Chapter Text
Scott’s wings ache. This is not new information. They’ve ached since his captors first tied them down with thick iron bands and hauled him away from the wreckage of what had once been the capital of Rivendell. That was almost three weeks ago now so he should be used to it. But it's easier to focus on the ache in his wings than on the harsh Pixandrian sun beating down on him or the way his dry tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth or how his heart is wrenched by the despair of knowing he's going to be sold as a slave.
The sun is reaching its zenith as they reach the outskirts of the city. Scott isn't sure if the plan is to sell him here or just resupply, but he doesn't speak a word of Pixandrian, so the chances of finding someone to help him here are minimal. Especially when he's watched every second by at least two of his quartet of captors. Still, he's grateful for the stop. The water his captors forced (“permitted,” in their words) him to beg for ran out yesterday. Their own supply ran out this morning. They hadn't anticipated just how brutal the desert would be.
The group approaches a house on the edge of the city. The leader hops the fence and unlatches it. A friend of theirs, perhaps?
“You gotta love Pixandrian hospitality,” the guy laughs as he drops to one knee to pick open the lock on the back door. Probably not a friend then. After a couple seconds of confusion, he realizes the door is unlocked already and ushers them inside.
“You sure we should be doing this in broad daylight?” another one asks.
“Pixandrian hospitality,” the leader repeats. “We need water. They got water. That's all there is to it. Now, uh… ah! There we are!”
He grabs a large clay jug out of the corner and hefts it up with a grunt. Two of his lackeys force Scott to his knees while the other one starts filling their water skins. Scott goes down without a fight. He knows the routine by now and with a day of dehydration under his belt, he's not gonna risk his chances of getting a drink. So he carefully licks his lips until he's somehow managed to work up enough saliva to speak.
“Please, sir,” he begs, cheeks flaming with humiliation. “Might you spare me– spare this poor humble s-slave some water?”
“Look at that!” the leader crows. “I told you he could be taught! You wait just a moment, sweetheart. Let the people have their fill first.”
Scott's bound hands curl up against his knees as he forces himself to stay still and quiet and not betray his rage. His captors all drain their water skins completely and refill them before the leader deigns to raise his to Scott's lips. And, since Scott has just had the best fucking luck lately, the door bursts open before he can take a sip.
A cadre of Pixandrian guards storm in, armed and armored and stern-faced. Scott gets the feeling that these slavers may have overestimated how hospitable Pixandrians really are.
The court of the Copper King is surprisingly barren, Scott thinks, as he's shoved to his knees before the throne. He only has time to catch sight of the king himself and one attendant standing at his side. None of the usual courtiers and clerks that would have surrounded his own courts in Rivendell.
Still, King Pixlriffs the Eighteenth, Sovereign of Pixandria and Keeper of the Vigil, carries himself with all the dignity and grace that his title suggests. He sits resplendent in fine linen robes trimmed with copper wire embroidery and his famous trident glimmers at his side. He speaks in Pixandrian, his voice sharp and clear and ringing with authority. After a few sentences, his attendant translates into Mangrovian.
“The four of you have stolen water from my people. You may as well have stolen their lives. We will not waste water to imprison you. Give me a reason to spare you, if you have one.”
Well, Scott has a decent reason if he's given the chance to speak, given that he's a foreign prince and killing him would be a diplomatic disaster even if he has no nation left to return to.
“Pardon me, your majesty. I think there was a translation error,” the leader interjects. His tone is nervous, like he's trying to buy himself time to think of an excuse. “There are five of us, not four.”
Pix scoffs and replies before his attendant has a chance to translate. He clearly understands Mangrovian. There's a power play here in refusing to use it. “And if you had a horse as well, would there be six guilty of theft? We do not hold slaves accountable for actions their masters command them to take.”
Okay, never mind. Scott is definitely a slave. Yep. Mentioning his past can wait until Pix’s voice is less full of bridled rage. Also it can probably wait until Scott knows what side Pixandria is on in the war between Rivendell and House Blossom, come to think of it. He shouldn't just hand himself back over to House Blossom as a prize.
