Sugar & Spice 2
Feb. 13th, 2007 06:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrMany thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tygati for fixing my errors ^___^
Chapter Two
“My things will be delivered?”
“Yes, Master Cyriacus,” the Captain said calmly. “Eight trunks and ten barrels of wine. They were the first thing we unloaded.” He nodded down the gangplank to where sailors were carefully unloading the ship’s cargo and hauling it away.
Cyriacus nodded, thanked the man for all his help over the course of the long journey, and finally left the ship. He reached solid ground and simply stood.
Home. After eight years he was home. The smells, the sounds, the voices, rhythms, sights…all so familiar and so strange. Jubilation and agony roiled within him. He was finally home, but it didn’t feel like home. Not really. Longing made every bit of him ache, and Cyriacus forced the thoughts and pain away. He was home, that was a reason to be happy.
Not a reason to feel homesick. He closed his eyes and let himself pretend for a moment that he was back in the Sands, sun shining through the tent, his lover surrounding him, buried deep inside him.
Havaramina and the Lady, he hadn’t known it would hurt this much.
With a rough sound, he forced the thoughts aside. He needed to remember he was back in Havarin, and that shortly he would be reunited with his father and brothers. That was cause for celebration. Thinking of the brothers he’d sorely missed, Cyriacus managed to find a genuine smile.
The odd looks cast his way amused him, and as he left the harbor he was feeling much more himself – at least as much as himself as he could feel when his other half was an ocean away. He dismissed the offer of a palanquin, choosing to walk the streets he’d grown up in to reacquaint himself with his homeland.
Everything and nothing had changed. All the buildings were the same, minus the wear and tear of eight years, but on many the awning and signs had changed. New faces beckoned him to their shops and stalls, and those faces that looked vaguely familiar clearly did not recognize him.
Not that he would have expected them to.
Chuckling softly, Cyriacus picked up his pace, pleased that he still remembered all the shortcuts through the shopping districts to the center of the city where the nobility dwelt. A few minutes later the wall surrounding his home came into view, the manor itself towering behind it. Made of pale Havarin stone, three hundred years old and as solid and fine as the day it was built. Between the house and the wall was a yard filled with lush trees and colorful wildflowers, a beautiful garden meant to awe visitors and passerby who saw through the heavy iron of the gate.
It was good to be back in Havarin, at least for a time. When he reached the gate, it was of course locked. Laughing softly, Cyriacus quickly scaled the gate and landed lightly in the yard. Standing, he smoothed his dark robes before striding toward the house, eager now to finally see his family again.
The door, strangely, was open. Cyriacus frowned, concern stirring senses that had been woken and honed by his education abroad. Honoratus would never be so careless. Silently Cyriacus moved through the house that seemed not to have changed at all in the years he’d been gone. As he passed through the halls and rooms, his feeling of disquiet grew. He should have seen someone by now…a servant at the very least.
A hoarse cry of pain cut through him, and Cyriacus bolted for the garden at the back of the house, halting in the doorway to take in the sight before him.
Four men, burly and large, rough-looking, stood over two figures lying on the marble tile of the pavilion in the center of the garden, by the fountain his father had put in when he was just a boy.
One of the prone figures he immediately recognized – that dark, honey-gold hair, somewhat wavy…it was shorter now than eight years ago, but Cyriacus would know his big brother anywhere. These bastards, whoever they were, had hurt his brother.
“Cease at once,” he snarled as stalked toward them.
As one the four rough men turned toward him, sneers on their faces. “Do not interfere, boy,” the nearest of the four said. “This is none of your business.”
From the ground, Honoratus looked up at the sound of a stranger. He frowned, confused – then shock filled his face. Ordinarily, Cyriacus would have laughed long and loud to see that expression of shock. Right now, he was too enraged by the bruise on Honoratus’ cheek, the blood dripping from his lip.
“You have harmed my brother,” he said coldly. “That is certainly my business.”
“Only if you want to be treated to more of the same,” another man said, cracking his knuckles.
Cyriacus laughed. He knew what they saw. He still wore Tavamaran-style pants and tunic, dark cinnamon in color, with a burnt-umber sash wrapped low on his hips and ankle boots. His skin was dark gold from his years abroad, dark gold hair cut short to accommodate the crippling heat of Tavamara. Despite the filling out and toning of his muscles, he maintained the slender build he’d been born with, and even before he’d taken up his intensive studies and determined to go abroad, he had the ‘air of a scholar.’ People looked at him and assumed he was weak.
