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Gladiatrix

Rhys was pacing. He folded his blanket neatly and stowed it in the corner, then he moved it away from latrine and up to the front of the cell.

"Do you think . . . ?" he said.

He decided the blanket would go better in a three-corner fold. "He'll be on time, do you think?" he asked, as he smoothed it out on the floor again. "I mean, I wouldn't worry if he were a little late. If he were just a little late, I wouldn't even be able to tell, so I wouldn't worry anyway . . . Maybe he'll be early, you think? It'd be better if he were early, anything could happen, I wouldn't want to miss anything . . . Nace, what time is it?"

Nace snickered and shook his head. "Just about two hours after noon meal. Rhys, I'll tell you about when he should get here, okay?"

"Yeah," said the gray-green. "That's reasonable." He sat on the blanket, for a little while. He couldn't help himself, "Pretty soon?"

"Yes, yes, pretty soon. Don't worry."

"I'm not worried," Rhys replied absently. Of course, if he really wanted to show he wasn't worried, he would shut the hell up, but there had been too much silence lately, and Achar wasn't there to overhear and opinionate. Nace was being awfully understanding, too. "You don't think . . . You don't think he could be too sick, do you? He'll have had to work a lot, to catch up, and they really beat the hell out of him, Nace, you didn't see. He hasn't been back since, I don't know how he is . . . "

"Rhys!" The yellow-green giggled, exasperated. "You've got at least half an hour longer to drive yourself insane, and if you succeed, you're not going anywhere with anyone. Relax! And I'm gonna grab that blanket off you if you fold it up one more time, I mean it!"

The gray-green snickered apologetically and rubbed the back of his neck. "I know. I know. It'll come out okay. It's just the waiting." It was a good kind of waiting, anticipation, but he didn't think he could stand it much longer.

All they knew was the time, and the place. The time was very soon now, and Sidro would take him to the place, soon enough. If there had been any changes, the tall guard would have told them. He was almost as eager as the gray-green. Rhys couldn't credit him with any sense of justice, the dragon would probably be just as thrilled to watch the council setting kittens on fire, but in his interest he had kept them well-informed. Nace never seemed to care much one way or the other, but Rhys and the guard speculated endlessly about what the punishment would be.

Otherwise at a loss, and needing to distract himself from Sidro's impending arrival, Rhys brought the subject up again, "It'll be worse than what they did to Sidro, won't it?"

Nace was somewhat reluctant. "I . . . suppose so."

Rhys was excited enough for the both of them. "It would have to be! Some of the things the guard said . . . Do they really boil dragons in oil here?"

The yellow-green paled. "I . . . Not for a long time. I've never seen . . . They wouldn't do that, there's no point in killing . . ."

"But this is in public," Rhys insisted. "It could be a warning to others, couldn't it? If it was really horrible. . ."

The dragon shrugged.

"Well, you'd be surprised what you can live through, anyway," the gray-green continued. "Do you really think you could peel three-quarters of a dragon's scales off him and he'd still--"

"I'm sure I don't know!" Nace interrupted, much distressed. "I didn't know when the guard brought it up, and I don't know now!"

Rhys closed his hanging jaw and considered this quietly. "Did you want to come with us?" he offered. "Maybe--"

"No!" Nace closed his eyes and shook his head. "Thank you, no. No."

Rhys couldn't understand. Sure, Nace had never been thrilled about it, but Oraz would have killed him. Not just him, but many others, some Nace had undoubtedly known. A pacifist would make an exception for Oraz. A masochist would! If he wasn't bitter about being left out, what could it possibly be?

They were quiet for a time, each occupied with his own thoughts. Rhys picked lint balls off his blanket.

"It shouldn't be long now," Nace finally announced. "Not if he wants to take you home for evening meal, before."

"Wouldn't there be any food there?" Rhys asked. He had promised Sidro he wouldn't get tired of soup and he wasn't, really, but he would like to set his teeth in something once in a while. "When we had . . . Well, not a punishment, but a feast or a celebration . . . A get-together. Someone would always sell food, or give it away."

"It's not supposed to be fun," Nace said. He sighed. "But I guess you're right. With all those people together, someone will sell food. But it's never anything much good. If Sidro . . ." He flicked an ear. "Nevermind. We'll see."

Rhys sat forward. He kicked the blanket out of his lap and rushed to the cell door, craning his neck to see. "Sidro? Sidro! Hey!" He waved.

The silver-blue waved back, weakly, as he came around the corner to rest. He was panting, and hung on the bars of an empty cage. "Coming," he promised. "Be right there." He gulped audibly.

