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Despite the numerous questions Torrin had, he did not speak a word to the Coran warrior during the entire trek back through
the forest. Though he made a startled gasp when he saw Charger, he said nothing when he was pushed onto the saddle. He had
to bite his lip to keep from saying something when the soldier's hand landed on his butt. Torrin stolidly sat in place when
the man climbed up. It was pointless to try to escape. Torrin would only be captured again, and the next time would earn him
punishment, he was sure.
The horse beneath him was beautiful. He had hardly ridden any – horses were expensive – but he could still recognize
beautiful horseflesh when he saw it. The stallion was practically priceless. His coat shone, even in the forest. His muscles
bulged, his eyes were alert and steady. It was a warhorse, and a damn good one.
The warrior's chest was pressed against Torrin's back, his arms around him, holding the reins. Torrin was trapped on top of
the horse. He could feel the warrior's breath on his neck. It made him shiver. Still, he maintained a stoic silence.
It was only when he began to hear other voices that he felt his panic take control again. He was about to enter the forbidden;
this camp was death to all Stravians. The men he was about to face would want him dead, and in the worst ways. Would they
want to... to... to rape him? This warrior had warned him of such.
His heart jackhammered in his chest.
“Calm down,” the warrior behind him hissed, bringing his face to Torrin's ear. “I will make sure they do
not harm you.”
The fact that his life depended on this man did nothing to calm him. The man had threatened him, kissed him and awakened emotions
far too dangerous to acknowledge.
They pushed through the forest and entered a camp. The camp was mismatched, hiding in the forest near Fort Shiro. It was also
a bit small, made up of mostly medical tents. There was camping equipment nearby, packed up and ready to be moved. The army
had laid in waiting for the day. While he had rested, his fate had already been sealed.
There were a couple of men limping into the camp, nursing wounds and struggling to make it to the tents. At seeing their pain,
Torrin felt a sharp pang of pity. These men were Corans, but they were still humans. And they were hurting.
People turned to stare at them as they went through and the men cheered when they saw the Coran warrior he rode with. Torrin
got the obvious indication of the man's worth in the few moments before the soldiers noticed him and stared in curiosity and
greed. Torrin's body was as stiff as a bowstring.
The warrior pulled Torrin against him, an obviously possessive move that won hoots, laughter, and applause. Some men, however,
still eyed Torrin as if he were fresh meat, and even more looked about ready to devour him. Despite his distrust of the warrior
behind him, Torrin nevertheless leaned back, more willing to be with him than the men below him. The warrior wrapped an arm
around Torrin's middle, keeping his other hand on the reins. When Torrin looked at him over his shoulder, the warrior was
looking over the men below with a warning glare that could not be misunderstood. Torrin didn't know whether he should be relieved,
outraged, or terrified.
“Keep you eyes down,” the warrior ordered with a harsh whisper in Torrin's ear. “Stay meek and say nothing.”
Torrin did not misunderstand what the orders meant. The warrior was going to argue for Torrin's life. If the warrior was going
to win his case, Torrin needed to shut up and act the part of a pitiful, tiny little medic.
The warrior dismounted as a dirty man came up by the horse, waiting for the reins. The warrior turned to Torrin and offered
up a hand to him. The warrior's eyes were cold, but Torrin took comfort in them nonetheless. Somehow, he felt that the warrior
was only hiding his true emotions, not feeling a cruel hatred. He accepted the hand and pulled his foot around the horse.
His body was so stiff from fear that he fumbled and almost fell, but the warrior caught him. The gentle grip shocked Torrin.
If he knew no better, he'd think that the warrior was trying to calm him.
The men gathered round, only moving away to get the horse to the side to be washed, led by the dirty man. Torrin understood
him to be a servant, perhaps a child of an enemy clan, grown and bred to be a slave.
“Men, the battle is not yet over, so don't be idle. This medic will assist our own until this battle is over, and then
we shall move out with the others we've captured. This one, however,” the warrior shouted loudly, putting a protective
arm around Torrin, “is mine.”
Torrin almost made the mistake of looking up to gawk at the warrior. The man had practically labeled Torrin his sex slave!
But despite being unable to see the men's reactions, he thought he could hear both shouts of outrage and whoops of laughter.