As these four did. They attacked him as a group, two on either side. With a battle cry learned from his lover, Cyriacus attacked – swiftly, brutally, long ago inured to the unsettling sound of bones snapping, crunching. He looked dispassionately at the piles of men surrounding him. “Get out or you will be carried to the crematorium.” Meaning he would kill them.
Slowly the men picked themselves up, helping where they could, slowly shuffling out, hurtling threats over their shoulders.
Cyriacus dismissed them and turned to his brother and the other figure – a servant, from the looks, unconscious. He looked to be sporting a nasty bruise, but otherwise seemed all right. Even as he stood up and moved toward Honoratus, servants appeared to help. He ignored them in favor of helping his brother up.
“You—I didn’t recognize…you shouldn’t have done that to them, Cyri.” Honoratus shook his head, looking far older than he should at thirty-one. Suddenly he threw his arms around Cyriacus. “Cyri, you’re home! I cannot believe you’re home!”
Returning the embrace, Cyriacus let himself forget all his worries and miseries for a moment. Except those surrounding his brother. “You’re hurt, Honor. What in the name of the Goddess is going on here?”
Honoratus laughed bitterly, sadly. “You have missed much. Some part of me longed to see you, little brother, but most of me was hoping you had decided to stay abroad. I did not want you to see me…us…like this.” He closed his dark green eyes, then slowly opened them again. They were filled with so much pain it took Cyriacus’ breath away. “Father…” Honoratus shook his head. “Come, Cyri, there is much awful news which I suppose you will have to hear…I only hope you do not hate me.”
“I could never hate you. We are brothers.”
“You have not heard what I must tell you,” Honoratus said with a sad smile. “Those men will send others to take revenge.”
Cyriacus frowned and settled down into a fat cushion beside a low table that looked as though it should have been replaced some years ago. He remembered eating breakfast off this table, tending to his earliest studies…it should have been replaced then, never mind now. The family room – where they ate, relaxed, secluded themselves away from the world – was the same green and yellow it had always been, bright and cheerful, casual and relaxed. The carpets and hangings were as worn as the table, though, something that wasn’t like his brother, who had tended to the household ever since their father had succumbed to wine.
Something was deeply wrong.
“Where is Felix, by the way?” He looked around as though expecting his little brother to suddenly appear. Felix…he had always been able to make them smile, no matter what.
His eyes widened as he looked at Honoratus – who looked as though he were very much close to crying. “Honor…by Havaramina, what is wrong around here?”
Honoratus seemed to all but collapse before him, as though his shoulders were no longer up to the weight resting upon them. “Cyri…I wish you had stayed far, far away.” Slowly, painfully, Honoratus began to explain everything.
The way a ‘fondness’ for wine had turned into an addiction to valtyanar. Cyriacus shuddered to think of their father addicted to that awful, potent drug. He felt himself growing colder and colder as Honoratus recounted the way the addiction had cost the family its fortune…how it had led to being entangled in Riptide, the most powerful of the five gangs in Minatolus, sacred capital of Havarin.
Cyriacus closed his eyes and was heartily grateful when a servant ghosted briefly in with a tray of wine, bread, and cheese. “How do we even afford servants, Honor?”
“There is a little money, now. It was quite close, but…father is weak now, unable to leave his bed. No one knows the real reason, thank the Goddess. I am better able to keep the drug from him, keep what little money we have coming in.” He made a sound like a choked sob. “Still it is not enough, though.” He slammed a fist down hard on the table, wine splashing from his cup with the force of it. “Never enough! How Felix must hate me…” He buried his face in his hands.
“What…where is Felix?”
Tersely, miserably, Honoratus told him.
Cyriacus stared in shock, unable to comprehend what he was being told. “No…Honor…how…”
“They would have killed him and told the world the truth, otherwise. I wanted to find another way, but Felix refused. He went with Riptide quietly…I have not seen him once these three years, though occasionally he is allowed to send me a note.” He picked up his wine and swallowed it one long gulp. “I hate myself, Cyri, you have no idea. Being made to tell you all of this…I hate myself even more.”
“Don’t,” Cyriacus replied. “Obviously you have done the best you can. How much of the debt is left to be paid?”
Honoratus told him.
Cyriacus winced. “I cannot cover that…I do not think your princess could cover that.” He shook his head. “We must do something.”
“I have been trying to figure out what for the past six years, Cyri. Perhaps you will find the solution I never could…” He shook his head and looked at Cyriacus for a long moment. “Set it aside, for the moment, and tell me how you have come to be so very different than the young, quiet scholar you left as. I did not recognize you at first, so very much a heathen you have become.”
