd want to sell me regardless – you should have seen his face when he watched me drain that chicken.”

“Couldn't you ask one of the household slaves to help you?” Esares asked. “I know it would be dangerous, but if there's someone who heals especially quickly--”

Lykis cut him off with a decisive shake of his head. “When I bite someone, the wound always heals fast, but the mark stays for hours, sometimes days. My first master never looked at his household slaves twice unless he needed them to serve guests, but here it's different. Even if I could convince one of them, we'd get caught sooner or later, and who knows what would happen to either of us then.” He smiled wryly. “I'd probably get the beating of my life and be sold, and whatever poor bastard I'd be dragging down with me would be little better off for helping me damage their owner's property.”

Esares chewed the inside of his cheek. Should he offer? He wasn't overly worried for himself if he let Lykis drink from him and they got found out while Anereth was the one who'd decide his punishment. And he could in fact think of some areas of his body where the mage was extremely unlikely to notice a bite mark in the first place.

However, he couldn't guarantee Lykis would be safe if Anereth did see. He might not bother to tell Tesran, but it was also possible that he would. What they'd be doing would be no small transgression, and Anereth had an amiable enough relationship with Lykis' owner. That was why they were here in the first place, after all.

It should be Lykis' decision, then.

Mind made up, Esares met the other demon's gaze squarely. “What about me?”

Lykis blinked once, before creasing his brow. “You?” At Esares' nod, he continued, “Weren't you listening? It'd be putting both of us at risk. And I'm hungry, so I'm tempted, but this isn't anyone's problem but mine. I won't place someone else in danger over it – definitely not you.”

“I think I could get away with it,” Esares said. “Especially if you don't bite where it would be obvious. If Anereth catches on, I could probably handle that, too – just, if Tesran finds out, you'd be....” He trailed off, briefly averting his gaze.

Lykis opened and closed his mouth, expression conflicted. “I'll be sold sooner or later, anyway,” he said eventually. “But... no. No. I couldn't forgive myself if you got hurt, and I think I would like for this to last as long as it can. Everything but the food is decent, comparatively speaking. And besides, I wasn't kidding when I said drinking from someone is messier with the collar. Forget about it, all right?”

Part of Esares wanted to push the matter – he could only imagine how much pain Lykis must be in, and still he was thinking of Esares, and Esares just wanted to make it better.

But he was also relieved, because even if it were Lykis' decision, he didn't think he'd be able to live with himself, either, if they did this and it backfired on his friend. Not to mention he had to doubt giving Lykis a little of his blood once would fix much. He would have liked providing him with a momentary respite, but that was possibly all it could have been. There was no telling when they'd have the chance to be alone like this again.

So Esares swallowed the assurances that he himself would be all right, and wrapped his arms around the other demon. “I hate them.”

Lykis buried his fingers in Esares' hair. “But hey, at least we got to meet. Who knows if we would have otherwise?”

Esares squeezed him, touched.

Eventually Lykis moved back, cupping Esares' cheek. “Honestly, I'm more worried about you. Are you doing all right? I know it's not uncommon for bed slaves to have trouble with sex, but...”

Esares flinched slightly, and Lykis withdrew his hand, looking apologetic.

Esares drew in air. “I'm fine. I'm used to it.” He knew this was no longer true in the same way it had been two weeks ago, and doubted it ever would be again. But he also knew however much more painful being violated by Sylves might become as a result, he would not want to go back to how things had been.

“It's been twenty months now,” he added. “And I'm hardly a wreck. I loathe what he does to me, but I can handle it.” He wasn't sure whether he was trying to convince Lykis or himself.

Lykis' expression was far from happy, and it was obvious what he was thinking: that Esares shouldn't have to handle it. Esares felt no different when it came to Lykis and Tesran. He was aware, though, that there was nothing he could do about it – and Lykis would also realize that he was powerless to help Esares, even if there was a second in which the look in his eyes made it extremely clear he would have liked nothing more than to go and rip open the Chosen One's jugular.

It was a feeling Esares was well acquainted with. Well, though he tended to picture himself using a dagger or sword instead of his teeth – he'd not be squeamish about the means of getting the job done, though.

“What about Anereth?” Lykis asked at last. “It's difficult adjusting to a new master. It might be when most of us crack. This isn't so different, even if it's just temporary. You said a couple weeks?”

Esares nodded. “It's fine, though.” Not so surprisingly, Lykis looked skeptical. “Truly. He's been-- it'd be difficult to have a human be nicer to me.”

Lykis' brows drew further together. “Really? Nice isn't the impression I've gotten, even by human standards. Tesran's quite convinced he keeps you in bed all day.”

Esares snorted. If giving him books and making him want to stay in bed for most of the day counted, Tesran wasn't all that wrong.

He didn't know how to tell Lykis that, though. It would sound absurd. Like a very pathetic lie, or a privilege that must have a terrible price, or-- Esares didn't even know. He didn't think bringing it up would make Lykis less concerned, though.

“Hardly,” he said instead. “He's--” He paused, uncertain. He could clear up the part Lykis was worried about without bringing books into it, or anything about how he probably spent a lot more time doing what he wanted than serving Anereth. For sure, presented on its own the fact that Anereth was not bedding him would be easier to believe and take at face value.

Not by much, though. More importantly, he would have a problem if Lykis spread word around.

Esares fiddled with the hem of his sleeve. The information might not travel very far in the end, since most people especially if they were closely acquainted with Anereth were likely to disregard it; but it would be enough if talk got back to Anereth himself through Tesran. The mage had not forbidden Esares from saying anything, but obviously he wanted his peers to think he was making the expected use of Esares. If Esares did anything to undermine that, Anereth would not be pleased.

But he didn't think Lykis would willingly endanger him; not out of carelessness and certainly not out of malice. Esares could simply ask him not to tell anyone. If he couldn't place enough faith in Lykis for that, then who was there in this new life of his he could trust?

Esares stopped picking at his tunic and looked up in the Vaskla's concerned face. He could understand why Lykis had spoken to him so plainly almost right away at their first meeting, even though the other demon had been burned before. Esares, too, did not want to watch his words around his own people as he would in front of a human. Any additional safety it might provide was unable to measure up to the cost. He would keep Lykis' experience in mind and exercise some caution in the future, but he would not have a friend worry about him needlessly; however shortly they might have known each other.

Making his voice low, he said, “The only thing we've done in bed is sleep.”

Lykis raised his eyebrows. “I assume this isn't your way of letting me know he has more outlandish tastes than I heard and exclusively does it on the kitchen table.”

The corner of Esares' mouth twitched. “This is my way of letting you know that if it were so, I would have no idea.”

Lykis blinked slowly. “Really? He's not used you for sex at all?”

“He's barely kissed me.”

Lykis sat up straight. “That's why you said he wouldn't be interested in having us join them.” It wasn't a question.

Esares replied even so, “Yes. I don't think he typically beds slaves.”

“What does he do with you, then? Feed you cakes and pat you on the head?” Before Esares could do more than fidget uncomfortably, Lykis' eyes narrowed. “What he said before about demons' healing abilities... he's not interested in that, is he? He doesn't hurt you just to watch you recover?”

“No,” Esares said hurriedly. And when Lykis' expression didn't shift, repeated with more vehemence, “No. I wouldn't have talked about that like it's a good thing. I guess under some circumstances it could be better, but-- no. He's not so much as whipped me.” Or hit him at all, but Esares had an inkling specifying that would do nothing to abate Lykis' suspicion.

Esares couldn't blame him. He wasn't sure if he'd have told the other demon if he weren't fine, with how Lykis had reacted just watching Esares eat out of Anereth's hand. And it was certainly true there were humans, and not so few from what Esares had heard and seen, particularly when it came to mages, who did go out of their way to hurt slaves just to trigger their healing abilities, or who otherwise featured their physical resilience into their scientific curiosity. Just a short while ago, Esares himself wouldn't have been surprised to find Anereth was one of them.

Now he thought of Anereth gently caressing him, giving him books, asking his permission to even touch his face after they had kissed, and it seemed all but ludicrous he'd lain awake at night more than once picturing all the horrible things the mage might inflict on him.

“What does he do, then?” Lykis asked.

“Not much. Pat me on the head, as you said. Try some illusion magic on me – no spells worse than that. Talk to me. Have me cook for him. Nothing terrible.”

“You realize that's odd, right?”

“Obviously. But he's just watching me for my master. It certainly explains why he doesn't have a slave himself.” Esares felt a little guilty leaving out so many details, fully aware he was glossing over the complexity of the issue. He also regretted it would mean not being able to talk with Lykis about some of the things that bothered him, like his own complicated feelings for Anereth.

He feared Lykis would worry more about him than he had originally, though, if he were to be any more open with him than this; might pity him on top of it, because how difficult was it to not pity a slave who held any sort of fondness for the one who commanded and punished him at will?

“I guess,” Lykis said, frowning. “Be careful, though, all right? They don't do nice. Not really.”

“I know,” Esares returned, and this he did fully mean. Even Anereth, kind as he might be to him, was an enemy of his people in the end, endorsing their subjugation. Esares could not, would not forget that. “I will be.”

Lykis nodded, grasping his hand. They sat like that for a while before lying down on soft brown leather, and resuming less heavy conversation curled up around each other.

Chapter Text

“Did you have a good time?” was the first thing Anereth asked him after Esares sat down next to him and a servant from Tesran's home closed the carriage door behind them.

“The best,” Esares said without hesitation, resting his cheek on the mage's shoulder. “Thank you.”

Fingers ghosted through his hair, and Esares closed his eyes. Anereth could never be a friend, he knew that very well, but Esares had not been this happy and at ease in a long time – had not thought he would be again while Sylves lived, if ever. That he was here now, had spent the entire night with someone who was a friend... that was thanks to Anereth.

A lot of things were.

Esares appreciated all of them. Starting with the small ones that he hated being grateful for, like being allowed to share the man's table, and continuing with the bigger ones that he also hated being grateful for, such as not being hit or violated. But beyond that, there were the books, and the undemanding intimacy Esares had almost more than the illusion of control over, and now there was also this.

It was the fault of humans in the first place he had to depend on the goodwill he was being shown, and Anereth was no innocent in that, but. The mage was giving him rather a lot of his time and patience, apparently for no reason but to see Esares content. Under the circumstances, Esares didn't terribly mind being thankful for that.

“You only met Lykis at Maliren's party?”

“Yes, my lord.” The words came out a bit of a mumble. Esares had been half dozing, though he only realized this as he spoke.

“But you're close.”

“I would say so, my lord.” Esares opened his eyes. “He's... I like him very much.”

It was a testament to how vastly different from Sylves he regarded Anereth that he didn't even feel a little nervous admitting as much.

“I could see that,” Anereth said, and his neutral tone made it impossible to tell whether he was referring to earlier this morning when he'd come to get Esares and found him on the floor with a sleeping Lykis' head in his lap, or if the mage had perhaps paid him more attention than Esares had realized the night before, during his chat over tea with Tesran.

The latter possibility was somewhat uncomfortable, since Esares had rather failed to maintain decorum in several instances – exchanging looks and smiles with Lykis; listening too closely to Tesran's infuriating remarks about the other demon. He wasn't sure, but he might have reacted visibly a few times when he'd known Tesran's attention to be elsewhere and not watched himself quite as carefully as he should have. Such as when the subject of Lykis getting sick from cakes had come up.

However, before he got around to worrying about a reprove, Anereth asked, “Do you have friends in the Tevenra household?”

“No, my lord. My master... I don't spend much time with the other slaves.”

“What about outside the household? Slaves of people Sylves meets regularly?”

“Not that, either. I-- there are some slaves I see often, and it's not like I'm indifferent to them, but I don't really get to talk to them.”

Anereth was silent for a moment. “I can't imagine how much you must abhor him.” Esares flinched. “You don't have to say anything to that.” The mage ran his hand along Esares' arm in a soothing gesture. “It just struck me he really has kept you all to himself. It must be lonely.”

Esares hesitated. “It is,” he finally said. “And I-- I'm truly grateful to you. Not just because of Lykis, though I can't express how much this night meant to me. No one has been this kind to me since--” He broke off. Tried again, “I can't-- you're right I would be nervous if you wanted to bed me, but if there is anything you would have of me, anything at all--”

“Like a kiss?” The note of humor in Anereth's voice was unmistakable.

Esares folded in on himself somewhat, unsure if Anereth was making fun of him. “I don't know how a kiss could possibly measure up, my lord.”

“Ah, you're right.” Anereth pressed his lips to the top of Esares' head. “It would have to be at least a smile. Maybe two?”

Esares huffed, though secretly he relaxed. As Lykis had said, it was odd Anereth asked so little of him – and odder still he seemed perfectly content with it. Esares kept waiting for signs that the mage at least minded Esares' limitations. Surely even if he didn't wish to hurt Esares, he must be annoyed that he couldn't take what he wanted without doing so?

If so, though, he didn't let it on, and that was really all Esares could ask for. “No wonder you're not close to Lord Hevilir.” He spoke the thought aloud as it came to him, for once not worried about consequences.

“Well, it's true we don't see eye to eye in a lot of matters.” Anereth took an errant strand of Esares' hair and slid it between his fingers. Esares hadn't noticed it had escaped his braid. “I hope you weren't too upset by my conversation with him. I promise I was serious about very little of it.”

“What were you serious about?”

The slanted glance Anereth gave him was one of surprise. “What are you asking?”

Esares looked down on his lap, where his hands were tightly clasping each other. “How do you think of me?”

Anereth tugged at his hair, and Esares cringed reflexively, though there was no pain, and Esares hadn't truly expected there to be.

“Not how Tesran thinks of your friend,” Anereth said.

“I know that.”

Anereth made a sound under his breath that might have been a chuckle. “I think,” he said after a long moment, “that you would have liked to throw Tesran out the nearest window at several points yesterday.”

Esares moved to sit up, but Anereth was still holding on to his hair, and rather than let go once more pulled gently. This time the action came with a clear message, the mage's gaze finding his as he performed it. Esares tentatively returned to leaning against him, not afraid so much as unsettled by the fact that Anereth kept talking about Esares wanting humans dead, or hating them.

“I think you have a long list of people you feel that way about,” Anereth said. “And that I would like to not be on it. I think that Tesran is a fool, like Sylves is one. Is that a satisfying answer?”

It wasn't really, but it was one Esares could live with. He tried to formulate a response that would express this without making it seem that he was taking Anereth's forbearance towards him for granted.

Apparently he took too long.

“How about this,” Anereth said. “Whether Valithia leaves tomorrow or a week from now, once she does we'll sit down, and chat. There are things we should talk about before Sylves returns. You still worry I might simply put you out of my mind when he does, don't you? Even though I said I would not. We will speak about that, and some other things, and if you still want to, you may question me more about my disagreements with Tesran then. What do you say?”

“I-- that's very kind of you to offer, my lord.”

“Well, you did say I was.” Anereth twined the stray lock of Esares' hair around his finger. “Kind.”

Esares swallowed. “You won't borrow Lykis from him, will you?”

“Not for the reason Tesran would assume, and not any time soon. I can't deny being intrigued, though. I've never come across a demon who consumes only blood before – merely heard about them. I suppose we'll see.”

Esares let out a slow breath. That wasn't bad, probably. There was no reason to suspect Anereth's motives were anything nefarious. In fact, it might be a good thing he was interested in Lykis. Tesran would sell the Vaskla eventually – there was little doubt about that. And Anereth didn't have a personal slave, and Esares could not hope for Sylves to ever relinquish him, even if it were Anereth asking him to do so – but if Lykis might have this instead, Esares thought he wouldn't mourn it so much.

That was, of course, provided Anereth could be moved to acquire a personal slave at all in the near future, and that he would not find Lykis' personality or taste for blood off-putting; and it was also assuming he would treat him not too differently from how he had Esares these past weeks, despite the high likelihood that Lykis would not respond to a master's sexual advances with any obvious distress.

“If you do borrow him,” Esares said, “could I be there?”

“To make sure I behave?” Anereth sounded amused, but Esares opened his mouth to offer protest anyway. Empty protest – for as much as he wanted to be around Lykis just for the pleasure of his company, it was less than half his reason for this particular request. However, before he managed a single word, Anereth went on, “I don't see why not. It might be a while, though.”

The muscles of Esares' back and limbs unlocked, and he smiled. “That's all right, my lord. Thank you.”

For a few minutes, the only sound was the clattering of hooves against stone.

“Yesterday, when I asked you about kissing Lykis,” Esares started, mustering his courage. “I already had. At the party.”

Anereth turned to him, but Esares kept his gaze directed ahead, on the gap between the two red cushions on the opposing bench. At last Anereth released his hair. Esares was stiff against him.

“Why tell me now?” the mage asked.

Esares didn't reply, though he knew his reasons: because there was little risk of Anereth delaying letting him see his friend as a punishment now, and because it wasn't a big enough matter that he was chancing bringing trouble to Lykis by speaking the truth after they'd left.

And because he wanted to see what Anereth would do.

“You know the problem here is not that you kissed him, don't you?”

“Yes,” Esares whispered. The problem wasn't even, he fully realized, that he'd done so without asking first. Anereth would likely have let it go at the time, though Esares had been more doubtful about that then. The mage had been very clear, however, about his lack of tolerance for lies, including lies of omission.

Anereth sighed. “I understand you not having told me immediately. I'm a bit miffed, though, that you didn't admit this yesterday, even after I gave you permission.”

“I'm sorry.”

Once again Anereth sighed. “It's not like I consider it something important for me to be aware of, though you believed I did. If you withhold information from me, we're going to have a problem.” Esares winced. “But,” Anereth continued, “I wouldn't have known if you didn't tell me, and you had no need to be honest with me now, so I will thank you for your trust.”

Esares sat up to look at Anereth incredulously. “Are you praising me?”

“What did you think I would do?”

“I don't know. Not praise me. Scold me, at least.”

“But what would be the point? You already decided on your own to be more honest with me from now on, no?”

Esares furrowed his brow.

Anereth smiled. “I'd not want to dissuade you from making the same decision again in similar circumstances. Mind you, if you commit an actual offense without me noticing, I will be more inclined to forgive and forget the sooner you tell me, and me catching you in a lie will go over very differently from this. But you told me of your own volition, so I won't scold or punish you for that.”

Esares breathed deep. “I guess that's fair.”

“I'm pleased you think so. Anything else you want to confess?” The mirth in Anereth's eyes and the upwards tilt of his lips made it clear he was joking.

Esares thought of sitting on Tesran's couch with Lykis, of talking to the other demon about Anereth; of having taken one of the leftover cakes in the middle of the night, because Lykis had assured him the servants wouldn't notice or care.

He settled back against the mage. “No,” he said.

*

Valithia did decide to leave with Hylis and her family.

Esares had been almost certain she would the moment they returned to Anereth's home and found Hylis still there, but was disheartened even so to hear Valithia announce her intentions after her friend left. He knew it was silly – they'd only had a couple of real conversations, and he'd been uneasy and wishing to not be holding her attention at least during half of those, and she was a mage who went to school in a city several days of travel from the capital.

She liked him and wished him well, Esares didn't doubt that, but her life was not here, and if it would be easy for Anereth to forget all about him once Esares returned into the custody of his master if he wasn't careful, it would be a hundred times easier for Valithia. It was unlikely he would see her again this year, and maybe he also wouldn't in the next and the one after. There had never been a question to the temporary nature of her stay, yet Esares had gone and gotten attached. He didn't even know when it had happened.

He wondered what Lykis would have to say about it. Probably not much. Esares rather expected he would give him a pitying look, and remind him no human was truly kind to them. It was part of the reason why Esares hadn't mentioned anything much about her when they'd talked. He didn't want Lykis to think he was breaking down, scrambling desperately for whatever crumbs of affection he was thrown, or worse, that he was in danger of succumbing to the human's lies and accepting his lot under their thumb.

He wasn't. Of course he knew his life should be better than this; that everyone who did not stand against the degradation and slaughter of his people was complicit in it. He just also liked Valithia, as much as he probably could a human, and felt that she treated him more like a person than anything – almost as an equal. He did not consider her an ally any more than he did Anereth, but he thought that with a bit of a nudge in the right direction, perhaps one day she could be.

It was, of course, supremely improbable that with the friends and family she had, it would in reality ever occur to her that the enslavement of Esares' kind was an abomination. He could picture it, though, and that was more than he could say for any other human – even Anereth.

And so maybe it wasn't all that ridiculous of him to be sad to see her pack her things.

Aside from preparing her departure, Valithia spent much of her last day in the city at her brother's side. He helped her pack, and after lunch the two of them had snacks together, and when Anereth went to his study later it was to go over what Valithia had so far produced of her essay on battle magic with her.

They treated Esares normally, save for involving him slightly less in their conversations and activities than usual, and gave no sign that his presence was unwelcome; but it was only natural they would want to spend this time by themselves, and so outside of regular meals Esares took care to not impose himself on them. He cited last night's lack of sleep as the reason he barely left the bedroom, which wasn't entirely a lie – he had been tired for the first half of the day, and even after that continued lying in bed and napping when he could; though mostly because there was little else to do.

His quickly aborted attempts at rereading Song of Two Dragons, as those brought down his spirits more than they lifted them after his recent talk with Lykis regarding the unknown fate of Argarae's descendants; and he just could not get into the little thick potions book by Ilmes Kriolen no matter how hard he tried. And he could have asked for a new book like he'd already intended, but it seemed rude and ill-timed with Valithia's impending departure. He could wait another day.

It was only after dinner that his attempts at keeping out of the mages' way finally failed, and he realized he had misjudged Valithia. It wasn't only her brother she wished to spend time with before she left.

Which meant instead of returning upstairs after finishing his evening meal, Esares found himself still at the dining room table, with a steaming cup of tea and a piece of strawberry cake in front and Valithia across from him.

Anereth, meanwhile, had for once excused himself, informing Valithia that the one piece of cake after lunch had been quite enough for him, and that he had some matters to attend to.

Esares was a little thrown by the whole thing, but didn't mind, since he did like Valithia, and felt better about this fact in light of the reminder that Valithia regarded him with similar fondness. More fondness, almost certainly – at the end of the day, Esares could not forget what she was, and what her people had done to his and continued to do every day.

Still, he would miss her, and was content to spend this bit of time with her. Or at least, he was until he finished his cake and Valithia went from animatedly telling him all about her loathing for formal wear to asking him personal questions. Then he wasn't so sure.

“So, you met a friend?”

Esares glanced away from her curious expression, down at his tea. He was aware she wasn't about to interrogate him, not with any malicious intent at least, but talking to humans about other slaves would always demand caution.

“Yes, ma'am,” he said.

“What's he like?”

“Kind,” Esares said, because it was both a safe response and true. When Valithia's expression remained expectant, he added, “Easy to talk to. I couldn't be more grateful to my lord for taking me to see him.”

“Is it true he drinks blood?”

Oh. Was that what she'd been trying to get at? “It is. Though I haven't seen it.”

Valithia looked fascinated. “Do you know what type, though? I mean, is it just any animal or-- and does it have to be alive? I think Ryminis said once that demons who mainly consume blood wouldn't touch a carcass. Or is it just that it can't have been dead for long yet? It's hard to get her to explain things.”

“Ah,” Esares said, blinking at the woman. He hadn't expected her to have any prior knowledge on the subject, or to have more than a passing, macabre interest in it. “I'm not certain myself, ma'am,” he began, haltingly, “but I've heard the blood would be more filling the fresher it is.”

Valithia was leaning forward in her chair, the last bits of cake on her plate forgotten. “And would there be a difference between, say, the blood of a chicken and that of a lion, or a human?”

Originally, Esares had rather assumed the discussion of this subject would end with Valithia voicing her disgust with Lykis' eating habits, echoing Tesran, but it didn't seem like that was going to happen.

He'd forgotten Valithia casually went shopping for raw pig liver to feed to her own slave. What else did Ryminis' tastes include, and what sort of conversations did she have with her owner about it?

“I think you're asking the wrong person, ma'am,” he said once he recollected himself. “It's not something we've talked in-depth about.”

Valithia removed her elbow from the table and sat up straight again, disappointment written across her face. “Really? It's the first thing I'd ask. Well, maybe the third. Wouldn't want to be rude.” She picked her fork back up. “You had fun, though?”

“Yes, thank you.” He smiled, and had a sip of tea while Valithia finished what was left of her third piece of cake. She'd tried to get Esares to have more than one helping himself, but he'd politely declined both times she'd offered, and thankfully she hadn't pressed. Unlike Valithia, he'd had a generous amount of salad for dinner along with the tomato soup and bread.

“I wish I could stay longer,” Valithia said as she pushed back her plate at last. “But I have another sibling who's hard to get a hold of, and once she returns to Oleren, it will be a pain to try and see her. It's even further to travel. And she'll be taking Kyenne with her, too.”

“Do you spend a lot of time with him?” Esares asked, curious.

Valithia pursed her lips in thought. “Well,” she said, “not that much. A bit more than I do with you? Usually he and Ryminis go off to play with the cats that drop by our garden most days and to terrorize the kitchen staff. Not that it's Kyenne doing the terrorizing.”

Esares didn't often envy other slaves, but in this case couldn't help it. He didn't know about Kyenne, his mistress could be horrible for all he knew, but Ryminis... he felt bad about it, but without ever even having seen the woman, he was jealous of her. He was sick of being alone, of Sylves, of barely being able to take two steps without his master breathing down his neck.

And much more than he was envious of her, he wanted to talk to this demon who was a 'terrible' slave – who claimed meat dishes left standing around for herself and made Valithia uncomfortable reading pamphlets about proper slave ownership to her she apparently collected just for this purpose, and who seemed to have no qualms about harassing human servants in the home of her owner's parent.

The thought that he might never get to meet her at all, or like her and Kyenne get to casually interact with others of his kind with some frequency again, stung; but more than it hurt, he found hearing about her continued to gladden him. Ryminis, Lykis, ...that school slave his master's former roommate had often enjoyed who would always walk out with his head held high and a subtle look of contempt on his features. His people were proud and brave and strong, and Esares refused to believe their debasement would last forever.

“Why does she terrorize the kitchen staff?” he asked.

“So they'll give her meat.” It was an answer along the lines Esares had anticipated. “And maybe because she's bored. It can be kind of hard to tell, with Ryminis.”

“And you let her?”

“You try telling her not to do something.”

Esares couldn't help giving Valithia an odd look. Anereth was right: she was a horrendous slave owner. As in, if she weren't one at all, she would probably be a decent person.

“Most people wouldn't just tell her, ma'am,” he said, quietly. He lowered his eyes to his tea, only glancing up at the human from underneath his bangs when she took longer than a few seconds to reply.

Valithia was frowning. Esares hoped it wasn't because she was reconsidering her approach – he wouldn't want that on his conscience. He didn't think it was likely, though, when he had only pointed out the obvious, and Anereth had explicitly teased her on this front already without her having seemed to much take it to heart.

“They'd not have more success than me,” she finally said. “And besides, I couldn't do anything to Ryminis, that'd be-- I don't know how anyone would want to.”

Esares knew he should drop the subject, but couldn't stop himself from asking, “Didn't you say she's not a good slave?”

Valithia looked bewildered for a moment, then her cheeks took on a faint pink hue. “Oh right, you heard that. I didn't know anyone was--” She broke off. Began again, “Well, it's true, she's not, but she's-- she's Ryminis. I know many people wouldn't like her, my brother doesn't. But then they should just leave her alone.”

One corner of Esares' mouth lifted. “Well, I don't disagree, ma'am.”

Valithia grinned back at him, before her expression suddenly sobered. “Say... are you all right with Sylves? I mean, does he do anything to you?”

Esares' smile vanished. “I'm fine, ma'am. Thank you for asking.”

Valithia squinted at him. “I'm serious. Does he get mad at you?” A pause. “Has he hurt you when he did?”

Esares tried to pull his lips back into a smile. It felt brittle around the edges. “My master is as gracious to me as I could hope for. There's no need to worry on my account.”

“You know it's not reassuring you're avoiding answering the actual question, right?”

Esares did now that she'd pointed it out, but not really, because he expected humans to take pretty lies spilling from his mouth at face value, or at least to have no interest in digging deeper. Anereth was a rare exception.

But not the only one. Esares probably should have seen this coming, considering his previous experiences with Valithia.

Even now, though, he couldn't bring himself to make more of an effort to alleviate her concern than he already had.

“I'm fine,” he reasserted. “May I go to back to the bedroom? I'm still a bit tired.”

“I'm not going to stop you.” It wasn't exactly permission, especially since Valithia looked supremely unhappy as she said it. It was enough for Esares to rise, though. He took his plate and mostly empty tea cup and bowed his head, but stopped when Valithia spoke up again, “Just--”

Esares turned back around to face her fully, and waited.

“If you ever need anything, tell me,” Valithia continued after a few beats. “Or tell my brother to tell me. I don't know if he'd hesitate to chew Sylves out like he deserves if he hurts you because he's his friend, but I care about you a lot more than I do about Sylves, and I'm not afraid to yell at him because he has strong magic and a fancy title, either. It's not that far from Enalyr to here.”

It was not an offer that could fix anything. Really, it couldn't. Just the idea of having Anereth request aid from Valithia on his behalf was laughable, and even if she were to do what she was promising and get into an argument with Sylves for Esares' sake, his master would just get annoyed at Esares over it, and probably also convince himself Valithia'd not be so indignant over him discipling his slave if she knew about Esares' attempt on his life. Which might very well even be true.

Still... still, he took in the earnest determination in Valithia's eyes and the way her fists were clenched at her sides, and knew that at least right in that moment, she meant every word. The Chosen One was less important to her than Esares was; mattered barely at all in her eyes compared to Esares' well-being.

“And if he still gives you trouble after,” Valithia added for good measure, “I could always bully my brother into backing me up in case he doesn't on his own. I'm good at that.”

Esares believed this, too – and oh, how he wished Sylves were around to hear it all. Not because he had any hopes his master would change his behavior for the better in response; but because Sylves liked Valithia, and would be hurt and upset by the speech she had just given, unable to understand how another human could care more about Esares than about him.

In a way, Sylves' attitude wasn't even arrogance – Esares certainly would never have expected this, either, before everything. Now there was Anereth, who didn't bat an eye at Esares hating Sylves enough to think about choking him whenever he laid hand on him, and Valithia, who was declaring herself willing to march up to humanity's hero at a word from him, and seemed prepared to lecture him in front of a crowd of his admirers or the Ivariney themselves if that was where she should find him.

The smile that blossomed on Esares' face this time was broad and genuine. “Thank you. I'll remember that.”

*

Valithia departed early the next morning. They all left the house together after breakfast, Oliar carrying a small bag with those of Valithia's belongings she'd not already had him bring over to Hylis' family's vacation home the previous evening. When he was done depositing the piece of luggage inside the already waiting carriage, he remained next to it, holding the door open for Valithia.

Esares had been surprised to learn Oliar was to accompany her not only to meet up with Hylis and her parents, but for half the journey as well before turning back around. It wasn't that it was out of the ordinary for a noble to send a servant with his younger sibling under circumstances like these, but Anereth hardly had a large staff, and it just seemed more impractical than what Esares was used to from him. After all, Valithia would already have company, including the several servants she had mentioned that Hylis and her parents had brought along with them to Nuvaria.

Well, Anereth did dote on his sister, when he wasn't intentionally antagonizing her.

Once Valithia was done embracing Anereth and saying a barely more restrained goodbye to Milara, she came over to Esares.

“Can I hug you?”

Esares returned her earnest gaze with wide eyes, though considering this was Valithia, neither the fact that she would wish to give him a hug nor the fact that she would ask should have been shocking. It was only as he examined his surprise at her request that Esares realized in all her time here, she'd never really touched him beyond an accidental brush of hands when taking a plate from him to return to the kitchen, back before the servants had arrived.

Automatically he glanced at Anereth, who wasn't even paying attention, talking to Oliar.

He didn't think Anereth would have answered for him either way, though. And Esares found he was all right with that.

“Yes,” he said.

He couldn't help going rigid for an instant when Valithia wrapped her arms around him, but quickly relaxed into the embrace, and then even gingerly returned it until she stepped back.

“I'll come visit again, and I'll make sure to go see you when I do,” the woman said. “But I don't know when yet. Take care, all right?”

“I will, ma'am.” He dipped his head; gave a small smile that was instantaneously returned. “Have a safe journey.”

Shortly after, Valithia went to interrupt Anereth's conversation with Oliar, hugging her brother one final time before entering the carriage. The servant gave Anereth a deep bow and followed behind her, and then they were off, Valithia waving at them through the coach's small window until it disappeared around a bend in the road. Esares stared after them, a heavy feeling rising up in him.

He flinched when fingers circled his upper arm.

Before he even finished swiveling around, Anereth released him. “Ah, I didn't mean to startle you.”

Esares needed a moment to reply, waiting for his heartbeat to stop ringing in his ears. “No, it's fine. I just wasn't paying attention.” He swallowed and averted his gaze. “Sorry.”

“I should have given you warning.” Anereth reached for him again, but very slowly, and when he grasped Esares' arm, this time his hold on it was so loose Esares could have shaken it off with little more than a twitch. Of course, it would have been if not unwise then at least impudent to do so; but it was the gesture that counted, and soon Esares relaxed under the touch, even if his pulse hadn't entirely returned to normal yet.

“I was thinking,” Anereth continued when Esares found his gaze again. “If we're going to discuss the future, how about we put what might be the last dry days of the season to good use? Today I'm going to be somewhat busy, but there's plenty of time tomorrow. Perhaps a picnic?”

“A picnic?” Esares repeated, dumbfounded. He'd not been completely sure Anereth would follow through on his suggestion that they set time aside for a conversation that mattered a lot more to Esares than Anereth. He'd already done him a great favor with Lykis.

Beyond that, Anereth plainly had not much pegged him as a picnic sort of person.

“Yes,” Anereth said, as though there was nothing strange about it. “Find a nice spot, enjoy good food.” He smiled. “Talk.”

It was unexpected, but not a bad prospect. If Esares was going to use the occasion to ask questions that would otherwise be walking, or plain crossing, the edge of what was acceptable, it might be easier to do that during a picnic. Should Anereth be clearly enjoying himself, Esares would worry a lot less about testing his tolerance by asking for assurances regarding what would happen once Sylves took him back, or by fishing for details about how Anereth viewed demons.

And he'd like being away from the house without having to trade it for the bustle of the market place, or another noble's residence. Maybe they'd visit a park, or the small lake right outside the northern gate. Esares almost never got to go there.

He returned the mage's smile. “That would be nice, my lord.”

Anereth brushed back Esares' bangs. “I will think about a suitable location, then. Before that, though – you should be about finished with your books, shouldn't you?”

Esares hesitated. “I finished Song of Two Dragons, but not not the potions book you gave me, my lord,” he admitted. “May I--” He bit his lip.

“Yes?”

“May I still have another one? I don't really... I appreciate you gave it to me, I do, just--”

Anereth tilted his head to one side. “You don't like it? No, no, be honest. No throwing yourself at my feet vowing to appreciate whatever mediocre pieces of literature I deign to bestow on you.” There was humor in the words, but only some.

Esares banished the dismay from his expression with sheer force of will. “I do appreciate it, my lord,” he said after a beat, voice almost level. “It was thoughtful. I enjoyed parts of it. Only... I know many of the potions already, and it's not really...-- I have read much of it, just not all.” He looked away.

“I see.” Anereth briefly pressed his knuckles to Esares' cheek, bringing his gaze back to him. “It's a rather elementary work for sure. Potions are another passion of yours, then?”

As he was growing accustomed to from Anereth, it sounded like genuine interest. Esares managed a nod, though 'passion' might be overstating his appreciation for the art. He mainly liked it because it was a practical application of the knowledge regarding magical plants he loved to collect.

Usually he would not tell a human about any skills he used to have at his disposal that he could have employed to do harm; but he doubted Anereth would be terribly troubled by the information.

“I'm looking forward to our chat,” Anereth said. “And also to finding you something new to read. Maybe from the study. Are you interested in healing potions by chance, or ones that affect emotions and the mind? I'm afraid there aren't many branches of the craft I'm well-versed enough in to recommend advanced works, but it would be simple enough with these. Or perhaps you were thinking a different field of study? If you're still curious about false orchids, I know somewhere I should have a book or two dealing with those, too.”

Esartes stared at the mage, overwhelmed. “I...”

Anereth smiled kindly. “Let's just take a look, shall we?” He held out his hand.

Esares grasped it, the long fingers cool and familiar as they closed around his own.

His heart was still pounding, but fear no longer had anything to do with it – not even apprehension. He felt odd, his face too warm, and the realization vaguely disturbed him.

Only when they started towards the house and Milara moved to follow them did he remember her presence. He met her gaze briefly, then quickly focused his eyes ahead again, trying not to wonder what she made of this behind the impeccably neutral expression.

Chapter Text

As a general rule, Esares was happy Anereth let him make actual decisions about how he wanted to spend his ample free-time. There were, of course, even now moments when Esares found himself intimidated by the relative freedom, worrying that he was failing to please Anereth – that the man might think him lazy or irritating for his choices or, perhaps worse, boring. These moments were getting rarer and rarer, though, and not anything he dwelt on anymore.

Because even the worst of them paled next to the flutter in his stomach when he made himself comfortable in bed in the middle of the day with a book and a bag of cookies. And they could not even be compared to the weight that gradually lifted from his heart as he explored, with appropriate caution, the ways he could avoid Anereth's touch when he wanted to without consequence or the expectation that he explain himself – he didn't even need to ask to be left alone; a slight turn of his head or body and the mage would take the hint.

Esares valued what autonomy Anereth accorded him, and wasn't sure he would be able to relinquish it again without a fight when the time came.

In this particular instance, however, he wished the mage had not asked him what he wanted to do and simply pursued his idea without Esares' input. Or better yet: not pursued it. But either way, Esares would at the very least have had an excuse for trying to back out at the last second.

He had been looking forward to this trip when Anereth first suggested it the previous day, more so as the house appeared strangely empty to him without Valithia and Oliar there. Esares had never had a proper picnic before and no opinion on this sort of outing in particular, but he'd known he'd love being away from human residences and crowds, and there'd really been no downside he'd seen, particularly when Anereth was permitting him to take along the new book he'd picked.

The specifics the mage had presented to him that night as they lay cuddled up in bed all had seemed perfectly reasonable to him as well at the time: leaving this hated city behind entirely for an afternoon suited him perfectly, and of course taking a carriage outside Nuvaria and to the site of the picnic where it would have to then wait for them would have been highly impractical, and potentially difficult to arrange for on such a short notice.

In the light of day, though, and in light of the large brown beast impatiently pawing the ground before him, Esares was quickly reconsidering.

“Maybe we could just stay here,” he said.

Anereth raised his brows at him. “We could, but I don't see why we'd want to. You said you know how to ride a horse.”

Esares eyed the stirrup uneasily. “I said I can manage to not fall off.”

Anereth stepped up behind him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You also mentioned you'd enjoy getting out of the city. What's the matter? You've been on horseback before, no?”

“Only a few times,” Esares said. “And the horse was smaller. And I--” He'd had his magic, which had not been what kept him on the animal, but possibly could have had it become necessary. “We didn't really have them,” he continued instead. “And it was over two years ago. What if I do fall and the horse runs off?”

“Then I'll have to catch it again or compensate the stable, I suppose.” There was an amused tinge to Anereth's voice. He was still clasping Esares' right shoulder, and now rested his chin on the other. “I've never lost a horse, and I'll be sure not to start today. If by some chance I do, though, I shall make certain to blame no one but myself. You gave me fair warning, after all.”

Esares let out a quiet snort, even as he leaned against the mage. Anereth wrapped an arm around him. “How about assuring me I won't fall off?”

“Well, I've yet to see you ride.” Esares could tell without turning his head Anereth was smiling. “I doubt you will, though, and I'll be there. I promise to not leave you lying in a ditch.”

Esares tried to let Anereth's good cheer dissolve his anxiety, but only had meager success, and Anereth must have noticed his shaky exhale, or the continued tension in his body, for he added, softer, “You'll be fine.” A quick press of lips to Esares' cheek. “All right?”

And what could Esares do but murmur acquiescence and step out of Anereth's embrace, towards the horse? The mage had already paid to take out two of the stable's finest animals for the day, and Milara had spent at least an hour in the kitchen making them snacks for the occasion, and they had come here and packed the saddlebags, and it wasn't as though Esares wanted to not go. He even liked horses; just not necessarily being on one.

He could, it occurred to him as he halted in front of the horse, maybe ask about being allowed to ride with Anereth – but he'd feel like a bother, then, and more like a pet. And even if the mage agreed and could get the money for the second horse back, he assumed it would make transporting the blanket and provisions for the picnic more difficult.

In truth Esares' apprehension was probably a bit silly, seeing how he was really more worried about the falling off part than any injury that might result from it. He was just... not the biggest appreciator of horseback riding.

Well, that and it would be kind of mortifying if he landed on his ass within five minutes of the endeavor. Particularly if it happened still within the city, in the middle of a busy street or in front of anyone who might recognize him or Anereth.

It would arguably be more embarrassing, though, to refuse to get onto the horse altogether at this point. And he really did want to get out of the city. He almost never had the opportunity, and then it was in a carriage with Sylves, which felt almost more confining than the towering stone and iron walls of Nuvaria.

So Esares did as he'd agreed to the past night. He had no trouble swinging into the saddle, at least, despite having so little practice it barely counted. There were advantages to not being human, though these days they seemed few and far between.

He gripped the reins tight and held his breath while Anereth made for his own horse, standing some feet away in front of its stall, motionless save for the swishing of its tail.

Thankfully, Esares' horse remained still while he waited. The only one he'd been on before had tended to just start walking once it had a rider on top; sometimes also before that.

He cautiously stroked the horse's long neck, firm and smooth beneath his fingers. The stablehand who'd prepared the animal, a freckled young boy with a bright demeanor, had said its name was Breeze. Her name, Esares amended. Anereth had rented two mares.

When Anereth mounted his own horse and tapped its sides to set it into motion, Esares relaxed his hold on the reins and adjusted his posture, trying to sit straight and assured in the saddle rather than like someone expecting to be thrown off any second. Breeze was tall and Esares had close to no experience riding horses, but he had decent balance, and remaining in the saddle was all he needed to focus on. Like he'd been able to convince himself when Anereth first asked him about his riding abilities, it shouldn't be too hard.

As if to confirm this, his mare started following Anereth's somewhat smaller dark gray horse the instant Esares twitched his leg.

The stone road awaiting them as they exited the stable was broad, but busy enough it didn't feel that way. Although the market place was nowhere in the vicinity and would have taken them half an hour to reach on foot, they were much closer to the southern city gate, which they intended to leave the city through.