Rhys flinched and tried to make an objective assessment. He was walking, that was good. When he'd come to tell Rhys of the council's decision, he had crawled. The gray-green couldn't discern many bruises, either, and the ones remaining had faded to a yellowish hue. On the other hand, he seemed thinner (was that possible in so little time?), and he was definitely ill.

Nace caught him by the arm when he was near enough, and guided him to the gray-green's support.

"You look better," Rhys concluded. But, gods, so thin!

"I feel better," the Pythian affirmed. He fumbled with the key. "I just need to throw up real fast."

"Oh, gods." Rhys guided the key home and popped the lock. The door swung inwards. He could have gotten out, just then. He could have run down the hall and killed the guard before anyone stopped him. Maybe killed more. Maybe even escaped. Any other red-collar would have at least tried.

But it never occurred to Rhys. The gray-green rushed Sidro to the trench and left the open door behind them. He held the Pythian's head. "Okay. Okay. That'll be better. That's better."

Sidro reached for the tap and Rhys turned it on for him. The silver-blue rinsed his mouth and washed his face. "Okay." He smiled a touch. "Better. Much. You?"

"Fine."

"Nace?"

Now the gray-green smiled. "See for yourself."

Nace gave a sheepish little wave, lodged against the bars as close as he could come. He sat back. "Master . . . Rhys said you lost some teeth?"

"Huh?" Sidro snickered. "A few I guess." He indicated the spaces, "'Ey're ar'itty 'owin' 'ack."

Nace grinned hugely, displaying his own new teeth, still whiter and shorter than the rest. "But I win."

Sidro laughed. "You win, but you cheat! You started earlier than me."

"Still win," Nace sniffed. He reached out and hugged Sidro through the bars. "You scared the hell out of me, you know?" he said. "There was blood all over the floor, and Rhys said you were badly hurt . . ."

"You scared the hell out of us!" Sidro smiled and nuzzled his cheek. "You just like attention, you big faker. I knew you'd be all right." He frowned suddenly and touched the scar beneath the yellow-green's eye. "Oh, God. Your stitches! I completely forgot . . ."

"Oh!" Nace touched his face. "I thought Rhys and I got most of them. He said you said they could come out, and it was itching . . . Did we miss some?"

Sidro blinked and checked. "No. No." He turned to Rhys, stunned but smiling. "I never even showed you. I should've, but . . ."

Rhys ducked his head. "I saw enough when you took out the others. But it was easy, really. Nace could've done it himself if he could've reached them all."

The silver-blue touched his shoulder. "You were . . . You did so much. I . . . Thank you."

Rhys squirmed away. "No, it wasn't like . . . It wasn't anything." He would have killed the dragon, if not for Sidro. Nace didn't know it, that was a pain he could be spared, but Sidro always would. Rhys could live with that, but not with the silver-blue's gratitude on top of it. He tried to smile, to push the words away before Sidro could form them again, "This is thanks enough."

The Pythian nodded, perhaps with more understanding than he wanted to express aloud. "Speaking of that, we better get going." he said. "There's a couple things we'd better do, and I want to get a good place to watch. Nace, will you be all right?"

"Me? Oh, sure."

"Really?" The word was heavy.

Nace turned his head away. "I'd rather be here. I'd rather be alone."

"Okay." The silver-blue gave him another hug. He dropped his voice, "I'll bring him back, right after. I'll let you know what happened."

"Thank you," Nace murmured.

Rhys could have pushed Sidro down and run, even then. Or taken Sidro with him as a hostage to add weight to his demands. He could have forced them to let him out, and Nace, and Sola, too. But the gray-green was only occupied with concern for his captor. He led Sidro slowly down the hall, and was very careful with him.

---

Rhys let him down on the bed. It was down to the straw and a cotton cover, as it had been when they left to care for Nace; the sheets had been used up, and the blankets evidently never found their way home after washday. It still looked the most comfortable place in the room, but Sidro popped up again like a puppet on a spring. He began to paw through the shelves.

The gray-green shadowed him, solicitous with worry. "What are you looking for?"

"Just got them, you wouldn't know . . ." Sidro said. "There's soup, if you want." He indicated a pitcher, half-full, bubbling over a burner.

Rhys poured himself a small dish. It didn't look like much, but Sidro obviously made it just for him. He sipped as he looked around for other changes. Sidro's preparations and machines still filled a goodly space, and there was a new batch of cider brewing. The decorative glass had been shuffled around. A rose-colored piece the gray-green rather liked seemed to be missing entirely.

"Huh," said Rhys. He would have asked about it, but Sidro asked him first: "Spring Green or Cadmium Yellow?"

