whumpyreader

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 9

TW: reference to slavery, mom and son talking about past abuse, wound mention

Syrup and oranges were the first things to break the darkness Brandon refused to let go of. Syrup because his nose was sure breakfast was somewhere nearby and oranges because the most enchanting color of orange danced in his vision. If he could, he would have stayed in this trance for at least a day. But, alas, his brain deemed him ready to wake up. He needed to wake up because his brain was not yet convinced that danger was gone.

Movement swirled next to him which was fine as long as—

He jolted when cold air hit his body. He was definitely still naked. 

His eyes peeled just as a nurse covered him back up with blankets from the side of his body. He recoiled the best his drugged body would let him. 

“Oh, you're awake,” the nurse said. He turned to his computer and typed some notes. “How do you feel?”

Panic filled Brandon's spleen. Had the nurse touched him? Was this a real hospital or Gerard’s clinic? Did he dream his own rescue?

The only thing that could convince him this was real was Erin.

“Woah, don't sit up just yet.” The nurse moved to push him back down but must not have fought too hard because Brandon easily stayed on his elbows.

A quick look told him it was only him and the nurse. Brandon almost went into fight mode. 

“This is real, Brandon,” a voice cut through his fear like a sharp knife.

Erin. He barely managed to glance at her before he collapsed back into the bed with a teary exhale. “Thank fuck,” he sighed.

“Yeh,” she smiled, setting a tray down next to the bed. Syrup. “You’re safe. We’re all safe now.”

Gerard was dead. He was safe. He had survived. And, hopefully, this was a real hospital.

“Where am I?”

“You're in a hospital, still not home, but safe,” Erin said, plopping into the chair next to him and pulling the tray to her lap. Her pupils dilated at the sight of her hospital-grade pancakes. She must be hungry.

With this body still half-dazed, he almost accepted her words and shut his eyes to let her enjoy her breakfast. But a thought that had been nagging him beneath his sleep popped up again. “How did you know where to find me?”

Erin scoffed. “During our session.” She stuffed a bite into her mouth and looked as if she had answered his question.

“Our session?” he pushed.

“Owner is a weird word to use unless you're talking about slavery,” she chomped out. “And he told you to strip. Also, the way you responded . . . it's like you turned into a zombie. I knew you had been through something unimaginable.”

“Yes, but how did you find me.”

Erin shrugged, keeping her face casual. “I started with my brother because I knew he was in the business. And . . . well, part of the reason I chose you as a therapist was because you were from my home town. I figured it wouldn't be far off to assume my brother had you.”

“All of that was real,” he mused to himself, reminded of that last session, those last few seconds of his ideal life. “Honestly, I was more scared it wasn't real and that I was having a panic attack in front of you.” He turned toward her when she chuckled. The light, happy noise affirmed to him he was okay. He was human. And it was definitely time to change the conversation. “Have you talked to Jake?”

“Gee, way to change the topic,” she threw at him first before sobering. “So you both talked?”

“Quite intimately, actually.” He dropped his gaze and landed on two big lumps on either side of him, where his hands most likely were covered in bandages.

Both of them quieted as the nurse finished with the line and left the room.

“I can't get myself to see him,” her voice sounded from miles away. “He's been convinced I've been a deadbeat mom . . . which was true for a while until I got out and started my career.”

A sudden heaviness pushed his body down. The nurse must have put something in his IV. “Well,” the l’s felt funny on his tongue, “after what I just saw you do, you're no deadbeat mom to me.” He relaxed fully onto the bed. “I want mashed potatoes and fried shrimp.”

“After hell, all you think about is food?”

“Comfort food, Erin,” he corrected. 

“You sounds drunk. Must have some drugs in you.”

Wasn’t it amazing? He giggled although he was very serious when he said, “I'm not joking when I say I want to gain a lot of weight. I want to feel healthy in my body knowing that fucking bastard is dead. Since you're some . . . whatever the hell you are. A secret agent? I need you to get me that food ASAP.”

She smiled at the devilish grin on his face and Brandon could have melted at how it felt to be responded to.

A noise froze both of them and Brandon realized, gratefully sooner than later, that he was holding his breath for when Gerard found him again. There was a man at the door.

“Mom?”

The gasp was tiny but contained more shock than Brandon had ever heard before. Jake stood at the doorway, holding his ribs and staring at Erin.

Erin didn't move, didn't even stand to greet him. “Hi, Jake,” she retorted instead.

“Oh, jeez,” Brandon bit, rolling his eyes. “Let's not be too sappy, Erin.”

Her gaze shot to his and, in one moment, she understood everything he meant. She had a chance to make the life she wanted. It didn't have to be torn apart because of Gerard.

Erin stood, placing the sheets down behind her. She stood up straight and licked her lips. “Hi, Jake,” she tried again. “How do you feel?”

“I understand why you were doing drugs, Mom.”

Completely taken back, Erin cleared her throat. “Oh?”

“To escape Gerard.”

She shot a glance at Brandon but Brandon was too happy to let her swim in the thick waters alone.

“You never gave me a chance Jake and,” she rolled her neck as if this conversation was giving her a headache, “while I can own your brain has only recently fully developed, it hurts that you always chose his side. Because, actually, Gerard and his predecessors were keeping me drugged since I was fifteen.”

“What about the men coming over and abusing me?”

Brandon clenched his jaw. Even if he could understand Jake's confusion and shock, he hated the lack of validation toward Erin.

“They were abusing me too, Jake. That was Gerard wanting to set the scene to be able to rescue you.”

Silence filled the room as Jake chewed on everything. Tears filled his eyes. “I thought he loved me so much.”

Erin's face filled with pity. “I'm so sorry.”

“How do I even get over that?”

“You don't,” Erin admitted. “It's part of your story and always will be. But you can heal so that it doesn't own you anymore.”

Well done, Erin, Brandon thought. And, because he was drugged, he figured it was alright if he shut this discussion down. They could talk later . . . when they weren’t in his room where he was bedridden. “I mean it, Erin,” he pressed. “I want mashed potatoes and fried shrimp.”

Her giggle sent him into sleep.

END

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 8

TW: character death, aftermath of scary situation, blood loss

Brandon was too close to unconsciousness that all he could do was watch. But a sob escaped him and so did a tear as Jake grew quiet. “Help him,” he whispered, as if anyone could hear him or even care to listen.

Apparently someone did because a door banged open and a gun exploded. Brandon knew Gerard's men didn't carry guns inside the mansion. Only knives. So, after a few bullet shots, the room was completely silent. 

Bright red shoes stepped into Brandon's puddle of blood. Knees knelt and hair dipped into view. A face ducked down to his, mostly covered by a black hood. The grim reaper was back to claim him for good.

“Brandon, can you hear me?”

The voice was familiar. And—

Brandon choked on a sob.

Someone knew his name.

“Don't make me slap you. Grip my fingers if you can hear me.”

A hand touched his own and Brandon whimpered, clenching his teeth against the pain. He couldn't take anymore pain. He was too tired and hungry and cold. “Don'hur . . . t’me . . . please. Don’havta slap me.”

“Wha—shit.” There was a pause as the fingers drew away from his palm. “I should have looked. I'm sorry. I'm not here to hurt you. I only meant slap as in to arouse you.”

Death rubbed his arm and patted his cheek.

“You've been through hell, by the looks of it.”

Only one word came to his mind. “Slave.” Just in case Death was not aware of that fact.

“Fuck. Not anymore. Imma sit you up. Put all your weight on me.”

He was pulled out of his puddle of blood and up against a chest. They must have taken their jacket off because now it was wrapped around him and a curly mane of hair sprung in all directions. Was this not the grim reaper after all?

A hand pushed the back of his head to their shoulder and, for some reason, it released his tears. He sobbed against their neck, gripping their shirt to keep them there.

“You're a bit out of it, love. I'm not the grim reaper, if that's what you said. I'm going to get you out.”

He must have said that out loud but he didn't remember. He was just grateful they held him and promised him safety. 

“I can't carry you but I'm going to help you up. We'll get out of here. I don't have any service in here to call the cops.”

“Jake.”

“What? It's hard to understand you, hon.”

Brandon licked his lips. “Jake.”

“Fuck.”

It seemed to be the word of the day.

“I'm going to pull you to the wall. Stay sitting if you can. I'll go check Jake.”

His skin caught against the foyer’s marble floor, only partially slick with blood, as she pulled him to a wall. His rescuer left him and he tried to watch as they knelt next to Jake. His neck fell and he pressed his cheek against the wall.

Something in that moment came to his attention. A pain. An irritation that sucked strength from him. He looked down, stomach dropping when he realized he was still erect against the ring squeezing his cock. Fuck.

His brutalized fingers could barely move and when they grazed against the ring he nearly screamed from the pain.

Fuck.

The rescuer had picked Jake up by his armpits by now and pulled him next to Brandon.

“He's unconscious.”

Brandon dropped his hands in his lap.

“Need help getting that off?”

Brandon must have blushed or something.

“It isn't your fault, hon. I've seen much worse in my life. My eyes haven't been virgins for an eternity.”

Brandon supposed that made him feel better though he flinched violently when she took a step forward.

Her arms shot up. “I won't hurt you. Do you recognize me yet?”

He shook his head, forcing his muscles to relax.

“I'm not gonna hurt you,” she repeated as she took two more steps and knelt beside him. “I'll keep the touching to a minimum.” 

Her hands were practiced as she gently coaxed the ring off. When she was done and Brandon came to his senses, he was surprised to find his palms pressed against her shoulders, keeping her far enough away.

 “Sorry,” he muttered, dropping his agonizing hands into his lap.

“Nothing to apologize for. I understand how scared you are.” She patted his shoulder and looked around. “I need to find a place with reception. And I need to get you medical attention.”

“I can walk.” The words barely left his mouth and he recognized they were more a fight or flight response to knowing something had to bend in this situation.

“Hon, you're barely conscious.”

“I can handle it.”

“Gerard taught me that too.” Her voice was full of pain, morphing her voice into someone he knew. She was wearing a hood but, even against the shadows along her face, Brandon knew who it was.

The wind left his lungs and he gawked at her. “Erin?”

She grinned. “I thought you'd never remember me.”

The sobbing came on its own accord and once it started, it wouldn't stop. Erin held him and patted him.

“Thank you,” he cried over and over. “Holy shit, thank you.”

“Well, you've rescued me plenty of times. Now I'm returning the honor.”

He nodded against her chest, another sob bubbling out of him. “Secret agent?”

“Something like that. Look, when this is over, I'll hold you some more. For now, I trust you can handle walking and it might be our only bet.”

He stayed in her embrace for only a moment longer, sucking in a breath and pulling what was left of him together. He pulled back and nodded.

“Ready?”

At his nod, she grasped his torso and helped him to his feet. His vision left him and weakness shot down his spine. But strong hands stayed around his torso, giving him time to see again and force strength to his legs.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“I'm going to let go.”

He leaned against the wall and let her move away from him. He didn't have much strength in him. Pain was eating away whatever resolve he still had and then there was the starvation and cold. Oh, and blood loss. Luckily, Erin already had Jake and flicked her neck toward the exit.

“Let's go.”

She walked slow under the burden of another human which gave Brandon enough time to slide his feet under himself to keep up. If there were any bad guys left, it wouldn't be hard for them to find the wounded group. Brandon left a trail of blood behind him.

They were not far from the actual exit though, much to Brandon's surprise. She led them outside, into a frigid night, and toward a mustang.

“Might be better to speed toward a hospital rather than wait here for one, don't you think?”

Brandon fell against the gorgeous vehicle's trunk and nodded against its cold finish.

She laid Jake in the back seat and opened the front passenger door for him. 

“Coming?”

There was absolutely no way he could still be on his feet. Unless of course adrenaline was keeping him there. It hadn't died off yet. “Did you kill him?” he croaked against the vehicle.

“He'll bleed out soon.”

I should have bled out soon. Brandon pushed himself up and eyed the mansion. “He'll come back for me.”

“I'll make sure he won't. Brandon, get the fuck in the car.”

“I have to make sure . . . ”

“Trust me.”

Erin continued talking but Brandon was beyond hearing it. There was no room for trust at this point, or whatever she was going on about. There was only one last chance to save the rest of his life. One.

Nakedness, blood loss, and pain were now just figments of some alternate universe when the warmth and the smell of the mansion enveloped him.

Distantly, he was aware of stumbling into the foyer in a broken body but, that was only distantly. What little adrenaline he had left gave him a clear focus as he came to a halt before Gerard's body.

He felt no fear as he knelt down and stuck a finger into the side of Gerard's neck. Either he would die here or live and, for some reason, he was okay with that as long as Gerard was gone.

No pulse.

He brought his hand back to his lap. His tormentor was pale and completely lifeless. 

Why did he not feel more closure? Where was the relief?

From out of nowhere, Brandon collapsed. Oh right, adrenaline.

“You idiot,” came Erin's voice from the doorway. “Did you not trust my ability to aim?” 

Brandon should have, he realized then. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

“Unless you want to end up like our mutual monster, I need to get you in the car now.”

She pulled his body up but he was barely aware of it.

The moment he sat, she wrapped a blanket around him and buckled his seat belt. 

She sat in her seat, turned on the car, and made sure his seat was heated. Brandon groaned in pleasure. Her voice cackled in and out as she called the police and talked to him.

He woke up only a few times during the speedy trip to town. And each time, he was laying against her shoulder, the heat turned up all the way.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 7

TW: BRUTAL, forced r*pe, manipulation, whipping, dissociation, reference to past abuse, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

“Ah,” Gerard sang as they entered the foyer. “Let’s get started. I don’t have all day.”

“What is this?” Jake growled, leaning heavily against the wall. His face was pale but he looked like he could start a fight and win with the anger plastered on his face. Brandon was sure Jake hadn't finished processing his uncle yet.

“You need to trust me, boy,” Gerard growled back, just as angry. Except he was fed and unharmed and took advantage of that fact by jumping forward in a mock attack.

Jake snarled but it was Brandon that fell into a crouch, protecting his vitals.

Gerard snorted. “You went against me, Jake, and . . . honestly I'm tired of defiance right now. I have enough on my plate . . . for instance, that bitch of a mother of yours. So,” he brightened, “we're here to prove Mico can handle anything and that you can lay off.”

“He has a brain injury,” Jake shot back. “I was doing everyone a favor by helping him—”

“I don't care about your point of view, Jake. I only care that it was defiant. You listen to me or else.”

Some man dressed in black kicked Brandon from behind. He didn't know if he screamed or went silently, sprawling to the floor like broken eggs. Gerard had never weakened him so quickly. Usually it was a gradual withdrawal of food and clothing. It was going on over a week now since Brandon's last food. And while he had been given water, his body was used to at least a gallon per day. He'd maybe gotten a gallon since he was kidnapped, if that. All of this was not to mention the injuries he'd received. 

“Your only job is to watch, Jake.” Gerard's voice was miles away.

“And if I don't?”

“I'll make you rape him.”

The words were muffled to Brandon but Jake's gulp after that last word was as clear as day.

A snap of a finger and Brandon was pushed to his stomach. He knew what this meant and it felt better to be compliant than fight it, especially with Jake around. He pushed himself to his knees and held himself up on an elbow. Hands wound under his belly and gripped his hip bones, taking some weight off his shoulders. But it also meant no cushion when—

There was no lubricant. Just a hard, warm member being shoved inside of him. Slammed into him, over and over while he whimpered and hissed. It definitely took a few minutes, long enough that Brandon was panting against the awful dryness and the motion of being forced forward and backward. The man orgasmed, pulled out then pushed him the rest of the way to the ground.

Brandon curled up on his side, winding his arms around his stomach.

“What else would you like to see him handle?” Gerard asked Jake.

“I get the point,” Jake ground out except now his voice was thick with emotion.

“No, I need to make sure you have evidence. I can't have you ruining more around here. The man you kicked out is up my ass about needing more time with Mico.”

Jake didn't respond.

