CW: General/implied abuse

Oly curled up into a tighter ball on the cell cot. He hadn’t endured thousands of lashes, but his back still tingled and itched from the healer’s artful job of knitting flesh and muscle together. The ache was bone deep, but at least he had no scars.

He’d never known how much noise four friends made--even in their sleep--until they were gone, and the resulting silence was suffocating. When he tried to escape that, he was met by his own train of thought. The more he lingered on it all, the more clever it all was, really.

Even if he’d wanted to rat, the others didn’t tell him about the real hidden exit, only the obvious one. It might seem odd that a group of slaves would escape where they’d be looked for first, but Oly’s tracks would lead a search party to believe that, obvious or not, it was a lead worth pursuing. They found one slave with supplies for others, so it led the party to stick around and waste time on dead ends. All the while the others were using the smarter routes, evading attention, and taking advantage of the diluted focus.

It doesn’t mean they’d intended for me to get caught, the efforts were diluted for me too. Just that I wasn’t in their group.

Nevertheless, with Oly left behind to fulfill the job they were being trained for, there was conveniently even less cause to look for a flock of flight risks with loyalty only to each other. However, Oly still believed this was just a mistake. Perhaps he’d misheard the location, botched the directions, or been too quick to run.

He still had to face one reality, even if he wanted to evade or justify it. No matter how much it hurt, he knew that the entire time he was punished, his friends were putting as much distance between themselves and Oly as they could. If his handler thought the healer was capable of erasing quite that many scars, then Oly speculated the man would hold true to his threats: a lash for every step.

He’d walked for miles to get to that farmhouse.

Leon, Laya, Jacivik, Mavani; did they hate him?

Did it matter? He was never going to see them again, which left himself as the only one with the authority to confirm. He decided then that no, they didn’t. Couldn’t have. Shouldn’t have.

His training would resume in the morning. Nothing had changed, but now he was utterly alone.

--                                     

Oly was yanked out of his cell every morning in about the same way you would pull a shirt out of the drawer. The guards opened up the door and used to slap him once on the arm to wake him up, but at this point he was bolt-upright at the sound of the lock turning. They pulled him up by the wrist, pushed him in the direction they were going, and he pliantly went along with them to whatever they had planned for his day.  If they went left from his door, it was time to be trained physically. If they went right, then he was to be trained mentally.

They went right. He smiled to himself, lowering his head and spacing out for the walk.

He liked the behavioral exercises, they felt like a game. Last week he was told that his name was Davir Lask. His trainer gave him a few facts on which to base his identity: he was a Haevan prostitute hired to entertain at a noble lady’s birthday. His teacher pretended to be a guest at the party, and together they improvised a long conversation as he came up with new lies about his life. If he invented something “out of character,” she’d smack him once on the back of the hand with a switch. It was hard not to tip his hand that he had a formal education during low-born identities like these – “I don’t know how you know so much about astronomy, Oly, but that hobby attracts attention to Davir.”

If the details were too boring, then the stories would all blend together and he might mix up his identities. If they were too outlandish, then he’d be punished for being suspicious. Worst of all--something that earned him 5 strikes to each hand-- was getting caught in a lie. She was the only person in this hell who rewarded him for doing well, so she was the only one he genuinely wanted to please… If not for the honey candy, then the praise. He hated knowing what he was being trained for, and that messing up would get him killed, but for now he delighted with the balancing act.

In contrast, he disliked the physical training. He didn’t even like thinking about it, full of exercises which made him practice swallowing his pride and doing whatever was asked for him, no matter the disgusting deed. Though it killed him little by little, the agony of debasing himself could only last so long before it had grown old and boring. It was best for his health that he learned to suck it up, high upbringing or no.

He slowed to a stop outside the usual door, but let out a sound of surprise when he was pushed forward and around a different corner than usual. He looked up at the guards, but they gave away nothing.

He was led into a room with a steaming tub, a few weathered vanities, and several sets of fine clothes hung on pegs. Slaves he’d never seen before were already bathing, dressing, and putting on makeup, but he didn’t know what for.

“We’ve invested much time into you, Olymarté.” Oly flinched at the sound of his handler’s voice. He only dipped into Oly’s world to wield a whip or check in on his lessons, so the conditioned terror he felt on arrival covered up for his slow reaction to the fake name. Oly turned to regard the monster leaning against the wall.

There wasn’t anything remarkable about him: dull eyes, thinning blonde hair, and a belly distending with age. Not tall, not short, not fat, not thin, his arms were muscular with the work of cruelty, and Oly theorized he got that bitter twist to his mouth from overdosing on the drug of belittling others as a break from belittling himself.

“Indeed, master.” He answered, smoothing his features over into pleasant neutrality.

“One year, we’ve trained you. Do you think it was enough?”

He smiled and replied on the next heartbeat. “I only think of my master’s satisfaction.”

“Of course I’m not satisfied with you, Scrap.” He sneered, pushing off the wall to get closer. Oly’s mind flashed with the usual scenes of violence, but he stood his ground and nothing came. It puzzled him, and then he realized. The handler didn’t want to bruise him.

“Yet you’re giving me away today?” Oly guessed. Unsightly injury had never stopped the man before--healing magic being what it was--so there must have been no time for it.

“The anniversary is today. We couldn’t delay even if we wanted to. I suppose my real question is this…” He leaned in close enough for Oly to smell his breath. “It’s been six months since your little stroll outside the castle walls. Do you think you’ve been punished enough?”

Oly took a heartbeat longer to respond. “I only think of my master’s satisfaction.”

“Four promising candidates lost to the wind, leaving behind the dumbest, weakest, and malformed brat of the bunch. I will never be satisfied, but I would have loved to hear your screams until the day you died. If you fail us, I’ll get that privilege again, and you’ll only wish I would let you off so easy. Do you understand?” He threatened.

Oly tilted his head to the side. So he can’t really hurt me today, huh? “You talk a lot about training when you only offer punishments, and never any rewards.” He remarked. The handler’s hand shot out and grabbed his ear, twisting until the cartilage threatened to pop. Oly wailed theatrically, turning the attention of the entire room to him. The handler stalled for a moment, basking in the audience, yet hesitant to rattle them.

“I forgot to mention disobedient.” He whispered in Oly’s captive ear. “Do not fail us.”

“And if I succeed?” Oly grunted. The handler hissed out a laugh.

“Then we’ll have no more use of you. You’ll be free.”

Oly froze, stumbling away when his ear was released. He raised a hand to rub it, watching the handler’s retreating back. All he needed to do to begin his journey back home was grab some information? It was going to be harder than it sounded, too good to be true, and his only option.

His only shot at freedom was doing exactly as he was told. Why should I care about dooming someone just like you and your king?