The Beginning
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: OC
Disclaimer #1: The characters contained within this story are a work of
fiction, any resemblance to any persons in real life is purely coincidental.
Disclaimer #2: Anyone who has read David Eddings may find some extreme
similarities between this story, and several of his works. This is because
I love his work to pieces and re-read his stories all the time. My
apologies if anyone thinks I've mangled anything that was sacred, but one
night this little idea wouldn't leave me alone.
Archive: At the Persuaders archive only, please.
Summary: Life starts afresh.
Feedback: if you feel like it, to asrana@iname.com
Author's note #1: My deep gratitude and thanks to Gaby for assuring me that
this _was_ worth posting! If it weren't for her and some serious
butt-kicking, this would still be gathering dust on my hard drive. Gaby -
You're the best :)
Author's note #2: If you haven't read any of Eddings' work and you happen
to like this story, I would suggest you either start with 'Pawn of
Prophecy' if you want a thirteen-book long saga, or 'The Diamond Throne'
for a six-book long saga. To a lesser degree, I'd recommend 'The Redemption
of Althalus', his most recent work and a one-book saga, but trust me, the
longer ones are better :)
Each step seemed to jar his whole body, shock-waves rippling up from his
feet as they impacted with the ground and ending in his head with a
teeth-rattling force, that slightly disorientated him every time. He was
finding it harder and harder to keep running, to keep moving, and also to
remember why.
I can't.
{You must.}
He was distracted briefly by wondering what it meant to have two voices
arguing in his head, before his attention was brought back to his rapidly
tiring body and the driving force that filled his mind.
{You must.}
The imperative was stronger this time, driving him forward even as another
part of him wailed with despair.
I can't!
{YOU MUST!}
The force of the command was so strong it nearly sent him reeling, but all
of a sudden he was feeling stronger, fresher, less winded. His head came
up, eyes alert and unclouded by fatigue.
Suddenly aware of the baying hounds behind him, and shocked by how much
louder they now sounded, he lengthened his stride, ploughing through the
forest, some second sense telling him when to duck and dodge and leap in
order to avoid the branches and undergrowth. The baying grew fainter as he
drew away again.
{Over here.}
What? That road led off into the middle of nowhere! Even if he didn't want
to arrive in the next town - the 'wanted' posters were sure to have been
put up by the time he got there - he had to continue towards it in order to
get to a farm. Farms had horses and at the moment riding seemed much more
attractive than running.
The feeling surged up again, insisting he take the right fork in the road.
He slowed, confused, battling with himself and not knowing why such an
unreasonable urge was calling to him so strongly. Forcing his protesting
body to obey the logic of his mind, he started towards the left fork. And
promptly tripped over his own feet.
Lying in the dirt, panting, uncomfortably bruised along his left side after
his feet suddenly swerved to the right faster than his body could keep up,
he pondered just lying there for a bit. Just to get his breath back. Just
for a moment. Closing his eyes, he relaxed his aching muscles, focusing on
his harsh, winded breathing and absently listening to the sounds of the
hunt, slowly drawing nearer as if from a great distance. So tired...
He suddenly found himself on his feet again. His head was swimming with
exhaustion, his eyes were still closed, but his feet were once again
moving, running along the path while his body ducked and dodged and jumped
unseen obstacles. His brain observed this detachedly, bemusedly, through
the thick haze of pain and exhaustion. He closed his eyes again. He didn't
know how it was happening, but he really didn't care anymore.
Finally, his breathing slowed, almost disconcertingly sedate after running
for such a long time. The change was enough to rouse him from his stupor,
and he opened his eyes.
He was standing, body stooped with weariness, with his nose not two finger
widths from a large, white stone. It was about half again the height of a
grown man, oval with perfectly rounded edges. He watched bemusedly, swaying
from exhaustion, as the stone silently moved to one side. It didn't roll,
it didn't swing, it simply, silently, moved to one side as if he had
politely asked it to do so. Which he was fairly sure he hadn't.
"Well, come on then."
He looked up sluggishly, trying to focus his eyes in the direction of the
voice, which had floated through the hole exposed when the stone had moved.