“More than you know,” Cyriacus said with a smile. “My story is a long one, however. If you do not mind, I would very much like a bath first…”
Honoratus blanched. “Of course, Cyri! Forgive me, I fail at everything these days it seems, even properly welcoming my brother home.”
Cyriacus could not bear the misery on that face. He stood and moved around the table to embrace his brother. “Honor, you’re not a failure. I could never have endured things the way you have.”
“Looking at you now, I highly doubt that little brother,” Honor said with a weak smile. “I will have a proper meal prepared, go get clean.”
Giving his brother another quick embrace, Cyriacus stood and made his way to the baths. Nodding to the servants who left after setting out bathing supplies, Cyriacus quickly stripped out of his things and scrubbed down three times to get rid of all the grime of months at sea.
His fingers traced the scars across his thigh, abdomen, and chest. Each from a battle, but none of them as bad as the marks that had introduced him to life among the ‘savages’. He smiled faintly at the memories that washed over him -- those first days had been the worst of his life, but they had rapidly led to the best. He would not trade his scars and the events that had put them there for all the gold in the world.
…Though perhaps he should, as it would seem his brother had become the greatest victim of their father’s cursed addiction. Rage and hate ripped through him, and Cyriacus drew a sharp breath at the depth of it. His father had always been weak when it came to wine; it was something with which they’d all grown up, gotten used to. The man was aggravating, but they’d never hated him…
But what sort of man allowed his youngest child to be sold to a brothel to cover the cost of an addiction? Cyriacus curled a fist in rage and forced himself to take deep, steadying breaths. Anger would not help. He’d always been admired for his rational thinking when others lost their head. It had saved lives more than once. Now it would have to save Felix.
He slid into the hot water of the marble bath with a groan of pleasure. By the Lady, he was going to cross the ocean one more time and then never leave the Sands again. Lost in the luxurious heat of the bath, he didn’t hear someone come in until Honor’s horrified gasps broke into his thoughts.
Cyriacus whipped around, hot water splashing about, and took in Honor’s pale, stricken face. “Honor, it’s all right.”
Honor started a bit longer before the words registered. “All right? It’s not all right! Cyri, what happened to you? What in the name of Havaramina did those heathen bastards do to you?” He made a sound like a pained moan, hands balling into fists. “I never should have let you leave.”
Sighing, Cyriacus climbed to the edge of the bath and hauled himself out, then strode to rest his hands on Honor’s shoulders. “Brother. I am fine. All the heathens did was teach me how little I truly knew about myself.” He strode to where a dark blue robe had been laid out for him and shrugged into it, hiding the scars of a brutal flogging that covered his back from shoulders to ass. Fifty lashes, to insult and humiliate the Sheik of the Spider Tribe. “I went to Tavamara for an education. I got it. Do not feel sorry for me. I am happy with what I learned.”
Pain sliced through him to think of who had taught him so many of those lessons.
“If you are happy,” Honor demanded, “Why do you look so miserable?”
“Because I left my heart in the sands, Honor,” Cyriacus said with a sigh. “I am also afraid he will not accept me when I return.” He looked at his brother, face solemn. “I do plan on going back. I came here to visit, to bid my family a final farewell.”
Honor nodded slowly, face blank but eyes dark. “I want you to be happy, Cyri.”
“We should all be happy,” Cyriacus replied firmly. “I will see to it all is set to rights before I leave again.” He embraced Honor tightly. “Please, Honor. Worry about Felix, not me.”
“I worry about everyone.” But the strain in Honor’s voice had eased some. “Still, I am glad that you found happiness, little brother. Now come and tell me why I should not be enraged about those scars upon your back.”
Cyriacus chuckled and walked with Honor through the halls of their old house to settle at the table where they’d been before. The smell of fresh cooked meat and bread filled his nostrils, made his stomach growl, and he saw that someone had remembered all his old favorites. If there was one thing he had missed about home besides his family, it had been Havarin food. He loved the food of Tavamara and the Desert…but there was much to be said for what he had grown up with. Sitting down, Cyriacus tore eagerly into the food, not pausing until his brother’s chuckles finally broke in.
Smiling sheepishly, he swallowed the bite of bread in his mouth and washed it down with a light, sweet, Havarin wine. Remarkably weak next to the potent stuff he was now used to, but refreshing.
“Tell me, Cyri.”
