Does It Matter?

“I’ll cut your tongue out if you don’t shut up,” the guard threatened as his hand fisted in Dara’s short, dark hair, but Dara refused to be quieted. He didn’t care if it was true. Or he did care, but he cared about his resistance more.

As he struggled, the blows he landed on his aggressors reflected pain onto him, twice as hard, lashing deep within to land in a place private and raw. He’d learnt to fight back, though his efforts perverted him. They rotted out the core of him and left something bitter in its place. He could never be what he was before, never be what he could have been, what he should have been.

He screamed, too, though nobody had ever come to his rescue. Nobody had ever dared intervene in this game. He bit when they tried to gag him and pain strummed all around him, threatening to black out his vision.

Burch, the largest of the three guards, easily twice the size of Dara’s slender build and possessing matching strength, loomed over him. Even doing his best angry cat impression, Dara had never escaped them, but the idea of going along with what they had planned willingly was unthinkable.

They were dragging him down to the dungeons again, where the tools and restraints awaited. Dara didn’t understand how hurting someone else could be fun, but then he wasn’t like other men. Hurting others hurt him. If he were normal, would he understand it better? Did everyone else appreciate how someone could find joy in the blood of another, even if they didn’t share in the hobby?

They had reached the stairs before a voice interrupted them. “What the hell is going on?”

The holds of the guards loosened on him and Dara struggled with renewed vigour, but their grips quickly tightened again.

“Punishment, sir. This little rat disrespected his betters.”

“No!” Dara’s shout erupted as he lashed out, desperation lending him strength. A guard’s hand smothered his cries, but Dara bit down fiercely. Pain reverberated through Dara, pressing in on him like a physical force, but the guard yanked his hand away and didn’t bring it near Dara’s face again.

“Disrespecting his betters... in what manner?” the unfamiliar voice inquired. Dara strained against the guards’ iron grip, attempting to glimpse the speaker, but their hold was unyielding.

The guards faltered, their hesitation betraying a lack of justification. “Does it matter, sir?”

“He wears my colours,” the man said, and immediately Dara froze. He knew whose colours he wore. The man behind him was Prince Maric. The guards would strip Dara of those colours before they started so that he didn’t ruin them with his blood, and then leave them for him to put back on afterwards.

“No, Your Highness, please, I’ve done nothing wrong!” Dara protested. “They just like to hurt me.”

"Shut up,” one of the men hissed as he thumped Dara’s head against the stone wall. Pain flooded out Dara’s thoughts for a moment, but it was a minor injury and things quickly righted themselves.

The prince sighed loudly. “You’re right, it doesn’t matter. He’s in my colours. He’s mine. The only one with the authority to have him disciplined is me, and I don’t remember giving you any orders. Let him go.”

The guards exchanged looks, and a moment later Dara was released. He hit the stone floor with a strangled sound of pain.

“Good,” the prince said. “Slave, come with me.”

For a moment Dara froze. He couldn’t move. Was he in trouble for disrupting the prince? He had just said he was the only one with the authority to discipline Dara...

"Slave,” the prince repeated, more firmly this time, and Dara quickly scrambled to his feet.

The prince had been away with the military since he’d come of age, and it showed. The only times Dara had seen the prince before had been when he was much younger, dressed in finery and covered in jewels like his father. Now the only jewellery the prince wore was a single ring that signified his status. His shirt was new and clean and the same blue as the uniform Dara wore, but the buttons down its front were pale wood rather than silver like Dara’s. The prince kept his ash brown hair cut short and practical, but he’d made no effort to force it into an unnatural tidiness like most nobles preferred.

There was an open door further down the corridor, and the prince led Dara through it. The prince’s rooms. Dara had never known they were here, though he’d been dragged down this corridor many times. They had been unoccupied for years, though, so Dara supposed their location had been of little meaning.

Dara had expected something elaborate yet cold, but the room before him was the opposite of that. There was a crackling fire with an armchair beside it, and in the middle of the room, sofas and armchairs sat around a low wooden table. A large, soft rug covered most of the floor.

When Dara started to kneel, the prince waved a hand to stop him. Dara tried to breathe normally as the prince shut the door behind them, but his body had forgotten how.

The prince circled around in front of Dara and watched him with unreadable grey eyes. “Now, can you explain to me why three members of the castle guard decided they wanted to hurt you?”