"What now?"

"Spring Green," Sidro said, holding up a pot of paint, "or Cadmium Yellow? I can't take you out in public like that, people would expect you to kill them."

Rhys touched his collar, understanding. "I, um . . . Yellow is like Nace, right?"

"Uh-huh. Willing, you know." Sidro thought for a moment. "Green is like that gold, in the cell next to you . . . Well, where you were. Young . . . Innocent, if not young."

"I don't think you have a color for what he is." Rhys muttered.

"Blue is broken," Sidro said. "So that's no option. Green or Yellow?"

"Yellow," Rhys replied. "I guess," he added, self-consciously. Between Achar and Nace, there really was no choice.

Sidro set the green paint on a shelf without looking, the better to obscure it if he ever wanted it again. He considered the yellow, trying to scry the future in it, and looked doubtfully at the gray-green. "You won't kill anybody, will you?"

Rhys smiled. "Not today, not with you." He touched a finger to the lip of the jar and brushed a yellow dot on his collar. "To see Oraz punished, I'm willing enough."

Sidro nodded, frowning to himself. He looked up at Rhys and brightened again. "Well, finish your soup!" he said. "I have a brush somewhere, let me see . . . Go on and sit down, I'll be right there."

The gray-green emptied his dish at a swallow, it was no effort. There wasn't even a piece of carrot to hinder him. "Will there be food when we go?" he asked again, hopefully.

Sidro was arranging himself next to Rhys on the bed, the paint and a brush at one hand, a damp cloth for mistakes at the other. He paled at the mention of food. "Oh, God, you think?"

"Nace thought maybe, but nothing any good."

"Probably . . . Probably link sausage, peppers and onions, or maybe those fried cakes with the . . . sugar . . ."

Rhys would have been willing to eat any or all of that, and then have it again for dessert, but the Pythian had gone a dangerous shade of metallic gray. He took Sidro by the shoulders, "You gonna be okay?"

"No, I . . ." He swallowed, "Yes," and smiled sheepishly. "Nothing left to come up. Just . . . the smell."

As much as the gray-green had feared missing this event, his concern for Sidro was greater, at least at the moment. "Are you sure you can manage this?"

"Manage?" Sidro's expression darkened. "I'd manage if you had to drag me on a litter. If I had to crawl. If I were comatose, I'd . . ."

Rhys called him on that, "Oh, come on. You wouldn't be able to move if you were--"

"I'd want to go anyway!" the Pythian snapped. He emitted a sigh that became a quiet snicker. "But I guess I'll enjoy it more, conscious. I'll be all right, Rhys, don't worry. Get your head up and let me fix your collar so we can go."

"Will that . . . ?" The gray-green trailed off. They had a few hours yet, it seemed too early to go even if they wanted a good place to watch, but he had seen the way Sidro was holding the brush.

'Barely' was the way Sidro was holding the brush

"Do you have . . . anything? You have all this glass . . ." His eyes were scanning the shelves. Jars and bottles reflected his gaze, ghostly and distorted.

Sidro shook his head, ashamed. "It's a chemical coating, special. I guess I could've made one." He sighed. "It's been a long time since I wanted to look at myself."

Rhys lifted his muzzle and grit his teeth, steeling himself for a long time in this position. "It's okay, just do the best you can."

The silver-blue began by clearing away the excess from the dot Rhys had applied himself. The dragon tensed at the feel of the cold cloth, causing Sidro to drag it through the paint and smudge it even more. He sighed and scrubbed away the long, pale streak, then had a go at the collar himself.

Rhys flinched one eye shut, trying to be still. The brush was fine, maybe ten hairs' breadth, and the paint was colder than the cleaning cloth. Sidro's jagged work and delicate touch were making his teeth itch.

"Damn it, hold still a minute, can't you?" Sidro muttered.

"I am," Rhys protested, words half-pronounced through taut lips.

"You're twitching." Sidro fumbled the brush and painted a long yellow streak over his fingers and up the gray-green's throat. "Shit." Over everything with the cloth again. The tender scales writhed under the chill. "You're doing it again!"

"I can't help that!"

Sidro clasped his wrist with his off hand and tried it that way. "The problem is . . . Fuck . . . The problem is, if I don't get the edges, that looks bad, but if I get the scales, that looks really bad . . . " He scrubbed again with the cloth, sending an icy droplet trickling under the collar and down the dragon's neck.

The gray-green's muzzle was set in a rictus of abject concentration. His left hand spasmed as the droplet changed direction and headed towards that side.

