Wings (10 page)

with the tear glistening upon it and raised it to his lips, tasting it, taking Anyar's grief into

himself. His green eyes rose to Anyar's, and they stared at each other for long moments before

the young Melanian lowered his, unable to feel equal enough to meet his master's intent gaze.

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Gentle fingers raised his chin, and the prince softly kissed him, so softly and finely that

Anyar was left breathless, unable to understand the meaning behind such a gesture. Slowly the

kiss ended, and there was something warm and special in Vanyae's eyes once more, something

that made Anyar warm inside again.

A callused hand came out and stroked his black wing, making him twitch with confusion.

“You
will
fly again, Anyar. I swear it. I want to see you soar once more. I have never seen

anything so beautiful, so joyous as that…” The prince's voice trailed away, as though his own

words had surprised him; then he stood abruptly and offered his hand.

“Come, we will go riding.”

So casually, as if the words were not stunning, not an offer to a freedom Anyar had almost

forgotten.

He hesitated, wondering if it were a cruel joke on the prince's part, but the hand was

steady, the eyes not hard. He reached with shaking fingers, and their hands met and held.

The day was fine and clear, the breeze redolent with the scents of early summer, flowers,

and fresh greenery. Anyar tried to look everywhere at once, trying to soak in every sense, every

sight, so that he might hold them to him when his imprisonment resumed. The horse he rode was

beautiful, smaller than Vanyae's stallion but full of spirit, and Anyar handled him with care,

pleased with his responsiveness and soft mouth.

Vanyae watched him, feeling a warmth within himself that he could not put a name to.

Anyar's eyes had lost their dullness and sparked with curiosity and life. His body posture

changed also; he sat straight and proud, with the natural posture of the true horseman. Often he

would tilt his head at a sound or close his eyes at a smell, so very intense in his appreciation that

it made Vanyae himself take heed of things that he would have formerly dismissed as

commonplace.

Watching through his little slave's eyes, things seemed new and fresh and interesting.

Vanyae slowly began to waken to the knowledge that Anyar was a person, had had a life of his

own. He became curious about that life. What did Anyar like, dislike? What were his thoughts

and dreams? The prince's curiosity on the matter was unlike him in every respect. Slaves were

slaves. Who cared what they thought or wanted or wished? It was of no importance.

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Anyar was different somehow, and Vanyae could not quite conceive how or why, only that

he had become important to the prince in a manner quite unlike any other. Vanyae was eager to

go to his rooms at night, impatient with anything that kept him from leaving the day behind and

possessing his little slave. He slept better than he ever had before, and it was not just the sex; he

held the little Melanian close to him through the night, and it was comforting somehow, that

warm little presence pressed up against him. It was not completely sexual, and it puzzled the

prince greatly. He had never wanted anyone to stay in his bed before, certainly never to sleep

with him. Why this one?

He gave the order to turn for home, thoughts turned inward, and it was not until they had

almost reached the palace that he noticed Anyar's demeanor. The Melanian had shrunk into

himself, head bowed, wings clamped close as though in comfort.

Vanyae frowned. At that moment he felt his little slave's despair keenly; it bothered him to

see the difference from moments ago, when he had shone with curiosity and freedom.

The contrast was too great to ignore.

He turned to face forward, disgruntled at his own concern.

* * * * *

stroked his hand over the cloth wistfully. It had been so wonderful to be dressed again, to be

modestly covered, and to feel…like a person, not a sex toy.

But that was over now, and he had to return to what he was. He closed his eyes for a

moment, wrapping his wings around himself as though to deny the thought. He was slave, no

more than that.

He heard Vanyae enter and turned to face him, paling as he read the lust in the prince's

eyes. Vanyae could be less than careful when he was hot with need, and Anyar braced himself

for a night of pain. Pleasure would only come when the prince had gorged himself and,

remembering that his slave also had needs, was gentler.

Anyar went to his knees and positioned himself as taught, resting on his heels, hands on his

thighs, legs spread wide, his wings spread from side to side, so as to not get in the way of his

master's pleasure. He tried to remember the day, the way the air had smelled, the beauty of the

sky, the trees—anything but this.

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“Lie on the bed, little one.” Vanyae's voice was rough with desire, and Anyar shivered as

he blindly obeyed, positioning himself on his back with legs spread wide and raised. He closed

his eyes as he felt Vanyae's weight on the bed and waited for the pain of penetration.

Instead, fingers stroked softly up his thighs, and his eyes flew open as Vanyae's lips met

his, tongue asking for entrance. The kiss was different somehow, less invasive, almost…caring.

Vanyae's hands began stroking over his skin, softly, almost tickling, making Anyar shiver,

his desire rise swiftly.

Slowly the kiss ended, and Vanyae began to lick and nip his way downward, until he

swiftly, and without warning, took Anyar in his mouth for the first time.

The Melanian cried out, arching into his master's mouth, clutching desperately at the

bedcovers. Never had he felt such pleasure. His body shook as though with fever, and when

Vanyae stopped to moisten his fingers and then plunge them deep into his little slave's body,

Anyar came undone.

With a harsh, keening cry, he came, body arched into a bow, eyes wide with shock.

Hard hands grasped his hips, and as he came down, he was pierced by a hard, hot shaft. He

screamed with pleasure/pain, and then Vanyae was pounding into him, rocking his body on the

soft bed.