"We'll have plenty of time to talk later," the voice continued. "but I
doubt you're even coherent at the moment. You can use the bed over there."
He stepped into the large room, too tired to focus on anything other than
the inviting bed in the corner. His muscles seemed to have turned to jelly
and his bruised and torn feet were protesting their ill use violently. He
collapsed onto the bed as his strength gave out, surrendering to black
exhaustion.
Asleep as he was, he didn't notice the blanket slithering out from under
him, raising up into the air, and quietly settling over his prone form,
keeping him warm.
Once he was no longer so exhausted, his body began to put forward several
other points for his attention, but it was his bladder which fully awoke
him. He sat up, feeling completely refreshed and alert. Seeing the chamber
pot next to his bed, he put it to good use, thankful he didn't have to go
very far. Spying the large jug of water, together with a cup, basin and
towel on the low table near his bed, he greedily drank nearly half the
pitcher and then washed his face and hands in the basin. Feeling decidedly
better, he looked around. He noted that the stone walls were not visibly
held together with any kind of mortar and yet seemed to be tightly joined.
He saw the large oval stone once again blocking the entrance to... whatever
this place was, and could see no mechanism which could have moved it.
Intrigued, he looked further. Besides the entrance he'd walked through last
night, there were no visible doors leading off from this one, big room. He
thought to himself that maybe the kitchen was kept in a separate building,
as on his late Master's estate, to reduce the risk of a fire spreading. The
thought of food made his stomach rumble audibly. Taking up the loaf of
bread from next to the pitcher beside him, he ate hungrily. It was good
bread; fresh and still slightly warm, as though recently taken from the oven.
He ate half the loaf before he felt sated, and then returned his attention
to his surroundings. He observed the high ceiling which gave the room its
airy feel, and the plain, functional table and chairs off to one side. But
the majority of the large room was dominated by the enormous bookcase - his
jaw dropped at the thought of the wealth needed to acquire so many books -
which contrasted with the purely utilitarian tone of the rest of the room.
Next to the bookcase, in the corner, was a similarly large table covered
with strange-looking gadgets and piles of parchments, over which was
hunched a man.
The man had his back to the room, but he appeared to be of medium build
with dark brown hair that reached just below his ears. He seemed to be
completely engrossed in whatever the things on his desk were for, as he had
apparently been undisturbed by the stirrings of his guest. Now however, as
if he could sense the intense gaze, he spared a brief glance over his
shoulder to direct a glare at the figure seated on his bed. "Don't do
that." And he turned back again.
"Do what, Sir?" came the politely cautious reply.
"Stare at me." This time he didn't even turn around. "I can feel it, and it
makes me jumpy, which distracts-" he broke off, immersed in whatever he was
doing, and the silence stretched out between them.
Until the stranger couldn't stand it any more. "Distracts what, Sir?" No
harm in still being polite, he figured.
The man at the desk sighed, carefully put down a sheaf of papers, using a
stone to mark his place, and turned to the visitor on his bed.
"If you're well enough to be pestering me, you're well enough to work." He
nodded to the axe sitting next to the - door? "You'll find a woodpile off
to the left outside." And with that, he turned back to his papers.
The young man on the bed paused. If there was one thing he absolutely
hated, almost as much as he hated his late master, it was having to chop
wood. It was boring, tedious, repetitive, and - he nearly shuddered - it
involved exercise.
His host turned around again and stared at him in exasperation. "Oleryn,
you may not like it, but you know you should repay my hospitality, and
right now I want you to chop wood. I don't have time for arguments, just
get moving."
Oleryn stared. "How did you know my name? And how did you know I'd feel
like that?"
The other man grunted sourly. "I know lots of things." He stared fiercely
at Oleryn until the younger man began to feel uncomfortable and finally got
up.
Walking across the room, Oleryn picked up the axe with a sigh and turned to
the door. "Um.... Mister? How do you work this?"
The man was still watching him, now with a curious look in his eyes. "You
command it."
"Excuse me?"
