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Temechi half-guided, half-carried him into a corner of the boarding chamber, past White Scars yelling and congratulating one another, helping each other out of armor and in some cases submitting to medical attention. Too many watched him as they went—but not all. Not all. That was something.
He hadn’t held on to the jewelry. Stupid, stupid—he could only hope that Sogetai had it now, that it hadn’t been crushed underfoot.
Someone passed something to Temechi—he couldn’t see what—and then Anat was tucked into the corner, Temechi between him and the rest of the Scars.
“Breathe,” Temechi said. He put his hands on Anat’s shoulders again, not pushing down, just resting there as he had in—as he had before. His hands were lighter out of armor, one warm through the captain’s tunic, the other padded by a wad of fabric.
Anat stared at Temechi’s gorget—even if he’d ordered him to look him in the eye before, that didn’t mean he should be forward now—and tried to do as he was told, slowly in and slowly out.
“Better?” Temechi asked, and Anat nodded before wondering if it was true. He was calmer, anyway, with Temechi as a shield from his battle-brothers’ eyes.
Temechi smiled and handed him the fabric. Anat shook it out and looked down to find that Temechi had given him a spare set of White Scar duty robes.
“It’s what we have,” said Temechi.
But they stood less on pride than the Wolves had, if they were willing to let their prize wear their own garb.
That, or they wanted to put their mark on him. (The captain wouldn’t have bothered. But then, no one could have dared challenge the captain’s claim. And now—was he even now readying his own forces to reclaim his slave and his pride?)
Wait. Their mark. “The insignia,” he said.
“What—oh. Yes, it’s different. Sogetai and I came to Bayatur Khan recently. We still wear our old squad’s markings. We may yet go back to them.”
And when they did, would he be separated from his brothers or left behind to the dubious mercies of unknown Space Marines? (If they were not Bayatur Khan’s men, would they have any chance at keeping him?)
Temechi turned his back to him, and Anat peered around him to see what had gotten his attention until he said, “Tell me when you’re done.”
It took a long moment for the command to sink in; then he scrambled to do it, hands shaking a little. Trousers on, the captain’s tunic off—he hoped they burned it—the White Scar tunic on, inside out again so the squad markings would not show. He left it over the jewelry that still covered his neck, even though the lumps would be obvious.
(Had Temechi already ceded him, to Sogetai or to his khan or to—no. Don’t borrow trouble. He wasn’t that important, surely. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, and he shouldn’t think so well of himself anyway. At least Temechi’s full plate blocked the others’ view of Anat as he changed.)
He tried to speak—his voice caught. But Temechi heard, and turned to face him.
“Do the seams bother you?” he asked, and Anat shook his head, staring down at himself. Temechi did not ask for an explanation; maybe he thought Anat had just got it wrong in his hurry.
He certainly wasn’t a prepossessing sight. The tunic—it was more of a shirt, on him—and trousers fit loosely, but were several inches too short, baring ankles, wrists, and if he moved carelessly his midriff as well. He tugged a hem down ineffectually with one hand.
“It’s the largest we had, for height.” Well, that was probably true; the quartermasters had always been annoyed at him, making them get in sizes they would never otherwise have needed to have made… Anat shivered, trying to shake the memory off. No use thinking of those times, not now.
“We keep things too cold for you, don’t we,” Temechi said. It was true, though this place was warmer than the Wolves’ den, at least. “I’ll make sure you get extra blankets.”
The way he said that, Anat could almost believe there would be no price.
He hadn’t held on to the jewelry. Stupid, stupid—he could only hope that Sogetai had it now, that it hadn’t been crushed underfoot.
Someone passed something to Temechi—he couldn’t see what—and then Anat was tucked into the corner, Temechi between him and the rest of the Scars.
“Breathe,” Temechi said. He put his hands on Anat’s shoulders again, not pushing down, just resting there as he had in—as he had before. His hands were lighter out of armor, one warm through the captain’s tunic, the other padded by a wad of fabric.
Anat stared at Temechi’s gorget—even if he’d ordered him to look him in the eye before, that didn’t mean he should be forward now—and tried to do as he was told, slowly in and slowly out.
“Better?” Temechi asked, and Anat nodded before wondering if it was true. He was calmer, anyway, with Temechi as a shield from his battle-brothers’ eyes.
Temechi smiled and handed him the fabric. Anat shook it out and looked down to find that Temechi had given him a spare set of White Scar duty robes.
“It’s what we have,” said Temechi.
But they stood less on pride than the Wolves had, if they were willing to let their prize wear their own garb.
That, or they wanted to put their mark on him. (The captain wouldn’t have bothered. But then, no one could have dared challenge the captain’s claim. And now—was he even now readying his own forces to reclaim his slave and his pride?)
Wait. Their mark. “The insignia,” he said.
“What—oh. Yes, it’s different. Sogetai and I came to Bayatur Khan recently. We still wear our old squad’s markings. We may yet go back to them.”
And when they did, would he be separated from his brothers or left behind to the dubious mercies of unknown Space Marines? (If they were not Bayatur Khan’s men, would they have any chance at keeping him?)
Temechi turned his back to him, and Anat peered around him to see what had gotten his attention until he said, “Tell me when you’re done.”
It took a long moment for the command to sink in; then he scrambled to do it, hands shaking a little. Trousers on, the captain’s tunic off—he hoped they burned it—the White Scar tunic on, inside out again so the squad markings would not show. He left it over the jewelry that still covered his neck, even though the lumps would be obvious.
(Had Temechi already ceded him, to Sogetai or to his khan or to—no. Don’t borrow trouble. He wasn’t that important, surely. There wasn’t anything he could do about it, and he shouldn’t think so well of himself anyway. At least Temechi’s full plate blocked the others’ view of Anat as he changed.)
He tried to speak—his voice caught. But Temechi heard, and turned to face him.
“Do the seams bother you?” he asked, and Anat shook his head, staring down at himself. Temechi did not ask for an explanation; maybe he thought Anat had just got it wrong in his hurry.
He certainly wasn’t a prepossessing sight. The tunic—it was more of a shirt, on him—and trousers fit loosely, but were several inches too short, baring ankles, wrists, and if he moved carelessly his midriff as well. He tugged a hem down ineffectually with one hand.
“It’s the largest we had, for height.” Well, that was probably true; the quartermasters had always been annoyed at him, making them get in sizes they would never otherwise have needed to have made… Anat shivered, trying to shake the memory off. No use thinking of those times, not now.
“We keep things too cold for you, don’t we,” Temechi said. It was true, though this place was warmer than the Wolves’ den, at least. “I’ll make sure you get extra blankets.”
The way he said that, Anat could almost believe there would be no price.
