Disclaimers: Never written one of these but basically, if you know
the name, it doesn't belong to me, if you don't then it does.
Thanks: Thank you to Amand-r for being a pain in my ass and
making me write this. Thanks to Tianyu for dealing with my
phychosis while writing it and foregoing sleep to help me through it.
Verra special thanks to Jamwired for helping with the concept and
title and for being my beta.
I tried to keep this as clean as possible, as far as I know, there is
only a bit o' violence in here. It does, however, deal with children as
slaves.
With a Word
By: Arsenic
Mesopotamia, approx. 3000 BC
The man pushed long locks back from his forehead, impatiently
trying to abate some of the day's oppressive heat. He waded
through the marketplace, attempting not to let its familiar stench
overpower him. Methodically, he worked his way to the stalls
containing those goods for which he had ventured out. Women
smiled appreciatively at the slim twenty-something male, weaving
between goats and melon stands. He wasn't impervious, but he
didn't plan on revealing that either, not until he found one to draw
him from his indifference.
The woman who managed this feat was not one of those standing in
the marketplace. And it was not her looks that caught his attention.
He watched her struggle as she was forced onto the auction block.
Resistance was rare by the time most slaves reached the block.
From the time he was a boy, he had adjusted his reaction to seeing
other humans terrified, cowed and desolate to a flicker of distaste,
instead of the full out nausea that had been his companion to the
slave auctions in his youth. After all, it was a part of what kept their
society running. At least, that seemed to be the most popular
rationalization for the practice.
So it was, that Methos pushed his discomfort with the fact that most
of those people on the block, most particularly the children with
their too-wide eyes and all too visible bone structures were just like
him: orphans. It was not pleasant to think that it was mere luck of
the draw that kept him from referring to another man as master. He
ruthlessly brushed the unsettling thought away and refocused on the
woman, no girl, who had forced him to dredge all this emotion up in
the first place.
He watched with forced apathy as the bids rose until nobody cared
to shout a larger one. He watched her eyes as the auctioneer gave
her over to her new owner. The defiance was still there, but it was
overshadowed by the shock of reality forcing its will upon her. The
old queasiness rose in time with the horror reflected in her gaze.
He was about to turn and convince himself to forget about the
newly-christened slaves who smiled and cried and, well, did all the
things he did, when he heard the girl cry out. The cry was abrupt,
bitten back no sooner than it was released. He whipped around to
see blood welling on her cheek, a thin grotesque red ribbon,
misshapen by the blood that was already dripping from the wound.
The rational part of his mind spoke up, firmly commanding him to
ignore it, turn around, buy what he had ventured out for, and return
home. Methos recognized with only a small amount of regret that it
would not be that voice to haunt him at night, it would be her
scream.
Long legs carried him to where Zuqiqipum, the slave trader, stood,
laughing at the girl's struggles.
"I am impressed by your prowess, overpowering a girl, who, by the
looks of her, hasn't seen food in several days. Could you tell me
how to acquire this....strength?" Methos tilted his head fractionally,
letting the sarcasm fall off his tongue into the words.
"Bad news, Methos, a man of your weak nature could not handle
what I do. Maintaining power over countless slaves is not a job for
the faint." He snarled slightly on the last word.
"You know I love it when the news is bad. Being a horrid excuse
for a human never had much appeal for me..." Methos let the words
trail off as he shrugged. One look at the other man's eyes told him
he had won. Zuqiqipum had not the cunning to fight through
infuriation, nor the control to tamper it and finish the battle of wits.
"Get out of here before I call down the guards on you." Methos
gave the man a caustic smile before turning to leave. He was glad
that he was the one to truly have gained the upper hand as far as
trading insults went, but he was not foolish enough to let himself
feel that he had actually accomplished something here.
Iberia, approx. 1000 BC
Heat always made the smell of fear that much more permeating.
The man, a long way from twenty-something and having shared a
bed with his sword many more nights than he had with a woman,
wove through the marketplace. Women still stared, but the
brazenness was gone. The stares were discreet, the hope that he
would be impervious all too palpable. Methos laughed to himself.
He was impervious, this did not interest him. The rustle of barely
contained chaos and heightened smell of anxiety led him to his
destination.
A slight smile touched his visage at the tableau before him. It was
not a reassuring expression. Old women, young boys, strong men,
ripe girls, they all lined up, waiting their turn. Methos watched their
fidgeting. They all did it. The men always fought against it, but in
the end, he found them clenching fists or jaws or leg muscles. The
women weren't so concerned about appearances. They tugged their
hair, bit at thin lower lips, or chewed already-worn fingernails.
He loved each little motion. They were motions of the powerless,
and he was not among them. His eyes glared with the satisfaction
they took each time he spied the white of his face set off by the blue
of his warpaint. The sale he had walked in during was just ending.