"Are you simple? Tell it to open. It's only a door. You are a man."
Oleryn stared at the man for a minute then turned back to the door. He
looked at it, thinking the strange man must be crazy, or something.
"What are you waiting for, boy? Get out there!"
He jumped at the sudden exclamation and hastily, unconvinced, mumbled, "open."
Nothing happened.
"Not like that, boy! I said to _command_ it. Honestly!" He threw his hands
up in disgust.
Stung, Oleryn drew himself up and glared at the wretched stone. "OPEN!" he
bellowed.
The door quietly slid to one side, letting in a stream of golden sunlight.
Oleryn stood there, blinking.
The man by the desk grunted. "There, see? Don't know why it took you so
long." But there was a strange gleam in his eyes.
Scowling - he hated it when he was proved wrong - Oleryn stepped outside.
Catching sight of the woodpile, he gave a dejected sigh and trailed towards
it. This was going to be a long day.
Oleryn chopped wood for three days. For some reason he wasn't thinking
about moving on. Besides that he had nowhere to go, and the fact that all
he'd done so far was chop wood, the place wasn't actually that bad. He was
well fed, his injuries from his headlong flight were healing surprisingly
rapidly, he was allowed to sleep in the bed - although he had to share it
with his host, which made him rather uncomfortable - and he was feeling a
measure of peace for the first time since he could remember. But he hated
chopping wood.
On the fourth day, Oleryn had had enough. Sent outside again after lunch,
he glared resentfully at the hated axe. He wished it would break. That it
would shatter, or maybe fracture. Scowling fiercely at the thought of
chopping more wood, he wished that the handle would splinter into a million
pieces and the axe head split in two. Oleryn yelped in shock - the axe had
been lying on the ground ten feet away from him, and had suddenly split in
half - even the metal head. A shadow suddenly loomed over him, frightening
him further, and he looked up into the face of the owner of the axe. Who
did not look happy.
"Did you do that?"
Oleryn quaked slightly before the ferocity of the gaze and accusatory tone,
before steadying himself. "No, Sir." His voice faltered a bit.
His host loomed further over him, eyebrows knitting together in a fierce
frown. "There's no one around but us two and I didn't do it - better to
tell me the truth!"
His pride protesting the assumption of guilt, Oleryn drew himself up. "Sir,
I do not lie. I was nowhere near the axe, it just suddenly - split." He
trailed off in confusion.
The man, whose name he somehow still had not learnt, nodded, seeming to
accept this, and relaxed slightly. "What were you doing when it happened?"
Oleryn flushed. "Nothing, Sir."
"Nothing? You were supposed to be chopping wood, but you say you were not
near the axe, so what were you doing?" The angry tone was back.
He ducked his head. "I was, uh, well, Sir," He took a deep breath, "I was
sitting here staring at the axe and wishing for something to happen so that
I didn't have to chop wood again."
"Wishing that the axe would split in half and be unusable? Like it is right
now?" he asked pointedly.
Eyes widening, Oleryn stared at him. "Yes, but that doesn't mean I did it!"
The man stared at him for a long moment, eyes searching. "Really?"
Turning, he gestured to the axe, which sprang into his hand, once again
whole. Wordlessly, he handed it to Oleryn.
Hands shaking, fingers nerveless around the handle, Oleryn stared at him.
"How did you do that?"
The older man smiled, suddenly looking lighter, younger than before. "How
do you open and close the door to my house every day? How do I prepare
three meals a day when there's no kitchen or larder in the house? Give the
command, boy. It's only an axe. You are a man."
Oleryn fought the urge to roll his eyes. Where had he heard that before?
Taking the axe back again, the man stilled for a moment, holding it out,
before releasing it. Instead of falling to the ground, the axe zipped
towards the house and disappeared through the open door. Oleryn gaped.
"Close your mouth, boy, and come sit down." The man, sounding slightly
amused, guided him to a large, smooth boulder, where they sat.
"How did you do that?" Oleryn demanded.
"How many times do I have to tell you? Give the command."
"But it can't be that simple! It's impossible!"
