Young Writers Society

Danteel had been Moncreif’s slave over seven years before I came to the Avarice. I was very young then, especially for an officer and a doctor; I think he was thirty-three, but he naturally looked much older. I’m not a storyteller and, to be honest, this really isn’t my story, it’s his. But someone needs to tell it, and for one reason or another, he considered me a friend. I think I have the honor to be the only human he addressed as such. You will enter events when and where I did, that first day of duty under Captain Moncreif, master of the Avarice and much else besides.


Lark Erabon stumbled late into the conference room, running his fingers through his recently cropped black hair, straightening the new uniform that didn’t quite fit despite his average build. The meeting was already underway, of course, and as he took his seat the captain regarded him coolly. “So good of you to join us, Lieutenant,” he said, his voice oily.

Lark swallowed. “Sorry I’m late, sir. I couldn’t find my room at first, and then there was no one there to help me with my things, so—”

The captain held up a hand and Lark stopped mid-excuse. Moncreif’s tall, imposing form was outlined against the endless vista of stars in the large viewport behind him, and it seemed for a moment that the captain belonged more to the endless vacuum than to this small, oval room. “That was not an invitation for an explanation, lieutenant. If you are to be my new medical officer. I expect you to have better sense than to waste my time.”

“Yes, sir.”

The other officers in the room looked at him with expressions ranging from pity to scorn. They’re glad it’s not them being fried, Lark thought. They’re glad he’s got a new target.

After a few seconds of palpable tension, Captain Moncreif motioned smoothly and a burly, brown haired man, first officer by his rank cylinders, stood. He tapped a few keys on the table and a holographic representation of the Avarice appeared in the center. The smooth, dagger-like shape of the powerful ship hovered in front of them, almost as menacing in miniature as Lark had found her during his approach in a shuttle not two hours ago. As the officer began to give the routine reports, Lark tried desperately not to squirm in the unrelenting gaze of the captain. Eventually, though, Moncreif shifted his attention to his first mate and Lark was free to look around the room.

Unsurprisingly, all of the people assembled were human and male. Even if this had not been the policy for the interstellar Navy, Lark had heard that Moncreif had an intense disdain for both aliens and women. It was something he had never been able to understand about officers in general. All his life, he had been surrounded by both, and had never found either inferior. As his gaze roved surreptitiously around the room, it snagged on something lurking in a darkened corner.

He had to consciously repress the instinct to flinch, or worse, to cry out like a child afraid of monsters. But if there had ever been a creature to haunt the dreams of young ones, it was the one that stared back at him with cold, hateful black eyes. Skeletally gaunt with chalk white skin and shoulder-length black hair, the apparition glared at him.

Lark swallowed. He had heard the rumors, everyone had. Even with slavery legal, few in the realm, even wealthy men, dared to own many slaves, especially in the Navy. But the rumors were true: Moncreif had a Nagai.

As the meeting continued, the Nagai never stopped staring at him. Lark, as such, had a very hard time concentrating. Eventually, he realized that the expression in the haunting dark eyes was not so much hatred as curiosity. As the meeting ended, he even worked up the courage to meet the intimidating glare.

“Mr. Erabon!”

Lark’s head swiveled to face the captain, who was looking at him as if Lark were an insect he would like very much to squash. Belatedly, he realized the captain had been trying to get his attention for the past several minutes. “Yes, sir?” he squeaked.

“Since you are so fascinated with my slave, perhaps you would like him to help you to move your luggage into your quarters.” It was not a question.

A dead silence fell over the rest of the officers, as palpable as cold water running down Lark’s spine. “If you wish, sir,” he managed.

Moncreif leaned back, regarding the doctor through his interlocking fingers. Then he spoke in a language Lark did not know. The words were soft and almost slippery. It took Lark a moment to realize he was speaking to the Nagai. The slave answered back, his voice creeping under Lark’s skin and tickling the nerves until they tingled. Lark shivered.

Silently, the slave began to walk out of the room. Moncreif inclined his head to indicate that Lark should follow. Scrambling out of his chair, Lark followed.

* * *

The Nagai walked steadily towards the shuttle bays, Lark trotting along behind him. Eventually, he stopped and turned to face the lieutenant. His hard eyes evaluated the human with all the warmth of an artic winter. Lark realized abruptly that the corridors were empty as far as he could see. The Nagai stared at him for a long, long time, until Lark decided that he was waiting for him to speak.