“Then do I have a treat for you. Join him on the floor.”

Brandon watched as Jake pushed himself from the wall and limped toward him. He lowered himself to the floor, sitting far enough away to not touch Brandon.

Brandon flinched when, from his peripheral, another man bent toward him. A ring snapped around his cock and immediately he began to harden.

“Lay down, Jake.”

Jake kept his scowl focused on his uncle but obeyed, lowering himself to his back.

“Do your magic, Mico.”

Shit. Brandon froze.

Gerard must have assumed as much because someone was ready with the whip behind him when he froze for too long. The rawhide split into his wounded back, slicing his muscle apart.

He screamed, ducking under his hands.

“Obey.”

It seemed low to obey Gerard just because of one whip lash. But he knew Gerard. Things would get exponentially worse for both him and Jake if he didn't obey. So he crawled on all fours to Jake's side and knelt.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, feeling very lame it was all he could offer. He reached forward with his shredded hands to Jake's pants and paused. Jake didn't move, rather watched him with dull eyes. 

The button would not unclasp with Brandon's injured hands. He hissed in frustration and adjusted his position over Jake.

Warm fingers met his at the button as if Jake were really trying to help the rape along. But the moment Gerard noticed, another slice fell across Brandon's back and he screamed against Jake's belly.

“This is what I'm talking about, Jake,” Gerard huffed. “Mico can handle it.”

The button was now slick with his tears but Gerard gave him an infinite amount of time to get the button unstuck and Jake's pants down. He pulled them away from Jake's ankles and did the same for his underwear.

Brandon risked a chance up at Jake's eyes and was surprised to find him vacant, completely dissociated. Then it hit Brandon. He remembered Jake's confession about childhood sexual abuse.

“Hey, Jake,” he whispered, rubbing at Jake's sternum. “Stay with me, okay?” 

Jake coughed and shot forward, holding his stinging sternum and staring wildly at Brandon.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” Brandon continued. “I'm right here. I'll keep you safe.” It felt silly saying the words, knowing what he had to do next. But owning he was a victim too, Jake was in very good hands. “You with me?”

Jake blinked and laid back down. “Yes.”

“Have you done this as an adult?”

Jake gave a small shake of his head. “Couldn't bring myself to do it,” he whispered so only Brandon could hear.

“That's okay. I'm right here. Just stay with me. I'm sorry,” he repeated, getting into position. He hated this. He hated human suffering. He was a healer, not a rapist. 

Jake recoiled as Brandon moved his legs up.

“Stay with me, Jake. Is this okay?”

Tears spilled down Jake's cheeks, into his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

“Look at me.”

Jake opened his eyes, tears streaming out but he looked at Brandon.

Brandon used a finger first and was grateful he did when Jake arched his back and nearly screamed. He panted, relaxing and looking back at Brandon.

“I'm not going to hurt you. I don't want this either. I'm so sorry.”

Jake relaxed even more with the words and nodded his head as if to say Just get it over with.

Brandon pushed his cock to Jake's hole and gave a little pressure. 

Jake's eyes lost focus again.

“Hey, hey, stay with me, Jake.”

“I'm sorry,” Jake sobbed. “Please don't, sir. I don't want to. It hurts.”

Fuck.

Another lash of blinding pain split into his back and Brandon fell over Jake with no strength to hold himself up. He screamed into Jake's chest then panted against the pain that didn't seem to go away this time. 

Warm arms wrapped around him and Brandon shot up, fighting against them.

“Mattie, it's me,” the small whisper reassured. 

Brandon opened his eyes to find Jake was with him again and holding him.

“I'm here. Just do it.”

Brandon's eyes were blurry with tears as he sat up again and nodded. He pushed himself inside Jake slowly and Jake held onto his arms, grounded this time.

Brandon began to thrust and the moment he did, the whip fell on his again. Did Gerard want him to stop?

“Keep going. The whip won't stop.”

Fuck.

Brandon forced himself to keep going, only pausing for a moment after the whip hit him. Obviously it took him a minute to feel the pleasure after the whip tore away his skin and, by then, the whip was landing again. He would never orgasm which meant Gerard was not going to stop.

Brandon felt himself losing touch with reality after only a few lashes but he could fight it. After several more minutes, he could no longer fight it.

He would have cracked open both of their skulls with his weight if Jake's arms hadn't caught him first. Brandon peeked his eyes open to find Jake staring up at him in concern.

“He's passing out, Gerard,” Jake warned.

“Whip him harder.”

“No! It's from blood loss and starvation. Whipping him harder will do nothing,” Jake protested.

The whip landed again and Brandon's neck went limp. From a mile outside his mind, he could feel Jake's warm cheek pressed against his forehead and Jake's hands still holding his chest up.

Then his world flew upside down and his back slammed into the ground. Jake was on top of him now and caught the next whip. He didn't even scream. He gritted his teeth and patted Brandon's cheeks.

“With me?”

Brandon eyes fluttered open. Why was he so tired? His eyes fell shut again.

Jake screamed and suddenly the warmth from his body left Brandon.

Brandon opened his eyes again and wondered if Jake being dragged away was real or not. He rolled to his side, a pool of red meeting him there.

Jake fell to the floor. Boots and fists flew into him.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 6

TW: TBI injuries, Gerard wishing ill for his sister, view of wounds, panic, r*pe

Brandon did not expect to rest so long. The only reason he knew it was days was because he would periodically wake up to different lighting from the windows.

It was his owner's bed. 

Brandon could smell him. 

He lay on his stomach, arm hanging off the bed, too exhausted to assess his safety. He slept deeply only to be woken with a straw in his mouth. He would sip at it like a crazy person then drift off again. His sweat was wiped away, his aches soothed. After almost a week, Brandon woke one day and his brain let him stay awake. The headache was still there but not blinding as it had been. His back and hands were sore and hard to move but had scabbed over at least.

Gerard was waiting for him.

Strong arms rolled him away from the edge of the bed and set him on his back. His legs were bent upward and Gerard knelt between them.

“There you are,” he smiled, giving one thrust to penetrate him.

Brandon was only barely awake so he gasped at the pain, wishing he could grasp the sheets for some sort of grounding.

Gerard moaned. “I need a favor from you.” He thrusted again and went to his elbows, flush with Brandon now. His mouth covered Brandon's but, thankfully, for only a moment.

“I need you to talk to Jake.” Gerard's eyes rolled back after another thrust and he moaned against Brandon's chest. “Remind him of his place. It appears he thought he was in charge here.”

“He won't listen to me,” Brandon pushed back.

The next thrust hurt and Brandon hissed.

“Now you have an opinion too? Jake is new. You should know your place.”

Oh, Brandon knew his place. He bit back a remark and simply nodded.

Once Gerard finished, Brandon was pulled from the bed, onto legs that shook like a newborn deer, and escorted to the basement. 

…

“You've got to be fucking with me,” Gerard grumbled, putting his hands on his hips.

“Fucking you?” His sister pulled a face as she spun from the window. “I'd barf all over you if that were the case.”

This insolent brat! Gerard needed to get rid of her. “Why the sudden coming around? You've never visited this often.”

She winked. “Maybe I never left. Maybe dear little sister needs a place to stay and has been hiding out in one of your many rooms.”

Gerard knew he paled and that she saw every second of it.

“Bother you?”

“One of my men would have seen you.”

“You hire idiots.”

“Tell me why you're here and get the fuck out of my house,” he tried again. Something was dangerously different about her. She had never been able to stand her ground before.

“I want to have sex and know you have a whore in the house. I want him for a night.”

“It's a him, huh?”

She mocked him with wide eyes. “I told you I never left. I've been listening to some delicious noise like a man suffering. Let me have him. Then I'll leave.”

Gerard snorted. “The only whore I have here right now is one I wouldn't share with you.”

“He's your favorite?” Her lip pouted.

Gerard wanted to rip out his hair with how fake and revolting she had become. He liked her better drugged. “I won't give you a whore to fuck. Get out of my house.”

“Then I won't leave. Good luck trying to force me out. I know you have pressing business to attend to right now.”

“You--”

“I know where your stash of drugs is. I'll help myself and maybe take a swim.”

I hope you drown. But something inside of him softened. If she really were still a druggie, he had nothing to worry about. A swim while he attended to business and then he would kick her out.

…

The hallway in the basement was lined with doors that would have tricked anyone into believing they were bedrooms. Really, they were cubes with no windows and no sound, kept dark to isolate whoever had angered Gerard.

Brandon had been in one before for two weeks. He scrambled backward, staring at his escort in shock.

The escort gave him a look. “It's not for you. Gerard wants you to talk to Jake.”

Jake was in one of these?

“I'll turn the light on for you.”

A door was opened and the stench of waste and blood poured out. It was momentarily pitch black until his escort turned on a light and a harsh blue hue covered the room and its contents.

“In you go.”

Brandon didn't even have a fight before he was shoved into the box. He held himself, eyes shut tight, and curled up against the door, convinced this was for him.

“Mattie?”

Brandon's eyes shot open and he threw himself into a corner.

“You're okay, you're okay. I'm right here.”

It was Jake's voice but barely. Brandon peeked open his eyes, surprised to find Jake lying on his stomach not a hand length away. He looked exhausted and hurt but not scared like Brandon was.

Jake wore only pants. His shirt lay under him like a barrier between him and the grimey floor. He had several swollen black patches on his face but that was nothing compared to his torso, incredibly swollen and the deepest black Brandon had ever seen. He had been whipped too but probably from a cord because there was no blood across the red welts on his back.

“Fuck,” Brandon breathed.

Tears bloomed in Jake's eyes.

“How long—” Brandon's voice broke.

“Days. I think.”

“Can you move?” Brandon was no doctor and his ability to move after a beating was the only assessment he used to figure out if he would live or not.

“I've tried,” Jake choked. 

Fuck.

And maybe he couldn't move because this was his first beating and he wasn't used to it yet.

“Why are you here?”

Jake's miserable whimper drew Brandon back to the present. “Gerard wanted me to talk to you.”

“Oh.” Jake's eyes closed as if he were already done with the conversation.

“He said he expects you to listen. And that I can take it.”

Jake's eyes peered into his soul. “Can you take it?”

Brandon knew he should nod and obey Gerard but he was depressed and it seemed to be okay to be depressed in front of Jake. Although he hadn't known Jake for long and it was probably stupid to already trust him. “It's been . . . easier with you around.”

Jake was silent.

Brandon sucked in a breath and forced himself to say the words he truly wanted to say. “Just don't do anything that will get you thrown out or worse. Unless, of course, you can walk away and leave for good. If that's an option, I suggest you take it.”

“It's not an option.”

Something softened inside of Brandon. Why was it so comforting to know Jake was a victim too? “Well then, stay on Gerard's good side. For your safety and my sanity.”

“Deal.”

“And if Gerard asks, I gave you a talking to.”

Jake's lips broke into a sad smile. “I didn't know he could be this way.”

Brandon pulled a face. “I think there's a lot you don't know about your uncle. But . . . in any case, I'm sorry you had to find out like this.”

They sat in silence for who knows how long. Jake appeared to have sunk back into unconsciousness while Brandon fought to keep himself awake. He had nothing he could offer Jake—no clothes, no water, no medical care skills. He himself was only just coming out of a week of delirium without food and enough water. And, if he was remembering right, Death had come to claim him. What was keeping him alive at this point, Brandon did not know.

Brandon failed to keep himself awake. When the door slammed open, he jumped in fright. Jake merely opened his eyes, not even flinching at the sound.

“Boss wants a word. Upstairs, both of you.”

Jake groaned, his face suddenly pale.

Brandon stumbled to his feet, barely strong enough to stay standing. He trembled and waited for Jake to stand up too.

Jake didn't move.

“Get him up.”

Brandon stiffened, throwing a look at the escort. “Me?”

“Obviously.”

Brandon took a step and nearly fell. “Jake, help me here, man. If I get back down, I won't be able to stand up.”

Jake's gears were moving in his head, thinking this through as if there was a way to not feel pain.

“It'll hurt like hell no matter what,” Brandon hissed. “It's just neurotransmitters. It's the same as when you feel pleasure. It's just a feeling. Pain is just a feeling. Choose to like it . . . it'll get better.”

Jake snorted but the speech must have done its job because Jake's arms began to tremble as he heaved himself upright. He cried out several times and Brandon bit his lip in empathy.

“Take my hand.”

Jake looked up and reached out, taking Brandon's offered hand. Gratefully, he didn't pull too hard or else Brandon would have fallen hard.

Jake swayed on his feet but so did Brandon. They shared a quick sad smile before following the escort up a few flights of stairs, the equivalent to Chomolungma in their bodies.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 5

TW: TBI injuries, slavery topic, forced haircut, whumper's pov

Why was the door opened?

The wondering didn't stay long in Gerard's mind once he leaned against the doorframe and eyed who lay inside.

Jake had his clinic all set up, like the big boy Gerard always knew he'd be. The hospital bed sat against the corner and currently cradled Mico and Gerard's mouth filled with saliva.

“Mico.”

Mico’s eyes shot open then he hissed, squeezing them tightly shut. “Yes, sir?” he mumbled, arching his back upwards. 

Gerard loved the way Mico was always trying to keep him happy and it settled a ball of sunshine in his stomach.

“Patched up?” He sat next to the thing and rubbed the stubble that had grown on Mico's chin.

“Yes, sir.” Mico relaxed his back and pushed himself upright, his eyes remaining closed.

“Ready for some TLC?”

Mico groaned, dropping his chin to his chest.

“What's up with you? Usually, you're more…touchy.”

Mico's eyes opened at that comment and he raised his head slowly to meet Gerard's gaze.

Gerard's stomach flopped.

The purple under Mico's eyes was delicious. The way his spine couldn't quite straighten. His fingers that trembled on their own accord. Gerard licked his lips.

“Feeling alright?” he tried again.

For a moment, Mico's brow tightened as a thought ran through his mind. But he must have decided against it because he dropped his head. “Sure.”

“You need a good pick-me-up. I'll take you to the bathroom and we'll get you fixed up.”

Mico was completely compliant when Gerard pulled him to his feet and pulled out his IV. The pain was obvious with every gasp, wince, and tremble. Mico stumbled forward as Gerard led the way to his own bathroom. 

His bathroom was more of a studio, really. Equipped with a salon area, Jacuzzi, and sauna. Gerard pushed Mico into the salon chair and stepped back, his gut flopping again once Mico whimpered when the cosmetologist came into view.

“Just a good shave and wax,” Gerard said.

“What kind of wax?”

“The kind I always ask for,” Gerard grumbled, frowning at the so-called professional. When the idiot only raised a brow, Gerard sighed. “All of it.” He'd fire them later.

“Right away.”

The cosmetologist started with a face shave and Mico was as tense as a traumatized man the entire time. The head bandage came off next and clippers fixed the overgrown mess of Mico's choice in hairstyle. He was moved to a table and spread open. This was the part Gerard was waiting for. Each time the wax was yanked off, Mico nearly lost himself and Gerard was there to see every last second of it. From between his legs up to his chest. 

“Anywhere else, sir?”

Gerard thought about it. He enjoyed the sight of a groomed Mico and bit his lip in thought. “Do his underarms as well and I think that should do the trick.”

Gerard didn't care as much about armpits but they had time to kill and watching Mico in whatever mindset he was in was too delicious to give away just yet. Besides, with Mico's arms up for the waxing, Gerard had a better view of the scabbed whip marks where the whip had once licked his ribs.

Mico squirmed under the pain of the waxing but it was done too soon and Mico was moved to a bath warmed just a little too much. Against his injuries, Gerard could only assume the pain level. But when Mico screamed and fought to get out, Gerard's wildest dreams came true. 

He was scrubbed down and all the tiny hairs stuck to his skin from his hair cut were washed away. He was toweled off and perfumed and Gerard wished he could take Mico right there and then.

“You have a customer,” he informed reluctantly. “But don't be too sad. I'll have you soon enough.”