" . . . And when I clean off the scales," Sidro grumbled, "it comes off the edges . . . "

Rhys had both eyes winced shut now, and his teeth were grinding. The brush tickled and blotted at his scales, making them far too sensitive. He could feel each minute fleck of cold paint that sprayed off the brush tip when Sidro jittered. A strangled groan escaped him as Sidro drew a broken line up the back of his neck, cursing and making a hot breeze over the cold paint all the way along.

"Fuck," he mumbled, muzzle inches from the scrubbing cloth, trying to focus. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." Rhys felt every plosive syllable. The water evaporated quickly under the onslaught, leaving an intolerable tingle.

"Okay," Sidro decided, "this time . . . "

The paintbrush jabbed haphazardly into his spine. Rhys shot to his feet with a cry, "Yiiiiiiii! I can't stand it! I can't stand it anymore!" He clawed the back of his neck and between his shoulderblades, dancing above his lashing tail. "I can't stand it! I can't stand it!"

Sidro shrank from him, upending the bottle on the bed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . . "

"Graaah!" Rhys rubbed down his front and gave a full-body shudder, shedding the crawling, tickling sensation. His gaze fell on Sidro, curled on the bed with his knees to his chest and a shocked expression, sitting on paint, paint on his hands, paint . . .

Rhys giggled. He licked his thumb and ran it down Sidro's muzzle. "You have paint on your nose."

"Huh?" Sidro blinked at the yellow that had come away on the gray-green's fingers. He snickered, flushing through his crest. "Oh, yeah? Well, you have paint . . . " He paused for a moment, considered it, then ran one yellow-streaked palm down the dragon's chest.

"Hey!" Rhys spared a glance at the slick stain. Grinning, he pounced on the silver-blue and knocked him back into the squelching paint puddle. He smacked a hand down into it and rubbed paint on the side of the Pythian's face, and then his throat. "Well, you have paint here! And over here! See how you like it!"

Sidro writhed, making it worse, and got in a few slaps of paint on his own. "Agh! It's cold!"

"Fuck yes it's cold!" Rhys cried, triumphant with the silver-blue pinned beneath him. He rubbed yellow out of his mouth and wiped some on the Pythian's crest for the aesthetic effect. He considered that for a few moments.

Sliding his hands down the finely-scaled shoulders, now tacky with drying paint, Rhys lowered himself and caught the tip of the Pythian's muzzle in a tentative kiss.

"Eek," said Sidro. He made a brief attempt to draw his limbs into his body and push upright, but then he closed his eyes. His tail thumped the bare mattress once, twice, then slithered its way up the gray-green's back, pressing him nearer.

Rhys felt a momentary shiver, cold but not entirely unpleasant. He closed his eyes and arched back against the touch. Sidro squirmed beneath him on the mattress. The gray-green let him move a little, the friction, and the feel of the paint, was rather nice. Sidro fought his hands free and clutched himself, leaving paintmarks. Rhys was seriously beginning to consider licking them off.

"Rhys, I . . ." The silver-blue was panting. "I feel . . . I'm a little . . ."

The gray-green slid off him. "Sick?" he asked, earlier desire forgotten, but not gone. If Sidro had to throw up again, best to let him rest there, and look for a container . . .

"Conf-confused."

Rhys snickered at the Pythian, who seemed totally unaware of the physical indications he was displaying. Apart from the panting there was, well, the more obvious. "Oh is that all?" said the dragon.

Sidro yelped and pulled into himself, concealing his reddened sheath under a tangle of limbs. "No, I . . . I can't . . . Need to think . . . The Draught . . . Please don't look at me like that, I can't bear it!"

The gray-green turned his muzzle away, though his smile had faded once he realized Sidro's true distress. "I'm sorry, it just . . . I know it's difficult for you."

"It's easy for me!" cried the Pythian. "If you knew how easy . . . If you knew how much, I want . . . I just want to . . ."

Rhys felt a fervid muzzle bump the back of his neck. He shivered again, that same, pleasant chill.

But, I don't want to do this, a small, soft voice spoke from inside him.

Yes, I do, said another, and it was much louder.

Yes, he did. For Sidro, because he needed it, and for himself, because it felt so good. He wanted to please Sidro, and deserve all this yellow on him. But why should wanting feel so cold?

I'm afraid.

Sidro mouthed warmly at the back of his neck. Rhys could feel his teeth, brushing scale, digging in, not hurting . . . The gray-green moaned and pushed back. Sidro would like that. This he knew, because he had been taught. And, indeed, the Pythian's attentions grew a little rougher, more desperate. Soon he would bite, Rhys thought. And fear became hot and needful in his gut. He pushed back, pushed back against the feel of his mouth, and already his legs were spreading, anticipating the creep of a long, silvery tail between them. It would feel so good, and he was ready, he wanted it. He needed it, and then he wouldn't be afraid . . .