Torrin feared both reactions. Both seemed deadly. The hatred would lead to a slow, painful death, and the laughter sounded...
dirty. Like they thought that by “mine”, the warrior meant “ours”. Torrin prayed this wasn't the case.
The warrior began moving him towards a large tent, bigger than the rest. Much bigger. Wither for a commanding general... or
a prince.
The thought of meeting the Coran prince made Torrin dig in his heels. The prince was, of course, descended from the king,
who was said to be one of the most ruthless men known across the lands.
The prince wasn't supposed to be here, but the emblem on the tent was unmistakably royal. The prince was here.
And the warrior was taking him to the tent, to be judged and condemned. The man would want him dead, tortured, raped. Torrin
couldn't begin to imagine what the prince would choose for him.
“Move it,” the warrior hissed at him, not even turned to see Torrin's face. He just dragged Torrin closer to the
tent.
“No,” Torrin rebelled in a small whisper. “I won't meet the prince.”
The warrior's sudden chuckle stole Torrin's breath away. It was a chuckle that sounded natural, without any hate or cynicism.
Torrin didn't have a clue as to what could have brought on a laugh like that.
“Don't worry and move, unless you wish to stay out here with these men.”
For the first time since he'd stepped off the horse, Torrin looked around him. The soldiers were going about their business
again, but their eyes were trained on Torrin and the warrior. All were curious, but many had a lustful expression that even
a naïve virgin like Torrin could not misinterpret. He felt almost dirty with those looks upon him. “No.” Torrin
hurried into the tent before he could allow himself to think about it. Torrin heard the warrior chuckle again as he followed
in behind Torrin.
The tent was massive inside, as well. The bed was huge and looked to take up a large space behind the netting that enclosed
it. There was an elaborate desk set up to Torrin's left and an even more elaborate dresser on Torrin's right. The tent's floor
held cushions to ease the harshness of the forest floor. A chair sat on these cushions, facing the tent flap.
The room was empty.
Torrin looked around nervously, then looked at the warrior beside him. He almost jumped as their eyes clashed. The warrior
was staring at him with a smirk on his face.
Torrin forced himself to stand still and ignore the urge to step back. “Your prince is not here.” He was proud
that his voice didn't wobble, even though it was no more than a murmur.
The warrior leaned in, bringing his lips within scant inches of Torrin's. “Isn't he?”
Confusion tugged down Torrin's brow as he tried to understand the warrior's words. There was another chuckle before the warrior
leaned his head out of the tent and shouted orders to passing soldiers and servants.
Torrin felt a niggling suspicion in his mind that he prayed was not true. He stared at the warrior back with growing trepidation.
His fears couldn't possibly be true.
The warrior brought his head back in and stared at Torrin for a long moment before smirking again. “I must return to
the battlefield. I expect you to heal my injured men while I am away. Two soldiers will be watching you until I return.”
The warrior turned to leave, but Torrin caught his arm and held on to the armored limb as if it were a lifeline. The warrior
turned back to him, and the smirk was gone; the eyes were suddenly inscrutable. Torrin realized that the man's mind was already
immersed in the blood of the battlefield. It made him hesitate. “What?”
Torrin's mind spun uselessly. He had just grabbed the man in reaction. He had not thought beyond it. The man deserved no platitudes
or good wishes, and all of the questions Torrin had could not be answered in such a short amount of time. Torrin ended up
asking one very important question. “Are you... are you the prince?”
The man's smirk was like a death knoll to Torrin. He felt his heart stop for a moment before thundering into his stomach.
“Of course,” the dark-haired warrior answered, and then he swept out of the tent and was gone.
Torrin could only stare at the fluttering tent flap in horror. The warrior he'd been with, his only hope in this place, was
the damned son of the king of Corath, a cruel, despicable man. The son. What was he to do?
Two hulking figures entered the tent and glared at Torrin. Both had markings on their uniforms that marked them as common
grunts, but both were intimidating and both hated him. If he couldn't see it in their eyes, he could certainly feel it when
each grabbed a shoulder and dragged him to a medic tent. He tried in vain to catch his footing and ended up falling when they
suddenly let go of him.