Mico didn't even bat an eye. His shoulders stayed bent under his weight and he kept his eyes on the ground.

“What has gotten into you?” Gerard growled and Mico snapped to attention. The big brown eyes that met him soften his anger somewhat and, suddenly, he would do anything for his little Mico. “Okay, okay, you're right. I went too far with the punishment. I'm not gonna hurt you anymore today. No hurt, I promise.”

Mico flinched at the words before he went deathly pale. For some reason it had him tensing up and looking down once more. No matter.

 “I expect you to be on your best behavior, Mico. This customer just so happens to be a loyal client who I do not want to lose.”

“Of course, sir,” Mico replied but his voice was just as dead as his eyes were.

…

Jake knew Mattie would probably be awake soon and he felt bad to not be there for him. But he had wasted no time after bandaging Mattie’s back then brand wound to hop into his car and drive the six hours to the nearest clinic he had once worked at. Mattie had already fallen asleep. 

Stocked up on painkillers, Jake sped back to the mansion in the middle of nowhere and hurried back to Mattie.

But Mattie was already gone. The IV was draining into a puddle on the bed.

Jake seethed. Mattie had a TBI and was covered in wounds that could easily get infected. What the hell was his uncle thinking?

Jake admitted that he had not fully processed the line of business his uncle was a part of. Maybe if he had he would understand the dangers of the job he currently had. But Jake trusted Gerard's love, to an extent. Gerard would listen to him, surely. The atrocities committed last night against Mattie weren't even thought of—buried too deep below the surface.

It was his mother he had never been able to trust, not Uncle Gerard. She was the one who sold him to men every night in his childhood. Gerard was on his side and always had been. If not for Gerard, Jake would have nothing.

It seemed that the top two floors were used for sleeping so Jake listened behind every single one of the doors until he heard grunting.

He kicked open the door, momentarily stunned by what he saw. A brutal man knelt over Mattie, ramming into him from below. Mattie was sobbing, holding his head tightly between his shredded palms. Vomit dripped over the edge of the bed and sex was heavy in the air. 

“Time's up,” Jake growled, throwing the man off of Mattie. 

Mattie's legs fell to the sides and he huffed out breathless sobs, still keeping his eyes shut. Blood smeared between his thighs. 

“Get your fucking things and leave.”

Probably drunk, the rapist stumbled to his feet. “I paid good money. Gerard promised—”

“Gerard isn't here. Leave.”

The rapist tumbled out of the room, still naked.

“Mattie?”

With no response, Jake pulled out his flashlight and checked Mattie's eyes. He needed serious medical attention and getting raped did nothing to help.

Fuck.

He needed to get Mattie help, now.

“Alright, Mattie. It's just me, Jake. I'm going to pick you up.”

Mattie kept his face buried in his arms and didn't even move.

So Jake picked him up and dashed down the hallway. He had just made it to the garage and spotted his car when a voice sounded from behind him.

“Jake.”

Jake spun. “Uncle!” Something like relief flooded through him, ignoring the fact that it was his uncle that said he'd watch over Mattie hours before Mattie was reduced to a pulp. “I'll have him back soon. He needs—”

Gerard stepped into the garage and every step he took built an even bigger ball of lead in Jake's stomach. Something wasn't right. Gerard could see Mattie was hurt severely. It only made sense they took him to get help.

“Uncle?”

“We'll talk later, Jake.”

Gerard gave one nod of his head and all hell broke loose. Several men surrounded him. One took Mattie and left. Gerard disappeared. 

Jake did not expect the blows that began to rain down.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 4

TW: painful wound cleaning, gore from hand wounds, talk of past child abuse, worried Death has come, effects of TBI

Brandon woke to yelling.

“His first day? What the fuck do you plan to do to him? Kill him tomorrow?”

“I told you,” came Gerard's calm voice, “my Mico can handle a lot.”

Brandon's body had been discarded after Gerard came. The semen burned the severe cuts on his palms, made worse by the back and forth motion he had been forced to do. Gerard had allowed him to sink to the floor. He still laid where he had crumbled only now the window was bright behind the cracks in the black-out curtains.

“I'm off, Jake. Do what you need but don't wrap his hands.”

A door closed.

Hands carded through his hair and Brandon's adrenaline surged through his gut, igniting the stinging feel of his limbs fighting for safety. He jerked back, slamming his head into the bed frame. Pain exploded and he remembered his brain was splintered.

“Hey, hey, remember me?”

The lump of bile still stuck in his throat loosened now and spilled out from between his lips, momentarily taking his vision and all defenses. If this were some man wanting pleasure, he'd easily be able to do what he wanted. Brandon had no spine left, like a gutted scarecrow. 

Although his eyes protested, Brandon peeled his eyes and observed the man kneeling in front of him. No, he had no idea who this human was. But at least the human knelt a safe distance away.

“I met you last night. I'm Jake, a doctor?”

Last night was fuzzy. It was the whipping that brought him back to the present but he was pretty sure that had taken place after Jake, if Jake were even real.

“Well, since you don't remember, I'm Jake. I'm not going to hurt you.”

In that case . . . Brandon sank more into the floor, his arms splayed out in front of him. He groaned, forcing himself to assess the damage from last night. His fingers were swollen and looked more like raw sausages than anything else. His palms were unrecognizable . . . red and black and definitely not belonging to a human. There was no way he would be able to move them anytime soon. And he couldn't make himself wiggle his body to assess the damage from the whipping. He let his neck relax and eyed Jake.

Jake knelt on his knees, biting his lip as his eyes, dark and haunted, stared at Brandon's hands. 

A ball of sadness nestled next to Brandon's heart at the realization that he had no desire to ask Jake about himself. Brandon lived for interaction, to get to know stories. But having all needs met was a prerequisite for living an authentic existence and, well, no needs were being met at the moment.

“Should I call you Mico?”

Brandon had to squeeze his eyes shut against the pain that ignited at the mention of the name. He hated it. It meant beloved or something of the sort and only Gerard called him that. Brandon was the name he chose for himself after he escaped and it was now locked in his heart for safe keeping.

He only had one other name: the name his parents had given him, the one Gerard already knew and hated: Mattia. “Call me Mattie.”

“Okay. I'm going to move you to the clinic. No one will hurt you there.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Brandon let out a breath.

“What?”

“M’tired.” Please, for the love of god, don't touch me.

Jake's face was already filled with pain but he melted even more into the saddest puppy eyes Brandon had ever seen.

“I know you're tired. We're going to let you rest but you can't stay in my uncle's room.”

That ball of lead reignited and Brandon remembered something about Jake from last night:  not only was he a part of this slavery but a member of the family that kept slavery thriving.

“I don't want him touching you at all.” Jake's voice raked against anger and sounded more like an animalistic growl. Maybe Jake wasn't a part of it after all. “I need to check your back because he said he . . . wh-wh-” Jake couldn't even say the word. 

Brandon softened at the innocence of this doctor. “Yes. He whipped me.”

Jake took a breath then swallowed, a million emotions flipping through his face. “Would it hurt you too bad if I carried you?”

It would hurt no matter what, Brandon instinctively knew. Maybe he was once a people pleaser and could make Jake's life easier by saying ‘Yes, of course you can carry me unless you'd like me to walk . . . I can handle any and all pain’ but Brandon had long ago healed the part of him that people pleased. Besides, he didn't have it in him to want to people please. “I don't know.”

Jake seemed to have come to the same conclusion—that there was no point in reading each other's minds. It was better to be straight forward and survive. “I'll carry you. You're in shock and exhausted. If it's too painful, let me know.”

Brandon warily watched as Jake knelt closer to his worn out, frayed body.

“I won't hurt you,” Jake reminded and Brandon had to force himself to relax. Jake's arms wound underneath him and pulled him against Jake's chest. Jake stood and the sensation of his only point of grounding being another person's arms which were attached to a brain that Brandon could not read, Brandon gritted his teeth and a whine escaped him.

“I've got you. I'm not going to hurt you. Is this okay?”

‘Okay’ meaning Brandon could be dropped at any moment? ‘Okay’ meaning his whole body was alight with red hot pain and this position made it worse? Yes.

“Try to relax. I'll get us to the clinic.”

Jake's behavior as they wound down hallways and descended four flights of stairs was curious. Anytime anyone walked past them, Jake stopped and turned his back, pushing Brandon into the wall. Jake seemed on edge.

Or he was trying to keep Brandon from pleading for help or seeing who everyone was. It worked for the most part and would have succeeded if a woman hadn't audibly gasped in the middle of an echoing hallway. Brandon couldn't blink fast enough to recognize her before Jake pulled him into the clinic.

The clinic was bright with LED lighting but it was warmer than any room or hallway in Gerard's mansion. Jake set him on a hospital grade bed and the explosive feeling of warm towels against his chilled skin sunk Brandon down into a dozy state.

“When was the last time you ate?”

Brandon had to open his eyes to check that it was still only Jake with him. Jake's voice had become lower, clinical.

“Uh . . . days ago.”

“I'm going to start an IV to get you fluids. I'll get you food in a minute after we patch you up.”

Brandon held his breath as the IV was attached to his arm. Even after a whipping, a needle pushing into his body was so much worse. 

The towels were readjusted lower to his waist and a cold stethoscope was pushed into his chest. Next was a blood pressure cuff and then his temperature.

“Considering everything, your vitals look okay. I need to clean your hands and patch up your back.” Even though Jake talked about other body parts, his eyes were glued to the brand.

Out of nowhere, a scream erupted from Brandon. His mind spun its wheels, trying to keep up and, when it did, it was his right palm lit up in agony. He rolled onto his side and curled around his hands, making noises he hadn't made in years as he exhaled then inhaled.

“I'm sorry,” Jake jumped. “Just saline right now. Just getting the . . . ” semen out is what Jake meant to say, Brandon knew. “Will you let me clean them?”

Brandon's eyes widened in shock. How was he to offer his hands back knowing the pain?

Jake turned his back and went to the counter, flipping through drawers and muttering damn it over and over. He came back with a bottle. “You'd think they would have thought to stock this damn place with painkillers. I only have Tylenol. I'm not even sure it would take the edge off.”

Brandon just lay shivering on the table, wishing his legs could meet his chest and, deep deep down wishing Jake didn't care to clean him up. Dealing with mistreatment everyday was enough to keep him compliant.

“Can I give you a few pills?”

What the hell, why not? He opened his mouth and immediately dry swallowed the pills. Jake's eyes widened and he still offered the water but Brandon shook his head.

“I don't know how to make this less painful.”

Brandon considered the statement. Jake seemed to be in as much pain as he was and he supposed he understood that. He was also a bleeding heart and bled with his clients. “I'm sorry.”

Jake's brow rose. “What are you sorry for?”

“That you're here. Gerard ruins happy things.”

Jake pulled over a chair and sat, eyes lost in some corner of the room. “Gerard took care of me growing up. It's not worth getting into, obviously—”

“Tell me.”

Jake's gaze met him then and Brandon nearly withered under his hard stare. “I've never told anyone.”

Brandon didn't say a word.

“My mother was a drug addict. She brought her friends over every night to . . . use me. Once Uncle Gerard found out, he brought me in. He kept me safe, loved me and even paid for my medical school. I only learned of the details of his job two days ago. And now I'm realizing why my mother was the way she was.”

“That's a lot.”

Jake snorted. “Not as much as what you are dealing with. Did you know my uncle before?”

Brandon grimaced. “Ten years ago I thought I was done with him for good. He bought me when I was thirteen and I managed to hide when I was twenty-three. I guess not good enough,” he concluded with a lifeless chuckle.

“I had no idea.” Jake was pale now. “When he took me in is when . . . he was abusing you. I'm so sorry Mattie.” 

Jake fell into silence so Brandon resorted to silence once more. It was neither of their fault so there was no point in following Jake to guilt. Jake seemed to notice and snapped out of it.

“How do you feel?”

“Fine. Tired.”

“And in pain, I'm sure.”

Yes, pain was above all else.

“Can I clean your hands?”

It was best to get it over with. Infection would only make the pain and memories worse. “Yes.”

“Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?”

Technically speaking, more of his needs were being met now. He was covered in towels, he had fluids draining into his veins, and he was not actively being hurt. “I'm okay.”

Jake picked up the saline with a pinched look. “I'm sorry.” 

This time, Brandon was ready. He clenched his jaw and kept his eyes on Jake's movements. He still whimpered and groaned but Jake was not hurting him more. He felt miserable for his poor hands. Torn flaps of skin moved under the saline and Brandon wanted to vomit.

“You okay?”

Brandon looked away.

“Queasy? Your hands look awful and it might be best to not watch.”

Brandon obeyed but Jake was done soon and standing. 

“Ready for your back? I promise you can sleep all day after that.”

 . . . 

Brandon fell unconscious the second enough soup was in his stomach to satisfy his instincts. When his eyes blinked open again a grim reaper sat next to him.

Black hood drawn over their face. Faceless. Angry.

He wasn't well enough to even move let alone defend himself. As he shrank down into the sheets, he whimpered.

Instead of violence, the grim reaper’s hand extended toward him.

He flinched.

They paused.

Warmth fell against his cheek and carded through his hair.

“I knew I'd find you here.”

Brandon's eyes wouldn't stay open but he furrowed his brow in any case.

“After a little searching, I mean.”

This was death, come to greet him. Not his dead parents. Not some celestial being or whatever. Just a hooded figure. At least it was someone.

Their hand sat near his face and Brandon couldn't talk himself out of brushing his face against it.

Their fingers uncurled and held his cheek.

It was the heat of their palm that welcomed him into darkness again.

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 3

TW: reference to branding, whipping, hand injury and gore, slavery

Brandon woke to someone else gasping. 

Maybe it was Erin, shocked he had had a panic attack. He hadn't had one in years.

A hardness was pressed against his side, evidence that someone was too close . . . much too close. His head burned with the brightest pain he had ever felt before, as if his head was split open and half splattered around the room. The sensation of a tight bandage was the only thing holding his tender brain together.

When had he been bandaged?

“Oh, it's just you.” A voice directly next to him was quiet and tired and Brandon wondered if they were talking to him until another voice sounded.

“Did you fix his head?”

Brandon recoiled at the sound of his owner's voice. His eyes unsealed and he forced his body to stay still as he took in the man that stood above him. The lights overhead aggravated his head and a whine hissed between his teeth, threatening to empty his stomach.

“No. I could only clean it. Your . . . Matrix guy wouldn't let me take him to the clinic.”

“You did a fine job. I'm sure you'll already be getting a raise.”

“A—” It was a knee pressed against his ribs and it suddenly disappeared. When the voice sounded again, it was higher above him. “The fuck are you talking about? This man needs medical attention I wasn't allowed to give him. And I get a raise for it?”

“Ah,” his owner sang, “my boy can handle much more than this. He's done it plenty of times.”

“Uncle . . . ”

Brandon's stomach filled with lead.

“I need to get him to the clinic. Are you going to stop me too?”

“Tomorrow morning, dear. I'll send him your way then. Now, go get some rest. I'll take care of him.”

Brandon peeled his eyes once more to find a man watching him, standing defeatedly next to his owner. He looked green and dizzy as his eyes trailed up Brandon's body. But there was no hunger in his eyes . . . rather a look of distrust as if he really did not want to leave Brandon.

“What is going on, Uncle?” the man said finally, voice barely audible and completely deflated.

“You'll know soon enough. Be on your way before I lose my patience.”

Maybe the man obeyed because he thought he was saving Brandon some heartache by leaving but Brandon knew better.

The door shut and all was quiet. 

“My precious little Mico.”

Brandon let out a long breath as Gerard squatted down and pulled the comforter off.

Cold hit his body and he quaked in a violent shudder.

“I appreciate your patience in waiting for me. I had something come up that couldn't be ignored.” Gerard's eyes softened and Brandon guesstimated Gerard was looking at the brand. “It suits you. I heard you covered the other one with a tattoo.”

Gerard knew? Brandon flinched in preparation.

