Wings (6 page)

“Mine.” The prince stroked the boy's cheek softly, and Anyar was too numb to even

understand the words.

* * * * *

his chained hands behind his back unable to save him.

The strong, calm voice gave him directions as to what he could not see behind the

blindfold, and the only reason he had stumbled was because he had tried to fight and the hand

had released him into terrifying space.

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It was almost a relief that the hand had returned. He fought against the feeling, but Vanyae

was his only anchor in the darkness, and despite all his attempts to resist, he could not help but

listen to that voice, begin to obey its commands.

There was no sense of direction. They had left the small room some time before, and each

moment seemed like an hour. He greatly feared their destination, after what had been discussed

between the prince and the king. Never had Anyar in his worst nightmares thought of himself in

this position. Surely they were just trying to frighten him, make him a docile hostage. Yet he was

of no importance; that made no sense. He had thought it mere chance that he had been taken, but

now he was not so sure. Had this prince deliberately sought him? The thought was beyond

comprehension or belief. Never had he thought himself particularly good-looking. Indeed he had

always thought himself strange, ugly. All people saw were his wings, and he had always been

taunted, even tormented, because of them. As though that particular thought held power, he

heard voices nearby and flinched away, lunging back until the chain at his throat brought him up

short. Then he could only stand, trembling faintly, tense, and ready to fight.

“Peace, little one, peace. None will hurt you here. You are mine, and that gives you great

protection.”

Anyar wanted to snarl in response that there was no protection from Vanyae himself, but

he held his tongue. It was better to remain silent, let others guess his thoughts and fears rather

than to speak up and confirm them. He had well learned that lesson with his own people, and

now it would stand him in good stead with the enemy. Be silent; watch and listen. Wait. Escape

would come.

A hand pulled on his chain. He flung his head up, considered rebellion, then conceded to

the unspoken command. He took two uncertain steps forward, and again Vanyae took his arm,

guided him.

* * * * *

they stopped. They seemed to be in a bathing room of some sort. He could smell the sweet

moisture in the air, and his fear rose.

Until now he had at least retained his breeches and shirt, even if his boots and uniform

jacket had been gone upon his awakening. If he were forced to bathe, they would strip him.

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Never particularly self-conscious of nudity, he now wanted with all his heart to have the

fragile covering of cloth between him and Vanyae.

The strong hand guided him forward, then turned him around to face Vanyae.

“Sit here, Anyar.” The voice was gentle enough, but behind it lay iron.

The Melanian sat as much because of tiredness as obedience; at least that is what he told

himself with weary determination. He could hear Vanyae moving about the room, and his head

tilted as he tracked his captor by sound alone. When footsteps approached him, he froze once

more, fingers clenching behind him.

He jerked as a hand traced his cheek. “Now, Anyar, this will be up to you. I need to clean

you up, and we can do this, just the two of us; or if you refuse my commands, I can call others in

to force the issue. It is entirely up to you.”

Anyar's jaw went taut with all he wanted to scream at this man. He did not answer.

Vanyae sighed. “Lie down, little one.” Hands gripped him, pulled him down sideways onto

a hard surface, and laid him flat on his back. He did not resist until he felt one ankle cuff clipped

to a chain; then he went taut and tried to sit up.

Vanyae held him down as he went to the other side of the structure and secured the other

ankle. “It is all right, Anyar. Nothing is going to hurt you here unless you cause it. You will learn

that is the way of everything in your new life.”

The young guard growled; he could not help it. This would not be his “new life,” as the

prince put it. This was merely a small span of misery until he could escape to his own people.

That was all.

Vanyae chuckled, which made Anyar's anger rise higher. “You have spirit under that

silence; that is good. I do not want a docile bedmate. I prefer them with fire. That way, when you

finally submit, the taste is sweet.”

“I will never submit to you. I am not that weak.” Anyar's voice was low and heartfelt. His

anger surged and he was unable to hold his tongue under such provocation.

“You are so very innocent, little one. You will see. It will be a joy to teach you, like

creating a gem from raw stone. You will be a wonder when I am finished.”

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The chain between Anyar's wrists was released, but before he could react, Vanyae leaned

on him, quickly pulled his half-numb hand up and to the side, and secured it. He had more

trouble with the other, and the young Melanian tried desperately to keep it free, though he knew

it useless. Eventually, it also was caught and chained down. Panting, he lay there, tensing as he

felt his ankles pulled farther apart as Vanyae tightened some mechanism. His fists clenched

helplessly as he lay spread-eagled.

“Stay still now, little one. I would not want to cut you, but we have to get these clothes off,

and they are no longer of any use to you. You will wear Nazarian clothing when you need to.”

Unspoken but clear enough was the hint that Anyar would seldom be clothed anyway.

He closed his eyes, sure this had to be a nightmare and he would wake in the guards'

barracks after a night of drinking to tell the others of the terrible dream that had plagued him. It

had to be a dream; it had to.

The coolness of a knife made him jump. Vanyae soothed him, working swiftly if carefully.

The knife was very, very sharp, for it cut the fabric easily, first his shirt, then his breeches, and

his only thought at that moment was how he would have to work longer hours to be able to

afford new ones.

He tried not to think of the coolness of air on his skin, of how Vanyae could now see all of

him, that he lay utterly exposed and helpless before this man who wanted him.

“Beautiful,” the prince breathed. “By the gods, you are beautiful.”

