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Anat woke sore and stiff and warm, warmer than he’d been in what felt like years except for—
Except when he was in the captain’s bed.
He was in bed and the captain had gone off without binding him and he’d be punished for it when someone noticed—he hadn’t even taken advantage, he’d fallen asleep, his brothers would do better given that opportunity—
This wasn’t the captain’s bed. The smells were wrong, dust and cleaning chemicals rather than sweat and wolves. The mattress wasn’t as soft. This wasn’t the captain’s bedchamber. He could hear breathing, and voices in—Korchin. That was what the language was called, and he was going to learn it. This wasn’t the captain’s ship. This was—Radnashiri, that was right, he was in the dormitory on the Radnashiri where Sogetai and Temechi had taken him after they stole him from the captain.
And he was about to have a panic attack in a room filled with White Scars.
Anat forced himself to breath slowly, in, hold, and out. Forced his screaming muscles tense, and then forced them to relax, and again, and again.
Then, finally, he felt steady enough to open his eye.
The room was lit for ship’s day again, though that did nothing to tell him how much time had passed; a vessel this small might keep a four-hour night instead of a full cycle.
Cautiously, Anat turned on his side—there was the jewelry; at least the bundle had not come undone in the night. From around it he looked out into the room.
There were fewer White Scars in the dormitory than he had thought—maybe half of its full capacity, when last night it had been full. They were quieter than Wolves, at least; those who were talking were keeping their voices down, and some were quietly pouring over dataslates.
No one was watching him yet.
They’d stared last night, and on the… the other ship. But here and now, no one was even looking.
For the moment, Anat was free from the weight of others’ eyes.
He lay there stunned by that simple freedom for so long that he fell asleep again. When he woke again, his turning shifted the bundle, and Temechi looked over at him.
Anat mourned the loss of his momentary invisibility, then shook himself as best he could. No point in indulging in that kind of pretense.
Temechi gave him another pouch of broth, even though he’d been fed just last night. Anat almost blurted that out—but he managed to hold his tongue. If his new masters wanted to feed him two meals a day, he shouldn’t argue.
Besides, he might be wrong about how long it had been.
Afterwards Temechi offered to take him to relieve himself. Anat wasn’t about to say no to a chance to keep some fragment of his dignity, so he nodded.
(It would put him alone with Temechi. Did that matter? It wouldn’t have with the captain. But it seemed the White Scars were more… private.)
When he tried to get up, though, he staggered. His feet hurt—well, so did everything else. But he lurched forward, almost into Temechi’s broad chest, and Temechi caught him.
No one laughed. None of the onlookers even said anything, and Temechi himself only asked, “Should I carry you?”
Anat shook his head, still hunched over, clinging to Temechi’s arms so he wouldn’t fall again.
“All right,” Temechi said, so gently that he had to be doing it on purpose. “I’ll help you walk.”
Anat leaned on Temechi, arm around his shoulder, pressed his socket to his head the way he had with Sogetai last night, like a drunk leaning on his friend. He was acutely aware of the other White Scars watching—Sogetai down from his bunk, the curious stranger from last night, unknown faces. Silent and appraising.
(He was giving so much away, so many ways they would know to hurt him. All the things they offered now were things they could take away later.)
At least there weren’t any catcalls. At least not yet. Not yet.
Three steps past the first bunk. Two more, the second. Again, again, again. He was getting a little steadier; by the end of the row, he thought he could have walked unaided, or at least only needed to hold the furniture. He kept his arm around Temechi, kept leaning,
Whatever safety Anat had now was as Temechi’s… dependent. He could not control whether Temechi kept possession of him, but he could at least stay in his lee as long as he could.
When they were out in the otherwise deserted corridor, Temechi paused. “Want to rest a moment?”
Anat wanted to shake his head again, but he made himself say “Please.”
He needed the rest—if not now, soon. As the captain’s plaything he had lived a sedentary life, chained in place between brief forced marches, and his muscles had atrophied beyond what he would have thought possible for an astartes.