“Oh, I'm not mad. I love a good hip tattoo. Besides, this brand is upgraded. Now, if you'll follow me, I sense we have some reorientation to go over.”

The thought of moving splintered his brain even more, straight down his spinal cord. It blinded him and he arched his back against the horrid pain, if pain was even the word. This was so much more than pain.

“Hurts that much?”

The only answer he gave was an involuntary whimper as he rolled to all fours. 

“Do you remember the airplane ride here?”

Brandon stilled. Airplane? Where the hell was he?

“You fought them nearly the entire time. Three hour flight. I'm sure you can handle standing and following me.”

Brandon was not sure. 

An airplane ride meant only one thing. Obviously it began with being kidnapped but it meant he was off-grid again. His chance of getting out this time would be next to none now that Gerard knew he had escaped once.

He stayed ducked down since Gerard usually forced him to his feet midway through trying. Gerard only stood and watched this time and Brandon could see the deepness in Gerard's eyes as he studied Brandon's every move.

“You've grown up some, haven't you?”

Brandon was fully on his feet now and swallowed as he faced his owner fully naked. His head felt like a bowling ball, threatening to tip him over. Based on the kink in his spine, he was pretty sure he was standing crookedly but he couldn't know for sure. Up and down felt the same at the moment.

“I just meant, you're a therapist now. Marriage and family, right?”

Brandon jerked his head, knowing no words were going to make it out of his throat unless he wanted to vomit all over Gerard.

“A little shy? That's okay. I've missed you too.” Gerard clapped him on the back, igniting another wave of unbearable pain, and pulled him out into the hallway.

There was something deep inside Gerard that Brandon sensed with his instincts. Gerard was livid and would not be holding back for much longer.

“I've ensured our rooms are close to each other. You are my favorite after all.”

Brandon stumbled into Gerard's room and immediately fell to his knees. At first, he couldn't understand why but then he remembered this is what Gerard liked. It was the only way he could think to placate to calm whatever anger charged Gerard.

“You remembered,” Gerard said warmly. “So, what's it like being a marriage therapist?”

Brandon looked up, exhaustion and fear pulling at his eyelids. Fake interest was all he saw on Gerard's face.

“Thankless? I thought so. You know, I've always felt for therapists. No one thanks them for their service. No one acknowledges they hold the world together. You're like invisible saviors that anyone is happy to fuck over and sue. As long as you keep your clients happy, right?”

Brandon looked down. He had his days of feeling those things but he was lucky to have a caseload of connective clients . . . or did have that.

“I'd love a taste of that. Therapize me.”

Brandon rolled his eyes inwardly. How many times had he been teased like this? Now worse, Gerard was playing some sort of game and Brandon was too shattered to figure it out. “That's not how it works,” he croaked, swallowing hard against the lump of bile waiting eagerly in his throat.

“Then lay your hands out. Here.”

It was an odd request but Brandon was sure this would be a punishment. Maybe Gerard was angry he had escaped before. Brandon crawled forward to reach where Gerard pointed at the desk.

“No. Palms up.”

The moment he obeyed, Gerard already had a cord whipping through the air. It struck the middle of his palms and stung so bad Brandon's brain couldn't process it. His mouth gaped open and he gasped. Pain in contrast against the epic pain in his head should have been dulled, Brandon was sure. But this ignited every nerve in his body and his fight or flight only made the nerves more sensitive and his limbs uncontrollably tremble.

“I've always loved your hands,” Gerard said. “The way your fingers move.”

Thwack.

This time, Brandon hissed, ducked down to process more pain that was too sharp for his senses to grasp.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Brandon whimpered, sweat already dripping into his eyes.

“Let's try this.”

Brandon couldn't stop himself in time to not look at it. He glanced up then let his head fall back down at the sight of a knotted cord, folded in two inside Gerard's grip.

Thwack.

Brandon screamed.

“There we go,” Gerard said proudly as if Brandon had won the spelling-bee.

His hands trembled in shock and he fought not to lower his hands which would only make things worse.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Brandon hadn't had enough time to draw in breath so his last scream died in his throat and his throat constricted like a swallow. “Nahgmmh,” he swallowed.

“Look at your hands, love.”

Brandon obeyed, squinting past the sharp pain behind his eyes. His palms looked just as bad as they felt. Delicate slices oozed red on top of angry red swelling. Deep black lines swelled from the inside where blood vessels had popped. The pain was so bad his brain was already warning him they were unusable.

“Can you believe that was only ten? I'm going to do ten more and we'll be done.”

Brandon dropped his head, grounding himself for more.

I can

Thwack.

“Aaahg!”

handle this

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

The pain was so bright, Brandon couldn't even think. He blinked up at the ceiling, wondering when his head fell backwards against his neck. He was gasping like a fish for air.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Thwack.

Brandon was screaming something awful, unable to breathe. He was looking down again, his back arching like a cat against the nausea.

Thwack.

Thwack.

“Fu-AAAgggfffah . . . ah . . . ah . . . ” He panted without any vision.

“We're done, Mico.”

One more. Only one more.

“We'll be done.”

Brandon's mouth wouldn't close. His arms stayed stiff as he lowered himself to a hip and then sat on the floor, holding his hands out like fragile china in front of him. 

Blood. Flaps of soft skin. Deep black swelling.

A sudden breeze of lightheadedness blew into him and Brandon fell to the side.

“Whoa, woah, too much?” Gerard asked. 

He cradled Brandon as if he were some rescuer and pushed him upward. Dizziness seized him again. 

“We only made it to nineteen. It looked like you were going to pass out.”

How kind of you to notice.

“Let's change the activity. I forgot you don't do well seeing your own injuries. We'll do something you can't see.”

And for the next hour Gerard played a game where Brandon had to therapize him, which, Brandon was learning, meant keeping Gerard happy or else Gerard would fuck him over, literally. Any moment of silence and Gerard flayed his back open with rawhide. 

Gerard stopped when they were both slick with Brandon's blood and Brandon could barely keep his head up.

“Make it to the bed baby then you can stop.”

Gerard was still angry and it was the farthest Gerard had gone in punishing him, ever.

With no way to use his hands and his back barely holding his weight, Brandon shuffled on his knees and elbows toward the bed. There was no way he could straighten enough to get up.

“You're fine where you are,” Gerard conceded. “I want you to stimulate me. With your hands. Then we'll be done today.”

Taglist: @morning-star-whump

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 2

TW: reference to kidnap, reference to branding, brain injury, panic, reference to past sexual abuse, reference to being drugged against will

Despite how heinous the job description was, Jake didn't mind the clean and crisp clinic in the basement already stock full of any supplies and equipment he would need and even not need. The bed, the stocked cabinets, everything was better than any clinic he had ever worked in during residency. At least he would have his own space.

“He's waiting for you.”

Jake stepped back from the counter and turned to glare at the man. Dressed in black, tall, and wearing sunglasses. 

What was this? The Matrix? “I'll see patients in my clinic just like everyone else.”

“Not this guy. He's special. He's your uncle's favorite and  . . .  we wouldn't want to disappoint, would we?” His voice had sunk to the dangerously low level like a knife in Jake's side. A threat.

Jake huffed, feeling more like one of his uncle's puppets than anything else. It was a new realization, as of yesterday when he stared at the birthday cake. Being a puppet was part of the job description. His uncle might have loved him and paid for his schooling but . . . for what end? 

He shook his head, fighting the thoughts. His uncle loved him and raised him. No one could hide behind pseudo-love for that long. He couldn’t have been a pawn this whole time. His uncle loved him.

He pushed himself roughly from the counter and grabbed a bag full of unpacked supplies only to follow Sunglasses out of the safety of his clinic.

His uncle's mansion was enormous. Five stories. With his clinic in the basement, Jake climbed four sets of stairs to get to a hallway identical to the rest. 

A scream pierced the hallway and Jake went rigid, his feet frozen in the exact spot he had stepped when the scream hit him.

Anguish. Pain more than Jake could even comprehend.

The scream ended when all the air left the lungs it came from and was replaced by ragged breaths. No pleading.

“Come.”

They stopped in front of the door that several were now exiting, one holding a rod still white with fiery heat and the other two wrestling an empty body bag into a smaller shape.

“Shit,” he spat under his breath. There had clearly been a kidnap. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Sunglasses pushed him with a hand against his shoulder blade but it felt more like a bulldozer knocking him into the room. He tripped on his anxious feet and fell against the bed. He threw a growl toward the door before it was slammed and locked behind him. 

Seriously? What had been the point to all of that? Locking him in? Or . . . 

The overwhelming scent of charred human flesh filled Jake's nostrils but he had no time to gag when the ragged breathing turned up a notch. Jake turned at the sound.

Or was it to keep this prisoner in?

Naked and tucked next to the bed sitting in fetal position, staring at him as if Jake were the next in line to find pleasure and suck his soul dry.

Jake flew up from the bed and backed away. He slammed into the wall and heaved in breath, staring in terror at the sight before him.

His uncle's captive barely flinched, rather closed his eyes in submission and relaxed the side of his head against the bed as if—

“Are you alright?”

The captive’s eyes opened slowly and still his pupils were slightly off even after he corrected his vision and tried again.

A TBI.

“Don't try to move. My name is Jake. I'm the doctor and have no intention of hurting you. I'm not . . . I'm not them.”

The captive dropped their gaze as Jake took a step forward.

“Is it alright if I come closer?”

He attempted to nod from the looks of it but whimpered instead and choked out a stream of bile with his eyes closed tightly.

Definitely a TBI.

“You have a brain injury. Don't try to move. I'm going to check your head for bumps.”

He knelt before the captive and placed a hand on his head, surprised when the man gritted his teeth and pushed himself against Jake's chest. Was this trust or desperation? 

Jake wrapped himself around the man and held him, biting his lip when the man began to cry, his back heaving with sobs.

“I'm so sorry,” Jake whispered. “I'm so sorry.”

The man was weak as it was and didn't last long with crying. He sunk further into Jake's embrace and breathed.

Jake used a hand to rake through the man's hair, half for comfort and half for checking for injuries. Unfortunately, there was one but, fortunately only one, just above the man's ear against his temporal lobe. The blood had freely run its course, filling the ear and running toward the opposite shoulder. He must have been stripped a while ago and laying down for a quite some time but now the blood was dried and flaky.

“You'll feel better after a little rest. You got whacked hard. Can I help you into the bed?”

The man stopped himself before his instincts could shake his head too quickly. Instead he opened his mouth. “No. Please no.” It was hardly a whisper but Jake understood why there was urgency behind that no. 

“Let me grab a pillow.”

He unwound around the man and retrieved a pillow. Eventually the man would be cold if he wasn't already but there were no blankets so Jake ripped the comforter off and let it fall to the floor beside them.

“Let's lay you down.”

It pained the man immensely to lie down, Jake could tell. An enormous brand blistered and bled against his right breast, directly over the nipple and, in a clinical way, Jake hoped that was the only bodily injury. Once the man's head touched the pillow he collapsed and quieted. Jake pulled the comforter over his form and rummaged through his bag, retrieving sanitizer and a bandage.

“I'm going to touch your wrist to feel your pulse,” he warned before reaching under the comforter and grasping the shaking limb. The pulse was obviously high but there were too many variables at play. “And now I'll work on your head wound.” 

It was swollen and could be worse than Jake could feel. But there was no way to know without his clinic. He cleansed the cut and wrapped the bandage around the man's head. All the while, the man was still and dozy.

Jake was lost. Did he leave now? What would happen to the captive next? Could he ensure a hot breakfast and shower? Or did wellness here simply mean staying alive?

Luckily, the man answered every question in three simple words.

The man's wrist, still pressed inside Jake's palm, jerked back, only to be replaced with trembling, cold fingers that wound around Jake's forearm. “Please, don't go.”

So Jake hunkered down and nodded. “I'm not going anywhere.”

 . . . 

Gerard had planned this day for years. Ten to be exact. His little Mico was good at hiding which had built up enough anger in Gerard to want to punish him. And punishment would come. But, apparently, not now.

After ten years and a stupid phone call comes out of no where.

From his long lost sister. Inviting herself over without waiting for him to agree.

Why the hell did she have to ruin everything?

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trudging down the last of the steps to the foyer.

“She's waiting in your study, sir,” his butler-like employee said.

It wouldn't be hard to throw her out. She'd be knocked up on some drugs soon and probably wouldn't even remember a thing. 

But he had always done everything for this bitch and old habits die harder when they are last minute.

The door opened for him and he stepped inside, grounding himself to see some druggie that pleaded for more money. He'd always willing give her the drugs, no money needed.

But there was no druggie in sight.

Just a woman who sat rigidly on a couch and watched him with a smirk.

Gerard's gut rolled uneasily but, even then, he still blinked his eyes to make sure it was actually her. It couldn’t be.

“There's my big brother,” she stated and stood.

She was toned now, Gerard noticed instantly. It has been years since he'd last seen her. And he hated every second of it. Just like Mico, she'd disappeared. He'd send drugs the best he could to her but they would always come back, returned.

“Where have you been?” he asked, keeping his voice free of any disdain toward this troublesome brat.

“Working, actually.”

“And you didn't think to keep in touch?”

Her voice widened in mock surprise and Gerard but back a snarl.

“Keeping in touch?” she gasped.  “Well, you're right that I didn't even think about it. You've meant about as much to me as . . . you know those loogies that people spit in the parking lot of Target? And you step in it and nothing will wipe it off but you're so grossed out that you throw your shoes away and try not to puke the whole way home? And then you get angry because you loved those shoes so you go back to Target and stalk the next bastard that spits a loogie and you put a dent in his car? Well, that's as close as I can get to how much you mean in my life. So . . . no, I didn't think to keep in touch. But you sure did!”

She paused at his face hardening, her smile only widening.

“All those drugs you kept trying to send me. I always thought you were doing me a favor. Until it hit me one day that I was gang raped. By you and Dad and Grandpa. You got me on drugs to use me and then you kept me on drugs to keep me out of the way.”

Gerard could only gawk. What had happened to his little sister? She wasn't threatened at all anymore. Gerard needed to punch someone.

“What can I help you with?” he said instead of all the insults lined up. Mico was waiting for him.

“Nothing. Just wanted to catch up,” she smiled. “I'll find my own way out.”

Her heels clicked like angry little bitches on her way out. Gerard should have followed her. But he had better things to do with his life.

Which was too bad because he didn't see his sister turn the wrong corner.

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer 1

TW: fear, kidnap

Jake got a cake every year for his birthday. 

Really, getting a cake is such a sweet gesture, especially when you just turned thirty-two. 

But as Jake stared at the dancing flames of each colorful, childish candle, Jake's gut recoiled. 

It should have been a happy time because yesterday he had finished his residency, finally, after almost a decade of medical school.

Nearly ten years ago, young and dumber than most kids his age, Jake was given a gift: medical school paid in full by his uncle. Being a doctor had been his only dream, and of cours,e Jake wouldn't pass up an offer like that. His uncle was his mother's brother, and his mother was an unmarried nut-head that barely knew up and down half the time. Jake would have been no one without his uncle. With the offer accepted and Jake already packing his bags to jump on an airplane to his new life, his uncle rapped on the door and stepped in.

“No gift comes without a promise, Jake,” his uncle had said.

“Of course!” Jake was quick to agree, eager to jump when his uncle said to jump because his uncle loved him and there was absolute trust between them!

“I will have a job waiting for you when your medical schooling is over. All I ask is that you take the job.”

It was too good to be true. Of course, Jake accepted, and he was off to medical school.

Ten years later, as he stared into those candles, Jake gritted his teeth. And the reason why the thirty-two candles shoved into his overly decorated and definitely too expensive cake made his gut recoil was because only hours before, Jake was given the job he promised to take. And Jake didn't know how to process it.

 . . . 

“I appreciate your flexibility meeting with me virtually today,” Brandon greeted. He hated virtual sessions, normally avoiding them like the plague. But he was still getting over the flu and couldn't afford to miss a week seeing clients.

“Anything for you, Brandon.”