“Get up, Stravian,” one of them growled, and Torrin hurried to his feet. He kept his head low, remembering the
warrior's – the prince's – words. He struggled to balance the world again. The warrior was the prince,
and his only hope for survival. Would the prince force him into his bed? He bit his lip to stop himself from shivering.
The warrior's took his dalliance as a good excuse to beat him, and they did it without preamble. He managed to block a punch
to his stomach, but got caught in the face by another fist. He fell back into the tent, and the two warriors followed him.
They beat him until he fell to the ground, then picked him up to beat him down again. A medic came up then and ordered the
two men to stop. “We need all the help we can get,” the old man said boldly, looking the two soldiers in the eyes.
Torrin managed to turn his head enough to see the man out of his good eye, the other already bruising painfully. “And
do you want the prince's wrath upon you? He is not known for his kind punishments, and you know that anyone he beds is off-limits
to your heathen hands.”
The man holding Torrin growled and threw him to the ground, then stalked back a few feet. They both glowered at Torrin as
he forced his wracked body to stand. He swayed for a moment before managing to steady himself. He turned to the old man, unable
to figure out whether it would be safe for the medic if Torrin thanked him. He feared the old man would be punished for interfering,
and Torrin's gratitude may only make things worse.
“Come on, young man,” the old medic ordered, ushering him forward with a beckoning hand. Torrin followed the man
through the tent and past the injured, seeing higher and higher degrees of wounds the further they walked. Torrin felt the
gut-wrenching fear at the lack of energy he felt. There were no dead around here, and he had no training in physically healing
a man's wounds. Even if he did Feel bodies around him, he had no magic left. None at all.
The old man turned back to him. Torrin tried to keep his trepidation at bay. When the old man gestured towards the bed beside
him and left, Torrin understood that he had just been given his first patient. When he turned to begin, he gasped in dismay.
The man's entire right side had been demolished by what seemed to be a cannonball. The man tossed and turned and bit his lip
to bleeding to keep from crying out. Blood pooled on the pallet and floor. Torrin recognized the wound easily as fatal.
It was a test, he realized. One that he was expected to fail.
He bit his lip, unable to think of what to do first. Clean the wound, certainly. But how to do it without harming the man
further?
Impossible. But if he waited any longer to do something, he would be beaten again.
He forced himself to move, fetching water and soap and cloths and liniment for the wound. It all seemed so useless. The man
would die, and his death would be blamed on Torrin, despite the fact that no one could possibly save him.
Torrin used a cloth to clean the man's sweat-soaked brow, then used a different cloth to clean around the wound. The acute
blood flow would make it a waste of time to try to clean that area. The man's eyes locked onto him. Torrin was stunned by
the odd silver color of the iris. He tried to ignore the plea, knowing no way to save the man.
He had managed to clean the wound – the man had thankfully passed out halfway through – before the old man came
and directed him to a new man. This one had two ribs sticking out of his chest. When Torrin asked, the old man told him that
the man had fallen from a ladder that would have taken him to the soldiers hiding in the rafters. This made no sense to Torrin,
but the cause of the injury was not his concern.
This man was already unconscious, his breathing unbelievably labored. It reminded Torrin uncomfortably of the kiss from the
prince. He shook the thoughts from his mind and set about cleaning this man, as well.
It was obvious that these men were just going to be left to die. It was a cruel punishment for trustingly following orders.
Torrin's hands gentled on his patient, feeling a rush of pity and compassion. This man was being abandoned by his allies,
the very people he was dying for.
Torrin finished cleaning the wound, but had no idea what to do now. Somehow, he had to find a way to... to correct the injury.
The thought made Torrin's stomach clench.
It was while he was sterilizing his hands that Torrin realized that he was using some of his magic. His brow furrowed.
But he had no energy. He could feel that he had no energy. Nevertheless, the wounds he'd recently been inflicted were
not getting any worse. They weren't healing, but they weren't getting worse. He could still see out of his bruised eye.
He wondered at it until he saw the corpse come in. It was a corpse of a Corath warrior, a commander, by the insignia.
His brow furrowed further. With no magic, he shouldn't be able to do anything, even with the corpse nearby. And even if he
had magic, the corpse was of a Coran and therefore harmful.
