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The door clicked shut behind him.
Slaine let out an overdue breath and pried his shaking hand from the door, staring at the involuntary tremors before curling his fingers into a biting fist. A somber room greeted him once he looked up, a further reminder that he was abandoned. He knew, he should be happy, now that Princess Asseylum was conscious – and that was the case when he was in her presence – but as Count Troyard, his failures were all the more apparent. Often he longed to return to his simpler past – his childhood with Princess Asseylum of course, but even more so his time spent under Cruhteo’s care. The Count’s blows had been difficult to take and the torture a greater agony than he could have imagined, yet it was reparation for being allowed at her side. It hurt less to be struck than to make nothing of himself.
Drawer pulled open, nobility shed. Those still shaking – why couldn’t he maintain control? – fingers undoing the dignified uniform, tracing the unsightly marks beneath. He never could have done this back when he served Cruhteo; those nights of merciless humiliation would have had him discovered instantly and mocked all the more. But during the almost two years Princess Asseylum survived caged, the title of knight had allowed him to scrounge up an alternative source. The iron contained a weight different from a gun, and in Vers technological advantage, it felt suiting for someone Terran like him. He inhaled, closed his eyes, absorbed the familiarity of blood upon his skin. The self-afflictions blended with the previous harm, disguising the extent of his weakness. Before, it was only once in a while he composed himself this way, but his ascent to power had made him more dependent upon the reminder. For a month now, the skin remained raw.
A knock startled him out of his reflection and the knife clattered to the ground. His title went unheard as he scrambled to hide his disgrace and in his attempt, smeared blood onto sheets he had no way of cleaning himself. His foot landed on the blade, drawing a shocked yelp from him as he slipped on his own fluid that slammed him into the open drawer. This time the concerned, “Pardon my intrusion,” registered along with the sound of the door opening. His head spun as he struggled for words, fingers pressed into the tile – ah he was on the floor again: his absent defense allowed his servant to acknowledge the scene. His body trembled, tears falling, all against his will. He sensed Harklight kneel down beside him and place his coat over his shoulders, the noble, bloody color alerting him so. He wanted to wrench it off and cast it across the room. Disgraceful.
“Forgive my discourtesy Milord Slaine,” Slaine heard Harklight appeal with the same neutral formality as always. Part of him wanted to snap at his servant, the other to plead Harklight to not call him that, to leave him be. Don’t look at me. Don’t see me…
“Were you following me?” he tried to demand but his voice came out choked.
“There was a matter I wished to discuss with you,” Harklight explained as though undisturbed, but his words followed a moment of hesitation. Slaine raised his fingers to his face. His cheek stung. “But I realize now that it can wait.” He grit his teeth.
“Milord Slaine… if I may, shall I help you upright?”
Slaine shook his head, unsteady limbs pulling himself into a kneeling position. His shoulders were hunched and his head remained lowered.
“Milord…”
That’s right; there was no use dwelling on the past. He lifted himself the rest of the way, the reputable cloth sinking to the floor. The grotesque lashes upon his back were already exposed but he was reluctant for Harklight to see the rest of his scars. He dug his fingers into the cuts. The slap of blood from the bed caused him to flinch, teary gaze snapping to its source and back to his blood-stained hands. This is what had become of him… He curled his hands against his heart, body shuddering with muted sobs. What could he do? His chest ached.
He turned around, adorning his same meek smile that was now cracked. His chest and arms were layered with torture scars, glistening cuts, and infected gashes. There was a frown settled on Harklight’s face and Slaine could sense displeasure. At him?
“Mister Harklight…”
The man stiffened at the undesired address. “Milord Slaine, forgive me for saying this, but you have seemed distressed as of late…”
Slaine’s smile widened and he shook his head. “It’s not of importance. I apologize for causing concern and for my… unseemly appearance.”
Without realizing so, Slaine had averted his eyes to the ground and the instantaneity with which Harklight lowered himself in response bewildered Slaine. As did the kiss that was placed upon his blood-soaked hand. He took a step back, recoiling from the show of deference. Why would you touch something as filthy as me?
“There is no shame in crying in front of me Milord Slaine. You have survived through much and we are grateful you are here now.”
No. Slaine shook his head, yanking his hand away. “Stop.” The plea left his tongue before he realized he’d spoken aloud.
Harklight looked up at his master in confusion. “Milord…?”