Why. That was a tough question for someone who didn’t understand violence. Surely the prince, who was a soldier, could comprehend it better than Dara.

“I don’t know, your highness,” Dara said eventually, his voice quiet. “I don’t know why people want to hurt other people. Do you?”

“Did you do something to get on their bad side?”

Dara shook his head. “It’s not that, your highness. It’s fun for them and they know there won’t be any consequences if they target me.”

The prince’s eyebrows shot up. “Because you’re mine, and I haven’t been here to do anything about it?”

Suddenly, Dara realised the gap in the prince’s understanding. Of course he didn’t know who Dara was. Or, more importantly, what he was. What he had been and what he could still do. Dara still felt rubbed raw inside, and it was distracting him.

“I’m sorry, your highness; I was unclear. I don’t mark. I can heal from any injury quickly and without scarring. Why would anyone care what they do to me when I ultimately walk away from it unscathed?”

Suddenly, the prince was looking at him more intently. “You have magic?”

Dara caught his arms wrapping around his chest and forced himself to drop them back down to his sides. “Nothing useful, I’m afraid, your highness. I can heal quickly and completely from just about any injury, but I’m no fighter and never will be.”

“That guard — he hit your head against the wall. That’s already healed?”

“Almost instantly, your highness,” Dara confirmed. “Serious injuries can take hours to heal, but minor things are gone before they’re really there at all.”

The prince studied him silently for a moment before taking a step closer. “Why don’t you stay a while? You interest me.”

Dara’s pulse picked up. He could no longer meet the prince’s gaze. “Do you want to see it, your highness?”

The prince’s head tilted. “See what?”

Dara nodded his head at the knife on the prince’s belt. “My magic.”

“No!” The prince’s face pinched with disgust. “I don’t care how quickly you heal. I’m not a sadist like those guards.”

“I didn’t mean to suggest—” Dara started. “I’m used to pain, your highness. If you wanted to cut me a little, just to see, I would understand. What those guards had planned for me was far more… extensive.”

“Those guards,” the prince said. “Once I’m gone, they’ll do it again, won’t they?”

Dara nodded.

The prince let out a sigh and tapped the ring on his finger against his chin, deep in thought. Eventually, he beckoned towards Dara. “Come here.”

Dara hadn’t been far away, but the prince’s hand kept beckoning until they were close enough that Dara could feel the heat coming off of the Prince’s body. The prince reached up and traced the side of Dara’s face with rough, calloused fingers. “You’re very handsome.”

“Thank you, your highness,” Dara whispered back.

The prince’s fingers trailed down Dara’s neck. “Your skin is very soft.”

Dara didn’t know what to say or if the prince even wanted him to speak at all. He stayed silent and still and just breathed.

With two fingers under Dara’s chin, the prince raised his face and pressed their lips together. Nobody had ever kissed Dara before. He tried to copy the slow, teasing way the prince’s lips moved against his, but only ended up feeling like he was getting in the way.

“Sorry,” Dara said immediately after the prince pulled away. “I’m not... I haven’t been trained for this. Nobody has ever kissed me before.”

The prince’s hands trailed up underneath Dara’s uniform shirt, his fingers kneading at Dara’s skin. “Are you a virgin?”

The prince seemed to like the idea of that. Dara shook his head. He was starting to look like a disappointment all around.

Apparently the prince didn’t find either his inexperience or his experience too off-putting, though, because his mouth sunk to Dara’s neck. The prince sucked gently at Dara’s skin, and with the prince holding Dara gently in his arms, it actually felt nice. Dara let his eyes fall shut and tried to keep his breathing steady.

“I won’t mark,” Dara reminded the prince in case that was what he was attempting.

The prince let out a huff of laughter against Dara’s ear. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re wearing my colours so people will still know you’re mine. Come over here.”

The prince tugged Dara over to a sofa by the hem of his uniform shirt, then guided him down onto it and straddled his hips. Dara’s pulse sped up at the feeling of mild restraint. He had been pinned down many times, and it had never resulted in anything but pain. Don’t panic. You’ve been through so much worse than anything he’ll do to you.

The prince undid the buttons on Dara’s shirt and lowered his mouth to Dara’s collarbone, pressing kisses against his skin that started feather light and gentle but gradually increased in urgency. Slowly the prince edged back, down Dara’s body, his tongue trailing a warm, damp line from Dara’s chest and to his stomach. Despite his fear, Dara found his hips arching up, seaking friction against the heat that was quickly pooling between his legs.

