Wizard Rescue Pavoni 16

[setenaya]

A second time Anat woke warm and unbound and certain he would pay for it. This time he remembered where he was more quickly, at least.

Where and when.

A part of him wanted to ask Temechi to put it off. He might be agreeable. But Anat knew he would have to do it sometime, and anyway, it would be foolish to go back on his word.

He should be grateful they weren’t having their thralls scrub and hose him, the way the captain had. At least this way he was less likely to end up re-injured or half-drowned.

All the same, Anat lay still and kept his eye closed while he could.

He gave up when Temechi brought him another bowl of gruel—he knew better than to pass up food. He thought it might be a little thicker than last night’s, but it was hard to tell, especially with the telltale grit of added supplements.

Knowing what would come after, he ate slowly. Temechi was watching him, but once more he was unreadable.

When he was done he put the bowl firmly aside—he dared not delay any further, not when Temechi might be growing impatient. But the words he tried to speak died in his throat.

“Ready?” Temechi asked, and Anat nodded.

Once again Temechi scooped him up, one hand around his torso and one around his knees. Anat clung to him, trying to cooperate. Without meaning to, his eye squeezed shut.

He should it them, he thought. See how many were staring at him. How many were… waiting. But what could he do, even if he knew? It wasn’t reason enough to deny himself this limited comfort.

So he let himself keep them closed until Temechi set him down—not on the hard deck plate but on a low stool. Temechi waited to let go until Anat had found his balance, putting as little of his weight on his feet as he could.

Then Temechi turned, looking away at the wall. “Tell me if you need help,” he said.

Anat looked around, taking stock of the room Temechi had brought him to. It was small, and not meant for this purpose—there wasn’t even a drain on the floor. But there was a door, and it was locked shut.

Someone had left bowls of water here, soap, cleaning-rags—all within reach. He wouldn’t have to crawl to get them.

Carefully, Anat leaned forward and dragged one of the bowls to his feet; carefully, he began.

He couldn’t disturb Temechi’s work on his feet—he’d cleaned them before he bandaged them, anyway—so he started with his ankles. Soaped rag, wet rag, dry one; repeat. Repeat. It didn’t seem like enough.

Maybe he just didn’t want to go higher.

But his ankles—still raw from where he’d unwillingly struggled against the captain’s shackles—began to hurt, and he made himself move on. No use making himself bleed, he told himself.

(That would happen no matter what. But he didn’t need to do it himself.)

Carefully he pulled his trousers off, putting weight onto one foot and then another to get them off his buttocks—he froze, looking at Temechi, but the apothecary wasn’t watching, didn’t realize Anat had disobeyed his orders. Probably. The trousers pooled around his ankles, and he stepped out of them, shoved them to the side.

Shins, bruises fading where he’d been shoved to the floor, still covered in the dirt of the wolves’ mess hall. Knees, much the same.

Thighs, still blue and black—he could see the shadow of the captain’s hands, and the crust of him too.

(How much of the captain’s filth was still rubbed into the sheets he slept in? How much would be waiting for him tonight—)

He scrubbed harder to distract himself, and winced at the pain.

It’ll hurt worse in a moment, he told himself savagely, and the voice in his head sounded like the captain’s.

He flinched from it, and for a terrible moment he felt as if he’d lost his balance—dizzy, lightheaded, on the verge of fainting. He leaned forward, stomach against his sore thighs, chest against his bony knees, and tried to breathe.

He wondered if it would help to drink something. It wasn’t an option the captain had given him, but Temechi had left much to his discretion, just now. The water he’d been given to wash with would be safe for an astartes to drink, even one—reduced as he now was.

Anat reached out to a basin he’d left clean so far—he could just barely reach. He made a cup of his hands, but the water ran through his fingers.

Was he doing something wrong—or was it simply that hands made a poor vessel, when one could not bid flesh to form a seal?

Grimacing, he eased himself to the floor. He couldn’t walk—that would be disobedient—but he could shuffle on his hands and knees to the basin and drink from it.

Like an animal, Anat thought, and the captain’s laugh echoed in his memory. When he was done he splashed a little water on his face to cool his burning cheeks, and told himself that at least Temechi’s back was still turned.

But at least he felt steadier now. No point in further delay.

The first damp cloth he used he threw away immediately, with more force than strictly warranted. The second, likewise. By the third, he thought his cock was clean, though the bruises made it hard to tell. His buttocks and the crack between took longer. He made himself stop eventually—he thought that he could scrape away the skin and still not feel clean.