“I’m not… Don’t say that!” He pressed his back against the wall. Stop it. Stop acting as if I’m worth something. I’m not! I’m not…
“With all due respect Milord, I am your manservant. If there is something troubling you –“
“It’s nothing!” Slaine snapped. His vision was blurring. Words, images, pain. Scum. Terran. Wretch. Repulsive. He couldn’t breathe. The smack of a cane, kick to the stomach, pinned down, crying, helpless, alone. His scars scorched him. He wanted to scream.
Harklight stilled at the desperation in his master’s tone. Slaine had drawn his limbs close to himself; the top of his hand pressed against his cheek and his body turned away. His hair was disheveled and tears streamed uncontrolled while trails of blood continued to slink down his chest. Harklight had always insisted upon distinguishing his lord by nothing but his title, but perhaps he should have recognized Slaine as a child after all. If it weren’t for the continued tremors, Slaine would seem lifeless. His already hollow eyes had taken on a dim, glossy appearance.
Harklight stood without permission if only for an uneasy suspicion that his master might collapse at any moment. There was no reaction from Slaine as he stepped forward, but the uncertainty of the situation didn’t obscure the recognition something had to be done. “If I may be so bold…” was his offered concession before he wrapped his arms around his young master and pulled him secure against his chest.
Slaine blinked at the sensation of fabric against his chilled skin. Who? His father? Princess Asseylum? He looked up. “Mister Harklight…” Where? The words he had not comprehended before took root in his mind. No shame. His lips trembled and his fingers curled into the man’s uniform. He buried his face into the cloth. Why? A hiccupped sob escaped him as he stained Harklight’s suit with his tears. He sunk to his knees, his servant following after him. And then, he was crying earnestly and bitterly into Harklight’s arms. For his father’s death and his separation from the Princess. For every slap, every kick, every time he was struck to the ground. Every day he was called disgusting, made worthless, treated worse than a Cur. Every instance he was forced to submit. Every time they laughed in his face. Why? He was pathetic, useless, disgraceful. They had left him – she had left him: it was all his fault. He was less than nothing.
Harklight tightened his clasp on his master’s shoulders and Slaine shrugged further into the man’s clothing. “Milord Slaine…” he tried after a moment longer. ‘Why…’ he heard in murmured reply.
“Milord?”
Slaine clawed at Harklight’s chest, choking on another sob.
“Do I deserve this?”
The second of stunned silence was all it took for Slaine to answer his own question. He shoved away from the offered consolation, gaze flickering to his bloody alternative. Disgusting.
He met Harklight’s stare with a defeated smile. “I know.” I’m inferior. I deserve to be hurt. That won’t change. He observed Harklight shift forward as if to protest before the man directed his melancholy gaze to the floor.
“I cannot claim to know all that has been done to you…” Harklight started and Slaine cringed at the implications in those words. “However, have you not said we have been undeserving victims of Aldnoah?”
Slaine cast his eyes to the side. “That is true.”
“Then, Milord,” Harklight extended, “does that not include you as well?”
Slaine flinched and shrunk into himself, arms intercrossed over his gashes. Martian, Terran, Knight… Does it matter?
The seconds passed in uncomfortable silence until another splatter broke it – this time, his tears.
Harklight watched his lord a moment longer before placing a hand across his own chest with a bow. “Milord Slaine, please allow me to tend to your wounds.”
Slaine ignored Harklight’s offer, at first, keeping his head lowered. Then, he conceded with a nod, allowing Harklight to lift him off the ground and lead him to the sink. He shivered as his servant wet a washcloth, hugging his chest. The reassurance with which Harklight coaxed his hands away was forgotten the moment the cloth brushed his injuries. His vision blurred, the cuts burned, and he wondered if this wasn’t worse. His whimper was pathetic to his own ears. And the tears did not stop.
Harklight made no comment, overlooking Slaine’s wordless pleas as he rubbed the diseased skin. The cloth came away a grotesque red and yellow which he re-submerged into the water. His usual deference with which he raised Slaine’s bleeding foot caused the boy to shrink further into himself, and he let it fall, noting how Slaine’s hair hid his face and how the shudders continued without end. The supplies he had to treat the wounds were limited, and he settled for wrapping cloth bandages around his young lord’s chest before stepping back. Slaine remained as he was.
“Milord?”
“Yes.” There was no mistaking the hopelessness in his reply.
Harklight steeled himself, expression passive. “May I tend to your wounds in the future?”
There was a flash of dull blue-green, and then, a disjointed, bitter smile.
“Okay.”