The prince’s fingers working open the buttons of Dara’s pants sent a jolt of alarm through him, but the calm, gentle caress reassured him. This was different. The prince was simply enjoying Dara’s pleasure. For now.

The prince tugged off Dara’s pants, leaving his lower half bared. Dara let out a cry of surprise when the prince’s mouth lowered to engulf him.

For a moment the shock of it enveloped Dara. The prince pleasured slaves with his mouth? It was such an odd concept. But pleasure it certainly was, and the prince knew quite well what he was doing as he moved his head slowly up and down, exploring Dara’s straining erection with his lips and mouth. Dara dug his fingers into a cushion as he forced himself to resist the urge to thrust up into the hot embrace of the prince’s mouth.

The prince pulled back. “One moment,” he said, before standing and heading into one of his other rooms. Dara stared down at his erection, the normally pale flesh flushed an angry red where it stood tall against his belly, and wondered if the prince would be cross if he touched himself. He didn’t have long to wonder, though, because a few seconds later the prince returned holding a jar of something.

Grease.

Dara forced himself to stay still, not tense up too much. This was a good thing. The prince cared for his pleasure and would be gentle. Dara had known what was coming, hadn’t he? An experienced man like the prince who could have whatever and whoever he wanted would hardly settle for anything less than everything.

The prince’s mouth returning to tease at Dara’s cock helped to relax him again, but when the prince spread Dara’s legs and pushed his knees up to his chest, Dara started to panic. He tensed, but only for a moment, and then forced himself to relax, to become pliant. He heard the jar open and felt greased fingers slide gently over his opening. Not yet making an entrance, just teasing.

Dara flopped an arm over his face. If the prince looked up, Dara doubted he would have found the expression on Dara’s face pleasing, and Dara could no longer control it. He focussed his energy on staying still. A finger carefully probed him. Though the prince’s mouth was sliding slowly up and down his length, Dara wasn’t as hard as he had been. The finger pressed deeper, then slid out, then pressed deeper again.

Dara could feel his body starting to tremble. Tears stung his eyes. No. Stay still. Stay quiet. He forced himself not to pull away from the contact. The prince’s mouth withdrew. The finger was taken out of him. Dara didn’t realise he was curling into a ball until it was too late and his rejection was clear.

He heard the prince walk away. It was over. He had shown the prince just how utterly useless he was.

Was that a dismissal? Dara couldn’t bring himself to uncurl his body and find his clothes. He was too scared, too ashamed to move. He heard the prince return, but he didn’t dare look up.

Something was draped over him. A blanket. It was wrapped around him, covering his nudity, and then the prince’s footsteps retreated across the room.

For several silent minutes, Dara just lay there as he tried to calm himself. His stupid, broken mind was too fragile for him to give the prince even this one, small thing.

Eventually, Dara lifted his head. He had to. He couldn’t hide forever.

The prince was sitting in the armchair in front of the fire, sipping a glass of wine. His eyes were on Dara.

“I’m sorry,” Dara whispered. His throat ached.

For a long moment, the prince just stared back at him, his expression unreadable. “What’s your name?”

“Dara.”

“Dara,” the prince echoed. “Was it the guards who ruined you?”

Dara broke eye contact. The prince had no idea how accurate that word was. Ruined. After too long a pause he realised he hadn’t responded and shook his head. “No, they—no.”

“But someone did, at some point.”

Dara swallowed and nodded.

“Who?”

Dara hugged the blanket around his naked body as he sat up. “Do you remember what happened in Daviston? You would have been sixteen.”

“I do,” the prince said.

“I was fourteen.” Dara swallowed. “Others died. I would have, but I’m—sometimes I’m not sure I can die. That’s why I reacted the way I did. I don’t scar, but my body still remembers.”

“And that incident — that’s why you wear my colours but never ended up being given to me? They decided you were sullied at that point?”

He knew the prince had the wrong idea, that he assumed Dara had been in training to be a bed slave, but he decided not to correct him. The truth was both far more painful and no longer relevant. Either way, that day truly had ruined him. He nodded.

“Hmm.” The prince took a sip of his wine. “You seemed to like me putting my mouth on you.”

