Legends of Belariath
Sutara
Exorcist of a Memory
Chapter 4: Captured
10 Years agoThere was the insistent sound of dripping; water perhaps, falling against brick and hitting metal or smooth stone. It reverberated like a nail through her skull, each time more painful than the last, becoming louder, louder, until with a soft groan her head dipped and eyes became unsealed. Instantly they were flooded with a bright burning light, making her head snap to the side, only to be met with the resistance of something pulling her back, the sound of chain sliding upon stone grating in her ear. Gasping, there was the moment when mind connected with the rest of her body, and pain flared to life within every limb, muscle and bone; the weight of something odd against her throat, like a collar, encircling the pulse that began to beat in a rapid tattoo of fear.
The light hurt, but it flickered in and out, and upon narrow eyed inspection she found it to be a torch set against the wall, pushing back the shadows within the space she found herself within. It was a small cell; three sides lined in brick that sweated from the poor ventilation and sheer age; a factor that also contributed to the smell that instantly assaulted the delicate flare of nostrils. Sutara tried to lift her hand to cover her mouth, finding that too restricted by chain and leather, confusion evident within those refined pale features as she tried to remember how she had gotten there. Her frame shifted, aching and bruised, a muffled cry swallowed as she pulled herself to her knees – that movement brought her against the soft yielding form of a body pressed against her.
She recoiled, trying to look down, but once more the movement of her head was limited, and all she could do was see the curled up frame of something – someone – against her side. Thinking it to be someone looking for warmth, she would nudge the figure with her knee, then gaped in horrified realization when the body rolled, like a broken doll, head turned to stare upwards. Features that had been beautiful and serene, dark ashen skin now tainted by the red and purple of bruising, and eyes of deep purple stared upwards in that eternal death mask, arm curled upon naked chest where the branded mark of an eye had been burned into the stomach.
“Brandi?” the name was croaked, remembering the name, the way those eyes had sparkled with both amusement and high intelligence. Now clouded and lifeless; she had been their guide back into the Second City, their contact and advisor – quite pleased with her work thus far, but why was she dead? Where was she? Shifting as eyes closed against the macabre sight of death beneath her; breath expelled in a moment of pure undiluted panic as she tried to shift through memory to find what had happened.
Mathias had assured her that there would be an open welcome for her arrival, had told her of his original plan to use the high elven guard to track her down. There had been no reason to suspect him of treachery, not when he had given his heart to her, and she in turn; so why then, was there the subtle bitterness welling upon her tongue? “What have you done?” she whispered, wincing as that collar bit into tender flesh. She remembered being ushered into one of the great halls of House Emboitant, though it was not the House of her Mother, it was an affiliate of Zon-Kith`Serra and here they had been told is where the reunion would take place. Had they been attacked? Her body screamed yes, and suddenly she remembered the guards; the fight; the look upon his face before darkness had eclipsed consciousness.
Sound from beyond the cell caught her attention, and vision turned away from Brandi’s frozen features to the front, where thin bars allowed the light from that torch to flood within. It kept the figures moving within shadows, only the brush of clothing upon arms heard, the subtle breathing of what appeared to be three, no four individuals that moved inside. Sutara waited, a tongue moving against the cracked texture of bruised lips, feeling that moment when it stung, letting her know that she could feel more than what had been wrought upon her.
“Whose there?” she called, and saw the figures shift, moving closer into the light. The first face that she saw sent the air from her lungs, eyes widening in sudden recognition.
“Mother?” she tried to move and pull away from the wall, but was instantly pulled back by the counter weight of the chain, eyes trained upon the familiar features form so long ago, the blood hued eyes that stared for a moment. Something indiscernible shifting within their depths, a mirror of that memory when she had left her upon the surface, and instructed her to run; then it was gone, just as quickly, apathetic almost in the gaze she leveled upon her first born.
“So, this is she then?” another voice, a high soprano, singing those words from the back as figured moved within view. Sutara squinted, tearing her gaze away to look upon the owner of it. She was shocked to see what at first appeared to be a scantily clad female, vibrant corset cinched around thin torso, skirt flowing from full hips and features refined and delicate; but no, for sure this was a male, made to look like some erotic doll, jewelry dripping from fingers and neck.