And at least there was no one in the hall to see. (Foolish of him. As if any of them could miss how helpless he’d become…)
Temechi helped him lower himself to the floor, and gave him a bit more of that awful nutrient water. Anat drank, sitting with his knees to his chest in the mercifully clear hallway. When he was done he looked up and asked, “How far?”
“Not very.” Temechi gave the distance in meters, and Anat nodded. He could do that. Even as he was now…
“I’ll give you some exercises to practice.” Anat’s expression must have betrayed his wariness, because Temechi went on, “So that the walk will be easier for you. We’ll be on this ship a while, I’m afraid.”
How long was a while, for the famously fast White Scars? (How would they behave, penned in together and bored?)
But it had to be better to walk to where they wanted him rather than crawling. He nodded again. Assent. Obedience. He could do this.
Thus far, they hadn’t asked anything of him that he couldn’t do.
(Thus far.)
Anat put his hands on the ground and tried to push himself to his feet—a miserable failure.
“Here,” said Temechi, extending his hands. Anat grasped them as firmly as he dared, and Temechi pulled him to his feet, as easily and as gently as if he were a human child.
Instead of putting his arm back around Temechi’s shoulder, he held onto Temechi’s arm, and leaned when he stumbled. That happened more often than he would have liked.
Once—only once, at least—another White Scar came abruptly out of a door in front of them, and Anat cringed against Temechi out of shock. Temechi exchanged brief words with his brother, patting Anat’s hand as he did, and the newcomer was gone.
“It’s all right,” he said. That must be a lie, even if one of carelessness. But it was hard not to be soothed by his soft tone.
All the same, when they reached the lavatory he braced himself. This was the first time he had been genuinely alone with a White Scar, behind a locked door. If that mattered—
But Temechi took no advantage—not to touch and not to mock. He helped Anat when he had to, and except when he had to, he looked away from him—at the wall, and not at Anat’s exposed body.
It was a mercy. A reprieve. But it put Anat off balance. He had thought his face, his flesh-sculpted body the one resource that remained to him. If it was no use either, after all the pain it had brought him…
He looked at himself in the burnished mirror as he washed his hands—the bones he’d worked so hard on stood out starkly, though of course the captain had suffered no damage to Anat’s face, besides… besides what he’d done himself.
Grimly Anat inspected his empty socket for signs of infection; found none. He had avoided infection for the most part, and it seemed his luck still held.
Luck. He could laugh, but if he did he would either retch or weep.
Temechi didn’t yet seem impatient, so Anat took stock of what he had left.
The scars on his ears weren’t as bad as he had feared—hardly visible at all. He didn’t have to worry about hiding them, then. His hair was tangled but not, to the touch, matted; some had caught in the jewelry, but not as much as he had feared. His nails were overgrown—he’d been so afraid that he would scratch someone by accident and be punished for that again—perhaps the Scars would let him do something about it before that happened here. His wrists were still abraded, but not bleeding; it was too soon to tell if he’d have more scarring there.
If he focused on the details he could almost put it out of his mind how much he looked like a propaganda parody of his gene-sire—Magnus’s red grandeur brought low, reduced to a slave with a king’s ransom in gold around his neck.
Anat shuddered, and splashed his face with water to avoid looking at it. Well, he did need to wash it; it was grimy with sleep-grit and—other things. Other things. Temechi passed him a damp cloth and he used it, almost forgetting to thank him.
When he was done he turned around, his back to the mirror. (No good. He knew exactly what Temechi was seeing, now.)
It helped, at least, that Temechi with his tired face and his rumpled duty robes looked nothing like any depiction of the Great Khan Anat had seen.
“I’m done,” he said, unnecessarily.
Temechi looked at him and then away. As he offered Anat his arm he said, still gently, “We don’t really have anything in the way of bathing facilities on this ship. But I could get you some sponges, or towels, if that would help.”
The idea of focusing that long on his body was, just now, overwhelming and exhausting. But it had been some days since the captain had bothered to tell his thralls to wash him, and living in that filth was its own torment.
Besides, if he wanted to use what he had left…
“Tomorrow?” he said at last.
“Tomorrow,” Temechi said. For a moment Anat thought that he would pet him on the head like Sogetai did. But all he did was gently pat his hand again.