“Of course,” Cyriacus said with a smile. “I was studying in Tavamara for about two years, steadily building up connections, relationships, gaining access to more places and people. Then, one day, towards the end of my second year, I was invited to stay a time with a tribe which frequently did business with some of the merchants along the eastern edge of Tavamara. Eager to learn more of the ‘savages’ after all I’d read and heard about them, I agreed. In exchange for my being allowed to stay with them, I was tutoring several of them in western language and custom. Three months into my stay with the Spider Tribe, it was attacked. In the chaos, I was kidnapped alongside the Sheik’s youngest son.”
“We were kidnapped by a rival Tribe. The Viper Tribe kidnapped me and the Sheik’s youngest son in repayment for the crippling of Viper’s Amir.” He smiled apologetically at his brother’s confused look. “A Sheik is chief of a Tribe. The Amir is the next in line, usually the Sheik’s eldest son. Spider had badly wounded the Viper Amir in a battle, and Viper exacted revenge. I was taken by mistake, and so that they would not kill me outright Jahangir, the man kidnapped alongside me, made them think I was of more importance than I was. To humiliate the Spider Sheik, Viper intended to break us. They started by flogging us. I endured fifty lashes before I passed out. Jahangir endured eighty.”
Those first several nights had been brutal. For a week after that first beating Viper had left them in relative peace, content to let them partially heal before starting the next round of humiliations. Even then, he’d known Viper’s intent had been to dump their bodies where Spider would be sure to find them, for the Spider Sheik to see just what his beloved son and (so they’d thought) paramour had been forced to endure, how humiliatingly they’d been treated before dying.
He and Jahangir had hated each other then. They endured it, as Jahangir had no choice but to learn what Cyriacus had no choice but to teach. He’d thought Jahangir a cold, unfeeling bastard. Jahangir had thought him a weak, pathetic heathen.
When Jahangir had saved his life by leading Viper to think he was the Sheik’s paramour, something had shifted. It would have been easier for Jahangir to escape without him. No one in Tavamara or the Desert would have missed yet another misplaced foreigner. Yet Jahangir had ensured he lived long enough for them both to manage an escape.
Much, much later, Jahangir had confessed when his own feelings had changed – when he’d watched a man unused to any of the Desert’s hardships take fifty lashes with only two brief cries.
Escaping had forced Cyriacus to kill a man for the first time, but the only other option had been to risk recapture. They’d made it back to Spider in a week, bloody, exhausted, and sick from too much sun.
When they’d both finally recovered…something had changed. Jahangir was different in his eyes, and the avid dislike he was used to seeing in dark caramel eyes was absent. Two months after their initial capture, they were lovers.
Several years later, he was a full member of the Spider Tribe and Jahangir’s partner in all things. He’d learned in every way how to be a proper savage, and Jahangir had said more than once that the ease with which he took to it only proved how much he was truly meant to be a Son of the Lady of the Sands.
Hopefully, he still was. Jahangir had been furious, though, that Cyriacus wanted to return to Havarin. He’d refused to understand why he’d want to leave when he belonged to the Desert now – body, mind, and soul. When Cyriacus had left, Jahangir had been pointedly absent to bid him farewell. It had hurt. It still hurt. Hopefully the stubborn bastard would be waiting for him upon his return.
If not, Cyriacus fully intended to administer a few beatings of his own until the fool got the sand knocked out of his head.
Smiling faintly, he finished recounting the full tale to his brother.
When he finished, Honor shook his head slowly back and forth, expression stunned. “I never knew you had it in you.” He smiled, though there was still a great deal of shock in it. “I am happy for you. Felix will love to hear the story; it sounds like something the playhouses would produce.”
Cyriacus chuckled. “I often find it hard to believe it happened to me.” His smile turned suddenly cold. “Oddly enough, I think it will be exactly what we need to help Felix and ensure Riptide never bothers us again.”
Honor sighed, looking twice his age. “I hope so.”
“I know so.”
tygati for fixing my errors ^___^Chapter Two
“My things will be delivered?”
“Yes, Master Cyriacus,” the Captain said calmly. “Eight trunks and ten barrels of wine. They were the first thing we unloaded.” He nodded down the gangplank to where sailors were carefully unloading the ship’s cargo and hauling it away.
Cyriacus nodded, thanked the man for all his help over the course of the long journey, and finally left the ship. He reached solid ground and simply stood.