Esares was used to there being people wherever he looked in this part of Nuvaria, and this time was no exception: farmers and traders were heading to where they would open their stalls, with wagons that contained fruits and vegetables, meat and cheese. Usually when it wasn't the one who'd brought the goods into the city to sell pulling them, it was a mule or horse in front of them; but sometimes a servant accompanied the trader and handled this task, or, in one instance, a slave. There was the occasional other rider, and plenty of coaches, and a group of elderly women clad in the black and golden garbs identifying them as priestesses of Evynera.

Esares watched a young couple whispering and giggling to each other; children chasing a dog while laughing; a small group of mages in elaborate robes absorbed in conversation, with an equal number of slaves following behind them with their heads bowed.

Esares and Anereth got fewer odd looks than Esares had prepared himself for. It was out of the ordinary for anyone to take their bed slaves horseback riding, especially on a separate horse, and Esares' green and golden garments, while plainer than what he usually dressed in, weren't precisely inconspicuous. Neither was Anereth, with his long silver hair cascading down past his shoulder blades. He was easy to spot despite the artless black shirt and pants he wore.

Apparently, though, those who otherwise may have frowned or gawked were too busy and the road too packed with animals and vehicles and people from all walks of life for many to spare them more than a glance; and so even when eyes lingered on Esares, they generally seemed to fail to check for the collar around his throat.

The carriage that brought Esares and Anereth to the stable had ended up stopping and nearly stopping many times before they'd reached their destination, and now atop a horse, Esares wouldn't have known how to navigate the lively street. Since Breeze docilely trailed after Anereth's mare, though, little faster than the people they passed, he found himself in no danger of running anyone over. Soon they moved on to narrower streets winding between private houses, almost empty in comparison, and Esares dared to let the horse have some slack in the reins.

He was grateful Anereth didn't pick up their pace until after they passed through the city gates, and that he'd also forgone a shortcut Esares was aware of that would have required them to pick their way through another bustling road. The alternative they went with may have been time consuming and somewhat tedious, and Esares thought his horse became a little less biddable as its patience with the lack of speed thinned, but it gave him the opportunity to grow used to being on horseback again, which was invaluable for his level of comfort with the trip.

By the time they were outside Nuvaria and Esares surveyed the green and yellow fields stretching into the distance like he hadn't since he first came to this city with his powers unbound and pride intact, he was much more excited to go faster than uneasy about it. As excited as the horses, he suspected, if their insistence on taking a few quicker than normal strides every now and then was any indication.

When Anereth asked him if he was ready, Esares to his own mild surprise didn't hesitate to reply affirmatively.

His heart momentarily leaped into his throat as Breeze immediately mirrored Anereth's horse and went into a trot without awaiting Esares' instruction: but it wasn't long until his pulse slowed to almost its regular rhythm, and most of what had remained of his nervousness bled out of him shortly after, taking with it the tautness of his arms and legs and shoulders.

This was a gentler gait than he remembered. Because of the horse's greater height, its breed or training? Or maybe even the different saddle and stirrups? Esares also found he'd not forgotten the correct posture, how to keep his hands steady and at the right angle and his legs in contact with the horse's body without squeezing. It required strength and some concentration to not be shaken about in the saddle, but he was holding up well enough – a fact that didn't change when they began alternating the trot with short stretches of cantering and finally galloping.

They rode until the sun was high in the sky and the meadows and fields surrounding the road were on one side replaced with trees and bushes: light woodland with no proper trail leading through it that Esares could discern. After a while Anereth stopped and waited for him to catch up, then stirred his horse inside the woods at a leisurely pace.

“I don't know what you were concerned about,” Anereth said about twenty minutes later, when they had reached a small stream the mage must have been heading for from the beginning, though he'd not told Esares any details about where they were going beforehand beyond 'away from the city'. Esares hadn't asked for more information, either, satisfied with the prospect of leaving Nuvaria far behind, even if it was for only a portion of a day.

The mage had just finished tying up his horse and now was making his way over to Esares. “I'd been prepared to only get half as far, or not even that,” he continued. “You're no poor rider at all.”

“Only when I don't have to tell the horse what to do.”

Anereth smiled and reached out so his hand hovered a mere inch from Esares' side. “Shall I?”

Esares nodded without missing a beat, gratified by the fact that Anereth had asked, and grateful as the mage helped lowering him from Breeze's back to the ground. Even not really having engaged in more physically demanding activity than sex in well over a year, Esares possessed natural endurance humans did not, and he'd forgotten less about horseback riding than he'd initially assumed; but that didn't mean he wasn't exhausted, or that his legs weren't beginning to feel like jelly.

He could tell he'd be sore all over later, though hopefully only for a few hours. “I did think I might fall,” he felt the need to reassert as he came down on the ground with only the tiniest wince. He didn't want Anereth to think he'd been lying, or exaggerating his nervousness to be coddled.

“Well, it seems you needn't have worried. I'm impressed.” Anereth removed his hands from just above Esares' hips and took the reins from him. “You can do as you'd like while I take care of the horses. It will be just a moment.”

“Thank you.”

Esares found himself a reasonably dry shallow rock downstream where he could kneel to wash his hands and face, hopefully without getting his clothes dirty. He could have offered to assist Anereth, but he knew next to nothing about horse care, most certainly including how to tie one up securely in the middle of a forest, and he doubted it was a skill Anereth expected him to acquire. Even if he did, Esares was too tired to pretend to want to.

He reached into the refreshingly cool water, but paused when he looked at it more closely. At the bottom of the river, there were red and purple plants, as beautiful as any flower they had passed on their way here. At first Esares thought they were algae, but when he squinted, he could make out tiny glimmering specks on them, like golden sand or powder.

He closed his fist around one of the weeds. It was warm to the touch, more so than the sunbathed rock he was sitting on, though the water around it was most definitely not. He passed his hand along the deep red plant and then brushed it over some of the purple ones next to it. They were a little rougher in texture, but there was no difference regarding their temperature. When he pulled his hand out of the river and raised it to his eyes, some of the golden powder clung to it.

A delighted smile grew on Esares' lips. Gold dust weed was not a common plant. Not in Desarias, or any countries near it save for Halethion. Esares had only seen it in its natural state maybe a dozen times in his life, and most of them had been traveling with Sinieru. Out here in the woods, he found himself cherishing the memory more than it stabbed at his heart.

Gold dust weed was used during the production of enchanted weapons and as an ingredient in many a potion – typically those meant to influence someone's mood, but there were also healing concoctions that relied on it, as well as at least one type of love potion. It was a versatile, fascinating plant that Esares had always wanted to research.

Seeing it here was nostalgic, but there was even more to be excited about. Where gold dust weed grew, blue beak swans were rarely far. They were beautiful birds, smaller than other swans but no less elegant, with thick plumage that was sometimes the common white or black, but could also contain streaks of red or blue. They would not live in a shallow river like this, of course, but almost definitely they would come here to supplement their diets with the gold dust weed – depending on how close their primary habitat was, they might do so monthly or weekly or even daily.

Esares had only encountered blue beak swans on two occasions so far, a pair and a single one, and in both cases he'd almost forgotten to breathe for a second. They were even rarer than gold dust weed: their feathers had strong magical properties themselves, and at one point they'd been close to extinction in many of the northern countries before laws had been established forbidding the resident humans from hunting them or taking their eggs.

He scanned the river, the grass and bushes surrounding it. Looked up at the sky, where the sun was shining past a couple of clouds just brightly enough that the weather lent itself to an excursion. There were no swans in sight.

Despite everything, it would have been rather a coincidence had the birds been feeding here right the instant he and Anereth arrived.

Unsurprised, but no less disappointed for it, Esares returned to his original intent of washing himself. He'd put on powder out of habit in the morning, and no other makeup. He suspected much of it had already fallen prey to sweat and the humid spring air, and the rest should come off easily enough now, without leaving unsightly traces. He was glad he'd forgone the kohl, though he wondered if he should have asked if Anereth had some perfume for him instead. A bed slave wasn't supposed to stink of horse and sweat.

But then, he wasn't sure how much putting on perfume would have helped, and besides, Anereth wouldn't exactly be smelling of tulips and roses himself; so maybe he'd not particularly notice. Esares hadn't much registered Anereth reeking of horse when the man had helped him off Breeze, so with a bit of luck it would be the same the other way around.

Once Esares finished washing, he tore off a piece of gold dust weed to admire outside the water. As expected, the purple bit of plant turned cold like snow or ice in his palm the moment it made contact with the air. He ran a finger along it – the texture alternated between sleek and woolly.

“I thought you might like them.”

Esares jolted, but managed to take a breath and turn slowly to face Anereth instead of jumping to his feet and whirling around. “They're beautiful,” he said earnestly, hand curling around the plant whose frosty temperature sent a shiver through him that wasn't all that unpleasant. “Were you... did you want to show them to me?”

Anereth raised one shoulder in an idle shrug. “I hoped you would enjoy them, given your preoccupation with magical flora, but I might have picked this place regardless. It's pretty, and I've never run into anyone here. The quieter the better, no?”

Esares smiled, not wholly sure if Anereth was talking about him himself not wishing to encounter anyone or Esares, but having an inkling he meant both. “As you say, my lord.”

“Come on. I already got everything ready.”

Esares put down the gold dust weed on the stone and took the hand Anereth offered him, letting himself be pulled upright. He ignored the twinge in his legs as they stretched.

A large dark blue blanket that had formerly been secured on Anereth's horse's back lay a few feet from the stream, surrounded by ankle-high dark green grass with budding yellow and white flowers sprinkled through along with patches of moss.

They weren't in a proper clearing, but the trees stood so far apart here that it made little difference. Only one was close enough to cast a shadow across the blanket's edge – a stocky birch whose sparse foliage was evidently still recovering from the harsh winter.

On the blanket there were two leather flasks Esares knew Milara had filled with orange juice, two small boxes with snacks, and, a bit off to the side, the book Esares had freshly borrowed.

He sat down across Anereth in the shadow of the birch and moved the book behind himself to be certain no food or drink would spill on it, then followed Anereth's example and began eating.

They had breadrolls with ham and lettuce, and more with beef and sheep milk's cheese, and finally they shared an apple tart and glazed honey cake, eating one half of both each. The snacks were delicious, like food Milara prepared tended to be.

They didn't talk about anything more important than gold dust weed and Esares' reading while they ate, but that didn't stop Esares from enjoying their conversation as much as the food. Or rather, that was probably why he enjoyed it so much. He doubted he'd have been able to get a lot of the meal down during graver talk.

The book Esares had chosen from Anereth's collection was called Beyond Nature and dealt with Halethion's political structure and the role magic played in it. It wasn't a topic Esares had ever contemplated in any detail before, but Anereth and Ksielle's discussions with Kylerith at the party had been intriguing, and Anereth had ties to Halethion by blood as well as by virtue of how close to its border his family lived. Esares couldn't help being curious

So they talked about Halethion's focus on the less flashy forms of magic such as potions and illusions, and about their royal house headed by a queen and her princess consort, and, a little, about the country's tense history with Desarias. Said history had been rather a mess until about two decades ago, when many countries decided to rally around humanity's Chosen One – Halethion among them. At some point Kylerith was also mentioned, Anereth lamenting the fact that the man hadn't gotten back to him yet about his invitation.

As they finished their meal, Esares ventured a question about what Anereth thought of there being no personal slaves in Halethion. He attempted to make it sound casual, but after the words somewhat haltingly left his mouth didn't for a second think he was fooling anyone. Still, Anereth had said he'd have the opportunity inquire more into his views on demons during this outing. Surely he could ask this much without overstepping.

“I don't think anything of it,” Anereth said. “Except that it would be nice if people stopped nagging me about acquiring one.”

Esares mulled this over. “You'll get a slave eventually, though, won't you? As a mage... if nothing else, people would find it odd if you didn't.” 'Odd' was rather an understatement. At some point it was bound to cost Anereth the regard of many of his peers, no matter what well-crafted excuses he made. And Ksielle who was in much the same position might be fine with that if it meant she didn't have to suffer the presence of a slave in her house and at her heel, but Esares was confident the same did not apply to Anereth.

“I suppose,” Anereth responded, gaze level with Esares', “eventually I should.”

“You said you don't see the point of picking out a random slave, but if you knew him, and you liked him, would there be a problem?”

Anereth kept his eyes on Esares', not so much as blinking. “Probably not.”

“Then, since you're interested in Lykis....” Esares fidgeted, biting his bottom lip. “Are you considering buying him?”

Anereth canted his head to the side, as though Esares had said something unexpected. “Taking your friend as a personal slave hasn't been on my mind.” He smiled. “Why, worried I will replace you?”

“No, I think it's a good idea. For you to buy him, I mean.”

Anereth did blink, then. “You do?”

Esares wasn't certain why the mage seemed to find it so surprising. “Yes. Lord Hevilir did mention selling him, even if he doesn't mean to yet, and you told me you care about a slave not disobeying or boring you. I don't think Lykis is likely to do either. And he caught your attention, and you'll need a slave sooner or later.”

In truth, Esares wouldn't bet anything important on Lykis following commands to the letter; but clearly he knew how to toe the line and not get caught doing anything too audacious, and Anereth had some tolerance for a slave breaking the rules, or Esares would not be sitting here enjoying the pleasant weather and faint smell of pines and jasmines. If Lykis could handle Tesran, he could handle Anereth – at the very least, Esares doubted Anereth was cruel or ignorant or petty enough to starve him.

When Anereth took too long to reply, Esares ducked his head. “I'm sorry, I was too forward.”

“No,” Anereth said. “But you've put quite some thought into this, haven't you?”

Esares bowed his head lower, not wanting to meet the mage's assessing gaze again just yet. “A little, my lord.”

“I can't say I saw this coming. Weren't you worried I might forget all about you the moment Sylves returns? Even after I attempted to reassure you. Wouldn't setting me up with another slave be counterproductive?”

Esares darted a glance at Anereth's face, which revealed about as much of what he was thinking as his tone: there was curiosity, and perhaps a distant sense of puzzlement, and that was it.

Esares returned to staring down at his hands. “I don't think so, my lord. It's not like my master would ever sell me, and if you're going to put me out of your mind after getting your own slave, it would happen sooner or later anyway. I think I'd rather know sooner, then. And Lykis deserves-- I would like for Lykis to have a good master. It's more important than-- I mean, I would hope you'd still give me your consideration, but--”

“But you care more your friend has a good master,” Anereth finished for him, softly. “And you're certain I would be one?”

“I'm certain it doesn't get much better.” Esares looked up from his fingers worrying at the blanket. “My lord.”

Anereth's lips quirked. “You're kind. It's why you're here, isn't it. Not for glory. Not because you wanted Sylves' power for yourself. Because you care, about your friend and every slave you've never met. Your people.”

Esares averted his eyes, the reminder of his failure coming with a dull ache in his chest.

“I don't intend to get myself a personal slave from Tesran,” Anereth said.

“But--”

Anereth held up his hand. “You're kind,” he repeated. “The problem is that I am not, as much as your assertions to the contrary flatter me. I find there is no good way to say this, so I will just come out and do so now. I've not been quite honest about my intentions with this, or anything.”

Esares looked at Anereth, bewildered, wondering if he had misheard. Anereth's expression was perfectly neutral.

Esares drew in air that burned inside his lungs. “Your intentions, my lord?” His own voice sounded far away to him.

He wasn't afraid, not yet, not quite. He didn't know what he was instead. From any other human, Anereth's declaration would have had him waiting to be pushed to the ground and taken unceremoniously. And from any other human, he would have expected a mockery of an attempt at seduction with only one inevitable outcome the moment Anereth suggested a picnic for the sake of a chat.

Even after the man's ominous pronouncement, though, Esares couldn't see Anereth being so crude, not when he made a fuss about just kissing him. If Anereth were to play at seduction, surely he did not have a surprise fuck in the middle of a forest in mind.

Surely.

Anereth was watching him too-intently. Esares shuddered under his gaze. As wary as he was of humans, and maintained a whole number of reservations regarding even those of them who'd been decent to him these past weeks including Anereth, not once had he considered the possibility that the mage may have brought him here for any sinister purpose, rather than on a whim or to do him yet another favor.

He was a fool.

“Sylves' unwillingness to sell you does not matter,” Anereth said, “if you tell me one small thing about him.”

Esares' heart stopped. Reflexively he leaned away from the mage. He must have misheard. He must have. Anereth was not the caring friend Sylves saw in him, was manipulative and cruel when it suited him, and could not be trusted to have the Chosen One's back no matter what Sylves believed, but he was not-- he could not--

Esares was worse than a fool.

“Don't look like that,” Anereth said, almost gently. “I truly am fond of you. I just want to do away with Sylves. There's nothing so horrible about that, is there?” He smiled, and it was no different from his usual smiles, but suddenly it did not seem kind to Esares at all. His mouth was dry. “I apologize for deceiving you. It seemed inadvisable to do this with Valithia around, though, not to mention with you terrified of me. I hope this isn't ruining our progress.”

Esares couldn't move, couldn't breathe.

Anereth reached for him, about to lay a hand on Esares' shoulder or tuck a strand of hair behind his ear like he had a hundred times before.

Esares slapped away his hand. “Don't touch me.”

Anereth froze. After an instant, he dropped his arm.

“That's why you were kind to me,” Esares said. “Everything, all of this-- that's why.” Anereth didn't even bother denying it, looking back at him calmly. “Was it hard not to fuck me? Not to beat me when I spoke too much or out of turn and then not even being able to make me earn your forgiveness? It must have been. Your kind seems chronically incapable of keeping it in their pants for five seconds. I didn't know it was possible.” Esares' voice grew louder and higher as he spoke, and by the end he was well aware of the shrill note that had entered it. His heart was galloping in his chest, and he wanted to laugh.

What an unbelievable idiot he had been. Anereth must have gotten a good chuckle out of Esares' gratitude for what had been nothing but manipulation, his scrambling for a bit of positive attention like a dog for a treat. He'd let him pet him like one, too, and enjoyed it. Worse: he'd kissed him and considered it harmless fun; been pleased with himself about it, even. He'd asked him to hug him.

Anereth must have loved it – must have loved watching him all but begging him to take him because he was so thankful and relieved to be treated as something close enough to a person he could almost forget there was a difference, and so desperate to not lose what little freedom and comfort was being offered.

Esares was going to be sick.

“Well,” Anereth said after a long moment, “I guess I did tell you to speak freely.”

Esares barely heard the words at first, but when they registered, a new wave of anger crashed over him, stopping the numbness that had begun to crawl up his body.

He shot to his feet. “Do you find this amusing?” he asked. There was no need to worry about consequences anymore. “Has this all been a joke to you? Do you think I'm so pathetic I will tell you what you want because you've been a little nice to me, as though that wasn't all for your own selfish gain? I won't.” When Anereth didn't react, he added, “You've wasted your time.”

“Have I? You want Sylves dead as much as I do. More so. I understand you're upset, but I had limited options. There's no reason why we shouldn't at least talk.”

“Talk,” Esares said. There was only the barest tremor in his voice. He told himself its source was the fury bubbling in his stomach. “And when I keep refusing? What torture will you resort to then?”

“I would prefer to keep this civil, so I have made few plans for what I'll do should you deny me. Sit down, will you?”

Esares believed exactly nothing about Anereth not having carefully considered his course of action in case Esares turned him down. However naïve or hungry for revenge the mage might think him, he couldn't be that confident he would easily get what he wanted.

Esares remembered how Anereth had casually asked him about punishments he hated most, and Esares like a moron had let him know all the best ways to hurt him. It hadn't been the only time he'd told the human more than he should have, either. Bile rose in his throat.

Instead of resuming his seat, he turned his back to Anereth and started walking. It was that or attempt to wring the human's neck – an option he would have picked in a heartbeat if not for the collar guaranteed to thwart him. He was livid and terrified and humiliated and could not bear to look at the man responsible for a second longer, or have him look at him. And he wanted to know if Anereth would drop the act entirely at being so blatantly defied.

He passed through a group of towering pine trees and smaller birches and followed the river until neither Anereth nor the horses remained anywhere in sight. Anereth did nothing.

And of course, he could afford to. As much as Esares wanted to run, it was bound to be a short escape if he tried. He was painfully easy to scry for, with the collar – and as though that alone wasn't damning enough, Anereth knew the terrain while he didn't. The mage would probably drag him back within half an hour if he tried, if not sooner.

When Esares was reasonably confident Anereth was not going to follow him, he sat down by the riverbank and wrapped his arms around his legs. It helped with the trembling, if only slightly.

How could he not have realized?

But it was outrageous. Anereth and Sylves had been friends since before they'd been old enough to make serious purchases that didn't require their parents' written consent. Sylves admired and trusted Anereth more than he did perhaps anyone else. And Anereth didn't just deceive and dislike him, but wanted to kill him?

Even more difficult for Esares to grasp was that he would do it when Sylves was so popular. Of course he could see how the Chosen One's powers might appeal to someone like Anereth, but how did he plan to commit the deed and get away with it? Most humans adored Sylves, especially in his home country. They'd not simply let his murder slide.

Admittedly, there was a limit to how well Esares understood humans, the way they thought, their cultures and traditions. He realized it was beyond discouraged among mages to speak their words of revelation in front of anyone, including their closest family, and that this taboo was fairly universal across countries. They hardly even discussed the subject in a general sense, and Esares only knew what he did from old recordings his people kept – information gathered throughout the war.

His people had also found out early that all countries they'd fought used spells meant to ensure their mages' words of power could not be forced out of them through torture; and that while there were always methods to get around that if one tried hard and long enough, the spells the Magicians' Circle of Desarias cast over their mages for protection nearly as soon as a child's powers showed were among the most effective.

Maybe Anereth planned to use human customs and sensibilities in a manner that would seem foreign and bizarre to Esares, but actually made sense for the citizen of Desarias. If he could convince everyone Sylves had told him his words of revelation himself, and not under duress, would at least the Ivariney be willing to let Anereth's betrayal go because they'd blame Sylves for breaking a taboo and because they'd not wish to lose the Chosen One's power entirely?

But Esares was unable to see how any human could not condemn Anereth for his faithlessness if he did that, let alone wish to follow him into battle after he'd proven himself a conniving backstabber who would murder in cold-blood his friend who trusted him absolutely – the Chosen One revered by humans everywhere.

Esares couldn't completely disregard the possibility this was some sort of test, to see if Esares would betray Sylves; but Esares didn't believe so. Sylves certainly would have come up with no such thing, nor could he be aware of it – he had none of Anereth's talent for lies and deception and Esares had studied him in and out; he would have noticed something amiss, even if he wouldn't have known what it was. Anereth could still have come up with the idea on his own, but looking back at how he had acted these past two weeks, at his relationship with Sylves... if he did something like this, it wouldn't be to uncover a slave's disloyalty.

It was too much trouble. Anereth might care a great deal about Sylves' safety if he meant to use him, but there was no need to go this far to ensure it. Esares already barely got the opportunity to speak alone with people Sylves didn't fully trust, and aside from Anereth, that was really just Sylves' closest relatives. None of them, he was fairly sure, would ever wish to end Sylves' life, which was the almost assured outcome of a mage losing his powers. And even if anyone in his master's family were willing to so utterly betray him, none of them knew of the true circumstances under which Esares had come into Sylves' possession.

They'd also never attempt to persuade Esares to help them in the fashion Anereth had, regardless of any knowledge or ambitions they might harbor; nor would the vast majority of humans in general – at least nowhere as convincingly, considering to do so they'd have to approach Esares more as though he were a person and less as if he were a plaything or clever pet.

If Anereth for some reason Esares couldn't fathom was still concerned about Esares' knowledge of Sylves' weak point posing a danger to the Chosen One, just telling the man some well-placed lies about Esares would have been enough to make sure he'd never come anywhere near the opportunity to harm his master again. Two weeks of carefully coaxing Esares, and waiting until Valithia returned home and they were as good as alone in Anereth's house, seemed vastly excessive for that purpose.

And if anyone would covet the Chosen One's power from right by his side, and go after it so cunningly and ruthlessly, Esares could see it being no one but Anereth.

Had he resented being in Sylves' shadow this whole time? Then Esares could perhaps see why he'd desire his power and position badly enough to go this far. But once he had them, how did he intend to hold onto them?

Even now that he had gotten a good glimpse of his true colors at last, Esares couldn't begin to figure out what was going on in Anereth's head. But there was one thing he did know he hadn't before: this would not end well for him. There were a million reasons not to yield to Anereth's demand, enough that doing so was out of the question. Esares was clear on what that would mean, though.

Lykis' warning came to mind: humans didn't really do nice. Esares had been aware of that, had sworn to himself before Sylves had ever even touched him to never forget it. All the more ashamed was he that he felt as though he had been bitterly betrayed as well, and not just the man who called himself his master.

There could be no betrayal without trust.

Esares stared at his knees – at the specks of mud on the dark green fabric covering them that under different circumstances he would have been planning to apologize to Anereth for. He couldn't help thinking what he was feeling and what was about to come served him right for being gullible. Lykis would not have fallen for Anereth's lies.

Esares sat there by the river a long time, stewing in anger and fear and regret. Then he sharply dug his nails into his upper arms and let his eyes wander to the assortment of imposing pines and scattered birches behind which he had left a seemingly unruffled Anereth waiting, and collected himself.

He was a slave, but not only that. Before everything, he was an assassin, capable enough that not only his own clan but the leaders of many others had placed their confidence in him. This was the calling he had staked his life on. He had not dared admit it outright to Anereth, regardless of the fact that the man already knew, but in his heart he had never forgotten.

Even if he had failed in his duty, his fatal mistake had been arrogance, not weakness. There was no shame in being unable to defeat the Chosen One in open battle, infuriating as it was to know his magic had been lacking even when it had still been at his disposal, failing him at that crucial moment and making him this. Regardless, he had not lost himself then, and he would not do so now, no matter what awaited.

Esares brushed the worst of the dirt from his pants, and got up onto feet that were almost steady.

He had been trained to withstand pain at least for a while, to not crumble easily under interrogation. He had come out intact from nineteen months of Sylves' idea of tender care, as well as from the man's initial attempts at training him. And for all that Anereth was well-versed in the game of manipulation and deception, so was Esares.

He could handle this. He would not come out of it unscathed, might even end up dead, but that was not so different from positions he had willingly placed himself in before – to do what needed to be done. At the bare minimum, he could get some answers, and once he had them make sure to show Anereth just how gravely he had miscalculated.

He was nobody's puppet.

Chapter Text

Esares went back the way he had come. The closer he got to where he had left Anereth behind on the picnic blanket at least half an hour ago, the more tempting the idea of throwing his original intentions to the wind and attempting escape after all became.

It was the dread curling in his belly making him want to revise his opinion on the sense in that, though, not logic. If he were a better rider, and if he believed it possible to steal one of the horses from under Anereth's nose while setting loose the other, Esares might have tried his luck in hopes of at least delaying the mage. The longer it took him to catch Esares, the closer they would be to Sylves' return, and the less time Anereth would have to try and convince him to talk through more unpleasant methods when Esares proved unwilling to cooperate.

He was a terrible rider, though. And even if he could be sure Anereth hadn't set up wards around the horses just in case during his absence, they were tied close enough to the man that Esares could make out his shape soon after the animals entered his line of sight. Anereth was still sitting on the blanket, not appearing to have moved from the spot. He might already have noticed Esares' approach, though it was hard to tell from this distance.

No, Esares had much better chances buying himself time through other means. Means that would no longer work if Anereth became angry enough to want to torture him for the sake of it as much as for information.

He made himself walk past the grazing horses with barely a glance at them, and didn't stop until he was standing before the dark blue blanket with the baskets of breadrolls and pastries in its middle.

It was surreal. Just a little while ago Esares had been close enough to happy it had time and again been hard to tell the difference; had thought his life was honestly looking up. Instead it was about to take a turn for the worse, no matter how he played this.

Anereth wasn't only comfortably seated like when they had enjoyed the snacks, but also reading the book Esares had abandoned as though nothing out of the ordinary was going on. He looked up and slipped it shut when Esares came to a halt, and a smile lifted his lips – not the self-satisfied smile of someone who had won the first round of a confrontation, but one as though he were simply glad to see Esares.

The friendly display was as false as anything about the mage. Regardless, Esares sat. He at least wanted to know what Anereth was thinking. Did he truly expect Esares was so easily led? But then what? Kill Sylves upon his return and trust people needed the Chosen One's power badly enough they'd be forced to look the other way once he had claimed it?

“How do you even plan to do this?” Esares spoke his thoughts out loud without preamble. “Do you really think people will just accept you murdering their hailed hero and taking his place?” It made no sense. Whatever happened, once everyone knew the essence of what had transpired, Sylves' killer would become the most hated person in Desarias; and someone like Anereth would lose much more as a consequence than he stood to gain.

Anereth was plenty of things, but he wasn't stupid. Esares felt there was a piece missing from the equation.

“Of course not,” Anereth said. “ I will need at least an ounce of plausible deniability. It won't be hard to come by, though. You have to admit the idea that I conspired with demons to attain Sylves' words of revelation will seem a bit far-fetched. Should it find its proponents, they're unlikely to be the sort of people anyone listens to.”

“Then they'll assume you tricked Sylves into telling you,” Esares returned. “That you seduced him for this reason, now or years ago.” He paused, wondering how far that was from the truth. “I know your words of revelation are guarded, that you undergo a ceremony as children to ensure no one can easily force you to speak them. And giving them to others of your own volition is taboo unless you mean to pass on your magic as well, because of the inherent danger. But Sylves trusts you – everyone knows he does. If they learn you betrayed him, they'll loathe you all the more for it. What, do you want to convince them he suddenly dropped dead and his powers transferred to you just like that?”

Esares half-expected his blunt words after everything would cause Anereth to grow notably annoyed with him and at least fix him with a long overdue glare, even if his aims would continue to prevent him from doing anything worse. He was taken aback, then, by the glitter of amusement in the mage's eyes.

“As interesting as it would be to try and and make people believe I was picked to take over from Sylves by divine providence,” Anereth said, “it's simpler than that. Particularly since Sylves having told me his words of revelation on a whim would only be marginally easier for people to swallow, as your information is outdated. For over a century now it hasn't been merely taboo in Desarias to speak one's words of revelation – it is, for the most part, an impossibility.”

Esares straightened. “An impossibility?”

“As you say, the original ceremony merely made it so that it was very difficult to take our powers from us by force, but wasn't an absolute defense. The spell's attempts to distinguish between the mage's free will and coercion made it unreliable, as there are so many ways to compel someone. But it was a necessary evil considering how many mages fell in war, and how desperately their powers were needed. The Ivariney have shifted their priorities since.”

Esares found himself staring. Was Anereth saying what he thought he was? It was true Esares' people hadn't been able to land anything close to a devastating blow against their enemies in a long time, but were humans confident enough this would not yet change that they no longer deemed it important to be able to pass on their powers? Had the mages of Desarias truly taken that possibility from themselves completely?

It seemed an arrogant move even for the enemies of his kind. Since humans believed Sylves had been born to end the conflict between their races once and for all in their favor, they also must take seriously the rest of what their seers had foretold three hundred and twenty-eight years ago. They were still at war; there were still dragons alive, even if it might be just two or three, and armies that would form around them.

Yet Anereth was saying his country no longer had arrangements in place for compensating the loss of their most skilled mages whenever those did not die instantly in battle or otherwise unexpectedly. Arrangements that once upon a time were vital to their ability to hold Esares' people at bay and ultimately push them to the brink of defeat. Which meant...

“You worry more about guarding your powers from others,” Esares finished Anereth's explanation, “than you do about meeting us on the battlefield.”

Anereth inclined his head.

Esares tried to process this. The battles that were coming would be the ones to decide everything – humans believed this just as much as Esares' people did. And strong magic in humans was much rarer than it was in Esares' kind. Even if they'd always known how to make up for this discrepancy, shouldn't they be more frantic to preserve at least the powers of their key figures at this crucial time? The powers of their Chosen One?

Though... since it was undeniable humans currently were in a much better position than demons, perhaps what they were more afraid of than talented mages dying and taking their abilities with them to the grave was precisely what Esares had attempted: demons stealing the magic of their most powerful, of their Chosen One, and using it to change the tide of the war.

And perhaps not just demons. Until not too long ago, Desarias had entertained far from friendly relations with a number of other countries. It would not be strange for some of their leaders to covet Sylves' magic or that of the Ivariney for their own.

In that case, it made more sense for the mages of Desarias to protect their words of power so completely. Humans commonly treated it as a myth that Esares' kind could get them through other means, and when they didn't, they imagined the price to be something so terrible that not even the enemies they had painted as unthinking and bloodthirsty would normally be willing to pay it.

They were right there was a price, of course, but it was one that could be borne.

The realization of just how well-guarded the magic of Desarias' registered mages actually was put some things into perspective; but mostly it just confused him more. “Then how do you plan to explain taking Sylves' powers?”

Anereth shrugged, as though it were an insignificant matter. “No spell is flawless. Aside from the possibility of someone capable being successful in recreating the conditions of the original ritual to undo it, or it not having been performed correctly in the first place, there are stories of powerful mages who managed to break the magic preventing them from speaking their words of revelation through sheer force – rumors, mostly, but in a handful of instances more than that.”

Anereth uncrossed his legs to fold them underneath himself, mirroring Esares' pose. “I know for a fact Halethion has used similar spells on their spies in the past, and that there are documented cases of those mages passing on their words of power anyway. Of course, it would have been quite agonizing for them to forcibly throw off the binding, and in the one instance where the mage survived afterwards, the process permanently crippled her. But it's possible, and it's only natural for such a mage to want to ensure their powers aren't lost, then.”

Esares couldn't tear his eyes away from Anereth's as the mage continued, “Sylves has many enemies. Of course if he lay dying due to one of them, he would want to bestow his powers on the only person present he trusts, all the more so if he considers him his closest friend.”

“That's--” Esares shut his mouth. He knew there was probably no binding that couldn't be undone by force if the one it was placed on possessed strong enough magic and was prepared to dedicate their all to it. It was why humans had always paid in blood for their sporadic, arrogant attempts at enslaving dragons – even with the near all powerful Timnestra collars, a dragon's magic could not be conquered; to unleash it, they only needed to be unafraid of death.

Everyone would expect the Chosen One of all people to be capable of breaking a weaker binding spell in a similar manner. Esares assumed he could do it, if he wanted to and didn't shy away from the cost.

And Anereth was right – if Sylves were dying due to a third party with Anereth in the vicinity and no realistic chance of survival, and found himself able to, he would do exactly as Anereth was saying. If the man could convince everyone that was what had occurred...

Anereth smiled. “How very convenient Sylves failed to make your attempt on his life known. As long as I don't kill him in my own house over tea, if spun with some care it will be the most plausible and appealing narrative by far. To begin with, those whose opinions carry the most weight will be more concerned with Sylves' power than with Sylves himself. I have no doubt theories far more bizarre than anything you suggested will pop up, especially among people not overly fond of me, but I'd be surprised if anyone suspected there was a demonic assassin involved.”

“How convenient,” Esares echoed. “Except I have absolutely no reason to help you.”

“Don't you? With Sylves gone, you would be mine. You did say I'd make for a decent master.“

Esares snorted. “You do – when you want something.” He narrowed his eyes. “When you don't, you'd probably be worse than him.”

“Do you really think that?”

Esares held the mage's gaze for a few seconds, then looked away.

Did he? Anereth was dangerous and a liar, and Esares had known it nearly from the moment he met him, but was he someone who would intentionally treat a slave cruelly? Unlike Sylves, Anereth seemed to at least understand using Esares hurt him, and that the same was true for conventional forms of punishment and treating him like something far beneath a person. He'd had an ulterior motive for showing him consideration and kindness, but he wouldn't have been able to pull it off were he half as ignorant as Sylves.

Yet however much more clearly than Sylves Anereth saw him, it was plain this had not stopped him from deceiving and manipulating him all this time, and from on more than one occasion very deliberately making him reveal to him some of his worst fears. Anereth already had a contingency plan in place if his silver tongue failed him, and it was no more merciful than Sylves torturing him into submission, or Sylves raping him. No, the whole point would be for it to be worse – so bad Esares would care about nothing but making it end.

That was if Esares defied Anereth. If he were Anereth's slave, on the other hand, and Anereth had nothing more to gain from harming him than he would from harming any slave... Esares was more uncertain what that would be like. He only was fairly sure Anereth would not be like Sylves or Tesran or Belyen, expecting his slave to be happy leading an existence that revolved around spreading his legs for him.

He might still choose to bed or otherwise hurt Esares for his convenience, though. He might cease to care about Esares' feelings once he no longer had any plans for him that made them especially relevant – and then unlike with Sylves, no parody of affection would stay his hand.

“I don't know,” Esares finally replied, returning his eyes to the mage. “Maybe you would be worse, maybe you wouldn't. How could I know?”

Truly, Anereth didn't strike him as someone who would be cruel for the sake of being cruel or completely callous in the treatment of someone who served him, for whatever that was worth. Even now, Esares was easily able to picture the man letting a slave he owned have many of the privileges Esares had enjoyed under his care, and sparing his well-being some thought.

With how thoroughly he had deceived Esares, though, seeking to use him as a means to an end right from the start – as an object, like humans always used demons –, it also wasn't impossible to imagine him a rapist like his peers; or maybe more likely, someone who'd choose creative and devastating punishments upon being provoked. Just for how Esares had spoken to him in the past hour, Anereth might make him pay dearly once he no longer had any concrete use for him.

Yet Esares had to admit at the very least, it didn't seem likely to him that Anereth should be worse or even as bad as his actual master. He'd thought back on it long and hard, and disregarding a number of people speculating on the subject, Esares had never heard of him bedding a slave. Even Sylves had only ever been able to make guesses, which suggested there may be truth to the scruples Anereth had professed on that particular subject. No whispers had reached Esares' ears about Anereth hurting slaves for fun in other ways, either.

Of course, he had tortured one as a class assignment.

“It doesn't matter,” Esares ploughed on when Anereth remained quiet; waiting, watching him. “I don't trust you. How are you even so sure my master's father would let you have me?” This part bewildered him almost as much as Anereth's grander plan had. Anereth didn't visit Sylves' home often, but Sylves frequently complained to his friend about his father's conservative attitude regarding slaves. He must have noticed the potential problem there, and he couldn't have expected Esares to not pick up on it as well. Or could he?

“He might be suspicious,” Esares added, “or at least resentful. Even if he came out of this not blaming you for taking Sylves' place, I wouldn't be surprised if he put me down out of principle.”

Anereth tilted his head to one side. “He quite dislikes you, doesn't he?”

“He thinks I'm pampered, and dangerous for it.”

The corners of Anereth's mouth quirked. “When the premise is bizarre, but not so much the conclusion. He should be of no consequence, though. Sylves is the one who signed your papers, no?”

“Yes, but--” Esares frowned. “Wouldn't his father still need to approve? I don't know much about your inheritance law, but he's the head of his family, isn't he?”

“True, but that pertains to other matters. He can't interfere with Sylves leaving his personal property to his legal heir. And the law that a mage who inherits another mage's power also inherits anything else they may own never was repealed, even if it's not been considered relevant for anyone except occasionally the Ivariney since nearly the end of the Great Wars. It's quite interesting, actually. Perhaps you would like a history book next?”

Esares ignored the question, vaguely irritated Anereth had not stopped making jokes. “I still don't see what I stand to gain switching one master for another that would make this a reasonable risk for me to take.” He smiled grimly. “Or are you saying you would if you can't free me, then at least treat me as though I were?” He hoped he'd not acted so much a fool Anereth was going to approach him like one entirely. Though then, the confirmation that the mage was still lying through his teeth would in some ways make this easier.

But Anereth said, “Hardly. I would treat you as my slave. I'm not going to demand much of you in private, but as you have found, I have rules, and I expect them to be followed. And there can be no slip-ups in public. I would certainly refrain from making your life miserable the way Sylves does, however. If you deemed these past two weeks a vast improvement, I promise that impression will hold.”

“So you want me to risk everything for that? I don't know if anything you're saying is the truth, but I'm supposed to just run with it because maybe you'll let me keep reading books and not rape me? Because you promise?”

Esares steeled himself – above all for Anereth's response to him using the term 'rape'. Whatever else the man might believe, as a human, he must find it silly or disrespectful or at the very least odd for someone to apply the word to anything that could be done to a demon, particularly by Sylves, who Anereth would know wasn't about to be brutal in bedding one. Though Esares mostly judged him to possess more sense than to say too much about that to Esares' face right now, he expected Anereth's expression if nothing else to betray disapproval or, little better, bewilderment regarding Esares' phrasing, however briefly or subtly.

There was no observable reaction, though. Anereth's features remained smooth and cool, and when after an instant he spoke again, it was wholly about the original subject of discussion, “There's no reason why I should go back on my word. Letting you read doesn't hurt or even inconvenience me. I've never been interested in taking slaves to bed or I would have one, or have had everyone else's slaves in the past, which I'm sure you'd have heard something about. I hold no ill-will towards you, and unlike Sylves, I don't think mistreating you will earn me your loyalty. This is your best bet if you don't want to spend half your life as Sylves' bed warmer – and then when he is gone meet who knows what fate.”

Esares suppressed a flinch.

Anereth's tone remained matter-of-fact, “It's also most likely the only chance you'll get to pay him back for all he did to you.” After a moment he added, “He at least would never lay hand on you again.”

“No, I suppose no one would. Why keep alive an assassin who knows all about your faithlessness?” Esares paused, looking at his surroundings with a new awareness – the towering trees, the glistening river; a place no people would be visiting but them. “Is that why you brought me here? So you can dispose of me the second you have what you want and sell it as a tragic accident?”

“My, that's morbid. I brought you here because I thought it would be nicer. No need to physically corner you on top. It was a bit of a spontaneous decision – though I should have guessed you might take it this way.” Anereth picked a leaf off his robe. “Feel free to give me the information once we're back where there are people who'd notice me hitting you over the head and dumping your lifeless body in the nearest mass of water.”

Heat rose to Esares' cheeks. Anereth was talking as though he were being paranoid, when really it was a logical assumption. Keeping Esares around after this, even if he did cooperate, would hardly benefit the mage. Not when Esares would be the only other soul alive who knew what he had done.

Though perhaps it had indeed been rash to assume he planned to get rid of him here, right the moment he got his wish. If Esares' death was part of his plan, Anereth would want to make certain first he had gotten everything from him he needed, wouldn't he?