“It is.” a single reply, low husky voice, so much like her own, causing her eyes to swing back to her mothers face. “Ahh, good, then we are in agreement? Your daughter under my collar, to make amends for the broken pact thirty six years ago?” again that voice, it was hypnotic and grating at the same time, more suited to a songbird than a male dressed in that finery. It was something normally she would gape at, but felt a moment of instant revulsion when her eyes collided with the darker near orange of his; for a moment, caught in the deep hatred, anger and lust that moved like the corrupted eddies of a whirlpool within a storm, and it was all aimed at her.
“What pact? What collar? What’s going on? I was told I would be welcome back..” she cried out, pulling in vain attempt once more at her shackles, fists curling as anger began to unfurl within the pit of her stomach. It grew as features tightened, looking between those figures as body stiffened despites its bruises. Her mother couldn’t seriously agree to this? She, a slave? The idea was inconceivable, but the looks upon their features confirmed it; smug, arrogant, satisfaction in the male’s look as it once more looked upon her in those ripped and muddied clothes.
He smiled then, a slow unfurling of rouge stained lips, ignoring her in that moment as his gaze returned to her mother. “Well, Ell’? How about it then? No interference from you?” there was a tense moment, the use of her abbreviated name a studied and deliberate insult, flowing from those lips like sweetened poison. Sutara stared, baffled for a moment and felt the slow burn within her stomach expand, seeping into her veins with a sure knowledge that once more, she would be abandoned for something that went deeper – and she couldn’t do anything about it. “No.. Mother no, I am not a slave. I am not a SLAVE!” she screamed, throat straining as the sound reverberated off the walls. That silence continued to stretch, until finally, it broke, a sharp nod from the woman whose features had haunted her memories, a ripple of that brilliant white hair before she turned sharply, and left.
She left her once more alone without an answer as to why.
Alone, that feeling of it choking breath from her lungs; her eyes drifting in stunned shock from where her lifeblood, her mother, her reason for coming once stood, to the faces left. The male who had spoken seemed to sense her distress, or what was plainly written on her face, and smiled slowly – an indulgent curve of lips, ringed fingers stroking against the hollow plain of chest exposed.
“What do you want with me?” spit out, testing the bonds of collar, feeling it bite and cut into throat once more; as eyes stared with hellish ember light, burning, devouring them with that disgust that rose like bile in her mouth. She could not look to the right of the male, refused to see the beautiful features of who she had called beloved. His laughing pale blue eyes, that sinful swell of his mouth, that skin like sun touched honey and hair the color of wheat; she could not see the collar that seemed to settle upon his own throat, like he had been born to it. It hurt, that ache within her heart, a grievance that bled in a slow twist that riled the pain of broken bones and flesh. That pain was buried, swallowed, taken with a bitter pill as she continued to watch the central figure, letting her own eyes skim over him, letting him see the revulsion in her face.
It seemed to gain a reaction from him, features at once tightening into something wholly unbeautiful, vile, jealous and ultimately smug as he continued to stare upon her chained figure.
“Clean her up, heal those bruises.. and bring her to my den. I want to see what my new slave can do. Perhaps she can demonstrate that little mouth my little Marcus has been boasting about?” when he spoke it was to the waiting form of guard, half turning and presenting that aristocratic profile, silks swimming against his arms that winded against the statuesque figure at his side. Unable to turn away, she watched as his lips skimmed across the slender curve of her beloved’s lobe, firm pink tongue slipping against it as a hand caressed upon his chest, then lower, blatant in the way he stroked Mathias through his loin cloth, garnering a very distinct reaction.
For his part, Mathias flushed, eyes averted as cheeks became a ruddy hue; hands clenching into fists as he was made a distinct display of ownership.
There was a sound of pain that erupted from her, a groan that vibrated upon bruised tiers, and she let her head drop, those tears swimming within her vision. She did not speak when the guards opened the cell, did not open her eyes when she felt the softer hands of a healer upon her flesh – the loosening of those chains, and her body gave in to its torment, crumbling upon the dirt strewn ground. They had taken Brandi away some time ago, and she did not know how long she remained there as servants tended to her.
“Who is he?” the question seemed to slip, lethargic as she leaned into the stroking hands of the healer. The texture of their hands was like silk, paper, soft and well formed; they worked over her muscles, applying compresses to bruises, chanting as she healed the breaks, until flesh was once more unmarred, that eternal pale white.
