Lykos

A year, he'd been prisoner here.

Sick and cold, lingering in the oppressive silence between four stone walls. Lykos did not like the cold, could not bare even Spring drafts, when he was home in Otsoa. He'd learned to bare it now, shivering, aching, and holding himself in his cell.

There was a general dampness in the air, and when it rained, the stone floor collected puddles of water. To keep warm, he exercised as much as he could--which wasn't much. His wardens fed him warm vegetable broth in the evenings with stale hard bread he let soak in the tepid flavorless water. In the morning, they fed him cold watery slop, likely left over from the servant's breakfasts. In the afternoons, his wardens would cook whatever it was they caught--usually squirrel or rabbit--and share it among themselves. The scents and sounds that wafted through, of cooking meat, of grease sizzling, of laughter and camaraderie, that was torture in and of itself, never mind the random beatings he'd received.

Every few months, they cut his hair. He felt like shorn sheep, with bloody scabs from their carelessness. He'd wondered why they wanted his hair short, and spent many hours entertaining himself with speculations. Fewer insects, fewer diseases? He was always much colder afterward, perhaps that was the purpose.

A memory would stir when he thought too long and too hard, his guard down. Vuren reaching out with his bare hand, to twirl a length of Lykos black hair between his fingers.

He remembered the way Vuren's cold eyes focused on the sweat dampened hair at his neck, how gentle that touch had been, so very different from the effortless violence that came before and after that almost tender touch.

Another icy wind rushed into Lykos' stone cell. It was early winter in the Northwestern lands, and he curled in tighter at the corner furthest from the door--not that it mattered. There was no place to hide from a biting wind like that. A main gate must be open somewhere as further torment to the prisoners that were held here. Lykos closed his eyes and tried to slip further within himself to a time when he was warm and sprawled out in the sunshine.

The door to his cell opened but he didn't bother to lift his head. It'd been a week since his last beating and his bruises had only just begun to yellow around the edges. If he remained still, his wardens often lose interest and move on to more vocal prey. Unless, of course, they were feeling particularly sadistic. Then they would beat him until he lost consciousness and leave him to die. Lykos never managed to succumb to that increasingly inviting task.

Several pairs of boots filed into the room and the sound was unusual enough for the tired General to take notice. He didn't lift his head, but he fell back on his old training and picked out eight distinct boots filling up the room. Already, Lykos imagined that their combined body heat raised the temperature of the small space.

Another pair of heavy boots walked through the door and Lykos knew it was him without even raising his head. He could hear the swish of fine cloth, of comfortable bear furs, the clank of buckles, the rattle of his decorative chains. And finally, Lykos could smell Vuren over his own filth. It was an unforgettable combination, a clean scent of a washed body, mingled with campfire smoke, and fragrant pine. Lykos found himself breathing deeply, recommitting the scent of his prey to memory.

Lykos had no strength to attack. Even if Vuren was close enough, he'd be unable to do much more than startle the man. He decided to bide his time. There were a hundred different ways that Vuren could die, and most of them involved long and elaborate suffering. The only way to enact those plans was to survive.

"Greet your Lord, filthy dog!" A guard demanded harshly before a loud clack of a shield against stone exploded in the cell close to Lykos' head. Amusingly enough, the guard was trying to frighten him. Lykos didn't even flinch--he was already so used to pain that anything short of it could almost be considered pleasure. Lykos could hear that his passivity angered the guard, but whatever the other man was going to do, he was silently stopped. Likely a gesture from Vuren himself.

"I have been corresponding with your sister, General," Vuren said, foregoing pleasantries altogether. Lykos waited for more information, scoured the single sentence for signs of a trap. "Tala, a beautiful name," he said and Lykos knew for sure now that this was some sort of trap. Now he had to decide whether he would fall for the trap or continue his passivity.

There seemed to be more benefits to falling for the trap.

"Don't say her name," Lykos responded. After so long without talking to someone, his throat was unused to the strain. The smooth tone that he'd expected was low and raspy, almost broken like an adolescent boy.

"It would be awkward not to say her name. After all, she is to be my wife," Vuren revealed.

Lykos' head shot up and horror painted his gruesomely bruised face. It was difficult to show his emotions with the swelling of his left eye and the crusting over of his cut lip. Still, his expression was easy enough to decipher. Impotent rage and aggression bubbled familiarly inside of him.

"She would never agree to that," Lykos managed through gritted teeth.

"In exchange for saving your life, she would have agreed to be fucked by a dog for my personal pleasure. Marriage was out of respect for her high born status. You see, General, I don't want to humiliate your precious little Princess. The war would never end. Generations of Wolves would remember the hot shame of one of their own women, spoiled by a lowly beast," Vuren explained.

Lykos could see that he enjoyed reiterating the possibility of his sister's defilement. He schooled his features and leaned back against the wall, allowing his anger to warm him from within as he thought of a response.

"Why do you care whether or not the war ends?" Lykos asked once his voice was steady.

Vuren did not answer and Lykos caught something fast and new cross the other man's face.

"She will make a terrible wife," Lykos continued when it was clear that Vuren would not answer. "I should know, I'm her brother."

"Are you volunteering yourself?" Vuren asked, head tilted. He looked amused and some of his guards chuckled.

"...Yes."

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