He raised an amused eyebrow. "You've just seen me do it, and now you're
telling me it's impossible? What _should_ be impossible is how simple you
seem to be!"
Oleryn was silent, sulking. Not only was he being laughed at but he'd just
chopped wood for three days straight when, he now realised, he'd had the
means on the first day to just _tell_ the wood to split into kindling! He
was feeling rather resentful about that.
The man beside him laughed. "And why do you think I've had you doing such
an onerous, hated task - particularly since I can Command my fire to burn
without wood? But enough of that," he added hastily as Oleryn angrily
opened his mouth. "Now that you know you have the ability, you must be
taught. You have to learn to control it. To only use it when you need to,
not just because your emotions are strong enough or because you can't be
bothered to use your muscles. That is the most important, to learn _when_
to use it - it won't always be appropriate.
"So, since you're going to be living with me for a while, I'm now going to
tell you some of my rules. The first two rules are the most important. They
are that, firstly, you can ask me any question you have at any time,
anything at all." He looked at Oleryn sternly. "That is very important. You
have a lot to learn, so don't hold back. The second rule is obedience. You
weren't very good at obeying the orders of your last master-" he looked
shrewdly at the embarrassedly guilty face beside him, "- so I'm warning you
now that there are consequences."
"What sort of consequences?" Oleryn faltered.
"We'll get to that in a minute. Now, besides those two, the rest of the
rules are just common sense. Don't go out without telling me, don't touch
anything you're not sure of - like my desk - and that's about it for now.
If we need more they can be added later. Do you understand?"
Oleryn nodded mutely. Suddenly this didn't sound as idyllic as it had
before; in fact it was beginning to smell suspiciously of hard work.
"Good. Now, you asked about consequences. It's very simple. I like to keep
things simple. So, the rule is, 'once'."
"Once?" Oleryn repeated blankly.
The stern face nodded. "I will tell you once. If I have to tell you a
second time on the same day, I'll take you over my knee to make sure the
lesson sticks."
It took a moment for the import of his words to sink in.
"WHAT???" Oleryn realised his mouth was hanging foolishly open for the
third time since lunch and quickly shut it with a snap, his face outraged.
"You can't do that! I'm not a kid! You son of a - OW!"
"And now that you see that I'm willing to follow up on my promises, I'm
adding a rule: no swearing," the older man continued calmly.
Oleryn stared at him in shock, one hand resting on the outer curve of his
bottom, lightly stinging from the sharp smack.
He recovered himself. "No way! You can't do this! I'm leaving!" He jumped
up and started angrily back to the house. No way was he staying! No one had
spanked him since he was a kid!
"And where will you go?" The voice was soft but penetrating, and it brought
him up short. "You can't go anywhere, you know," it continued. "Remember
why you were running?"
Oleryn froze, his face white. "How did you know that?"
"I've told you. I know lots of things."
Oleryn rounded on him furiously. "Well then, mister know-it-all," he
sneered, "tell me this, who gave you the right to damn well-" The tirade
ended abruptly in a yell as his world tilted.
"Well now," his self-appointed mentor said mildly, as though nothing
important was happening, while looking at the upturned backside suddenly
presented over his knee. "It looks like I have to demonstrate the rule of
'once' sooner than I thought." He paused.
Oleryn lay across the hard thighs, his hands tightly held behind his back,
his nose brushing the grass, and found he could hardly move. "What did you
do to me?" he panicked.
A hand began to rub soothingly over his back. "I used a Command to keep
your hands out of the way, but other than that, nothing," He reassured.
"You can't move simply because with your feet off the ground and your arms
behind you, you've got nothing to push against. Now, just relax a minute,
we need to have another discussion."
Oleryn forced himself to relax, taking deep breaths and trying to make
himself go limp, focusing on the hand on his back and the gentle voice
above him.
"There, that's much better. See? Now, do you know why you're across my knees?"
Oleryn fought to keep his breathing slow and even - and the sarcasm out of
his voice. "Because I swore after you told me not to."
"Good boy," he was praised. "And I think that soon you'll be thinking twice
before swearing again, eh?" The hand on his back and his helpless position
persuaded him to bite back his retort. He tried another tack instead.
