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"Show me, darling."
Her voice fizzed along Hendrick's veins like lightning, like the one true delight in life was to hear her. Her touch, too, was transcendent. Her soft fingertips on his throat, the faint cold touch of her tapered nails as they just failed to peirce his skin. Traitorously, he wished that she hadn't taken his eyes; but she'd explained, as those nails pressed in deep, what she was sparing him.
"My fae kin dazzle your kind with their beauty," she'd said. "It would overwhelm you. Leave you just a babbling, weeping mess. Not enough left to be any fun, you know?"
This, conversationally, while Hendrick's breaths hitched hard in his chest, but he'd managed to catch enough breath to speak.
"Thank you for your mercy, mistress," he'd said, overwhelmed by the care she was showing him.
His mistress had nothing but mercy for her poor thralls. Hendrick knew this. Still, he hesitated, the little thing cupped in his hands where it was safe, and mistress took his throat in her hand, her nails drawing blood.
"Pet," she said, so kindly, she was so kind! "Show me."
His hands shook as he revealed his little treasure. It was soft, and whiskery, and it squeaked sometimes, or snuffled in his hands for food. He loved it.
"Disgusting! Why do you insist on dirtying yourself with these creatures?" She cried, stepping back from him. He felt the loss of her presence like an ache in his chest. "Wring its neck."
Without his will, he felt his hands move. The little bones snapped with a wet sound, and the little body went still. It was limp and warm in his hands.
"Throw it away in the snow outside," she said. "And stay out there yourself. If you insist on touching vermin, then you can be treated like one."
Hendrick left, going out into the courtyard. Snow was falling steadily, brushing his face. Each inhale seemed to drive ice into his very veins. As he huddled near the courtyard wall, he held the little body close to his chest, feeling its warmth slowly fade and its muscles begin to stiffen.
He was allowed to hold it until morning. Truly, his mistress was merciful to her pets.
—
Izabela had one of her thralls curled around her feet asleep, but the warmth and faint twitches as they dreamt were beginning to irritate her. It yelped as she kicked it away, its eyes opening and then fixing on her. The fae charm took hold of it again, holding it frozen and rapt by her, but she gestured it away sharply. She needed all of her focus for the letter she'd just received.
It still smelled like the oak burrs that had been used in the ink, and the seal of the autumn court was proudly stamped at the bottom.
It was not the custom to announce visits in the midst of winter. It was also not the custom for anyone to think of visiting her, but evidently this was to be an exception. For all that she did not often visit her father's realm these days, she kept a few smaller creatures in her debt there, and they fed her bits of information. This cousin of hers, the Moss Lord, was an odd one. Not politically active, but the rot and death and vermin that followed their banner would be deeply inconvenient, she supposed, for the planned ball that the Autumn court was hosting to secure their treaty with the Summer Court.
So, of course, they would pass them off to her. Because in the minds of some fools, clean and lovely undeath was compatible with rot.
She could not currently afford to refuse—the lord of the Autumn Court was not an enemy to be made lightiy—but she needed to take her fury out on something.
Well. This was exactly why she employed thralls.
—
Hendrick's hands shook, these days.
It was not overwork. The Lady never overworked them. It was simply that he was growing very weak, very suddenly, and he was terrified of the day that she would notice and be rid of him.
She was deeply distracted, however, and had not had time for Hendrick in days. She had shown a marked preference for her thralls who were still able to scream. When she finally did call for him, he shook the whole time he was crawling to her feet, and almost fell flat on his face once. Her voice was still the sweetest nectar; he was straining to hear every note, soaking it in like prepared ground soaking in the rain. He was graciously allowed to huddle against her legs, and it was not until then that he realized there was another person in the room—not another thrall like himself, but another person. Their voice was low and raspy, like seed pods rattling in a November breeze. They smelled of wet fur and the cold scent of a first frost, and Hendrick was very afraid of him.
"I do hope you'll be comfortable," she said, her blessed moon-cold fingers dancing lightly through Hendrick's hair. He leaned into the touch, heart fluttering with the attention he was being paid. "I'm afraid I couldn't prepare any entertainments for you, but I hope this will suffice—up, pet."