His master's fierce eyes locked onto his as Vanyae tilted his hips and rubbed against

Anyar's prostate with each movement of his hips.

“Mine, you are mine!” The prince's voice was harsh with lust and inner emotion. “Say it!

Name yourself mine.”

Anyar shook, his body tightening and hardening despite its earlier release. He could scarce

understand the words, but his master's intensity pushed into his consciousness.

A particularly hard and deep thrust made him cry out, his body writhing on its impalement.

“Say it! To whom do you belong? Who owns you body and soul?” The questions were

hissed between clenched teeth.

Anyar keened, found his arms rising to clutch at Vanyae's shoulders, something he had

never done before. Never had he voluntarily touched his master. Somehow, now, there was more

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between them. This moment, this time, seemed deep with meaning, making them more than

Master and slave, something…

“Yours,” he whispered, shuddering at the betrayal as the word slipped past his lips.

Vanyae lowered his head and kissed him deeply, then nipped at his lower lip as he plunged

harder.

“To whom do you belong?”

Anyar panted, “You. I belong to you.”

The prince licked Anyar's lips, then plunged his tongue deep into his mouth in reward,

stealing his breath, increasing the friction across his pleasure center, making him whimper with

need.

“Say my name, little one, my Anyar. Let me hear my name on your lips.”

Anyar could take no more. Fire ripped along his nerve endings as he arched in completion.

“Vanyae!” he screamed, and in some part of his mind, he mourned the part of him he had

just given away.

When had he started to change?

Vanyae found himself pondering this question. He was doing things he had never foreseen,

questioning things he had never questioned. Recognizing Anyar's unhappiness seemed to make

him more aware of the slaves around him and the possibility that they, like his little one,

deserved better. He found himself kinder and more patient with the servants, noting their needs

and seeing them met, all without telling anyone of his inner strife. He had been raised with slaves

serving him. He had never considered the possibility of caring for one beyond his or her

usefulness.

But now…

Now it seemed that he was seeing them as…people. He began to notice when they were

mistreated, imagining Anyar undergoing that. It even made him question his own motives and

actions since he had taken the young Melanian captive. In this light, his deeds seemed…wrong,

something he had never before considered. If he wanted Anyar as part of his life, as more than

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servant, then others would question this, protest it even. How was he to make such a change

when slavery had always been the norm?

It seemed impossible. Yet for Anyar it seemed worth it.

If he could only make it up to him, what he had done, what he had made the little one

endure. Was it possible to heal that and have Anyar come to care for him?

That also seemed impossible.

* * * * *

his hatred of Vanyae. His master seemed different somehow, softer with him, more caring. He

did not punish him, instead brought him treats, rewards for small things, and sometimes for no

reason that Anyar could understand.

He began to take Anyar with him places, and this more than anything lightened the young

man's despair. It was precious, this tenuous freedom, and he savored every moment. He often

mused that he had never understood what freedom meant until it was taken from him.

He began to see the Nazarians as people, not just the enemy, for now he met more of the

common folk, the ones who did not seem to care that he was Melanian. They really did not seem

that much different from his own people; their needs and desires and daily living seemed so very

similar. They did not seem the monsters of legend, only people.

He wished that he could have met them on an equal footing: as a man, not a slave. He

would have found the differences and similarities interesting, and he had never been very good at

hatred. Even now his anger was a fragile thing, held close to protect him, but every day it seemed

harder to hate.

This change terrified him. He had to escape. He had to free Tanyan and return him to their

people. He had to.

On this day, they were at the market, Anyar walking two paces behind his master and

staring wide-eyed at all the goods on display. There were things he had never seen before: fruits

and vegetables that could not grow in the harsher climate of Melan. There was a wide variety of

seafood, for the eastern part of Nazar bordered the ocean. Anyar had never seen the ocean, only

heard of it, and his imagination failed at trying to create an image of such a vast body of water.

Vanyae had tried to describe it, but the best picture Anyar could come up with was a massive

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lake, so large one could not see the other side. That alone was awe inspiring. Vanyae told of the

waves lashing the shoreline and the sound of their breaking on the rocky beaches.

Anyar wondered wistfully if some day Vanyae might take him to see such a wonderful

sight, but the chance of that seemed vague and without true hope.

Still, he was fascinated when Vanyae gestured to him and brought Anyar to his side while

the prince showed him various shells that had come from the ocean itself. Anyar was not sure

whether his master was telling the truth when he said that if you held one to your ear, you could

hear the sound of the waves, but it fired his imagination anyway. The fact that the prince bought

him a beautiful shell for his own made him flush with pleasure, and he carried the little treasure

gingerly, careful of its fragility.

Vanyae smiled at his intent absorption in such a simple and inexpensive gift, not

mockingly for once, but with a sort of amused fondness that Anyar did not mind.

Trailing behind his master, Anyar watched the ebb and flow of people with fascination,

everything new and worthy of note.

It was because of this that he happened to notice the man standing between two merchant

stalls, motionless in the waves of humanity about him, eyes fixed upon Vanyae. At first there

seemed little of note about him, but Anyar felt an uneasiness, an instinct that all was not right.

He glanced at Vanyae's guards, who wandered ten paces behind the prince, at ease. Anyar