Esares leveled a glower at the man. “And then what? Do you think I'm stupid? You could still kill me. It'd just take slightly more effort. You could even wait and get rid of me along with Sylves later.” It would be the simplest thing to claim whoever attacked the Chosen One ran his slave through as well.

“I could,” Anereth agreed. “It'd be incredibly unnecessary, though. I don't see how you'd expose me, or what you'd have to gain from it. I assure you my people would not let the Chosen One's power go to waste – certainly not over the accusations of a slave. You would only win yourself a messy end. Besides, if I was seriously concerned, I could simply leave you at my family's home in Enalyr, or anywhere else far removed from the rumor mill that is the capital. No need to take your life in thanks for rendering your assistance.”

Esares scoffed. “Yes, I'm sure you'd care about that. There might be no strict need for you to kill me, but it'd be the cleanest solution. If you can murder your best friend for power, do you think I'm counting on you to hesitate?”

Anereth smiled. “Ah, but I don't consider Sylves my best friend. That is entirely one-sided. I would not murder Ksielle. I never did like him, really. Or well, not for a very long time. I do like you, though, and your death would be much less useful to me. It'd also upset Valithia. I try not to make her cry.”

Valithia. Esares swallowed. There was still her, wasn't there? Even if Anereth had only been manipulating him, the same couldn't be true for her.

Could it? The mere notion seemed absurd.

The snort Esares gave came out softer than intended. “She'd also cry over Sylves.”

“Perhaps. I wouldn't bet on it, though, and there'd be no comparison. She's taken to you.”

Esares fingered the hem of his sleeve. There was a small chance Valithia was a terrific actress even far surpassing her brother and involved in all this, but Esares had overheard her and her brother when Anereth couldn't have known Esares would disobey and follow them, and what he'd gotten from their conversation then suggested otherwise. And Anereth had waited for her to leave before doing this.

There was also the fact that Esares simply couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Valithia' every word and action having been subterfuge, when he'd rarely met someone who seemed more earnest in his life. Somewhat absurdly, he ended up with the thought that it would be nice to see her again.

Shame it suddenly seemed a lot less likely that would happen.

“Isn't it a risk worth taking?” Anereth asked. “If I did plan to kill you once I have what I want, I'd probably do the same if you refuse me – I'd be tying up loose ends even more so in that case, even if I'd have to be more careful about coming up with a believable accident for you to have to not overly damage my relationship with Sylves. If I don't kill you, though, which really costs me little, you could have most of what you did these past two weeks. I would expect obedience, and perhaps I would have higher standards for my own slave's behavior than someone else's, but I'd continue to have no interest in tormenting you, and within reason you could have a life of your own.”

Esares' fists were clenched around the fabric of his tunic. “And you would have the power of the Chosen One. Be the Chosen One, as far as the prophecy is concerned.” Because the humans' version spoke almost solely of the Chosen One's power and the one who wielded it, not, specifically, about the one who had been born with it. As for his own people's version... well, that depended on how phrases such as 'the enemy of dragons' were to be interpreted, Esares supposed.

Anereth smiled. “Yes.” He had been jealous of Sylves, then. When Esares was silent, he continued, “I was in fact thinking about buying your friend in the future. Not as a personal slave, but maybe as a household one. He's unconventional, but I'm confident my mother wouldn't object to having him – or if I move to the capital permanently, I might eventually keep him as one myself. If you assist me with this, I would be sure to show myself quite invested in his well-being.”

Esares drew a sharp breath. No wonder Anereth had known Lykis' name. As he'd suspected, he'd asked Maliren's servants who Esares had spent time with that night – only he hadn't done so to extend Esares any favors, but to use the information against him. To remind him of what he could not have under Sylves but might under a different master, and to hold the safety of his friend over his head as leverage. Just as when Anereth had encouraged his hatred for Sylves, Esares had mistaken calculation for something kinder.

Esares felt his fingernails dig into his thighs. “And if I don't assist you? What will happen to him then?”

“He would stay with Tesran until he sells him to someone else, I suppose. This is an offer, not a threat. I find those make for a horrible working relationship, particularly when aimed at loved ones.”

“I can't imagine how we could have a good working relationship,” Esares said. “After this.”

“Perhaps not a good one,” Anereth conceded. “But it needn't be horrible. Just give my proposal some thought and then let me know, yes?”

The mage's manner was perfectly friendly, his lips turned upwards, his posture relaxed. Like the man himself, the impression was not to be trusted. Anereth would not accept no for an answer – Esares knew this, and Anereth knew that he knew. He may not have outright threatened Lykis, but he might yet, and when it came to Esares himself, there was no question he would deal out much worse than threats to get what he wanted, no matter how nice he had played so far. And Esares had made it terribly easy for him, revealing his weaknesses to him one by one.

If this was just about him, Esares would have taken the time to consider his offer. The chance Anereth would murder him once he had what he wanted was there and real, but the mage was right it might be a gamble worth taking. The thought of returning to Sylves after these past weeks made him want to scream, to throw up, to hide somewhere and never come out. At least if Anereth killed Esares, it would still mean he'd not have to go back; and maybe it was that he was truly gullible, but he didn't think the man would do anything worse than end his life as long as he didn't fight him on this.

Whatever happened, he would spare himself from meticulously planned out torture, and Sylves' more insidious version of it. Despite Anereth being entirely untrustworthy, Esares' strongest personal reason against helping him was perhaps spite, and it was not such a strong reason that it could not be overcome.

This wasn't just about Esares, though.

And so there was no need to think about it. “Fine,” Esares said. “I will tell you.”

For the first time during their conversation, Anereth faltered. “What?”

“I will tell you. There's nothing to consider. At least you would continue permitting me to read, wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” Anereth said, slowly.

“And you would help Lykis.”

“Yes.”

Esares nodded once.

Anereth was staring at him. Esares ignored his uncharacteristic befuddlement and scooted closer, and placing his hand on the mage's thigh spoke into his ear.

Instead of the blessed word for sea, he told him mountain; instead of sun, he picked earth. He replaced purple with lightning and nothing with creation and seven with brilliance.

He took every single word and put a false one in its place, and never once fumbled or hesitated. Let Anereth have a taste of his own medicine. If he was half as smart as Esares took him to be, he would play it safe and seek to verify what Esares had told him before making a grab for Sylves' power; but doing so would require something from Sylves' body, and a potion whose base needed to be brewed at least twenty-four days in advance.

Provided Anereth had hatched this plan right after Sylves first told him he'd leave Esares with him, he might have been able to acquire the former – a hair would suffice – , but the potion would not be done yet even if he had started preparing it the very day Sylves informed him of his intention of having him watch Esares.

By the time it was ready, hopefully Sylves' return would be imminent. Whatever Anereth did to him in retaliation then, the strict time limit on it would make it bearable. Perhaps, if Esares was lucky, Anereth hadn't started the potion until well into his stay, or actually did underestimate him so much he wasn't planning to make it at all.

Maybe he had difficulty making it. Potions were not Anereth's preferred magical discipline, and this one was not commonly brewed, especially by humans. With what Anereth had planned, though, buying it instead would be as good as incriminating himself, if it was possible on such a short notice at all.

Esares allowed himself to hope.

When he finished speaking and moved back, bafflement was still written across Anereth's face, but it soon enough bled away into an open-mouthed smile. The mage's eyes were alight with satisfaction. “Thank you.” He took hold of Esares' chin, running his thumb across his cheek; and yes, whatever Anereth had planned in the long-term, assuming he would kill Esares the instant he told him anything had probably been silly. “I promise you won't regret it.”

Esares lowered his gaze and pressed into the touch, the echo of his pounding heart in his ears beginning to fade. He was sure he wouldn't.

Chapter Text

Esares hadn't been entirely right. He didn't regret not telling Anereth what the man had wanted, but he did regret how he had gone about it. Anereth would have been angry either way, but the barely controlled fury on the mage's face now was the result of more than Esares's refusal to cooperate.

It was evident there would be no other attempt at buying himself time with this one having failed so spectacularly – and it had earned him exactly half a day.

“Honestly,” Anereth said from where he stood just outside the doorway, voice carefully measured and the more frosty for it. “Did you think I wouldn't check?”

Esares looked at the vial in the human's hand, filled with a liquid that would have been clear and golden had Esares been truthful with him, but was instead sludgy and a sickly gray.

“But you didn't know Sylves would leave me with you,” Esares said faintly, rising from the bed. “You couldn't have.” He had never seen it coming before Sylves told him, and he'd been able to tell Anereth had been caught off-guard, as well. His reluctance to agree to the request may have been feigned, almost definitely had been; but not that.

Even if Anereth had begun to make this potion the same day Sylves asked him to look after Esares and had no trouble obtaining any of the ingredients, it shouldn't have been ready for another week.

Esares swallowed and continued, less evenly than he would have liked, “How long have you been preparing this?”

“Long enough that I've had to brew this potion several times. It's a bother they lose their potency so quickly.”

Months, then. At a minimum half a year, if there had been more than one other potion.

Esares had already assumed Anereth must have been at least toying with the idea of taking Sylves' power for a long time, and the realization that he'd been dead-set on it long before Sylves tempted him with a golden opportunity was not shocking after everything; but that he'd for half a year or more now been committed enough to his ambition that he'd kept the Saleron potion at hand, just in case... that was a different matter.

The potion had no other purpose but to confirm someone's words of revelation, so most people would never have use for it. Anereth must have thrown it out every time after it lost its magical properties, on each occasion along with days of hard work wasting ingredients no less expensive than that stable of horses he had joked about buying Esares before, if it were a small stable.

And the more he thought about it, whether or not Anereth held much greater love for the subject of potion brewing than Esares had been led to believe, he was almost assured to have painstakingly taught himself to make this one just for this purpose – per tradition, demons who engrossed themselves in the art learned the Saleron potion sooner or later rather as a matter of course in all clans Esares was familiar with; in Anereth's case, though, before he had resolved to turn against Sylves so completely, Esares doubted he had ever encountered it outside of books or passing mentions in class once or twice. Humans called it Evynera's Whisper, and unlike demons did not use a slightly altered version of it as the base for a couple of other, somewhat more versatile brews.

As the silence expanded between them, Esares' eyes were glued to the vial's thick gray substances. The reality was that the mage had probably come to his decision to take Sylves' life the instant he learned of Esares' true purpose. But he had never let on, never so much as hinted at having a serious interest in Esares; and all the while he had pretended to be Sylves' friend, convincingly enough to have the Chosen One wrapped around his little finger, so much so that he'd never doubted his former lover would present him with an opening eventually, even if he'd not have foreseen one of this magnitude. And no wonder: Esares was sure at this point Anereth could be caught trying to secretly bury a corpse in the woods and Sylves would believe in his innocence if Anereth proclaimed it.

He was terrifying, and probably incensed enough he would enjoy hurting Esares instead of only viewing it as a means to an end now – and Esares had informed him in some detail of what would have him begging forgiveness the most quickly.

“I told you we would have a problem if you lied to me,” Anereth said at last and took the remaining step into the room, striding towards him.

Esares could tell the mage was going to grab him without the man having to raise his hand to do so first, and evaded him at the last second, heart in his throat.

He hesitated long enough Anereth's fingers brushed his wrist as the human made to take hold of him a second time, but bolted for the door before he could do more than that. Afterwards he didn't stop again to consider his options: getting away from Anereth was all that mattered.

He ran – past Anereth's study, down the stairs, through the living room. Milara was nowhere in sight, which was a small relief, though had she crossed his path, Esares didn't think she'd have grasped the situation quickly enough to try and stop him provided she was as ignorant to Anereth's plot as the man claimed.

Esares leaped the last bit of distance to the front door, and turned the knob and pulled.

His heart pounded in his ears too loud for him to hear anything else as he realized it was locked. Panicking, he pulled a second time, then pushed, before stumbling back and spinning around to run the way he'd come. If he made it past the living room, he might be able to slip into one of the rooms he was forbidden from accessing. Perhaps he could hide there, lock it from the inside, stall until-- until--

Anereth caught him just before he could round the corner to the living room.

Esares struggled in his grip, but it was a futile effort. Within seconds the mage had both arms wrapped around him from behind, trapping one of Esares', and the collar wouldn't let Esares scratch or kick with enough force that it mattered. He even tried biting, since Lykis was able to, but before he could do any real damage his jaw stopped obeying him, turning sluggish and weak as though lead ran through his veins instead of blood.

He kept fighting even then, but it only robbed him of his strength, and he was sure the collar contributed much of the bone-deep exhausting he was feeling. Whenever he came close to dealing Anereth anything that could count as a real injury, Esares was the one who came out the worse for it, parts of his body ceasing to follow his will altogether for several heartbeats and afterwards observing the commands of his brain as tentatively as though they had their own, wholly contrary opinions on what ought to be done. In the end he was too worn out to continue his resistance, hanging limp and trembling in Anereth's arms.

“That was stupid,” the mage said. “Where would you even have gone?”

Esares didn't answer.

“There's nowhere for you to run,” Anereth said. “I'll take you upstairs now. Be good and don't make this any more unpleasant than it has to be.”

Anereth curled a hand around Esares' wrist and let go the rest of him. Esares' breaths were coming fast and shallow. At first he thought no longer having Anereth's arms pressing against his chest would help with that, but there was no improvement as the man hauled him along, grip hard enough the skin beneath was sure to carry the mark of his fingers once released.

Esares' stomach dropped when after they'd climbed the stairs, Anereth took him the opposite direction of the bedroom; and as the mage not a minute later unlocked the plain wooden door to a room Esares had only ever seen from the outside when he walked past before, terror clawed up his throat. He tried to pull away, but Anereth dragged him in after him with a rough jerk. Only once he relocked the door from the inside did he release Esares, who instantly brought several paces of distance between them.

Without context, the room they were in was innocuous enough: sparingly decorated, with a small bed across the door being about the most eye-catching piece of the interior. The white sheets looked freshly laundered. There was a second door near the bed that probably led to a bathroom, and a window too small for a toddler to fit through. A glass pitcher with water and an empty vase rested on an otherwise empty night table. The chamber itself was at the very most a quarter the size of the master bedroom, too small to offer to anyone of higher rank than a servant.

Esares could not tear his eyes from the white linen. Of course this would get messy. Of course Anereth would prefer to not get blood on the sheets in his own bedroom, or its immaculate carpeted floor. The floor here was plain and wooden.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Anereth start towards him. He whirled around and backed away, though Anereth was right, and there was nowhere for him to escape to – there wouldn't have been even if he had made it outside, and there certainly wasn't now.

“Stop,” Anereth said, and his voice was softer than expected, only a hint of irritation in it. Esares could almost tell himself this wouldn't be so bad if he followed the command.

He knew that wasn't true, but was too tired to keep fighting a battle he had already lost. He took one final step back and shut his eyes, hating himself for the angry, helpless tears burning in them. The only blessing was that they caught in his lashes, and did not spill.

A hand settled under his chin. “You still know how to obey, don't you. And look, nothing bad is happening yet. I do need this information, but I'm not blaming you for not wanting to give it. Though what you did was a bit much.” The human tipped a finger against Esares' jaw once, then trailed it down the side of his throat until he reached the collar, before withdrawing. Esares kept his eyes tightly closed the entire time, forcing himself not to pull away. “Well, I don't really have room to talk, I suppose. How about we call it even? Look at me, will you? This still doesn't have to go badly.”

Anereth was even better at this than Esares had thought. He must be livid, but achieved the feat of sounding perfectly cordial.

Unable to detect another option, and perhaps also wanting to know what he would find, Esares followed the order and opened his eyes, ignoring the instinct to rub them; they felt almost dry again, so it'd only draw attention to the fact that they hadn't been a moment ago.

The human looked perfectly cordial, too, even giving him a small smile.

Esares glanced away.

“Sleep on it,” Anereth said. “And tomorrow we'll try this again with talking.”

Esares offered no response, and didn't direct his gaze to the human again. As Anereth stepped away from him, he listened for the faint sound of boots against wood to stop abruptly, for the ominous slide of a drawer and the clinking of chains. He only heard the door being unlocked and opened instead, and then being shut. The key turned once more in the hole.

When it was clear Anereth was gone, Esares crumpled to the floor.

He pressed his hand to his mouth, weeping without a noise.

For the first time, he hated the collar around his neck not just for rendering him weak and unable to defend himself, but also for not even leaving him with the choice to effectively take his own life.

Though perhaps it was actually a mercy. Knowing Anereth, he'd have robbed him of that option himself if it were something he had to worry about, and Esares could think of no way in which he might have gone about it that wouldn't have made this so much worse.

Which said something, since how much worse could it get if he already believed the best outcome would be if he just stopped breathing right this instant?

*

Esares didn't sleep much. At some point he had mustered the energy to drag himself to the bed, but it wasn't enough to undress or pull the covers up over himself. What was the point?

He spent half the night waking from nightmares he couldn't remember, and the other half wide awake trying not to think of what the next day would bring, wishing he could go back and do everything over from the moment he had resolved to leave Sinieru and his clan behind to kill Sylves.

At the first rays of sun shining through the window, Anereth brought him breakfast – bread and eggs and fruit, just as he had eaten on his first morning here. Esares touched none of it.

“You've not even had water, have you,” Anereth said when he returned an hour later. “I feel like I'm experiencing a déjà vu.” He perched on the edge of the bed and poured a cup, holding it out to Esares. “Sit up. Drink.”

“Why bother?” Esares asked without budging. “I won't tell you.” He swallowed in a doomed effort to wet his parched throat. “You may as well get on with it.”

“I don't want to, though. Drink. Then we'll talk. I won't hurt you today.”

Esares' lips twisted. “Today, is it.”

“I have no wish to harm you, but I fear we'll have to see how this goes. I wouldn't want to offer empty assurances.”

“That's rich,” Esares said, but propped himself up on one hand and took the water.

Anereth watched him as he drank. “Angry suits you better than terrified.”

Esares set the cup down on the bedside table with only a bit too much force, sending the water inside splashing and almost over the rim. “Thank you. Being a liar and murderer suits you just fine, too.”

Bizarrely, the corners of Anereth's mouth quirked. “I'm sure you would know. So will you tell me why you've decided not to help me?”

“So you can try and change my mind?”

“Naturally.”

Esares looked away.

“Is it that you truly think it would be worse to belong to me?” Anereth prodded. “Or are you still too worried lending me a hand would cut your life short?”

“Neither, actually.” Although both of those concerns most definitely had not gone away; especially the latter.

“Don't tell me your reasons prevent you even from explaining.”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“Enlighten me.”

Esares returned his eyes to the mage only to level him with a glare. “What do you take me for? I may not have much to lose, but my people do. Sylves has his powers, but they're about the only things making him a frightening opponent. You, though-- I would be a fool to help put you in his place.” And he felt bad discarding a chance to maybe help Lykis, and risking Anereth hurting him to get to Esares, but no matter how the human might threaten him or what he might do, he could not give in. Esares wouldn't claim to know Lykis all that well, despite their friendship, but he had no doubt in this they were of one mind.

Esares entering into this bargain was unthinkable when the price was replacing humanity's Chosen One with someone more dangerous, someone worse.

Anereth was smiling again. Esares hated his smiles; they made him want to shake him, or throttle him. “I'm flattered,” the mage said. “Even if the point of comparison is Sylves. And now I feel foolish. I should have been focusing on that from the start, shouldn't I? You didn't risk your life and end up like this because you value your own well-being the most highly. I knew that.”

“But you forgot,” Esares said, voice flat.

“I got distracted,” Anereth returned easily, “by what was the most apparent, I suppose. And well.” But he didn't finish that sentence, an expression flitting across his face Esares couldn't discern before it was gone. After a moment he said, “I believe you're looking at this too pessimistically, though. There's a number of advantages to me getting rid of Sylves for the rest of your kind as well.”

“You won't condescend to them quite as much should you get into an argument with them across the battlefield?” Esares guessed, fatuously. As far as his own fate was concerned, throwing his lot in with Anereth might be an acceptable gamble, but in the greater scheme of things, it was a terrible move.

Anereth would be less popular than Sylves, but in the end his people would want him to lead them into battle. Like the man had said, they wouldn't just let the Chosen One's power go to waste, and the Ivariney once they agreed to back him would make sure to garner him all possible support. They wouldn't have too many problems doing so, either, if Anereth were successful in making people believe his taking up the mantle of humanity's hero was what the original Chosen One had wanted. Exchanging Sylves for Anereth seemed to be swapping out a wolf for a tiger. Or a tiger for a hydra.

If Anereth tried to convince him he would leave Esares' people alone, Esares would laugh in his face.

But Anereth went a different route. “However dangerous you consider me to be, don't you think those you care about so much would be glad? To know the Chosen One was never what my kind made him out to be, and that he could be killed just like that.”

“You're saying it'd boost their morale. Give them hope.” Esares met Anereth's gaze squarely. “But what use will that be if you strike them down? They know all about Sylves. His strengths, his weaknesses. Even if you weren't a worse enemy to have than him otherwise, it would rob them of this advantage that we painstakingly created.”

“And what good has this advantage done you so far?”

“We've just gotten started.” Even as he managed to suppress the urge to glance away, though, Esares was uncomfortably aware of the lack of strength behind his voice.

“You've already used one of your best weapons,” Anereth said. “Your people must be devastated by your failure. You were well prepared and powerful I'm sure, had all this information about him and the element of surprise on your side – yet you still couldn't get rid of him.”

Esares's hands curled into fists. “It was one failed assassination attempt,” he said, nearly evenly. “There'll be other chances.”

“It says something there's only been the one, though, doesn't it? Dragons are supposed to be his match, but no dragons have shown up yet. How many can there be left? How are one dragon or two to take him down when so many more have already fallen before our armies at a time when we had no Chosen One to face them for us?” When Esares said nothing, Anereth added, “Do your people have any idea what's become of you?”

“Who knows?” Esares returned, attempting flippancy. He sure didn't. He also preferred to not think much about it. It would have been difficult even for those who'd been immediately involved in placing him under Sylves' roof to keep tabs on him – however, it was probably wishful thinking to presume they'd not learn of what had happened to him sooner or later. Once they did, they'd know to keep it quiet so to not dishearten everyone else more, but Sinieru had been peripherally a part of the operation, and he might find out. The leaders of all sixteen clans who'd helped with the preparations almost definitely would, if they hadn't already.

Esares tried not to grimace.

“It seems to me your people could do with hope,” Anereth said. “And it's not just them who will be affected. Most humans love Sylves. Idolize him. They have grandiose expectations of him he could never dream of fulfilling. Imagine what a blow his death would be. They won't rally behind me the same way, or anyone else for the matter. And I don't just mean that some people are bound to have reservations regarding me however carefully I go about this.”

“The whole concept of the Chosen One will be damaged,” Esares said. “Do you think I haven't considered it? Maybe not right away, maybe not when you told me-- but it's crossed my mind.”

“Then I don't see why you're so stubborn. Yes, your people couldn't expect to put someone in my bed to end me while I slumber peacefully, but it's not as though even Sylves would fall for the same trick twice, and overall they'd be dealing with enemies far more unsure of themselves. Humans had an image how this conflict will go, and whatever comes after Sylves' death will not be it. That's something, isn't it?”

Esares made sure to keep his face empty of expression. “It is. And if you were any other of Sylves' friends, if you were Belyen or Lermnan or Darel, maybe I would do it. Probably I would. But you have a plan for this. You have a goal. And you wouldn't bother going after Sylves' power if you didn't think you could do a good enough job wiping out my people to make it worth every risk you're taking.”

“You think I want to wipe out your people?”

“Oh, did you just want to enslave them? My bad, I'm not bright enough to see too much of a difference.”

“I quite managed to piss you off, didn't I,” Anereth said. “You're mistaken, though. I don't care about your people.”

Esares suppressed the familiar urge to undertake a futile attempt at doing the mage bodily harm. “Funny how you say that like I should appreciate it – funnier that I almost do. Did you know Sylves is really annoying when he goes on about the importance of putting demons in their place first thing in the morning?”

“I applaud you for the restraint you showed waiting as long as you did before trying to stab and drain him of his magic,” Anereth said. “But I actually meant: I have no interest in destroying your people, one way or the other.”

Esares gazed back at him, not impressed in the slightest. So he was claiming he would leave demons alone. Esares had taken him to be cleverer, and more ingenious.

Though after everything, could he blame Anereth for continuing to think him a naive idiot?

“Don't look as if I'd declared I shall draft a peace treaty and endeavor to set free every slave in Desarias – naturally that would go nowhere with my race as eager to bring to heel yours as is the case, and you'd be right to assume I'm not about to commit political and social suicide. But the fame of crushing demons is not what I want out of this.”

“Then what do you want?”

Anereth smiled. “You will improve your people's morale and decrease that of mine if you aid me in this,” he said instead of answering. “Why, if you'd like, I will be happy to attest Sylves was slain by a single most fearsome demon warrior, and no one but you and me will know differently. Meanwhile, if you achieve your wish of keeping me from taking Sylves' place, I will have to make due with the next best thing, as I was prepared to until you came along. I will have a vested interest in his prolonged survival then.

“Your people will still have to worry about meeting me in battle, and will still have to get through me to finish off the Chosen One. And Sylves may only use his brain half the time, but he has the Ivariney to take care of strategy for him, and he will have me. I will not have his power, but even if you look at me taking his place in terms of the worst case scenario, if my mind is what most concerns you, then I can't be that much less dangerous glued to his side and ready to whisper in his ear. Why deal with the both of us when you could do what you came here to do?”

Esares' fingers dug into the bedding. “What I came here to do,” he said past the lump in his throat, “is remove the threat of the Chosen One. Not appoint one.”

“If you did, though,” Anereth said, “you'd have killed Sylves, and weakened the resolve and confidence of every one of our soldiers. Unlike Sylves, I'd not be particularly motivated to fulfill any part of the prophecy, either. I'm not asking you to disregard me as a threat, but I meant it when I said I don't view it as my life's mission to slap collars on most of your kind and eradicate the rest.”

“You think you could escape the prophecy?”

“It's a prophecy.” Anereth shrugged carelessly. “They're imprecise by definition. Much of it is already difficult to interpret, and once Sylves is removed from the equation, it will become even more unclear. In a sense, he will already have fought your kind to the death. I won't model my life around ancient lore and eventualities.”

“You say killing Sylves will weaken your people,” Esares said. “Doesn't that bother you at all?”

“Why should it? You're hardly going to overrun our cities any time soon. Over time, we may end up with more casualties on our side, but people die in war.”

Esares shook his head. He believed Anereth was too quick to dismiss demons and the current state of their forces – that under the right circumstances, and especially if Sylves' death caused big waves on both sides, they could become more of a threat to him and his country than he probably realized –, but that wasn't what he was stuck on. Esares himself would kill the human soldiers and mages who hunted down and killed and violated demons a hundred times over, but he could not imagine caring as little for his own people as Anereth seemed to. Of course, Anereth's people were nothing like Esares', but his attitude towards them felt strange. Unnatural. It wasn't as though Anereth's lack of care for them stemmed from their cruelty.

“You may not believe me,” Anereth said, “but I don't appreciate the prospect of risking my life on the battlefield anywhere as much as Sylves does. For that reason alone I would do the bare minimum to satisfy the Ivariney, if that. Why, if your gods send you the miracle I'm sure you're holding out for and a dozen dragons descend from the skies, and I were the only thing standing between them and humanity, unlike Sylves, I would make sure to get out of the way. “

A beat's silence, then Anereth leaned forward, the ends of his hair grazing Esares' arm. “And you might get rid of the Chosen One entirely yet. The process of taking another mage's powers isn't entirely safe, after all.”

Esares blinked slowly. For humans it wasn't, was it? He'd forgotten. But it shouldn't change much. Anereth was a strong mage in his own right. Esares didn't know how often it was capable mages lost their lives trying to take another's power, but he understood enough of the theory to surmise it wasn't often. Though then, it depended on the discrepancy in magic, and...

“No human has tried before to make the Chosen One's power their own.” A jolt went through Esares as Anereth voiced what he had been thinking. “I don't plan to die, of course, and I consider the probability low enough to take the bet in light of all I have to gain – but no one could tell you what will happen.”

Esares started at him, incredulous. “Now you try to lure me with the possibility of your death? If I live as you claimed I would and both you and Sylves die, I will be worse off than if you had killed me.” Which Anereth surely realized, and it would have been a deliberate choice of his to not bring attention to this eventuality before.

Esares felt a stab at the confirmation that Anereth had still been deceiving him until now – misleading him, but the difference was small.

“Ah, but you would have completed your task,” Anereth said. “Even if you got sold to the most horrible master you can think of, wouldn't it be worth it?”

Esares bit his lip, the bedcloth twisting in his hand. It would be. And the chance might be slim, so slim Anereth deemed it negligible compared to the object of his greed... but their chances of killing the Chosen One had never been great to begin with, after Esares wasted what may have been their best shot.

Yet the much more likely result would be that only Sylves died, and Anereth became what he had been – the Chosen One, Esares' master. That was, if he didn't kill Esares so there would be no witness to his betrayal. Esares still wasn't counting on affection or gratitude or promises ensuring his continued survival.

It wasn't what was holding him back, though. That was only the knowledge Anereth the Chosen One would be worse for his people than Sylves the Chosen One.

Except it turned out that was not knowledge at all. Merely a possibility, as real as the reverse.

Because Sylves was dangerous. He believed wholly in his cause. Anereth was right he was dedicated to destroying demons, and he had been groomed to do so since childhood. People worshiped him, had awaited his birth for hundreds of years. Losing him would be a considerable blow no matter what Anereth planned, and his ultimate intention may not call for the downfall of Esares' kind, and he would not have the same amount of backing, and those around him may even resent and mistrust him after taking their hero's place, and there was a chance he would not live to do so or be found out after--

If Esares helped Anereth and he got what he wanted, Esares would bear the responsibility for what came after. But if he didn't, did he bear the responsibility for what Sylves and those gathered around him might do just as much? Esares caught himself. What a cowardly way to think about the problem. He should do what would be best for his people, not what he believed he would feel the least guilty for in the event that it went badly.

But what was best for his people?

“Why?” Esares asked at long last, pushing the words out of his throat with some effort. “If not destroy my people for glory, what do you want with the Chosen One's power? Why would you do all this? Risk all this? Why did you ingratiate yourself with Sylves in the first place?”

“I have my reasons. They're nothing that concerns you.” The words were spoken lightly. “You could call them personal, or political in the loosest sense. They have nothing to do with you or yours.”

“I think they concern me,” Esares said, “when they got me here.” He made a sweeping gesture at the room.

“A fair point. I will be happy to explain, then – once Sylves is gone. I might be in a bit more trouble if you ended up giving him my plans and my motive, should you decide to carry tales.” Anereth smiled, and Esares held himself very still as the mage laid a hand on top of his, the gentlest touch. “Tell me what I want to know for now. Will it help if I say please?”

Esares swallowed. For a heartbeat he was almost relieved Anereth refused to say more – if he had no qualms about lying about this or planned to kill Esares regardless of what he did, then he should have had no reason not to tell him something. As soon as he thought this, though, Esares felt silly, and foolish. It could be just another calculated move.

Like the 'please'.

It scared him how desperately something in him hoped that if he gave him what he desired, Anereth would still talk to him like this, like he was a person. It scared him even more that if it were only about himself, he would long since have crumbled.

Could he cede to Anereth and be sure his motivation was the good of his people?

“If I say no,” he said, “what will you do?”

Anereth's smile dimmed. He moved back. “I would prefer torture to remain a field I have no practical experience in, but. I don't believe I would be bad at it.”

Esares closed his eyes. “No practical experience.” Of course. Of course Anereth was still lying. Or perhaps he didn't care enough about what he'd done to that poor school slave to have deigned to remember – that would be no better. “Only the once, you mean?”

His words were followed by silence. Then, “Ah.” When Esares opened his eyes, there was a definite tilt to Anereth's lips again, this time almost rueful. “That came up, didn't it. Had you heard before?”

“No.”

“And here I thought maybe it hadn't just been my general personality that so failed to endear me to you initially. Aside from that unfortunate incident with the snake, that is. If you weren't aware of me passing that exam before Maliren's party, though, I'm surprised you didn't mention it then, or seem more wary after that night than before.”

“It was a good reminder you were still the same person I'd feared being handed over to, even if you chose to treat me kindly,” Esares said. “I took it to heart, but not as much as I should have.” An ironic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I thought since your reasons for torturing this slave didn't apply to me, I should be safe.”

“You can be safe.”

Esares laughed. “No matter what I do, I won't be safe. Not ever again. But the idea was nice while it lasted, so thanks for that, I suppose.”

Anereth raised his hand towards Esares' face. Esares flinched back, and Anereth dropped his arm with a sigh that carried a trace of frustration.

A long silence descended as the mage appeared to think something over. Esares watched his fingers tapping against the mattress.

“I really want to keep this civil,” Anereth said at last, “so I will tell you a secret.” He paused, perhaps for effect, perhaps weighing his words. “When there are rumors about me, you should probably pay attention. For example, that I cheated on a test.”

Esares was bewildered at first, but swiftly sorted through this proclamation in his mind. Remembered the conversation at Maliren's party on the subject, and a woman bringing up a rumor that Anereth hadn't passed the class on handling demons in the manner the students were supposed to. Anereth had waved the accusation off, and then Felir had involved himself and the matter had been forgotten, but--

“Are you saying Belyen was right and you drugged the slave you extracted the information from?”

Esares didn't know what he'd prefer the answer to his question to be. If it were yes, there might have been notably less physical violence involved than there otherwise would have been. It might not have been as cruel – but it wouldn't be any less frightening to think of. A wholly different brand of ruthlessness, one which Esares wanted no more turned on him than the alternative.

And even drugged, he had a hard time believing the slave in question had spilled the information promptly or easily. It would have been a drug the mage resorted to, after all, not a mythical truth serum that belonged into the realm of fairy tales and children's stories.

“I should probably amend that despite them tending to hold a kernel of truth, I've yet to hear a rumor about me that was entirely correct,” Anereth said, and Esares wondered, briefly, how much people gossiped about him – Esares had heard his fair share of speculations about the man, but there were many reasons why he might only have come across half of it, or less.

It wasn't strange people liked to talk about Anereth. He was close to Sylves, closer than almost anyone else, and he stood out both in looks and in behavior. And he hadn't extended overly much effort being subtle when he'd set that snake on his fellow student, or apparently when years previously he'd crushed a rival's hand with a rock, though Esares hadn't been there to witness that.

“What I did is actually not so different from what I've done these past two days,” Anereth said. “I made him an offer, the same I made you regarding your friend. He told me what I wished to know, and a little later I requested of my mother that she buy him on my behalf.”

Esares' mouth was hanging open. “You made a deal with him.”

Anereth smiled. “The hardest part was really convincing him I would stick to it – or rather, making him unwilling to reject me on the chance that I might. I don't think he more than half believed me at the time. In retrospect, I consider it practice.”

“You made him from a school slave into a household slave.”

“Yes.”

“And your mother went along with it? And kept him?” Former school slaves weren't popular to integrate into a noble household. They might strike a student's or professor's fancy and end up as personal slaves, and if they subsequently pleased their owner could hope to not be resold for sentimental reasons even if they lost that position. But generally school slaves were seen as more likely to cause problems than those who were privately owned, and as requiring closer supervision, and only someone of limited means would have reason to take one straight from the school into their household.

Sylves' father always shook his head at people who purchased school slaves even if it was to save money, citing all the instances he'd heard of where the slave turned out ill-behaved or 'not quite right in the head', losing their owner the money they had been trying to safe and more when they had to be resold for a cheaper sum later, or put down.

“She took the money out of my allowance,” Anereth said. “He's agreeable enough, so there was no reason for her to object. He's about as well taken care of as a household slave can be.”

Esares swallowed. “He was still punished. By the school-- your teacher--”

“Yes. Perhaps more harshly than he would have been had I actually resorted to torture.” Anereth's gaze wandered to the small closed window. “Or at least left marks.” He fixed his eyes on Esares again. “But I assure you he doesn't regret cooperating with me.”

“That's cruel. You could have just bought him without that if you cared about his welfare. But for a class, for a grade, you—”

“I can't buy every slave who would be better off for it,” Anereth said. “It was an important class. Even Sylves wouldn't have gotten around being made to repeat it had he not tried at least a little before storming out in a huff. And yes, unlike him, I do care about my grades, and I care about certain teachers' regard. I had this slave make my life easier, and then I made his easier, and everyone was happier for it. Well, except a member of the staff or two who heard about it and complained about me cheating. But Professor Xilmir likes me, and it was her class and in part is her school. So that was never an issue.”

Esares took a breath. It was irrational this bothered him so much. It was bad, but he had thought Anereth had done something far worse before. In comparison, this was kindness.

If anyone else had ever employed a similar tactic to help their grades along and been successful, Esares had little doubt they'd failed to hold up their part of the bargain afterwards. There'd been nothing forcing Anereth to follow through on his end of the deal. Esares knew the man would have taken the class at least two semesters before Sylves, because he'd not attended it together with him and that had been the last time it was held prior – a good while before Esares entered the Tevenra household. Just as his refusal to keep a bed slave over the years or to sample those of friends and acquaintances, this wasn't an act that could have been tied to any concern that doing otherwise might hinder his ploy should it get back to Esares.

Which meant that as far as humans went, Anereth buying this slave to honor his part of the agreement and then making sure he was looked after spoke well of his character; no matter how callous and foul the entire thing remained objectively.

Provided what he had told Esares was the truth, of course.

“You're saying if I do what you want, you will keep your word like you did then.”

“I meant to say I have really no wish to torture you, or any other demon. And that I decided a long time ago there are better ways to get what I want, if at all feasible.” Anereth smiled. “But yes, that too. And--”

Anereth paused and titled his head to one side, then continued, “While I won't make grand promises you would only take as evidence I'm being false, this might not be the only time I positively surprise you yet, instead of doing the reverse. Actually.” The mage straightened, holding his gaze. “Will you believe I don't much care what happens to my race a hundred years from now?”

Esares narrowed his eyes, not sure where the mage was going with this. But... “I guess,” he said.

“I've always been interested in studying the Timnestra collars. They're fascinating. And if the Ivariney accepted me as Sylves' successor, it shouldn't be difficult to get the opportunity. When that happens, I may be willing to do things with the information Sylves would not – I'm not ungrateful, after all, and even if you won't put much stock in any oath I could make you based on only that, there might be something in it for me. Certainly if your people managed to corner Sylves, he would die with honor. If they managed to corner me, I would try to bargain my way out of it.”

Esares let out a shaky breath. “I... may I think about it?”

Anereth's hand twitched on the bedding, brushing Esares' fingertips. “Take all day if you wish. I can't quite say I don't want to rush you, but you should have that much.”

Esares bit his lip, nails pressing into the mattress. “May I also have a bath?” Usually the warm water helped him think, but he wasn't sure it would now. He needed to get out of this room, though, with its sterile walls and floor; perfect for making a mess of someone. He shivered.

He also thought he still detected a faint smell of horse on himself, though it might be his imagination. His bath the previous evening for sure had been quicker than usual.

“I will take you in a moment,” Anereth said. “Do you want your book back as well?”

Esares squinted at him. Sarcasm? It didn't seem to be. “You would give it to me?”

“Of course. I'm trying to woo you into becoming my accomplice, after all.” Humor shone in Anereth's eyes. Esares wanted to get angry again at him making light of this, but just felt puzzled, and uncertain.

Anereth didn't await a response, but went and fetched the book, and then placed it on the bedside table at the same time as he picked up the untouched plate of Esares' breakfast from it. He held it out to him. “Consider having the fruit, at least. I'll be back when I've drawn your bath.”

Esares stared down at Anereth's fingers clasping the porcelain. For a moment, it was as though nothing had changed at all since they set out for the picnic. Anereth was still perfectly friendly and charming, acting concerned over something as minor as Esares wishing to skip a single meal, not forcing him to eat but not leaving him alone either; and giving him books.

Except Esares knew better now than to feel gratified by the seeming show of care. Instead, his heart squeezed in his chest, even as he accepted the plate and had some of the sliced apples.

Anereth had not once been kind to him just for the sake of being kind, or because he liked Esares – and as he watched the mage leave and listened to him lock the door, it startled him how much this awareness stung.

He had never been objective when it came to Anereth, had he? First he had firmly categorized him as a threat, long before Sylves had left him at his mercy – because he had too great an influence on his master to not be, and because he had found him eerie. Terrifying, really, almost from the start: he could attempt to murder a fellow student in cold blood and Sylves would never once doubt his innocent intentions. What did that mean for Esares?

The exact opposite of what he had anticipated, he had cautiously and with immense relief concluded after being placed in his care, and soon enough all but disregarded him as a danger to himself. Instead he'd latched onto him as his chance to not spend the years to come utterly wretched – someone he would go on having relatively easy access to who would not treat him as a being whose only worth lay in serving the pleasure of humans, in serving Sylves. He had grown attached beyond that too, although he had known from the start it was unwise, and weakness.

And then Anereth had dropped the pretense and revealed this entire time he had been manipulating him, and all his previous unease and terror of the man had returned at once, mingling with his anger at having been deceived. At having let himself be deceived. He had not wanted to be like the student Anereth had nearly killed, picking up a venomous snake as though it were something far more docile, or like Sylves, falling for Anereth's act and cheerfully fostering his own doom – that of all he held dear.

But maybe, it was dawning on him, he had focused too much on Sylves and Anereth as individuals and what they with their own abilities could do at their worst, and neglected to account for the larger context; all while fancying himself to be looking at the bigger picture.

Even when he'd calmed down somewhat following his confrontation with the mage and regarded the situation more carefully, he'd continued to underestimate what Sylves stood for and the power he had as a symbol, hadn't he – the kind that drew people like the Ivariney and Anereth to it, who for various reasons would offer up their own skills to keep humanity's beloved hero guarded if he remained alive, making up for many a flaw he exhibited –, and, just maybe, to overestimate Anereth's worse qualities. He was disturbing, and he was selfish and using him, but he wasn't... he might not be ruthless.

Certainly he seemed to have a lot more compunctions about making demons suffer than the current Chosen One, which was fairly ironic, considering as much as Sylves believed Anereth to be an honorable, good person, he'd probably not assume that.

Most importantly, though, Anereth was not Sylves.

And Esares had let his people down once before, and he would not be able to live with himself if he made another attempt at changing their fate and failed, this time possibly with far more damning consequences; but maybe what was worse was not trying at all, and perhaps at this point it really was cowardice more than anything holding him back. If he looked deep within his heart, how likely did he really think it was that he could make his kind's predicament significantly more terrible?

At least Anereth could be reasoned with. With his people's current situation, there may indeed be a considerable advantage to fighting an opportunist as opposed to fighting a zealot.