Brandon laughed at that, his heart warming to the love. Erin was definitely top five of his favorite clients. It was a myth that therapists didn’t have favorites; they were human after all. 

Brandon's favorite clients swore a lot. They were survivors and healers and lovers. Erin had a wild story that Brandon had yet to uncover more. This was their fourth session, but Erin had taken well to IFS and was uncovering buried parts of her well. 

Brandon loved the work. The more the trauma, the better. The reward was worth it. 

“How are you?”

“This week has been shit,” Erin said bitterly. “The work we did last time brought up a lot of shit from my childhood.” She rolled her eyes. “Who decided things should get worse before they get better?”

“Right?” he agreed. “Someone has a fucked up mind somewhere in the universe to make it that way. Would it be alright if we dug deeper into what came up?”

“I knew you'd ask that, and I've seriously considered saying no.”

“But you knew I'd tell you I think you can handle it, huh?”

Erin chuckled. “I knew you would. And I need you to.”

“Then go there. I'll be here to catch you if you fall.”

Erin closed her eyes, and Brandon gave her space.

“Have I told you what I do for work yet?” Erin asked without opening her eyes.

“No.”

“Well, let's just say it's confidential, if you know what I mean.”

The first thing to pop in Brandon's mind was a secret agent. But Erin didn't seem to want to elaborate, so he didn't push her.

“It's my job that keeps bringing a lot of this up. This part feels big.”

“It can't hurt you if you're not scared of it. Remember what you've found with your other parts: they're young and hurt even if they look scary at first.”

Erin nodded, the gears working in her mind. “It's nine years old. It's scared of my brother.”

Brandon knew only a smudge about her brother. Older and cruel. And something about a terrifying job. “Okay. How do you feel toward it?”

“I want to help it.”

“Do you know what to do?”

“I—”

Considering that Brandon was at home, wrapped up in his own blanket, it scared the shit out of him when his bedroom door smacked open.

A man dressed in black, his face covered, cocked a gun and pointed it straight toward him. “Your owner's been looking for you.”

“Brandon, tell me what's going on.” Erin's voice was dangerous and quiet. “Brandon!”

“Fuck.” 

“What does he mean by owner?” Erin asked.

But Brandon was freezing up. This definitely had to be a dream . . . or worse: a panic attack in front of a client. He'd had nightmares of doing that.

The man stepped closer, jerking the gun up and down. “Close your computer and strip.”

Brandon's trembling fingers reached forward and closed the computer. But his body wasn't as responsive. All he could do was rock himself as the man came nearer. Fabric ripped and cold hit him, signaling he was naked. Then something slammed into his head, and he dropped into darkness.

[whumpyreader]

Wounded Healer

Brandon is a therapist. Stereotypically, he should have an ideal life and sit in an office with wounded people all day. But, like most therapists, Brandon is wounded and his past catches up with him in front of a client. Forced back into slavery, Brandon has no hopes of escape this time. Male whump, caretaker whump, epic female rescuer

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

[whumpyreader]

Part 13. Black Mist Again

TW: grief, Louie is delirious, thinks he will die

In the dream he had before he was to die, Louie dreamed of the cave. Of the glittering brook and the sweet apples whose juices ran down his chin. Of Aurora who smirked at him from across the brook and said, “You are stupid, Louie. You shouldn't have trusted me. Didn't you know I was using you all along?”

When a hand finally woke him, Louie was a husk–brittle and hollow. The hand brushed against his temple and Louie groaned, shooting upright for a moment before collapsing back to his chest. It was too painful to move since everything seemed to be connected to each other and any move awoke a battlefield of pain.

“Louie, open your eyes.”

He moaned, recognizing that voice. He wouldn't be raising his head for her but he let his eyes peel open. He blinked with weighted eyelids until the ground beneath him came to focus.

Black tendrils of mist. And a butterfly?

Aurora knelt down in his view so he would not have to look up at her. Her eyes ran over his body, strung up and tortured and he saw her brow almost twitch as if it hurt her deeply to see him like this.

“You're dreaming, Louie,” she said as if he hadn't noticed the black mist. "The rainbow might be too high for you to see, but it is there.¨

He was in so much pain though and usually dreams did not hold so much pain.

“Well, barely. You just managed to pass out. I've been waiting for them to let you sleep. I am not sure how you managed sleep in a position such as this.”

A puff of air left his lips.

“You laugh. Why?”

He stuck out his tongue to wet his lips but even his tongue was dry. He could not speak.

“I shouldn't have asked. Don't speak, Louie. Just listen.” She paused, her face suddenly breaking and she raised a fist to her mouth to hide her sob. “Louie,” her palm cupped his cheek and his eyes closed when warmth met him there. Her hand was soft against his frozen body. “I did not mean for this to happen. I dropped my guard because I trusted Rupert. It does not matter. It is my fault you are captured again. I will not let them hurt you more. I will fix this.”

Louie parted his eyes once more and took as deep a breath as he could manage. “How?” he huffed out.

“I–”

A foreign weight brushed against his temple again and Aurora disappeared. Louie shot up from his dream, moaning.

“A fever dream is all.”

Louie's head fell backward on his neck and he cracked his eyes open at the rope that kept him held up.

“He will not survive long.”

Louie couldn't breathe from that position. He fought to lower his head again and nearly choked from what he saw on his way to thuncking his chin against his chest. His stomach filled with lead but he was too weak to keep his head up to watch what would happen.

It seemed the other slaves noticed it too:  an awkward creature, just bigger than a bird, that crawled on eight arthritic legs. Its many eyes looked around as it scurried closer to Louie but no one moved a muscle except to make room for it. 

The giant spider was black and disheveled…it reminded Louie of someone.

Louie's eyes closed, his consciousness fading.

“Louie…”

“Mmmh,” Louie moaned.

“Sick or not, are you not glad to see a friend?”

Hands lifted his face. All he had to do was open his eyes. But he was dreaming again and he was too tired to be played with.

“None of you thought to get him down?”

A knife unsheathed and slashed through the rope holding his elbows to the rod. The rod slid from between him and strong arms held him against something warm as he was lowered to the ground.

He blinked his eyes open into Rupert's human face above him. “I’m…” he sucked in another breath, “dead.”

“No,” the púca winked. “And neither am I. I couldn't blow my cover in front of those horrid people. I followed. I promise I followed, Louie.”

Rupert turned to the familiar slave that had helped Louie only hours before.

“Did they intend to let him die tied to a rod?”

“They did not tell us anything. They brought him here in the night. I did what I could,” the slave said.

“Thank you,” Rupert said. “We should be able to leave soon. Just listen for a blood-curdling scream and that should be our cue.”

Despite himself, Louie's lips tugged at the corners.

“Funny?”

“Mmmh…y’ssss,” Louie slurred.

Rupert's warm hand patted his cheek, his fingers brushing through his hair.

Louie warmed to the attention. “Mmmmm’sss mmmmeeee?”

“Miss you?” Rupert tsked. He choked on whatever he was about to say and seemed to settle on, “We'll talk later. Just rest, Louie.”

So Louie settled down, wrapped in Rupert's arms and waited for a blood-curdling scream.

[whumpyreader]

Part 12. The Capture

TW: minor character death (?), terror, arrow wound, leg injuries, sad treatment of people, slavery, worried about death

Louie woke against the fuzzy body beneath him. His fingers were twisted in a death grip in Rupert's mane. He pushed himself up.

“Ah, you are awake,” the horse smiled. “You passed out before we could talk about the plan so I figured we would go the long route to give you time to recover.”

The long route must have meant walking like a normal horse instead of melting with time and randomly appearing out of nowhere. Louie didn't mind. He pulled at his hands, testing how tight the knots of mane were.

“What plan?” Louie yawned.

“Returning to Alas.”

“Where is Aurora?” His fingers were stuck for now in the mane and he wondered when he had twisted so much that the knots formed. He hoped he had not hurt Rupert.

“It seems she is busy at the moment for I have not seen her since the last you saw her.” The moment the words left Rupert's mouth, Rupert tensed, his ribcage beneath Louie constricting as if he had been shot by an arrow. “Louie, hold on.”

“Wh–”

Perhaps Rupert had tried to morph back into time because the scenery had only begun to melt around them when it bolted them back to the present and Rupert slammed into the ground, pinning Louie's leg beneath him.

“Run, Louie!” Rupert shrieked.

Voices were now heard and Louie turned into a cornered fox, ripping his hands free from the mane and digging at the snow beneath him to free himself.

“Hit him. Just don't kill him.”

Louie didn't understand what the voice yelled until an arrow sliced through the soft flesh of his shoulder and buried itself deep inside him. He cried out, falling back into the snow.

“We figured you had run away.”

Rupert's body hid the men approaching until one sank their boat on Rupert's flank and smiled down at Louie.

“A horse this ugly can only be one thing.” The man lowered and grasped something, jerking it hard. An arrow, dripping in blood filled Louie's view as Rupert screamed. “He'll bleed out before the night has come.”

“Get the slave up.”

At least five roughians surrounded them now. Two from behind gripped Louie's shoulders, eliciting a scream from the captive.

No no no. This could not be happening. Where was Aurora? Rupert couldn't die! 

The roughians pulled hard, ripping his leg out from under the horse's weight. Louie screamed when a muscle in his thigh stretched beyond its ability and his shoulder strained against the arrow. Blood, sticky and thick, oozed down his front.

“Stand up, slave.”

Louie was pulled to his feet. His right hip buckled but his left leg was too strained to keep him upright.

“Can you stand, slave?”

“He had better. Give him a moment.”

The arms clenching his shoulders released him and Louie fell to his hands and knees. He wasted no time in crawling to Rupert and falling over his neck and face.

“Don't die, Rupert. Please, don't die!”

But Rupert was already passed out, eyes closed and ignorant of Louie's plight.

Louie wailed. “No! Help him, please!”

“There's nothing that can be done,” a voice snapped. “Get him secure. It will be a long journey in this storm.”

A rod was rammed into his back, his elbows bent around it and his wrists tied in front. Louie grunted when his arms were stretched as far as they could around the rod. A piece of wood, too thick to be comfortable, was jammed into his mouth and tied around his head. Then they took his sight, wrapping a blindfold around his eyes. A chain was attached to his bound wrists and he was jerked to his feet.

His hip didn't buckle for once. But his left thigh already trembled in exhaustion. He would never make it.

He had no choice.

The chain jerked forward and Louie could do nothing but follow. He couldn't even look back to say goodbye to the dearest friend he had known who now lay dead because of him. 

Where was Aurora?

…

The night was freezing. Louie's joints were too stiff to raise properly and it's not like he could see to know where to put his feet.

He fell again and his captors grumbled, hoisting him up by the rod that secured his arms. It jostled his wounded shoulder and Louie let out a whimper.

“Stay on your feet, slave.”

At least the cold numbed most of his pain. While he would probably be too crippled to walk tomorrow, both his legs were too numb to feel. But the cold didn't numb how weak he already was. His hip might not be in pain but it could not keep him up half the time nor could it keep up with the speed of his captors.

The captors didn't seem to mind. In fact, they probably wanted him weak for when they shoved him to his knees in front of Alas. So, they went his speed, jerked him to his feet when needed, and kept pushing him forward.

Louie only knew it was day when the temperature didn't freeze him nearly to death. His world was still black as night but his joints were thawing and, with it, the pain.

A few hours of day and Louie was stumbling more, whining brokenly with every step. Something had pulled or torn through his left knee during the night and his hip was so weak he had to drag his right leg out to the side. He stumbled again, this time unable to keep himself upright. He nose-dived into the snow beneath him.

Nobody hoisted him to his feet. In fact, footsteps walked away. Louie collapsed fully onto his side and waited, his ears straining to catch any sound.

His legs twitched and ached, pulling him into the mess that was his body. His shoulder was inflamed and burning. His lower back and hips were cramped and temporarily paralyzed against the game of endurance he had somehow managed to live through. His left leg felt swollen from his hip down to his knee. Something was not right with that knee.

Louie was swimming in the pain, drowning under its depths, too exhausted to hear the footsteps that neared him. He only knew they were there when a person on either side hoisted the rod upward and Louie screamed. His feet could not hold him so he was dragged backwards until the snowstorm disappeared and the space they entered was stuffy and mucky. The rod was secured to something taller than he was and he screamed as his shoulders took the weight of his body. Chains wrapped around his ankles, then Louie was alone.

He hung there, heaving in air, wild with the pain. He was going to die.

A warm body was suddenly next to him and Louie flinched back, raising his head as if he could see anything from the blindfold. A sob escaped from between the wood in his mouth.

“I'm not here to hurt you.” 

He sobbed again, dropping his head to his chest. He hurt so badly. He missed Rupert.

“I'm a slave here. Do you recognize my voice?”

Louie could barely grasp onto words, let alone recognize voices. He kept his head low and tried to shake it.

“Okay. Can I touch you?”

Touching meant pain. Louie jerked his head back, the only way to flee. The plea behind the wood came out as a cry of fear.

“Alright. I won't. Can I take the gag out?”

Those words Louie did understand. He raised his head, desperate for the person to actually mean that. Fingers brushed against his hair from behind and Louie flailed again, choking on his cries.

“Sh, sh. Just untying the knot.”

The string fell to his cheeks but the gag did not come out.

“Open your jaw.”

Louie tried but the muscles in his jaw cramped and he winced. Fingers pushed into his jaw muscles, working out the tension.

“Take your time. Open your jaw when you're ready.”

After a few moments of the person massaging his jaw, it hurt less. When he opened it more, the gag fell out and a hand caught his chin before more pain could flare. 

“That's it,” the voice said as Louie stretched his jaw and worked it shut. “Can I undo the blindfold?”

Louie gave a jerk of his neck.

“I'm going to untie it,” the voice warned this time. Again, hands were in his hair and the blindfold fell from his eyes.

Louie squeezed his eyes shut. He had always hated getting a blindfold taken off. It was too intimate to see who stood in front of him and the look on their face. What if they were playing a game with him or wanted something of him? Louie swallowed.

“Take your time. That is all I can do anyway. I can leave to give you space.”

Louie's eyes shot open. “No,” he croaked. The person that stood in front of him was not at eye level. A naked chest met him in the face and Louie dared glance up until he saw the face of whoever helped him. The man was broad and tall and Louie would have shrunk back if it weren't for the look on the man's face. Tired, probably half asleep from being woken up by the commotion and helping Louie even though he could be sleeping.

Just the sheer size of the man reminded Louie of a slave he had known here. Maybe it was the same person.

In no apparent danger, Louie dropped his head, trying to relax what he could. The arrow still stuck out from his shoulder. His hips screamed at being stretched with gravity. Louie realized he was trembling with the pain, his breaths more like gasps.

“I'm sorry there is not more I can do.”

A cramp bit into his hip and clenched the muscles of his left leg and Louie choked on the pain. 

“What is it?”

Louie could not speak. He gritted his teeth, hiding most of his scream besides a few broken whines.

A palm pushed into his hip and Louie gasped as the hand squeezed then released, all the way down to his calf, massaging the cramp away. Louie hung from the rod, gasping in breath. It was a relief he was rescued by the cramp instead of having to endure it. “Thank you,” he groaned.

“Your knee is swollen.”

Louie nodded.

The hands pushed into his other leg, checking for damage around his knee and, thankfully, no higher.

“You won't be walking for a while.”

Again, Louie nodded.

The man sighed and Louie opened his eyes, staring back into the eyes of the stranger that looked up at him with such pain that Louie had to look away.

The tent was the same tent Louie had grown used to. The same smells and the same amount of slaves shoved inside. It was dark outside and most of the slaves lay sleeping. Some had sat up and were watching him.

The man stood again and held out a cup. “Water?”

“Please.” 

He raised the cup to Louie's lips and Louie swallowed what he could.

“More?”

“No. Thank you.”

“I would take the arrow out but I have no extra rags to stop the bleeding.”