He cleared his throat. “Ahem. So, what’s your name?”

The Nagai didn’t answer. Perhaps he didn’t speak Basic. That would be in keeping with his luck.

Lark placed a hand on his chest and said, very slowly, “My-name-is-Lark.”

No answer.

“Lark Air-ah-bon,” he said, annunciating carefully.

Still nothing. The black eyes were blank.

Lark sighed. “You don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you? Well, I’m sorry that I don’t speak your language but between Moncreif wanting to fry me and your staring at me like death itself and the whole big, blasted ship having so many blasted corridors that a man can’t get his blasted luggage—”

“Are you quite done?”

Lark stared, open-mouthed at the Nagai. His expression was still impassive, but the lieutenant had the feeling he was being laughed at. “You knew Basic the whole time?”

“I’ve known it longer than you have,” he said, and though he had an accent, it was an aristocratic rather than alien one.

Lark peered at him. There were no wrinkles in the sharp face, but of course one needed spare skin to have wrinkles. There were sidelocks of silver in the black hair, but beyond that hardly any signs of age. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“When...the Captain sends me out alone with one of his men,” said the Nagai slowly, “it is one of those rare occasions where I have free choice. If I choose to kill him, I am not punished. And if we fight and he wins, the incident is carefully forgotten.”

Lark stared. “What?”

The Nagai shrugged. “Isn’t that the way of your kind? A member is inconvenient, now he his dead, problem solved.”

Only for the insane members of my kind[/] Lark thought. He started to protest, to defend the several decent humans he knew, but stopped. He swallowed. “Why didn’t you kill me? I’m sure you could have.”

The Nagai’s eyes narrowed. “Because it was my choice.” He turned and continued to walk towards the shuttle bays.

Lark caught up with him. “So what is your name?”

“Danteel.”

“Have you ever spared a life before? Have you ever even lost?”

“No.”

“Then why—" he tried again, but was cut off.

Danteel whirled on him. “[i]You are not my master,” he hissed. “It is not for you to question what I do and why I do it.”

It took a supreme effort for Lark not to wet himself. Deep from the infinite depths of Danteel’s eyes blazed a mad, silver light. The blaze seemed to engulf him even more than the blackness, and Lark was sure he had never been so afraid in his life. Without another word, Danteel resumed walking.

With some difficulty, Lark again found his voice. “Where are we going?” he asked meekly.

“To get your luggage.”

As it turned out, the Nagai was much stronger than he looked, hefting Lark’s two biggest suitcases without trouble. Lark himself took the rest, and they both deposited their loads in the new doctor’s spartan quarters.

Before Danteel could leave, Lark was determined to have an answer. “Why did you spare my life?”

Danteel regarded him. “You are a doctor, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Someday, I’m going to need your abilities. Me, personally, not Moncreif. I’m going to need you to treat someone I care about. I needed you to owe me one.”

“I do owe you, but--.”

“Good.” With that he turned and left Lark alone in his room.

* * *

For the next few days, Lark did his best to get comfortable onboard the huge ship. His medical staff was small, but injuries were rare, so he managed to keep pretty regular hours in the med bay. He never saw Danteel during this time, or the captain, and that was all right with him.

Then, about a week afterwards, just as he was getting ready for bed, his personal comm. beeped at him. He yawned and tapped a key. Moncreif’s voice came over the speaker. “Lieutenant Erabon?”

Lark straightened automatically, even though he knew the captain couldn’t see him. “Yes, sir?”

“Report to my quarters. Come quickly and bring your med kit.” His voice was calm, almost nonchalant.

“Are you hurt, sir?”

“Just come, Mr. Erabon.”

Lark obeyed. He had been to the captain’s quarters only once before, but he knew the way. The suite of rooms was dark and apparently empty. “Sir?” Lark called into the darkness.

“Over here, Lieutenant.”

The voice almost gave Lark a heart attack. He turned, and could see the vague outline of the tall man in the gloom. “Yes, sir?”

“This way, Lieutenant.” Moncreif opened a door Lark did not remember seeing before, and led the doctor down a short corridor into a small room. The light was better here, but just barely. But what Lark saw in the dim light almost made him throw up.