Home. After eight years he was home. The smells, the sounds, the voices, rhythms, sights…all so familiar and so strange. Jubilation and agony roiled within him. He was finally home, but it didn’t feel like home. Not really. Longing made every bit of him ache, and Cyriacus forced the thoughts and pain away. He was home, that was a reason to be happy.
Not a reason to feel homesick. He closed his eyes and let himself pretend for a moment that he was back in the Sands, sun shining through the tent, his lover surrounding him, buried deep inside him.
Havaramina and the Lady, he hadn’t known it would hurt this much.
With a rough sound, he forced the thoughts aside. He needed to remember he was back in Havarin, and that shortly he would be reunited with his father and brothers. That was cause for celebration. Thinking of the brothers he’d sorely missed, Cyriacus managed to find a genuine smile.
The odd looks cast his way amused him, and as he left the harbor he was feeling much more himself – at least as much as himself as he could feel when his other half was an ocean away. He dismissed the offer of a palanquin, choosing to walk the streets he’d grown up in to reacquaint himself with his homeland.
Everything and nothing had changed. All the buildings were the same, minus the wear and tear of eight years, but on many the awning and signs had changed. New faces beckoned him to their shops and stalls, and those faces that looked vaguely familiar clearly did not recognize him.
Not that he would have expected them to.
Chuckling softly, Cyriacus picked up his pace, pleased that he still remembered all the shortcuts through the shopping districts to the center of the city where the nobility dwelt. A few minutes later the wall surrounding his home came into view, the manor itself towering behind it. Made of pale Havarin stone, three hundred years old and as solid and fine as the day it was built. Between the house and the wall was a yard filled with lush trees and colorful wildflowers, a beautiful garden meant to awe visitors and passerby who saw through the heavy iron of the gate.
It was good to be back in Havarin, at least for a time. When he reached the gate, it was of course locked. Laughing softly, Cyriacus quickly scaled the gate and landed lightly in the yard. Standing, he smoothed his dark robes before striding toward the house, eager now to finally see his family again.
The door, strangely, was open. Cyriacus frowned, concern stirring senses that had been woken and honed by his education abroad. Honoratus would never be so careless. Silently Cyriacus moved through the house that seemed not to have changed at all in the years he’d been gone. As he passed through the halls and rooms, his feeling of disquiet grew. He should have seen someone by now…a servant at the very least.
A hoarse cry of pain cut through him, and Cyriacus bolted for the garden at the back of the house, halting in the doorway to take in the sight before him.
Four men, burly and large, rough-looking, stood over two figures lying on the marble tile of the pavilion in the center of the garden, by the fountain his father had put in when he was just a boy.
One of the prone figures he immediately recognized – that dark, honey-gold hair, somewhat wavy…it was shorter now than eight years ago, but Cyriacus would know his big brother anywhere. These bastards, whoever they were, had hurt his brother.
“Cease at once,” he snarled as stalked toward them.
As one the four rough men turned toward him, sneers on their faces. “Do not interfere, boy,” the nearest of the four said. “This is none of your business.”
From the ground, Honoratus looked up at the sound of a stranger. He frowned, confused – then shock filled his face. Ordinarily, Cyriacus would have laughed long and loud to see that expression of shock. Right now, he was too enraged by the bruise on Honoratus’ cheek, the blood dripping from his lip.
“You have harmed my brother,” he said coldly. “That is certainly my business.”
“Only if you want to be treated to more of the same,” another man said, cracking his knuckles.
Cyriacus laughed. He knew what they saw. He still wore Tavamaran-style pants and tunic, dark cinnamon in color, with a burnt-umber sash wrapped low on his hips and ankle boots. His skin was dark gold from his years abroad, dark gold hair cut short to accommodate the crippling heat of Tavamara. Despite the filling out and toning of his muscles, he maintained the slender build he’d been born with, and even before he’d taken up his intensive studies and determined to go abroad, he had the ‘air of a scholar.’ People looked at him and assumed he was weak.
As these four did. They attacked him as a group, two on either side. With a battle cry learned from his lover, Cyriacus attacked – swiftly, brutally, long ago inured to the unsettling sound of bones snapping, crunching. He looked dispassionately at the piles of men surrounding him. “Get out or you will be carried to the crematorium.” Meaning he would kill them.
Slowly the men picked themselves up, helping where they could, slowly shuffling out, hurtling threats over their shoulders.
Cyriacus dismissed them and turned to his brother and the other figure – a servant, from the looks, unconscious. He looked to be sporting a nasty bruise, but otherwise seemed all right. Even as he stood up and moved toward Honoratus, servants appeared to help. He ignored them in favor of helping his brother up.