Except when he was in the captain’s bed.
He was in bed and the captain had gone off without binding him and he’d be punished for it when someone noticed—he hadn’t even taken advantage, he’d fallen asleep, his brothers would do better given that opportunity—
This wasn’t the captain’s bed. The smells were wrong, dust and cleaning chemicals rather than sweat and wolves. The mattress wasn’t as soft. This wasn’t the captain’s bedchamber. He could hear breathing, and voices in—Korchin. That was what the language was called, and he was going to learn it. This wasn’t the captain’s ship. This was—Radnashiri, that was right, he was in the dormitory on the Radnashiri where Sogetai and Temechi had taken him after they stole him from the captain.
And he was about to have a panic attack in a room filled with White Scars.
Anat forced himself to breath slowly, in, hold, and out. Forced his screaming muscles tense, and then forced them to relax, and again, and again.
Then, finally, he felt steady enough to open his eye.
The room was lit for ship’s day again, though that did nothing to tell him how much time had passed; a vessel this small might keep a four-hour night instead of a full cycle.
Cautiously, Anat turned on his side—there was the jewelry; at least the bundle had not come undone in the night. From around it he looked out into the room.
There were fewer White Scars in the dormitory than he had thought—maybe half of its full capacity, when last night it had been full. They were quieter than Wolves, at least; those who were talking were keeping their voices down, and some were quietly pouring over dataslates.
No one was watching him yet.
They’d stared last night, and on the… the other ship. But here and now, no one was even looking.
For the moment, Anat was free from the weight of others’ eyes.
He lay there stunned by that simple freedom for so long that he fell asleep again. When he woke again, his turning shifted the bundle, and Temechi looked over at him.
Anat mourned the loss of his momentary invisibility, then shook himself as best he could. No point in indulging in that kind of pretense.
Temechi gave him another pouch of broth, even though he’d been fed just last night. Anat almost blurted that out—but he managed to hold his tongue. If his new masters wanted to feed him two meals a day, he shouldn’t argue.
Besides, he might be wrong about how long it had been.
Afterwards Temechi offered to take him to relieve himself. Anat wasn’t about to say no to a chance to keep some fragment of his dignity, so he nodded.
(It would put him alone with Temechi. Did that matter? It wouldn’t have with the captain. But it seemed the White Scars were more… private.)
When he tried to get up, though, he staggered. His feet hurt—well, so did everything else. But he lurched forward, almost into Temechi’s broad chest, and Temechi caught him.
No one laughed. None of the onlookers even said anything, and Temechi himself only asked, “Should I carry you?”
Anat shook his head, still hunched over, clinging to Temechi’s arms so he wouldn’t fall again.
“All right,” Temechi said, so gently that he had to be doing it on purpose. “I’ll help you walk.”
Anat leaned on Temechi, arm around his shoulder, pressed his socket to his head the way he had with Sogetai last night, like a drunk leaning on his friend. He was acutely aware of the other White Scars watching—Sogetai down from his bunk, the curious stranger from last night, unknown faces. Silent and appraising.
(He was giving so much away, so many ways they would know to hurt him. All the things they offered now were things they could take away later.)
At least there weren’t any catcalls. At least not yet. Not yet.
Three steps past the first bunk. Two more, the second. Again, again, again. He was getting a little steadier; by the end of the row, he thought he could have walked unaided, or at least only needed to hold the furniture. He kept his arm around Temechi, kept leaning,
Whatever safety Anat had now was as Temechi’s… dependent. He could not control whether Temechi kept possession of him, but he could at least stay in his lee as long as he could.
When they were out in the otherwise deserted corridor, Temechi paused. “Want to rest a moment?”
Anat wanted to shake his head again, but he made himself say “Please.”
He needed the rest—if not now, soon. As the captain’s plaything he had lived a sedentary life, chained in place between brief forced marches, and his muscles had atrophied beyond what he would have thought possible for an astartes.