Danteel was on his knees, leaning heavily on the opposite wall, his breath coming in long, ragged gasps. His bare back was covered in long, ugly welts and was caked with half-crusted blood. His narrow shoulders bore countless lash-marks, and sweat glistened off his pale white body. For a moment, the purely medical side of Lark wondered how he could have red blood and white skin. But then all parts of him were speedily trying to hold back the bile and vomit that rose in his throat, threatening to break loose.

His disgust translated easily into anger. He turned to his captain, biting back all the words that rushed to the forefront of his mind, only letting one of them out. “You bastard.”

Moncreif gave a thin-lipped smile. “Considering the circumstances, I am inclined to forget you said that.” He flexed his left hand, which Lark now saw held a long, black whip.

Swallowing his emotions, Lark tried to ignore the captain and knelt in the shallow pool of blood that surrounded Danteel. The Nagai’s hands were pressed against the wall, the fingers curling and uncurling, scraping the steel. His eyes were closed, his breathing labored. The wrists were raw and bleeding, sending trickles of red down the thin arms. Lark examined, or tried to examine, the Nagai’s back. “I need to get him to the med facilities,” he said. “He’s had massive blood loss and he looks like he’s on the verge of going into shock.”

“You will treat him here, Lieutenant.”

“But, Captain—“

“You will treat him here.” The hand holding the whip flexed again, and for a moment--just a moment--Lark allowed himself to imagine the pain of just a single blow from such weapon in the hand of one who knew how to use it. He clenched his teeth and returned his attention to Danteel.

He cleaned the wounds on his back as well as he could, peeling away some of the worst of the scabs. The Nagai hissed quietly when he did this, but did not cry out. Lark wound clean bandages around Danteel’s wrists and wiped the blood off his arms. He pressed dozens of med-patches against his back to stop the bleeding, and succeeded at last. Using the last of his med kit's bandages, he wrapped up the Nagai’s entire torso, trapping extra patches between the injured back and strips of cloth. When he was finally done, he was covered in blood, but Danteel was breathing normally.

Lark looked up, dead-eyed, at Moncreif. “Well done, Lieutenant,” he said. And then he left the room, leaving Lark alone with the Nagai.

Danteel had not spoken once during the procedure, nor had he opened his eyes. Lark was not sure if he was conscious or not, but he certainly wasn’t going to leave him here. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

The Nagai nodded, once.

“Can you walk?”

Danteel sucked down a breath before nodding again, much more hesitantly.

Lark got an arm around the Nagai’s shoulders, trying not to press too hard, and lifted. Luckily, Danteel was not very heavy. He even managed to support his own weight when Lark eased off, but he leaned heavily on the doctor and needed help to walk. Unsure of whether it would get him into trouble, he took the Nagai to his own quarters. He helped him to lie down on his own bed and then got out the sleeping pad he had brought from home and set up a makeshift cot with it.

Danteel lay on his stomach, his black eyes watching as Lark emerged from the bathroom, clean of blood and wearing a dressing gown. Lark stopped and looked awkwardly at the Nagai.

“Why?” said Danteel.

Lark swallowed. “Why what?”

“Why all this…for me?”

Lark didn’t answer for a long time. “I’m a doctor,” he could have said, “I don’t need an excuse to help people.” What came out was, “I owed you.”

“This is not what I intended when I spared your life; I have survived worse.”

Lark tried very hard not to think about what could have been worse than what he’d just witnessed. “What, then?”

“I am not Moncreif’s only slave.”

Lark held the gaze without flinching. “There is such a thing as mercy and compassion,” he said at last.

“I have not seen them.”

“You’re seeing them now,” said Lark. “And you’ll see them again.” He slid under the blankets of the cot.

Danteel still watched him. “You are…unique.”

Lark smiled and closed his eyes, burrowing deeper into the blankets. “Not so unique.”

Ok. This is a rare comment from me.

I loved it. Your style and prose is just polished to publishable perfection. It is beautiful, natural and it is if I have just started reading a new book that has caught my eye in a book shop. The story is told in an awesome sense and perspective with unique characters and their beautiful insights.

Ok - head big now? TIme to deflate it slighty.

A note on formatting

*** is usually used in end format to split scenes however your manuscript should have "#" to split scenes, it is copy editing standards.

Another nit pick is your character appearance - you tend to tell us all at once, add hints throughout the scene, its not necessary to have it all at once.

Also - the italicised beginning. I saw no point in this, it seemed rather pointless and cliched and the story seemed so much better without it.

Regards.

THANK YOU SO MUCH PHORCYS!!!