“You—I didn’t recognize…you shouldn’t have done that to them, Cyri.” Honoratus shook his head, looking far older than he should at thirty-one. Suddenly he threw his arms around Cyriacus. “Cyri, you’re home! I cannot believe you’re home!”
Returning the embrace, Cyriacus let himself forget all his worries and miseries for a moment. Except those surrounding his brother. “You’re hurt, Honor. What in the name of the Goddess is going on here?”
Honoratus laughed bitterly, sadly. “You have missed much. Some part of me longed to see you, little brother, but most of me was hoping you had decided to stay abroad. I did not want you to see me…us…like this.” He closed his dark green eyes, then slowly opened them again. They were filled with so much pain it took Cyriacus’ breath away. “Father…” Honoratus shook his head. “Come, Cyri, there is much awful news which I suppose you will have to hear…I only hope you do not hate me.”
“I could never hate you. We are brothers.”
“You have not heard what I must tell you,” Honoratus said with a sad smile. “Those men will send others to take revenge.”
Cyriacus frowned and settled down into a fat cushion beside a low table that looked as though it should have been replaced some years ago. He remembered eating breakfast off this table, tending to his earliest studies…it should have been replaced then, never mind now. The family room – where they ate, relaxed, secluded themselves away from the world – was the same green and yellow it had always been, bright and cheerful, casual and relaxed. The carpets and hangings were as worn as the table, though, something that wasn’t like his brother, who had tended to the household ever since their father had succumbed to wine.
Something was deeply wrong.
“Where is Felix, by the way?” He looked around as though expecting his little brother to suddenly appear. Felix…he had always been able to make them smile, no matter what.
His eyes widened as he looked at Honoratus – who looked as though he were very much close to crying. “Honor…by Havaramina, what is wrong around here?”
Honoratus seemed to all but collapse before him, as though his shoulders were no longer up to the weight resting upon them. “Cyri…I wish you had stayed far, far away.” Slowly, painfully, Honoratus began to explain everything.
The way a ‘fondness’ for wine had turned into an addiction to valtyanar. Cyriacus shuddered to think of their father addicted to that awful, potent drug. He felt himself growing colder and colder as Honoratus recounted the way the addiction had cost the family its fortune…how it had led to being entangled in Riptide, the most powerful of the five gangs in Minatolus, sacred capital of Havarin.
Cyriacus closed his eyes and was heartily grateful when a servant ghosted briefly in with a tray of wine, bread, and cheese. “How do we even afford servants, Honor?”
“There is a little money, now. It was quite close, but…father is weak now, unable to leave his bed. No one knows the real reason, thank the Goddess. I am better able to keep the drug from him, keep what little money we have coming in.” He made a sound like a choked sob. “Still it is not enough, though.” He slammed a fist down hard on the table, wine splashing from his cup with the force of it. “Never enough! How Felix must hate me…” He buried his face in his hands.
“What…where is Felix?”
Tersely, miserably, Honoratus told him.
Cyriacus stared in shock, unable to comprehend what he was being told. “No…Honor…how…”
“They would have killed him and told the world the truth, otherwise. I wanted to find another way, but Felix refused. He went with Riptide quietly…I have not seen him once these three years, though occasionally he is allowed to send me a note.” He picked up his wine and swallowed it one long gulp. “I hate myself, Cyri, you have no idea. Being made to tell you all of this…I hate myself even more.”
“Don’t,” Cyriacus replied. “Obviously you have done the best you can. How much of the debt is left to be paid?”
Honoratus told him.
Cyriacus winced. “I cannot cover that…I do not think your princess could cover that.” He shook his head. “We must do something.”
“I have been trying to figure out what for the past six years, Cyri. Perhaps you will find the solution I never could…” He shook his head and looked at Cyriacus for a long moment. “Set it aside, for the moment, and tell me how you have come to be so very different than the young, quiet scholar you left as. I did not recognize you at first, so very much a heathen you have become.”
“More than you know,” Cyriacus said with a smile. “My story is a long one, however. If you do not mind, I would very much like a bath first…”
Honoratus blanched. “Of course, Cyri! Forgive me, I fail at everything these days it seems, even properly welcoming my brother home.”
Cyriacus could not bear the misery on that face. He stood and moved around the table to embrace his brother. “Honor, you’re not a failure. I could never have endured things the way you have.”
“Looking at you now, I highly doubt that little brother,” Honor said with a weak smile. “I will have a proper meal prepared, go get clean.”