He did not want to help Anereth get what he wanted and be responsible for his actions after, wanted to have no part of it – but although Anereth was a wild card, Esares knew what Sylves would do if he was allowed to continue on his path, and what humanity would do in his name. And if Anereth had a shred of decency, if he preferred negotiating with demons to harming them – and to risking himself –, even if he came out of his murderous scheme unscathed, it would be difficult for him to be a more fearsome option. The opposite seemed much more likely; but then, Anereth was far too good at talking and luring others into his web, and Esares had spent a concerning amount of time on the receiving end of his charm recently.

He didn't spare the book Anereth had left for him more than a single glance, in the end. He was aware he might not get around to so much as touching one again in years, doubtless if he rejected the mage's proposition – perhaps in his life. Probably in his life then, considering how long he could expect it to last in that case.

He'd not be able to concentrate long enough to finish even a single page, though, and he hadn't the leisure for it, either. He had a decision to make, and he would make it with all due care this time.

*

“I will help you,” Esares said much later that day, long hours after he had bathed and Anereth escorted him back from the master bedroom to the small unsettling chamber in which he'd spent the night. Esares had just finished an early dinner the mage brought him as a consequence of him having mostly foregone lunch despite the human's prompting, and upon setting the half-emptied plate aside he met Anereth's eyes with a determined stare. “On three conditions.”

“Oh?” Anereth said, for once with a lightness that Esares could tell was forced. He took a step closer to the bed. “And what conditions would those be?”

“First, you won't just refrain from actively going after my kind,” Esares began, “but give us back something of comparable value. What you said about the Timnestra collar – you'll owe that information to us, no matter what. How and when you give it to my people is up to you, but they have to get it in the end whatever happens. You're right a promise from you only means so much to me, but I still want you to give it.”

“Done,” Anereth said without hesitation, and Esares wasn't surprised. Not only was the mage the one who'd brought the matter up in the first place, but this was an agreement he could always break later if it bothered him.

Still, Esares had to try. At the very least, he believed Anereth when he said it was of no great importance to him what happened between their races once he was gone. The knowledge how to neutralize the Timnestra collars was priceless to Esares' people – while Anereth had little to lose from passing at least parts of it on to them if he waited a couple of decades.

“Besides that, I want the papers of this slave you didn't torture. If your story's true, your mother should be easily able to send them to you,” Esares continued. “And I want you to convince Lykis' owner to sign a purchase contract for him with you. He doesn't have to go into your possession right away, but there should be a palpable time-frame.” He smiled, all teeth. “Just to be sure you don't forget about him later, or end up with your funds tied up elsewhere at a crucial time.” The words tasted stale on his tongue. He as a rule avoided talking about his people as property to be bought and sold, like cattle, or meat.

The air between them had gone tense. Anereth stood in front of the bed as though made of stone, features arranged in a mask of cool detachment. Finally, he crossed his arms. “You see the problem here, don't you.”

Esares' smile didn't slip. “I don't think it's much to ask for the Chosen One's words of revelation.” In fact, it was far too little, limited by how he was in as poor a position to hold Anereth to his word as he had ever been once the mage had what he desired, and Esares didn't like his own terms. If Anereth could or would not procure the papers, but acquired Lykis, he would then be able to leverage his friend's safety against him. He would know to do that anyway, though, and regardless of whether or not Anereth was sincere about what he planned to do with Esares once this was over, Esares believed him regarding his general stance on the treatment of slaves enough to be confident he preferred his friend under his power rather than Tersran's.

If it wasn't to place pressure on Esares, Anereth would have no reason to hurt Lykis, and then at the absolute worst Esares figured he would resell him. It'd raise questions to do it immediately after having pretended in front of Tesran to have taken a great enough liking to buy him all but on the spot, though, and so it'd make more sense to keep him long-term.

“It wouldn't be much to ask ordinarily” Anereth conceded, “except just your second condition will take days to fulfill, even if I use a kihtras spell to request the papers and my mother sends them immediately. They're too heavy to sensibly transport via anything but courier.” Esares was well aware: there were faster, magical options, but just the kihtras spell which was more or less restricted to delivering a single simple letter was infamous for its unpleasant side-effects, ranging from fatigue to severe headaches and nausea.

“Add negotiating with Tesran to that,” Anereth went on, “and it's more likely your request will keep me busy for a week. And that's provided Tesran isn't more attached to your friend than I'd assume. After what you did, I can't help but suspect this is you pushing for time.”

Esares swallowed a bitter chuckle at the last second. How terrible for Anereth, having to question whether Esares was being truthful with him.

Instead, what came out was, “It's not a request. If you want anything from me, I will have this. Otherwise you can fetch the whip and chains or whatever else you had in mind and see how far you get.” He jutted out his chin. “Let's see how much you dislike hurting slaves.” He needed some concrete proof Anereth hadn't only fed him convincing sounding lies from start to finish, and he needed to be absolutely certain he'd not let his only shot at doing anything for Lykis go to waste – even if the mage wanted to acquire him in the future, there was no guarantee Tesran wouldn't have already sold him to someone else by the time he got around to it.

He made himself not shrink back from Anereth's cold gaze as the man said, “I was not thinking of the whip.” Esares remembered being afraid the man would burn him, being unable to breathe or stop shaking because of it; remembered pleading with him to not punish him with spells. He swallowed, wiping clammy hands on the silk of his pants while never breaking eye contact.

“You've gotten quite daring, haven't you,” Anereth remarked after a stretch of time that felt like an eternity.

“I'm sorry if it makes me less appealing.” Esares achieved a sardonic tone that was almost level, and even an ironic curl of the lips to go with it, though he suspected it was halfway to a grimace.

Anereth's expression shifted, and for an instant it was as though he was unsure whether he should let it, before he broke into a wry smile of his own, and the sense of danger passed. “Oh no. I'm afraid I don't have that much sense. It makes you more troublesome, though.”

“I'm not asking much,” Esares repeated, decisively.

“I disagree,” Anereth said. “But you're very much resolved, aren't you. I would hate for this to become about whether or not I can accomplish what Sylves could not before he gets back.”

Anereth turned from him, and Esares tracked him, tense, as he moved back and forth through the room for what in retrospect couldn't have been more than a few minutes, but felt like an eternity. At some point the mage paused in front of the window, looking outside for a while with his hand on the windowsill before resuming his pacing.

Finally he once more came to a stop in front of Esares, who held his breath. “You realize it could take me anywhere from days to weeks to procure the papers and reach an agreement with Tesran, and that if you wait that long to tell me, I can't guarantee I will be able to take care of Sylves before he is back safe within the walls of Nuvaria. If I can't arrange to meet up with him beforehand, even if I have his words of revelation, I may have to postpone putting them to use indefinitely.”

Esares' hands balled into fists. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Anereth asked. “Sylves' journey right now presents a unique opportunity – no one expects anything to happen, of course, since things have been largely quiet since before his birth, but if any uncollared demons had heard of his plans far enough in advance and were feeling bold, this would be as convenient a time for them to orchestrate the Chosen One's demise as it is for me. No one will be overly suspicious of him dying under such circumstances. If I let this chance slip by, there's really no telling how long it would take me to find another.”

Anereth crouched down next to the bed. “You could just tell me now.” His voice and face were soft. “You would never have to go back to him. I promise you I wouldn't harm you or forget about your friend, and I have no grudge against your people.”

“Thank you for your consideration.”

Anereth regarded him with an unreadable gaze, and Esares held himself perfectly still, fingers white-knuckled around the bed's covers.

Finally Anereth sighed, and rose. “We'll do it your way, then. Let's hope Sylves takes the long route back. And that you're not attempting to trick me a second time, because it won't end as well as the first.”

Esares started, and it took him a beat to resume breathing. He hadn't been sure at all the mage would consent to the delay. Certainly he had been prepared for there to be more threats and overall unpleasantness involved.

He was tempted, for a second, to just leave it at that, but immediately chided himself. Like Esares, Anereth had carefully calculated the risks and potential gains before making his decision to give ground. He wouldn't go back on it for personal reasons, and whatever a part of him wanted to make him believe, Esares didn't care about the mage liking or disliking him. Under the circumstances, it was a ridiculous, pathetic concern.

He mustered his courage. “One more thing.”

When Anereth glanced back at him, Esares squared his shoulders and went on in a firm voice, “I still don't believe you won't kill me when you have what you want. So I don't plan to spend what may be the last days of my life being a good little slave. I intend to read as many of your books as I can, right here, and I'll enjoy having the luxury of my own bed for a change, and you can try to stop me if you want.” And oh, he was sure Anereth wanted to, out of principle and for a dozen other petty reasons; but he was also sure there wasn't a lot the mage could do without having to worry about it jeopardizing his primary goal.

“I can see living with you permanently will be fun,” Anereth said dryly.

“You can punish me for this all you want then. And start as soon as I hold up my end of the bargain, of course – I won't complain, if you aren't lying.” Esares held his head high. “If you are, though, I'll assume you'll do me the courtesy of just skipping to the killing me part. ”

“So cynical,” Anereth said. “Well, at least you have that much faith in my character. I'll look at it as progress. I won't try to stop you sleeping here and reading, but I have to ask you go back to joining me for meals. Milara is starting to throw me suspicious glances.”

Esares offered the mage the mockery of a smile. “As my lord wishes.” Secretly, he wondered what Milara thought of his confinement, and what she would make of Esares no longer acting like he used to at all after being released. Was she concerned for him? Would she still be then?

Anereth looked less than impressed, and as though he might say something more; but then he turned without another word and swept out of the room. For the first time since he brought Esares here, after he was gone the door remained wide open.

Chapter Text

Esares had his doubts eating in the dining room with Anereth like in the past did anything to convince Milara nothing worthy of concern was going on. The meals were rather a stiff affair, for one: there wasn't a lot of conversation between him and the mage anymore, because Esares didn't feel like striking up one, and Anereth either took his cue from him or was too irritated with his brazen demands and overall conduct to attempt any lighthearted chatter himself. Esares leaned towards the latter, or a mixture of both: all their interactions had cooled considerably since they reached their reluctant understanding that evening in the small servant’s chamber.

Not that there were many interactions between them anymore at all, outside the meals. The closest they usually came was Esares taking a book from Anereth's study with the mage there, sometimes returning another while he did. Esares, determined to do nothing that could be construed as asking permission, barely glanced in the human’s direction during those encounters, but was fully conscious of Anereth's sharp gaze on him every time. He would have preferred to just get the books when the mage wasn't present, but he always locked his study, now, when he stepped out for longer than a couple of minutes.

It was one more change Milara would probably have noticed, and Esares was almost certain she realized something was off. Not that she asked Esares about it, or showed any signs of wanting to, beyond the occasional odd look. For her that seemed already fairly blatant, though. And it wasn't like he gave her a lot of opportunity to pose him any questions that might be on her mind: he no longer helped out in the kitchen, or did anything much at all aside from sitting around and reading in the room he had claimed for himself – something that still felt unreal and incredible to him after nearly a week. Appropriating it might have incensed Anereth further, but in the bigger scheme of things Esares was doubtful that mattered, and whatever happened, he knew he was incapable of regretting it, at least.

He continued to find the chamber a little creepy, considering, but now that it had ceased to be a prison, it had become a sanctuary instead. He had no key to the door to ensure complete privacy with, of course, but he could close it, and sleep and read by himself and turn the lock in the washroom, and no one ever sought him out, except Milara when he was in danger of missing mealtime. He was determined to enjoy this newly regained piece of autonomy for however long he was able to hold on to it.

It took Anereth four days and two visits to the Hevilir estate to secure a written agreement that Lykis would enter his possession within the year. Three quarters of the payment were made in advance, more than customary, and if Tesran tired of Lykis before the deadline, he would inform Anereth, who was obligated to collect him within a fortnight then – technically, anyway. Esares hadn't been present for their discussions, but from how quickly an agreement had been reached and the mage's brief, matter-of-fact summary, Esares gathered their relationship had if anything improved after doing business together. It didn't sound as though Tesran was likely to make a fuss about details.

Esares’ already ambivalent mood could have done without the reminder of the sort of people Anereth got along with.

Two days later, the papers of the school slave Anereth assured him he hadn't tortured arrived along with Oliar, who had made most of his way back on horseback because Anereth had requested the document to be delivered with some haste. A professional courier would have been faster still, but maybe Anereth's mother hadn't been able to come by one on short notice in a secluded city like Enalyr – or maybe, not knowing the situation, she hadn’t seen the point hiring one when Oliar hadn’t left yet.

To Esares' faint surprise, Oliar greeted him right upon stepping into the house, just after handing the papers to Anereth and even before going to the kitchen to find Milara. He also passed on well-wishes from Valithia to him. Esares, in turn, welcomed him back with a smile that was only somewhat forced and thanked him, even as his gut was tight with the knowledge of what his arrival meant.

That noon, he entered Anereth's bedroom together with the mage for the first time since they struck their agreement, and as soon as the door was closed, Anereth passed the papers to him.

Esares scanned them. After a registration number, the slave's name was listed: Velvern. A description of his physical features followed, which Esares didn't more than glance at, then general information about how long he had been enslaved (twenty-three years), whether he had ever shown aggression towards a human (yes, an average amount before training), whether there'd been escape attempts after he was first sold (yes, one sixteen years ago), and whether he was intact or neutered (neutered, for as many years). There was more, but Esares quickly turned the page at that point, queasy.

He skipped the in-depth summary regarding 'behavioral problems' on page two, as it would have been last updated before Velvern was sold to the Laverien household and so tell him nothing he had any business knowing; though he caught himself glaring down at it for a heartbeat. On page three, he ignored a fairly long list of past owners and moved on to the part of the document that was relevant to verifying Anereth's claims: Velvern had entered the possession of Hynira Laverien a little over two years ago in winter. For nine years before that, he had belonged to Umvarin, the Magical Institute of Nuvaria.

There was nothing wrong with the papers – Esares should know, seeing how he’d been involved in forging his own –, and the facts matched Anereth's story.

Well, Esares hadn't deemed it likely the mage had made this one up. It had sounded true; and with someone like Anereth, of course that only meant so much, but it explained the rumors about him having cheated, and... honestly, it fit with his impression of the man very well.

After the mage’d agreed to his terms, Esares would have been wholly taken aback to find a problem with the former school slave's documentation. Or… granted, since he had no idea how precisely Esares’ being here had come about and how much of the extensive preparations Esares had personally participated in, he could have thought him too ignorant to tell a forgery from the genuine object, maybe; but it'd have been a stupid risk to take, and anyway, the official seals were there including the Ivariney’s, the paper and ink used exactly right, and nothing like this could have been fabricated in just a couple of days, let alone by a human acting on his own.

He returned the papers to the mage

“Satisfied?” Anereth asked.

“Yes.” Esares stepped back. Lifted his chin. “If you care about giving me something back for this at all, it's not important to me what you do to me. I understand leaving me alive would be inconvenient, and a potential risk, and I won't ask you to put any effort into working around that. It doesn't matter to me that you told me you would, and I don't need a glorified prison to be stashed away in. What's important to me are my people, and Lykis. I'd ask you to keep that in mind.”

Anereth's eyes never left his as he spoke. When he finished, the mage said, “I will.”

“If you do kill me,” Esares said, “now or at any other point, I'd request you do it without touching me. I know you're angry at me, but I'd think it's all the same to you in that case.” He did not like asking anything for himself of Anereth, because it felt too much like revealing weakness yet again, but after everything, he refused to feel shame for desiring some measure of control over his own death at least – or for making that known.

Since Sylves bound his magic, he had always dreaded he would die like this, one day: being made to doze off in his master's arms, slowly but surely – fighting the spell every step of the way, but inevitably succumbing in the end, as all slaves who were put down or forced to undergo surgical procedures did. Having his heart stopped by a slave surgeon while his master continued to hold him, petting him until the very end as if he were a sick pet dog being kindly released from its suffering.

He shivered, tasting bile.

“I won't kill you,” Anereth said. “But noted. If I do go back on my word and murder you, I promise to be nice about it.”

Esares frowned at the mage.

Anereth responded with quirk of his lips. “Just tell me. For the sake of your people, this is not something you can back out of, is it? I doubt I could do them anywhere near the same damage as Sylves if I tried, and if you and I agreed on nothing else, I believe we've at least come to the same conclusion on that.”

Esares gave the human a dark look. But he wasn't wrong, and Anereth's flippant attitude wasn't anything new. At least the nausea had passed.

So he ignored his own ire and took a breath, and leaned forward, and with his hands clenched at his sides let Sylves' most closely kept secret spill from his mouth, this time in truth. He could picture Sylves' horrified face, were he present – the only thing about this that gave him some amount of gratification.

In the end, speaking the Chosen One's words of power was painfully easy. Almost banal, if not for Esares' entire body resonating with the keen awareness of the possible consequences, and the knowledge that these were the syllables that had cost him everything, once.

Half a minute, twenty-two words that he had always hoped would spell Sylves' ruin, and turn around the fate of his people.

Though this hope had not changed, Esares resented giving them to a human to his very core.

*

After handing Sylves' words of revelation to Anereth, Esares waited.

It was the only thing he did, in the sparsely decorated servant's chamber that suddenly felt like a cell again, although no one was keeping him there, or had told him to enter it. Anereth had merely noted down the Chosen One's words of power – or the closest equivalent they had in human writing – and immediately excused himself with a pleasant, insincere smile.

During the hours it took the mage to confirm them, Esares did his best to not let panic seize him. He had made this decision carefully, deliberately, based on logic and the facts at his disposal. It could have been the wrong choice, but it had a much greater potential to help his people than devastate them. If there were a new Chosen One who avoided open battle clearly enough, they may take the chance to gather their strength – to wait and see how many dragons might yet resurface to fight with them, or what their seers and spies had to say about Anereth.

If they were able to put off direct confrontation long enough, Anereth may die without their assistance in the end even if he survived the deed itself without a scratch, of natural causes or because the mage ended up making too many enemies among his own kind. In that case, due to the Ivariney's ritual and Anereth's own self-serving nature, the man was hearteningly likely to leave this world without passing the Chosen One's powers on to a successor. And he might adhere to his promise regarding the Timnestra collars, though obviously it would not be any time soon.

Every second that humans’ subjugation of demons went on was one too many, but if the delay meant the difference between victory and defeat, it would be worth the cost.

And if open war still broke out early, before Anereth died or dragons rejoined the armies of Esares’ people, with luck his intervention may have a definite upside to it all the same; beyond discouraging humans. As it was, Esares’ people could not stand as one, too many of them preferring to hide as deeply as possible, awaiting the day they’d have the strength and wisdom of dragons back by their side, proof that the gods were with them once more.

But in the event that war returned before dragons did, Esares wondered if something else could not also fill the role of a sign of the heavens: such as Sylves’ death and the chaos it would cause in humanity’s ranks for long years to come, even if he was replaced by another, more reserved, human right away.

In both scenarios Esares' people would be united, and Anereth's would not. Anereth himself would betray his own kind in a heartbeat, if it'd save his own skin – the mage had admitted as much, and Esares believed him about this, however much he may doubt him in anything else. And it was vital something change, and soon.

Demons were losing heart with every day in which humans continued inflicting their cruelties on them unpunished, with the dragons, their divine protectors, remaining absent – save for one who roamed the Fading Mountains, having sworn not to leave them until the hour was there to reunite with his kin –, and Esares worried by the time the prediction about humanity’s champion battling dragons came to pass, it may already be too late.

According to prophecy – his people’s more exact version of it –, there had to be at least one other still flying, but there was no telling if any remaining dragons would be in much of a state to lead them into war if they’d not come out until now, and in the last decades, the clans had drifted further and further apart: with those who desired immediate action before Sylves grew fully into his power on the one hand, and those who were determined to wait for divine intervention on the other. If humans went after them with their armies in the next few years, in the worst case this could mean they’d have to just destroy a little over one half of them at once and then be able to pick off the rest, clan by clan. If it came to that, the dragons might only fight to avenge their charges in the end, or to slow down their by then near guaranteed annihilation. It was a terrifying prospect and part of what had spurred Esares into action in the first place, as well as many of his allies.

If they could not have dragons to bring them back from the brink of dissolution in time, and could not take Sylves’ power for themselves or do away with it altogether, a Chosen One murdered by one of his own kind would have to do.

Esared tried not to think of the fact that he could only guess at how his people might respond to seeing Sylves replaced, and hope, and that anyone with the Chosen One's power had the means to do them horrible damage no matter what; and that he could not know for sure what Anereth was capable of. What was it the man was hoping to get out of this? He could almost believe someone like Anereth might lust after Sylves' power for its own sake enough to go to these lengths, and there was the political influence that'd inherently come with it. It also made sense that he'd loathe being inferior to Sylves in terms of magical ability despite all his cleverness and studying, when he plainly held humanity’s hero in nothing but contempt.

It was a distasteful motive, but one Esares could live with. In that case, though, he had to wonder why Anereth hadn't simply told him. Because he'd doubted Esares would have believed him? Because he knew his reasons were shameful?

Esares largely thought Anereth would simply have made an explanation up had his motives been anything much more sinister, and that even in the case that most of what the mage had said during their negotiations had been lies, he was right he'd have trouble being worse than Sylves, but... but.

Esares could not know, and it made his stomach churn. If he had harmed his people, he would wish he had forced Sylves to take him to a slave surgeon a long time ago, instead of submitting, and being used in every way, even against those he loved.

He was only a little scared of what Anereth might do to him, personally – mostly it frightened him that Anereth had ample reason to kill him before proceeding with his plans and no real cause not to, and that if he did, Esares would never know the result of his actions, or be able to mitigate any sin he may have committed. He would not be able to do anything for his people ever again.

If he had the chance, should he change tacks and beg for his life? Maybe he had a responsibility to, though he doubted that would go anywhere if Anereth had made up his mind – and it sure was a bit late to play meek and pitiful.

As his thoughts kept going in circles, the wind howling outside – a familiar sound in Desarias in the spring – did nothing for his frazzled nerves.

When at long last, Oliar knocked and informed him Anereth was awaiting him in his study, Esares went with his heart in his throat and dread curling in his belly. He hadn't been desperate to go on living before, but now he wished fiercely Anereth would greet him by proclaiming his intent to punish him for his behavior this past week. He remained confident the mage would not both get back at him in some elaborate manner for the difficulties and insults he'd given him and kill him; even if he were much more sadistic than Esares gave him credit for, he should have better things to do with what he had desired for so long finally within reach.

Esares closed the door to the study with unsteady hands and turned to the mage sitting behind his desk like on any ordinary day, though there was a chair opposite of him that did not belong.

Esares didn't say anything, or keep his eyes low in deference – one more small act of disrespect now wasn't going to tip the scales.

As it turned out, he didn't need to search carefully for clues as to Anereth's mood. From the upward curve of his lips as Esares approached to the loose posture and satisfied gleam in his eyes, it would have been difficult to miss he was wholly and utterly pleased.

The unease that had turned into a tight knot in Esares' stomach twisted and rose, pushing acid up his throat.

“Don't make that face,” Anereth said. “I haven't had Oliar call you to stab you with the letter opener. Here, sit.”

Esares sank into the plain chair across the mage as though the words were strings pulling him. His mind had gone blank.

“You look like you're about to faint,” Anereth said. “This is not where I reveal my evil plan to torture you to death and eradicate your people with a snap of my fingers. You're going to remain among the living, and your friend will be well in my care, though I'll see about sending him to my mother's house as I originally intended. As for your people as a whole... well, I can't promise they'll be fine, but putting them in more dire straits than they already are in is not part of my plans. I've been quite honest with you.”

Esares breathed deep, clutching his knees to keep his hands from trembling. “Have you?” he asked once he rediscovered his ability to form coherent thoughts and sentences. “Did you mean it about avoiding battle as well? What about passing on information about the Timnestra collars – are you going to forget about that?”

“I will keep my word,” Anereth said. “Regarding the collars as well.” He smiled. “After all, I intend to continue this relationship. I can only imagine how unpleasant it would become if I reneged on our agreement.”

“You’re going to give my people the means of ending their enslavement,” Esares said tonelessly, “because you want me to be pleasant?”

“Also because of my honorable character,” Anereth returned, and Esares wanted to hurt him for turning even this into a joke. “But it takes no genius to figure out this would become quite ugly quite soon if I started it out with a betrayal. It only makes sense to avoid that, yes?”

“Yes,” Esares agreed slowly. “You prefer to do it the other way round, with the betrayal coming last, don’t you. How do I know you mean it? How do I know you’re not just telling me this because you still want something from me?”

Anereth studied him. “What do you think I still want from you?”

“I don’t know,” Esares said, and drew himself up in his chair. “But then, I don’t even know why you’d leave me alive. Clearly there is something I am missing.”

“Did I ever think you charming?” Anereth asked. But the corners of his mouth lifted, robbing the words of any true bite. He tapped his fingers against the desk, and was silent for a long moment. Whatever he was considering, his eyes remained trained on Esares while he did. “Naturally I won’t be in a hurry to make contact with any uncollared demons,” he began at last. “And I understand if you’re worried I’ll just string you along – I suppose it’s not so far-fetched I could hold this over your head infinitely, to make you more cooperative. ‘A good little slave’, was it? But as soon as I’m privy to any of the Ivariney’s secrets pertaining to the matter, I can share them with you, how about that?”

Esares knitted his brows together. It sounded… good. Rather incredible, actually: although it was probably safe to say Esares would not be able to himself remove his or anyone else’s collar without access to his magic, assuming Anereth did nothing to prevent it, Esares was all but guaranteed to outlive him. Even if the mage never leaked what he learned about neutralizing the Timnestra collars to any free demons, and kept a close eye on Esares all his life, as long as Esares knew, and was willing to stake his life, he could eventually find a way to froward the intelligence to those who might change the tide of the war – might change the world – with it.

As Anereth would have to worry about him doing so prematurely, it was a generous proposition, no matter what precautions the mage may have in mind – if it was genuine, that was.

A thought struck Esares, and he had to dig his nails deep into the skin of his legs to steady himself before speaking. “You're not just saying this to be nice about killing me, are you? If you're going to do it at another time, when I don't see it coming and am under false impressions more palatable than the truth... then I'm certain I'd rather know now. My lord.” He tacked on the title belatedly.

No matter the mage's intentions, he'd not really expected him to dispose of him right here, right now. With Milara and Oliar as witnesses as to when and where precisely he had died, there'd not be a lot of plausible explanations. Sylves might believe his friend if he claimed Esares' collar had malfunctioned and he attacked him, especially with Esares' history, but why go for something statistically so improbable? He supposed alternatively, a noble like Anereth could silence Milara and Oliar easily enough and stage an 'accident' for Esares to have after the fact, but again, it appeared a risk better avoided.

Taking Esares on another outing made more sense, or waiting until the servants were in their beds. Anereth could make up any number of tales then, from a spring dawn bird that got Esares outside the city gates to an enchanted object or volatile potion blowing up in his face when he ventured into an area of the house he was not supposed to be in.

Nonetheless, Esares had counted on Anereth dropping all pretenses the next time they spoke after he verified Sylves' words of power, and not stopped doing so even when Oliar showed up to fetch him at such a relatively early hour. There were sedatives, after all, and slow acting poisons, and the fact that Esares would do himself and what he cared about little good if he tried to hide behind Anereth’s servants.

But on second thought, there were still reasons for the mage to lie – reasons like wanting to be merciful about taking Esares’ life.

It was, in fact, the one cause he could really picture the man having for going on deceiving him at this point. Anereth was not senselessly cruel; but he was callous, and twisted, and a master’s kindness towards a slave remained a frightening thing.

“I believe calling you cynical was an understatement,” Anereth said. “I never planned to kill you. Even before Sylves dropped you off and things became personal, it'd only fleetingly crossed my mind. It isn't necessary, and though I wouldn't call myself a man of principle, it'd be terribly heartless. Besides.” The mage smiled. “I'm much too fond of you, now.”

“Are you.” It didn't come out like a question. Esares closed his eyes, just briefly. “Then I guess I'm yours now. To do with as you please.”

“I guess you are.” Esares looked at the mage blankly, but Anereth's smile never wavered. “I would like to thank you. And see you a little less miserable. Come here.”

Esares did, following the familiar order with an unfamiliar detachedness, an uncomfortable tightening in his chest. He didn't flinch when Anereth took his hands, stopping him from kneeling. He didn't move at all.

“Does that mean you're done telling me off and kidnapping my books?” the mage asked. Esares' fingers flexed involuntarily in his grip.

He bowed his head so his hair fell in a curtain across his face, saying nothing.

“I believe I enjoyed that decidedly better than this,” Anereth said, letting go of one of Esares' hands to take hold of his hair instead, shifting part of it to the side so it was no longer obstructing his view. Esares pinned his gaze to the polished wooden floor. “Are you frightened? I've not been lying about what I would require of a slave, and what I don't require. I'm not angry with you, either. That'd be tremendously difficult under the circumstances, stealing away my books or no.”

Esares was tired. He at the same time wanted to know and was sickened by the prospect of finding out what would happen from here; what Anereth was like without the mask.

He was going to give a rote “thank you, my lord”, but his throat would not work, and all he could think was that he couldn't imagine going back to who he had been just a week ago, let alone the cowed creature before that; and that he wanted the mage to stop touching him.

“I don't think I'll be a good slave,” was what slipped out in the end, when Anereth continued looking at him expectantly. Then he could have hit himself, because the one thing he was sure of was that he did not want to give Anereth reason to yet get rid of him.

“No, you might not be,” Anereth agreed easily, sliding his thumb across the back of Esares' right hand. Esares twitched. “However much I like you, I've not made up my mind whether I should keep you with me or in Enalyr when this is over. As you may recall, my family's home is rather isolated, so you'd not have to be mindful of so much, there. Perhaps I should just leave the decision up to you once you’ve seen it properly? Certainly I won't force you to remain with me in the capital if you loathe the idea.” He released Esares. “I wanted to make clear my general intentions, and to express my appreciation, but it's probably too early to have this discussion.”

Esares' fingers curled into his palms. “What about punishment?”

“Maybe once Sylves is done away with and you're truly mine, I'll forbid you from reading for a week. That would seem fitting.”

Esares swallowed. “You'll still let me read?”

“Of course. I did tell you I would, and as we established then, there's no actual reason not to.”

“What if I stay in Enalyr?”

“Then too,” Anereth told him. “Though I can't promise my mother will want you in the library.”

“The library,” Esares said.

Anereth smiled, running a single finger through the ends of Esares' hair. “As long as I don't wholly and completely mess this up, things will be fine. You will be fine.”

Esares laughed shakily. “You're not convincing me you don't mean to kill me yet.”

“Now that's a problem. I can blindfold you for a couple hours if it'd make you feel better. Give you free roam of the house like that. As a true fiend, I will laugh at you when you walk into walls.”

Esares tried to suppress the hysterical giggle. It came out as a strange, choked sort of snort. “So you're truly like this, then.”

“A dastardly villain who derives enjoyment from watching slaves march straight into my furniture, over and over? Why yes, I usually arrange for it twice a week. It was hard holding back while you've been here.”

This time when Esares laughed, the sound was halfway to a sob.

Anereth took his hand again, very gently. “I have my own reasons for all this, and I can't promise you'll always be happy with me,” he said. “I imagine often enough you won’t be. But I shall endeavor to never make you regret rendering your aid.”

Esares drew a shuddering breath, and another. When he found his voice again, he asked, “You still won't tell me what reasons?”

“All in time. You know, I do wish this had gone more smoothly. Maybe if I could do it over, I would try honesty from the start. But this did work out, so perhaps not.” The back of Anereth's free hand brushed Esares' hair away from his cheek for an instant, before he dropped his arm. “I’d not have known how to do it without taking you to Enalyr anyway, and that’d have been a horrible idea on many levels. At least we’re on the same page now, and no torture was involved.”

Esares frowned, wondering if the mage wanted him to congratulate him for that – but no, this was Anereth. If Esares did, no matter how sweetly he spoke, the man would take it as sarcasm, and if not chide him then find humor in it. With this awareness, Esares' irritation didn't ebb away; but it changed shape, lost some of the venom threaded through it that may otherwise have fallen from his lips.

He slowly pushed out air through his nostrils, unclenched his fist with effort. “Why would it have been a horrible idea to bring me to your family home?”

“Well, there’s always the chance I might fail in my ambition,” Anereth said, though the easy tone and slight upturn of his lips made Esares doubt he deemed this likely at all. “My sister’s little surprise visit aside, I’ve not reduced my contact with my family for nothing. I wasn’t about to drop by for a sudden vacation just before murdering the Chosen One and increase the chance of implicating them tenfold.”

Esares narrowed his eyes. He could buy that. Anereth was far from selfless, but his care for Valithia seemed genuine enough, having seen them together. It had never felt off to Esares, the way Anereth's interactions with Sylves used to. Even with how confident Anereth clearly was, perhaps he sufficiently worried about his family to take such a safety measure.

However, he could tell the mage was talking around something. As was his habit – albeit it was hardly shocking, it irked Esares to no end that he would do so even now.

Especially since he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You said there were many reasons it’s a bad idea,” he pointed out. “What are the others? Were you afraid I'd find something that'd not make me view you in such a positive light? If I talk to your former slaves, perhaps?” He remembered Valithia’s assertion that Ryminis hated Anereth, and that he’d caused a ‘mess’ with his first slave too. Esares did not think he had misjudged the mage in this – he didn’t revel in causing those under his power anguish –, but he knew he was not a good person. He knew it’d be incredibly naive to think he had not given slaves ample reason to detest him in the past, out of willful ignorance or because he’d just not cared that much, at the time.

“Not really,” Anereth said, his hold on Esares’ fingers so light it was barely there. “And I've not permanently traumatized Kyenne or Ryminis or any hapless household slave, if that's what you're asking.” He smiled, something like mischief flitting across his face. “But just because I've not recently been lying to you does not mean I have nothing to hide. What should I do if you discovered the princess I have hidden away because I was jealous of her beauty?”

Esares was not in the mood for the mage’s jests. “With how many rooms you've forbidden me from entering, I'd expect you hid her here.”

“I didn't know you were unhappy about that.”

“Of course I am.” Esares retrieved his hand, ignoring how the warmth of the mage's touch lingered. “I even need permission to go into the dining room. What, are you worried I might gnaw on the furniture?” He wasn't sure how much of a good idea it was to speak to Anereth in this manner, but after everything it seemed a drop in the ocean, and he was anxious, and still angry for a number of reasons, this one being one of the smallest, most easily brought up.

“Not at all. I'm worried about you shedding. And maybe scratching.” Anereth looked down the long sleeve of his robe. “We did establish you're a cat, after all.”

It took Esares a moment to catch on. In his efforts to escape the man’s grasp the day before they struck their deal, he had definitely clawed at both his arms – and this may have been the one he'd also bitten into. His memory of the incident were a bit fuzzy.

The question occurred to him whether he'd left any marks beneath the dark fabric; but no, while it wasn’t impossible he had at the time, they'd have faded by now. Thanks to the collar, any injury he might have dealt would have been highly superficial.

Esares only felt remorse about the last part.

“Do you want me to apologize?” Despite his trying to temper it, resentment underlay his voice.

“For reacting in blank terror and barely doing any harm? No, I think I can let that go.” At Esares' distrustful stare, Anereth's eyes rolled heavenward. “Really, it would be hard to begrudge you that, particularly with the shaking. You're free to very belatedly apologize for your actions that led up to it, however.”

Esares crinkled his nose, arms crossed in front of his chest. Although he wouldn't have done it again could he go back to the day of the picnic – wouldn’t have seen the need to try –, he most certainly did not think he owed Anereth an apology for lying to him. That Anereth had casually apologized to him for it before meant nothing. “I believe I'll decline.”

Anereth's lips twisted wryly. “That's what I thought.”

Esares exhaled. “So what now?”

Anereth considered him, then settled back in his chair. “Now I will wait for Sylves to reply to my letter.”

A jolt went through Esares at the mention of the man who at the moment was still his master, for however much longer he lived. He took half a step back, not realizing he had until after. “You've written to him?” He oughtn’t be surprised. Sylves had probably arrived in Timnestra already or would any day now, and when he started his trip, he'd not yet decided whether he wanted to journey on to Camur from there or head straight back after a brief rest.

While Sylves was hardly so rude as to not let his friend who was watching his slave know which it was going to be as soon as he made up his mind – and had promised he would –, if he hadn’t so far, then he may well leave his options open until the very last minute, and Anereth had already told Esares he sought to murder Sylves before he came back to the capital. To be certain he'd have the opportunity, he couldn't waste any time setting the stage.

Of course, when they’d originally discussed this, the mage had been hoping to push Esares into presenting him on the spot with the means of bringing about Sylves’ death, citing the possibility of his master returning and taking Esares back before Anereth could make his move as the reason he shouldn’t wait; meaning as so often, the earnestness of the man’s words had been in question then.

“I contacted him as soon as we finished speaking earlier,” Anereth said, and Esares tried not to be perturbed by how certain the mage must have been he’d not lied to him a second time – that he had him where he wanted him. ”I informed him I have a sudden errand to run in Hilmurn and would like to travel back together.” The mage smoothed the dark fabric of his elaborate sleeve. “It's not far from Enalyr, so if he's going to be gone for a while longer, he won't decline out of hand in fear of inconveniencing me. Not that I mean to drop by.”

Hilmurn. The name was familiar. Esares tried to recall where he’d heard it before – if it was a place near Anereth’s family home, had he and Sylves passed through that one time they’d spent the weekend? It had been a long carriage ride, so Esares didn’t remember what most of the towns and cities along the way were called.

He filed the name away to try and remember why it seemed significant later. More importantly for the moment, he had some trouble wrapping his head around the logistics of this.

“He took guards,” he said, though of course Anereth would be aware.

”Which his father and the Ivariney have pushed on him, and which he's always loved to slip away from.” The corners of Anereth's mouth ticked upward. “I doubt he’ll want to bring them when we journey home together. Why, the effort alone it would take to find them nearby lodgings for the night each time.”

Esares possessed not an ounce of sympathy or pity for Sylves, but he still had to resist the urge to shift uncomfortably as Anereth talked with such nonchalance about sending someone to an early grave who trusted him absolutely. About how he would do so precisely because he did.

And indeed, Sylves likely would shake off his guards in a heartbeat if he was with his dearest friend, wouldn’t he? Even if Anereth meant him no ill, it would be stupidly reckless, yes - but he was that. Esares would know.

In many respects. And he was confident in his ability to defend himself, and annoyed by the restrictions his status placed on him and his privacy during times like this. He often did things he was not supposed to – such as refusing guards at official functions, or sending them away after a while because he thought his father overcautious, or secretly keeping in his bed an assassin who wanted him dead and had almost seen it through.

There should be one person presently with him he’d listen to, but while Kiares Bemeran had been quick to suggest receiving Sylves in his home in Limdar and escorting him from there the rest of the way to Timnestra, as the most powerful member of the Ivariney after their leader he had obligations there. When Sylves went back home, Kiares would stay in the former capital and convene with his colleagues, and the Chosen One would do as he liked – as Anereth liked.

“But then won't it be too much of a coincidence?” Esares asked. “That you go to meet him now, and he dies right when he's alone with you, and then his power ends up yours.” Had he deemed it probable this was a genuine flaw in Anereth’s plan, he might have kept quiet and hoped for two birds to be killed with one stone – Sylves dying, and then they Ivariney and the rest of humanity turning on the one who would have replaced him under just too suspicious circumstances.

However eager Anereth might be to assume the mantle of Chosen One, however, he was not one to let greed turn his brain to mush – Esares was sure of that, at least, and he wanted to learn the intricacies of the mage's ploy.

Anereth lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Well, I could create less suspicious circumstances, I'm sure, but this chance is already fairly ideal – I did mean it when I said there's no telling how long it'd take me to create another one. As peaceful as it may have been recently, after Sylves is dead, it won't be hard at all for people to believe there were those of your kind aware of his trip, who just like me wished to use the opportunity to strike.”

Anereth smiled faintly, and leaned forward. “That they should do so on his way back when Sylves' party has drastically shrunk instead of earlier is most unfortunate. Perhaps they were lying in wait, hoping for precisely such a development. A bit more logical planning than my people like to attribute to yours, but supported by the history books.”

Esares let this sink in. He could see how this sort of reasoning may take the worst of the suspicion off Anereth; especially since as long as no other human knew the truth about Esares, there’d be no compelling theory for what else could have happened. Something still struck him as odd, though.

He bit his lip. There was a lot he wanted to ask, and no telling which number or type of questions might make Anereth stop humoring him. He may be in a good mood, but he probably had a long list of things to do in preparation for meeting up with Sylves.

“What did you tell him you want to do in Hilmurn?” he tried, to get more of an impression of how this was going to go; and perhaps he was morbidly curious about what story Anereth had conjured up for this part of his murderous scheme.

“They have rather an abundance of glowing locusts there. I find myself in need of live ones for a potions experiment. I was hoping to include the results in my essay.”

“The one you finished after I got here?”

Anereth raised his eyebrows exaggeratedly and pressed a hand to his chest. “Finished? Oh no, I merely got stuck, you see, and my lack of progress has troubled me ever since.”

Esares began to give a quiet snort, but it got cut off when he suddenly recalled where he’d heard the name of the site of Anereth’s alleged errand before. He stood a little straighter. “Hilmurn,” he said. “There’s an Evynera temple in that city, isn’t there? An important one.”

“Yes.”

“They don’t let in demons. Even if they’re leashed, and don’t leave the carriage.” The city hadn’t been part of their route when Sylves dragged him along to Enalyr, but it had been when his master let his younger brother Jelsh talk him into showing up to his friend’s birthday party as a surprise, a boy who was as great an admirer of the Chosen One as could be. He lived a good distance from Nuvaria, but because Jelsh could talk anyone in his family into nearly anything, and because Sylves always found it adorable – even as it made him blush – to hear of children who named their pets after his, that hadn’t proven much of an obstacle.

Sylves had realized too late on their way there they’d not be able to spend the night in an inn in Hilmurn with Esares accompanying them. They had been allowed to cross through, but only because one of the guards had recognized humanity’s beloved hero and arranged an exception for him. Even then, they’d been encouraged to hurry, and Esares’d had to wear chains until they were back out the gates despite the curtains of the carriage’s windows having been drawn.

“Not unless they’re branded and altered, no,” Anereth said. “Hilmurn is quite archaic in its regulations for slaves. I’m sure Sylves will understand I have to leave you for a little to make this trip.”