(note: the reason I added that first paragraphy -should- become apparant later; the next "chapter" or whatever you like, doesn't follow this one chronologically, it goes back seven years)

Must... post...more.

Because I already critted this. And I want to read more. *holds Gyr hostage*

Now look at all the free time you have to write. It's like Stephen King's Misery, sans the pig. ^_~

(Please? Post? Please?)

I liked this gyr. It was well written, surely, and the plot develops nicely with all the nice small mysteries that you will solve for us later. That keeps me reading.

A couple of suggestions:

-- I felt there needed to be more of a reason for Lark to feel he owed Danteel for sparing his life. A simple threat hardly would move him. Perhaps a show of his strength? Like if he were to life him by his collar against the ship's wall? Just a suggestion.

--Also, the fact that the slave can kill a man if he is sent out by the captain seems a bit... awkward. Why? What sense is behind such a rule/law?

--The introduction was somewhat short. Lark's in a room and then all of a sudden he's carrying luggage. I suggest expanding on that, if you think it will help.

Nice job!

The Beginning

Danteel fed the white rat a few crumbs from the remnants of his very bad dinner. The creature’s pink eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, and its wicked little yellow teeth just missed the Nagai’s thin white fingers. It took an especially large crumb in its two front paws and nibbled at it, allowing Danteel to stroke it lightly as it did. The animal was perched on his knee, and he could feel the little claws scratching at him through the worn fabric of his trousers.

A door opened at the far end of the room, spilling light into Danteel’s cell and scaring the rat away. Two silhouettes came out of the light and strode towards the barred door that supposedly kept the rest of the galaxy safe from him. One of them was the squat figure of the jailer, carrying his stun rod. The other was tall, very tall, and walked as if he were set apart from the filthy, reeking mess of the dungeon around him. They stopped in front of his door and the jailer unlocked it, but only the tall figure came in. As he stepped into the wan light from the single glow-lantern, Danteel felt an unexpected shiver crawl across his flesh.

The man wore the uniform of the Navy of the Realm, and there was a sheathed saber at his side--the mark of a distinguished officer. His face was hard and seemed to be cut of steel. His body was lean and long-limbed, his spotless uniform carrying the rank cylinders of a Naval Captain.

His eyes were the stuff of nightmares.

The left was a deep, almost black green, with a narrow silver slit of a pupil cutting it like a blade. The right was also green, but so pale as to be insane, flecked with sparks of deep turquoise. The combined effect of those eyes was to force Danteel to stand against his will. He still had to shift his head slightly to look the man in the face. The man smiled and Danteel hated him instantly. “The jailer tells me you killed two of his men getting you in here,” he said.

“I killed one. I injured two others.”

“You know they’re going to execute you for it.”

“Yes.”

“And that’s what you want?”

Danteel did not allow him to see the split-second of hesitation before he replied, in the same, level tone, “Yes.”

The man caressed the handle of his saber. “What is your name?”

Danteel didn’t answer.

He smiled again, and Danteel had to restrain the desire to punch him. “Oh, I’m so sorry, let’s try this again,” he said, pronouncing the words carefully. “What is your name?” he asked, in perfect Nagian.

Danteel’s mouth dropped open and without really meaning to he gaped. “How—”

The man drew his sword, almost nonchalantly. It was a beautiful blade, born of quality metal and skilled craftsmanship. Danteel’s eyes were drawn inexorably towards it. “During my travels in the outlying regions,” the man continued, “I had occasion to observe many of your people. Their ferocity and skill impressed me greatly, as did their language. They were…unique, like a vein of precious metal hidden in the worthless mines of non-humanity.” He raised the sword slowly, gracefully, until the tip hung perilously close to Danteel’s throat, forcing his back against the clammy stone wall. “Now I shall ask once more. What is your name?”

Danteel’s black eyes stared directly into the mad green ones. “Danteel,” he said, “and yours?”

“I am called Moncreif,” the man said. The flat of the blade forced Danteel’s chin up and to one side, allowing Moncreif to see his profile. “How old are you, Danteel?

Danteel told him.

Moncreif smiled, and the tip of the blade brushed gently against a lock of Danteel’s hair that was just turning to silver. “Of course,” he said, the sharp tip returning to menace the Nagai’s neck. “I am going to save your life, Danteel. I am going to buy you from this poor, stupid fool, and in return you will serve me, as Nagai culture dictates that one who’s life has been saved must serve the one who saved it.”