Giving his brother another quick embrace, Cyriacus stood and made his way to the baths. Nodding to the servants who left after setting out bathing supplies, Cyriacus quickly stripped out of his things and scrubbed down three times to get rid of all the grime of months at sea.
His fingers traced the scars across his thigh, abdomen, and chest. Each from a battle, but none of them as bad as the marks that had introduced him to life among the ‘savages’. He smiled faintly at the memories that washed over him -- those first days had been the worst of his life, but they had rapidly led to the best. He would not trade his scars and the events that had put them there for all the gold in the world.
…Though perhaps he should, as it would seem his brother had become the greatest victim of their father’s cursed addiction. Rage and hate ripped through him, and Cyriacus drew a sharp breath at the depth of it. His father had always been weak when it came to wine; it was something with which they’d all grown up, gotten used to. The man was aggravating, but they’d never hated him…
But what sort of man allowed his youngest child to be sold to a brothel to cover the cost of an addiction? Cyriacus curled a fist in rage and forced himself to take deep, steadying breaths. Anger would not help. He’d always been admired for his rational thinking when others lost their head. It had saved lives more than once. Now it would have to save Felix.
He slid into the hot water of the marble bath with a groan of pleasure. By the Lady, he was going to cross the ocean one more time and then never leave the Sands again. Lost in the luxurious heat of the bath, he didn’t hear someone come in until Honor’s horrified gasps broke into his thoughts.
Cyriacus whipped around, hot water splashing about, and took in Honor’s pale, stricken face. “Honor, it’s all right.”
Honor started a bit longer before the words registered. “All right? It’s not all right! Cyri, what happened to you? What in the name of Havaramina did those heathen bastards do to you?” He made a sound like a pained moan, hands balling into fists. “I never should have let you leave.”
Sighing, Cyriacus climbed to the edge of the bath and hauled himself out, then strode to rest his hands on Honor’s shoulders. “Brother. I am fine. All the heathens did was teach me how little I truly knew about myself.” He strode to where a dark blue robe had been laid out for him and shrugged into it, hiding the scars of a brutal flogging that covered his back from shoulders to ass. Fifty lashes, to insult and humiliate the Sheik of the Spider Tribe. “I went to Tavamara for an education. I got it. Do not feel sorry for me. I am happy with what I learned.”
Pain sliced through him to think of who had taught him so many of those lessons.
“If you are happy,” Honor demanded, “Why do you look so miserable?”
“Because I left my heart in the sands, Honor,” Cyriacus said with a sigh. “I am also afraid he will not accept me when I return.” He looked at his brother, face solemn. “I do plan on going back. I came here to visit, to bid my family a final farewell.”
Honor nodded slowly, face blank but eyes dark. “I want you to be happy, Cyri.”
“We should all be happy,” Cyriacus replied firmly. “I will see to it all is set to rights before I leave again.” He embraced Honor tightly. “Please, Honor. Worry about Felix, not me.”
“I worry about everyone.” But the strain in Honor’s voice had eased some. “Still, I am glad that you found happiness, little brother. Now come and tell me why I should not be enraged about those scars upon your back.”
Cyriacus chuckled and walked with Honor through the halls of their old house to settle at the table where they’d been before. The smell of fresh cooked meat and bread filled his nostrils, made his stomach growl, and he saw that someone had remembered all his old favorites. If there was one thing he had missed about home besides his family, it had been Havarin food. He loved the food of Tavamara and the Desert…but there was much to be said for what he had grown up with. Sitting down, Cyriacus tore eagerly into the food, not pausing until his brother’s chuckles finally broke in.
Smiling sheepishly, he swallowed the bite of bread in his mouth and washed it down with a light, sweet, Havarin wine. Remarkably weak next to the potent stuff he was now used to, but refreshing.
“Tell me, Cyri.”
“Of course,” Cyriacus said with a smile. “I was studying in Tavamara for about two years, steadily building up connections, relationships, gaining access to more places and people. Then, one day, towards the end of my second year, I was invited to stay a time with a tribe which frequently did business with some of the merchants along the eastern edge of Tavamara. Eager to learn more of the ‘savages’ after all I’d read and heard about them, I agreed. In exchange for my being allowed to stay with them, I was tutoring several of them in western language and custom. Three months into my stay with the Spider Tribe, it was attacked. In the chaos, I was kidnapped alongside the Sheik’s youngest son.”