He didn't actually come to buy. There was no reason, not when he
could take whatever he wanted. Why pay for what you could
plunder? No, it was the show he came for. It was hard to
appreciate the desperation of those villagers whose lives the
horsemen destroyed in the moment. Too much excitement, the
pounding of blood was often the only true sensation at the time.
Here, sitting on the outskirts of the slave market, there was no
distraction from his feeling of superiority, his knowledge of just how
much power he held...not only over the scrawny slave boy being
hauled onto the block, but over all the "free" citizens who sat
contemplating the buy.
He wasn't sure what it was about the boy that caught his eye. He
wasn't that different from any of the others: twelve or thirteen, dirty,
sickeningly skinny. Maybe it was the possibility of true good looks
hiding beneath the grime. More likely, it was the way he didn't seem
to realize where he was. All the other boys searched the crowd with
frantic, beseeching glances the minute they were thrown onto the
block. It was instinctual, the hope of finding someone who would
care for them, or at the very least, not abuse them. A worthless
instinct, Methos mused, but present nonetheless. This one didn't.
He searched the slave arena, yes, but not with any sense of urgency.
It was almost as if he were there merely to observe, not take part in
any of the proceedings. It was a slow, leisurely perusal of his
surroundings. When he was done, he seemed to take great interest
in the slave trader, not his words, just the mannerisms.
Before he could think about what he was doing, Methos had placed
a bid on the slave. It was only after he had called out the bid that he
recognized the action for what it was. *What are you doing? There
aren't enough slaves back at the camp?* Methos decided to ignore
this reasonable, but rather insolent voice in his mind, doing its best
to intrude upon his pleasure.
It did not take him long to realize that no one dared raise the bid
over his. Not that it mattered, he wasn't truly going to pay for the
slave anyway, the idea was laughable. No, he amended that
thought....he would pay for the slave. Let the slave trader enjoy the
money. For the next few hours of his life. Methos would use those
hours to coax the calm out of this new acquisition's glance. And not
with coaxing of a gentle nature. Come evening, the brothers would
ride again.
---
Methos spared no thought for gentleness as he grabbed the boy's
upper arm and hauled him onto the horse. Satisfied that the slave
wouldn't fall off, Methos lightly caressed the area on the boy's arm
where the imprints from his fingers had turned an angry red.
Methos' lip curled up in what was not quite a smile at the thought of
the bruises that would form soon.
It was with some amusement that Methos found not even the
roughness of the gesture had broken the boy's composure. He
leaned back into the horse and contemplated the challenge that the
boy offered, one he gladly accepted. The fact that the boy had not
so much as whimpered from the pain set him thinking. He would
have to teach the boy fear, yes, but not by pain....no, he would do it
with words, mind games. The half-smile spread to a genuine, if
sadistic, grin.
"What is your name, boy?" The voice was soft, deceptively
soothing.
"Muno," Methos wanted to laugh at the steadiness of the child's
voice.
"Well then, Muno, when things are going badly for me, I tell myself
that life can only get worse if I let myself believe it will. I work to
make the bad seem good." He felt the slender body relax against
him at the words. "Use the technique all you want, there will be no
way of making the bad good with me, no way of changing the
nightmares to dreams, enjoy your illusions, they will be all you
have." Methos tone had not changed in the slightest, it was still that
of a mother calming her children before bedtime. The body in front
of him no longer reclined though; rather, he rode stiffly in the
saddle. The boy's breaths came faster now.
*Losing calm so fast are we??* Methos was only slightly
disappointed, after all, a slave could be just as much fun once
broken.
Mesopotamia, approx. 3000 BC
Methos finished the bartering for the goods he had sought and
headed from the market with home as his destination. He had no
idea what drew him back to the slave pens for the second time that
day, but he found himself passing the holding area, no more than
cages for humans, and looking into the eyes of a child. The child
stared out past the cage's barriers, his fear evident in the feverish
glow of his eyes and the tremble of fingers clutching tightly at his
confines.
Discreetly, Methos knelt down to the boy's level and passed him part
of the bread loaf he had just purchased fresh. The boy's eyes
widened at the unexpected gift and trembling fingers moved quickly
to hide the treasure within the rags that substituted for his clothing.
Unsure what drew him to say anything to the boy, Methos spoke
softly,
"Whenever things are terribly bad for me, if I'm afraid, or very sad, I
just keep telling myself that it can only get worse if I let myself
believe that it will, or that I feel good when things are going wrong.
It sounds foolish at first, maybe even for a long time, but you can
make yourself believe anything. Make the bad seem good." He
paused, "I am sorry I cannot make it truly good." To his surprise,
the horror in the boys eyes slowly began to fade until, finally, the
semblance of calm gained control.
---
Lyrics used: "You know I love it when the news is bad" and "I feel
good when things are going wrong"