The Pythian cried out, strangled sound, and pushed him away. Pushed him away hard, and scrabbled back from him. Sidro's head hit the wall behind the bed, knocking some sense back in. "Oh, I won't!" he said. "I can't . . . I can't think . . . I can't think but I won't . . ." He couldn't think why, and he wanted it badly, but it would be wrong. He knew that deeply and clung to it. "I won't . . . I won't hurt you! I won't force you!"

Rhys blinked as if waking. He touched the back of his neck, stood, and turned around. Force him? But, he had wanted . . .

"I won't use you," Sidro said. He hugged his shoulders and closed his eyes, sure of it now, though he felt so weak. "I can't do that to you. You're not . . . You're not a toy."

I am . . . Rhys thought, and he was cold again. What had he been thinking of, and what had he been about to do?

Oraz. He had been thinking of Oraz, and willing to submit to him. Again, now, all this time later. He felt faintly ill, and very much afraid. His legs wouldn't hold him and he sat on the bed. Sidro gasped and turned from him, face to the wall and knees against his chest. Rhys regarded him, small, pale, and shaking. And so thin, Rhys could have counted the bones in his spine, all the way down to the tip of his tail. He was crying, silently, though he didn't seem to know it. The gray-green didn't want to look at him, but he needed to.

This was not Oraz.

_But I'm afraid . . .

Of what?_

he demanded of himself.

Sidro would not hurt him. Sidro lay here, half-crazy with longing, and would not hurt him. Was so afraid of hurting him, in fact, that he would not even ask for what he obviously needed. And when Rhys, without thinking, had tried to give it to him, he had made the dragon stop. Because he knew it would hurt, even if Rhys himself had not.

Not Oraz. Not Oraz. He never hurt me, never would. I don't have to be afraid.

He lay a hand against the silver-blue's shoulder and stroked the feverish scales.

The Pythian shuddered. "No!"

"Shh," Rhys told him. He touched Sidro's cheek, nosed at his muzzle and kissed him again. Gently, this time. His own mouth had gone dry, and he remembered Sidro's bruises and missing teeth. When the silver-blue parted his lips and allowed him, he only explored a tiny bit, tasting a few of the soft, outer scales, careful only to graze the sore places where new teeth were growing. Rhys was growing warm again, a true warmth, like the smile on the face of an old friend, or a lover. Sidro had cared for him, so much. He would care for Sidro, and no memory of Oraz was going to stop him. Oraz couldn't make him do anything anymore.

"You don't know what you're doing," Sidro said. The words were slurred and his eyes were somewhat glassy. "Don't know what you're doing to me . . ."

"No," the gray-green admitted softly. "But it's all right. If you want me to keep doing it, it's all right."

"I don't know," came the strained reply, and Rhys saw that for the moment, this was true. That was fine. Sidro needed him to be careful, and he would be, for the both of them. He would not push Sidro to do anything he didn't want, but he would wait, near, and willing. He began to run his fingers up and down the Pythian's back, tracing the minute ridges of bone and muscle. The shadow of each rib was starkly evident. He bent his muzzle and touched his tongue to a few of them.

The Pythian gave a shivery sigh. He lifted drying eyes to look at the gray-green. "You don't have to . . . Not ever. Not because . . ." He struggled to find the words he needed. Too much had gone between them. Maybe it was his need, the Draught, maybe he was just too stupid. He shook his head.

Rhys nodded. "I know. I know that now, that's why I can."

"I'm afraid."

"Me too," Rhys said. "A little." He stretched out beside Sidro on the bed and nestled close. "You could hold me, if you wanted."

Sidro curled around him gratefully. Rhys felt the swelling of his sheath come to rest a little below and to the left of his own. A hand crawled over his back, clutched at a wing possessively, and began working its way downwards to caress his hips and the base of his tail. Rhys buried his muzzle between the silver-blue's neck and shoulder and breathed deeply of his scent.

Sidro, he assured himself. This is Sidro. This is Sidro, and I'm safe here.

He began to lap at the Pythian's throat, and allowed his hands to wander the silver-blue's body. So thin, so weak and thin and different from anyone bad. He wanted to cradle the dragon, protect him. He wanted to love him.

One of the silver-blue's hands caught up under his tail and rubbed a gentle circle there.

Rhys tensed up, and because it was Sidro, he managed, "Not there."

