Chapter Text

There’s a silken tent in the center of the encampment, larger than any of the others, and of a graceful, soaring design. It flies a black pennant emblazoned with a silver X; they catch sight of it from the promontory above the river that morning, but dusk is falling in purple shadows before they reach the edge of the camp, smaller tents organized in neat clusters around a central cooking fire, each bearing their own standard, struck into the ground: a bolt of lightning piercing a cloud; wings - feathered, insectoid; a monstrous pointed tail; a great red eye.

Erik’s been on horseback for five days, his hands bound to the pommel with heavy cord. He’d refused to ride at first, but his captor—a sneering, taciturn lump of a man named Logan—shrugged and said they could make as good time with Erik slung over the saddle, head down, if he preferred. They rode in mud and sand first, then up into the hills, the horses struggling slowly along deeply rutted, rocky trails through heavy forest, sleeping only when it got too dark for the horses to make their way.

Erik keeps his head tilted down, refusing to be seen gawking, glancing quickly out of the corners of his eyes as they ride past the first of the tents. The camp is of some permanence; chickens pecking in the dirt tracks worn between tents, fish drying on woven nets, a smithy with a blazing fire alight in a forge of no design he’s ever seen, slabs of hinged metal clearly made to fold for travel, even a few children dodging around the tents in a game of tag, who fall silent as Logan leads his horse past them at a walk, big-eyed, watchful.

A blue woman, a monster, waits, sitting on a low bench outside the central tent. She raises a hand in greeting when she sees them, and then stands, lifting a handful of metal bindings.

“You deal with him,” Logan says, tossing the reins of Erik’s horse to her. “Alex can help,” he adds.

“Why me,” Alex grumbles, slipping down off his horse.

“You found him,” Logan says. “That means you get the privilege of listening to his highness complain about damage to the goods.” That was true enough, a blonde boy, scarcely grown, stumbling into the clearing where Erik had fallen into an exhausted sleep, curled in the hollow of a tree, footsore from running. He had startled, badly, his mouth open in a shout, his eyes widening in shock when Erik threw himself forward and wrapped his hands around his throat.

Behind him, Alex sighs, but he doesn’t argue. Logan waits for Erik to dismount and then reaches up and grabs the back of his neck, gives him a tight, hard shake that clatters his teeth together, and says, “You—behave yourself,” before gathering the reins of the horses and leading them away through the maze of tents.

The blue woman jingles the shackles; Erik is taller than most men, but this woman is his height, examining him with a reptilian gaze, tilting her head curiously, even as Alex cuts his bindings open.

“Like so?” she asks Alex, reaching for Erik’s wrists and folding his arms behind him, holding his wrists easily when he pulls instinctively against her grasp. Alex nods, a doubtful tilt to his mouth, and she attaches the cuffs, leaving him barely enough slack for him to hold his shoulders comfortably. She and Alex both stare at him when he shifts on his feet, tugs at the shackles, glancing at each other and then back at him, looking almost expectant.

“What,” he says, but the blue woman only claps him on the shoulder and leaves Alex to shuffle him through the door of the tent.

The tent is spacious inside, soaring panels of silk above, with sections of netting tucked below that allow a breeze to circulate, and woven rush mats on the hard packed earth, covered with thick patterned rugs. There are chests pushed up against the walls of the tent, wood with heavy metal clasps, and a long, low table, set with bowls of fruit and nuts, a covered soup pot, a wooden board with a round yellow cheese and loaf of bread, cut into thick slices. Erik looks away; they’d run out of food the last day, and the rations had been small before that.

“Tracking you down took us well out of our way,” Logan had said, giving him an unimpressed look, as though it was his fault they’d abducted him. “And we didn’t pack for three in the first place.”

There’s a bed, a vivid pile of silk cushions and furs, and beyond that a many-sectioned carved screen that half hides a deep copper bathtub, and in the center of the tent, there’s a cluttered writing desk, where a man sits, staring up at him, pen lifted from the page, dripping black ink.