A hot flush ran through Dara, and he wasn’t sure it was entirely from embarrassment. “That was… not like anything they did to me. It didn’t remind me of anything that scares me.”

“But you liked it,” the prince stressed. “Not all men do. Some men end up bedding other men as a job for the money or because they’re slaves and have no choice, but they don’t enjoy any part of it. But you seemed to at least appreciate the premise.”

Dara nodded. He had never dared seek anything like that out, but the premise… that had always held appeal.

“Well, that’s something,” the prince said. “The way I see things, sex is something you do with someone else. If it’s not mutually enjoyable, I might as well use my hand. But I’d rather use yours.”

That had been so unexpected that all Dara could muster in response was a startled, “Oh.”

There was a smug edge to the prince’s smile, but it wasn’t unkind. “But not tonight, tempting as you are. We’ll both have more fun if I take my time with you.”

“Will you be staying for a while?”

The prince’s expression pinched. “No, absolutely not. I’ll be leaving in a few days. You’re coming with me.”

Dara opened his mouth to say something, because this certainly would have been the time for it, then shut it again instead. He knew he should be honest with the prince, tell him he had been in training to be a healer, not a bed slave. But… a failed healer wasn’t anything. A failed bed slave seemed to be something the prince thought he could have some fun with.

Dara must have spent too long thinking, because the prince spoke again before he could come up with a response. “Do I scare you?”

“No!” Dara said reflexively. “No, I just—I’m sorry, your highness. I look forward to leaving with you and I’m very grateful for the opportunity to be of service.”

“Good.” The prince’s eyes stayed on Dara as he drained the rest of his glass of wine. “Now that that’s sorted, it’s time for you to get dressed and leave so that we can both get some sleep.”

“Yes, your highness, of course,” Dara said as he hurried to gather his clothes.

He started out trying to dress underneath the blanket until he noticed the intent way the prince was watching him and realised he probably wanted to see. Putting on a display — that was what a bed slave would do, wasn’t it?

Dara wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the way the prince’s eyes grazed every inch of his exposed skin. It still scared him, but in a vague, indirect way that was disconnected from any specific worry. There was also a small voice at the back of his mind that whispered to him that he wasn’t supposed to do this, that he was a healer and healers shouldn’t get involved with messy sexual situations involving power dynamics they were on the losing end of. But he wasn’t a healer anymore and all the damage that could be done already had been.

And then there was arousal, a heat deep in his gut that made him half hope the prince would decide he wanted to have a little more fun tonight after all. He saw the prince’s lips curve when he noticed the difficulty Dara was having getting his pants done up.

Fully dressed, Dara bowed, hesitated in case the prince had changed his mind, and then left the room.

The guards had been far from Dara’s mind by the time he stepped through the door at the end of the long hallway, into the cool night air, but he wasn’t surprised when he found them waiting for him.

“Well, that didn’t take as long as I expected,” Burch, the guard who always took the lead in their torture sessions, commented as he stepped away from the wall to block Dara’s path. When Dara didn’t respond, he smiled. “Bet you thought you were too good to end up here, huh? Nobody fucks a healer, not even a prince. But that’s not what you are anymore, is it?”

Dara held eye contact with him. “If I scream, he’ll hear me.”

“Will he.” It was more of a challenge than a question.

Dara turned his head to look back the way he came. He wasn’t sure either. “If he does…”

“If he does, do you honestly think he’ll give half a shit? Even if he thought you sucked dick well enough to consider a second go at it, why would he care what happens to you between now and then? I mean, I’m guessing you told him everything just heals, right?”

“If you were sure of that yourself, we wouldn’t still be talking.” Dara took a step back and held up a hand when Burch moved towards him. He shouldn’t have challenged him like that. “Just. Wait. It’s not a matter of caring for me personally. He said—”

Dara’s breath was knocked out of him as Burch shoved him back against the wall.

“Burch, c’mon,” Shaw said from behind Burch, reaching a hand out towards him but unwilling to go as far as physically intervening. “He’s not wrong. The prince made himself clear, and if he catches us again…”

“He’ll be leaving in a few days,” Dara added. “You could risk it now, or you could just wait and not have to worry.”

“Hmm.” Burch let Dara go and stepped back, smiling. “Well, that sounds great to me. I’ll see you at the end of the week for a little catch up session.”

Dara stayed pressed against the wall and watched the guards as they walked away. He really hoped the prince had been serious about taking Dara with him…