“I beg your majesty’s pardon,” the slaver grovels. “We were just so thirsty and we only took enough to survive. We would have died without the gracious generosity of your people.”
“We already know you are thieves,” Pix replies through the attendant. “If you die to your own folly, that is hardly our concern.”
The slaver pauses. Scott risks a glance over and sees his grimace. “We were only in your kingdom to sell this slave,” he offers. “Take him for free and let us go, if it pleases you. His training isn't perfect, but he's a rare commodity and pretty to boot. We’d planned to start bidding at a stack of emerald blocks.”
Scott can feel the Copper King’s eyes boring into him. Is he seriously considering this? Letting thieves go in exchange for one slave? Now that Scott is pretty sure his own life isn't in danger, he can wish for his captors to face harsher punishment than just losing out on a profit.
“Xyúmo ñel ñót lelevixa,” Pix says to one of his guards.
“Íva, lenva shót,” the guard affirms.
Scott feels a hand grab his hair and he allows it to pull him upright without a fuss. The guard’s other hand grips his jaw tightly to keep his face pointed towards the king.
And what a king he is. His copper crown gleams above stern blue eyes lined with kohl, but Scott can see the barest hint of laugh lines at their corners. Still, he radiates power and authority. No one here would dare to question his rule or even desire to. It makes something strange flutter in Scott's chest. Though that could easily just be fear or fatigue or any number of other things.
Pix speaks some more Pixandrian, too much for Scott to keep track of, and the attendant translates again. “You seek to offer me a life for a life. That is a fair trade. But he cannot be worth more lives than he has. He is one and you are four. You may decide amongst yourselves which one of you survives.”
There's silence for a moment as it slowly sinks in what Pix actually said, then an argument bursts out between the slavers. Pix keeps his eyes on them, but speaks again to the guard holding Scott.
“Lité Cheivaxa fádúxo,” he orders. “Gólon onmósoni.”
“Íva, lenva shót,” the guard repeats. She pulls Scott to his feet surprisingly gently and guides him out of the room.
He's led down a short hallway to a side room and guided to sit on a chair. The way his wings are bound makes it impossible for him to sit on it properly, so the guard allows him to turn around and straddle it instead. Once he's seated, she fills a clay cup from a water vessel like the one at the house his captors had robbed.
“Drink,” she orders in thickly accented Mangrovian.
Scott isn't about to argue with that. He takes the cup in shaking hands and forces himself to drink in slow, measured sips, no matter how much he wants to guzzle the whole thing. He knows what happens when he drinks too fast after going too long without. Based on the way the guard stares at him, he imagines that she knows too. All too soon, he's handing the cup back to her, but she pours him another one. He bows his head to her.
“Thank you,” he murmurs earnestly.
She just nods.
They wait in silence for a little while. The sound of squabbling from the throne room echoes down the halls, too muffled to make out any actual words. Scott briefly wonders how they’re going to choose the survivor, but he decides he doesn’t care. They were all equally horrible to him anyways. They deserve every ounce of stress leading to their imminent demise. The Copper King’s voice, steady and commanding, cuts through the sounds of the argument.
Scott leans forward a little more and rests his chin against the back of the chair. He wonders what the king is planning to do with him. Lock him in a dungeon? Put him to work around the palace? Sell him off? Scott himself would probably have preferred the stack of emerald blocks over an unknown and unproven slave. The king’s eyes still had a remnant of warmth and compassion in them. He might be able to tolerate an unruly slave better than Scott would. And if Scott can get in his good graces quickly, it would be absurd for him to guess that his slave is secretly the crown prince of a fallen kingdom even once news of Rivendell’s fate reaches him. All things considered, Scott’s probably safest here in Pixandria.
The door opens and another person enters. They're wearing a shirt the color of aged copper and a pure white coat over top. Their face is covered by a gauzy material, which they flip up over their head as they enter. They also carry a tanned leather bag with a tilted half circle symbol stitched in yellow.
“Doctor,” the guard tells Scott as though he wouldn't recognize the universal symbol of one. Then again, would a slave be taught such things? He's not sure.