"Can I ask you a question?"
The approval could be clearly heard in the answer. "Certainly."
"What's your name?"
The man laughed.
"What?" Oleryn scowled. "Don't you think I should at least know your name
before you start hitting me?"
"I hope you know the difference between hitting and spanking, Oleryn." The
man's tone was suddenly serious. Oleryn remained stubbornly silent. Of
course he knew the difference between hitting and spanking, hadn't he been
in service all his life? The Master's children had been spanked, when they
were bad. Slaves, in contrast, where hit. Beaten. Whipped. And not only if
they'd been bad. And The Master's children were never scarred, or whipped
'til they bled, or punched or kicked for no reason. Of course he knew the
difference between spanking and hitting! He thrust his thoughts back down
again and stubbornly pushed on.
"You say I'm going to be here for a while, I can't keep calling you 'Mister'."
"All right, but you're not going to believe it," he warned. "My name is
Dwentos."
Oleryn gasped. "That's impossible!"
"Haven't we already had this discussion?" he asked mildly. "Don't set your
mind in stone, boy," he warned. "It can seriously hinder your education."
"But Dwentos is just a story! A fairy tale!" Oleryn quaked. It would make
sense - only Dwentos was able to do things like mend a broken axe faster
than Oleryn could blink, or keep a fire going without wood, or provide
meals without cooking anything. But- but- that would mean he was turned
over Dwentos' knee for punishment! Goddess! What if he didn't intend to
spank? There were numerous horror stories, typically used to frighten
children into good behavior, of what Dwentos did to those who angered him,
and they were far more hideous than a simple spanking. Oleryn shook with
fear.
"Oh, stop that," Dwentos snapped irritably. "I'm not going to eat you." His
hands continued their gentle movements, belying the irritation in his
voice, and soothing the shaking body before him until Oleryn was once again
calm. "Can you think straight now?"
Oleryn nodded mutely.
"Good." His hands never ceased their comforting motions. "Now, while those
stories about me aren't much exaggerated, _you_ have nothing to fear. You
aren't of the Black, in fact I'm hoping that with a bit of training you'll
make a good companion for me in guarding the White." His voice was low and
soothing, almost hypnotic. "I'll look after you, take care of you, feed you
and clothe you, teach you - but part of that means setting you straight
when you do something wrong - spanking you." Oleryn shivered again. "I'll
never hurt you in any other way, or any other place than your buttocks and
thighs," Dwentos continued gently, "and when it's over I'll still be taking
care of you - hush, child," as Oleryn's breath hitched and tears gathered
in his eyes.
He wriggled, wanting to wipe the tears away before remembering his hands
were restrained. "Don't call me a child," he tried to pretend he wasn't
crying, "I'm twenty-three!"
"And how old am I, boy?" Dwentos asked with amusement.
Oh. Oleryn wrinkled his nose. "Oh well then, old man," he retorted gamely,
"I guess anyone under ten thousand cycles is a child, so I'm an infant!"
"I'm not _that_ old," he protested, the amusement clear in his voice.
They stayed there silently for an endless moment, one body relaxed face
down over the knees of another, with the gentle unceasing caresses linking
them, forging a connection, an understanding and acceptance of their places
in each others' lives from that moment on. Teacher and pupil, friends and
companions.
Dwentos noticed the change with pleasant surprise. Only four days, he
thought ruefully; he wished his own understanding had come as quickly, all
those years ago.
Finally Oleryn sighed. "It's all changed, hasn't it," he commented
pensively. "I can never go back."
"No," Dwentos agreed. "Once you've realised that you can Command, you can
never unlearn it. Everything changes. And right now," he added in a more
jovial tone, "what's going to change is the color of your bottom!"
Oleryn made a face. "No need to sound so happy about it!"
Dwentos laughed. "Plenty of time to be miserable later, boy," he said as he
briskly lowered Oleryn's hose.