Hendrick, still touch-drunk, stumbled at the command. The shakes were worse than before, but the fuzzy haze of utter delight was still swimming around his brain, and he couldn't bring himself to care when her hand rested under his chin, sharp nails piercing the vulnerable skin of his throat. Thin droplets of blood dripped down to his collarbone, and he made a helpless little sound of want, hoping that he would prove tempting enough for her to drink from him.
"I repudiate you, thrall. You are no longer mine. You will find no joy in my voice or in my touch. Go to your new master."
The words were each like a stab through the ribs. At first, there was only the shock of impact, but when the pain came, it was overwhelming.
Without the happy haze of her vampiric charm, Hendrick was cold and exhausted, starving and bruised. The pain was unsheathed all at once, the edges of it no longer dulled. He took in a shallow, sobbing breath.
The grief hit next. He wanted to beg, to throw himself at her feet and whine to be taken back, but doing so would be an insult to her and to her will. He was meant to uphold Mistress—her wishes, even if those wishes didn't include him. Especially when those wishes didn't include him.
"There. He's all yours, to entertain yourself as you like. Just please try to avoid leaving any stains, yes?
"You took his eyes?"
This, in a tone less horror than mild insult.
"Of course. It makes them so much more malleable. Now, I understand that I'm to feed you. The house thralls will have something prepared and brought up to your rooms. I'd invite you to eat with me, but I need to hunt for my food, you understand?"
"Many of my kin also need blood to survive. I wish you a good hunt."
Every time the mistr—the lady speaks, Hendrick expects his body to thrill with sudden elation, for the pain to numb and the sweet, lovely joy to rise up again, but it does not happen. He's simply lying on the cold stone floor, the tile seeping heat from his aching body, listening as two others speak over him as if he was not there. His body has no water in it for tears—when did he last drink anything?—but his eyes burn all the same.
For all that her presence has ceased to soothe him, he still feels the loss as her shoes tap-tap away to leave him with the stranger. The stranger who is now his master.
Hard, narrow fingers with blunted ends scrape over his head, and the master makes an unhappy gutteral sound.
"All dried up," they say. "Right and proper for me and mine, but not for your kind, yes?"
Hendrick makes a low sound in his throat. Once, he had been a very vocal thrall, worshipping his mistress with every breath. It had gotten annoying for her, so his vocal cords had been kindly sliced so that she would continue to find joy in him.
"Ah, I see. Still. Let us find you some water. It would be very rude of me to let my gift dessicate like a plucked rose, would it not?"
The new master is surprisingly quiet as they walk towards the kitchens. about the second time that Hendrick loses them, they mutter something about massive inconvenience—Hendrick flinches—and make him get to his feet, tucking one of his arms through their elbow. He thinks at first that they're armored, but the smooth surface of their arm was nothing like metal. it reminded Hendrick of the little window-beetles that would crawl so delicately over his hands. There was a word for it, somewhere—
"Sit. Someone is getting water, and apparently food as well, if I understood her miming correctly. Do all the Lady's thralls have their speech taken from them?"
Hendrick shook his head. The Lady had liked to hear them scream, sometimes. Just not him.
"Hm. ah, here. drink."
A mug was pressed against Hendrick's lips, the chipped part of the rim a grounding sting as cool, sweet water washed over his tongue. He jerked forward, gulping wildly. It felt like the water was running down his very veins. he drank in spite of his protesting lungs, untile they finally forced him to take in a breath and he choked, spluttering. The mug was taken away. As the master's elbow brushed Hendrick's shoulder, something dropped off of it.
The something was warm, and a little furry, and scrabbled across Hendrick's shoulder to huddle its little body in the hollow of his neck.
"Ah, one of my little soldiers likes you," the master said, not sounding angry at all. "That is unusual."
Hendrick reached up with shaking hands. a small, whiskered muzzle nipped gently at his fingers. The little rodent was soft, with tacky little paws and a speedy heartbeat. as he pet a thumb over its head, it leaned into the pressure with a pleased little squeak.
"Oh dear, and now you're leaking," his new master said, but did not order him to stop, so Hendrick buried his face in warm fur and continued to weep.