But, if he had no energy, why wasn't he hurting a lot worse?
Because, he answered himself, I'm automatically healing myself. In an effort to save himself, his body was secreting
his magic so that he could unconsciously use it for himself. Like when he'd been in the attack on Levant. He hadn't consciously
used his magic.
He tried to stop the unconscious use of his magic and finally, finally felt some of his power. A pitiful amount. About one
percent. Probably less.
Using this energy wouldn't be wise. He was trying to heal himself subconsciously. That meant his injuries were severe.
He realized with a start that he hadn't been aware of his injuries at all while in the medic tent. Was that because of his
magic?
He couldn't waste any more time. He had to decide. He really didn't have a choice, though. If these men died, he died. And
then however much magic he had to numb his pain would be completely useless.
He refused to think about what he did. Instead, he quickly but gently pushed the man's ribs back into his body, then used
his magic and the commander's energy. The energy didn't fight him, seeming to understand that what he was doing was to help
the Corathian army, not harm it. He felt his injuries then and stumbled, catching himself on the man's cot.
Before he could fall from exhaustion, Torrin ran over to the other injured man and poured energy into him until Torrin could
do no more. Now, the two men's bodies had at least a little more energy in them, energy specifically to heal their wounds.
Torrin leaned against his first patient's cot, staying away from the blood that was beginning to clot. Torrin cleaned around
the wound again, but he couldn't bandage it. He prayed that what he had done for the man was enough for now, knowing that
the energy wasn't nearly enough to save either of them.
He dragged himself to the other man, whose ribs should be latching back to place, but they would have to mend slowly. He touched
the man's torso, trying to feel the ribs. Since he had no true idea of how they should feel, however, he knew that it didn't
matter what he felt.
He asked a medic for sew and thread and needle, then went to work stitching the puncture wounds. If he thought about the skin
as pieces of leather for a book, it only made his stomach flip twice whenever he stuck the needle through it.
When he was finished, he cleaned the man's wound again, then wiped the sweat from his brow. His ribs were screaming again.
Apparently, when he'd been beaten by those two men, they had hit his ribs. He feared that they may have been knocked loose
again, but they felt secure, so he supposed that he'd gotten off lucky there. He'd managed to clean his forearm while cleaning
his first patient, but he hadn't been able to bandage it. He didn't know if he would be allowed to.
He double-checked to make sure that he had used all of the magic he could, then set about mixing simple herbs to keep away
infection. However, this work was such a normal process growing up – his mother, though she stayed home every day, was
very adept with the forest's medicines and constantly mixed things whenever Torrin would come home from the forest sporting
injuries, he had learned what to do so long ago that he had far too much time to think.
After today, what would become of him? He feared the worse for Fort Shiro and its inhabitants. It had been quite a while since
he'd left the battlefield, and even then, it had been falling. How much longer before it collapsed? He wasn't there to help
anymore. He had been the fort's last hope.
And what of him? Trapped with the enemy, healing their injured and... captured by the prince. The prince who could find out
that he was not the healer he pretended to be at any moment. The prince who wanted to... to bed him.
No. That Torrin would no allow. He had to escape somehow. But to where? There was no where to go. What could he do?
Where would he hide?
Torrin battled back his fear with great effort. He could feel the panic bubbling just beneath the surface, ready to erupt
at any moment. He would find a solution. Somehow. He would not be... raped, or beaten, or tortured.
He finished mixing the potion and gently lifted his patient to give it to him. He couldn't see how these two men would survive,
even with the energy he had managed to give them. Hell, he could hardly help himself. Though his eye had not become so bruised
that he could not see out of it, it was extremely tender. His ribs were agony, his forearm throbbed, his arms ached where
he had tried to block the guards' blows. He was in pain all over.
A sudden riot outside the tent caught Torrin's attention. He wanted to see what was going on, but decided that showing himself
may not be healthy. He decided to go over to his first patient and administered the potion to him while medics began to run
toward the front of the tent.
The old man from before stopped in front of Torrin and waved him over. “Boy, go to the front. You're going to be escorted
to the prince's tent, and you're going to stay there until the prince returns. Is that understood?”