Oleryn felt his entire face burn with humiliation, but he was still too
awed by learning who his - master? - was to fight. Dwentos noted his
passivity with approval. "Good boy, take your punishment without fighting
and you'll find it over much more quickly."
Oleryn bit his tongue, not trusting himself to respond civilly, his face a
bright red. This was awful. He could feel a gentle breeze playing over his
hind cheeks which, combined with the promise of prolonged painful attention
to that portion of his anatomy, had heightened his sensitivity to his
predicament. His buttocks were tightly clenched, reflecting the tense
unhappiness of his whole body as his hose were lowered to his ankles and
left to dangle there, completing his embarrassment.
Dwentos observed the change and sighed, one hand on the tense back and the
other resting on an equally tense buttock. "I would tell you that tensing
up makes it worse, but I don't think you'd listen to me at this point."
Oleryn mutely agreed, silently willing his torturer to get on with it and
stop dithering. He heard a chuckle from above him.
"Remind me later to teach you how to shield your thoughts, I'm sure you
don't want me picking up on them any more than I wish to hear them,"
Dwentos commented, before raising his arm. He brought it down sharply,
watching the flesh under his hand compress and rebound in a perfect
imprint. Later the marks would overlap and merge into a single hot,
throbbing redness and Oleryn would no longer be trying to pretend it didn't
hurt. It was only a mild infraction and usually would only have warranted a
light spanking, but Dwentos wanted to demonstrate the effectiveness of this
mode of punishment, as well as prove to the untrusting Oleryn that he
always kept his promises - although he suspected Oleryn probably wouldn't
appreciate that for a while.
Oleryn clenched his teeth as he felt movement above him, bracing himself
for the first smack. When it landed, he was glad his clenched teeth stopped
him from laughing out loud. His last Master had corrected minor
transgressions with a cane and major ones with a whip. Oleryn had felt
both, although thankfully he had only been flogged once. Still, he couldn't
believe Master Dwentos meant to teach him a lesson with just the palm of
his hand. He grinned as the next four spanks landed, all on the same spot
as the first. While it stung, it certainly didn't actually hurt and Oleryn
knew he could take many such spanks easily. He relaxed over Dwentos' lap.
Let Dwentos think he was enforcing his precious rules; this was going to be
easy.
Dwentos smiled as Oleryn unconsciously projected his thoughts. It was
always easier to impart an important lesson when the student didn't know
how to shield himself. Still, Oleryn's painful memories of his previous,
cruel master had contributed to Dwentos' decision to hold Oleryn over his
lap and only use his hand. While his new student would find out on his own
how effective a learning tool his palm could be, the differences would, he
hoped, be marked enough for Oleryn to gain a deeper understanding of the
contrast between loving correction and senseless cruelty. Dwentos felt some
satisfaction at knowing he had chosen right and continued to bring his palm
down forcefully in rhythmic sets of five to the slowly reddening buttocks
over his lap.
Oleryn shifted uncomfortably. His buttocks were beginning to sting fiercely
and there was still no sign of an end to the punishment. Five spanks to one
spot at first had not caused more than slight discomfort, but when the skin
was already smarting, he had discovered the sensations could become
distinctly unpleasant. But the worst of it was the relentless, unending
rhythm of it. Surely they had been here for an age by now and yet he had
caught no hints of Dwentos tiring any time soon. He gritted his teeth and
renewed his resolve to prove that it didn't affect him.
Goddess! How much longer? He was beginning to involuntarily flinch and
cringe away from the blows, while his eyes were watering something awful.
Dust. Of course, they were outside near that cursed woodpile, of course he
had dust in his eyes. He blinked hard in lieu of rubbing them with his
still restrained fists, and wished it was over already.
Dwentos greeted the slight wriggles and sniffles with relief. While he had
certain advantages over most people when it came to endurance, he was
definitely beginning to get tired. He increased the pace and strength of
his blows slightly, sensing the end was near.
Oleryn bit back a surprised yelp as that relentless palm suddenly slapped
him with greater speed and strength. Now they were concentrating only on
the lower portion of his buttocks, one spot on the left and one spot on the
right, raising the fire that had been slowly smouldering into a sudden
inferno. He opened his mouth to suck in air, inadvertently letting out an
"aahhh" of pain at the same time. He snapped his jaw shut again and
clenched his teeth. He was NOT going to disgrace himself like that!