Esares stared at him. “I’m to remain here?” It made perfect sense, of course. Just because the mage did not want him dead, didn’t mean he wanted him right there with him at his plan’s crucial juncture. There was no reason to be shocked, and it wasn’t as though he’d been expecting anything else, exactly. He’d just… not really thought about this part. These past days, his mind had been largely on what came before, and on what would come long after. And he’d just looked at it as a given that if Anereth wanted to have him out of the way for this, he’d choose a permanent solution.

Esares swallowed past a sudden tightness in his throat.

“Yes,” Anereth said. “I included my apologies in the letter, naturally, along with a note that Milara who'd be responsible for you has served my family for many years. There’s a request to let me know if it’s a problem in which case I will adjust my plans accordingly, but I don’t expect him to even seriously think about taking me up on it. With the weather slowly but surely taking a turn for the worse, how could he ask me to set up camp outside the city walls instead of spending the night?”

Esares should not let this rattle him. He should not.

He sucked in air. “There’s something I don’t understand.”

“What is it?”

He looked for signs of irritation in Anereth’s expression, but detected none. “You said before you would likely be able to find a better chance to do this eventually, if you waited. You could make it so you'd be under less scrutiny still once you kill him. Couldn’t you?”

“I should think so,” Anereth said. “Eventually. This is all going to be a bit last minute.”

Esares thought back on how Anereth had behaved before Sylves approached him about Esares, the utter indifference with which he had pretended to regard him for a year and a half. “Then why? You weren’t in a rush before.”

“I had no choice other than to be patient,” Anereth said. “But I am done waiting. “

Esares’ forehead creased. “But you agree you could. That it’d make your crime easier to cover up – people more inclined to follow you without reservation.” He searched Anereth’s face, in vain, for a clue of what he was thinking. “After how long you've already been scheming, what should another year or two matter? Unless you worry I will betray you if I go back to him. But if that was the only reason, you would kill me. I know you would.”

“Do you?” Anereth grasped his wrist, running his thumb along the inner side of it very lightly, and Esares inhaled sharply. “Then why ask?”

Esares jerked back his arm and moved sidewards. “Don't play games with me.”

Anereth propped his elbow up on the desk and rested his cheek in his palm, watching Esares with his head tilted to one side. “There's no game. Though I really don't much worry about you betraying me. To begin with, there’s a limit to the amount of damage you could do me no matter how much you were willing to sacrifice. And I think your genuine priority right now is seeing Sylves gone, and that you know you have much more to gain by not stabbing me in the back. But I'm tired of him, and a lot can happen in a year or two that'd make things difficult for me. Besides.” He smiled, and it was sharp around the edges. “There's no reason he should get to touch you again.”

Esares' heart skipped a beat. “I didn't know you were the jealous type,” he said with a smile of his own that wasn't even a little bit pretty, “my lord.”

“I'm not,” Anereth said. “You should get some rest. Apparently Sylves is choosing this time to break character and keep me waiting, but I’m hopeful he’ll still send his favorable reply quickly enough I’ll be able to head out at first light, in which case I’ll let you know before I leave.”

Esares tried to will his pulse to slow down. He'd be pathetic to attach a deeper meaning to Anereth's throwaway line about wanting to keep him out of Sylves’ hands. Yes, he'd believe the mage would prefer him to not be hurt by the man again; but he wouldn't rush the Chosen One's murder just because of that. He wasn't serious in his implication, or maybe he wanted to further encourage Esares to think of him as a benevolent master, so that Esares would be more inclined to toe the line.

It'd be naive to think otherwise. Anereth might like him, but he'd not fallen for him like Sylves had, and he'd never once spoken out against his master's handling of him in the past, or against any other human treating their slaves like slaves. Three weeks, one in which Esares had done nothing but cause him difficulty, wasn't long enough for Anereth to have grown to want him badly enough to endanger himself or his plans for his sake, if he was capable of such attachment at all – no matter how 'interesting' or ‘beautiful’ or 'charming' he found him, or how 'fond' he was of him.

And yet he was set on leaving Esares alive, despite all he’d said and done and knew. Was considering keeping him as his personal slave, even, when anything else would be much simpler.

“What,” Esares said, and his voice died. He had to start over, “What if I want to come?”

“Why would you?” Anereth returned, but he didn't even blink, and Esares was sure he had an idea.

“To watch him die.”

As expected, there was no surprise on Anereth's face, only the hint of a sardonic smile. “I can't blame you for wanting to. But you'll have to understand I'd rather not have you around when the Ivariney start looking into what happened, just as a precaution. And would the price really be worth it? Even if there was no chance of anyone deciding to confiscate you during the investigation, you'd have to let him do with you what he wants for however long it'd take me to put an end to him. We may stay at inns, and he would have all the time in the world to spend alone with you in the rooms there. Isn't it a good thing you don't have to go back?”

Esares closed his eyes, trying not to think of Sylves' hands on him. Of course Anereth would attempt to convince him this way. Of course he'd sell deciding this over Esares' head as at least in part being for his own good.

It made anger bubble beneath Esares' skin, drowning out the nausea – anger that in its vehemence was just a little ridiculous, because he’d been aware what kind of person Anereth was, and because despite what he had told the mage, he didn't know if he wanted to come with him. Oh yes, he would love nothing better than to see Sylves' ruin as he had originally set out to, the shining Chosen One brought low and spending the last minutes of his life in agony, because having one's magic ripped away would be no less painful than losing a limb or vital organ. But Anereth was right the cost would be grave.

Still. Esares wanted to memorize the look in Sylves' eyes when he realized how he had doomed himself, by whose hand he would die and who had passed his killer the blade.

Sylves loved and admired Anereth as he did few others; and in a warped, selfish manner that allowed him to lay eyes on him and recognize something far different from a person, he also cared for Esares. Maybe Sylves would convince himself Esares was no willing participant, that like a pitiable, brainless thing he had been deceived or made to give up Sylves' secret through violence. He would still be hurt by the betrayal, though. Disappointed. He would doubt his own pleasant fiction, would have to for at least an instant. It wasn't as if Esares had never tried to end his life before. And the fact that the other party involved was Anereth... even if by chance the attempt failed, it would break Sylves. Esares didn't know how it could not.

It seemed poetic justice. His master had tried to tear Esares down to nothing, though he called it training, and now Esares would tear him down, even if the weapon was no whip, and Esares would not be the one to wield it. Sylves had brought it upon himself, too, for years and years through his own choices – to trust Anereth, to look down and treat as animals and toys Esares' people, to attempt to beat Esares into submission and keep him in his bed instead of giving him the common courtesy of death. Had Sylves made a single other decision in this chain, had he even just listened to Esares' pleas to not leave him alone with Anereth, his future would have looked very different.

He hadn’t, and it didn’t, and Esares would relish the sight of his self-proclaimed master falling apart as he would little else.

But. But. To do that, he would have to also see Sylves. Kneel to him, allow him to touch him, probably let himself be fucked by him again numerous times, because Anereth was right, and Esares had never thought the man was going to just walk up to Sylves and attack him. If it were that easy, Esares would not have failed going after then Chosen One when he'd been fast asleep, half passed out drunk. If anything, Anereth was intelligent and cautious enough to learn from Esares' mistake; not to mention he'd have to choose a completely isolated location to be able to spin his tale afterwards.

Maybe a little while ago, Esares wouldn't have hesitated to let Sylves hurt him one last time, for the satisfaction of being present for his undoing. But after ending up in Anereth's house, he'd been reminded too clearly of what it was like to be viewed as more than a pet to be talked down to and used for its master's pleasure, and in the past week in particular, he'd grown too comfortable with the idea of being free of Sylves at long last – had too often caught himself thinking when trying to determine the likelihood of Anereth killing him and estimating it higher and higher each time: well, at least I won't have to go back to Sylves ever again.

Esares swallowed and opened his eyes, his fingers twisting the hem of his tunic. “I want the choice,” he said, quietly.

Anereth's face was calm. “I'm sorry.”

Esares stared at him, the words he was unable to find like ash on his tongue.

Why was his chest constricting?

Anereth might consider him more than just a tool, and he might even care about him in some fashion; but he was calculating and self-serving first, a liar and betrayer all too ready to kill for personal gain, and someone who would keep Esares under his thumb, even if he might be gracious about it. As was to be expected from a slave owner, his sympathy and generosity only went so far.

It was natural he'd not not let Esares have a say in this when there was the slightest chance it could cause him trouble. What did it matter to him if Esares believed watching Sylves' inglorious end would ease the memories of the last two years, the revulsion and nightmares, or at least make them easier to bear? What did it matter to him how long and desperately he'd fantasized about it?

Nothing. It mattered nothing to him, compared to his machinations and avoiding even the most minuscule threat to them.

Esares had known. He shouldn't have asked, shouldn't have gotten carried away. What had he been thinking?

Anereth reached for his hand again. Esares recoiled, all but jumping back. “Don't,” he hissed. Anereth stopped, gazing at him in surprise; maybe at his gall, maybe at the forcefulness of his reaction. Esares took a steadying breath. “Please don't.”

Anereth held up his hands, palms out. “Of course. I am sorry, but since I won't grant your request, there's nothing I can do except promise you will be all right once Sylves is gone. Let’s cross our fingers I’ll be able to leave early in the morning, and then we won’t have to see each other for a while. When this is over, I will have ample time to make up for robbing you of part of your vengeance.”

Anereth paused, leaning back and folding his legs. “As I said, get some rest. The world will look different soon enough.”

Esares didn't respond, but bowed stiffly and turned on his heel.

Anereth probably hadn't lied to him, hadn't been unkind to him. Being his personal slave should be a vast improvement, and being one in his family home probably would be, too, and Sylves would be gone. Anereth also shouldn't make for too terrible of a Chosen One however this went, comparatively and realistically speaking; seemed even serious about letting Esares study the collars with him, which was far more than anything he’d dared hope for.

Esares should be glad.

And he would be, once the bitter fury ebbed away. It might just take him a while.

Chapter Text

Anereth wasn’t able to leave early in the morning. Not at noon, either, or the next day.

Esares watched the mage’s mood sour as the days progressed without word from Sylves. He wasn’t obvious about it, little more than Milara continued to be about her awareness that something was up between the two of them, but just as with the servant and the prolonged, searching looks Esares still caught her aiming at them, there were cues.

The frown that would mar the mage’s features now and then during meals, which Esares could be certain had nothing to do with the quality of the cooking. The curt manner in which he addressed the servants with increasing frequency, just short of unpleasant. The fact that after the second day of no response, he barely looked at Esares anymore, when before despite everything he’d always keep up a few lines of empty small talk for appearance’s sake.

Each change was surely yet another oddity for Milara to make mental note of, and Esares could have sworn she’d started focusing her penetrating stares more on the back of Anereth’s head than on him at some point following his confrontation with the mage.

Merely Oliar seemed to remain blissfully oblivious – and not necessarily because he was naive or unobservant, but because Anereth informed him the instant he realized his departure would be delayed that he had the rest of the week off, supposedly in recompense for accompanying Valithia to Enalyr and then hurrying back to the capital for his sake. In truth, Esares figured just as when he’d sent the man away with his sister in the first place, Anereth cared not about services rendered, but about getting him out of the way. There was no question which of his servants he trusted more – to be discreet, but maybe also in general.

Oliar had been visibly surprised by his supposed reward, but pleased, and quickly shown himself disinclined to pass a lot of his thusly acquired free time in his employer’s house: just as Anereth must have been counting on.

Esares, meanwhile, by then had spent one entire night and several additional long hours too much alone with his thoughts, and been glad to take over some of the absent servant’s duties when the opportunity presented itself, assisting Milara with menial tasks. Anereth hadn’t told him to, or even, technically, allowed it, but he didn’t speak out against it, either, which proved permission enough for Milara. And even when he subsequently spent more time alone with her than he ever had before, she didn’t grasp the chance to ask Esares uncomfortable questions, which was a relief – though sometimes he got a strong feeling she was contemplating it.

Esares helped around the house like he used to and more, with the difference that he had never cared less about Anereth’s mood. Yes, the whole affair had him on edge, too, but more because he wanted this all to be over and done with than because he was much concerned with Anereth’s bad humor. The mage did not turn it on him. He didn’t direct any significant attention to Esares at all, and for once this was not cause for alarm, but exactly what Esares wanted.

It may have been different, Esares thought on the third evening of waiting in vain for Sylves to reply, as he went back upstairs after helping Milara prepare the dough for tomorrow’s breakfast, had he needed to share a bed with the mage. His impatience and frustration, simmering just beneath the surface and primed to boil over into anger, would have been more worrying, then. At the absolute best, it would have made curling up to sleep next to him supremely uncomfortable.

But Anereth’s preoccupation with his machinations and the wrench Sylves’ lack of prompt response threatened to throw in them had distinct advantages. After their mess of a conversation that evening in the study, Esares had returned to the small servant's chamber he'd claimed for himself, determined to not relinquish it easily. However this went, he didn’t expect the luxury of his very own room to grace him again any time soon, if ever, and even if it did, he’d taken this one. Anereth could ship him off to his family’s estate and house him in the most generous of accommodations a slave could hope for there when the time came, with all sorts of of improbable freedoms, and it would not be the same.

So Esares had decided if the mage had a problem with him making the most of this, it was his fault for not specifying where Esares ought to rest.

Counter to Anereth’s suggestion, he’d not slept early that night, but stayed up for most of it, mind whirling, and, right up until he finally succumbed to exhaustion just before the break of dawn, tensely waiting for someone to come for him. To reprimand him and order him to Anereth’s bedroom, or to deliver news of Sylves – the information that his answering letter had arrived, and that Anereth was about to depart.

There’d been no news, of course. No reprimand, either, and by the time he’d opened his eyes to see the sun shining bright through his chamber’s small window, not a single one of the humans had so much as checked on him. Only an hour later had Milara fetched him for breakfast.

As he settled back into bed now, hoping to catch some of the sleep that had eluded him recently, he found himself appreciating Anereth’s current indifference towards him more than he could say. Not seeing each other for a while sounded good. He could figure out how to coexist with the man when he came back successful and whole.

Who knew? Anereth might actually pay with his own life for that of Sylves, or be caught out and apprehended by the Ivariney after the deed was done, or he might fall off his horse on the road back and break his neck – like in some grand act of divine punishment out of a human story book. Esares snorted. He wasn’t counting on the latter, murdering his gods’ champion or no, but it was true nothing about Anereth’s future was set in stone yet. For sure, the later he reunited with Sylves and the sooner after the Chosen One lost his life under questionable circumstances, the more mistrust he would earn and the more closely he would be watched and the matter investigated.

And there was no chance for Esares of getting his own revenge himself, and no use in being angry, in letting resentment fester – in hating yet another master with nowhere for that loathing to go. Anereth, whatever happened, still was what Esares had known him to be for a good while now: the far lesser of two evils.

He closed his eyes, and although his mind wasn’t entirely willing to rest, there were no conversations with Anereth to go over again and again this time like two nights ago, and no might bes he’d let himself be swallowed by the one after. Sleep came before the last stray bits of light creeping through the window were snuffed out.

Then he woke abruptly.

He didn't know how long he'd slept, only that it was now fully dark outside, and that he wanted to shut his eyes again and continue sleeping for days. He was still half-caught in dreams he only remembered as impressions, confusing and eerie and as restorative as walking up an endless hill.

It took his hazy senses a long stretch of time he was incapable of measuring to register he wasn't alone.

Once he did, he more sprang than sat up – but when he saw Anereth standing in the doorway calmed down enough to stay where he was and breathe deep, soon rubbing his eyes and blinking against the light Anereth turned on with a wave of his hand.

The mage stepped inside and shut the door, and Esares' stomach did an uneasy flip as he remembered, like ice water being poured over him, that his nightly visitor being Anereth did not mean he was safe – in any capacity.

Instead of approaching, Anereth just looked at him for a long moment, before announcing, “We have a problem.”

The mounting, familiar terror drained from Esares, replaced by a fear that was less wild, more that of a person than that of a cornered animal. “What problem?” He had to clear his throat between words because his voice was croaky from sleep.

“Sylves wrote back.” Anereth took a few steps towards him at last, so he was only a foot's length from the bed. His features were hard, his arms folded in front of his chest. He wore a dark unembellished night robe he must have hastily thrown on, crinkled in half a dozen places. His long silver hair looked like it would do well to make the acquaintance of a comb, leaving little doubt he had already been in bed himself and come here straight from it. “There was an attack.”

Esares' breath tangled in his throat. He sorted through the implications, worked to get his tongue to cooperate with his brain. “What happened? An attack by who?”

“Who do you think?” Anereth all but snapped. He lapsed into silence for a couple of seconds, and when he continued, his voice was measured, the carefully held back fury underlying it almost difficult to detect. “They ambushed him five days ago. Half his guards were cut down defending him, and several more along with his brother who'd joined up with him to accompany him to Timnestra are missing – presumably blown to smithereens by large-scale magic, though Sylves seems to hold out hope it could be otherwise. Lord Bemeran who was with them was singled out and killed as well. The remaining Ivariney are sending an escort, but he’s in no state to travel far.”

A dizzying mix of emotions rose in Esares' chest to mingle with the fear, hope and excitement and shock, and so many he could not name. Had there been any grogginess left, it had disappeared to nothing now. “Could he--”

“As he was still able to cast a near frivolous kihtras spell, I highly doubt there is any possibility of him succumbing to his wounds,” Anereth said dryly, clearly having anticipated the question.

Esares deflated. Within a heartbeat all he’d been feeling rolled itself together into a tight cold ball in the pit of his stomach, leaving only the dizziness, and nausea.

Anereth momentarily uncrossed his arms to glance at a piece of paper – the letter – in his hand that Esares hadn’t noticed before. “Although,” he amended, with an edge of disdain, “he seems not well at all. And required someone else to hold the pen for him. So while he’s not about to drop dead, I suppose there’s no guarantee he’ll make a full recovery. You’re free to pray to your gods if it’ll make you feel better – I wouldn’t be holding my breath, though.”

Esares stared at the mage. Sylves’ right arm was injured, badly enough that he couldn’t write? Broken then, or…

But before he could get his mouth to form the question, Anereth continued, “He's asking me to meet him in Enalyr. He's confident his escort will permit it, as there's no city much closer to his location with adequate magical defenses that lies vaguely in the direction of the capital – though he assures me his assailants should be well driven off and that I and my family will be in no danger with the precautions the Ivariney are going to take. I don't see how I can do anything but agree under the circumstances, and rush to his side.

“I'm trying to appreciate the irony,” Anereth added, and from his expression it was clear he was not succeeding at all. “I misjudged your kind. I didn't think they had the daring or strength for something like this left, and so shortly after losing you, too. Or, for the matter, the necessary access to information about Sylves' movements – though since they managed to sneak you into his bed in the first place, that part probably shouldn’t shock me.” The corners of his mouth twisted. “I underestimated you, and your allies. I’m sure you’d think this is what I deserve for my arrogance, if the outcome had been different.”

Esares sat frozen. He didn’t know if he agreed – if he would truly have thought about it in those terms. From the manner he talked, yes, it had been apparent Anereth had little idea of the resources demons retained aside from sheer magical power. However, they were severely weakened, and this was a bold and dangerous and difficult to pull off move, and Esares could not claim to have seen it coming, either. If he had, he’d probably not have given up Sylves’ words of revelation no matter what, lest Anereth get to Sylves before his attackers did.

Of course, if they had failed, it may have done more harm than good. Who of the people he’d been close to and worked with in the past had been involved? How many had died?

How would the humans retaliate, after nearly losing their Chosen One and in fact losing a slew of other important people associated with him in such a brazen attack, including one of their leaders, including most likely one of Sylves’ family?

Anereth, for one, was evidently seething, albeit for his own, very particular reasons, and even though he tried to hide it. He almost managed to appear more irritated than livid, not too different from what his mood had been for most of the past two days – but there were severe dents in his composure, now: the coldness of his eyes, the press of his nails into his own upper arms; the way his voice seemed as though it would turn vicious in an instant if he kept it any less tightly leashed.

“Are you angry at me?” Esares asked, following a sudden hunch. “Because I would have welcomed this, had it succeeded?”

“That would be quite ridiculous of me.”

Esares noted it was not, technically, a denial.

“Or because I didn’t give you his words of power sooner?” he pushed, and talking was something to focus on other than the buzzing in his head. “Would you have caught up to him, instead of arranging a meeting on his way back?”

“I’d not yet decided,” Anereth said, after a moment. “It wouldn’t have hurt to ingratiate myself with his companions before losing them. But it’d have been more difficult to arrange, and I’d have tested the waters before suggesting anything concrete, at least. It doesn’t matter now.”

“You think you could have used this.”

Another pause, this one longer. ”If I had gone, I might have gotten everything I desire on a silver platter, and drawn no one’s suspicion at all. Whether I’d reached him before this or after… had Sylves died at any point during the last few days, everyone would have presumed to know exactly what happened. Everyone human – and what else matters to me?”

Esares stared at the mage.

“But I might also have shared the fate of his valiant defenders, and Lord Bemeran,” Anereth went on. “So I’m hardly about to blame you. I only hope you are prepared. From now on, nothing about this will be simple.”

A shudder went through Esares. His skin felt cold and clammy, his chest tight.

“If he's being sent an escort--” he began past the lump in his throat.

“No matter how I proceed, or what I’d be willing to risk,” Anereth said, voice precise and as cool as his gaze, “in the absence of a miracle, there’s no chance of me being able to do anything before he gets back to Nuvaria except fuss over him.”

Numbness settled in Esares' bones. Anereth was standing right in front of him, but suddenly he seemed far away, and Esares felt like the room was spinning – but slowly and intermittently, so that he couldn't be sure. His breath didn't come quite right.

“He's hiding out at some marquise's place or another’s for now,” Anereth continued, his voice drifting to Esares like through a wall of glass, or water. “But despite having lost his attackers, it’s not wise for him to stay in one place with no decent protection too long. He and those still with him left enough blood on the battlefield he’d chance an enemy finding him through a simple scrying spell, should any remain. He can’t travel on to Timnestra, either, for fear of another ambush. This was no ordinary assassination attempt – to begin with, it shouldn't have been possible for a handful of your kind, however skilled, to deal his party this sort of damage.”

Anereth’s eyes were locked on his, intent, assessing, and for a moment Esares wondered at the extent of his fury; but then the mage’s brows drew together slightly, and he looked more pensive and disconcerted than anything. “There is information missing,” he continued slowly, “things he says he only wants to tell me in person – courtesy of whoever helped him compose his letter, I assume, because we both know Sylves can’t keep a secret from me to save his life.” The faintest nasty curl of the lips. “He did say the Ivariney are trying to keep what happened under wraps for now, though, while they seek to ascertain whether what happened is connected to a failure of the wards.”

Esares shook his head, trying in vain to dispel the fog threatening to take a hold of his mind. “A failure in the wards?” he repeated. “What does that mean?”

”That’s the question, isn’t it,” Anereth said. “The wards can only reliably detect magic that is extremely potent, though with less accuracy they may also react to more moderate power uncommon in its nature. In light of the fact that they are designed to first and foremost keep larger groups of magically gifted beings from passing the border and moving through the country unnoticed, if they are presumed to have failed, it’s very possible Sylves was attacked by a whole horde of assassins this time, without anyone having seen them coming.”

The letter in the mage’s hand crumpled slightly as his fingers flexed. “I still don’t see why Sylves would not be able to just say so in that case when he already told me this much, and there are a number of things that don’t quite add up, but it’s the easiest explanation for how what amounts to a squadron of our best were half wiped out just like that, surprise attack or no. I suppose if they were able to divine Sylves’ words of revelation, and get you into his house and bed and now even crush him in battle, your friends may have done something similarly shocking to the wards themselves. Maybe something permanent?”

Anereth was watching him as a hawk might a rabbit – for signs that he had answers, no doubt; some theory…. or knowledge. How far did he suspect Esares’ connection to this went? His tone was one of false mildness as he finished, “Naturally the Ivariney would be disturbed if demons – or anyone else – could just slip in an army.”

“But that’s--” Impossible. Esares pressed his lips together and bit the inside of his cheek, fixing his eyes to the wall behind Anereth instead of his face. He had examined some of Desarias’ wards himself. Neither he nor his clan nor any of the ones working together with them had been able to determine their exact strength and structure, but they were not the kind that simply failed. Nor the kind that could be easily made to fail.

Taking out any significant number of Desarias’ wards without being caught was not something Esares’ people, last time he checked, were capable of; any more than they had a viable way to disable the Timnestra collars. They belonged to a different branch of magic, of course, created to safeguard and preserve rather than bind and restrain, and they were tied to no one’s life as a last line of defense against tampering, but they had the same origin, the same intricate sort of spellwork to maintain them. Those who’d taken a look all were optimistic they could destroy them; but probably not swiftly, and definitely not quietly.

And without straight out breaking and consequentially setting off the wards, for there to be any hope of bringing into Desarias even a dozen of uncollared demons who acted as a group… their magic would have to be fairly weak, likely defeating the point, or they would have to possess the capability to hide it, such as being able to take a shape in which most of their power would lie dormant and retaining that form for as long as they wished to remain undetected.

Esares had been a decent shapeshifter those last couple of years he’d spent in freedom, but even with a relative aptitude for the discipline and all the long hours of practice he’d poured into it almost daily for a decade, remaining in an animal’s body for longer than an hour at a time was challenging. Make it two or three hours, and he’d be a wreck afterwards. Not in any condition to fight a half-skilled mage, let alone the Chosen One and his protectors.

A clan like Sinieru’s might be able to pull it off, if it was a quick, targeted attack, and they’d have the numbers to just by suddenly appearing before them unsettle their enemies who as far as Esares and his people could tell were completely unaware of this weakness in their defenses. But it’d still be a huge gamble to take, and demons could not afford to lose any of the very few clans who specialized in the invaluable art of shapeshifting. It had only ever be discussed as a hypothetical, because none of them would risk it.

Would they?

This had not been just any attack. Sylves’ life was a uniquely tempting prize. From the sound of it, they’d had a real shot at it, too.

He didn’t know about any other clans proficient in the branch of magic in question, but with their leader’s disposition, Sinieru’s might have--

It was as though Esares' spirit had been hovering just outside his body, and now from one second to the next slammed back into it. “What happened to the ones who ambushed him? You said Sylves doesn’t know if they retreated for good. How much reason did they have to? How many of them--” He could not not finish the sentence.

Anereth’s gaze was sharp. Esares didn’t kid himself: he was too astute to not have an inkling of why he was asking. It was difficult to bring himself to care. “Sylves’ wording was literally that they were driven back in the end,” the mage finally said, “soundly enough for him and those in his general vicinity to make their escape free of direct pursuers. I don’t know if they suffered significant losses, or were merely forced to let up.”

Esares swallowed, tamping down on the urge to close his eyes. “I see.” Nothing about having decimated the enemy in turn, then; of having secured anything like a true victory in the end. That had to be good enough. It had to be.

He could not panic now, could not succumb to a fear that was only half-rational. He felt like he’d never be able to pull himself back together again, if he did.

“I have no details,” Anereth repeated after an extensive stretch of silence during which Esares did nothing except try to breathe, “but the whole tone of Sylves’ letter is… odd. There is certainly no word of vengeance, of anger even. However hard this hit him, it’s not what I’d expect from him had he made his way out slicing through enemy forces. Does that help?”

It did. Just enough Esares’ lungs were working again, even if his fists remained white-knuckled around the bed’s covers. He didn’t even try to pretend that he hadn’t inquired because of personal reasons – because he feared for someone whose loss would shatter him – and almost asked for the letter to search for clues himself; but that would have given away even more, and if Anereth were willing to share it in its entirety, he would have by now.

Esares’d also not solve anything attempting to rip the paper from the mage’s hands, and somehow managed to not throw logic to the wind.

Instead he calmed himself as best as he was able, taking deep careful gulps of air, and eventually said, quietly, “Thank you.” He loosened his grip on the covers, just a little.

It may not have been shapeshifters at all. Esares couldn’t think of any other way his people may have done this and led humans to suspect there was an issue with the wards, but there were a lot of clans he’d had limited to no contact with – including almost all the ones reluctant to engage in any action that might hasten along the return of open war – , who could possess relevant abilities he was unaware of and who may have unexpectedly come around with this unprecedented opportunity. Or he and his comrades may have missed something before about Desarias’ defenses and how they could be circumvented.

And maybe all of that was somewhat unlikely, but if it had been shapeshifters, there were three or four clans aside from Sinieru’s specializing in the art who’d been in communication with their group – it could have been any one of them, or only the ones of each most suited to battle. And it’d make sense for shapeshifters to strike once and heavily, when their enemies did not see it coming, and then turn tail as soon as they met proper resistance to be sure they’d still have sufficient magic reserves to change their bodies as needed to get away. Besides, Sinieru was cautious, smart. Smart enough he’d tried to convince Esares not to come to Nuvaria. Even if the majority of his clan were involved, which was only a remote possibility, really, that didn’t mean he himself would be; and if he were, then it would be as a strategist, some form of backup in the absolute worst case. He was no front-line fighter.

Esares clung to this reasoning.

“There may be more going on,” Anereth said, “but whatever happened exactly, I don’t need to tell you how much this changes.”

This time Esares did shut his eyes. No, he he didn’t.

Vaguely, he wondered which one of Sylves’ brothers was gone – they both resided outside Nuvaria, for school and work respectively, so it could have been either one of them who’d spontaneously decided to meet up with Sylves. His master would expect Esares to be upset by either of their deaths, too, even if it was Loar, who'd beaten him before and rarely said a word to him outside the occasion.

His master. Who was still alive, and with great certainty still would be months from now. Quite possibly years, depending on how carefully his people would guard their Chosen One after this and how cautiously Anereth decided to move in response.

You will be all right once Sylves is gone. Anereth's words from mere days ago echoed in his head, a cruel mockery of the promise they had been presented as.

There's no reason he should get to touch you again.

After what felt like forever, Anereth resumed speaking, “Under the circumstances, it might be best to take you along to Enalyr. The probability of me being able to harm Sylves any time soon now is essentially zero, so it'd be easier. I'm sure you'd like to delay having to be with him, bu-- Esares?”

Esares ignored the mage and scrambled out of bed. It was all he could do to get to the toilet before emptying his stomach.

Chapter Text

Anereth looked him up and down from across the room.

As the seconds stretched, Esares wondered what was earning him the scrutiny. He was sure his appearance left quite a bit to be desired, considering he’d barely found it in himself to get dressed in the morning and not done anything more productive than picking at light meals brought to him by a no-longer-so-discreetly concerned Milara since, but it shouldn’t be bad enough to give the mage pause. For one thing, without glancing at a mirror Esares could say his state was much improved from when they had last talked, which had been not half a day ago in this same place, shortly after Esares finished puking his guts out.

For another, however unkempt his hair or rumpled his tunic, Anereth in his present condition could be no closer to winning any beauty contests. The mage had made use of a comb since they had last seen one another, sure, and his clothing was impeccable; but his eyes were faintly bloodshot with dark circles under them, and even from a distance, there was no missing the ashen hue to his skin. He looked as though he ought to be the one with trouble keeping his food down.

Magical fatigue would do that to you. From a mention Milara had made of Anereth writing home, Esares gleaned he had observed the courtesy of requesting his mother’s formal consent before agreeing to meet Sylves in her house – meaning he had cast two kihtras spells this morning in quick succession, something even a member or two of the Ivariney liked to avoid.

Esares could not imagine what had possessed him, except sheer arrogance. Even the staunchest of traditionalists would have understood had he decided to grant Sylves’ request for shelter in his mother’s place, and apprised her of the situation after the fact, when he was able to do so again without placing undue strain on his body. It wasn’t as though Hynira Laverien’s favorable response had been anything but a foregone conclusion: after all, even if she should secretly care little more about Sylves than her son, no one with the slightest political ambition would turn away the Chosen One in his hour of need.

Anereth took no more than a single step into the room. “The horses are ready. If you want to say goodbye, you should do it now.”

“Yes, my lord.” Esares' voice was toneless. He didn’t move, remaining perched on the edge of the bed.

To himself, he thought bidding Milara and Oliar farewell would just be awkward. They knew something had happened, and that it had to do with Sylves, but they were ignorant about so many things. Though neither of them had once pressured him for answers Anereth refused to give, or been anything but kind, talking to them had become tedious.

Seeing only one reason why Anereth would have come in person at all, Esares had rather expected him to turn on his heel and walk back out without another word at this point, satisfied that Esares was not about to make a scene; but he remained, his attention on the demon only sharpening.

Well, Esares adjusted his previous judgment as he held his gaze. To be fair, Anereth more than most humans could afford to have a high opinion of his own magical abilities. For a mage his age who wasn’t Sylves, he was holding up surprisingly well, as there were clearly matters on his mind wholly other than the question of whether he could make it through the yard and onto one of the aforementioned horses Oliar had rented on his behalf without collapsing.

Upon entering, Anereth had immediately shut the door behind himself – it had seemed the unthinking manner of a habit, but now Esares doubted that impression.

“Can you do this?”

Esares' lips ticked upward in grim amusement. “You're asking like there's an alternative. Why, are you offering to put me out of my misery?”

It wasn’t entirely a rhetorical query. Anereth could claim otherwise all he wanted, he wasn’t fooling anyone: he was livid, at having missed his golden opportunity to kill Sylves and at Esares both – not that the two were unrelated. The mage’s poorly concealed irritation from the past few days was nothing compared to the fury that had been shining through clear as day from the instant he woke Esares in the dead of night.

And albeit Esares wouldn’t expect the mage to kill him out of rage alone, with the change in circumstance meaning that he would not be able to move against Sylves for who knew how long, Esares had become much more of a potential liability to him. Especially if Esares was mentally unprepared to face a master whom he'd not counted on seeing ever again, unless as a corpse. Even if he didn’t make for a convenient target for his anger, why would Anereth want to deal with that?

He hadn't said anything indicating he was planning to dispose of him after all, but it’d be logical, and explain why he wanted Esares to accompany him to see Sylves.

This was a tumultuous time, and the road to Enalyr was long – a lot could happen on it.

“I have as much of an intention of ending your life as I did yesterday at this hour,” Anereth said. “Which is none, in case you needed to hear it again. I wonder, though, if you were hoping for a different answer.”

Esares’ throat felt suddenly too dry to speak.

But perhaps that was for the best. There seemed little sense in pointing out that if he did desire death, he could make Anereth grant his wish, no matter what the man had or had not intended. All he needed to do was half-convincingly threaten to expose his murderous scheme – Anereth’s earlier assessment that by actually doing so, Esares would cause himself much greater harm than him was almost definitely true; but Anereth would still have a vested interest in avoiding it. Besides, if his reason for wanting to preserve Esares' life were anything resembling fondness, why deny him if he wanted to die that badly, and force him to make Sylves kill him instead?

For the first time since the Timnestra collar had been fastened around his neck, Esares had the option of a quick death.

And for hours after finding he would have to return into Sylves' possession, Esares had been tempted. There’d been a blade hanging over Esares’ head for so long now the possibility of dying by Anereth’s hands had almost stopped frightening him, and there was never going to be a guarantee he'd survive all this – so why not make it easy for himself, and end things neatly?

But that was the weakest, most cowardly part of him speaking. The part that had sworn to Sylves he now knew he'd been wrong for trying to harm him and begged his forgiveness, begged him to use him, and gotten him here in the first place. Had he been determined enough, had this weakness not existed in him, he could be dead already. Surely Sylves would have had to give up at some point.

The part of himself he hated most had won out then – the shameful him, the desperate, cowed him; the helpless slave. He would like to think he had decided as he had on that fateful day because he wanted to be around for Sylves' eventual fall, and because he wished to see what'd become of his people; how they'd fight back when the time came. And all of this had been part of his motivation, which he would always remind himself of on days when he especially loathed himself.

Yet it had only ever been half of it at most, and as months and a year passed and he watched humans thrive and eagerly await the war his own people dreaded, and contemplated time and again the grave mistake he'd made, the hope he had for his kind diminished, so that it often felt like only his hatred of his enemies, for Sylves sustained him – and now that he was to be reunited with the man who presumed to own him, he realized he’d clung to it so fiercely because the alternative terrified him too much to ever let enter his mind.

Day after day he’d groveled and debased himself, letting it become as automatic as breathing and the idea of seriously fighting back nearly unthinkable; because by then, if he’d entered into a battle of wills with Sylves and succeeded, everything he’d endured would have been worse than in vain. Sylves might be persuaded to kill him, but not before putting him through every torture and humiliation he could stomach in the name of saving him, and whatever happened, he would never let him die an enemy, a man – only a pitiable pet on a slave surgeon’s table, too wretched to learn not to bite the hand that fed it.

More than going on his knees for Sylves in every sense, Esares could not bear such an ending.

He could not erase that, could not erase all in himself Sylves had twisted and ruined, but that pitiful, timid voice in him that told him to bend, bend, bend did not get to change its tune now and choose death after all, just because it was within easy reach for the first time since having his magic bound.

Because although he knew, better than anyone, that he was not above giving in to pain and fear, and what it would be like to return to Sylves after everything, he also knew his obligations; had never once forgotten them. His people came first, and now that he had started this with Anereth, if he could, he had to see it through.

Besides, he wanted to find out more about what had happened, what was happening with his people. He tried not to be overly optimistic about this, because being disappointed would hurt too much, and he didn’t think he could stand it on top of everything else. But... if his people in their attack had dealt the humans of Desarias much worse damage than they had received in turn, and it sounded like it… if they were perhaps following a grander plan.. if maybe something had changed to convince clans to fight who hadn’t been willing to before, such as most of the ones specializing in shapeshifting, or if his people had truly found a way to render useless altogether Desarias’ wards-- dying would be the furthest thing from his mind.

At long last, Esares found his voice. “I was hoping for nothing.” He let his eyes drift away from the mage's inscrutable face, to the narrow window.

He wondered if Anereth had come to this chamber expecting him to plead to be allowed to remain behind after all, to at least delay the inevitable; but in truth, he was glad to leave for Enalyr. He'd probably go mad sitting around waiting for his master to return, and for information about the exact events of the attempt on his life to trickle in.

And he would like to see Anereth's family home, talk to the slaves there, including if at all possible those Anereth used to personally own. If he could have a more concrete idea of what it'd be like to switch masters eventually, could burn into his mind a clear picture of what he might have if he just suffered Sylves for a little while longer – a time frame bound to be almost nothing compared to the one he had been resigning himself to until little over a week ago...

He could do this knowing Sylves would get his just desserts in the end – that his people would see humanity's Chosen One crumble one way or another. That he would see it, and that his humiliation wasn’t going to last forever. It was not so different from his original mission, even though it was.

No matter what Anereth might believe, he wasn’t going to break.

“I would prefer to live,” he added, calmly.

Anereth’s unblinking gaze remained fixed on him for a long moment. “Good,” he said then, and left.

*

Esares didn't think he would ever develop a taste for horseback riding. After the picnic and now two and a half days of it with minimal breaks, he no longer worried about falling, but when he got off the animal at nightfall, each time his body would be stiff and aching from the neck down, and he'd feel as though his legs were about to give out.

With how things were, though, the exertion was a welcome distraction more than anything. It left him with little energy to brood, to imagine what it would be like to see Sylves again. He woke up in the mornings unable to draw his thoughts away from the degradation and misery that awaited, wanting to do nothing but keep sleeping, or crawl into a hole – but once he got on the horse, the coldness in his bones and heaviness in his stomach soon faded, exhaustion claiming every inch of him.

As he dragged himself up the stairs after Anereth in the third inn they were staying at, one with a busy main hall and thin walls that offered unwelcome insight into the private affairs of rather a few of its patrons whenever the noise from downstairs momentarily quieted, Esares had the idle thought that he might end up having a more peaceful sleep tonight than the mage. It was somewhat humorous.

Leknoa was a small town, but popular with the more pious merchants. Named after a woman said to have been blessed by Paeylon, the human god of good fortune, who according to legend had lived in its walls centuries ago, it was said to bring those who greeted the dawn in it luck with their monetary and, sometimes, romantic endeavors. Many traders on their way to or from the capital made it a point to stop by, especially now in spring, the season during which Leknoa supposedly met Paeylon and offered him shelter from a storm without knowing his true identity. Until he passed the gates with Anereth, Esares hadn’t realized how many.

The town had one fine inn, which they’d found hadn’t any free rooms left. The building whose creaking floorboard there were now treading upon was the alternative a helpful stablehand had pointed Anereth to: Esares doubted it was what the mage had expected, or was remotely used to.

Esares wasn’t exactly, either, but as he was even more unaccustomed to their means of transportation, he couldn’t see it costing him much sleep. Why would it, when ever since they set out for Enalyr, even the reality of where – who – they were bound for hadn’t managed to keep him awake at night?

At the end of their first day of travel, he hadn't even had the strength to be bothered by the sweat and stench of horse, let alone think deeply about anything. As soon as the servant who'd escorted them went looking for the next of the inn's guests to assist, he'd collapsed on their assigned room's sole couch, and been fast asleep within the hour, when he had expected to not be able to settle down enough to get any proper rest at all. Anereth hadn't commented, neither on his having neglected to ask permission nor on his putting off a bath until morning.

But then, Anereth hadn't commented on much at all since they left Nuvaria. He’d not said a word to him directly since entering Leknoa, and not a great many more in the hours and days before. Maybe it should have worried Esares, because his life and general well-being still were wholly in Anereth’s hands, but for the most part, he was too relieved to be left alone and too perpetually fatigued to care. It wasn’t as though the mage’s treatment of him was harsh or unkind – there was just no particular warmth, as there had once been.

And even that wasn’t an entirely new development.

Absently, Esares watched Anereth stop in the middle of the hallway to exchange pleasantries with the innkeeper’s daughter escorting them to their room. Though far from his usual charming self, he managed a smile and a friendly air; a contrast to the cool, matter-of-fact manner in which he addressed Esares these days so striking as to feel surreal.

But if anything about Anereth’s aloofness towards him unsettled him, it wasn’t that he failed to act gentle or sympathetic, but precisely that he also did not do the opposite, having nothing cruel to say to him, either. Esares almost hated himself a little for not having divulged Sylves’ words of power when Anereth first asked it of him, despite believing he had acted reasonably with the knowledge he'd had, and having no idea what would have happened had he caved earlier.

The fact that Anereth even in his obvious fury had yet to utter a word about it, about any of Esares’ recent behavior… that was strange, and at first, although Esares hadn’t much dwelt on it and been unable to scrape up any significant fear to attach to the possibility, it had made it hard to believe he wasn’t to tragically fall down a ravine on the way yet, despite the mage’s previous assurances to the contrary. It wouldn’t even need to mean he had been lying then – he might simply have had a change of heart.