“Alex,” he says reprovingly, putting down the pen. “I hardly think all this is necessary.”

Alex presses his lips together; the edge of his face, jaw to ear, is roughly scabbed over, from where Erik had slammed his face into the ground that first night, when Alex untied the rope around his wrists so he could relieve himself. Logan had dragged him off Alex and cuffed his ear, hard enough that the bindings were back on before Erik’s head stopped ringing, and then shoved him down next to the fire where Alex was holding a rag to his face, wincing. Erik had expected to suffer for that, but Logan had only said, “Serves you right, peckerwood,” smirking genially at Alex, and then split the stale traveller’s bread he’d pulled out of his pack three ways between them.

“For now, he’s a danger to you,” Alex says wearily. “I’d recommend you keep at least one of the guards on hand—”

“No,” the man says, and when Alex doesn’t move says, “That’s all, thank you.”

Alex draws in an irritated breath, and drops a set of keys on the desk. “Guards will be posted directly outside,” he says, turning to Erik. Erik smiles falsely at him, teeth bared.

The man pours sand over the wet ink and taps it gently into a curved metal dish on his table.

“You know me,” he says, not quite a question.

“No,” Erik says, but that’s not exactly true. He’s heard stories of this man: a dangerous and unpredictable tactician; a seer who can change men’s hearts, march an entire company into the mist and not have them wander out until the battle is three days gone.

The man stands; there’s an ink stain on his finger, heavy grooves beneath his eyes, and his fingers are cold when he grips Erik’s chin and brushes two fingers against his temple, holding him still even when Erik jerks away, stomach twisting, fighting down a sickening lurch of fear.

“What do they call you?” the man says, dropping his hands.

“Erik,” Erik says. “What do they call you?” he says rudely, half expecting to be struck, but the man only smiles wryly and says, “Charles.” There’s something disquieting about the way he looks at Erik, avid, hungry. Erik looks away.

“It’s a long journey you’ve had,” Charles says finally. “Would you care to join me in a meal?”

“No.”

“You’re not hungry?” Charles asks.

“Why have you brought me here?” Erik demands.

“Well,” Charles says, and then nothing else, appearing genuinely at a loss as to the reason that Erik was set upon by warriors and dragged halfway across the kingdom. “You won’t be hurt here,” he says finally.

“What do you want from me, then?”

Charles hesitates and then says, “We believe you have some information we need.”

“Do you plan to torture it out of me?” Erik says, clenching his fists where they lie against the small of his back, where Charles can’t see.

“No, of course not,” Charles says, seeming genuinely surprised. “Perhaps you’ll tell us, when you—become more comfortable.”

“Perhaps,” Erik says, thinking grimly about what must be in store for him, that Charles thinks he’ll so easily become pliable and obedient. Charles smiles at him; he’s quite young, Erik realizes, and there’s a strength in his face that balances the girlish cut of his mouth.

“You’ve seen me,” Erik says roughly. “Can I be—” sent to whatever prison they’ve made for him, “dismissed?”

“Oh,” Charles says. “I thought—” he gestures bashfully at the table. “Perhaps you’d stay here and we could talk.”

Erik swallows. He hadn’t been afraid when Logan put him down with one punch, rolled him over and held his arms behind his back until Erik stopped fighting. Imprisonment, suffering - these were familiar friends, hardly worth worrying over. He’s heard of this, the debauched customs of the north, slaves taken by warlords to use for pleasure, taught whorish tricks to better please their masters. He bites the inside of his cheek, hard, letting the pain bring him focus.

“Am I to serve in your bed then?” he says, bluntly. Charles’ eyebrows wing up, astonished, a little—pleased, Erik decides.

“Is that what you’d like?” Charles says softly.

“Take off my shackles and see,” Erik says, sullen, and Charles laughs, an odd sort of laugh, and says,

“Take them off yourself.”