Her question seemed to make the healer pause, and she lifted her head, those lidded hues turning upon the woman, noting with some surprise that she was human, and old, though her use within the House was evident as she felt the brief tingle of soothing cool move through her. The woman returned that stare, then in a manner befitting her station, dropped her gaze to the floor, hands moving down to dip the wash cloth once more within the bowl of water.
“He is Carsi, Head Sorceress of this House, son of the Matron of Zon-Kith`Serra. He over see’s the slavers as well, and is your Master.” Soft spoken words, husky from lack of use, she answered the question asked before she moved around, stroking the fine strands of silver from her neck, rubbing a fragrant bouquet into the skin of her throat.
“He is nothing; a male; an abomination.” She replied, lips curling up into a snarl, their red color gleaming as tongue came down across bottom tier. There was no answer from the healer, either agreeing with her, or unable to out loud for the fear she had. Sorceress, she had said, that made no sense? Was he some sort of hermaphrodite, but no such creature would have been tolerated within the Gloom, and yet there he was, holding the chain to her freedom, and for what?
Once tended to, she was dressed in an outfit consisting of a loincloth and halter; features casted into a stone mask as they pulled her by those chains upon her wrists. Through halls decorated in art work of every kind; past other slaves, servants, each in turn staring as she was lead past. Sutara tilted her chin up, let those stares slide against her psyche, unwilling to give up just yet, not willing to let it end there. The guard led her into a large round room, a second balcony supported by marble pillars and the ceiling open like a cathedral. There were paintings of decadent demon-Gods lounging within withering bodies; depictions of the first war against the high elves; and the more shadowy shrouds of dead enemies. In the center of the room, chaises had been set up around a deeper pit of lounging pillows, an altar with a small shrine to Kirva and Sopaughidrin was held. There were other altars, but these seemed to be more use for fucking then worship, or, as one might think, one and the same acts.
Carsi sat within the center of that pit, reclining within the pillows that were strewn about, once more appearing like some erotic fuck doll; vibrant red satin cinched around his waist, topaz and black skirts layered against surprisingly muscled legs, and gold decorating his form, near dripping with their weight. Never had she seen a male displayed thus, not within the Gloom – but then, House Emboitant was also known for rotating Matrons every ten years. Draped across his lap, what had once been the proud and dashing figure of deceit, Mathias remained for the most a beautiful shawl against his Master’s form. That near exotic color of his skin a contrast against the olive black of Carsi’s, whose fingers remained entrenched within those unfettered ropes of blonde hair.
Sutara turned her head away, for a moment over taken with that bile once more; and he saw it, and he smiled, an unseen gesture and the guard would force her head back to where he perched.
“Tell me, my little caged bird, was your reunion everything you had hoped for? Hmm? Did you like seeing Mommy again? It was terribly sad, though, that politics seemed to get in the way of such a .. heart touching.. experience. Though you see, you were promised to my father, and since that never happened.. well, now I get the pleasure, no?” smooth, beautiful and high enough to make any woman jealous, he let those sentences roll as fingers continued to stroke upon the bent head of Marcus. Those fingers danced against the curve of his throat, curled possessive upon that collar, before dark amber eyes shifted down. There was an unseen message; his other hand sliding back, and Marcus looked once to Sutara, then back again.
He did not hesitate as hands moved the fabric of his Master’s skirts aside; strong hands born from the sword stroking against the softer skin of his better. They moved to where that dark shaft lay limp against his thigh, one hand beginning to stroke upon it, squeezing and pulling, until it was hard within his palm.
Once more her face tried to turn away, jaw gritted when the tug at her head became painful enough to invoke a strangled cry. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, still unable to fathom to what purpose this debacle was worth. In answer he looked from her to his lap, and they both watched as Marcus dipped his head, those strong masculine tiers slipping over the fat tip of Carsi’s cock, tongue dancing against the veined underside, making it gleam with saliva before he pressed that length into his throat. Carsi arched his hips, at once a savage satisfaction upon his face, distorting those beautiful lines.