Louie didn't want to endure more pain anyway. He was captured, alone, and coming down from the high of all the hope Aurora had fed him. He had truly believed he stood a chance. By morning, Alas would leave him in the storm to die and Louie would be back to square one.

The man laid back down and, one by one, the other slaves laid back down and fell back into sleep. Louie was left alone, trembling with the pain of his body hoisted upward and gravity pulling his wounded limbs downward. And left to mourn the loss of a friend, whose hair was still tangled in Louie's hands. The morning, even though it carried death with it, could not come sooner.

[whumpyreader]

Part 11. A Decision

TW: grief, facing past abuser, Louie doesn't want to be alone

Aurora said she would meet them at Alas’ clan. But Louie could not return just yet. Something near his sternum was buzzing wildly as if his heart were finally about to give up on life.

Rupert morphed back into a human and knelt next to him. “Louie, what is wrong?”

Louie couldn't answer because Louie couldn't breathe.

“Ah, give it a moment.”

Rupert was too calm while Louie heaved, grasping his neck as if it would do any good against the massive pressure growing in his chest.

Hands pushed him to lay on his back and Louie did not fight it. He lay back, staring at the storm above. The pressure faded some and Louie was left panting and blinking with eyes that were suddenly too sensitive for the white snow.

“Better?”

“What is happening to me?” Louie croaked.

The púca snorted. “I've said this many times before but magic is no gift. No human ever believes me.”

If this was magic at work…”I believe you.” 

Rupert was silent.

Louie risked drawing in a deep breath. It pulled at something as if there were stitches sewing up his insides. He groaned, raising a hand to rub where it ached between his pecs. It didn't hurt as he pushed down. Surprisingly, Louie was feeling much better.

Not physically, no. But something inside was loosening its grip on him and, as if it had stolen his concentration for the last decades, Louie could finally think past his hunger and wounds.

There was something he needed to do before he followed Aurora to Alas’ clan.

…

Rupert was not so sure about this but Louie didn't care. Aurora seemed all knowing so she would know they had gone the opposite way rather than following her to Alas’ clan.

He jumped off the horse and pushed himself up against the side of the tavern, a perfect view of the home across the street.

“You are sure he still lives here?” Rupert was human again and watching the house with his brow pulled down.

“I would be surprised if he wasn't. He had nothing before he met my mother. He took everything we owned.”

Louie set his jaw, ignoring the parts of him that urged him to flee. If facing the farmer had somehow brought him back to life, Louie wanted more. If his stepfather owed him anything, it was life.

“Is that him?”

The door of the house creaked open and Louie jerked back. Rupert's hand rested on his shoulder and squeezed.

A man peaked his head out then opened the door wider, stepping out of the way to let several women pass him.

He was old now, grayed and hunched but it was him. The man that stood over him decades ago and accused him of murdering the only person that ever loved him. Here he was, still living in Louie's home while his mother lay cold, beneath the snow somewhere.

“I wish I knew where he buried her.” The words came out in barely a whisper and Louie supposed it was only a thought. Louie did not think more about it because the man was now squinting directly at him. His gaze had him scrambling backwards, into Rupert but Rupert stepped out of the way and Louie could not stop himself.

As he raced for cover a thought popped into his mind that maybe he should try to speak to his stepfather again. But that felt so wrong and running felt so right. He stopped outside of the town, out of sight and crumbled to his knees.

“Time to go, Louie,” was all Rupert said as he stepped at Louie's side.

“I want my power back,” Louie muttered into his hands.

“You'll not be getting your power back from him.”

“But the farmer…”

“Some people are not worth it, Louie. That vile man can offer you nothing but more heartache. It is not the story your soul needs.”

“But if I…”

“If you forgave him, if you spoke to him, if you gave him a chance…none of that would change anything. He wouldn't accept you. He's not worth it, Louie. The best you can do with him is leave him to live his own life and go live your own.”

“I hate him for what he did.”

“As you should.”

“I wish he were dead.”

“By the looks of it, he will be soon. But not you, Louie. Against all odds, you survived.”

“It's unfair.”

At those words, Rupert knelt down and pulled Louie to his chest. It felt as if Rupert held him together as the realization cracked him in a million pieces. All of this had been unfair and…there was absolutely nothing Louie could do about it but live on. Why did living feel like a punishment?

He wrapped his arms around the púca and gripped his coat, willing the creature to keep him together until he could settle on some peace. But peace was not to be found and, when Louie finally pulled away, the púca had done a well enough job at keeping him from cracking apart.

“Look back, Louie.”

Louie glanced back at the town where it once had housed a mother and son, living their best lives.

“That is what unfairness looks like. Now look forward.”

Louie obeyed, eyeing the distance of only snow and wind.

“It's a bigger canvas and you have people on your side this time. I say we go redeem you so justice can be woven in your life.”

It was cheesy and Louie raised his brow at the púca who smiled sheepishly back.

“You won't leave me?” he asked, because surely being alone for twenty years was what haunted him the most. Even if Rupert looked worse than any nightmare Louie ever had, Rupert was kind.

“I won't leave you.”

[whumpyreader]

Chapter Three: Val's POV

TW: panic, hunger, cold, poor treatment

It was sometime in the night that a handler--no, he had been sold--his new master stomped on his foot and woke him up from a fitful sleep. The cold kept him shivering so badly that he had no window of calm to sink down into unconsciousness.

He shot upward, heaving in air and blinking up at her. Where the hell was she? His eyesight had not improved since the sickness but he would be able to make out a human standing above him. Enough light from the moon fell in from the cracks.

Something brushed his side and at the same moment he thought Shit, she's sitting next to me, he jerked himself away from her to give himself time before she had him strung up and bleeding.

His shot nerves slowed down when he came face to face with a sheep. Her eyes didn't quite look him in the eye, but then again, she wasn't really looking at anything as she chewed her hay and lowered herself next to him.

Her wool was thick and warm and the sheep jerked her head up at him as if to say “Use it, you naked little creature.”

So he laid himself back down, gritting his jaw against a scream at his ribs scraping each other. Only now did he realize how painful it had been to sit up.

He inched himself closer to the sheep, pausing when her jaw stopped working around the hay. She waited for him to snuggle next to her then her chewing resumed.

Gods, it was heaven. Not only was it like a warm blanket but the sheep produced enough heat for him. He nuzzled his face into her coat, feeling her lungs working and hearing her teeth grind together. Another living soul. 

“Thank you,” he whispered to her. Because now he had a fighting chance to live through the night without freezing to death. And it was as if the sheep was making a conscious choice to keep him alive, which is more than what his new master had done. Maybe she fed him and covered his wounds but even he knew it wasn't enough to stay alive.

He fell asleep, deep and long, against the sheep Nature had sent him.

When he woke, the sun had warmed up the barn some and the sheep still sat next to him, although farther away. Sometime during the night, he had stretched out his body due to how hot the sheep had gotten. He stretched out all the more,feeling more refreshed than he could remember.

That is, until his mind snapped to full consciousness. It was at least midday! His master might need him or was already planning his death due to his uselessness.

He raised himself up, surprised at his weakness. The chain still kept him captive in the barn and there was no way he could kneel being as weak as he was to wait for her. The best he could do was sit against the wall. And he did…as long as he could. Until his weakness pulled him back under and a touch to his shoulder pulled him back up 

“Sh, sh. Just me.”

It was his new master, finally come for him. He did not know what she expected of him and she had already seen how useless he was when she saw his naked body. She even already planned to rid herself of him. “I’m--” but his voice broke and the word didn't even leave his lips, “sorry. I tried waiting for you.”

“I am glad you slept. Feeling better?”

Probably not well enough to please her but he nodded anyway. It was at that moment of him not fucking up too badly and at least making something of an impression when his hunger ruined it all. His stomach grumbled, pleading for food as if some saint were kneeling before him, not his new master. Oh gods. He squeezed his stomach as hard as he could, fighting off another wave of patheticness.

“Hungry?”

If he had enough blood in his body he would have blushed. But immediately he sensed her softness. She was not angry or offended. Either way, he would not be the one to anger her by asking to be fed. “I'm sorry. I'm fine.”

“I'll make an early dinner.”

Early? That meant it wasn't time to eat yet. That meant she would have to put in effort for him. And all that meant was she would be very angry with him for putting her through all the work. But rather than angry, something of a smile brushed her lips.

“Yes, you slept nearly all day. I want you to rest as much as you can. Starting next week, I expect you to be of use.”

She went a step farther by undoing the chain around his ankle. He was confused, yes, but more than that, he was terrified. If this was her trusting him he couldn't mess this up. But how would he know if he was messing up if he didn't know the person kneeling before him?

“Use the outhouse while I make supper. Come back here when you're done.”

She gave him no time to question her generosity. She took his hand and pulled. He nearly screamed but kept it in when his ribs jostled along his innards. It was such a shock to stand again that he nearly fell, catching himself only when he was doubled over.

He raised his head, blinking. She held out a shepherd's staff as if it were to help him walk better. Surely--

“Use this.”

Her sudden change in attitude toward him was enough to make him wary. Maybe she had an agenda. But, it was a command, so he unstuck his stuff fingers and forced his back to straighten. It hurt so bad but she seemed to believe his act. Still, it was better than being jerked around by an angry handler.

“Thank you,” he said.

She left him there and he was quick to obey her order to the outhouse and made it back to the barn before her.

When she returned, she came with a plate just as full as last time. He turned into a ravenous animal once again.

…

She left him unchained after that as if she knew his body were chain enough. She brought him food twice a day, and left him to sleep as long as he could. 

One afternoon, it dawned on him that she had told him he would be working soon. He had no sense of time after so long of being at another person's will but it couldn't be long now.

He sat up against the wall, his stomach squeezing tightly. He had more strength but his vision still swam every time he went to the outhouse and he was still colder than seemed normal, taking into consideration him being half naked.

He was still too drowsy apparently for his new master came to him then and he did not hear her until she stood in front of him.

Immediately, his body froze. Her sheep lay next to him and he had been subconsciously scratching her ears as a thanks for keeping him alive. No master would want their animals tainted by filthy hands. She was going to whip him.

“I'm sorry,” was all he could think to say, but even then it barely left his tongue.

“I expect you to be ready to work tomorrow morning.” Her voice was tired and low.

His fingers tingled in anxiety. He had done something wrong. “Yes, of course. I’ll be ready.”

“It’s getting colder. I have a shirt and coat for you but…”

The but was enough to have him tensing in preparation as she looked at the rope around his wrists. But meant he wouldn't be getting a shirt. Which was fine but…her eyes were strangely angry. 

He glanced down at his wrists. Maybe the rope looked too weak and she would put on chains that dug into his bones. “I won’t–”

“How tight is that rope?” She dropped to his front and Val nearly went wild with fear.

Shit. What punishment would he be given? Then bleeding and dying, would he be forced to work for her? It's how all masters thought. Find a problem to make into a punishment then force painful labor. He wanted to flee from her, not ready to start this pattern again. Maybe he could convince her he was not a problem. “I’m not going to hurt you. I swear I won’t get out of the ropes. They are tight enough.”

“Oh.” She jumped back as if he had kicked her. “I only meant…your hands are swelling. The rope is too tight.”

He opened his eyes and checked that her face really meant what her mouth just said. Her brow was creased in worry, but not too much worry. And a tinge of guilt covered the sparkle in her eyes.

“Let me free you but if you do anything I’ll punish you for it.” Her voice was again harsh and stern and Val's gut filled again with dread. There it was…the punishment he knew was coming.

“I swear I won’t do anything.”

After however long he had been here. After two weeks at the auction. After two days tied to a wagon, her simple flick of a wrist released him from the rope. He stared numbly at the hands that laid in his lap. His wrists burned but anything beneath that was swollen and dimly uncomfortable. He might never be able to move them again.

“Try to move your hands.”

He had not noticed until now how cut up his fingers were. The skin on his knuckles pulled sharply as he bent his fingers, in some patches were holes where the other slaves’ fingernails had ripped his skin away.

“Let me.”

He barely knew her besides her poor attempt at covering his wounds. She still had not noticed his feet bleeding through her woolen socks. His hands were personal. They had worked so long for other people and never had they received a reward. Their condition was proof of the life he had lived. And now she demanded that she hold them in her own hands without a promise to not break his fingers knuckle by knuckle or strike them with a cane. But he had to obey.

She glanced up at him once she held his hands then massaged each one. Warmth began to flow again, nerve endings came alive once more. Never had his hands been touched so gently before. Never had they been cared for. For once, he wondered if he was completely safe. Maybe he wasn't but his instincts sensed no danger and allowed the exhaustion to take him over. Until his hands dropped back into his lap.

He shot up, noting the look on her face. Pity. “Sorry.”

“Here’s the shirt and, in this box is a fur coat. It’s yours to use.”

Not just a shirt but something to keep him warm besides a charitable sheep? “Thank you.”

“Lie down and rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”

[whumpyreader]

Prologue: The Stables

TW: this is Val's time before May, slavery, sick and starving, freezing, mistreatment, caretakers that give bare minimum, thoughts about not wanting death, sad depictions of treatment, whipping

...

The time between the moment of being told the master was dead and the moment that Val woke was gone from his memory. 

To the east of the mountains, though rich and lavish, was crowded and known for uncontrollable diseases. Val had come down ill before the master had. He was quarantined – a fancy term for thrown into a shed and left to make it out alive on his own. The only thing that mattered during a sickness like this one, more than keeping slaves and property healthy, was keeping the master safe from the sickness. Without the master, none of them mattered.

Val was conscious when his water ran out. He was even conscious when his fever broke and a figure opened his shed to tell him the master did not survive. But Val had not been fed and his throat was now parched so consciousness did not last long. Shadows haunted him in the dark. Noises creeped up on him and startled him in his daze. When consciousness faded, Val assumed it was better that way. He was not conscious when he was pulled from the shed.

But losing consciousness was not a gift. Val woke in chains, his arms pulled to the sides and tightened so he could not move against the surface he laid on. Roughians stood over him, pulling a tube from his throat that made him choke and sputter.

“Breathe, slave. Whether you are grateful or not, you are alive. We made sure of that.”

Another person patted his cheeks. “Stay awake, slave. We’ve only barely managed to get you enough water. You’re gonna have to eat now.”

He turned away from the hands, groaning. His ears rang, his eyes seeing nothing but blurred colors swirling above him. “Wha…wha…” His mouth was too numb to form words.

“You’re in the west now at the auction. We’ve only two days to get you ready.”

“Hold him while I feed him.”

Val squeezed his eyes shut as a hand raised his head from behind. The dizziness morphed into nausea.

“Damn it. Just breathe, slave.”

So Val obeyed, breathing through his clenched jaw until the vertigo left him.

“You only need food, slave. Just open yer mouth.”

Broth spilled into his mouth, hotter than fire. He thrashed to get away but hands held him still and more broth was dumped into his mouth. They held his jaw closed until he was forced to swallow, leaving his tongue rough like sandpaper.

“Rest, now. You have two days until the auction.”

And Val did. He was left alone for the most part, freezing on the hard wood beneath him, naked and shivering in his urine. Hands lifted him every few hours to feed him more broth and water. When the two days were over, the chains were taken off his wrists and he was pushed to his feet.

“He doesn't have enough strength.”

“He has to. He's gone through hell. He can make it through more.”

Val’s knees and back bent under his weight but he kept himself upright enough to not be beaten into compliance. A bucket of water sloshed in his peripheral and he should have known what it was to be used for but he was not prepared. The water, freezing and sharp, hit him like a thousand arrows. 

“Aah,” he whimpered, burying his face in his hands. Another bucket of water was thrown against his back, then one more against his groin.

“He might not smell better but he looks better.”

“You've got someone interested in you.”

A rough piece of bread rammed into Val's palms.

“Eat or you won't survive out there.”

They all watched him with smirks as Val shoved the bite into his mouth and chewed. His tongue was rough against the bread but the roof of his mouth, soft and exposed, stood no chance against it. Blood mixed with the bread and he swallowed.

“Clothes.”