The Nagai bared his teeth. “I would rather die by fire than live as a slave.”

“I know,” said Moncreif. “All Nagai would. You value freedom above all but honor, and there you show your one fault. Nagai honor demands that you serve the one who saves your life, and I know that your honor runs deeper than any drive for liberty you possess.”

Something within Danteel, some aspect of all the countless years of training he had gone through as a member of the Nagian nobility, stirred deep in his heart. A small, uncomfortable wave of fear rippled through him. “I do not want my life saved,” he snapped. “Therefore you do me no service by saving it.”

Moncreif smiled, and began to recite: “’I, who hold your life in hand, whose breath still flows because of me, whose heart still beats because of me; I who snatch you from the endless black-well of the world beyond, demand your heart in loyalty, your mind in fealty, and your body in service to my will.’”

Danteel ground his teeth together, stifling the instinctive response. Before he could read or write, he had memorized this oath and counter-oath. All Nagai children had, it was a part of being Nagai. “How dare you speak this sacred vow, outsider,” he spat. “You defile the words by using them.”

“Your resistance is impressive, Danteel. Don’t make me repeat myself; I don’t think your psyche could stand it.”

He was right, Danteel knew he was right. His mind was very nearly tearing itself apart as it was. The oath was not meant to be a slave-maker, only a promise of loyalty to one who deserved it. The deep, unfathomable depths of instinct and Nagai training warred against the roaring fire that was his desire for freedom. “’You, who hold my life in hand, who still allow my breath to flow, who still allow my heart to beat—‘” he clamped his mouth around the words, and would not let them leave his lips. “No,” he said softly. “I will not speak the words to you, Moncreif. Not to a human, never to a human. You have me by my honor, Moncreif, and I will serve you against my will, but I will not speak the words to you. I will resist you at every turn, and if I ever get the chance to do so honorably, I’ll kill you. Take me if you will, Moncreif. You take a ticking bomb into your service.”

Moncreif smiled. “That will do for my purposes.”

The blade disappeared back into its sheath, and when he next spoke, it was in Basic and to the jailer. “I am ready to negotiate a price; he will do.”

With that he left the cell and the two figures walked back through the lighted doorway. The door closed, plunging the dungeon back into stinking darkness. Danteel sank down onto the cold, slippery stone floor. The white rat emerged from a shadow and nuzzled his hand for more food. His fingers closed around its natty fur and lifted it back to its perch on his knee. Then, with trembling fingers, he gave it the last greasy crumb.

*dies*

*slowly*

*in pain*

Anticipation.

Again a fine installment. Im not lying or sucking up in anyway, nor am I being an idiot newbie. But, you do have the potential to publish, you really do.

Maybe its because of your age - your style is just great, the story is interesting. Character. Superb.

I can only reiterate what Dream has said.

Dies. Slowly. In. Pain. Anticipation.

Danteel looked out the shuttle viewport as they docked with the great ship, the Avarice. Moncreif, sitting across from him, smiled the evil, possessive smile that he had quickly learned to hate. “Magnificent, isn’t she?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t turn to look at the man who had bought him. The anger and hatred seething inside of him were controlled now, like the measured beating of his heart. They docked with a small bump, and Moncreif gracefully uncrossed his long legs and rose. “Welcome to your home for the rest of your foreseeable future,” he said, still smiling.

The Nagai stood as well and gave his new master a long, direct look. The demonic green eyes held his gaze and the smile remained firmly fixed in place. Moncreif swept out of the shuttle to a full honor guard. Danteel followed him quietly. They walked between the ranks of gleaming armor. Their silence and absolute stillness made Danteel nervous. These were not soldiers. They were slaves as much as he was, their faces impassive, their blank eyes staring straight ahead. When the Nagai reached the end of the double rows, the last two of them stepped smartly forward and grabbed Danteel’s arms, one on each side.

He struggled instinctively, but they were clearly stronger than he was. Speaking in Nagian, Danteel demanded, “I didn’t need any help following you out of prison or to the shuttle. I’d hardly need any now.”

Moncreif threw a glance back over his shoulder, his smile unwavering. To the soldiers he said, in Basic, “Bring him.”

Danteel’s booted feet scrabbled on the slick metal floor as he was all but dragged along. The soldiers’ gloved hands were tight on his thin arms, and he knew there would be bruises. They forced him into a turbolift behind Moncreif and followed, at least one keeping a hand on him at all times. The captain didn’t seem to notice.