Dwentos eagerly grasped the key that Oleryn had given him through his
projecting thoughts. "You may as well cry out if it makes you feel better,
Oleryn," he commented, deliberately sounding as calm and unruffled as
though he hadn't been energetically spanking his apprentice for the last
candlemark. "We're not finished yet."
Oleryn absorbed the information with shock. It was the combination of the
calm, matter of fact delivery as well as the ominous statement which so
effectively got under his weakening defences. Here he was, being punished
in surely the most prolonged and humiliatingly childish manner he could
ever remember, pushed to his breaking point, and the man spanking him did
sound the least bit flustered, or tired! His resolve wavered. This was
Dwentos, he reminded himself. And he'd said the stories about him were
true. In that case, he could probably keep going for the rest of the day.
At that awful thought, Oleryn's defences crumbled and a frantic wail
escaped his lips.
'Success,' thought Dwentos with satisfaction, and suddenly a large
hairbrush appeared in his hand and was immediately brought down on the
frenziedly squirming buttocks before him. Oleryn yelled even more
desperately at the much sharper thud and sting of the brush and after three
more such strokes, broke down and started to cry. Dwentos nodded his
approval and started what would later become a familiar series of questions
to Oleryn, while maintaining his hard, steady tempo with the brush.
"Why is this happening?"
Oleryn struggled to get his voice back under control. "Once! The -ahh- rule
-noooo- of once!" he yelped.
Dwentos nodded. "What did I remind you about more than once?"
Oleryn cried out miserably as a particularly nasty swat landed on his left
cheek. "Oowwww! Swearing! Oh, please!"
Dwentos realised Oleryn was nearing his limit and he quickly asked his last
question. "Will you do it again?"
"Noooo, no, please, Master, please, never again!!" he howled.
Abruptly, the spanking stopped. The brush vanished as Dwentos returned it
to its drawer inside the house, leaving his hands free to soothe the
desperately sobbing boy over his lap. He smiled at that. A boy. Just
twenty-three sun cycles. So young, and yet trying to assert himself as a
man who knew all there was to know about the world. This boy would be many,
many cycles older and deep into his studies before he realised the
impossibility of trying to know everything.
While these thoughts filled his head, Dwentos' hands were gently rubbing
and caressing the back and fiery bottom of the boy in question, still
weeping over his lap. A moment later, still crying and with his arms still
bound behind him, Oleryn tried to scramble to his feet, fighting as his new
Master held him down.
"No, Oleryn, we started this with you lying calmly over my knee, and that's
how we'll finish it," He said gently. He continued to soothe him with hands
and voice, murmuring soft nonsense words, waiting until the sobs had died
down to hitching breaths and then to Oleryn's usual easy, deep breathing.
Finally he released Oleryn's hands and helped him to stand up and adjust
his hose, but did not let him go as the brightly blushing young man
obviously desired. Instead Oleryn found himself back in that hard lap, this
time face up. He yelped as his aching bottom was squashed with his weight,
but was quickly distracted when Dwentos' arms went gently around his
shoulders and pulled him into a hug.
Tears pricking his eyes again, Oleryn returned the hug, gripping Dwentos
with all of his considerable strength. He had been deeply moved by the
older man's tenderness throughout his punishment, and felt his emotions
careening wildly as fresh sobs rose in his chest. He had never been
punished in such a caring, attentive manner before and, recalling his
earlier contrariness, would now have been happy to acknowledge the
difference between a spanking and hitting.
Dwentos had gone out of his way to emphasise that he was punishing Oleryn's
disobedience, not Oleryn himself, who did not quite know how to handle this
change from his old life. Whenever slaves had been punished by his previous
master, it had always been a public spectacle, the other slaves being
encouraged to view it as a kind of macabre entertainment as well as a
warning to behave. Oleryn himself had been sickened by the bloodlust and
the active disregard for the punished slave's physical well-being, let
along his or her state of mind afterwards. His diffidence had set him
apart, irritating the others, and the Master's favourite slave, perverted
and sadistic, had often given the Master false reasons to have Oleryn
publicly stripped and beaten.