And at least there was no one in the hall to see. (Foolish of him. As if any of them could miss how helpless he’d become…)
Temechi helped him lower himself to the floor, and gave him a bit more of that awful nutrient water. Anat drank, sitting with his knees to his chest in the mercifully clear hallway. When he was done he looked up and asked, “How far?”
“Not very.” Temechi gave the distance in meters, and Anat nodded. He could do that. Even as he was now…
“I’ll give you some exercises to practice.” Anat’s expression must have betrayed his wariness, because Temechi went on, “So that the walk will be easier for you. We’ll be on this ship a while, I’m afraid.”
How long was a while, for the famously fast White Scars? (How would they behave, penned in together and bored?)
But it had to be better to walk to where they wanted him rather than crawling. He nodded again. Assent. Obedience. He could do this.
Thus far, they hadn’t asked anything of him that he couldn’t do.
(Thus far.)
Anat put his hands on the ground and tried to push himself to his feet—a miserable failure.
“Here,” said Temechi, extending his hands. Anat grasped them as firmly as he dared, and Temechi pulled him to his feet, as easily and as gently as if he were a human child.
Instead of putting his arm back around Temechi’s shoulder, he held onto Temechi’s arm, and leaned when he stumbled. That happened more often than he would have liked.
Once—only once, at least—another White Scar came abruptly out of a door in front of them, and Anat cringed against Temechi out of shock. Temechi exchanged brief words with his brother, patting Anat’s hand as he did, and the newcomer was gone.
“It’s all right,” he said. That must be a lie, even if one of carelessness. But it was hard not to be soothed by his soft tone.
All the same, when they reached the lavatory he braced himself. This was the first time he had been genuinely alone with a White Scar, behind a locked door. If that mattered—
But Temechi took no advantage—not to touch and not to mock. He helped Anat when he had to, and except when he had to, he looked away from him—at the wall, and not at Anat’s exposed body.
It was a mercy. A reprieve. But it put Anat off balance. He had thought his face, his flesh-sculpted body the one resource that remained to him. If it was no use either, after all the pain it had brought him…
He looked at himself in the burnished mirror as he washed his hands—the bones he’d worked so hard on stood out starkly, though of course the captain had suffered no damage to Anat’s face, besides… besides what he’d done himself.
Grimly Anat inspected his empty socket for signs of infection; found none. He had avoided infection for the most part, and it seemed his luck still held.
Luck. He could laugh, but if he did he would either retch or weep.
Temechi didn’t yet seem impatient, so Anat took stock of what he had left.
The scars on his ears weren’t as bad as he had feared—hardly visible at all. He didn’t have to worry about hiding them, then. His hair was tangled but not, to the touch, matted; some had caught in the jewelry, but not as much as he had feared. His nails were overgrown—he’d been so afraid that he would scratch someone by accident and be punished for that again—perhaps the Scars would let him do something about it before that happened here. His wrists were still abraded, but not bleeding; it was too soon to tell if he’d have more scarring there.
If he focused on the details he could almost put it out of his mind how much he looked like a propaganda parody of his gene-sire—Magnus’s red grandeur brought low, reduced to a slave with a king’s ransom in gold around his neck.
Anat shuddered, and splashed his face with water to avoid looking at it. Well, he did need to wash it; it was grimy with sleep-grit and—other things. Other things. Temechi passed him a damp cloth and he used it, almost forgetting to thank him.
When he was done he turned around, his back to the mirror. (No good. He knew exactly what Temechi was seeing, now.)
It helped, at least, that Temechi with his tired face and his rumpled duty robes looked nothing like any depiction of the Great Khan Anat had seen.
“I’m done,” he said, unnecessarily.
Temechi looked at him and then away. As he offered Anat his arm he said, still gently, “We don’t really have anything in the way of bathing facilities on this ship. But I could get you some sponges, or towels, if that would help.”
The idea of focusing that long on his body was, just now, overwhelming and exhausting. But it had been some days since the captain had bothered to tell his thralls to wash him, and living in that filth was its own torment.
Besides, if he wanted to use what he had left…
“Tomorrow?” he said at last.
“Tomorrow,” Temechi said. For a moment Anat thought that he would pet him on the head like Sogetai did. But all he did was gently pat his hand again.