The turbolift went up and up and up until Danteel lost track of how many floors they had passed. Eventually the doors opened and they walked out into a deserted corridor, much like one might find anywhere on such a ship, with the tall, polished steel bulkheads stretching away into what seemed eternity. Moncreif took the right hand branch and his lackeys followed, still hauling Danteel along between them.

Eventually they came to a pair of perfectly ordinary sliding doors which led into an anything-but-ordinary anteroom. At the end of this were another pair of doors, but these were large and richly carved, made of a dark wood that Danteel knew was rare and very expensive. Through these doors was an office, with a similarly-made desk flanked by two more doors.

A man looked up as they entered, an old man, bent with age, and beset by so many wrinkles that it was hard to determine his species. He might have been a Vedonian, for he had the cut-off stump of a horn on his forehead, but his red skin was faded and Danteel could not be sure. He bowed to Moncreif, and as he straightened the Nagai saw a flash of gold at his neck. A collar. Danteel almost retched. The man tottered up to Moncreif and bowed again. The captain seemed to be getting impatient. “Yes, yes, bring it out. Now’s as good a time as ever.”

The old man tottered to the desk and opened one drawer, taking out a medium-sized wooden box and laying it on the desktop. He lifted the lid almost reverentially, but Moncreif stepped forward to see what was inside and Danteel’s view was blocked. He heard a little sigh of approval from his master. “Yes, it will do nicely.” He lifted the contents and turned, and for the first time Danteel saw what he had been admiring.

Everything within him screamed to run and his whole body obeyed, jerking back so hard that the soldiers nearly lost their grip on his arms. “Hold him,” commanded Moncreif coldly. “Keep him as still as you can.”

But Danteel would not be still. He twisted and writhed, thinking nothing of the pain where his guards gripped too hard and rubbed the skin beneath their gloves raw. His mouth opened as if to scream but no sound emerged. He brought his chin down to his chest, leaving none of his neck exposed.

The collar was, in truth, a beautiful thing, wrought of gold and set with a symbol bearing his name in some kind of black stone. The symbol was ringed with tiny, perfect rubies, and there was no doubt that they were real. The circlet of gold was not quite complete; there was a gap in the gold ring where one might bend it open so it would fit around a neck. And this was exactly what Moncreif was doing as he stepped cautiously towards Danteel.

But Danteel fought hard and kept his chin down. Moncreif rolled his eyes. “Expose his neck,” he commanded, his tone almost bored. “And keep him as motionless as possible.”

One of the soldiers grabbed a handful of Danteel’s thick black hair and pulled violently. The Nagai gave a grunt of pain as his head was forced back, his scalp on fire. “Now keep it up out of the way.” With that Moncreif managed to force the collar around Danteel’s thin neck, and the cold shock of it encircling his throat, owning him more than the captain’s eyes ever could, froze him in place for a moment.

And then there was a hot, searing pain at the back of his neck and he screamed as much from surprise as anything. The old slave had gotten around behind him and used some furnace-hot instrument to weld the two open ends of the collar together. “Hold him still,” said Moncreif as Danteel began to thrash again, “give it a moment to cool.”

To Danteel that moment took only a few seconds and then the hard hands released him and he bolted forward, unaware of direction, and came up short against the opposite wall. His hands wrenched at the collar and he nearly strangled himself, and the heat from the welded place still burned the back of his neck. His fingers clawed at his throat, trying to dislodge this thing, this alien, owning, wretched thing that made him less than he was. He felt blood beneath his nails, his own blood, but he was oblivious to all but the terrible, solid metal of the collar.

And then a pair of hands, with fingers longer and stronger than his own, grabbed his wrists and slammed them back against the bulkhead, stopping his mad tearing. When his wrists slammed his head slammed, too, and it took Danteel a moment to realize that it was Moncreif who was holding him. The man’s mismatched green eyes showed fire for the first time Danteel could remember, but the voice was as cool and nonchalant as ever, “A little too tight, is it?”

Danteel was breathing hard, inhaling and exhaling through his nose as he ground his teeth. There was a horrible, weak instinct to cry, to weep but he didn’t. Not even for his own lost freedom would he shed tears. “Let me die,” he rasped out, just loud enough for his master to hear. He had never before begged to this man, but he didn’t care. “Please, please just let me die.”