Oleryn shied away from these painful memories, locking them firmly away as
he had done since childhood. Focusing on the present, he felt
wholeheartedly that his new Master would honor the responsibilities of his
position, as well as enjoy the benefits. This man had just demonstrated to
him in the most convincing manner possible that the hellish ways of his old
life were firmly behind him. A feeling of profound relief and overwhelming
gratitude welled up within him, causing him to suddenly extricate himself
from that warm embrace, and kneel before the man he owed his life to. He
bowed his head and tried to compose his chaotic thoughts.
Dwentos' eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"
"Master." Oleryn's voice throbbed with adoration. "I owe you everything - I
- well, there's no way I could ever adeequately repay you, but I pledge to
you, here and now, I will happily serve you for the rest of my life-"
"NO!" Dwentos cut off his impromptu speech abruptly. "That's not why I
called you here! I-" he broke off and stalked a few paces away, his posture
tense and upset.
Oleryn watched him with wide eyes, suddenly feeling a cold rock settle into
his stomach. The most famous, most powerful man in the world had rescued
him, saved him, planned to _educate_ him, something not permitted of
slaves, and yet when Oleryn offered gratitude and repayment in the only way
he knew how, he was spurned. He stared fixedly at the ground, methodically
shoring up his defences again.
Dwentos sighed. Oleryn's distress made his thoughts project like shouting;
it would have been impossible for him not to hear them. Thinking of still,
tranquil lakes, he calmed himself and turned back to the young man, still
kneeling on the ground. Carefully, Dwentos arranged himself in the same
position facing Oleryn, their knees almost touching. Gently taking the
other's hand in his, Dwentos tried to explain himself.
"Oleryn, I know you feel like you owe me everything, and I am honored by
your regard, but you don't need to serve me. To be honest I find the idea
of keeping a fellow human being as a slave to be repugnant, besides which I
obviously have no need for servants. There's also the fact that we shall be
spending many, many years together, and I hope we shall spend them as
friends. Life has been very lonely for me for quite a while now and I will
treasure your company.
"I'm glad you wish to repay me, it shows you have an honest and honorable
soul, but what would please me more than service would be for you to devote
yourself to your studies. I have a lot to teach you and we don't have as
much time as I'd like. Studying may not sound like repayment to you, but I
assure you that if you do, you'll be able to more than repay me later." He
gave the warm hand in his grasp a gentle squeeze. "I hope you can
understand."
Oleryn laughed shakily and returned the gentle pressure. "It's the longest
speech I've heard you make, maybe I should say 'no' just so I could listen
to you again."
Dwentos laughed. "Don't be too hasty, you're going to be heartily fed up of
my voice before too long." He rose to his feet, pulling Oleryn up with him,
and dusted off his hose.
Mimicking his actions, Oleryn glanced at him from under his brows and asked
suspiciously, "Can we clarify something right now, please. If you're
Dwentos you're probably as old as the earth itself-" he hesitated at
Dwentos' look of outrage, before realising it was in jest, and returning
the smile "- but how long exactly are these 'many, many years' you say
we'll be spending together?"
Dwentos' grin broadened. "Don't ask questions when the answers wouldn't
make sense, boy."
Oleryn rolled his eyes. "Great. I get to spend the rest of eternity with a
man who's never going to let me forget that I'm several millennia younger
than he is." His grin was pure mischief. A moment later, Oleryn decided he
could happily listen to Dwentos laugh forever. The man had been sparing
with his words since Oleryn's arrival four days ago - although it now felt
like a lifetime ago - and while Oleryn had learnt a lot about him today, it
had all been very serious and sobering. Dwentos' laugh was like the sun
coming up, shimmering, golden, and to be basked in. For a moment, the world
around him and his new purpose in it wavered into insignificance; it didn't
matter what he did, as long as he was with Dwentos.
The future looked promising.