Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 13

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The clash with his new owner had left Niro shaken and quivery and with the urge to snarl at something and nothing at the same time. Had he been offered the chance, he would have crawled into a nook and curled up like a beaten dog, but that would have been a weakness too easily perceptible. It would have invited trouble and teasing that he could not bear, which left him with the only other choice: guarded silence and utter vigilance. Maybe those cursed metal cuffs could make him obey right now, right here, but they had to have their own weaknesses. Every trap had its weak spot and Niro had mastered the art of finding and exploiting those.
Niro was following the Ailill bastard through the maze of hallways that his family had once called their summer home, glowering at the slender, well-dressed back with all the bloodlust he could summon. As much as that man had commanded him to call him ‘master’, Niro’s feelings for him were anything but subservient. Just another Fae bastard with delusions of grandeur, a small hitch with no consequence whatsoever for Niro’s life or plans, nothing a stealthy dagger or wild arrow shot couldn’t fix. And then he finally would be free to take his revenge, to take revenge for the injustices done to his family and leave this makerforsaken city for good. The thought made him smile.
Although the home of his new liege had originally been of human design, traces of Ailill culture now were everywhere. Some of the flag stones seaming the more popular corridors had been ripped out and replaced with gleaming, colorful stone mosaics and the stone walls had been plastered and painted to repel the omnipresent gloom of the fortress. Statues depicting human gods, rulers and former inhabitants were still there, but the Fae had added little stone plaques explaining the depicted persons and scenes like a zoo exhibit. Some of the bigger pieces had lost their prominent places to Ailill art, displaced into galleries at the back of the palais.
The few servants passing the duo on their way towards the north wing were all Pander, going through their routines with sedate calmness and little interest in Niro’s presence. Guards were only posted at the doors leading to the outside, but those were Ailill in the colors of House Nancarrow, a crest well known to Niro. They ignored his snarls with stoic expressions, but nodded polite greetings at his owner as he led Niro up the stairs and into the residential wing of the estate.
The bandages chafed a little, but they survived the silent, chilly trip up the stairs and towards the master suites where once Niro’s parents had spent their evenings. Obviously, even the Ailill recognized the favorable bearing towards the sunrise; the Ailill opened the familiar door for him and ordered himinside with a silent glare.
The room had changed just as much and as little as the rest of the estate. The wooden floor wasn’t covered in wood shavings and reed anymore, but brushed and washed and lacquered. Carpets swallowed most of the gleaming wood, burying it beneath soft greens, browns and yellows, complimenting the new wall tapestries. The furniture stood in stark, dark contrast to those natural colors. It was wood, almost black but dull with the lack of protective coating, and made from a wood that Niro didn’t know and had never seen before. The grain was almost invisible, giving it a most powdery look, the carving of the pieces of furniture elegant and simple. A table with three cushioned chairs, a vanity and a small side table with flasks and decanters were scattered about the sitting room, a smaller part of the chambers intended for entertaining guests. A rather giant bed with white and sunflower-yellow sheets, a circular, curved wash trough, three commodes and a whole gathering of surfaces installed into the plaster dominated the bedroom, but the servant’s room was gone. Where once had been a door, there was now wall covered by pompous tapestry that Niro eyed with disdain and quiet fury.
Niro hesitantly walked through the rooms, staying away from the earthen oil lamps offering just enough light to get around. Except for the windows, nothing was as he remembered it from his youth. Gone were the light oak furnitures, the paintings of ancestors and the smell of his mother’s soap. The wall where she had marked their children’s growth, much to the chagrin of the serving folk, had been painted over, the sword dent in the door frame smoothened out, the blood soaking the wooden floor panels in her death sanded away. He might as well have walked into a stranger’s inner sanctum, for all he cared. Adding to that, this particular stranger was intent on making him a plaything to be toyed with.
The quiet fury brewing in Niro’s chest was exquisite.
“Have you been here before?” The Ailill was leaning casually against the door frame connecting the bedroom with the sitting room and eying Niro with what he could only assume to be a lazy smirk. Inside these friendly quarters, the dark garment on his ashen body looked out of place and improper.
“A long time ago,” Niro allowed with a forced casualty he didn’t feel. Lying to Ailill never went well, but bending or holding back the truth worked well enough. And since too personal questions were seen as brutish and rude, they had a tendency to not press, even where it might have been acceptable.
The ruse did its work. The Ailill nodded and pushed off the door frame, joining Niro in the bedroom and crowding him towards the bed by simply closing in on him. After what had happened on the balcony and the shame of letting someone pet him like a dog, Niro stepped back instantly. The Ailill prowled after him like a djinn, with movements smooth as silk in a breeze and a play of lights and shadows flitting over his flowing garments, his ashen skin and his black hair. The Fae’s lips still held that small, lazy smile, but his eyes gave away the predator instincts, the joy of having his prey cornered.
“I’m not your pet,” Niro hissed, twitching as his calves hit the edge of the giant bed.
At an arm’s length, the Ailill slowed down, not only in speed, but in movement. He took that last step like he was trapped in a different stream of time, carefully, oh so carefully extending one hand to frame Niro’s cheek with cool, soft fingers as he leaned forward.
“Yes, you are,” he whispered, leaning in as if to kiss Niro, his cat-like eyes small and lascivious.
Their bodies touched. A cold, hateful grin flashed through Niro’s face.
Then he grabbed the dagger dangling at the Ailill’s belt.