And because it was Sidro, he answered, "Okay," and moved on.

This is Sidro, thought Rhys. He hissed at the texture of scales that met his emerging shaft, and for an instant he was lost. His eyes came open to make certain. Yes, Sidro's scales. He smiled and pressed closer. A moment later, Sidro shifted his hips and slipped a hand between them. He found Rhys and stroked him, not roughly, but blindly. Sidro could not seem to manage the delicacy of touch he had achieved before. This was different, irregular somehow, not quite clumsy but almost teasing. The gray-green began to rock his hips, imposing order on the accidental chaos.

Sidro responded to the rhythm, tried to work within it, but his touch sometimes would land too lightly, or to hard. Panting again, the silver-blue pushed against the gray-green, began pushing against him every time he felt the well-timed pressure of his hips. He groaned, deep in his chest with no assistance from lips or tongue. When Rhys found him and brushed him with a fingertip, he cried out and completely lost the thread of what he was doing.

The gray-green held him, one arm close and tight around his back, the other pressed beneath them so he could wrap his fingers around the Pythian's shaft. Sidro had gone rigid. He shuddered at every touch, hardly daring to breathe. His hands clenched and clawed the air at his sides. "Oh no," he whispered. "Oh, no. Oh, no . . . " He couldn't stand it. No one had ever done this to him. No one had ever cared enough to make it so good. It was going to kill him.

Rhys was careful. He knew what it was to be on the Draught, he knew what it was to fear the reaction of his own body, and what it was to be in need. He was careful, but he was not timid. He urged the silver-blue to finish, feeling the incredible tension against him, feeling it within himself. "It's okay," he breathed, between licks and light nips at Sidro's muzzle. "It's okay. Ohh, it's okay . . ."

Sidro spasmed in his entire body, head thrown back over his shoulders, tail thrashing, eyes squeezed tightly shut and tearing. He gasped and gulped air but could make no sound.

Rhys felt the familiar pulsation in his hand, the leak of warmth against him. Tactile memory rose unbidden, not Sidro's touch, but Oraz's. A prelude to pain, punishment and humiliation. Healing wounds opened and bled fresh panic to his brain. Oh, gods, don't hurt me . . . Please don't hurt . . .

Sidro clutched him close, brought both wings around him to hide and protect him. "It's okay," he echoed.

Rhys felt a burgeoning heat, beginning between his legs and crawling rapidly up his spine. He opened his eyes again, opened them and made sure.

Not Oraz. This is Sidro. This is Sidro and I love him.

He did cry out as a climax shuddered through him, but it was low and pleasant and sweet. He shook with the pleasure of it; fear, unfounded; tension, released. He continued to shake, but Sidro was shivering, too.

There were no blankets. Rhys slipped his wings around Sidro, under and over the wings in which the Pythian held him.

It was good, it was enough.

---

. . . fell asleep! We fell asleep! Wake up! WAKE UP!"

A cold, wet towel slogged against his chest.

"Glur?" said Rhys, sitting up. He caught the towel in his hands and stared at it with the stupidity of the recently-napping.

"We fell asleep! We fell asleep!" Sidro was almost singing it, and he was certainly dancing, hopping from one foot to another as he scrubbed paint-splatter off himself. "Holy God, get the yellow off you! We have to go!"

The gray-green rubbed absently at one shoulder. Yellow paint. Right.

"For God's sake!" Sidro whipped the towel out of his hands and began wiping him down. "Oraz, remember? I don't know what the hell time it is, we'll be lucky if there's room, if they haven't done it already. Wake up!" The Pythian wrung out cold water on his head.

"Oh," said Rhys. "Oh!" He snatched the towel back and scrubbed his face. "Did I get it all? You still have some on your crest. I'll get it! What about my collar?"

"Good enough," Sidro pronounced. "Screw the edges, who'll look that close? Anyplace else?" He spun a quick circle, wings spread.

"Nuh-uh. Me?" The gray-green stood and displayed himself.

Sidro let out a somewhat hysterical giggle. He crouched with his towel and yanked on the gray-green's tail. "Oof, you were sittin' in it!"

Rhys submitted to the indignity of having his ass and tail cleaned of dried paint with only a few sniggers of his own, and a single comment on the coldness of the water.

"You want hot water, you go up top, in summer!" Sidro told him. He grabbed his satchel and started for the door. "Come on!"