When Esares had woken this morning and seen the second dawn of their journey together, though, one that brought unrelenting winds and muddy roads, still in one piece, he’d dropped that line of thinking altogether. It didn’t fit. If he wanted to be rid of Esares, Anereth didn’t need to wait for the ideal chance like with Sylves – he could just take action, any time they were alone in the woods, by a river, in an area known to be the hunting ground of horned wolves. No one would ask many questions, especially Sylves, especially now. And Anereth should be acutely aware at this point of the dangers of not getting rid of those one wished gone early on.

There was also the fact that when the man did pay attention to him – to make sure he drank or ate or could keep up – it didn’t feel like he was waiting for anything.

In the end, Esares had concluded he was presently just unimportant to the mage. A source of displeasure, yes, but one that could be ignored on the assumption that it would not always be. In the future, Anereth might wish to possess him, or dote on him, or, if his anger mounted when his desires continued being thwarted, make sure he did not forget that everything he suffered from here at Sylves’ hands could be considered to be his own fault; but at the moment, obviously Anereth was preoccupied with other matters.

He’d barely glanced at him when Esares had treated the accommodations in that first inn like he had the same right to them as any human guest, and not even shown that amount of interest when in the second place they'd lodged at, Esares had glared – extensively – at a guest in the corridors who’d stared at him, just to immediately after claim another couch without a word.

Which was why he was taken aback when this time, once the daughter of the innkeeper’s left them to settle into their room, and it turned out to lack a couch, but have a nice, red-golden carpet, he appeared to have an opinion on where Esares ought to sleep. Or ought to not sleep.

“Get back up and come here, will you.”

Esares, who'd not shared a bed with Anereth since learning his true intentions and had rarely been less keen to have a human in his personal space than presently, didn't move. “I'm fine where I am.”

“The floor, really?” Anereth asked. He was lying on his side, covers drawn up to his chest; studying Esares. “You can't think I would hurt you. Whatever has changed and however little faith you may have in my integrity, it would be quite foolish of me to make you hate me that much.”

“It's not that,” Esares said. “I just think I would sleep better on the floor.”

“You'll be in even worse shape tomorrow if you do that.” In the dim candlelight, the shadows under the mage’s eyes were a bit too pronounced, but other than that, he had recovered from the aftermath of receiving Sylves’ letter nicely – Esares had no illusions that the same could be said for him. “Don't be silly. The bed's a bit too small for me to promise I won't so much as brush against you, but if you turn your back to me I'm sure you'll be able to pretend I'm not there well enough.”

“I don't think it's possible for my muscles to get any more sore than this. So I don't think it matters.”

“If it doesn't matter, indulge me and come here.”

Esares looked away, staying where he was.

Anereth sat up. Esares tensed, but relaxed minutely when the mage made no move to come get him. “What is it you're mad at me for?” the human asked instead. “Is this about originally telling you to stay in Nuvaria and denying you a front-row seat to your revenge? Is it still about keeping my plans from you at the start of this? Or do you blame me for not being able to kill Sylves as swiftly as I said I would?”

Esares continued to avoid the mage's gaze. “Not the last one,” he said quietly. As unhappy as he was with Anereth and as much as he hadn’t forgiven him for anything, holding him responsible for the fact that Sylves was to go on breathing for the foreseeable future would be absurd. “You ask why I’m angry like the feeling isn’t mutual.”

“I’m not angry.” Esares brought his eyes back to Anereth to shoot him an incredulous look. “I’m angry in a general sense,” the mage amended.”Not because you’ve been less than pleasant company recently, or because I blame you for anything. Not at you. Obviously you can’t say the same.” He sighed. “For what it's worth, I never meant for my deception to drag on as long as it did. Only until I could be sure you would hear me out. But then Valithia arrived, and things got a little off-track. At times, perhaps I didn't mind as much as I should have. But I didn't lie about anything else. And Sylves will die by my hand in the end, regardless of how long it may take, and whether or not you will personally bear witness.”

Esares closed his eyes. “May I please sleep on the floor?”

“We're going to arrive in Enalyr soon. Sylves might already be there, and once he is, you know how it will be. If you can't even make yourself share a bed with me, how are you going to endure?”

Esares looked at him sharply. “I don't need you to train me so I will perform to my master's satisfaction,” he said, “my lord.”

Privately, he wondered if Sylves would already be waiting for them in Enalyr. There’d been no news of him since the night before they left – Anereth’s response had reached him, the kihtras spell successful, but he’d not sent another message.

Whenever they passed through a city or town, Esares listened for rumors, but there were none of those that were useful, either – just some talk about Sylves having veered off the main road early on and skipping some settlements along it that had hoped to host the Chosen One. For the sake of meeting up with his now-gone brother, Esares extrapolated, though there were a number of more popular, and sometimes more outlandish, theories.

What forces had Sylves encountered? For how long could the Ivariney hush this up, and why did they a full week later still feel the need to?

Whatever the answer, Esares hoped humanity’s hero’s condition was bad enough he’d not get to Enalyr until long after them, so that even if he had to endure in the end, he’d at least have the opportunity to for a change spend some time in Anereth’s family home without being locked up in his master’s room. Anereth had offhandedly declared taking him there a horrible idea before – perhaps Esares could figure out what that had been about, because the mage had all but admitted a fear of implicating his family wasn’t solely what those words had been based on.

It crossed Esares’ mind he had just handed Anereth the ideal opening to vent some of his frustration – to make a cool remark, maybe, about how Esares had no right to whine about having to go back to the man who owned him, because hadn't Anereth warned him this could happen if he delayed? In reality, Esares had been waiting for him to rub it in at least once from nearly the moment the man had barged into his room with Sylves’ letter.

Anereth was quiet for several long seconds, then abruptly threw off the covers and stood. “Honestly.” Esares watched, a little wary but mainly in puzzlement, as he put on his robe and strode past him, out into the hall.

Through the door he’d left ajar, muffled conversation and laughter from other patrons could be heard that Esares while speaking with Anereth had completely tuned out. But even now, the noise wasn’t nearly as bad as he had first anticipated, and appeared to be coming mostly from the floors below – it seemed Anereth hadn’t paid extra for the most isolated available room in vain, after all.

Before Esares could decide whether he should follow, Anereth returned, dropping a thick bundle of cloth in front of him. It took Esares a moment to recognize it as a blanket and pillow.

“Suit yourself,” Anereth said, and after putting out the large candles attached to the wall to each side of his bed returned to it, this time lying down on his back. The moonlight crawling in through the humbly-sized window above Esares only just sufficed to make out his general shape.

Esares wrapped the downy blanket around himself. “Thank you.” He rested his head on the pillow. The floor was hard despite the carpet, but it wasn't uncomfortable like this. He hesitated. “May I ask...”

“Yes?”

“May I ask what your family is like? Aside from Lady Valithia.”

Anereth didn't reply right away. “Tiliera is a scholar through and through. She and Ksielle would probably have a lot to talk about, though thankfully Tiliera has less of a penchant for research or spells likely to cause large-scale damage. She also likes people better. And demons,” he added.

“Is Kyenne her only slave?”

“Her only personal slave. She's settled down in Oleren. There's a household slave or two.”

“And your mother?” Esares was curious about the woman, and Anereth’s relationship with her. It may truly be that he that had merely failed to recognize his own limits when he cast that additional kihtras spell before getting back to Sylves, but it had occurred to Esares since that there might be a reason why only sending word to her later would have caused enough complications Anereth had consciously decided to chance suffering the consequences of magical exhaustion instead.

Perhaps she was very strict, or their relationship very tense, so that Anereth needed to carefully adhere to rules of politeness even at the cost of his own health. Maybe she was the one with unrealistic expectations regarding her talented son’s magical aptitude.

“You've met her.”

“Briefly,” Esares said. She’d done little but engage in small talk with Sylves at the time.

“If you were looking for a friendly chat, I'd recommend sticking to Valithia and Tiliera. But she's not going to bother you. She does not share the views of, say, Faveran Tevenra.”

Esares hadn't been aware he'd been anxious about that until he heard Anereth's reply and a knot in his stomach loosened – for all that a dozen others firmly remained. It was an uncomfortable reminder the personal standards Anereth was or wasn’t held to by his mother were the last thing he should be concerning himself with. He was quiet for a minute. “What does your family use household slaves for?”

“Minor chores. A show of prestige. I don't think anyone in Enalyr has table slaves. Or in Oleren, for the matter.”

Esares had almost figured as much. Enalyr was a remote city, with few nobles in it and even less mages; and from the sound of it, Oleren was more rural still. Anereth's family probably did not have visitors often.

Of course, though he'd expected Anereth's family did not keep any slaves for the sole purpose of having them serve other people, he'd been less sure about them never having demons do so. He still wasn't sure. He considered asking for clarification: was Anereth certain what he'd listed was all there was to it, always?

But he wouldn't be content unless he had confirmation from any of the slaves themselves, so he decided to let it be for now.

“Are you done with the questions?” Anereth asked.

“Yes.” An apology for disturbing the mage lay at the tip of his tongue, but Esares swallowed it.

“Then I also have one,” Anereth said. “On a scale from random mage passing you by in the street to Sylves, how much do you dislike me at the moment?”

Esares craned his neck to look at the human, trying to determine whether he was serious. The room was dark enough, however, that he may as well not have bothered. “Somewhere in the middle,” he said dryly.

“Ah. Around the point of 'overly talkative shop assistant', is it?”

This startled a snort out of Esares. “He gets his own scale.”

Anereth made an amused sound, followed by an extended period of silence. Esares was just beginning to think the conversation was over when the mage spoke up again, “I can’t hide you away from Sylves.”

Esares’ fingers curled inwards. “I know.”

“I can’t hide you away from Sylves,” Anereth repeated, softly, “but there are things I can do. You will have to face him, and obey him. But I will have your back, and help you as much as I am able. Do you trust me for that?”

Esares drew a breath. He unclenched his hands; then, annoyed that they were trembling, balled them to fists again. He would accept he had misunderstood Anereth somewhat, but… “You’d not do anything that could interfere with your goal, just to spare me indignity, or pain.”

“Would you want me to?”

Esares smiled mirthlessly in the dark. Count on Anereth to neatly deflect the not-really question. He shut his eyes. “No,” he said.

Another silence, longer than the first; then the rustling of fabric. “Well, I suggest we get some sleep. You've been looking as though you might fall off your horse since about noon, and not for lack of riding ability. I have high hopes of arriving before the weather takes a turn for the worse, and I'd prefer to not have them dashed on account of needing to look over my shoulder every five minutes to ascertain you're still in the saddle.”

Esares couldn't argue with that. As much as he would have liked to stay on the road forever and wouldn’t care if every day were one of heavy rains and winds, if that wasn’t a possibility, then he’d at least like to try and arrive in Enalyr ahead of Sylves. Him being injured and having to await an escort hopefully meant there was a real chance of that, despite Esares and Anereth surely having to journey a much greater distance than the Chosen One and his party – but not if they dallied.

Esares pulled the soft wide blanket up to his chin. “Good night.”

Chapter Text

The morning that followed their first meaningful conversation since leaving the capital, Esares and Anereth were greeted by a strong breeze and a bright sky gradually being encroached on by familiar gloomy clouds. It had rained again during the night, rendering meadows reminiscent of marshes and the air cold enough to bite.

While they themselves had only gotten a little wet so far and the wind had yet to inhibit their travels, a proper storm could be upon them at any moment, so they pushed their horses. Or rather, Anereth pushed his horse and Esares halfheartedly encouraged his to follow along. He did want to reach Enalyr ahead of Sylves, and getting caught in a thunderstorm wouldn’t help with that, but… it was also so, so tempting – the knowledge of how easy it would be to delay them by a significant margin.

He didn’t, wouldn’t, but it required all his self-control.

The nausea that had gripped Esares when he’d first learned he would have to go back to a life under Sylves’ power had never fully left him since. Its remnants sat deep within his stomach, a constant reminder of what lay ahead, even when he put forth his best effort to not think of the man whose mere memory made his skin crawl.

There was a lot he told himself to make it bearable: that he had survived Sylves before, under worse circumstances; that Anereth could still borrow him from his master as he had originally hoped, and probably would – if only to retain more control over Esares; that as long as he got the chance to explore Anereth’s family home and talk to the demons there, he should gain invaluable information about the man and what he was truly like, perhaps enough to figure out his secrets. To his own surprise, Esares also found himself rather focused on the fact that one of the first people to welcome them in Enalyr would probably be Valithia, the one human whom, despite her flaws, he could not imagine looking at him as a thing to be used.

Most frequently, Esares reminded himself that before anything else, news of his people – good news, surely – awaited once he and the mage reached their destination.

Despite all this, he wasn’t able to look towards arriving in Enalyr with anything but dread.

Because it would mark an end, the inevitable return to being just a pet. It was how the Laverien household would see him even without Sylves there, and with his master joining them… well. As much as Valithia had grown on him, Esares wasn’t certain he wanted to see even her again under the circumstances.

Though at least he didn’t expect her to witness much of his humiliation personally. Chances were once Sylves and his party got there, this would be sickeningly like the weekend he’d spent in Enalyr in the past: while he could hope his master would be too badly wounded or grieved to want to fuck him right away, Esares would be lucky to be able to leave his master’s room after being returned to him, let alone have chats with Anereth’s family, or use any of the furniture except his master’s bed, and it would get worse from there before it could get better.

And of course, how much kinder Anereth would be in ensuring he stayed out of the way until then was anyone’s guess . Though Esares expected there to be be a difference, and for that difference to come with opportunities, the man had made it abundantly clear he would go to some lengths to prevent him from snooping, and the prospect of discovering what this entailed in their current situation didn’t exactly fill Esares with pleasant emotions, either.

Finding out more about his people’s attack on the Chosen One was the only genuine upside to what lay at the end of this journey, but even that was tainted by his fear that Sinieru’s clan might have been a part of it, that someone he knew and cared about – Sinieru – could have been hurt. He was able not to dwell on it, because more than anyone Sinieru was a survivor, and it remained supremely unlikely his friend of all people would not only have been involved in a battle against the Chosen One, but lost his life in it when his kin had achieved an overwhelming victory. It was just that the bigger and more suffocating the knot of anxiety and queasiness grew in Esares’ chest, the harder it became to hold on to logic, and that he had a strange feeling about this.

An overwhelming victory it had been, though. The Ivariney’s ongoing silence confirmed as much. Sylves’ attackers had failed to kill him, but what they had managed to do instead… the Chosen One’s death would have been an incomparable prize, of course, but putting the Ivariney in a position where they felt the need to keep quiet about the loss of one of their own was no trivial matter, and there were other ways to destroy someone. Esares wondered how well Sylves would be able to stitch himself back together.

Any physical injuries aside, Esares didn’t need to have Sylves before him to know he would not be taking the violent demise of his guards and companions well – Kiares Bemeran, the high ranking member of the Ivariney who was among the dead, had all but helped raise him. A couple of his original escort had been parents of friends and acquaintances from school. Not to mention the probable death of one of his brothers: the younger one, Anereth had casually informed him this morning when Esares finally found it in himself to ask. Esares almost felt a twinge of regret at the answer, because Jelsh had been too close to childhood still for Esares to have all that much against him, compared to his older siblings; even if he’d already treated the slaves in the household as condescendingly as they.

His loss might just make the bigger impact on Sylves, though, so there was that. Sylves loved all his family fiercely, but had been protective of his youngest sibling in particular. Esares could only imagine what having his little brother killed in an attempt on his life would do to him.

No doubt Anereth would take advantage of that, his vulnerability. And Esares… Esares would enjoy seeing him hurting.

Wretchedly, it was about the only thing he expected be able to console himself with when he actually faced Sylves – in the months to come.

There were a lot of uncertainties, a lot of possibilities, but it was without question that Anereth’s family home, however harmless and enticing in itself, would be where Esares’ relative freedom and safety of the past weeks evaporated.

So no matter how auspicious the Ivariney’s continued concealment of events was, and even if he occasionally indulged in improbable daydreams about his reunion with Valithia culminating in her completely ignoring Sylves’ injuries as well as the fact that he would be mourning in favor of berating the Chosen One in front of all and sundry for not being nice enough to Esares, it seemed self-evident there was no scenario that had the faintest basis in reality in which he would be in any capacity looking forward to reaching Enalyr.

This assessment was abruptly shattered when they passed through Celmehr at sundown, determined to make it to the smaller town of Kulchir that day even if it meant having to travel an hour or two in the dark, and received a warning from one of the guards that not only fit into the puzzle of the Ivariney’s secrecy, but rearranged the pieces altogether.

“A dragon-sighting?”

Esares, who hadn’t been paying attention to the humans’ conversation until then, jumped when he heard the words. Without bothering to be subtle about it – or stopping to think –, he steered his horse closer to that of the mage.

“Yes, my lord,” the guard said. He was by far the tallest of the soldiers posted at the gates, able to comfortably examine the tips of Anereth’s gelding’s ears if he ever tore his eyes away from the mage’s face. “Over in Surch. You hadn’t heard? Well, I figured you might not have if you were about to venture out at this hour. I take it you haven’t been staying here long?”

“I’m afraid just long enough to have the smith replace the horseshoe,” Anereth returned. The blood pounding in Esares’ ears was loud enough he almost missed the faint thread of unease winding through the words – but he did catch it, and it added further speed to his rapidly beating heart. “Would you mind filling me in?”

“Well, my lord.” The guard moved closer to Anereth. Which meant he was almost standing on his horse’s front hooves, because he’d already been having the closest to a private conversation with the mage as was possible under the circumstances, several feet away from the other men and women on duty with him. He’d been blatantly fascinated by Anereth’s unusual appearance, and Anereth had an unfortunate habit of responding to any overt reaction to his silver hair – including the palpable suspicion of the keeper of the second inn they’d stayed at – with flirtation.

Or not so unfortunate, maybe, Esares thought as the guard continued, “First it was just a rumor, you understand, and we didn’t think much of it – troublemakers telling tales over drink. But then more people show up making the same claim, respectable people, and before you know it, everyone’s talking about how the town folk in Surch think they saw a dragon. Think they did, aye? Because of course at first most everyone sensible still suspected it’d been just some fools, then, who’d seen whatever and jumped to conclusions, getting everyone excited. A dragon! How does that make sense?”

“Indeed,” Anereth said, his voice as dry as Esares’ mouth felt.

For the first time since Anereth responded favorably to catching the man staring, Esares could detect embarrassment on the guard’s face. “Turns out it was a good chunk of the town who swore up and down to’ve seen it clear as day with their own eyes,“ the man explained, just a little hurriedly, “and a handful of farmers and travelers from outside as well. Word is there’s been an official report sent and everything.”

“That does sound worrying.” There was exactly the polite amount of concern in Anereth’s tone, now – Esares couldn’t have explained why it caught him off-guard, then, when he slanted a look at the mage’s hands and found them loose and steady around the reins.

Although it wasn’t possible for the guard to take another step towards Anereth without physically disturbing his horse, he managed to further increase his proximity to the mage by leaning forward. “Just yesterday someone even claimed a bull went missing from a nearby village that night, from a fenced in pasture, with only some blood and claw marks the size of a child remaining, though so far no one else knows anything about that.”

The soldier continued with a shake of his head, “The people coming here from Surch all told it the same, too: night had just fallen, and when those still about on the streets lifted their heads, suddenly there it was, big as a house and entirely silent, flying over towards the border. They say its scales gleamed in the moonlight, like fresh blood.” As the human finished, he abruptly stepped back and crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking vaguely lost, despite how readily he had launched into the tale.

“When was this?”

“’bout a week ago. A bit over, now.” The guard paused. “I don’t want to believe it was a dragon, my lord. If there was one, and it could fly straight through Desarias without anyone stopping it...” He shook his head again, as though to chase away the thought. “So I tell myself people may not have been able to see clearly in the dark, and it might have been a spring dawn bird, a really huge one like the one that terrorized Fulnur a couple years back, or some have speculated griffins to account for livestock vanishing teeth and bones and all, but...”

“It's not easy to confuse anything with a dragon that is not a dragon,” Anereth said. “Not for so many people.”

The guard dipped his head. “That’s what everyone thinks, my lord. There’s not been a dragon-sighting false or otherwise in a long time, aye?”

“Over two decades,” Anereth said, softly, more to himself than anything. When Esares glanced at him, his brows were drawn together and his forehead creased.

Esares heard little from there. He was peripherally aware of the guard trying to get Anereth to at least wait until morning before continuing on, because an ancient – and, anyone educated on the subject knew, false – legend about dragons said they hunted at night. Anereth waved him off, and then they were out of the gates without Esares remembering having nudged his mare to follow the mage.

Esares felt lightheaded, barely noticing the horses switching from a walk into a trot. His heart hammered against his ribcage.

It might be nothing. It might truly just have been a spring dawn bird people saw – or indeed a griffin, though they rarely crossed over to Desarias from Halethion. Their rare appearance on this side of the border, at least, might make it easier for people to mistake them for a creature whose magic was distantly related to theirs.

It seemed too much of a coincidence, though. Surch was not far from the route Sylves had taken to Timnestra. From how he’d reacted to the guard’s words, Anereth must be thinking the same thing.

Esares tried not to get his hopes up, but knew he had failed when he began trying to imagine what the hypothetical dragon might look like. He had never met one in person, of course, but he had seen more vivid depictions of them and read and heard more detailed descriptions than he could count. The wings as huge as several griffins put together; the scales reminiscent of polished ruby or obsidian; the deadly grace with which they moved and their eyes that always reflected the flames burning inside them, even when they changed shape to look almost like any ordinary demon – like the Senendris the dragons born from the sea descended from, just as much as they descended from Argarae, the last of the firstborn dragons who fell and whose blood painted the sea.

It was this form that had inspired most human tales that did not end with the dragon being slayn. It was this form in which it was said humans, when they’d been able to capture a dragon – usually young, usually not having grown into an ounce of their power yet –, had always sought to trap and enslave them. And it would have been this shape in which the children of Argarae had still torn out their captors’ throats and dragged them with them to the grave, time and time again

Esares had never counted on dragons alone to save his people, but he had always admired them; maybe after all this time under Sylves’ thumb more than ever, because where he was weak, it was their nature to never bow, never kneel – to become the gruesome deaths of anyone who would defile them.

And he had wished, and longed, and now he wondered.

He could not see Desarias’ wards simply failing, and did not know how they might have been disabled without the humans immediately noticing. A clan like Sinieru’s could have circumvented them, but also… the wards in their current form hadn’t been put in place until the end the Great Wars, and a dragon’s magic was different from that of any mortal being. Could they detect it?

What if the dragon took on another shape – only ever that of the Senendris in lore; but would not most of their magic still recede and hide away unless they called upon it, as Esares magic did when he would change into a crow or panther, so as to not damage a body not meant to contain it?

If a dragon had been involved in the most recent attempt on Sylves’ life, it accounted for the Ivariney’s secrecy and the missing details from Sylves’ letter perfectly, better than any sheer number of demons that may have gotten around their safety measures. A dragon crossing the border would make humans think of their hero and leaders getting devoured whole like in times of old, of cities burning as Halethion’s former capital, of the return of an all out war in which Esares’ people were beasts with claws and fangs rather than lambs to be slaughtered.

A dragon would also likely mean that however many of the descendants of Argarae remained had begun to gather. After all, Chirarn of the Fading Mountains had made an oath that he would not leave the territory of the southern mountain clans until the day had come to reunite with his kin – not that humans would know this.

Dragons, unless directly and gravely provoked, were not known for going back on their word, nor for suddenly throwing the intentions they’d held for decades to the wind. Esares could say with some certainty that Sylves had not personally tracked Chirarn down and challenged him. So there must be at least one other dragon involved, who’d also been waiting for something until now. And if there was one who had been hidden and now come out to face their enemies, strong and unafraid and cunning...

Esares inhaled deeply, the smell of wet grass and violets filling his lungs. There might be no dragon. It could be if not an incredible coincidence, then a powerful shapeshifter who’d taken an unusual form that from afar could be mistaken for a dragon – such as that of a griffin, yes; maybe a breed not native to these parts at all –, or an illusion meant to throw humans into disarray. These were possibilities, but.

But.

Esares had at one time thought he would be able to throw off the shadow of all Sylves had done to him, if he could lay eyes upon a dragon once. It had been too long now, for him to be able to convince himself of that – even so, with the image of a real life dragon seared into his heart, a messenger of the gods, proud and magnificent and more powerful than any other living creature, except maybe the one prophesied to challenge them, he did not think he would be able to look at Sylves and have any wretched part of him think: master.

And he was excited and terrified to find out if there was a chance he could have that, and what it would mean for his people. The dragon, if they existed, could not have been killed by Sylves – they had been observed flying out of the county, and besides, Desarias’ leaders would have gotten word around quickly had Sylves achieved the feat of slaying a dragon. Sylves would not have talked about just driving the enemy off in his letter.

A dragon...

“You’re downright thrilled, aren’t you.” Esares only realized Anereth had halted his horse, and that his own was following suit, when the mage spoke up.

As he became aware of his surroundings – the narrow road they were on; the open fields framing it bathed in the orange light of the sinking sun; the fact that the town they’d come from was no longer anywhere in sight, and not a single other soul –, he also became aware he was trembling. The last time he had felt like this, he’d been about to put a knife to Sylves’ throat.

He raised his head, and met Anereth’s eyes levelly as the human finished turning his horse around. “I want this to be just the beginning. I want there to be a dozen dragons, and I want them to burn your country to the ground,” he said. “Can you begrudge me?”

Anereth’s lips quirked. “Not at all. I’m glad at least one of us considers this good news. It’d be a shame if we both kept receiving ill ones.” His smile did not reach his eyes, and the set of his jaw was tense.

“So are you finally thinking better of leaving me alive?” Although Esares wanted to live now more than ever, he found he was not scared of the answer. Dragons.

“This again?” Anereth asked, but without any real surprise in his voice or expression. “Why would you suggest I do away with you this time – because you’re going to be insufferably cheerful if the better part of Sylves’ companions ended up as dragon fodder, and depressing to be around should we learn the fate they encountered was nothing of the sort? There are difficult days ahead, to be sure, but I believe I shall manage.”

Esares glared at him. Anereth had a good idea what he was talking about, and he could not fathom why he was still playing around. “You know my loyalties. Don’t you think if there is a dragon–” he was careful not to use the plural –”I might regret helping you? That I might--”

“What?” Anereth interjected, sounding perfectly casual – but this highlighted that when speaking about what the people of Surch had seen with the town guard, his tone, his entire manner, had been different. “I knew one day dragons would fight for your kind again,” the mage elaborated when Esares pressed his lips together, “and so did you when you joined me, of your own volition and rather on your own terms in the end. This would be much earlier than I ever saw coming, and I suspect it’s the same for you, but until Desarias actually starts burning, it changes little – about what we discussed, and what I can offer. Am I wrong?”

“No,” Esares said, honestly enough. “But you know what I am, what I want more than anything. And even if you have no other misgivings, you know what I would do if you made a move against a dragon – to prolong Sylves’ life for your own benefit, or after he is dead.”

Anereth surveyed the area briefly, idly, before his gaze came to rest on Esares once more. “Oh yes. You would martyr yourself in a heartbeat, for the barest chance of foiling me, and never mind that information about the Timnestra collars you have no guarantee you will obtain from me. How lucky, then, that I am not Sylves, and do not plan to fight any dragons to the death.”

“Are you so certain?” Esares asked. He did not understand. It was of precious little concern to a dragon what Anereth planned to do, or to the army that would eagerly come together around one. Even if Anereth had no desire to see humanity’s mortal enemies annihilated as such, he would protect himself and his interests, and clearly he realized how little it would take for Esares to turn on him in an all out war.

Although Anereth may not be quite power-hungry enough to ever consider putting himself between Sylves and a dragon in pursuit of it, if he succeeded in his aims, it’d not be Sylves the divine protectors of Esares’ kind – unlikely to back down from a battle already begun – would come for. And should Anereth harm them, should he slay them… Esares may as well have struck them from the skies himself.

It would be hard giving Anereth the benefit of the doubt under those circumstances. Maybe impossible, once he achieved what Esares had failed to.

And surely that should go both ways. Surely it did. He remembered how Anereth had looked at him the night he’d received Sylves’ letter. If Esares were free, if he had been given the opportunity at all, he would have been involved in this attempt on Sylves’ life, too – Anereth’s honeyed words and promises be damned. Esares would always distrust the man, and nearly above all, he would always desire the Chosen One’s death. Anereth had no illusions as to this fact.

So why keep around an asset turned liability?

From the moment Sylves’ words of revelation passed his lips, Esares had been bewildered by Anereth’s continued assurances that he wouldn’t kill him, but in light of recent events, of this, they made no sense to him at all.

Anereth may still like him, even want him; but he was not Sylves, to let sentiment drown out reason.

And yet.

“I thought we agreed,” Anereth said, “that I am not the sort of person who will rush onto the battlefield.”

It was no answer, but an evasion, and it hid something, just as the man’s artfully crafted mask of calm.

“What if they come for you?” Esares demanded. “What if they start setting ablaze your cities, taking them – what if an army starts closing in on your capital, led by a dragon? Or a dozen.” He added the last part knowing Anereth would just deem it wishful thinking and read nothing into it. A dozen dragons were indeed unlikely, as good as an impossibility. But two, or three or four…

“I suppose I’d have to switch sides,” Anereth said, his tone as light as when he had first addressed the forward town guard – making it clear it was yet another of his tiresome jests, if there had been any doubt. “Just the idea of one dragon is terrifying. I like my flesh uncharred and my intestines safely tucked away where they belong.”

“This isn’t funny,” Esares said, with a sharp flash of irritation. “And you don’t think it is. You think this is real – you think Sylves was nearly killed by a dragon. That his friends and guards were.”

Esares did not worry about giving Anereth ideas. The mage could easily think up his own worst case scenarios, and how they related to their agreement. If anything, Esares was glad they still had some distance to cover till Enalyr, granting the man plenty of time to do so. It meant that provided Esares did get there alive, he could probably expect to remain that way, whatever was happening, or going to happen. He was fine dying by Anereth’s hand, and otherwise resolved to going back to Sylves and enduring, but he would not do the latter if it was to merely culminate in the former.

He would sooner Anereth use a heating spell to burn him to death by increments.

The mage did not reply for a long while, the gaze with which he returned Esares’ hard stare appraising. “I think Sylves probably believes it,” he said then, like a concession. “It explains some things.”

A thrill ran through Esares, and it was a moment before he could refocus on the conversation. “So what now?” he asked. “You’re waiting for confirmation, for proof, and then what?” He didn’t know why Anereth would even hold out for that – if Sylves had faced down what the people of Surch had seen and also come away convinced it was a dragon, what were the odds that it would turn out to have been something different after all? Ordinarily, Sylves despite all his power and special training may have the same trouble seeing through an illusion as anyone else, because he was young an inexperienced still; but an attacking dragon? That was an unusual and complex phantom to conjure up, and if it had behaved oddly at all, had appeared out of nowhere or not actually burned anything, he should at least know enough to be strongly suspecting it had been false.

And Sylves had written that his companions had fallen victim to large-scale magic that did not leave recognizable corpses, hadn’t he? Like dragon fire.

More and more, it seemed to Esares both Anereth and the Ivariney already had a good idea of what had befallen Sylves and his escort, and how it had been possible; they just didn’t like it. Did not want it to be true, for wholly different reasons. The realization was exhilarating – but it would be out of character for either to not be preparing for the much more probable worst case scenario regardless. So what was Anereth’s game?

“Before, you didn’t have any compelling reason to leave me alive,” Esares went on when Anereth didn’t respond, “but also only a few to kill me. Now I can think of a dozen at the top of my head, and I know so can you. More likely than not there is a dragon out for the Chosen One’s blood. Aren’t you concerned I might do something stupid?”

“I believe as long as I back you into no corners, you will prove wholly the opposite of stupid,” Anereth said. “If it was a dragon, were it to get through everyone else, it should have little more trouble gobbling me up than Sylves. Only I would be willing to trade for my life, yes? Because I am not the enemy of dragons.” Esares jerked – how did Anereth know that phrase?

If the mage noticed his reaction, he didn’t indicate it, calmly continuing, “So one way or the other, at least until Sylves is gone this should have no bearing on our accord. And after, I’m confident you’ll have realized how foolish it’d be to turn against me.” He lapsed into a short silence, then added, more mildly, “Besides, having lost the element of surprise, any hypothetical dragon’d be as likely to retreat again as anything else.”

Esares shook off his befuddlement. He knew no demon aware of that part of their lore, their prophecy, who would talk of it to a human, but that didn’t mean they could not exist. Slavery was harsh, and Anereth could be very kind.

He watched the mage through narrowed eyes. “But you’re worried.”

“It’s a dragon,” Anereth said by way of explanation. “Your loyalties don’t trouble me, though. I’d not like to give you the chance to sit down with it and plot, but while I can’t speak for the rest of humanity, I’m not going to start jumping at shadows, and I believe you underestimate how firmly I prefer you alive. Me getting rid of you is not among the things you need to be worried about.” His voice went a little flat, the look in his eyes faraway for a second when he finished, “Be happy about your dragon. But try to hold off until you can be sure it really was one. There’ve been enough unpleasant revelations of late.”

For Anereth, Esares was sure a dragon’s involvement would be one of them.

But did it have to be? The thought flicked into Esares’ mind suddenly, and it was like inadvertently brushing up against someone working lightning magic – disorienting.

Anereth’s voice resounded in his head: I supposed I’d have to switch sides. And Esares thought, unable to tell if the difficulty drawing air into his lungs he was experiencing stemmed from the idea having occurred to him at all or not before, Why not?

Those words has been a joke, but the mage’s purported lack of scruples about betraying the rest of humanity for his own benefit was not. Maybe if it came down to it, he would put his life on the line for Valithia, or someone else from his family, but other than that… after the past week, and this conversation, Esares didn’t think it was delusional to assume he cared more about even Esares’ continued survival than that of most everyone of his peers – let alone random citizens of Desarias. A human who would betray and kill his closest friend for power, would betray and kill Sylves... what treachery wouldn’t he commit, given the right incentive?

Esares didn’t respond to Anereth’s assurance, nor to his cautioning him, and the mage did not seem to have expected him to. Anereth began steering his horse back around after a beat, then stopped. “There is one thing.”

Snapping out of his daze, Esares looked at the human in askance.

“This should be superfluous to point out, but just in case. Don’t mention anything we’ve talked about to other demons, either, should you get the chance. If you do, no matter who it is, I shall consider the final part of our deal void.”

Esares’s grip on the reins tightened enough to be painful. “I understand.”

The smallest smile, which made Esares’ jaw clench. “I thought you would.”

As they resumed on their way, Esares let most of the anger drain out of him – this was nothing but what he’d come to expect from Anereth. The man wasn’t precisely altering the terms of their arrangement, either, considering it included a tacit agreement to secrecy that could be interpreted as covering this. Esares had consented to help Anereth, after all, and causing rumors about him to circulate among slaves would be sabotaging him instead. Even if Esares’d argue just talking about the understanding he had with the mage to someone he trusted was not remotely the same.

As far as threats went, the one Anereth had picked was relatively tame. Less menacing than the more open-ended ones he had demonstrated a fondness of in the past. Esares couldn’t help noting he had once again carefully avoided threatening Lykis. He hardly needed to, of course, for Esares to be conscious of his friend’s wellbeing hanging in the balance should he ever make the slightest move against Anereth – but the mage’s ongoing refusal to even hint at this meant something, was safer than the alternatives.

And more promising.

Eyes fixed on the human’s back, Esares’ earlier idea stirred.

Anereth already had no qualms severely weakening humanity as a whole, already professed himself willing to divulge the Ivariney’s most tightly guarded secrets to him just because he figured it would appease Esares and not hurt him personally.

Should Esares’ people rise up united during Anereth’s lifetime – now or in the future, guided by dragons or not –, was it really outside the realm of possibility to get the man to turn on his own kind the rest of the way?

Esares recalled the badly-veiled unease in Anereth’s tone upon realizing Sylves might not simply have encountered assassins or soldiers.

There was no question in his mind that the human had never taken demons seriously as a threat to himself or his plans before the attack on Sylves and his party – maybe before today. Excepting unlikely circumstances, he would not have believed their forces capable of killing the Chosen One or the Ivariney; of destroying Desarias’ armies, or cities. Certainly Anereth hadn’t been losing any sleep over the possibility of demons emerging victorious in the case that he saw open warfare resume between their people.

And why would he have? Even Esares, who appreciated that Anereth was unaware of their full strength, had been far from optimistic. It was the only reason he had agreed to join hands with the mage.

Now, though--

A dragon had come to Desarias. Esares wanted to be prudent, and had been afraid of falling prey to false hope even before Anereth warned him against it, but the more he thought about, the more trouble did he have entertaining any other notion. It couldn’t be just a giant coincidence. And while a deliberate ruse was a better explanation, how did you trick someone into thinking they were battling a non-existent dragon?

Even assuming the dragon people saw had somehow been an illusion, which was at least more likely than a griffin or spring dawn bird… just getting demons past the wards who were capable of one so grand, one that was all but unheard of and would have taken a number of extremely talented and powerful casters to sustain, never mind the skill and magic reserves required to keep it up even after the battle to continue fooling the humans-- that would still be an incredible feat, still bode well for their chances at winning this war.

And if that was the case…

Anereth was not someone who would sacrifice his life for humanity. He was also not someone, Esares was fairly sure, whose allegiance could not be bought.

The question was what it would take.

What was it he valued, besides his own life?

Should it be magical power as such Anereth was after, Esares’ people could give him that in many forms, too. A dragon could bestow much more, even, though they rarely did, and never had upon a human.

Fortunately, Esares doubted Anereth had set his sights that high.

He fully realized it was a long shot. There was a decent chance Anereth’s motives for wanting to take Sylves’ magic for himself would turn out to mean he was invested in humans reigning supreme if not forever and on principle, then at least while he breathed and personally benefited from it. But that would just mean he’d never agree to do do anything akin to switching sides – he should still want to leave himself a backdoor open, shouldn’t he? Ensure all would not be over for him if things took a bad turn for Desarias’ human population. If Esares could even just convince him he’d do best having a foot in both camps, that could be worth a great deal.

Anereth was self-serving in nature, more so than almost anyone Esares knew. In a war that wasn’t wholly uneven and could lay waste to much more than his carefully-crafted schemes, if the mage found himself able to make it so he’d stand to gain no matter which side won, he ought to at least be interested.

What reason was there under the circumstances, truly, to from the get-go view Anereth only as the lesser of two evils, another obstacle he had to helplessly pray his people would be able to overcome as soon as the greater threat was eliminated? Why stop at trying to get the means of destroying the Timnestra collars out of him and then keeping his fingers crossed for his speedy death so he’d be able to use the knowledge?

The manner in which the situation was changing might render his choice to give up Sylves’ words of power to Anereth the incorrect one, but it also… may not.

Esares would prefer his people did not have to face the Chosen One in proper combat, even with dragons on their side and willing to risk their lives against him. And though he’d been as good as resigning himself to it in the wake of Anereth’s promise, he also did not want them to have to wait the better part of another century for a shot at freedom – would never ask it of them even if it had still been an option now that they had made their move, this move, whatever its specifics. So.

Anereth already liked him in more than a casual sense, whatever the extent of it, and wasn’t indifferent to Esares’ people’s plight, exactly. It was far-fetched to bring him over to their side for love or compassion, but if Esares could learn more about him and what drove him… if Esares not only knew, like with Sylves, how to best offer himself, but also had things to give far beyond that, and if there were dragons and armies Anereth otherwise had to worry about… was it not less of an ambitious mission to embark on than the one that had originally led him here?

Particularly if there were dragons.

And this time, if Esares failed, it wouldn’t need to come at any horrible cost. Rather the opposite: he could still influence Anereth, still make a difference in the bloody conflict that was as good as guaranteed to escalate from here. If Esares was unable to make the mage lift so much as a finger to aid demons during it, but could use him to move about more freely… Esares knew neither the names nor faces of the spies his people had in Desarias, but he was reasonably confident he could make contact, given time and the opportunity to speak with a variety of other slaves alone and repeatedly. Had already hoped to, once Sylves was out of the picture. Now, depending on how things developed, it might be a fundamental advantage if he could join their ranks.

Esares decided he had been rather overlooking the obvious. Anereth had even considered keeping him as a personal slave in the capital instead of at least hiding him away in his family home once he got what he desired, despite the risk. He and Sylves were opposites in many ways, but they both kept Esares alive when they shouldn’t; when it was plain insensible. Wanted him with them.

Anereth’s feelings for him were not at all what he was used to working with, much smaller in scope and more unpredictable in their consequences, but they went beyond a passing interest. They were a start, and, if he was smart about this, more useful than if they resembled Sylves’ obsession.

In Sylves’ case, the man’s infatuation with him earned Esares nothing but the ability to barely cling to the vestiges of his sanity, because his master desired only his obedience and pretty smiles, the pretense of perfect devotion. When it came to Anereth, however…

Anereth would promise him highly sensitive information several generations of Desarias’ most fearsome mages had guarded with their lives because he wished for their relationship to be pleasant.

Even now, Anereth was going to place Esares back in a position where he would be outside the man’s direct influence, could find a way to thwart or at least harm him in the event that it struck him as the more prudent course of action. Anereth had said himself he’d rather not want Esares around when he took Sylves’ magic because the Ivariney might question him – yet from here on, Esares would likely find himself in their presence quite a lot. And he could prove he knew Sylves’ words of revelation, if nothing else.

Esares was no longer powerless, was he?

It was a shame Sylves had survived yet another attempt on his life; but however this turned out, it had cost him, and could change everything for Esares’ people, and may even serve as motivation for Anereth to rethink the terms of their agreement in Esares’ favor. Certainly the opposite seemed not to be happening.

It was as though everything Esares had been dreaming of since losing his freedom was suddenly within reach – except he had options, now, that he would not have imagined having then. He need not be a helpless bystander, keeping his head down and his fingers crossed that his people would make it in the end, useless until one day by some near-miracle the collar was snapped from his neck. He could do so much more, if only he played his cards right.

Whatever had transpired, was transpiring, undoubtedly placed his people in immediate danger; but not worse danger than they had always been in since the dragons born from the sea began to vanish, and for the first time since then, it looked like demons may be able to engage their foes in open battle and come out ahead in the end. They were off to a decent start, and Esares would see them go on in that vein. It helped that Sylves was doomed one way or the other.

As for Anereth, he would find a way to deal with him. Whatever it took.

And Esares wanted the dragon to be real so badly, enough that it scared him; but even if they turned out not to be, it would not change that his people had dealt their enemies a catastrophic blow, and that he had avenues to explore now he hadn’t before. Though Anereth might believe otherwise, he didn’t think he would crumble.