Weakness filled Val's arms like lead and there was nothing he could do about the clothes being tossed at him. They fell to the ground. 

One person huffed and ducked down, retrieving them. “Go make yourself useful elsewhere. I'll deal with the slave.”

“Works for me.”

Val shivered uncontrollably now but the human stood so close to him he could almost feel their warmth.

“Sit.”

Val sat with a sigh.

“What were you sick with?”

No one had bothered telling him what the disease was called. But it was worse than any he had ever had. “I don't know, sir.”

“We don't have enough time to get you strong.” A pause then, “You know what that means, right?”

Val knew what it meant.

“It means you might not have a chance.”

He didn't know what having a chance meant but he knew when death was near. Death was near but not because he had been beaten too far or been starved. This time, death was near because he had no choice whether he could live or die. Death had already started in his chest, somewhere he couldn't pinpoint, but he felt it. Cold and clinging to him like sap dripping down wounded and ragged bark.

“I'll do what I can, slave. Survive the stables. In less than a week a man will be here to see you. He owes a lot of money so…it might not be a happy ride for you but…at least you'll be alive.”

“The s-s-stables?”

“You can barely speak. I suggest saving as much strength as you can. Yes, the stables. Where you will be kept. Your master is dead and you must be sold.”

He was only a boy when he was sold the first time. Maybe he had been here before. Decades stood between him and that boy so Val dropped it. There was no point in remembering the past–either it wouldn't be there when he reached for it or he wouldn't want it after all.

The man finished pulling Val's clothes over his frame. It was nothing but a loincloth and vest.

“Others’ll try and steal that vest. I only gave it to you because you won't stop shivering. It's the best I can do.”

“Tha-thank you.”

The man grimaced so Val clamped his jaw shut. “You've got someone interested today. They're waiting for you now.”

Val was pulled to his feet and pushed to the door. His back stayed bent as if a weight was strapped to him. Try as he might, he could not get his body to straighten. Even his knees stayed bent, threatening to buckle with every step. 

The door opened and a burst of cold tickled Val's nearly naked body. It had not been this cold in the east.

He was led into what looked like horse stables. Hay lay scattered as a covering over dirt. Humans–slaves were strung up, back to back, creating rows with their bodies where masters could walk down as if it were some fair.

A leaky roof and slabs of wood holding up the walls created no protection against Nature, which Val really did not mind. He had not touched Nature in decades–not truly. She had blown the wind through his hair plenty of times, to arouse him or remind him. But it was unfair of Her so he ignored Her. There would be no ignoring possible here and Val found himself not caring a bit that he too would be freezing and gasping in a row of slaves. 

But first, the man led him past the rows of slaves. Cubicles had been erected, just big enough for two people to interact. Val froze.

“I know,” the man soothed. “Only ten minutes. I'll be waiting outside.”

His arm was dragged forward and the man guided him into the cubicle. It was private. Three walls kept whatever was to be done in here hidden. Chains and other equipment filled the walls.

“Why is he not chained?”

It was a lazy voice, low and drawled. Whoever it was had Val spinning on his heel in fright to see who it was. His handler stood in between him and the man who sat in a chair in a corner with his legs crossed and a cigar in his mouth.

“He came from the infirmary,” his handler stated. “Yer early so you can keep a lid on it until I tell you.”

The handler coaxed Val's arms down from his chest where he had been trying to keep himself warmer. Chains encircled his wrists and then his handler stepped one step closer.

“Survive.”

Val barely heard him but his handler already turned and, Val assumed, stood outside the door.

The man with his legs crossed now stood. Val swallowed. “Hmm. Weaker than I thought.” 

The handle of whatever he held in his grip–a whip maybe?–jabbed into Val's ribs. He was already tipsy and one foot fell back to catch himself. 

“Mind if I?” But the man smirked as if asking had only been a joke. He tucked the whip under his arm and peeled away the edges of Val's vest. “Hmm,” he hummed again. “You were healthy not long ago.” 

His eyes trailed lower before he raised them to Val's face. A wave of surprise, subtle and barely noticeable, fluttered in the man's eyes when Val was already looking at him. 

“Look down, slave.”

Val hesitated. A master had never told him to look away. The only safety his life afforded him was watching the master’s facial muscles. It ensured he was always one step ahead of them.

“I said look down.” The whip turned out to be a rod which now slammed into Val's side. He gasped, losing his footing, and fell to the dirt beneath. 

Val held himself up on his trembling arms and stared at the ground. He panted, jaw open in shock. The rod had hurt, yes, but Val's shock came from something else. A realization that it was this man that stood above him that could choose life or death for him. One kick too far, even a whipping could be enough to shock his body to death. And while life did not hold much for him, Val had never once considered death until he came down with the sickness. Death was a new idea and it scared him to his bones. For now, Val chose life. The only problem was the man above might not know how close to death Val already was.

“...me?”

Val flinched when noise entered his world. When had it faded? Knees knelt in front of him and a hand gripped his hair to angle his head upward. But the hand didn't hurt or pull.

Val kept his eyes closed. He would not be testing the waters to see how far this master would go if Val disobeyed just once.

“He's gone. You were sicker than he had thought.”

This voice was not from the man with the rod. Val opened his eyes to find the handler kneeling before him.

“It's nearly dark. I can't promise much but, at least for the night, I can give you a warm place to sleep. You'll die if you are too exposed to the cold.”

He staggered to his feet as the handler pulled on the chain between his wrists. The handler paused, pulling back Val's vest. A hand fell over the tender spot on Val's ribs and, although the heat comforted him, Val jerked away from the intimacy.

“That was a hard hit,” was all the handler said before he guided Val back to the infirmary. He was given a cot and blankets and an apology that tomorrow might not be the same as today then Val, dying and cold, slipped into the darkness.

He woke to the blankets being torn from his shivering body. Even in his sleep he was conscious that the cot and blankets did nothing to warm him. So the blankets being torn off was less of a shock than it could have been. It was really the fingers that scratched against his shoulder as they pulled the blanket from him that woke him.

“On yer feet.”

Val pushed his body off the cot, catching himself on hands and knees. It was a new handler today. The new handler gripped his chain and pulled him upright. Val flew to his feet, catching himself in time to stay on his feet but not before he tumbled into the handler. 

The handler did nothing to move away but rather watched Val catch his breath, his forehead against the handler's shoulder, his chained hands grasping the handler's shirt. So Val risked staying there until black cleared from his vision. His vision swam but at least he could see now so he pushed himself away from the handler. The handler’s shoulder came closer then farther then closer and Val knew it was him that swayed. He closed his eyes to force himself to steady when hands wound around his back, pushing him once more to the handler's shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

The blackness coated his vision again and Val couldn't see a thing when he squinted his eyes open. A sweat broke out on his face when it felt like all the blood drained from his head. He was going to pass out maybe. But then his breathing sped up because he was momentarily blind and could do nothing to stop this. He raised his hands to his face, the best he could do to protect himself in case the handler lost patience. The more he sucked in breath, the more he slipped into blackness.

A cold, colder than he felt, slid down his neck like spiders crawling over his skin.

He gasped, coming to life. His neck shot up and his arms shot out, hitting a body close to him. When he opened his eyes, his vision was weak but there. His body was on the ground, his back against the wall. It felt like all the blood in his body had been drained from him so, when his adrenaline was convinced he was in no immediate danger, he collapsed against the wall and panted.

The handler raised a brow. He was not the same handler as the day before but he seemed gentle enough. The ball of snow he held in his hand was halfway gone, having melted down Val's neck.

“Open your mouth wider.”

Val let his jaw fall open more. Coldness was placed on his tongue and he closed his mouth like an instinct to suck up the snow as it melted into water.

The handler gave him the last of the snow and waited until Val swallowed it before he spoke. “The only reason you are being treated with mercy is because we can't let you die.”

The words were simply stated. It wasn't personal and Val very much appreciated the treatment though he resented it meant he was fragile right now. Val gave him a nod.

“Unfortunately I can't sneak you any food. You'll have to eat with the others.”

He did not expect any favors. The mercy he had been shown so far was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

“How do you feel?”

He knew his vision would swim until food touched his stomach. He would probably not be on his feet for long if the handler stood him up. He felt it in his gut.

“Do I need to carry you?”

Val returned the handler's gaze. The handler's eyes darted around his face, reading him like he were some constellation.

“Give me your hands.”

Val obeyed, offering up his bound hands. The handler slipped them around his neck, a profound sign of trust that Val was too weak to do anything to him. He gripped around Val's back and stood, bringing Val with him. And just like Val had instinctively known, his vision turned black and the blood drained again and he sputtered against the handler's side.

It seemed the handler had intended for him to walk because the handler swore and Val was swept up from under his knees and carried to a place buzzing with breathes and groans.

He was set down and his instincts had him doubling over, placing his head as low as it could go, giving his heart an easier time to fill it with blood. Slowly, his vision returned and Val gasped. He sat in a corral filled with slaves, standing around him. But none were interested in him. They all stared at the baskets being carried toward the corral.

The baskets were dumped over the fence and everyone flew to life. Val could only watch as everyone fought to grab a piece of food. He had no strength to reach out and claim his own breakfast. Knees, in their rush to food, jammed into his back, feet stomped on his hands and legs. Val was in the way and if he didn't move he would be trampled to death. He covered himself the best he could, waiting out the stampede then pulled himself to the side, away from the food. Feet still stepped on his own but now his back pressed against the fence and he was no longer in danger of being trampled.

Until a massive loaf of bread fell in his lap, putting a target on him. He thought he could maybe pull off a chunk and throw the rest out to save his life but all eyes were on him before he could even process that the handler had thrown it to him and commanded him to eat. A double bind. Eat it and get trampled. Or give it away and disobey a handler. Val gulped.

He pulled at the bread as the crowd fell on him, attempting to take only a little. It was the only compromise he could think of to get him out of the double bind. But hands were stcratching at his, shredding the top of his hands, catching against the skin of his knuckles and ripping. His clothes tore and Val thought it was ridiculous until he looked into their faces. Desperate. More than he was. They finally succeeded in ripping the loaf away from the piece he managed to keep. Half the group fell off of him. The rest that stayed dove for his tiny piece and Val ducked down to protect himself. It was the wrong move. He exposed his side just as a person dove into him. Something cracked and he collapsed on his side, throwing the bread away to signal defeat. Whoever cracked his side used him to stand and pushed into his ribs. He screamed as the ribs gave one last crack. 

Val kept his head on the ground. There was no point in sitting up now. His vision was swimming again and his ribs lit his body in a fire that hurt him more than he remembered pain being. His only goal was keeping his ribs from being touched, which was impossible in a corral of starving human beings. Twice, feet kicked him in the face. But no one fell on him and that's all Val cared about as he watched his fellow humans shove food into their mouths before fighting for more.

Slowly, the slaves were herded out once the food was gone. Val was surprised he was not the only one lying in the mud, injured. A handler entered, screaming, nudging each slave in the face. Val screamed as the whip landed on him, splitting his skin and spilling the blood he so desperately needed. The whip landed again, knocking Val into shock. Two more boots entered his frozen world, and the whipping handler walked away.

“You have someone interested in you this morning.”

Was he serious? But when Val opened his eyes it was yet another handler, one he had never seen before. 

The handler gripped the chain between Val's wrists and pulled and Val turned into a wounded animal.

“Nonononononono!” 

“You have no choice in the matter.”

Not that, he wanted to say. “My ribs…please!”

The handler stopped pulling and allowed Val's shoulder to lay on the ground again. His eyes flitted down to Val's side and he pulled the vest back. “You'll have to survive,” was all he offered so Val parted his lips again.

“I-I can't w-walk.”

The handler's brow tightened. “Your legs are fine.”

“Nhg.” He had meant to say no but his muscles had been shivering for days now, his sickness had taken all he had, and he was starving. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed. “I n-need food, please. I'll pass out.” And when he opened his eyes the handler studied him as if waiting for the act to end so Val added, “To su-survive. I just need f-food.” The stern look in the handler's face was another reminder that choosing life was not Val’s choice. If the handler said no, Val would be dead soon.

Instead of words, the handler simply dropped the chain and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a long metal stake and Val sank back. Maybe the handler knew Val was better off dead. Just like those wounded horses that got no mercy on the farm. The handler pushed the stake between the links of chain between Val's wrists. He stood and pressed it into the dirt beneath them.

“I'll be back,” the handler said, standing and disappeared from view.

Val didn't even bother testing the strength of the stake holding his arms out and his wrists pressed into the dirt. He let his head fall into the dirt and closed his eyes. Maybe the handler would leave him here all day and he could sleep. Or maybe–

A hand cupped the back of his neck.

Val jerked, shooting his eyes open. The handler knelt before him now, with a bowl of some sort, steaming in the cold air.

The handler regarded him and his flinch with a pensive expression then yanked the stake out of the ground.

“Sit.”

The handler did not seem in a rush so Val did what he needed to feel as little pain as possible. It was easier to raise himself on all fours so he rolled to his stomach and pushed himself up. He crawled a foot to the fence and lowered himself against it, exhaling as his back relaxed but not too much in case his ribs slid against his insides. The bruises on his face from being kicked swelled and ached at his change in position.

“Can you hold it on your own?”

Val took the bowl from the handler and raised his knees. He rested the bowl there and tilted it to drink. It was broth again but this time with rice and vegetables–sustenance he desperately needed.

He drank slowly, chewing when needed, grateful the handler made no move to rush him. He could not eat fast, he knew that. Surely he was testing the handler's patience at how slow he was to take a gulp, raise his head, chew, then swallow until the bowl was empty.

The handler surprised him even more by shifting from kneeling to sitting, still a safe distance away.

“I'm done,” Val informed just in case it saved him heartbreak in the near future.

“Just rest. You need a moment for the food to work.”

Val lowered his legs. He kept the bowl in his lap, sapping up the last of its warmth, and relaxed his arms. “Thank you,” Val whispered, his eyes already drooped shut.

Either Val didn't hear or the handler didn't answer.

Nature blew around him, keeping him alert enough to not nod off but relaxed enough to wander through his mind. It was warm in his mind, empty and dark. It grasped his memories of days on the farm when the sun had warmed him and stayed with him while he worked. When birds had sung for him and the creek did not care if he put his filthy, bleeding feet in for a rest. Nature had always been there. He missed Her terribly but even behind these soggy, rotten walls, She still blew Her breeze to remind him he was alive.

“Time to go.”

The handler's voice was miles away. When Val blinked his eyes open, the cold bit his skin again and a heaviness weighed down his eyelids as if he had just woken from sleep. Maybe he had. There was no way to tell how much time had passed so Val internally thanked the mercy of the handler and rolled to his knees. He should have stayed closer to the fence to pull himself up because his side hurt so bad he knew he couldn't get to his feet without pain erupting. 

A hand appeared in front of his face. He glanced up at the handler, surprised when the handler nodded. He gripped the hand and rose to his feet without pain in his side.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

The handler didn't respond, merely observing how well Val stayed on his feet. Blackness did not come, his vision did not swim. The blood stayed in his head. He was still weak and if he wasn't fed in another few hours, he would be back at square one. But for now, Val felt well enough to follow the handler to another cubicle where another master waited for him.

“I see why he comes with a lower cost,” was the first thing the master said, gripping Val by the chin and turning his face each way.

Maybe it was the master’s voice. Or his eyes. Or maybe Val was gifted at sensing roughness. Either way, Val’s spine tingled at the violence that radiating from the master’s person.

The handler only hummed and stepped outside.

The master attached Val's chain to the chain that hung from the beam above. He pulled, raising Val's arms above his head. He didn't stop when Val keened and continued until Val stood in his tiptoes, panting and whimpering.

The master returned to stand in front of him with a confused look. His eyes trailed down Val's front until they landed at his side. When the master's hand raised closer to Val's side, Val shot back and the master smirked.

“Broken ribs?”

How could Val confess? He knew too well how much fun a free person could have with a slave's broken ribs.