---

The structure of the arena conformed to the usual nature of Pythian entertainments, in which the participants were only rarely willing. A cylindrical cage rose from floor to ceiling, off-center in the oval space, like a yolk trying to escape a fried egg. Against the wall, in the narrowest space, an arc of about twenty chairs was spread upon a raised dais, beneath a disc of polished bronze. To the right of the chairs, an ornate doorway was broken into the stone wall. To the left, a snug iron chute led into the cage. The doorway was fit for a dragon of highest rank, a council member. The chute was fit for an animal. A pathway led down from one to the other.

The common space, which surrounded the cage on all other sides, lacked any seats, and all but the most practical of ornamentation. The several entrances had a different symbol carved above each, so that one might get out the same way he came in, meet the others he had come with, and collect any valuables he'd checked at the gate. The floor was slightly bowled, lowest by the cage and higher at the entrances, in vague hopes of allowing even the latecomers to catch a glimpse. Unfortunately, the angle was only sufficient to cause even unimpaired dragons to stagger around as if drunk. Falling and being trampled was always a danger, particularly when the event was attended with enthusiasm.

This last was the only thing immediately apparent to Rhys. All else was a forrest of webbed crests in garish colors and the mind-numbing burr of multitudinous conversation. Little coiled streamers were thrown, here and there, and draped over heads and shoulders. Someone was laughing raucously. There was an alcohol smell in the air, and an unknown liquid squished on the floor beneath the gray-green's feet.

"I've never seen this many people!" he cried over the din.

"What, in this small a space?" Sidro yelled back.

Rhys cupped hands to his muzzle, "In my whole life!" Someone stamped on his toes and forced his way past between the two of them. To the teeming mass of dragons, the small gap was taken as an area of low pressure and began to fill with stumbling Pythians. A few of them glanced pointedly at his collar, but then they smiled. Some laughed, some shook their heads. And they kept coming . . .

The gray-green raised his hand and tried to make himself obvious in the tide of draconity. "Sidro!" The silver-blue caught his fingers and pulled him through.

"Don't let 'em step on you Rhys," the dragon told him through a manic grin. "You gotta get your elbows into it! This many people, we might not be able to stay at the front, but we can get where we want. After me!" He swung his hips sideways and backed against a slightly smaller male, forcing him to bow his spine or fall over, and making a small space for himself. He slid sideways into it, never minding the close contact, and drove his elbow into the gut of another dragon, who bent forwards and gave him a convenient spot for his tail. "Rhys, keep close!"

The truncated path was already closing behind the silver-blue, obscuring him. To keep from losing him entirely, Rhys jagged his knee into the groin of the same unfortunate Sidro had elbowed. He edged into the space, turned, kicked a Pythian in the back of the knee and snagged the silver-blue by the tail, holding him just long enough to catch up and take advantage of the trail he was forging for himself. Sidro cast a glance back at him, grinning still. Rhys was grinning himself. "It's like fighting!" he said.

"It's like dancing!" Sidro laughed, taking his hand "Up this way, they can't have finished yet, or people would be leaving. Yell if you see the Sun!"

"What's the--Oof!" He threw his hips and tail into it and forced back a Pythian who had driven an elbow into the base of his spine. "Teach you." Rhys lifted his and Sidro's clasped hands over the head of another interloper and spun sideways to get by. Over the crowd, Rhys thought he saw the barest gleam of bright, metallic light. He pushed that way, backwards, then sideways, dragging Sidro behind him. He leapt to get a another look at it. "That thing?" he called to the silver-blue, pointing. "That, up there?"

Sidro ducked under the armpit of a particularly large male, leapt up from the ball of his foot and flung himself forward into the crowd, like a dog straining at a leash. Dragons parted just briefly before him, reeds in light wind, not enough to get past, but enough to award them both a brief glance at the metal disc and the empty chairs on the dais.

"Ha!" cried Sidro. "Council's not even here yet! We made it!"

Rhys snickered as he was shoved bodily into the silver-blue and carried backwards by the tide of the crowd. "Okay, but are we gonna be able to see it?"

"We can get forward again, when we have to," Sidro assured. "Might not be able to see it all, especially if there's blood, but, oh, yes, we'll see enough. Everyone will see enough."

"Soon?" Rhys asked him.

"Hope to God, the place can't hold much more . . . Hai!" The silver-blue leapt up again and raised his arm. "Over here!" He began to drag Rhys off in a different direction. It must have been towards the exits, because the pressure was lessening, but there was something there to see, a small group was gathered, and dragons were turning their heads. Having heard it once, Rhys could pick out more instances of that cry for attention all around the arena. "Hai! Two here!" "Hai! Five of us! This way!" "Hai!"