Anat shook himself and pulled his shirt off. Thought of putting the trousers back on. But he knew the captain’s filth must have rubbed off on the fabric, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Being naked was better. Even if Temechi turned around, even if—even then, it was better.

He shoved the clothes away, and this time his hands collided with one of the bowls. It rocked and sloshed, half the water spilling before it stabilized.

Anat jumped—not even to his feet, just half-back from the mess. He was breathing fast, he realized. A warrior of the Fifteenth Legion, frightened by such a small thing—

“Are you all right?”

Anat froze. “I—” His throat closed. He grabbed for the rags again. But as he did, Temechi turned around.

Anat froze, torn cleaning up his mess and shielding himself from Temechi’s eyes. Then he realized he could do both, bending down as he scrubbed at the floor.

Temechi scooped a pile of cloth away from the growing puddle and onto the stool, and in the same motion held a larger towel out to Anat. “Did you exacerbate your injuries?” he asked, as if the problem had been a lack of clarity.

Anat shook his head.

As he let go of the sodden cloth in his hands he realized that he’d used his dirty clothes, rather than the rags. His face burned—he’d made things worse for himself, he hadn’t thought—but he took the towel from Temechi and made to continue.

“No, go ahead and cover yourself with that. I’ll clean up.”

Temechi turned his back while he did. Anat took advantage to wrap the new towel about his waist—no use covering his shoulders. Then, numbly, he washed his hands. He wasn’t sure it did him any good, but the captain’s memory seemed further away.

He might as well keep going. Wrist, forearm, elbow, armpit, shoulder. One side, then the other. By rote.

Then Temechi turned and looked at him again, and Anat realized he’d been mouthing the Enumerations. And Temechi had seen.

“Sh,” Temechi said, but he didn’t touch him. Anat wasn’t sure he could have borne it, just then.

Had he been making any sound? He thought he’d been silent. Ever since the captain had threatened to rip out his tongue—he’d been careful, he had. He had.

And yet, on his second day here…

Temechi didn’t look angry. Perhaps he didn’t recognize what Anat had been doing.

(It wasn’t as if the Space Wolves had known either, at first. At first.)

“Will you need help?”

“… I don’t know if I’ll be able to reach my back.” Astartes weren’t built for flexibility, even after losing as much muscle as he had. And he was already tired.

It turned out he’d been right to doubt his capacity. By the time he’d finished with his arms and chest and face, those arms were shaking. It was all he could do to keep his body still while Temechi worked on his back.

Temechi was gentle. But he was also thorough, and having someone else’s hands warm on his back, over and over again and again—Anat pressed his chest to his knees and his brow to the floor, and mouthed the Enumerations to the deck.

When Temechi told him it was over, he didn’t understand at first. (If it had taken him longer, would he have bodily pulled him up? It no longer seemed certain, at least.)

“I think we’d better wait and do your hair tomorrow. If that’s all right with you.”

Anat considered. His hair was filthy too, but… He’d certainly need Temechi’s help with that too, and it would take a while. And he was so tired that he might not be able to hold the position Temechi wanted for it.

He nodded.

Temechi handed him the stack of cloth he’d put on the stool earlier and turned his back.

He had thought it was more cleaning rags—perhaps large enough to cover himself with—but no: it was another uniform tunic and trousers. Panels of fabric had been added to the legs and sleeves, rough-stitched; and where he’d turned the other set inside out to hide the squad markings, a patch had been—glued, he thought—with a drawn approximation of the Thousand Sons’ sigil.

He touched the symbol with shaking hands.

It could have been an insult, like the times the captain had dressed him in red and gold. But Anat thought not.

If this had been an insult, they would have done it before, instead of letting him wear White Scar insignia, whether their own or their host squad’s. So…

“Thank you,” he whispered, and pulled the tunic on.

Once more Temechi carried him back to the dormitory. Anat braced himself as they entered—but the White Scars paid him no more attention than before. Even when Temechi set him down on the bed—it was new-made, with crisp clean sheets and different-colored blankets—no one stared or rose. Some even turned their faces away from Anat’s darting eye.

Not now, then. Not now. They respected that he was Temechi’s, or—

Not now., he told himself. Anat willed his heart to slow, and he had enough command of himself yet that it did, eventually.

Fear gave way, of course, not to calm but to exhaustion. Anat saw no reason to fight it.