Before Torrin could answer, the old doctor pulled him forward. Immediate pain in his ribs forced Torrin to come willingly
to the front of the tent, where the two guards were waiting, glaring at him. Torrin saw a lot of movement outside the tent.
Men were shouting, cheering.
The end of the battle, Torrin thought, and he ached. The fall of Fort Shiro.
He had sworn to protect the fortress with his life. He had sworn revenge against the merciless bastards that had killed his
parents.
He had failed.
The guards each took one of Torrin's arms and led him through like an animal. He saw men streaming into the makeshift camp,
some carrying others to the medic tent, most cheering and shouting and clapping arms. There was no mistaking the triumph on
each face. Many turned to look at him, some with curiosity, some with hate, some with looks he couldn't recognize. Torrin
followed the guards in meek silence.
The prince's tent flap was opened by one guard and Torrin was shoved in by the other. Torrin grasped his ribs in pain and
altered his fall enough to stop his ribs from breaking loose. With no energy, he couldn't afford to injure himself again.
The tent flap was closed, but Torrin knew that the two men were out there. He wouldn't be able to escape through there. And
even if he did miraculously escape, where would he go?
The sounds outside the tent were muffled now, but still the voices were raising an enormous din. He stepped back from the
tent flap, unwilling to be seen. If grunts would go so far as to beat him, he didn't want to think about what those with higher
ranks would be willing to do.
He turned and looked around. The desk, bureau, and bed were still in their positions, as was the chair. The prince hadn't
been in, then. Hopefully. He went to examine the desk, just barely touching the finished top, not wanting to mar the pristine,
clean desktop. There were a few papers that seemed to contain reports, most likely of battles. There were a few maps, intricately
detailed, of what was obviously the forest surrounding Levant and Fort Shiro. Gently, Torrin touched the top map. He could
imagine himself in that exact spot; had been in that exact spot. He moved over to the bureau.
There were no knick-knacks, no memorabilia, absolutely nothing that showed any hints of the man who stayed here. With the
expenses made to bring such fine furniture, one could certainly bring personal belongings, as well. Seeing such beautiful
furniture with no ornamentation made Torrin sad. Where was the man behind the prince and the warrior?
Then Torrin turned to the bed and blushed. There was even more luxury there. Silky cloths hung around the bed, shrouding it
in a makeshift mist. When Torrin tentatively pushed the silks aside, he found a massive bed with cool, soft linens and a full,
thick quilt. There were eight massive pillows sitting at the top of the bed. For sleeping, the bed looked more than comfortable.
And inviting. Would it look that inviting with the prince lying there, beckoning him forward?
Torrin put the silk curtains back in place.
He wandered over to the chair and touched the back of it, unwilling to sit on it, fearing the prince's imminent return. The
chair, too, was soft and luxurious, absolutely beautiful. In this, a man could sit for a long while before feeling the aches
and pains of a lack of movement.
Torrin's ribs ached. He appeased them by sitting down. The ground held cushions and was more comfortable than the medic cot
he'd slept on recently. He was tired, but sleeping would not be a brilliant thing to do. Then again, would the prince rape
him if he were sleeping?
Torrin would be getting no sleep that night. He swore it to himself.
He gently rubbed his side, hoping that he hadn't done anything more than bruise himself there. He looked at his forearm, seeing
no infection. He prayed that such would continue being the case, because his body couldn't help him at all now.
The noises outside were still boisterous. They had finally gained the victory that Torrin had fought so hard to keep from
them. It made his chest ache to think about it.
He heard the prince's voice then, recognizing it immediately. He was shouting to the men, probably giving orders. Torrin strained
his ears, but he couldn't recognize the words. An enormous cheer rose from the crowd. The prince was giving a victory speech.
Anger sparked inside of Torrin. How dare the man congratulate those beasts on the complete annihilation of all humans in Levant
and Fort Shiro. How dare he!
He could no longer hear the prince and was left to ponder over what the prince was doing. Probably leading his men. He had
said something about capturing some of the warriors, too. If that was the case, then Torrin's time was almost up, anyway.
He'd be tortured and killed. Slowly. He had jad a hand in killing these men, in holding off their victory. How long until
they found out?
How much longer would he live?
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