But Moncreif smiled and said, “Not yet.”

And then he released him and Danteel fell, landing hard on his knees. His hand began to move once more towards the collar but one of the soldiers raised his rifle and Danteel’s hand stopped mid-motion. “You’ll get used to it,” said Moncreif, wiping his hands on his trousers as if he had touched something vile. “At least, you’d better.”

" He didn’t answer, didn’t turn to look at the man who had bought him. The anger and hatred seething inside him were a controlled tide, like the measured beating of his heart. They docked with a small bump, and Moncreif gracefully uncrossed his long legs and rose. “Welcome to your home for the rest of your foreseeable future,” he said, still smilin"

I think:

"Inside of him..."

and also I dont think the metaphor "controled tide" works, consider altering that.

You know what I think of your writing. I wont repeat it.

Gyr, my dear bird, I believe you are destined for greatness. That was... amazing.

It was one of those pieces it's nearly impossible to tear your eyes from, let alone walk away from. And the pace is so... seamless, I hardly felt like reading at all - it felt, rather, like you were standing there, watching it happen.

Everything within him screamed to run and his whole body obeyed, jerking back so hard that the soldiers nearly lost their grip on his arms. “Hold him,” commanded Moncreif coldly. “Keep him as still as you can.”

But Danteel would not be still. He twisted and writhed, thinking nothing of the pain where his guards gripped too hard and rubbed the skin beneath their gloves raw. His mouth opened as if to scream but no sound emerged. He brought his chin down to his chest, leaving none of his neck exposed.

Well, things aren't working out so well for poor Danteel, but on the bright side, Gyr, this writing is so good, it's not even funny. I seriously cannot find a single thing to offer suggestions on - this will be published, I have no doubt.

Wonderfully done. ^_^

Danteel set out the platters of food on the table as Moncreif watched him, reclining against one wall with his arms crossed. The Nagai could still feel the burn from having the ends of the collar welded together, but he ignored it. As he was learning to ignore so many things these days. “No,” Moncreif corrected as Danteel placed the silverware carelessly, “fork on the right.”

Everything inside the Nagai surged with hate. The gall of the man. His blood pounded, and he felt his eyes start to blaze silver. But he took a deep breath, dropped his gaze, and corrected the silverware. Moncreif was holding a small dinner for several of his acquaintances—Danteel refused to believe he had anything like friends—while the Avarice was still in station over Locus Nova. It was Danteel’s first job as the captain’s new slave to make ready for them. Slave. And again everything within him roared at the word, screaming Kill, kill, kill the sheczkall, the enslaver.

He forced his emotions back. Honor-bound, he told them, I am honor-bound.

Sheczkall! his heart screamed.

He finished the preparations quickly, despite his inexperience, and the guests started arriving soon afterwards. They barely even noticed Danteel, though one of them, a small man with thinning blonde hair and bright blue eyes, regarded him for a moment with something like amusement. The Nagai could not restrain a snarl. The man laughed softly and moved off to greet his host.

Danteel stood in a corner while the men ate, ignoring his rumbling stomach. Moncreif had given him precious little to eat over the past week, and Danteel, though never anything but thin, was now positively gaunt. He watched them, all officers in the Navy of the Realm, tucking into the food and clenched his hands into fists.

The blonde man noticed his glare and winked. For the millionth time, Danteel suppressed the desire to kill. The man sat back and motioned at his dishes, indicating that the Nagai should clear them away. Danteel didn’t move, except for his clenched hands, which trembled. The man motioned again, the impudent smile never leaving his face. “I’ll tell you what you can do with your dishes,” said Danteel softly in Basic.

Before he could get the curse out, however, the two guards who had been standing on either side of the door grabbed him roughly. “That was fast,” commented Moncreif nonchalantly as the soldiers cemented their grip on the Nagai’s arms. The captain stood, uncurling the long, black leather whip that Danteel had noticed coiled at his waist the entire time. No fear of pain penetrated the red mist of rage, however, and Danteel opened his mouth to scream his defiance when one of the guards punched him hard in the gut.

Danteel folded in, groaning slightly. “Turn him around, keep him down,” commanded Moncreif as he carefully rolled up his sleeves. He tossed a few coins to the blonde man. “Less than five minutes, Daxon, you win this bet.”