Anyar's face flamed with color. No one had ever called him beautiful before, and he would

have preferred the comment come from Tanyan's lips, not from this enemy who saw him as little

more than an animal to be used.

A hand touched his chest, and he jumped, tensing as it trailed over his skin.

“Such golden skin, so soft…” Vanyae's voice was filled with the thrill of possessing what

lay before him.

Anyar shuddered with distaste as the touch moved over him, eagerly exploring his body.

Vanyae did not touch his genitals or his face, for which Anyar was grateful, though it seemed

strange.

At last the touch left him, and he breathed easier, his ears straining to detect what the

Nazarian would do now. He stiffened in surprise when the blindfold was carefully removed. He

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had to shut his eyes for a moment as they readjusted to the light; then he blinked up at green eyes

watching him intently.

Vanyae gently stroked his cheek, and Anyar fought not to shy away from the touch, fought

to keep his expression calm, though fear thrummed through his body.

“I am going to clean you now, Anyar, and part of that cleaning is ridding you of body hair.

For that I am going to use a shaving implement, so I want you to remain very, very still, all

right? I do not want to mar your body with cuts.”

A warm, wet cloth descended on his genitals, and Anyar leaped in shock, eyes widening as

it was removed and Vanyae poured some kind of soap on the area and began to work lather onto

his pubic hair. His face flamed as he saw the look on the prince's face as he worked the soap onto

every part. Anyar flinched at the enforced intimacy, his innate shyness horrified at this violation.

Vanyae turned to wash his hands off, then held up a small shaving implement. “Stay still,

little one.”

Anyar felt the scrape against his skin as he lay frozen in place, terrified of the blade in such

close proximity to his tender parts.

He could hardly breathe, body tense with expectation of pain, but Vanyae was swift and

proficient in his actions, and it was little time until he was wiped clean, the feeling of air strange

upon the newly bared skin.

Vanyae ran a forefinger down beside his shaft and testicles, and Anyar shuddered at the

tenderness of the skin.

The prince laughed softly, then proceeded to shave his armpits as well.

Anyar endured as the signs of his manhood were stripped from him. He had been so proud

when he had first grown hair in those regions, signs that he was now adult and no longer a child.

Now even this had been taken from him, like his ability to fly. What else could they take but his

very mind? He remembered the slave he had been shown, and he shuddered. Would he end up

like that, broken and mindless?

When Vanyae finished, he smoothed a thick, creamy mixture over the sites and explained

that it was something that ate hair and would ensure Anyar would be smooth for at least a week.

Now if they kept using the cream on time, he would not have to be shaved again.

Anyar looked away, wondering bitterly if he was supposed to be grateful.

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It became silent then, and he realized that Vanyae must have left the room. He lay there,

slumped wearily now that he had no audience, his mind flitting from thought to thought of what

he had already endured and what more was to come. Strong, be strong, he kept telling himself.

Do not shame yourself before these, your enemies. He thought of his mutilated wings and fought

back tears. He must not show weakness; he must not. His thoughts shied away, unable to fully

encompass what had been done, what it meant to his future.

The cream began to itch unbearably as it ate the hair beneath the skin, and he moved

uncomfortably, unable to stay still, unable to scratch. It was almost a relief when Vanyae

returned.

“Do you want that off now, Anyar?” Green eyes met golden ones.

He would not answer but turned his face away.

No sound came from the prince, no anger at Anyar's behavior, and finally, the young guard

looked back to discover that Vanyae had again left. He blinked, realizing that Vanyae had taken

his actions as a
no
, and that now he was forced to endure the cream longer.

He cursed under his breath.

The itching grew worse and then began to almost burn. He writhed, trying desperately to

rub against anything, to twist against what he lay on enough to rub off the cream. He damn near

wrenched his arms out of their sockets as he struggled to roll over as much as he could.

He was panting and wild-eyed when Vanyae finally returned, leaning against the doorway

with arms crossed over his chest.

“I will ask you again, little one. Do you want that off now?” The green eyes were cool and

measuring, and Anyar knew that the prince would leave again.

Realizing that it served no purpose at this time, Anyar fought down his pride. “Yes,” he

gasped, closing his eyes with scorn at his own weakness.

The touch of Vanyae's fingers as he wiped the cream off made the young guard sigh with

relief. Cool water was then wiped over the sites, slowly dispelling the terrible burning.

“You see, my young one, you tell me what you need, be honest in your wants and you shall

receive them. To be stubborn and prideful is to suffer needlessly. I am not keen on hurting you,

but I demand obedience. Therefore, if you rebel, you will hurt, and it will be your own doing.”

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Anyar glared up at him, rage growing in his heart, a rage such as he had never felt before.

“I did not ask for this; it is
not
my doing. I did not ask to be taken from my home and forced

here. I did not ask to be your gods-damned slave! This is wrong. Let me go; let me go.”

He began to struggle mindlessly, his breath coming in great panicked gasps, eyes wide as it

all rushed upon him that this was real, his captivity was real.

Vanyae tried to soothe him, but the boy was beyond hearing in his fear and self-

destruction. Blood seeped from his wrist cuffs as he twisted, and the prince went to the door and

sharply called one of the guards.

Between them, they held him down, but still he fought like one possessed, no sense in his

eyes.

Some moments later, the healer arrived, and with the help of more guards, they held his

head, forced his rigid jaw open, and poured the prepared mixture down his throat. He choked and