The doctor unceremoniously pulls his shirt up and starts rubbing healing potion on the bruises he's gathered across his chest and sides from his captors’ rough treatment. He's familiar with the technique. Rubbing potions instead of drinking them lets them be spread out longer, used by more people, though they don't heal the entire body as effectively. And speaking of parts of Scott's body needing healing, the doctor is grabbing his wings now. He startles at the sensation, but the more alarming part is how little he can feel of it. The doctor grabs at the metal bands and starts twisting them. Scott tries to hold still, but he can’t help a cry of pain. It feels like they’ve worn grooves into wings and they can’t just be pulled up over the top.
The door opens again and it’s the king this time. Scott tries to stand, but the king waves him aside. “Stay,” he orders. He doesn’t even bother to look at Scott as he talks to the doctor behind Scott’s back. After a brief exchange, he gives some orders to the guard, who bows and leaves. Then he circles back around to stand in front of Scott. A gentle hand on his chin tilts Scott’s head up to make eye contact with his new… owner. He needs to get used to that. His new owner.
Pix’s eyes are the brilliant blue of sunlight on the ocean. His gaze makes something clench in Scott’s stomach. Makes him feel vulnerable and exposed.
“Do you know why you were brought to Pixandria?” Pix asks in barely accented Mangrovian.
“To be sold, I presume,” Scott rasps. “Your majesty.”
“What did your last master call you?”
“Scott, your majesty.” If he’d had time, Scott might have come up with a pseudonym, but he can’t afford to hesitate on such a simple question and it’s a common enough name that it shouldn’t arouse suspicion.
“Scott,” Pix repeats. He runs his thumb over Scott’s bottom lip. Scott lets his jaw hang open at the implied command, color rising to his cheeks. Pix smiles. “You may keep that name. And I will keep you.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
Pix turns away as the door opens yet again. Idly, he pulls Scott’s head to the side to rest against his hip. Scott forces himself to relax as Pix scratches at his scalp. The guard from before has returned along with another woman who wears a blacksmith’s apron and carries a bag of tools slung over one shoulder. She looks half awake and hides a yawn behind her hand as she sets an anvil down.
The blacksmith takes out a tool that looks like a pair of oversized shears and sets it against the single link of chain binding his wings to each other. With a grunt, she snaps it open. She fiddles with the broken piece for a moment and then Scott shrieks as his wings fall away from each other for the first time in two weeks. He trembles uncontrollably, feathers rustling.
Pix strokes his neck with a light chuckle. “I know it hurts, mlukona. You’re doing fine.”
Scott’s heart flutters a bit at the praise, at the kind touches. It’s been so long since someone touched him without hurting him. And the position he’s in, resting his head against Pix’s hip… Pix is by no means an unattractive man. It’s easy to lean into the touch and focus on that instead of whatever the doctor and blacksmith are discussing behind him. After a few minutes, they seem to reach a conclusion because Pix steps back and lets them maneuver Scott into position. They have him kneeling on the ground, one wing draped over the anvil. Pix gets on one knee between his face and the anvil so he can’t see what’s going on and holds his head still.
“Profávo tsatanda,” Pix says. Then, to Scott. “Hold still.”
That’s all the warning Scott gets. Hands seize his wing on either side of the band, then something crashes down against the anvil. Then, excruciating, blinding pain. He screams as sensation rushes back into his wing like water through cracked, barren ground. He struggles to keep himself conscious as he rides the wave of agony for what feels like a small eternity. When awareness returns to him, he’s sweating and panting in Pix’s arms.
Pix brushes away the tears that are flowing down his cheeks. “Back with us?” he asks.
Scott shakes his head. His wing has been freed, he recognizes that, but he’s still trembling and jerking from the pain. He doesn’t want to throw off anyone’s aim.
“Tluvóxo ñe kulovotsa,” Pix tells the others.