The man, Daxon, scooped up the coins as the guards forced Danteel’s back to Moncreif and shoved him to his knees. “May a man make a second wager on the same subject?” asked Daxon calmly.

“What did you have in mind?” asked Moncreif as he cracked his whip experimentally.

“This is his first flogging, yes? I say he screams after ten lashes.”

Moncreif snorted. “Twelve, at least. This one’s stubborn.”

“They’re all stubborn at the beginning,” said one of the others, the comment eliciting chuckles from around the room. Obviously this was a familiar sport to them. “I say only five; he’s thin as a skeleton and twice as frail.”

It didn’t take long for most of the rest of the room to place bets on how long Danteel would hold out, the highest wager going to fifteen lashes from someone with a voice he didn’t recognize. As the soldiers calmly ripped his thin white shirt away, leaving his thin white back exposed, he said coolly, “May the subject of the wager place a bet?”

The room went perfectly silent. It was as if the table had spoken. Since no one answered and no one tried to stop him—yet—Danteel craned his neck around to stare at his master out of one large black eye. “I don’t scream for twenty lashes, and we do this in private from now on. I can’t stop you beating me but I won’t be an amusement for your lackeys.”

“And if you lose?” asked Moncreif, cracking the whip again.

Danteel ran through his short, his extremely short, list of things to bargain with. What did he have to wager, after all? But shame coursed through him and he could feel the condescending stares of the humans around the table like a physical force. He would not be a show for their entertainment; his scars would not provide their pleasure.

“The oath,” he said softly in Nagian.

He could hear Moncreif breath out slowly. “Very well,” he said. And then the whip came down and Danteel’s shoulder exploded with agony. He sucked in his breath sharply; he had not expected this much pain. Swish crack! Two. He clenched his teeth, burying the instinctive cry; he would never make it to twenty.

Swish crack! Three. Swish crack! Four. Swish crack! Five. He pulled against the iron-solid grip of the soldiers, desperate to avoid the stinging pain. The whip bit into his back again and he gasped breathlessly. And again, and he slammed his teeth against the rising cry, and felt blood in his mouth as he bit into his tongue.

Swish crack! Eight. Swish crack! Nine.

Through the pain rose, unexpectedly, the memory of a familiar voice. “We’re not like other people, you and I. Normal beings, of any race, will inevitably live out their lives striving for happiness and trying to avoid disaster. There are only a handful of sentients in this entire galaxy who are built for the lives we now live.” That day on the canyon, seeing the sunset for the first time, the grey-eyed human sitting next to him, smiling—Krieve.

Swish crack! Ten. Swish crack! Eleven. He could feel the blood gathering in a puddle beneath him, could feel the bruises that were already forming where the soldiers held him. Swish crack! Twelve. His back arched, his mouth opening in a silent cry. He felt the blood from his tongue spray out with the expulsion of air, but—thank the stars—no sound. And again the whip came down, slicing across unscarred flesh as expertly as if Moncreif were a master artist with a paintbrush.

Swish crack! Fourteen. Nearly there, he was nearly there.

“All I can say for sure is that I know you and I are bound to each other, our fates tied together until death.”

Then let me be that death! screamed Danteel in his mind. False friend, traitor, Krieve!

Again and again and again the whip came down, and somehow Danteel did not cry out. With every lash he felt the freezing hate inside him grow, not the fire-red rage towards Moncreif, but a far harder, far more enduring vendetta. Vengeance.

Swish crack! Twenty. The arms released him and he dropped, making no effort to stop his fall and hitting the metal floor hard. He could hear Moncreif’s labored breathing above him, and could imagine his master, forehead shiny with sweat, glaring at him.

“Get it out of here,” he commanded, and again the stone-like hands grabbed him and lifted. His back sent rifts of agony through his entire being and he gave a soft cry as he was forced to his feet. A long, muscular hand slapped him hard across the face, but the pain from that was nothing compared to the total hell that engulfed the rest of his body. “Take it away,” Moncreif hissed.

Mercifully, Danteel blacked out before the soldiers had dragged him halfway down the corridor.

Such description of Danteel's torture! I like the small details you put into this, like how English is known as Basic.

And being the wierdo I am, I totally see an opening for Danteel and Lark to be together. Hooray for gay couples! Okay, you can ignore me now.

LUNA

Luna: okay, how do I put this delicately? NO! <answer to suggestion about Lark and Danteel
Glad you liked it, though, but really, truly, NO