“Do you see how well my little fuck pet sucks me? See how much he enjoys it? Soon, my little caged bird, you will be just like him, and whether I take you here.. or in front of the whole Second City, including your mother.. You won’t care. All that you will want, is a little taste of me.” Voice purred, vibrated with that lust and cold observation, his hand coming down upon the bobbing head of slave, and he thrust his hips up, burying that shaft to the hilt until it distorted the very throat that worked upon it. No protest, just the briefest moans as saliva was swallowed, before Mathias continued to work against the thickness that stretched lips around it.
Forced to watch, to listen, that gnawing ball within her stomach seemed to constrict, then it snapped, and she felt that rage flow like hell fire through her veins – washing them in that irrepressible glee of bloodletting. Feeling it flood her senses, her fingers curled upon the chain of her neck, felt it tense where guard had firmly pulled it taunt. She screamed, a sound of pain as she watched Mathias kneel infront of that abomination, watched him pleasure him, as he spoke of using her like a tool that meant nothing else. That pain balled into her fists, shoving with all her strength into the guard at her left.
He reeled back, surprised, enough so that her arm dropped and fingers curled upon the sword sheathed at his hip. It slid free, and arched up wide, catching the guard in the underside of arm and chest, cutting deep into an artery. He fell back with a shocked expression, and as chaos ensued, as other guards scrambled, she watched as though captured in time itself as Mathias lifted his head.
There was precum glistening upon his lips, a soft flushed expression of pleasure and nothing else within his eyes. Nothing, not even memories of her, and that pain ripped her heart in half. There was a moment when a decision could be made, when blade came up within both hands freed by that temporary reprieve – and she knew it was only temporary, eyes rounded into focused circles of blood, watching as both their expressions, for one single moment, changed into undiluted fear.
Sutara let another sound escape her, and the blade came down, plunging for its victim. It was her first kill, and she would forever have it branded in her mind. The first press of blade tip to that defenseless back, before it slid past the resistance of flesh, muscle suckled upon the blade as it sunk deeper by her own weight, and the give as it came back from the other side. The pool of blood that soon formed, staining that brilliant silk that his Master wore, an expression of shock marring his features before he slumped within the lap he had pleasured.
That rage consumed her, and for a moment she could see nothing but the pin points of that image, burned into her retinas, scarred into her subconscious. She did not even feel the weight as guards threw themselves upon her, wrestling sword from limp hand and throwing her chest down against one of the altars. Grunting in pain, arms stretched wide at both sides and legs forced open, she stared ahead to where Mathias remained limp, gasping for breath as fingers curled ineffectively at the blade protruding from his chest.
Carsi grimaced, though having gotten over his shock, pushed at the now limp and bleeding body from him as he moved to stand.
“Well, that was all quite melodramatic, wasn’t it? And now you’ve gone and mortally wounded one of my favorite fuck pets. It’s a pity, and I certainly won’t be wasting any coin on his resurrection..” elegant lines defined by the sway of hips, as he moved closer, letting her watch as he continued to stroke himself, having not suffered for the display of bloodshed. No indeed, he seemed to have groan even more aroused, fingers flexing over that cock as he pushed aside the flimsy material of her loin cloth, hand stroking against her rear.
Sutara flinched, trying to kick back, but once more those guards where there, holding her still, her head in a position as she stared at Mathias, but felt Carsi behind her. Left no alternative, she watched as her lover gasped and choked, hand held out for entreaty as his life continued to swindle and spill onto the expensive silk – even as Carsi pressed fingers into the puffy folds of her sex, forced them past knuckles into a vice that gripped and tried to force him out, barren of its moisture, causing that scrape to burn all the more with each insistent wiggle. So she watched as Mathias gave in, and stared upwards with those beautiful eyes, glassy and devoid of that life she had once wished to drown herself in. Focused upon that face, once more a death mask that stared sightless beyond her; even as she felt him force that shaft into her cunt, throbbing with his arousal, pushing past the restriction of a body that held no place for him. That burning, ripping, the sudden shudder when he released himself within her, it was drowned out, shut out, made invisible by that face, his beautiful, beloved deceitful face.
Sutara felt the wet slide of tears, and at once buried her face into the stone; remaining silent even as her arms were released, unable to move, air crashing into her lungs, and a sob was wrenched from her lips, hushed against that kiss of surface beneath. For once, she allowed those tears to come, uncaring if it gave him the satisfaction should he see, and in time, sprawled upon that table surface, she would let the darkness welcome her, those beloved arms at once soothing as she slipped into restless unconsciousness.