And suddenly he was eager to get to Enalyr and find out for sure what had happened, and to learn more about Anereth and what drove him; almost giddy, really – and even when the next morning, Anereth’s mother sent word that Sylves had arrived there before them and was having his injuries treated by people sent by the Ivariney, an echo of that feeling remained, keeping the bile from climbing up all the way to his throat, this time.

Chapter Text

Enalyr was a small idyllic city, hugged by thick forests and the mountain chain behind which lay the more self-contained country of Halethion. The city had little in common with Nuvaria: there were walls around it, but they were low and brittle, useless if not for the magic imbued in them. No more than a handful of watchtowers rose up behind them, made of the same pale brown stone and just as decrepit – well suited to supporting the ivy clinging to them in abundance, but if he were one of the soldiers manning them, Esares would watch his step; protection spells or no. The towers had been wholly empty the last time he had been here and peered outside a too-small carriage’s windows, and he suspected that had been their natural state for a long time.

There was a single city gate, at which over a dozen guards were posted, all wearing the elaborate, black and dark gray armor reserved for soldiers who possessed at least some magical ability. Like the strength of the wards that even Esares with his diminished senses could feel press into his skin and then release him, those did call to mind the capital and its manifold defenses; but during Esares’ previous visit, there had been maybe two or three them, and certainly no additional women and men in the same and similar uniforms stationed along the walls and throughout the streets.

The large contingent of guards looked severely out of place in a rural city of no particular size or – now that Desarias and Halethion were on friendly terms – political significance, and even if Esares had never been to Enalyr before in his life, he would have been able to tell the majority of them must have arrived with Sylves, or been summoned because of him.

He did his best to ignore them, along with the churning in his stomach.

There was plenty else to focus on, at least. Enalyr’s architects seemed to have taken some inspiration from the capital, but in the end, there was hardly a building whose design struck Esares as entirely familiar. Those that came closest were big estates that had probably specifically been commissioned that way. Overall, though, the houses lining the roads were far more colorful than was commonplace in the capital, mostly owing to the tiles of the roofs, and varied greatly in shape and height. Many of them had little gardens that reminded Esares of Ksielle’s residence, but they were rarely fenced, and only contained regular flowers and herbs and vegetables as far as he could make out, not magical plants.

Well, that was to be expected. Magical flora was difficult to find out in the open even in the capital, and here, all the gardens whose insides Esares was able to glimpse seemed to belong to ordinary people; not wealthy mages like Ksielle or the Tevenra family.

To his great astonishment, however, a couple of Sheyveia trees grew by the wayside near the marketplace, thin and white-leaved. He did a double-take when they first entered his line of vision, half-convinced he was seeing things.

Beyond just being magical, Sheyveia trees – generally called Felmoras trees by the humans of this country, though a book Esares once read informed him another name for them was firebark – had been all but extinct in Desarias for the longest time, until some researches began to painstakingly grow them on their own property. And even then, Esares only knew about this from Sylves’ lessons – he’d never actually seen one after being collared. They required soil steeped in magic to take root and remain healthy, and though powerful magical conduits, they lent themselves poorly to use in more arts than not due to their fragility. It was a combination which led most humans to not pay them much mind.

There had been an entire forest of them in Desarias, once, but it was cursed land now. The grave of Sheyveia and his children, who had been just about to hatch. It had not been the first murder of a dragon, and certainly not the last, but it had been one of the most gruesome.

To Esares’ people, Sheyveia trees were a symbol of deep mourning: a monument of Sheyveia’s selfless courage, as well as of the fact that in the end, it had not sufficed prevail against the humans’ bloodlust. Sheyveia had shielded Esares’ people from their mortal enemies, and in return, humans had taken everything from him.

Not having expected to find the trees here, it was hard to tear away his gaze. In the end, Esares did manage, though, bowing his head low. His left hand let go of the reins, and he pressed it to his heart – something he would not have dared a year ago, even if he had noticed the trees then. Now, he did not care if any humans saw.

He let the sadness wash through him, and the gratitude; and the tendrils of shame, because while the dragons were their protectors, it should never have cost them so dearly. Yet even now, demons – Esares – did not know what to do but rely on them. Let them get hurt for them.

He exhaled slowly, and when he looked up again, his throat burned.

The streets were fairly empty, enough so that Esares wouldn't have worried about navigating his horse through them on his own had he needed to, and perhaps also wouldn't have half a week ago, when his equine skills had been more rusty. Still, he continued to appreciate his horse’s willingness to follow behind Anereth’s, rarely getting too fast or too slow or distracted. It meant he himself could let his attention wander.

Despite being fewer in number, there were people of all sorts about much as would have been the case in Nuvaria – but while several wore fine clothes identifying them as members of the upper-class, Esares spotted only one woman in the traditional garments of a mage, and no slaves.

There were also animals he otherwise rarely glimpsed. Aside from mules and horses and the occasional dog or cat, they encountered someone leading an ox by a halter, and a shepherd with his flock whom they let pass before continuing on, as well as a lone goose that must have escaped from somewhere and now strutted about as though the city were its private courtyard. Everyone gave it a wide berth, and Esares suspected it would have happily picked a fight with a horse and its rider both had he or Anereth chosen not to demonstrate the same good sense.

The last and only other time he had been here, Esares had kept his head down, both figuratively and literally. Now he made sure to take it all in, from the children skipping a rope while chanting an unfamiliar rhyme in the middle of the road to the smell of lemon balm and horse dung and mud. The downpour that had caught them and left their clothes drenched had come and gone an hour ago, but dark looming clouds remained in the sky, and Esares expected the puddles their horses trotted through on their way to achieve the size of small ponds yet.

He should probably be thankful the latest bout of rain hadn’t come half a day earlier. They’d had to put their journey on hold for most of the previous day, because for anyone not traveling there straight from the heart of Halethion, it was impossible to get to Enalyr without crossing large stretches of forest terrain – something that would have been plainly unsafe during the tempest that had raged on and off that noon and evening.

Since there was no settlement close to Enalyr that both contained an inn and had no strict regulations for demons within its boundaries, they'd had to camp outside the night before; and although Esares didn't much mind getting caught in the rain ordinarily, he decidedly preferred to stay dry while he slept.

Anereth had some unexpected talents, but there was a limit to the amount of water even the most intricate enchantment hastily woven into already-damp fabric could repel. Had the weather deteriorated again before dawn, Esares was convinced they’d have discovered what precisely that limit was, for all that the mage himself had not seemed concerned. Esares knew better than to trust the face he put on.

As things stood, though, it had been nice to have the last night he spent close enough to freedom he could remember how it felt to not have the collar’s soft leather around his throat be a decent one, comparatively speaking, with only the occasional drizzle, and twinkling stars, and a comfortable patch of grass to rest on that belonged to him as much as it would have to any traveler.

It was a reminder that his life was not over. That he did not want it to be, and was lucky to have made it this far.

Dragons, his mind whispered, the elation the word sent through him no different than two days ago when an overly friendly town guard delivered unhoped-for news; drowning out the panic trying to climb up his chest.

There was still no final confirmation, but there’d been more rumors, and the manner Anereth had acted after receiving his mother’s letter – though he claimed she had written nothing concrete, either –, and at this point, Esares had scarcely a shred of doubt left.

He was about to find out for sure, though. And just as importantly, this was Enalyr. Albeit Sylves’ presence would make it difficult, and sickening, he still had a real chance to figure out more of the puzzle that was Anereth. It was imperative he learn how to best use the mage, just as Anereth used him; and this was the place where he needed to start.

Even five minutes alone with one of the Laverien family’s slaves could tell him more than an hours-long conversation with the mage himself. Maybe the humans would be so obliging as to have another demon guide him to his master’s sickbed. Or perhaps Valithia could help him.

If it became necessary, he had more ways now to handle Sylves, too. His master had proven he’d not leave him alone with a slave trainer, which used to be a concern, and keeping humanity’s Chosen One utterly enamored with him for years and years to come was no longer required. There were things for Esares to do, room for him to push; and even when Sylves’ touch inevitably became like insects burrowing into his skin, he could not, would not, fall apart.

Enalyr was an opportunity, not a noose around his throat.

There was no reason it should make him feel like he couldn’t breathe.

The Laverien estate lay at the edge of the city, near where the mountains began. Its location was isolated, with only one other, much smaller house within sighting distance. The tale at once coming back to him, Esares wondered if that was where Valithia had fed Anereth's shoes to a goat named Pumpkin.

Anereth family's primary residence itself was as grand as that of any noble house in the capital, if in a curious style: not walled-in, yet also not with a purely decorative fence around it, but one that was tall and spiked and backed by thick thorny hedges. Aside from the typical flowerbeds and delicate trees, the front garden held a number of rose and berry bushes which, although subtly trimmed, grew much more boldly than was fashionable in Nuvaria and might nearly have been randomly placed, giving the impression they could have turned out as they had in the wild.

At the estate’s entrance and throughout its yard, nearly as many guards were stationed as at the city gate, a considerable portion of them again dressed as mages. And again it was clear at a glance a mere fraction of them would have been there under normal circumstances. Anereth exchanged a brief greeting with the ones at the property’s entrance, and ignored the rest.

They were received by a servant nearly as soon as they entered the premises, a middle-aged man with a barely noticeable limp. Anereth referred to him as Ralerel, and Esares felt the unease he’d been trying to push down flare when the mage asked about Sylves’ condition; mingled with anticipation. No doubt having the best healers at his disposal, it was unlikely humanity’s Chosen One had been permanently maimed, but… it was not impossible, either.

Inconveniently, Ralerel turned out not to know much about Sylves’ state, except that he was not in mortal danger. He also failed to mention anything about the dragon-sighting; but he did tell Anereth, with a taut face and matching voice, that he should speak with his elder sister as soon as possible. That didn’t sound so inauspicious.

In nearly the same breath, the servant informed Anereth that his mother was not presently at home, having gone out with the search party for Sylves’ brother the man had insisted half his escort join now that he was safe in a city with reliable magical defenses, lest he refuse to let himself be properly treated. She had helped reinforce the city’s wards, made sure as many of the remaining guards as possible were outfitted with enchanted weapons, and set out with a group of twenty-three the previous afternoon – some of them more volunteers.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Esares saw Anereth frown at hearing his mother had insisted to go herself, and he stopped asking Ralerel further questions at that point, clearly impatient to get inside. The servant didn’t need a more explicit dismissal – he stepped aside and took Anereth’s horse when he dismounted, and Esares demurely let the mage help him down from his own animal after Ralerel grasped its reins, as well, even though he’d been managing just fine dismounting on his own these past days.

As they approached the house, Esares' gaze was drawn to the tall arched windows that seemed to be the only kind found in its rooms, except on the highest level right below the dark pitched roof, where the windows he could see all were much smaller, but their white frames more ornate and, save for one exactly in the middle, half-covered by wine-red drapes. Esares wondered if that was where the slave quarters were located. He'd not been to them once when he'd stayed here with Sylves, but he'd seen slaves pass up and down the stairs connecting to the uppermost floor a number of times, and while there were obviously some differences in custom regarding household slaves in Nuvaria and Enalyr, he doubted they'd been sent there to clean; especially since he'd otherwise not encountered many demons at all on the lower levels.

Not that he'd gotten to explore any part of the house, of course.

At the threshold of the polished wooden double door, Esares, sillily, hesitated. Anereth turned back and offered him his hand.

Esares clung to it for only a few steps before catching himself and releasing it.

They'd barely entered the foyer when a woman rushed towards them through the adjoinig corridor. She wore a mage's robes, silver and purple, and Esares only thought it might be Valithia until he raised his eyes from her plain black boots. There was no resemblance – not to Valithia, anyway. It would have been impossible to not recognize her as Anereth's sister.

She had a notably fuller figure, and her skin tone was closer to Ksielle's than Anereth's, but they had the same round cheekbones, and similarly shaped lips and eyebrows, and most striking of all, they shared the silver hair that would never look quite right on a human, though Tiliera's was tightly curled, and didn't make it past her shoulders. It also seemed finer than Anereth's and covered her forehead, where it didn't lie neatly at all.

Esares didn't stare at her for long, but he did stare, and she caught him at it. As her gaze met his, his heart skipped a beat, and he snapped his eyes back to the gleaming white floor.

Belatedly he went to his knees and bowed, remaining with his hands flat against the marble and his face a mere inch from it.

“Anereth!” Tiliera's voice, unlike her appearance, did remind Esares of Valithia's. Only faintly, though, and he didn't know if it would have had he been unaware of their relation. It was lower-pitched – more easily tuned out, he couldn't help but think, should that become necessary. “It’s good to see you.”

“Tiliera.” There was surprise in Anereth’s tone as he walked away from Esares, towards her, but also a hint of concern. And, solidifying as he continued, a warmth he did not direct at many people. “I would have come found you in a moment.”

“Without getting changed first, I’m sure,” Tiliera said, with gentle humor. Fabric whispered against fabric – Esares glanced up just long enough to confirm she was hugging her brother. “So I’d have to make my clothes suffer to properly greet you either way. I thought you’d want to hear about Sylves as quickly as possible. I’d have written to you already, but we were discouraged from sending out any more correspondence.” She sounded contrite.

“It’s all right.” Esares heard Anereth step back, the clicking of boots against marble. “But I have been worried. Mother said he’s not in any danger?”

“No. His arm was, for a while, but after the surgery… the healer said he should get back its full use, eventually. Some of his wounds-- it’s a blessing they weren’t an inch to the side, or a little deeper, and he has a couple of broken ribs, but-- his arm was the biggest concern.”

“I knew he couldn’t hold a pen, but I didn’t realize it was that bad,” Anereth said, with faux dismay.

“It was nearly torn off,” Tiliera returned, her bluntness taking Esares aback a little, though he suspected if he were to look up at her face, he’d find a look of sympathy on it. “I’ve never had much of an eye for this type of magic, but I think Almireyl must be very talented to have saved it. When she performed the first operation in Ichintar, it’d already gone with only minimal treatment for nearly a week. Enough to prevent sepsis, but...” Tiliera trailed off. “Well, she does work for Lady Fimestrel, so it’s no wonder. He’s in good hands – you don’t have to fear for his recovery. Physically, at least.” The last was added quietly. Esares darted his eyes up at the woman’s face just in time to catch the grimace on it.

“He must be inconsolable,” Anereth said, just as softly. “I don’t believe he ever truly imagined anyone he cares about losing his life for him, and even those who were more realistic about it… no one could have prepared for this.”

“No,” Tiliera agreed. “Anereth, there’s something we need to talk about. Have you heard? About Surch?”

Esares’ heartbeat accelerated.

“The dragon,” Anereth said, slowly and distastefully, as though the words were being pulled from him – but devoid of surprise, or any of the disquiet he had betrayed when first receiving the news. “Yes. Mother hinted at it, as well. That’s what tried to take off his arm, then?”

“Not quite,” Tiliera said. “It acted more like a distraction, he told us. It burned some of his companions, the ones who weren’t fast or strong enough shielding themselves or who came too close trying to fight it, and it grabbed a few and mauled them, but it didn’t get anywhere near Sylves himself. That were the demons – many had taken the forms of animals, and ripped people apart with teeth and claws rather than using weapons or spells. One of them got to him. A wolf.”

“Did he kill it?”

Esares, despite being caught up in the telling of events – the revelation that shapeshifters had been a part of the attack, after all – felt a surge of deep resentment at the pronoun. Most of it vanished when he fully processed the content of the question, chased off by his heart jumping into his throat.

“He doesn’t think so,” Tiliera said. “He doesn’t think they killed many of their attackers at all, if any. They call it a miracle he blasted away the wolf and forced it to change back, without managing a proper spell, and then he directed the same magic at the dragon, and it screamed. But it wasn’t a well-controlled attack, I don’t think, and it flew off with little trouble. Those of his group still alive used the demons rushing to its defense as an opportunity to cast large-scale spells that should have wounded most of them, but as the magic wasn’t concentrated-- the demons who could fly away, or run fast on four legs… they probably escaped easily enough, along with the dragon.”

“The dragon,” Anereth repeated. “That attacked him with an army.” Clearly, he did not much care about anything else his sister had said.

Esares, meanwhile, shivered at the knowledge that Sylves could cause a dragon to scream. To scream and flee a battle that moments before must have seemed already won, using what sounded like nothing but brute force. What would he be able to do once he learned to channel all that power into a spell meant to cause as much death and destruction as possible?

Esares had always been well aware of the prophecies. Of the danger Sylves posed not only to demons, but to the messengers of the gods themselves. It had seemed like a problem for the far-off future, though. Sylves’ magic was beyond what any human before him had ever possessed, but he was still young at twenty-two, his body still adapting to it. There was a limited number of spells he was truly practiced with, even if many of them were offensive ones, and he lacked precision, and he had never been in a real battle before--

He had forced a dragon to retreat as easily as he had thrown Esares off him that night, against hard stone.

And he had directed that same magic at another demon, a shapeshifter.

“I should say the Ivariney so far insist on speak of it as the creature Sylves reported was a dragon,” Tiliera amended after a moment, pulling Esares’ attention back to the conversation, even as the taste of acid clung to his mouth. “They’re reluctant to believe it was one, so they’ve been investigating. They asked if it couldn’t have been another shapeshifter, using a spell or enchantment to give the impression of breathing fire. Or because it didn’t come close to Sylves, they think it could have been an illusion, the fire magic cast by someone else, someone who’s very powerful, but no dragon.

“But Sylves saw it kill people attempting to take it out by crushing them in its jaws, and by throwing them from up high – everyone who was there and lived did. And they all heard it scream when Sylves’ magic hit. So if it wasn’t a dragon, only a shapeshifter would make sense, but I’ve never heard of anything like that. Wouldn’t it be something like blasphemy to pretend to be a being you worship? Sylves is convinced it was real, in any case, and thinks it probably kept its distance because of the prophecy – and listening to him tell it, it’s hard not to agree.” The woman took an audible breath. “It was a slaughter.”

Esares knew for a fact it was not possible in the first place for someone to take on the form of a dragon – though he was unsure how many demons who didn’t themselves practice the art of shapeshifting would be aware, let alone humans, whose magic was not suited to it; so their ignorance in the matter shouldn’t have startled him as much as it did.

To shapeshift was to mimic the very nature of a creature, not merely its appearance. Even if it weren’t disrespectful and presumption to try and change into a dragon while dragons themselves had decided it was not yet time to show themselves again to humans, it wouldn’t be feasible for a mortal being; due to their different magic, it was already almost unheard of for anyone to take the form of a griffin or nymph or even a two tailed tiger. A dragon? No one with basic knowledge on the subject, or the barest reverence for the gods, would ever try.

Tiliera showed rather good instinct calling it blasphemy. Not quite, but-- close enough he wouldn’t know how to explain the difference to a human.

So a dragon had definitely been part of the attack, and they had dealt Sylves great damage, if not directly, and fought both wisely and cautiously. And they might have gotten hurt, but they’d escaped in time, and so had most of Sylves’ assailants.

That wasn’t terrible. It was the opposite of terrible, objectively speaking; but Esares’ initial fear that shapeshifters had put themselves at risk to accomplish it had proven true, after all, and he didn’t know what to feel.

Part of him was back to worrying anyone he knew and cared about – Sinieru – had been killed in the battle; but although his friend would have been as honored and eager to fight at a dragon’s side as he himself, Esares had faith in him, his skills and prudence and swift reflexes. Sinieru was also much more likely to use ranged magic to fight than to do so in the form of a beast; but he’d have no trouble making a quick getaway as one. If anyone had survived, it should be Sinieru – and that was if he’d been personally involved in the first place.

Hearing just how well the battle had gone for Sylves’ foes yanked Esares back from the edge of terror. Yet although Sinieru should be safe, must be safe, there may well have been losses in his friend’s clan, a clan whose members Esares all at least knew by sight. Some had taught him, shared meals with him; opened their homes to him and whenever they came across a rare plant let him know where he could find it.

Esares’ stomach would not stop tying itself into knots as he pictured their faces. The rest of him, however…

The rest of him wanted to burst with happiness, with hope. In the past, he had feared that once dragons fought Sylves like the prophecies said, they would do so recklessly, furiously; and that with their shrunk numbers, their hunger for revenge – for justice – might prove fatal. He had not given them enough credit.

Esares only became aware of the pregnant silence that had fallen when Tiliera broke it. “I’m sorry, I wish I could give you better news. Or at least definite ones.”

“Ah, I suppose we’ll know soon enough,” Anereth said, and the lightness of his tone might have rung true to Esares in a different context. “People are already talking, after all, and Sylves’ absence from Timnestra must be noticeable at this point. Now that they’ve confirmed he hasn’t sustained permanent harm, the Ivariney’ll be in a hurry to give an official statement – the last thing they need on top of an incapacitated Chosen One is a mass panic.”

“Depending on what they discover, I’m not sure how they mean to avoid that.” Tiliera sounded reluctant, uneasy. When Esares stole a look, he found her brow furrowed and her hands tightly gripping her own upper arms. “Just the sight of Sylves… and one of the survivors said the dragon devoured Lord Bemeran’s corpse. Sylves will get through this, I’m sure he will, but… I don’t think the Ivariney can count on him to help them calm anyone down.”

As Esares moved his gaze down again, he saw Anereth’s fingers flex. He wondered if the man was disturbed by what had presumably happened to the remains of Sylves’ mentor.

Humans had strange concerns. Everyone knew how dragons did battle. Them eating an enemy who’d already been dead was hardly worth mentioning.

Though Esares had no doubt Anereth realized that on an intellectual level, even if the idea of a creature more than capable of swallowing him whole might unsettle him. Instead of commenting on the fate of Kiares Bemeran, the man when he resumed talking continued to focus on Sylves. “If it was a dragon, we’re lucky he wasn’t harmed by its blood, at least. To think--” He broke off, leaving his sister to finish the sentence herself in her mind: to imagine the alluded catastrophe.

This time, Esares suspected some of the sentiment behind Anereth’s words was genuine.

Dragon blood according to lore had healing properties, but among humans it was only known as a poison, capable of warping their magic so their own gift would burn through them like flames through coal. They probably did not know it’d have that effect on anyone, if it was tainted by rage or grief; though the less power someone possessed, the quicker the process would be.

Anereth spoke up again, “He had been so looking forward to this trip, and then it turned into this. Even his brother...” Had Esares not known better, he would have believed the mage was honestly, deeply upset on his friend’s behalf.

“He was likely burned by dragon fire,” Tiliera said, heavily. There was an undercurrent of grief to her tone that made Esares wonder if she’d met Jelsh in the past. “But Sylves still hopes. He told him to run, before.”

“I should go see him.”

Involuntary, Esares’ fist clenched.

“He’s taken a lot of potions against the pain. It’s probably better to let him sleep,” Tiliera said, gently. “The healers are still with him, too. But you could go visit Valithia.”

“Valithia?” Anereth asked. “She’s still here?” He sounded astonished, almost shocked. Esares didn’t know why – Valithia had talked as if her older sister would leave for Oleren well before she herself had to return to school, and Esares had just taken it for granted this entire time he’d find her in Enalyr. Anereth, too, had said nothing to indicate otherwise before.

“Ah,” Tiliera said, a bit uncomfortably. “We didn’t think it’d be a good idea for her to travel far, what with a dragon potentially about. She’s taken ill, though, so she’s not going to be leaving her chambers for a while.”

“I see,” Anereth said, blandly. “And I assume Ryminis is keeping her company?”

“Just so.”

Esares’ brows knitted together. He felt there was a conversation taking place underneath that he was missing.

“She’d be happy to see you,” Tiliera said. “When she came back from Nuvaria, she talked non-stop about you--”

“Complained, you mean.”

A laugh, just a little faint. “Well, yes. Before you wrote about Sylves, aside from trying to get me to acquire a puppy from a litter she came across on her way back, she spoke of little but Hylis and you-- and Esares.” Esares jolted, surprising himself with his reaction, though he regained his composure almost immediately. It wasn't that he'd been unprepared for drawing Tiliera's notice originally; but throughout the conversation, the possibility had almost slipped his mind – and there was something about hearing Valithia had talked about him. If he'd thought about it, he would probably have expected it, but... she had talked about him.

He didn't think there was any other human who would have done so in the manner Valithia must have. He could not imagine her praising his obedience or criticizing his lack of it, or discussing him like a prized pet.

“That's him, isn't it?” Tiliera asked, and if she'd noticed his twitch, she didn't let on.

“Yes.” And then, “Come here, Esares.”

Esares rose and walked over to the humans with all a good personal slave's poise, hoping to gloss over his momentary lapse. Anereth was extending his hand again, and Esares grasped it and this time held on, knowing the gesture meant he would be introduced without having to sink back to the floor. His gaze was still glued to polished marble, however; his head lowered.

“You can look at me,” Tiliera said.

Esares did, less hesitantly than he would have under ordinary circumstances. He shouldn't offend Anereth's family, but nothing much would happen for now if he did. In fact, he'd prefer to know if Tiliera was horrible – it'd tell him something about Anereth, who had given a slave to her.

Maybe Tiliera didn't only resemble one of her siblings in appearance, after all. Esares couldn't pinpoint the similarities between her face and Valithia's, but now that he regarded her closely had an inkling he would be able to if they stood next to one another.

“Ma'am,” Esares said, quietly. For the first time, he noticed a single black streak in Tiliera’s hair, partly disappearing behind her right ear.

“It's nice to meet you. Though Valithia's portrait is so accurate it nearly seems like I already did, so if you kept looking elsewhere, that'd have put me at double an advantage. I hope you’ve not had too unpleasant a journey here, despite the circumstances.”

Esares blinked at the woman, and not even deeply ingrained habit could keep him from directly meeting her eyes for several seconds. “It was fine, ma'am,” he said. And added, belatedly, “Thank you.”

Tiliera smiled kindly. “You must have been worried about your master, but he’s going to be all right now.” Esares managed to prevent his lips from twisting. Truly, this didn’t necessarily mean the woman was incredibly naive – leaving aside Sylves’ identity as Chosen One, it wouldn’t be so strange for a slave to be afraid of his master dying, for reasons unrelated to any sort of devotion. Of course, Tiliera did seem wholly ignorant as to her brother’s actual feelings for Sylves – or lack thereof –, but that might be less naivety and more Anereth’s acting ability.

“Do you want to go to the slave quarters to freshen up?” she asked. “It's Anereth's business if he wants to stand around looking like a drowned cat, but you shouldn't have to suffer along with him. That's all right, isn't it?” The last was accompanied by a glance to Anereth, who snorted.

“Not the part where you sound like Mother, but yes.”

Tiliera's gaze returned to Esares, expectant.

Esares, meanwhile, only at the last moment prevented himself from checking with Anereth himself before giving his response. “I-- that would be nice, ma'am, thank you.”

Anereth's older sister gifted him another smile, no less sincere in appearance than the first. She raised her voice. “Kyenne?”

Almost immediately, steps echoed outside the room, and then through the open door to the hall Esares could see a man round the corner. Dark brown eyes accentuated by kohl, black hair that neatly framed a handsome face; a thin collar in the same color around a pale throat. He tried not to stare, this time.

The demon who must be Anereth's former and first slave stopped just after crossing the threshold. He gave his former master a longer, harder look than was entirely proper before inclining his head in greeting.

His eyes briefly lingered on Esares as he turned to Tiliera. “You called, mistress?”

“Would you show Esares to the bathroom? And I guess he needs something new to wear, too.”

“I'll send someone up to take care of it,” Anereth interjected. “Just taking him to get cleaned up will be fine.” Towards Esares he added, “I’ll see you afterwards in my room.”

Kyenne waited a beat, and when Tiliera didn't object bowed. “Yes, sir,” he said. The form of address startled Esares, who had expected him to use the more familiar 'my lord'.

It didn't have to mean anything. It would have been a long time since the man belonged to Anereth, after all. With his former master barely showing his face around his family, it’d not be so strange for Kyenne to be playing it safe. Combined with the almost-glare, however…

Esares followed the other demon away from the humans, holding his tongue with great effort. A hundred things lay at its tip that he wanted to blurt out.

He was still reeling with the certainty that a dragon had dealt humanity an immense blow, but that was not a safe conversation starter, least of all in such a relatively public space – no servant could overhear them talking about the matter with anything but dismay, not to mention whatever people of Sylves’ there might be in the house aside from the healers tending to him.

When trying to come up with something else to say, though, Esares’ thoughts quickly got stuck on matters even more inappropriate to bring up within a minute of meeting the other slave. He had been curious about Kyenne since Anereth first mentioned him. In light of his odd reaction to seeing his former master, and the fact that Esares needed to know everything about what kind of person Anereth was, question upon question formed in his head. It was quite possible there wasn’t anyone who could tell him more about Anereth's attitude towards slaves, towards demons, than this man.

He didn't want to alienate Kyenne, though, or make him uncomfortable if it could be avoided. Esares wasn't great at interacting with other slaves, but he could do basic tact and politeness. At the very least, he realized talking to Kyenne about anything more important than the weather within possible earshot of anyone who could report back to his mistress was not the way to go about it. He could never have so much as glimpsed another slave in the past year and a half and would still have known that much.

Despite all the unexpected and disorienting turns his life had taken recently, Esares couldn’t help but wonder at the fact that he was now in a position where he didn’t have much cause to worry similarly about himself; at least for a little while longer. After all, few people in this place reported to Sylves, even if it was best to be careful.

While he waited for the right moment to attempt a conversation, Esares let his gaze wander. In terms of its interior, the Laverien estate wasn't all that different from noble residences in Nuvaria: corridors wide enough for three or four people to walk comfortably alongside each other, arches and columns, marble floors and stairs; ample decoration in the form of antique vases and paintings and tapestries. The gold and silver threaded rugs here and there also were reminiscent of the houses of some of Sylves' friends.

Esares' attention was soon drawn to the people, whom he'd not dared to properly look at the last time he had visited – or rather, the servants: he didn't detect a single slave aside from himself and Kyenne on the first and second floors, nor while they climbed up the broad staircases to the third and uppermost one. There also weren't any guards like in most comparably lavish mansions in the capital, though Esares was sure it would be different in the area of the house Sylves rested in.

The servants weren't anywhere near as numerous as Esares was used to, either. And most of them were at least as old as the servant who had greeted him and Anereth upon their arrival. It was a tad peculiar, now that he was paying attention.

On the third floor, the intricate hallways got narrower as they went on, and the ornamentation more sparse. Esares discovered that although less daylight streamed in here than on the other floors due to the partway covered windows, there were beautiful chandeliers hanging from the ceiling wherever he looked, glowing bright enough to make it easy to forget about this fact.

They hadn't passed another person since leaving behind the stairs, and after some minutes, when they stepped into a long straight corridor, Esares was reasonably confident their voices wouldn't carry to unwanted ears. Since he didn't know if there would be servants overseeing the slave quarters, he decided he needed to grasp the opportunity. He could open with something light, a question about the household, the number of slaves--

Kyenne beat him to it, save for the starting with something light part. “You're Sylves' slave, aren't you?” His voice was soft and soothing, even as his question was everything but.

Considering Esares wanted to ask the other demon about his experiences with a master, it'd be amazingly hypocritical to express his discomfort. He braced himself for letting Kyenne pursue this topic. “Yes, I am.”

“We've heard all about you,” Kyenne said with a glance over his shoulder and a quirk of his lips, “from Valithia.” Esares filed away the lack of title before Valithia's name. He didn't know how common it was for other slaves to leave it off when they were in private, only really having Lykis as a point of reference, whose demeanor was hardly typical. It at least suggested a certain self-assuredness, however, considering he and Kyenne had only just met.

He tentatively smiled back. “Your mistress mentioned. I hope only good things.”

“Oh, only the best. Apparently your features are very symmetrical and you have impeccable taste in desserts.”

Esares sputtered. “Symmetrical?”

“And you don't make her bring you raw cow hearts. It's a ringing endorsement.”

“That's... not like any compliment I've gotten before.” From a human or demon.

Kyenne chuckled. “That's Valithia for you. I'm a bit jealous of Ryminis.”

Esares latched onto the opening. “You are? Lady Tiliera didn't seem bad.” He decided to stick with honorifics for now.

“She's not,” Kyenne said. “But she's--” He broke off, and sighed. “Never mind. I wasn't really serious. I'm sure you're the last person who needs to put up with me whining.”

“What makes you say that?”

Kyenne had been about to round the corner, but stopped half-way and turned back to him, eyebrows raised high.

“He's the Chosen One,” Esares said. “But as a master he's not bad, either.” Yes, he could barely think of Sylves without his stomach threatening to flip upside down, and talking about him made him feel like he might retch again, but for a master, he wasn't horrible. Which did not make him any less foul and depraved a person when compared to anyone who wasn't some degree of morally bankrupt, but it gave Esares cause to bristle at someone talking like he must have it worse than everyone else due to being Sylves'.

Kyenne's mistress may be far preferable an owner, that was certainly possible and after what he had seen not something Esares would question if the other slave claimed it. There were still thousands of slaves more deserving of Kyenne's pity than him, though. He was not 'the last person' who should be subjected to another demon voicing whatever grievances they had.

Kyenne, of course, misunderstood. “You're defending him?” He was frowning, and there was bafflement in his voice.

And suddenly Esares felt very small and very awkward. His reaction had been completely unnecessary, hadn't it? He wasn't sure how to explain himself without sounding ridiculous, or like he was back-tracking merely to avoid conflict. Was Kyenne already painting a picture of him in his head as a pitiful pet who adored the one who kept him under his boot? He supposed he must look rather pitiful, drenched to the skin and with his hair no doubt trying to move in all directions as it was beginning to dry.

Meanwhile, Kyenne was perfectly put-together and as attractive as anyone Esares had ever seen. The fragrance of apricots coming from him was a little distracting now that they stood still and close together.

Esares reeked of horse.

It was already bad enough how Lykis had reacted to him extending some trust to a human who treated him decently. Not that Lykis had been wrong, but… he’d not had all the relevant information regardless. And neither did Kyenne.

Esares drew himself up, gathering his bearings. “I'm not. But you don't know anything about how he treats me.”

Kyenne watched him carefully. “I guess not. Though I haven't heard great things of him, and Valithia has, but is still contemplating stealing you. I took my cue from that.”

Esares' jaw fell open. “She what.”

“She was half-joking,” Kyenne said. “The emphasis being on 'half'.”

Esares shook his head in disbelief. He hadn't even said anything negative about Sylves to her.

And Kyenne spoke very freely, to Sylves’ slave he didn’t actually know, however much Valithia may have gone on about him.

“If her concern's unwarranted, I'm glad,” Kyenne said. And the words sounded earnest enough, but the look in his eyes... the other demon had no illusions about what 'not bad' meant for Esares when he spoke of his master.

Esares glanced away. It shouldn't make him feel ashamed that Kyenne was aware of the gist of how Sylves violated him. He, too, was a personal slave. Their positions were no different.

Only Esares was not sure at all this was true except in theory.

“If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask. About Valithia or the household maybe?” Kyenne said, somewhat abruptly, and Esares realized he was similarly eager to change topics as he himself. Somehow, that made him feel better.

“The dragon,” he said immediately. “What do you think about that?”

Apparently it was not the sort of inquiry Kyenne had been thinking of, because when Esares returned his gaze to him, for a fleeting instant the other demon's eyes were wide. His lips parted, then pursed.

Esares barely had time to wonder if the other demon was afraid to discuss the topic even here, or whether there was any particular remark he was holding back, when Kyenne’s face smoothed out, and he shrugged. “I don't know. It rather sounds like it must have been a real one, but I almost wish it was a shapeshifter.” Esares made to explain that wasn’t possible, but before he could, Kyenne was already speaking again, bringing up something that bothered Esares much more than the other slave working off a false premise, “The humans are going to be in a frenzy over this.” The corners of Kyenne's mouth tipped downward, just slightly. “And maybe eager. For their hero to slay a dragon.”

Esares had also, of course, considered that; and what it could mean.

“They probably will be, when he recovers,” he agreed after a moment. “But it sounded like the dragon is being careful. They could hide from humans anywhere, as they must have until now – they should be fine.” He needed to believe that.

“Maybe,” Kyenne said. “I’d prefer if they didn’t risk themselves at all, though. That they just-- told someone to do this. Showed them how.” Esares opened his mouth, once more about to declare it couldn’t be so; then closed it again at the look on Kyenne’s face. “If this was a dragon, the humans won’t let it go. The dragons won’t let it go. Once this starts--”

“They could kill him,” Esares said. “My master.”

“They could all be killed,” Kyenne said.

Esares swallowed. “It’s better they fight him now than later. Don’t you think?”

“I think they shouldn’t fight him at all.”

Utterly thrown, it took Esares a long moment to come up with a response. “The prophecy--”

“The prophecy is exactly why,” Kyenne interrupted. “They can just-- deal with him when he’s old, or sick, or not at all. They can just leave.”

“Leave us?” Esares asked, incredulous, for all that he would welcome dragons only ever facing off against a weakened Chosen One. These were their kind’s divine protectors they were talking about. “To the humans? Until it’s too late to change anything, deliberately?” Never before had he heard such a sentiment.

“Why not?” Kyenne fired back, with an intensity that startled Esares. “They’ve fought for us all this time, and what for? The firstborn dragons are gone. Argarae’s descendants are mostly vanished. And millennia younger. Why should they sacrifice for us again and again and again, just because the gods--” He stopped.

Just because the gods had what? Chosen dragons to act in their stead? Created them for the very purpose of watching over the world, and their people?

Just because dragons had heeded this calling, throughout all of history?

Esares was dumbstruck.

“I’m sorry,” Kyenne started over, visibly composing himself. “I shouldn’t have said that. This entire affair came rather out of nowhere, and I’ve been a bit on edge. I was looking forward to meeting you, but I’m awful at this, aren’t I?”

“No, I--” But Esares didn’t know what to say.

He could see, to a point, where Kyenne was coming from. Dragons were their guides and protectors, as the gods were to them – the most noble and powerful of their creatures. But more importantly, they were beloved by Lifilis and blessed with Ilynith’s wisdom, and divine beings in their own right. Defending demons was their duty no more than it was their choice, and to a greater or lesser degree, all clans took them to embody the gods’ will. That they should fight for their charges was natural – that they should die for them was not. Once upon a time, when humans first attempted to harm demons and drive them from their lands, their foes had cowered before the wrath of the heavens.

Humans finally overcoming that fear and slaughtering even the messengers of the gods to get what they wanted was a testament to their depravity; the fact that they had succeeded in murdering all of the firstborn dragons something no one would have imagined once upon a time – even, if lore was to be believed, Ilynith, who Saw so much. The dragons born from the sea had been more plentiful, and they carried gifts their predecessors did not, but… Kyenne was right about their younger age, and of course, the danger they were in. The fact that when the war had been at its fiercest since Argarae’s death, all of them who remained but one had disappeared in the skies of Halethion, without warning or explanation.

They would not have abandoned their charges of their own free will.

The thought of even one more dragon dying stole Esares’ breath away. Like all his people, he had always mourned the dragons’ sacrifice. Mourned and admired it, but he had never wished, never thought of it as an possible, for them to just save themselves and leave demons to their fate. Had not believed it was in their nature.

Even if demons should be doomed, he had taken it for granted dragons would fight to the last drop of their blood for them. Had felt his insides go cold at the thought, and been ashamed of his own uselessness, but--

Never before had he considered that his wish for dragons to save him and others might be selfish.

Why should they sacrifice for us again and again and again, Kyenne had asked, the most impassioned Esares had heard anyone speak of what the dragons had endured in a long time – since listening to his clan elders talk about what they had witnessed during the Great Wars. Almost as though he were not just referencing history and stories.

How old was he?

“Well,” Kyenne said eventually, with a levity that wouldn’t have seemed forced if not for how distressed he had obviously been two minutes ago, “at least I don’t expect humans to run off to war any time soon.”

“It didn’t sound like Sylves could even if he wanted,” Esares offered.

To his relief, Kyenne’s lips curved. “No, he couldn’t.” A heartbeat’s silence. “He won’t be giving anyone trouble for a while.” As he spoke, Kyenne’s eyes on Esares were unblinking, and heavy with meaning.

Again Esares wondered at the other demon’s confidence. Was it that he was taking a conscious risk, fearless like Lykis? Or was he more like Esares, judging himself to not be in any real danger if his conversational partner reported back on him?

Perhaps this was just what it looked like when a slave held his owner’s trust along with their favor, secure in the knowledge he would be believed over any outsider who might tattle on him. Esares wouldn’t know.

He gave Kyenne a solemn nod, grateful more for the show of solidarity than the assurance itself. After Tiliera’s report, he already hadn’t thought Sylves would be in a state to do much of anything to him in the immediate future. Still, hearing Kyenne confirm it was nice, and lightened something in his chest.

When they continued on their way, it almost wasn’t awkward.

He tried not to feel hurt by Kyenne's lack of excitement, to not feel chastised by what had just been an honest answer to his question. However unexpected, Kyenne’s opinion in the matter was as legitimate as Esares' own, especially if he was old enough to have witnessed part of the dragons’ fall personally. And the other demon hadn't been unfriendly or rude to him at all.

Kyenne was walking at a brisk pace now, which was probably a good idea when Anereth was going to send a servant up to bring Esares fresh clothes. Esares followed his example, happy this particular conversation was over, and thinking the sentiment was probably mutual.

He missed Lykis. His friend would have been delighted about a dragon attacking the Chosen One, killing one of the Ivariney and dealing out horrible destruction to their enemies – would be delighted once news spread to the capital, and Esares regretted he wouldn’t be there to see his reaction. A dragon fighting for them would mean everything to Lykis, even if it could not help their personal situations any time soon.

And Esares would have shared his joy were he with him instead of with Kyenne, although he would have remained more cautious about putting all his faith in dragons who had been as good as gone for the better part of a century and suffered great losses of their own long before that. He'd not get his hopes up about there being more than two or three dragons still alive, but he would have understood if Lykis did, and done his best to draw from and keep alive his friend’s hard-maintained optimism on the subject.

It hadn't been so much different back with his clan, when they had discussed dragons. Esares had always rather been a skeptic.

He was not used to being the one who got swept up in tales and awe-inspiring deeds of dragons, and Kyenne's seeming indifference to what this could mean for them, for slaves and those in danger of becoming ones, chafed at him. But he didn't know what the other demon had seen and been through, and had no right to decide how he should feel anyway. Whatever came of this, rescue for them, for all of them, was a far way off.

Esares would help make sure it came eventually, though.

