The young man lies limp in my arms. His head rests on my broad chest as trusting as a maid, rising and falling with the ebb and flow of my breath. He smells as sweet as a girl, for all his twenty years. The low light from the dim brazier picks out the curl of his eyelashes, as the herb mixture pushes him deeper into sleep.
My right hand lies loose over the back of his bruised neck. My left limp over the curve at the base of his spine. I am mindful of the weals of the injuries striping him.
I am not a brute.
I untangle myself from him. The scent of the healing herbs drying on his back explodes pungently as I shift, making my way to the brazier and poking the coals into life. I sit in my camp chair, look over at the sleeping form of the Poppinjay. Have I done enough?
I will not have a man close to me unless he is utterly mine. Only those whose desires can bind them tight to me can be trusted. The Hound - power. I grant it to him in abundance and thus he is bound as close as a breath. This lad ... I saw what bound him the moment he asked to enter my service. His adoration and his hope, mingling with the supressed fever of his desire. But now, have I done enough?
I frown in the half -dark as the night slips away outside. It will have to be enough. I give what I will, when I will. If I will. I am the master here. The stone has learnt this. I am a master. I rule by this truth. I am not a brute.
I touch the edges of the stone-will inside me like a wary man probing a loose tooth. The stone's will is quiescent, its edges soft. Its vicious energy spent in its one last attempt to dominate me. I smile - sensing that I have broken it - like an unridden horse is broken to its rider's will.
The knowledge that it is done floods me with relief. What it grants me ... I will discover. What it wished in payment lies drugged in my bed.
But - I am not a brute. Nor will I be brutalised by the power of the stone or those it calls. I am as I am, and the blood of my heritage is strong. I pour myself wine - an act of a Man of grace and quality. The simple civilising act steadies me as I replay the events again in my mind:
.. my boot hard on the back of the lad's neck. His face pressed sideways into the mud of the camp, smeared over his cheek. Black mud on the stark white face of fear. A man could drown in so much mud...
... my confusion as I realise the orc-goad lies limp in my hand, its tails pointing mutely to the bloodied marks on the youth's back. My hand? ...
... the will of the stone yammers inside me. Its boiling desire to ravage and waste, its wanton urging to slake an endless drought in pain. Its demand to be paid - a life for power. Power for a life...
.. he is weeping in the mud, a quiet sound of fear and pain, shame and the shattering of love. I see the unravelling shreds of devotion in his eye.
Act swiftly! Before devotion tumbles into implacable hatred - as obsession does. Before his hate becomes a window for others to use. I thrust the orc-goad from my hand, crouch in the mud and lift him into my arms. He weighs little - but I stumble once as I take him to my tent. The stone denied rages impotently as its coin is snatched from it. But I am no brute. I am a man of the highest blood. And the will here is mine.
I say nothing to him as I tend his wounds. I do not apologise - if a man seeks my service he must know he steps into danger. But I am a good master - I reward loyalty and fealty. I reward love and service as any lord should. For the service he gives, for the love of his leige, I tend him myself.
Is it enough to restore his binding to me?
In the bed, now, he moves. He shifts carefully and opens his eyes. I watch him attentively from my chair. I see his hand move under the rich blanket, finding the still-warm hollow of my body. There is a wonder in him then, in his eyes, as he realises where he is and what the source of the warmth must have been.
The herbs take away both pain and memory. I let him fill the void of the last hours with his own imagination.
I see from his eyes - it will be enough.
