like a unwilling dog to the half filled basin.
“ Gersha ne kurat ,” Bloodraven said once more and spun Yhalen, taking the wet rag and swiping between his legs. Yhalen shivered, jerking away.
“Don’t—don’t!” he cried, mortified. To be raped by the creature was torment enough, much less be cleaned of the evidence afterwards by him. “I can do it.”
He snatched at the wet rag, hardly able to see straight from the tears and the shame and the hurt.
Bloodraven lifted a brow, repeated the phrase that Yhalen assumed meant to clean himself once more, before taking up his sheathed sword and dagger and fastening them about his waist and leaving the tent.
Yhalen’s knees gave way and he crumpled, sobbing and furious with himself for the weakness. He sat for a long while, wet rag clutched to his chest, before his knees began to ache from the angle they were bent and his body began to tremble from the cool of the evening—or perhaps the advent of shock.
Shakily he rose, wringing out the bloody rag in the basin and bending to wash the blood off his thighs and more cautiously dab between his buttocks to clean away the mess there. More warm tears traced a path down his face as he did. With chattering teeth he gingerly put the rag back in the basin and crept back to the pallet, easing his aching body down and pulling soft furs around him as he curled in upon himself.
He’d not cried much before this, save for the reflexive reaction to the pain. He couldn’t stop it now.
Alone, with the hurt slowly fading, he couldn’t make the tears stop, couldn’t hold back the sobs as it hit him—truly hit him that this might be what the rest of his hopefully brief life would be made up of,
18
being used in the basest manner at the whim of creatures that he couldn’t overcome. Treated like a dog—worse than a dog, because men didn’t rape their dogs.
Men. These weren’t men and didn’t play by the rules of men. What their motives were, other than to swoop down on the lands of the south to pillage, murder and rape, he didn’t know. Grandfather had gone to the gathering at Nakhanor to discuss those possible motives and human men’s actions in regard to them. The thought of what his grandfather would think, to see him crying like a woman—made him stifle his sobs and try and pull his shattered nerves together.
He was in somewhat less embarrassing a state when Bloodraven returned, damp and clean from what had probably been a stop by the brook. On his heels came Vorjd, who had in his arms a great stone bowl that smelled of roasted meat. The slave put it down with a word and left, returning in short order with a wineskin. He left this time not to return, and Bloodraven sat down on the stool by his armor rack and stabbed at the chunks of meat and what might have been roasted root vegetables with his knife.
Yhalen’s stomach growled rebelliously, assaulted by the smells and so empty that it made his eyes water from the prospect of food. He wouldn’t beg for it. He’d starve first. So best not to look at all.
Best to turn his back and sit there, knees drawn up to his chest and think of unappetizing things, like rotting flesh riddled with maggots and stinking with decay.
The pallet creaked with weight and Yhalen flinched, caught unawares and cursing the ogre who could rise and move so quietly despite his size.
“ Fajkur ,” Bloodraven said and stabbed a piece of seared meat with the point of his dagger and extended it to Yhalen.
Yhalen stared, wide-eyed, hunger warring with pride.
“ Fajkur ,” Bloodraven repeated, irritation creeping into his voice. It seemed ridiculous to go hungry and be punished for it when the meat was right under his nose, unasked for. He hadn’t groveled for it.
So what harm taking it?
He snatched it, somewhat more desperate than he’d have liked. It was warm on the outside, but still rare within and blood and juices ran down his chin. But it was unbelievably good. He felt lightheaded
“ Gersha ne kurat ,” Bloodraven said once more and spun Yhalen, taking the wet rag and swiping between his legs. Yhalen shivered, jerking away.
“Don’t—don’t!” he cried, mortified. To be raped by the creature was torment enough, much less be cleaned of the evidence afterwards by him. “I can do it.”
He snatched at the wet rag, hardly able to see straight from the tears and the shame and the hurt.
Bloodraven lifted a brow, repeated the phrase that Yhalen assumed meant to clean himself once more, before taking up his sheathed sword and dagger and fastening them about his waist and leaving the tent.
Yhalen’s knees gave way and he crumpled, sobbing and furious with himself for the weakness. He sat for a long while, wet rag clutched to his chest, before his knees began to ache from the angle they were bent and his body began to tremble from the cool of the evening—or perhaps the advent of shock.
Shakily he rose, wringing out the bloody rag in the basin and bending to wash the blood off his thighs and more cautiously dab between his buttocks to clean away the mess there. More warm tears traced a path down his face as he did. With chattering teeth he gingerly put the rag back in the basin and crept back to the pallet, easing his aching body down and pulling soft furs around him as he curled in upon himself.
He’d not cried much before this, save for the reflexive reaction to the pain. He couldn’t stop it now.
Alone, with the hurt slowly fading, he couldn’t make the tears stop, couldn’t hold back the sobs as it hit him—truly hit him that this might be what the rest of his hopefully brief life would be made up of,
18
being used in the basest manner at the whim of creatures that he couldn’t overcome. Treated like a dog—worse than a dog, because men didn’t rape their dogs.
Men. These weren’t men and didn’t play by the rules of men. What their motives were, other than to swoop down on the lands of the south to pillage, murder and rape, he didn’t know. Grandfather had gone to the gathering at Nakhanor to discuss those possible motives and human men’s actions in regard to them. The thought of what his grandfather would think, to see him crying like a woman—made him stifle his sobs and try and pull his shattered nerves together.
He was in somewhat less embarrassing a state when Bloodraven returned, damp and clean from what had probably been a stop by the brook. On his heels came Vorjd, who had in his arms a great stone bowl that smelled of roasted meat. The slave put it down with a word and left, returning in short order with a wineskin. He left this time not to return, and Bloodraven sat down on the stool by his armor rack and stabbed at the chunks of meat and what might have been roasted root vegetables with his knife.
Yhalen’s stomach growled rebelliously, assaulted by the smells and so empty that it made his eyes water from the prospect of food. He wouldn’t beg for it. He’d starve first. So best not to look at all.
Best to turn his back and sit there, knees drawn up to his chest and think of unappetizing things, like rotting flesh riddled with maggots and stinking with decay.
The pallet creaked with weight and Yhalen flinched, caught unawares and cursing the ogre who could rise and move so quietly despite his size.
“ Fajkur ,” Bloodraven said and stabbed a piece of seared meat with the point of his dagger and extended it to Yhalen.
Yhalen stared, wide-eyed, hunger warring with pride.
“ Fajkur ,” Bloodraven repeated, irritation creeping into his voice. It seemed ridiculous to go hungry and be punished for it when the meat was right under his nose, unasked for. He hadn’t groveled for it.
So what harm taking it?
He snatched it, somewhat more desperate than he’d have liked. It was warm on the outside, but still rare within and blood and juices ran down his chin. But it was unbelievably good. He felt lightheaded
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