“We were kidnapped by a rival Tribe. The Viper Tribe kidnapped me and the Sheik’s youngest son in repayment for the crippling of Viper’s Amir.” He smiled apologetically at his brother’s confused look. “A Sheik is chief of a Tribe. The Amir is the next in line, usually the Sheik’s eldest son. Spider had badly wounded the Viper Amir in a battle, and Viper exacted revenge. I was taken by mistake, and so that they would not kill me outright Jahangir, the man kidnapped alongside me, made them think I was of more importance than I was. To humiliate the Spider Sheik, Viper intended to break us. They started by flogging us. I endured fifty lashes before I passed out. Jahangir endured eighty.”
Those first several nights had been brutal. For a week after that first beating Viper had left them in relative peace, content to let them partially heal before starting the next round of humiliations. Even then, he’d known Viper’s intent had been to dump their bodies where Spider would be sure to find them, for the Spider Sheik to see just what his beloved son and (so they’d thought) paramour had been forced to endure, how humiliatingly they’d been treated before dying.
He and Jahangir had hated each other then. They endured it, as Jahangir had no choice but to learn what Cyriacus had no choice but to teach. He’d thought Jahangir a cold, unfeeling bastard. Jahangir had thought him a weak, pathetic heathen.
When Jahangir had saved his life by leading Viper to think he was the Sheik’s paramour, something had shifted. It would have been easier for Jahangir to escape without him. No one in Tavamara or the Desert would have missed yet another misplaced foreigner. Yet Jahangir had ensured he lived long enough for them both to manage an escape.
Much, much later, Jahangir had confessed when his own feelings had changed – when he’d watched a man unused to any of the Desert’s hardships take fifty lashes with only two brief cries.
Escaping had forced Cyriacus to kill a man for the first time, but the only other option had been to risk recapture. They’d made it back to Spider in a week, bloody, exhausted, and sick from too much sun.
When they’d both finally recovered…something had changed. Jahangir was different in his eyes, and the avid dislike he was used to seeing in dark caramel eyes was absent. Two months after their initial capture, they were lovers.
Several years later, he was a full member of the Spider Tribe and Jahangir’s partner in all things. He’d learned in every way how to be a proper savage, and Jahangir had said more than once that the ease with which he took to it only proved how much he was truly meant to be a Son of the Lady of the Sands.
Hopefully, he still was. Jahangir had been furious, though, that Cyriacus wanted to return to Havarin. He’d refused to understand why he’d want to leave when he belonged to the Desert now – body, mind, and soul. When Cyriacus had left, Jahangir had been pointedly absent to bid him farewell. It had hurt. It still hurt. Hopefully the stubborn bastard would be waiting for him upon his return.
If not, Cyriacus fully intended to administer a few beatings of his own until the fool got the sand knocked out of his head.
Smiling faintly, he finished recounting the full tale to his brother.
When he finished, Honor shook his head slowly back and forth, expression stunned. “I never knew you had it in you.” He smiled, though there was still a great deal of shock in it. “I am happy for you. Felix will love to hear the story; it sounds like something the playhouses would produce.”
Cyriacus chuckled. “I often find it hard to believe it happened to me.” His smile turned suddenly cold. “Oddly enough, I think it will be exactly what we need to help Felix and ensure Riptide never bothers us again.”
Honor sighed, looking twice his age. “I hope so.”
“I know so.”
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Date: 2007-02-14 01:19 am (UTC)Poor Honor. He really does seem to be floundering and trying to keep everyone afloat and not doing particularly well. How bittersweet, to have your brother come home and be happy to see him and yet ashamed to see him at the same time.
Aaaaaand I love Cyriacus. *___________* I love the backstory on him too. *hearts* Here I was thinking that he was all holed up in some library in Tamavara, but he was really out playing in the Tribes. XD *twirls you about* Have I mentioned how much I love this verse? Cause seriously. Seriously! *______*!! I do not envy Riptide for having to deal with Cyri. ^_^ (Also, *gives Jahangir a small kick in the pants* that's no way to treat a lover, love. Goooo affffter him! *_____*)
*tackle glomps* Eieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!! ^__________________^!!
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Date: 2007-02-14 02:47 am (UTC)Oh. Ohhh. I wonder...? *ponders*
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Date: 2007-02-14 02:45 am (UTC)I was wondering if Honor was still with the princess. Or whatever. I look forward to hearing more about that relationship. And hope it survives this mess, if it is meant to be.
I look forward to more as you get to it.^_^
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Date: 2007-02-15 11:39 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-02-15 12:35 pm (UTC)I hope the next chapter comes soon!