“You're sick but you can heal. I heard someone has already paid for you. But if I offer more you could be mine today.”

Val had no way to determine which would be more ideal and had no time to finish the thought when the master moved to stand behind him. 

The vest had been ripped at his front but when a hand brushed against his own skin, Val realized the vest was ripped in the back as well.

“You haven't been whipped much and even your scars tell me it wasn't a serious punishment. Can you handle rawhide?”

Val didn't know the difference between whips.

“My partner is…heavy handed when it comes to whips.” The master came back to Val's front with a whip in hand. “This is rawhide. This thing,” he said, pointing to the tip, “is the popper.” He smiled. “It'll pop out your muscle if I hit you hard enough.”

Val swallowed. He would never be able to do this to another person.

“The rest will cut. Rawhide is special like that. What to try?”

Val tried not to respond but his spine straightened in panic and he held his breath.

“Just a few. To see if you can handle it.”

The master grabbed Val by his vest and swung him around to face the wall. There was less space on this side so it made sense the master moved him. Val wrenched his eyes shut. He had only felt the whip a handful of times, including today. But that whip had only rubbed his skin off like a burn from being dragged in the dirt. It hurt but it didn't break him apart. If this master was right about rawhide, Val was not prepared for the pain that would come.

And he wasn't. He was already a shaking, weak mess. His muscles burned from shivering for so long and he was barely strong enough to walk a few steps. When the whip landed on him, it seemed to suck the rest of his strength into its long body before it pulled away, ripping skin away with it.

Val was screaming, his face upward and eyes lost in the beams ahead. His brain jumped between feeling the burn and processing it to abandoning him because it was too much to bear in the weak state he was already in. Another lash landed, dragging him back to awareness of the pain and Val couldn't scream this time. He choked, gasping against the scream stuck in his trachea. He couldn't control his face, wide eyes and mouth gaping open, when the master appeared in his line of sight.

“Let's see how well you did.”

The chain was released and Val fell like a boulder to the ground.

“Stand up, slave.”

Val gave himself a moment, forehead to ground, to suck in breath, before he pushed himself up and began crawling to the wall.

A boot to his side threw him into the ground and he gasped as he landed on broken ribs.

“No wall, slave. Stand on your own.”

Val knew he couldn't. He collapsed fully, like a wild stallion finally broken, heaving in breath and staring at the master with wild eyes.

“Don't make me--”

“Time is up,” the handler announced. He pushed the master out of the room without another word spoken.

Val closed his eyes. His shivering had worsened, agitating the new cuts on his back and the ribs that he currently laid on. There was no strength left in his limbs. His life was being taken from him, one act at a time. So it brought Val to tears, sobs, when the handler only knelt next to him and laid his coat over Val.

“Shh,” he soothed Val's tears. “Just rest.”

And for the rest of the day, Val did. No one came to get him. Eventually, the handler left, leaving his coat with Val. Only when the sun disappeared and darkness filled the cubicle did the handler return.

Val was in the throws of deep sleep when the handler's knee brushed against his cheek. He jerked, releasing a broken sound.

“Just me. I brought food.”

Food would sound more appealing if Val didn't have to be in agony to sit up. But, again, the handler surprised him. He rolled Val onto his back, shushing Val as he whimpered from the wounds being touched. He wasn't left long on his back. The handler sat behind him and raised him up, against the handler's chest.

Val fought the closeness at first, still groggy and confused but the handler rubbed his shoulder and shushed him again.

“Just food. I'm going to feed you. You'll have to stop squirming.”

The moment food brushed against Val's lips, his tunnel vision erased the proximity to the handler. It was warm, some sort of porridge with cubes of apple. Val pushed his head forward and pleaded for another bite. He was given as much as he wanted until his stomach cramped and Val groaned.

“Enough for now. Let it do its work. I'll be back soon.”

Val was lowered to the dirt and into sleep again. Land's sake, when did he become so exhausted? He didn't wake until morning and even then, it was only to peek out from under the coat before sinking back into sleep. He must have been too sick for much else because he was left alone that day and into the night. Only when he woke the next day did things change for him.

The same handler as before woke him. He pulled off the coat and pulled it on himself.

“Your new master is here. Well, the merchants are, I suppose, to take you up the mountain. They will leave soon. Survive the mountain and you will live, I reckon.”

Val pulled himself together, gathering the strength the sleep gave him, and pushing to his knees. Gods, he was hungry again and shivering worse than before. His side was swollen and black and his back protested with every move he made.

A whimper broke through his throat.

He was given another bowl of food and then he was pulled to his feet.

The merchant wagons filled him with a sense of his own nothingness. They were enormous and the beasts that pulled the wagons snorted with anger.

Some dark part of him was grateful he was pulled toward the back of the wagon because he knew he would have only stood there in shock. To his dismay, the chains around his wrists were attached to the wagon.

“I’ll walk?” he asked but his voice was broken and desperate.

“It’s a two day journey up this mountain. Survive,” the handler said before pulling away. Val wanted to run after him and plead for mercy, more mercy but his wrists didn’t budge and so he cried instead. The handler never even turned around before disappearing back into the stables.

There was a large crack somewhere in Val’s periphery before a sharp pain landed on his wounded back, three times in quick succession. He would have raised in hands in surrender if he could have. All he could do was plead.

“Okay!” he cried, keeping his head ducked. “I’m listening. I’m listening!”

The merchant was glaring at him when he finally raised his head. In his hand was a whip for the oxes. “You will walk, slave. And if you trip or fall, it will be to your own death. The wagons move slow enough you should not have any problem.”

Val nodded and the merchant walked away. Val willed every part of him, the strength he had left to keep him alive. But when he looked inward at the gathered strength all he saw was a black hole that taunted him with the truth he had feared for weeks now: You’ve nothing left. You are weak. You are dying.

A whip cracked and Val ducked down but this time the whip was meant for the oxes. The wagon groaned, the wheels turned, and Val was forced to walk. Forced to survive, to climb a mountain in a tortured body, all for a life he was not so sure anymore he could hold on to.

Taglist: @scoundrelwithboba

[whumpyreader]

Part Ten: The Farmer

TW: talking to past abuser

It was not a normal horse ride. Instead, time morphed into something like melting lard, and then Rupert stood next to Louie who was barely breathing and stunned.

The snowstorm swirled in a thick breeze next to Louie and Aurora formed. “Recognize this place, Louie?”

Her hand on his shoulder was the only thing that kept him from turning and running away. “Y-yes. I thought we we-were…going to Alas.”

“We will. But first, we must come here.”

“Why?”

“It is how you reclaim your magic. All these traumas broke your magic and you must collect yourself. You already went to the prison. It is time to face the farmer now.”

Face the farmer? How could he? The last time Louie saw the farmer, she kicked him in the face and he woke up at an auction. The decade of life with the farmer gave him no time to recover from the prison or his mother’s death. He was forced to work hard and was fed little. The time with the farmer had been spent starving and numb, focused only on death.

But the farmhouse that Louie stood before did not look the same as when he was here the last time. Now it looked rotten.

“Can I help you?”

Louie spun around, swallowing down the bile at the farmer’s familiar bark. She was coming out of the barn, her eyes searching them while Louie held his breath. Surely Aurora would abandon him now. If the farmer recognized him, Louie would be done for.

“Ask him,” Aurora answered, jerking her head toward Louie.

Louie wished he could glare at Aurora but he kept his eyes on the farmer, trying his damnedest to keep the terror out of his eyes. “Er…what happened to this place?”

The farmer winced. “My husband died. I suppose it’s the grief.”

A knife pierced Louie’s heart from the inside. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “He had been dying for twenty years before. He is no longer in pain. How can I help you?”

“I…I…” Louie broke eye contact. What he wouldn’t give to be swept away in the snowstorm. “I was once your slave.” Louie shot his head up once the farmer’s foot crunched the snow beneath. She paused, squinting at him.

“Louie?”

“Yes.”

“Come in, please.”

The farmer crossed the distance and passed them, jerking open the door to the home Louie had never stepped foot in. He had only ever been given shelter in the barn where he was chained up every night.

“After you, Louie,” Aurora’s gentle whisper coaxed from behind.

Louie followed the farmer, stepping foot inside her home. It was cozy. A large fireplace warmed him.

The farmer stood close to him now, her hands hanging at her sides, her brow tense, her eyes searching his face. “Why did you come back?”

Louie swallowed. “I am sorry your husband died. I suppose…when you picked me up outside the prison walls, that he was dying already.”

“So were you,” the farmer muttered, dropping her gaze to the floor.

“Still, I am sorry.”

“It was the snowstorm that took him quicker than his sickness would have taken him. I–” The farmer shot her head up. “I regretted, nearly every night, how I treated you. I took my grief out on you.” She sucked in a breath. “Actually, I expected you to fix my problems. I thought if you worked harder or…ate less that it would somehow save my husband, my farm, everything.”

Louie allowed that glimmer of humanity to brush against his lips and a smile tweaked at the corners. His body still stood stiff in terror at his first master’s presence but a part of him was surprised at how easy it was to forgive her, to understand her, and to long to be seen as human from now on. Being seen as human was a gentleness he craved fiercely. “I wish I could have saved it all,” he whispered.

“All I can hope now is that you are alright. I am so terribly sorry, Louie. I have thought must about you and have hoped to say these words to you one day.”

Louie had to think about it. He had been brought to life against his will. He had met an ala that claimed she cared for him. There was a chance Alas would never touch him again. “I am alright. It’s alright.”

A breath the air around them held was now released and the tension left Louie’s body. The farmer’s shoulders relaxed and she smiled.

When Louie left the farmer’s house, he had to blink as if he had just been born. The sun shone brightly, the dirt was bare, and tiny plants were peeking out from its gentle protection. The snowstorm still raged a mile away but, on the farmer’s land, life sprouted and it felt very much like the life that was sprouting inside Louie’s soul.

[whumpyreader]

Part Nine: The Púca

TW: just a trauma professional writing about trauma *eye roll*

When Louie woke next, Aurora had left his side. A pile of dried fish and green apples stared him in the face. How long had it been since he ate? He pushed himself onto his elbows and swept the food near his chest with his forearm. He tore out a chunk of apple, his taste buds exploding with the sweetness and reminding his stomach that he was, indeed, ravenous. The rest of the food was shoved into his mouth, as much as he could until he was forced to chew and swallow before shoving more in. His throat was parched and, once the food had disappeared, Louie crawled to the bank of the brook and stuck his head in.

With his belly sloshing with food and water, Louie pushed to his feet, keeping the blanket draped over him. He found his clothes and boots in the cave as well as his furs, now washed from any bloodstain. He pulled his clothes back on and sat down.

Aurora was nowhere to be seen.

But a rabbit was. A terrifyingly enormous rabbit with glowing red eyes and pitch-black hair. Its fur was scraggly and it sat on its haunches, nearly as large as Louie was.

Louie was going to be sick.

“Oh, you are not one for fun, eh?” The rabbit monster morphed into a human man.

Louie must have backpedaled because he now sat against the cave's wall, holding his thumping heart with one hand.

“I thought you would recognize me. Don't all humans know a púca?”

The man now stood and Louie nearly lost his mind to the terror. He screamed, ducking under his arms.

“What is the matter?” Aurora’s voice rang out.

Louie melted into a sob, worshipping her with relief in his eyes. “You left.”

“Only for a moment.”

“Who-who is,” Louie risked a glance at the human that stood nearby with his hands up in surrender. “What is that?”

Aurora stifled a pent-up breath. “Rupert. He is an old friend. I warned him to be gentle but…púcas are mischievous by nature.”

“A púca?”

“Are slaves not taught anything?”

Louie's idiocy was showing. He dropped his head, resolved to not dig a deeper hole for himself.

“Actually, they're not.” It was the púca’s voice this time, deep with sorrow. “I did not know you were a slave.”

“Not anymore,” Aurora stated. “Although we have a long way to go to make him human again.”

Louie's head shot up. “What?”

Aurora rolled her eyes. “You have given up. I feel it on your soul. Humans are stubborn by nature. They thrive where no other mammals can and they do it with naked skins and only two feet. Against all odds, humans thrive. You gave that up, Louie.”

By the moment, Louie was sounding more and more like a waste of air.

“Cheer up, human man. I have returned with good news. There is a way to make you whole again.”

Louie didn't want to be whole. He wanted to sleep. “Why is that important?” he huffed.

“Forgive me, I forgot,” Aurora softened. “Humans need choices. I did not make it clear that this was but a choice.” At his silence, Aurora continued, “Either you can come with me. I must go regardless of your decision. Or you can stay here. If you stay, you can sleep and eat as much as you want. If you come, there is a way to ignite your healed magic and it can heal you.”

“My magic is for healing?”

“Not directly, no. But it broke in your youth and once ignited it can heal your soul.”

Louie had been so focused on getting enough nutrients and rest for the last twenty years that it seemed pointless to heal a soul. What good was a soul anyway?

“Think on it,” Aurora decided. “Your screams interrupted me. I must get back to my work. I will return in a while.”

Louie was left with this Rupert who smiled sheepishly at him and waved.

“May I sit with you?”

If Aurora trusted the bunny then Louie had no qualls. “Yes.”

Rupert's body was warm against Louie's flank. “I've lived with your kind my entire life. Six hundred years now? My, how time flies.”

Louie folded his legs and just listened.

“I understand humans. Aurora does not understand.”

“What?”

“She does not understand why a human would want to live with a broken soul. She does not understand that that too is stubbornness.”

“Oh?”

“Forgive my forwardness but I have been around humans longer than you have. A human’s greatest danger is also what keeps them safe.”

“What is that?”

“Community. Community has been used against you and your stubbornness…I call it your will to thrive, is to bear the load and live one more day. You are more stubborn than a human in good community can understand. And Aurora, well, when she is being attacked, she has powers to make others submit. But when you are the one submitting, you can only change what is inside of you.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I think Aurora has a point. You are too used to living with a broken soul. It's making you blind to what you truly want. Food and rest are not the only things a human needs.”

“What must I do to fix my soul?”

“Your soul will fix itself. All you have to do is give it what it needs.”

“What does it need?”

Rupert smiled and his eerie smile nearly touched his ears. “A better story.”

…

“I’ll come with you.”

The corner of Aurora’s lip twitched. “What did Rupert say to you?”

“On one condition though,” he continued, ignoring her question.

“Which is?”

“You give me one reason why fixing a broken soul is worth it.”

Her eyes widened momentarily before resuming to her normal, hardened face. “I can only speak from my experience.”

“That is alright.”

“Well, there is more to life than survival. Do you know what that is like?”

Louie did. “My childhood. Except, all my family is dead. There is no one waiting for me.”

“Then we shall find you family, if that is what you are wanting.”

Was that all he was wanting? Louie hadn’t had much time to ponder on what he longed for.

“Human man, you have much to learn about yourself. You would be a fool to stay here.”

It was what he had concluded as well. “What is it we are going to do?”

Aurora brightened. “Ah, not a fool after all. We are going back to the clan that sent you on this mission. I have unfinished business and you might be useful.”

He hoped so. It was better than staying in the cave alone.

“Ah, your trusty steed.”

Louie turned to see what Aurora now looked at and nearly gagged.

Rupert was now a horse, eyes glowing red, black hair too long to be normal, and his snout bearing his awful smile.

“I will travel in my storm. You, Louie, will ride this horse.”

Louie wanted anything but.

“I will meet you there.” With that, Aurora disappeared into the snow above. Like melting butter, the circle of warmth faded away as if it had been nothing but a dream.

The horse was slightly deformed, its belly too small and its ribs jutting out. It whipped its tail and smiled at Louie. “Aurora packed you this.” It twitched its back where a saddle pack was thrown over. “Full of apples and dried fish. Ready?”

Rupert was going to haunt Louie’s dreams for the rest of his life. He gripped the mangy mane and threw himself onto the beast. The body beneath was hot and fuzzy and Louie found himself wanting to vomit again.

“Hold on, human.”