He just hoped he’d not wasted his only shot at a private conversation with Kyenne. He gleaned from how the man talked and acted that Tiliera as an owner was indeed all right, for some given value of the term, and that Anereth hadn’t thrown him to the wolves, which had been one thing Esares wanted to ascertain – yet he was left with more questions than answers.

In fact, even after he asked Kyenne about Anereth, Esares hoped they would have more time to talk, despite how bumpy their interactions had been so far. He was determined to get to know him as a person, not just Anereth’s former slave; and one day, he hoped to to know if Kyenne had known any dragons, what they had been like and where his odd views stemmed from.

He had never met anyone like him.

Chapter Text

The bathroom Kyenne had shown him to was spacious and thankfully empty, which was not at all a given considering it was probably the only one available for the household slaves to wash in. Dark green tiles made up the walls, while the floor was the color of sea foam. There were six big marble tubs in the middle of the room and two washing basins in the farthest corners, as well as a grander one between those two that had an ornate silver-rimmed mirror hanging above; and next to each tub were a neatly folded white towel, a small scrubber and several bottles of bathing oils and lotions and soaps.

Esares didn’t dislike the room’s interior, but he would never cease to be amazed by what human nobility spent money on. No matter how many slaves the Laverien family might own, he doubted more than two or thee of the tubs were ever occupied simultaneously.

Before stepping outside, Kyenne had asked if he should wait for him and bring in Esares’ new clothes once a servant arrived with them. Esares had been hesitant to take up his time, but Kyenne had smiled, and assured him he didn't mind and that he wouldn't get in trouble. In the end Esares had gratefully accepted, and not just because he wanted to try having a proper conversation with the other demon again.

Esares wasn't seriously worried about Anereth forgetting to send up a servant at all, but it was nice to know he'd not have to go out in nothing but a towel should there be a delay, and in the first place, he didn't like humans seeing him in a state of complete undress, even servants. He appreciated Anereth had almost never let the situation arise, and that the mage hadn't looked at him directly the one time he'd brought Esares something fresh to wear while he had been bathing.

As it turned out, Kyenne, too, politely averted his eyes when he handed him the clothes; an act that made Esares smile. He didn't actually mind other demons seeing him, though he'd not been sure before. Certainly he liked it better than talking to them while stinking of horse and sweat.

Stepping out of the tub, he asked the other demon to wait a minute while he quickly got dressed, and found it telling that after Kyenne acquiesced, the other demon didn't just keep his eyes elsewhere, but went so far as to turn his back to him. When he'd been free, Esares had rarely met any of his kind who were shy about their bodies; under the humans' rule, such a thing must be commonplace.

It was both a relief and an ache in his heart to find it confirmed that he was far from the only one whose interactions with his own people had been irreversibly tainted by their self-proclaimed masters.

When he was dressed in a soft pale blue tunic that went up to his knees, Kyenne handed him the wide-toothed comb the servant Anereth sent had also brought for him.

Esares thanked him, not just for the comb but all of his help. It made him feel warm in his chest that Kyenne seemed perfectly happy to offer it, despite Esares committing more than one faux pas before.

All over again, Esares was glad Kyenne seemed unconcerned about the time. He would have hated to blurt out deeply personal questions while the man was already out of the door with one foot, be it metaphorically or literally.

Even now, if nothing beyond his personal peace of mind depended on it, Esares might have refrained from bringing up so soon what was sure to be another sensitive topic, and simply taken his chances. He could have tried learning more about Anereth from one of the household slaves, and then decided if he still wanted to approach Kyenne. Tiliera likely wouldn’t return to her residence in Oleren while the Chosen One was recovering in her family home, so Kyenne wasn’t going anywhere, either; and though it wouldn’t be long before Esares himself would be restricted largely to his master’s room, if he wanted it badly enough, he should be able to find a way to see the other demon.

Unfortunately, this was too important to allow for any unnecessary risks, which included relying on second-hand information; and even if Esares waited until he got another opportunity to speak alone with Kyenne – or made one for himself, consequences be damned –, it was highly improbable it would come with a great enough window of time for the questions he had to not come similarly out of nowhere.

He’d just have to give it his best shot. Kyenne was helpful and good-natured: hopefully he’d not simply dismiss him as nosy.

When he was nearly done removing the tangles from his hair, Esares turned from the pretty mirror above the sink and said, “I know I may have already overstepped, but. Can I ask you something personal?”

“What is it?” Kyenne looked more curious than wary, which Esares took as encouragement.

“What's Anereth like? As a master.”

Esares realized immediately he had found a worse topic to raise with Kyenne than dragons. Before he had even finished speaking, the other demon’s face shuttered.

“It's been years since I belonged to him,” Kyenne said. “You've been with him for weeks, haven't you? You'd probably know better than me.”

Esares frowned at the reaction and evasive answer, uneasy. “I'm not his, though, and... I wondered if he'd be different in the long-term.”

“What does it matter?” Kyenne wanted to know, and Esares couldn't decipher his tone. It seemed a little off to him.

“My master may leave me with him more often from now on. And--” He stopped. Did his best to make the half-lie sound convincing, “I was hoping. That if my master ever gets rid of me, or if-- anything ever did happen to him...” He trailed off, and clamped down on the guilt before it could grow into more than a momentary tightness in his gut.

Even if he didn’t fear what Anereth would do should he find out, it would have been the height of carelessness to tell someone he just met he was part of a plot to murder the Chosen One. Chances were another slave wouldn’t want to know, regardless of whether they approved.

Not that he believed many would approve of who said plot hinged on, and how. Lykis would probably think it insane.

Maybe it was.

Kyenne's features were carefully blank. Esares tried not to shift from one foot to the other and make his visceral discomfort obvious. He was fairly sure he looked at Sylves like that, sometimes.

“I see,” Kyenne said at last, with little inflection. “You should be fine, then.”

“Will I?”

“I've hardly caught sight of my former master since he gave me away. But being with him wasn't difficult, and if he's not mistreated you so far, and likes you enough he'd consider buying you, there's probably nothing to worry about.”

Esares would have known there was a story here even if Valithia hadn't said anything. “Has he mistreated you?”

Kyenne's gaze went dark and through him, and Esares' heart sank.

“Has he bedded you?” Kyenne asked.

Esares jerked. “What?”

“Has he slept with you?” the other demon repeated, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice.

Esares gave him a wide-eyed look that he prayed didn’t betray his panic, dumbfounded by the blunt question which with any other prospective owner he’d spent nearly every night of the past month alone with would have been ridiculously unnecessary to ask, no matter how possessive Sylves was. “I--” He didn't know if he should be honest. It'd be beyond strange to talk of Anereth potentially wanting him as a personal slave when he'd not even used him in all that time. But... Kyenne knew Anereth, and the fact that he had asked at all held significance.

Esares pressed his arms close to his chest. “No. He hasn't bedded me.”

Kyenne's whole posture changed. “Oh.” His expression cleared, the blankness slowly bleeding away and replaced by faint embarrassment. “Sorry,” he said after a while of his jaw working without result. “I just... we don't really speak much anymore. And you never know, with humans.”

Esares was confused. “Did he hurt you, and that's why he no longer has sex with slaves?” he hazarded, because it was a possibility he'd wondered at and one that seemed to fit the picture. Anereth had been young when he'd gotten Kyenne, hadn't he? Valithia had said as much. It would have been around the time he first came to Nuvaria and met Sylves.

Kyenne laughed weakly. “I was already hurt when he got me.”

This time it was Esares who said, “Oh.” He grasped for words of sympathy that would not fall flat and that he'd not hate to be on the receiving end of himself, but couldn't come up with any. After a while, he asked, cautiously, “So did he... ?”

“He never raped me. He kissed me once, and then I tried to off myself.”

Esares stared at him.

“Sorry. I shouldn't have said that,” Kyenne apologized. “But yeah, I was not a fun slave for him to own. So he left me here when he went to school and signed me over to his sister at the earliest opportunity. And I’m not bitter about it – as I said, I don’t really have anything to whine about –, except when I see him. And, apparently, when I hear about him fawning over a new slave he actually wants around. Which is honestly bizarre, because you couldn't bribe me to set foot in that city and I'm not interested in switching owners another time. But it can’t hurt to be suspicious, can it?”

Although hearing this was a weight off his chest, because it was nowhere near as bad as what he’d begun to speculate, Esares still had trouble formulating a response. He thought of Anereth’s gentle treatment of him, and what it had been like to discover the lies and manipulation beneath; thought of Lykis, who had rightly warned him. In the end, he settled on a quiet, “No.”

But maybe not everything had been a mask, after all; even at first.

Suddenly, he looked at Anereth’s reluctance to seriously kiss him as opposed to pet or hand-feed or punish him with different eyes.

“Sorry,” Kyenne said again. “I'm having a bad day and you shouldn't have to deal with it. These are personal problems, though, and you deserve to know that much. There's no reason why you should be concerned. He was an irritating master, but he tried to be nice and it wasn't like a pig trying to fly.”

Esares' lips pulled upwards, finding that analogy an apt description of his own master. “High praise.”

Kyenne smirked. “He should be honored.”

“Would you say,” Esares ventured after a beat, “he's someone who keeps his promises, when he makes them to a slave?”

“Yes.” Kyenne's response came astonishingly quickly. Esares had anticipated at least some hesitation, and wondered if the other demon knew about the agreement Anereth had struck up with the school slave – Velvern. He briefly considered asking, but decided to leave it be for now. “I'd also say he knows how to play word games. If he tells you he won't sell you, don't be surprised if he ends up giving you to his sister as a gift.”

Esares made a face. “But she's all right?”

“Sure. A step up, really. Told you I'm complaining about nothing,” Kyenne said. “Speaking of the humans, are you ready? We should probably get going or they might send up another servant. It’s not a big deal, but we like to keep them out of the slave quarters.” Esares was still puzzling over that statement when the other demon added, “At least we don’t have to worry about Valithia. She'd not be above hammering the door in.”

Esares noted Kyenne did not say 'barging in'. The bathroom door, like probably all doors in all slave quarters in Desarias, did not lock from the inside. There were no official regulations against it, but there were, occasionally, inspections, and a general agreement that there was no good reason to encourage slaves to lock themselves in as if they owned the space they occupied, or their bodies.

Most owners, even Sylves’ father, permitted their household slaves to tie a piece of cloth to the door handle or door knob of certain rooms, to signal to other slaves they wished to not be disturbed – typically for use of the toilet, but in this case, Kyenne had placed a purple kerchief outside when they first entered just so Esares might bathe in peace.

“Is Lady Valithia very sick?”

“Oh no, she’s fine. Just a bit under the weather.”

Esares found this loosened the knot in his stomach somewhat. “Good,” he said. “I-- I do like her.”

Where Lykis would have at best drawn his brows together or grimaced, Kyenne smiled wide. “It’s hard not to, isn’t it?”

Esares suddenly felt a bit abashed, but gladly returned the smile. “Yes.” He tied back his hair with the red band he'd taken from his old tunic. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Sure.”

“Ryminis was his slave before, too, wasn't she? It didn't sound as if he likes her much. How did he treat her?”

“He can't stand her,” Kyenne said, and appeared wholly unbothered by this fact. If anything, there was a tiny upwards twist to the corners of his mouth, which took Esares aback. Yes, if Ryminis had given Anereth trouble, he could see how that could be humorous, but... he'd expected another slave – a friend, from what Valithia had told him – to be concerned about Ryminis if someone in her mistress' family hated her. Even if Anereth might not have done anything too bad.

Kyenne, seeming to sense his bewilderment, allowed his smile to grow more pronounced, and elaborated, “There's no real messy history between them, though, so don’t worry about it. And I'd be amazed if he ever regarded another slave as he does her. Honestly, if he's been decent to you and you can get him to take you, do it. Worst comes to worst, we'll have Valithia give him a tongue-lashing for you.”

Esares grinned back at Kyenne, even as guilt about all the things he wasn’t saying curled in his gut anew. “Thanks.”

“She’s not the only one who’d be happy to have you here more often,” Kyenne said, and Esares couldn’t tell him how much that meant.

He was still smiling when he followed the other demon out of the door.

No, the future need not look so bleak at all. He could hold on, watch Sylves suffer and the better part of humanity run around like headless chickens when they learned that for the first time in almost a century, they had to worry about dragon fire raining down on them. He could find ways to continue forming and maintaining connections to other demons.

And now that he knew Anereth had always been at least somewhat sympathetic to his people’s plight, it seemed infinitely more likely Esares could make him see things his way.

Not least because after what he had learned, Esares was confident he could employ the persuasion tactics he needed without wallowing in resentment, or throwing up. He would move steadily, slowly, and when the day arrived to follow through with what was both the most banal and the most delicate part of what he intended to offer Anereth, he would not aim to deceive him on any deep level as he did Sylves, nor would he cringe or freeze under his touch and turn him away just as surely. It would be merely another trade, another part of a larger agreement; simple as that.

And if he outdid himself and ended up solidifying Anereth’s affection for him to the point where the mage’s judgment became clouded… well, Esares wouldn’t complain, for all that he wasn’t going to count on it.

When at one point as they descended the stairs, Kyenne asked him for how long he’d been owned by Sylves, Esares answered without pause and without sparing his master another thought, too busy planning out his future interactions with Anereth, and his own people; and of course, the most prudent path to take should the Chosen One’s replacement ultimately become in similar need of removal as the original, after all. Though he was confident now that he could work with Anereth, and do so well, the limits of their collaboration had yet to be determined.

There was all-out war on the horizon, and Esares needed to be prepared.

He hadn’t the leisure to cower before a dead man walking.

*

Kyenne guided him to Anereth’s room himself, in lieu of the servant who’d brought the clothes, whom he had apparently sent on his way unconcerned about the instructions the man had received from the mage – with great politeness, no doubt, but before meeting Oliar and Milara, Esares would nonetheless have been shocked by the brazenness of such an act. In most households in Nuvaria, it was not done; in that of Sylves’ father, it was unthinkable.

After asking whether he had need of anything else, Kyenne gave a small wave and made to get back to his mistress, explaining that although he’d not be reprimanded for tardiness, he’d like to try and get permission to speak with Ryminis in Valithia’s quarters, and besides, he’d rather not want to run into Anereth here. At his promise to come find him in the morrow if there was a chance, Esares covered up a grimace with a smile – he was quite certain he’d be back with Sylves by then, and that once he was, his master wouldn’t easily let him out of his sight again any time soon. At most, he could ask Anereth to get him away from him for a few hours once it’d no longer be terribly rude; maybe after a day or two.

At least he was quite sure they wouldn’t be returning to the capital before that.

Finding himself alone in Anereth’s room could have been an opportunity in itself, but although he wasn’t scared off by the prospect of punishment should he get caught going through the mage’s things, it wasn’t worth antagonizing him at this critical juncture. For one, if Anereth had anything deeply private here a slave left to his own devices would be able to access, he’d have found somewhere else to put Esares while he was otherwise engaged; and furthermore, it was obvious at a glance the room was abandoned. There was only the barest decoration, and the most basic furniture: aside from a wardrobe, a night table and a bed, there were only an armchair and a single bookshelf in a far corner. As the room was no smaller than what was the standard for heirs of noble families in Nuvaria, this left a lot of open space.

The bookshelf, too, was half empty, and most of the works that remained appeared to be textbooks going by their titles, or something close enough. A few books had no titles written on their spines, but the adornments typical for fictional novels, and when Anereth failed to show up even after Esares finished the well-seasoned rice and vegetables a servant delivered a good while after Kyenne’s departure, Esares told himself, fuck it and grabbed one, settling into the armchair with it.

The book turned out to be the story of a pirate and a priestess, and their forbidden love. The pirate was challenged to a battle to the death by her many rivals at least once every other chapter, and the priestess, who was some type of mage, kept finding clever ways to curse them. Esares skipped a lot, but it was entertaining enough despite some extremely corny scenes, and it somehow amused him that Anereth possessed this book, even though he realized the man might neither have bought it himself nor actually read it.

When the mage eventually stepped into the room, it was already getting dark outside, and Esares was still perched on the armchair.

He looked up at Anereth’s raised brows, unapologetic. “I didn’t chew on it.”

Anereth rolled his eyes, but just strode into the room and proceeded to get ready for the night. His hair was as wet as when Esares had last seen it, but this time clearly owing to a bath, not the rain that had started pounding against the window again some pages into chapter five.

The mage only addressed Esares once he had settled into bed. “I’m sure Sylves will want to see us as soon as he wakes tomorrow, but for now he’s not a concern. What will it be? I’d offer to have a couch brought in and appreciate the nostalgia, but it’d be a bit strange under the circumstances. I can point you to the spare bedclothes, though.”

Esares closed the book and put it away, and instead of answering crawled into bed, pillowing his head on the mage’s arm and pressing his back against his chest.

“Well, that’s new,” Anereth said after a pause, but his hand was in Esares’ hair almost before he finished the sentence – three fingers very gently carding through by now nearly dry strands. “Did you hit your head and forget the past two weeks, give or take?”

“I’m just in a good mood,” Esares returned, which wasn’t a lie; just not the whole truth, either. He needed Anereth, needed to work his way as deep into his heart as he was able, for so much more than his own sake. He also wanted the physical contact. Thinking about it logically, it would be that much worse to go back to Sylves starved for it; even more sensitive to touch than he already was thanks to the collar and his nature.

And aside from that… until Kyenne’s suspicious behavior where it concerned Anereth, and then finally learning the mage probably really never had treated a slave significantly worse than he had Esares, he hadn’t realized just how scared he had been to learn the facts. He didn’t want to despise Anereth like he did Sylves, didn’t know from where to take the energy and how to live like that; but if the man had been a rapist, had done that to Kyenne – Esares couldn’t not have, even if he could have brought himself to believe he’d never do it again, even if Anereth regretted the pain he had caused. There were acts too vile to ever be filed away as past mistakes.

Anereth’s caresses halted for a second. A moment after they resumed, the mage said, dryly, “Ah, yes. Your dragon.”

“They’re not my dragon,” Esares said, annoyed. Then added, because he didn’t feel like being lectured about presumably getting his hopes up, but also wasn’t about to explain just how he knew it wasn’t merely improbable that the dragon had been anything other than real, but impossible, “If it was one.”

“Of course.” The neutral tone just increased Esares’ ire, because he couldn’t tell whether or not Anereth was being sarcastic. “There are plenty of others who can’t wait for this country to burn, I’m sure.”

“Can you not ruin this? I don’t-- after today--”

The briefest sensation of lips against his nape, soft and barely there. “Forgive me.” This time, Anereth’s voice matched the gesture.

Esares shivered at the mage’s breath tickling the spot he had kissed.

He exhaled slowly, the anger dissipating. He let Anereth continue playing with his hair; enjoyed how now and then, the mage would trail his fingers down his neck and back up. Gradually, he relaxed under the gentle, achingly familiar attention.

Soon enough, his eyes fell shut.

After some minutes, he asked, without opening them, “What did you mean about it being nostalgic if you had a couch installed for me? Did Kyenne sleep on one? Or Ryminis?”

“Kyenne did, for a while. Ryminis slept where she pleased.” Anereth’s voice turned wry as he added the second part. “It didn’t come up?”

“No.”

Anereth hummed, his fingernails sliding along Esares’ bare arm. “We had some issues.”

“Issues,” Esares said, not without humor. “I remember you didn’t seem impressed with Sylves using that word.” His tongue barely got stuck on his master’s name.

A gust of air against the space between Esares’ shoulder blades. “Well, Kyenne never tried to kill me in my sleep, so I’d argue it’s not quite the same.”

Esares gave him a look over his shoulder, but didn’t follow the urge to ask for details. Kyenne had told him enough – it wouldn’t feel right to delve into his history further now, behind his back.

The ensuing silence was comfortable, with Anereth continuing to stroke his arm and neck and hair, and Esares almost drifting off a few times.

It was only broken when the mage stopped, and wrapped him in a loose embrace instead, asking, “All right?”

Esares appreciated the mage checking, and appreciated more that he would probably have done it with any slave, not just one he especially liked, or wanted something from. “Yes,” he said, and sighed contently when the arms around him tightened.

Anereth was quiet again for a while, before asking, “So can I take it we’re good?”

“That depends,” Esares said at length. “Do you have any more unpleasant surprises stored?”

“Oh no, only pleasant ones.”

Esares snorted, but leaned back against Anereth, drinking in the contact.

“I’ve wondered,” Esares said much later, so much he couldn’t be sure the human was still awake, though he’d not turned off the lights.

“Yes?” Anereth’s voice was quiet, but not drowsy.

“That student. Whom you set the snake on.” The arms around him twitched, almost imperceptibly. “He could have died – easily. Why did you do it?”

“Because he was insufferable,” Anereth said. “I thought I mentioned.”

“You find a lot of people insufferable. You don’t go around attempting to murder all of them.”

“No, that’d be a bit conspicuous.”

“You try to make people like you,” Esares continued as though the human hadn’t spoken, “more than you give them reason to distrust and hate you. Because being viewed with anger and suspicion isn’t to your advantage, and wasn’t before you knew about me, either, even if it wasn’t as dangerous to you then. So why did you risk killing him?”

“Sometimes I just get this appetite to make those who slight me suffer, and to devise creative forms of going about it. It’s why you particularly loathe me, remember?” Anereth shifted, lifting his upper body from the bed and leaning forward just enough so warm breath brushed Esares’ ear when he added, “Did you hit your head?”

Esares inhaled sharply, but refused to rise to the bait. Instead, he focused on the part that was interesting rather than aggravating: Anereth was attempting to divert his attention from the original question. And not overly subtly, either.

Not something he wanted to cover up at any cost, then. But maybe… something he vaguely hoped Esares would just drop?

Esares grasped the one arm Anereth had still slung across his torso, holding on tight. He wanted the mage to have no illusions about how likely that was going to happen. “I know you much better now than I did then. Obviously you aren’t squeamish. And I have no doubt you are someone who can enjoy hurting his enemies. But you’re not impulsive, and you’re not someone who kills people over besting you in a class once or twice, or calling you names, or even sabotaging your work or whatever tale you spun that was supposed to explain why you wished to play a trick on him.”

“My, such faith.”

“There was always a chance you’d get in trouble, and you’re many things, but a sadist with no impulse control is not one of them. So why?” Esares pushed.

“I don’t usually chat with people about these things, you know,” Anereth said. “Grudges. Meaningful offenses. It’s funnier when those who suspect or know anything speculate whether I go after the people I dislike more or less at random. Unless it’s Ksielle, but she’s just no fun, period. Especially when she demands answers and you try getting out of giving them.” There was exasperation in the last sentences, but also a softer emotion – reminiscent of how he spoke of and to his sisters.

Esares was so surprised he sat up, almost hitting Anereth in the chin with his shoulder. “She knows?”

“That I’m not an idiot who’d play a prank using a snake without checking if it’s venomous first? Oh yes. It’s very inconvenient. I deeply regret our friendship.”

Esares stared at him. And laughed, startled when he realized. “You have never regretted anything less in your life. You actually meant it, didn’t you. She’s your best friend.” He paused. “You adore her.”

“I do no such thing,” Anereth said. Despite the lack of emotion in his voice, and the fact that he was putting no particular effort into being convincing, Esares thought his cheeks had taken on a slightly reddish tint.

He laughed again, harder. “Dragons,” he said when he could finally speak again, lying down on his back. “This is great. All that time I worried about making you like me when I should have just taken lessons from Ksielle. You would love me by now and tell me all your secrets.”

“Yes,” Anereth said dryly, “obviously I have a weakness for people holding my furniture hostage on a regular basis.”

Esares barely heard him, still in the throes of hilarity. “You would-- you would march up to Sylves right this instant and finish the job, in defense of my virtue.” He dissolved into giggles again.

Anereth was looking down at him strangely.

Esares was sure it was because he should not find this as funny as he did – until a minute or two later, when he raised his hands to rub at his his burning eyes, and it occurred to him his cheeks had never been this wet with tears of laughter.

For some reason, this set him off all over again. When his laughter died down at last, he was gasping for air, and Anereth was still giving him that look, somewhere between concerned and bewildered.

“Never mind,” Esares said. “The snake.” He barely had enough air left to get out the words. “Why did you do it?”

Very slowly, Anereth touched his knuckles to the still wet skin below Esares’ eyes. His hand stayed there for a long moment, during which Esares was not sure he’d answer. “I actually did not care about him, at first,” the mage finally said. “He considered himself my rival, not the other way around. Or maybe I did, but not in any serious sense.”

Anereth let his hand fall away. “Then once after a party, he propositioned me. He had a number of choice words to say about my rejection, what with the number of people I sleep with. How dare I think myself too good for him?” A familiar smile curled at the edges of the mage’s lips, cold and contemptuous. “Things kept going downhill from there. Largely for him.”

Esares didn’t know what he’d expected, but this wasn’t it. He let the words sink in. And felt there was still something the mage wasn’t saying. His eyes widened. “Did he--”

“Not what you are thinking,” Anereth said immediately, but didn’t elaborate, procuring a kerchief from the bedside table and taking to drying off Esares’ face.

Esares endured it for a few seconds before swatting away his hand. “Then what?”

With a small sigh, the kerchief was returned to where it came from. “It’s a tale that involves someone sporting a bloody tongue and a burned wrist and still failing to take the hint. He found more creative ways of making a nuisance of himself after, though. In the end, he had a string of slaves,” Anereth said. “There was--” He stopped, seeming to choose his words. “A certain resemblance.”

Disgust swept through Esares.

Anereth took one look at his expression and smiled again, but this time without an accompanying hardness in his eyes. “Yes, I thought so, too,” he said. “Above all, though, it was foolish. People see no real reason why I should have wanted dear Belmvar dead; and while he was lucky enough to retain no permanent damage, he can’t give them a motive without ruining his own future prospects. Sylves might just finish what I started.”

Anereth finally lay back down properly again as well, facing Esares. “Though killing him was never my goal, really. There were plenty of healers available. Some people are just an inconvenience alive or dead – but he ran with his tail between his legs, so that’s all I could have asked for.”

Esares frowned. “When I first met Ksielle, she mentioned you having had a stalker. The son of some duchess?”

“Not him,” Anereth said. Which wasn’t entirely unexpected based on what Esares could recall of the conversation – like that Ksielle had attacked the man she and Anereth had been discussing.

“Does this sort of thing happen to you often?”

“Only sometimes,” Anereth said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Must be my pretty face and outgoing personality.”

“Or the hair,” Esares said, with just a little rancor.

“Or that,” Anereth agreed easily, and Esares stared at him for a second. “Anyway, that first one was quite harmless. Hence why I left him be. Alas, Ksielle saw it fit to pursue a more dramatic course of action.”

Says the one who nearly murdered the other fellow noble who harassed him, Esares thought.

“Maybe because reasonable people hold that a stalker, by definition, isn’t harmless,” he suggested.

Anereth sketched a shrug, but then rolled onto his back and said, “Ah, yes. That may have played a part.”

Esares kept his eyes on the mage, even as Anereth’s own gaze was fixed to the ceiling. “So what about the student whose hand you crushed? Did he bother you, too? Or did he kick puppies?”

“Determined to pry all my secrets from me tonight, are you,” Anereth said. Yet immediately went on, “No, that one did just call me names. What can I say? I was sixteen.”

Esares snorted. “Who doesn’t go around turning people’s bones to mush because they insulted them when they are sixteen.”

“Exactly.”

“You ask me if I’ve hit my head, but I think the impression I had of you before I knew what I do now was fairly accurate.”

“Oh?” Anereth turned to him again, leaning close. “And what impression was that?”

“That you’re strange,” Esares said. “And dangerous. And dangerously infuriating.” He sat up, as much as he could without bumping against Anereth’s nose. “But not the worst human to stick with.”

“Don’t praise me so,” Anereth said. “I might faint.” After a moment of quiet, the mage slowly raised a hand to Esares’ face. He cupped his cheek, and Esares let him.

The mage’s thumb stroked his jaw, and then Anereth closed the last bit of distance between their faces, kissing his forehead. “You should sleep.”

Esares’ hand dug into the mattress. He consciously focused on relaxing his fingers, pressing them flat against the silk instead. “I don’t think I can.”

A few beats of silence. “Then what do you want to do instead?” It could have sounded like innuendo, like a cheap offer masked as something kinder. But Anereth’s voice was very soft, his hand on Esares’ cheek so gentle as though he feared the demon might shatter under it, and Esares could not have mistaken him if he’d tried.

“Nothing,” Esares said. “Stop time.” He scooted back, away from Anereth’s touch. Took a moment to ground himself while the mage waited, slow to drop his arm. Finally Esares slid under the covers next to him once more and settled down facing the wall; the way his body brushed up against Anereth’s faux casual. “Kill Sylves.”

The bed shifted, and Esares had been half-expecting the arms that encircled him a moment later. “We will.” The words were barely more than a breath next to his ear.

You will, Esares thought. You will have me play his lovesick pet and fulfill his every order, and then when the times comes, you won’t even let me watch.

But the anger was no blazing white-hot flame this time, and no steady fire simmering in the pit of his stomach. It was igniting embers, come and gone with the wind.

He melted into the embrace, letting Anereth stroke his hair and press his lips to the flimsy material covering his shoulder so briefly he could almost believe he’d imagined it, and then in the dark allowed himself to be soothed by promises that Sylves’ end would be slow and torturous, whispered as sweetly as a lover’s oath.

Tonight, he could be weak.

Come morning, there would be room for no such thing, not a second of it.

Chapter Text

“-- still find him. As you said, he might have listened to you and escaped. My mother and everyone else who volunteered wouldn’t be looking if they considered it impossible, would they?”

“But now we know it was a dragon.” Sylves’ voice almost stopped Esares in his tracks, quiet and more despondent than he’d ever heard it, but as familiar as the ice gripping his heart. Only the servant walking ahead of him gave him something else to focus on – kept him moving at a nearly unchanged pace, for all that there was a moment where he thought he might whirl around and run.

“I told them it was, but they didn’t believe me, and I understand why. Even Kiares--,” Sylves gasped a little around the name, as though speaking it physically pained him, “said it could not be, before-- and then Lord Pelmien-- and I’d hoped, even though I knew I’d hoped-- how can my baby brother have been killed by a dragon?” Sylves’ voice cracked, and rose several notches higher as he continued, “Burned to ashes, because of me?”

Esares did halt in his steps now, but only because the servant did. She busied herself by retying her braid, motions just a little clumsy for someone whose occupation meant she probably wore it like that every day.

Distantly, Esares noticed several splashes of grey in the woman’s otherwise dark hair.

“You don’t know that,” Anereth said.

“Jelsh wasn’t--” A noise like a cut-off sob. “Jelsh isn’t one to run, or listen to me. He wanted to protect me. He wanted to protect me. I--”

“Anyone would run from a dragon,” Anereth said, emphatically. “Don’t give up hope just yet. And don’t torture yourself by blaming yourself. No one could have seen this coming, and Jelsh has never been anything but proud to have you as his brother. He would never regret it – a blind person would know just from the way he’d look at you.”

A definite sob, now.

The servant had finished retying her braid and been about to resume walking, but faltered, and Esares couldn’t say he was surprised, for all that he had been steeling himself to follow along. Her dilemma was obvious – though her face remained turned away from him because of course she’d not count on Esares to have a solution to it. This was not a good moment to interrupt; nor was it a good moment to be standing there silently listening in.

Alas, the door to the guest room was partway open, and if she turned around at this point to come back later, she may still draw attention. And anyway, there was no guarantee she would not be facing the same issue five minutes from now.

Which was probably why after a beat, she crossed the last bit of distance to the room Sylves was staying in, and tapped her knuckles against dark polished wood.

A stretch of time during which nothing could be heard from inside at all. The servant, whose name Esares did not know or care about, shifted in obvious unease.

“Come in,” Anereth said at last.

The servant opened the door the rest of the way, and Esares entered behind her. His gut twisted and turned.

“My lords,” the servant mumbled, timidly.

“Thank you, Heahvel. Tell Imra to send up some soup and bread later.”

“I told you,” Sylves said, voice faint and wobbly, “I’m not hungry.”

“Sylves, you need to eat.” And then, softly, “I almost lost you. Do you know how terrified I was until Tiliera swore to me you were out of danger? No, even now… please take care of yourself.”

Esares could not look past the servant at Sylves’ expression while being discreet about it, or Anereth’s for the matter, but he could hear his master swallow, the only sound in the room after Anereth finished, followed by a long silence. “Anereth,” Sylves finally whispered.

“Soup and bread it is,” Anereth said.

“Yes, my lord.” The servant bowed deep and heeded the implied dismissal instantly this time.

Once she was gone, Esares dared to raise his eyes, disguising the act by inclining his head all the lower, so that his hair provided him cover. He lifted his gaze from the bed sheets to the mages’ joined hands, to Sylves’ face.

He looked horrible.

The thought struck through the mounting anxiety and queasiness and let Esares take what felt like the first uninhibited breath of the morning, so suddenly that it startled him.

It would be unwise to gaze directly at Sylves for long, of course, even while Sylves’ attention seemed to be firmly elsewhere, but a covert glance was enough for the image to burn itself into Esares’ mind. The mighty Chosen One’s face was haggard and ghostly pale, his eyes red from crying. The golden hair many an admirer had gushed about clung listlessly to sweat damp skin, disheveled and dull. Most startling of all, though, were the gleaming white bandages wrapped around more of his upper body than not – his throat, nearly his entire right arm and some of his left, the lower part of his chest; and though from the stomach down thick covers blocked Esares’ view, he could tell they continued beneath it.

While Sylves was more sitting than lying in the broad bed, leaning against a fluffy pillow, Esares would swallow a griffin’s fur if he retained the capability to dip a single foot over the ledge, even if Anereth, perched there and oh so concerned for his well-being, would let him. He had lost weight, or maybe not, in the short time since the attack, maybe it was everything else he had lost that made him seem so much less substantial to Esares than the last time he had seen him, so much less terrible, so much… less.

And then there were all the things he would never know he’d not had in the first place, until it was too late. Once more Esares’ eyes were drawn to Anereth’s hand, nearly disappearing in Sylves’.

The tightly leashed fear in Esares’ gut unfurled and dissipated as he lowered his gaze back to the ground, even some of his revulsion.

This before him was humanity’s greatest hero, his people’s most dangerous enemy, and already, he was ruined worse than Esares.

He had survived this assassination attempt as surely as the last – so what of it? The day would come when he regretted it as fiercely as Esares himself.

Esares stepped towards Sylves’ sickbed with deliberate, measured steps. He did not know about Anereth, whose eyes never left Sylves’ face, but his master only noticed him when he was halfway there: surprise flashed across his features, making Esares wonder if Anereth had sent for Esares without informing him; and then he sat up straight with a speed that nearly made Esares step back.

He caught himself at the last second, but he did stop in his approach. Which would have been fine, perfectly proper even, had he managed to follow through with his intention of hiding his slip of composure by sinking gracefully to his knees and touching his head to the floor. Instead he was the fraction of a second too slow lowering himself and his gaze, and saw the way Sylves looked at him, and stared.

He did not know what he had expected. Of course Sylves would not be displeased to see him, even after everything. No matter how much suffering demons had inflicted on him, and how much more wary he might grow of them as a result, Esares had never seriously feared, or hoped, to lose his favor over this. Sylves’ affection for him was self-serving and repulsive, but it was not weak by any means, and that was part of what made it so disturbing.

And yet the way his entire demeanor changed the moment he laid eyes on him shocked Esares. It might not have been happiness softening the Chosen One’s face and lighting up his eyes, precisely; but it was an emotion breathtakingly close to it considering he had been in the middle of falling apart ten seconds ago. Esares could now clearly spot tear tracks, and ugly red blotches on otherwise sickly white skin.

And yet Anereth took hold of Sylves’ shoulder as though he expected him to forget himself and leap from the bed to greet Esares, and Esares could not dismiss this concern as unwarranted.

Esares should have gathered himself and knelt, but he just continued staring, and nothing felt real.

“Esares,” his master said, the word filled to the brim with emotion.

Esares didn’t recoil, but it was a near thing.

He stood frozen, and after a moment, Sylves actually let go of Anereth’s hand to reach out for him. “Come.” The simplest order, and barely that; spoken with nothing but warmth.

Did he not realize? Did he not understand that Esares was the same as those who had taken his brother from him? That where he was grieving, Esares rejoiced, and wished it had been his entire family?

Since Esares had anticipated little else, it made no sense to marvel at Sylves’ blissful ignorance; but it was the most bizarre feeling, to find that his mere presence gave his most hated enemy such comfort.

Sylves had not even been well-pleased with him when they parted.

No wonder Esares still clung to Anereth knowing the man had used him. Surely no one could live like this; as a mere phantom, as unreal as the humans had hoped the leader of the forces who attacked their precious Chosen One to be. Even having seen what demons were capable of, in Sylves’ gaze, there was no room for Esares as a person, an enemy; only a soothing, convenient mirage.

“What’s wrong?” Sylves asked, and he actually sounded hurt by Esares’ failure to obey.

Esares would have preferred anger.

“What’s wrong, you ask,” Anereth interjected after the span of a breath. “You look half-dead. Be patient and don’t give the poor thing a heart attack by trying to rush over and bleeding all over the floor, will you. People would expect me to help you back up.”

“You,” Sylves said, somewhat strangled. And only after a beat seemed to find it in himself to finish, “Are awful.”

For what felt like the first and last time in his life, Esares agreed with Sylves.

“Objectively,” Anereth said. “Now settle down.”

It was nice to know Anereth’s habit of casually ordering people around did not restrict itself to slaves and servants.

Sylves made a face at the other mage, but his posture eased, and after a few seconds, Anereth let go of his shoulder.

Finally, Esares moved. This was never going to be simple, but the exchange had given him time to collect himself, as he suspected Anereth was acutely aware of, for all that the man barely spared him a glance when Esares crossed the rest of the distance to the bed.

Esares halted in front of Sylves’ still-outstretched hand, and let his master stop him from kneeling by grabbing his wrist. For an instant, the urge to yank himself free was nearly overwhelming, but Esares withstood it.

His eyes demurely cast down, he tried to pretend it was Anereth touching him, and told himself it was mere annoyance bubbling up in his chest threatening to spill over, rather than visceral disgust.

He could not fool himself, but the attempt was a convenient distraction. He made his voice soft and breathless, so very relieved; though he allowed a note of calculated anxiety to creep into it. “Master.”

“Pet,” Sylves responded tenderly, and tugged him closer. Esares obediently sat down on the bed next to Anereth, but kept his eyes on the covers bunched up in Sylves’ lap, head bowed.

Sylves’ hand cradled his cheek, ran through his hair. “Won’t you look at me?” he said. And when Esares did, with a reluctance that was not at all feigned, “I missed you.”

Esares once more held his gaze for longer than would generally be deemed acceptable, but this time it was deliberate. He hadn’t blinked since making his way over, and had some tears to show for it.“You did, master?”

“Of course. How could I not?” Esares leaned into the palm of Sylves’ left hand, eyes trained on the bandages not quite reaching up to the man’s other one – the arm which remained at his side motionless. There was barely any blood visible, but Esares wondered what potion Sylves had taken to be able to sit here like this, without showing any sign of being in physical pain. Esares had yet to see him wince, even when he’d sat up quickly enough to alarm Anereth. A potion that strong should have side-effects.

“I wished I could touch you like this so many times,” Sylves went on. “What, did you think I’d forget you?”

Esares averted his eyes. “You were angry,” he said. “When you left.”

He glanced up through his lashes at Sylves’ face just in time to see a complicated expression flicker across it. “I wasn’t angry. Just--” Here he broke off, and Esares wondered whether all humans were liars. “It doesn’t matter,” Sylves finished, decisively. “I’m only glad to have you back.” His thumb brushed across Esares’ lips.

“Me, too, master,” Esares said, very softly.

Sylves’ gaze was deeply fond, despite the sadness lurking underneath. “Won’t you give me a kiss, then?”

Esares did, easily, thankfully, getting away with a brief, almost chaste one with Sylves in such a state and Anereth right next to them.

“Shh, don’t cry. I’m here.”

“But you’re hurt,” Esares said, and found it not difficult to sound upset, and let fresh tears well up as Sylves wiped his cheek with his fingers.

“I’ll recover. You’ll help me, won’t you?” A faint smile, only a little forced. “Look after me and kiss it better?”

Esares surged forward, stopped as if suddenly remembering Sylves’ injuries, and after silently counting to three carefully burrowed his face in the crook of the man’s neck. “Anything, master,” he said, putting as much fervor into his quivering voice as he could without it sounding insincere to his own ears.

Sylves’ hand petted the back of his head, evoking the feeling of ants crawling down his scalp and spreading across his body. “Anereth told me how good you were.”

“I tried, master.” He was glad he could not see Anereth even out of the corner of his eyes from this position. His act was beneficial to them both, as good as necessary, and Anereth of all people should appreciate it; yet that didn’t make it any less humiliating than eating from Anereth’s fingertips in front of Lykis had been.

There was a pause. “I was a bit harsh on you, before I left,” Sylves eventually said. “When I-- when I wasn’t sure if I’d make it--” Esares pressed his face more tightly against him-- “I regretted that. And Anereth told me he barely had to punish you, and how upset you were about me leaving. And about all this, of course.”

Esares wanted to laugh. If Sylves’ assailants had actually killed him, would he have spent his last seconds wishing he’d been nicer when Esares clung to his leg and begged? He would never feel remorse for raping him, torturing him, even for not listening to his pleas that day; but oh, he would go ahead and regret not being kind about it with his dying breath.

“I’m fine, master,” Esares said, secure in the knowledge that Sylves would wholly misinterpret the tremor in his voice. He wondered if Anereth could guess, or if he mistook it for just another part of his performance – or, even, for fear.

He took a breath, letting a bit more of his weight rest on Sylves, suddenly feeling entirely relaxed. Yes, the sensation of the human’s skin on his was unpleasant, but what was there to worry about?

In his current state, Sylves was like a toothless tiger: still in the possession of some dangerous attributes, but in greater peril himself than those who might encounter him. Was there any method of deriving sexual satisfaction from or inflicting punishment on Esares he could employ that’d not carry the risk of opening a wound – or all of them?

And even if this were not so, what could Sylves take from him that he hadn’t already?

Meanwhile, there was so much Esares could rip away from him, would rip away from him, not least the illusion that Esares felt anything for him but the darkest loathing.

But the time was not yet there.

So he kissed Sylves’ throat, and repeated, “I’m fine, master.” Rested his cheek against his shoulder. “As long as you are.”

“We will be.” Sylves stroked Esares’ back with his good hand. “We will be.”

Esares gingerly wrapped an arm around him in turn. I will be.

He could sense Anereth watching them, but found that he no longer cared.