Nothing immediately happens, so Scott assumes he’s been given a reprieve. He takes deep breaths, tries to get himself under control as quickly as possible. He wants his other wing free too. Eventually, he becomes aware of his surroundings enough to realize his position has already been changed, mirrored to the reverse of before so they can access his other wing. His bound hands hang past Pix’s shoulder and some small part of him wishes he could cling to Pix for support. He just nuzzles against Pix’s arm instead.
“Thank you, your majesty,” he gasps. “I’m ready now.”
“Áp’rofá datsa?” the guard asks.
“Íva,” Pix confirms.
A moment later, the pain peaks again. It’s worse this time, since he hasn’t recovered from the first one either. But Pix is a sturdy, calming presence against the rest of the pain. And then, there’s something against his lips and his head is being tilted back and he hears Pix’s soft but firm command to drink and Scott can’t imagine doing anything but what Pix wants. The pain fades. He flexes his wings. They barely hurt at all. He can taste the distinct flavor of glistering melon on his tongue. They actually let him drink a healing potion. Pix is the one holding the bottle too. It’s empty. They gave him all of it.
“Thank you, your majesty,” he repeats.
Pix ruffles his hair. “You are beautiful,” he says, his voice low and wanting. Scott’s at eye level with Pix’s dick right now so it’s hard to miss that Pix is attracted to him too. It occurs to Scott that he wouldn’t be able to do anything if Pix decided to take him right then and there. The thought makes his stomach curl in a way that is… not as unpleasant as it probably should be.
But the doctor speaks up and the moment is ruined. There’s some back and forth as they manipulate Scott’s wings, making sure the limbs can still move properly. The damage isn’t entirely healed, they explain using Pix as a translator. The nerves that spent weeks being pinched will take time to recover. The doctor gives Scott a few exercises he can do to help improve circulation and tells him to keep moving them as much as possible, even if it hurts. Then they flip their face covering back down and leave without even waiting for a dismissal. Pix laughs lightly as they go. The blacksmith waits for a more formal departure, but she leaves too.
The guard tucks her arm under Scott’s elbow and hauls him to his feet. He’s still unsteady, but it helps to be able to flare his wings out for balance. He’d never realized how much he relied on them until they were taken away. He leans on her as much as she permits as they follow Pix out of the court building. From there, it’s a mercifully brief walk to the king’s personal residence. It’s not exactly small or humble, the door framed by four sets of massive copper pipes, but it’s certainly no Matral Palace either. The ground floor is a plain and functional living space. The only decoration Scott sees is a frankly absurd number of conquered pillager banners. From there, he’s led up to the second floor. The room is equally sized to the one downstairs, but much more sparse. There’s a pair of windows that overlook the city, though they’re barred shut, three chests, a cabinet, a bedside table and a bed under the far window.
Scott is guided to the bed and made to lay down on his stomach. After a brief exchange of words, his hands are bound to the headboard. Although, he’s bound with rope this time. The guard picks the lock on his metal cuffs to get them off, much to Pix’s apparent amusement.
“Do your wing exercises,” Pix commands. He strokes down Scott’s back between his wings, making Scott shudder involuntarily. “Then get some sleep.”
Scott glances out the window at the bright sun, but doesn’t say anything.
Pix catches his confusion though. “We sleep through midday,” he explains. “At least, when we aren’t interrupted by idiotic foreign thieves. The sun is far too hot now to work through.”
Scott, who has spent the past two weeks trudging through Pixandrian noons, is inclined to agree. He shifts to get comfortable in his new bed. It’s a bit narrow for him and his wings drape on the floor when he lets them fully relax, but he’s too grateful at being able to relax his fucking wings to really mind. Pix strokes his hair one last time and departs. Scott hears a lock click into place behind him.
He pulls on the ropes around his wrists. They show no sign of give. Scott doesn’t know what he’d do with freedom anyway. Return to a conquered kingdom? Apologize to his people for failing them? If Scott were an ordinary citizen of Rivendell, he wouldn’t want to see the ruler that had allowed them to fall into enemy hands.
After weeks of holding it at bay, the sting of tears finally reaches Scott’s eyes. He sobs into the pillows as he does his wing exercises and tries to tell himself that it’s only because of the pain.