In the midst of this minor commotion stood, cringed really, a young male with a flat box hanging around his neck. It was lidded, thank goodness, or it would've been spilled a hundred times over in the jostling crowd. The boy was handing out small wrapped parcels, food of a glorious smell, with one hand, taking coins in the other, and trying to keep Pythians from grabbing the tray and strangling him with all his being.

"What have you got?" Sidro demanded, angling his head in. "Whatever it is, we want two of it. Just a second . . . " He pawed through his satchel, losing considerable ground as he did so. When he'd found a few pieces of money he waded back into the fray with a determined expression.

Rhys waited for him to one side, hardly thinking it worthwhile. Sidro came back out holding two wax paper cones made transparent with grease. The gray-green peaked into his and found a congealed mass of limp-fried peppers and onions. The aroma was intense, eye-watering, mouthwatering. He tipped the wrapper up, pulled off bite and chewed happily.

Sidro had taken a more direct approach, pushing his muzzle into the paper cone and pulling out the stringy substance like choice entrails from a kill. "I couldn't stand it," he said, mouth full. "I could smell them and I just couldn't stand it!"

"Thought you were sick?" said the gray-green, even though all evidence was now to the contrary.

"Was sick." The dragon dipped his muzzle sheepishly. "But you . . . It helps. You helped." He snickered. "Your fault if it all comes up when I feel sick again, too. But it's worth it."

Rhys considered this as he ate. He smiled shyly. "I wouldn't mind . . . I mean, if it would keep you from being sick . . ."

Sidro slipped an arm around him and squeezed. "No, not for that. You're not a toy, and you're not a tonic. Anyway, it wouldn't be enough to . . ." He swung his muzzle away, eyes glazing over. "Ohhh, I smell sausages." He wandered off in another direction and Rhys followed after, laughing to himself.

Sidro got them both some sausage, which had been fried to such an extent that the casings squealed when you bit through them, and to follow some kind of crunchy substance on a stick with a sauce that made the gray-green's nose run. Rhys drew the line at the little fried cakes, which had been squeezed out of a large tube directly into hot fat and looked like nothing so much as thin and unhealthy bowel movements. Sidro had a couple himself anyway and claimed them exquisite.

They enjoyed their bounty at the edge of the arena, near one of the entrances, where they had even found a small space to sit among some others.

"Baaah! They won't kill him!" an old, scarred soldier was expounding to everyone in the area. "Council don't see the point in killing, not any more. Well, when I was young they had a dragon castrated, and then they pulled out his intestines in front of his eyes, and then in the space they left, they sewed a cat into him! Clawed its way out, I saw it! 'Course he was dead by then, in pieces, but we all got the point, that day . . . "

"What exactly was the point, Grandfather?" one of the young males teased, swilling a cup of cider.

"Don't piss off the Council!" the old soldier snarled. "And respect your elders and betters, you whelp!"

A snigger worked its way through the group, barely restrained.

A young Pythian, alone and quite thin, nursing some bruises and a strong drink, muttered to himself, "Some things worse than dying. Some things . . . "

"Baaah!" rumbled the elder male.

A clear tone emanated from the other end of the arena and worked its way over the hubbub of the crowd. There was a brief silence, and then the cavern seemed to inhale . . .

The young males left their litter and darted into the teeming mass.

The old soldier was slower in getting to his feet, with many a grunt and groan. "They won't kill him," he intimated to the silver-blue and the slave, all that remained of his audience. "Mark my words. Council, feh!" Shaking his muzzle, he disappeared among the fringes of the crowd. "Baaah!"

Rhys was up on his feet and jigging nervously. "Sidro, is it starting? Are we missing it?"

The silver-blue licked the grease from his fingers. "Wait for it. It'll be hard, but no harder in a few minutes."

Another high tone sounded above the throng, the ring of a silver-throated bell.

"Council's here," said Sidro. He got up on his toes and tried to make out what was happening, but it was useless. The crests of the assembled Pythians made a jungle around them. "Damn it, can't even hear them. Rhys," he touched the gray-green's shoulder, "lemme get up to the front by myself. They always talk first, it could be a while yet before anything happens, and we'll just get pushed back again if we work our way up. I can check it out and be right back real fast, okay?"

Rhys nodded uncertainly. "You'll be able to get back here?"

The dragon grinned. "Oh, getting back won't be hard at all!" He made a show of spitting on his hands and flicking his claws out. "Don't you go anywhere."

The crowd absorbed him.

Rhys leaned back against the wall, trying to gauge his progress by the sound of offended yelps, but many dragons were moving. There was nothing to do then but wait.

A few moments later, there was another collective gasp. Rhys winced from the fringes as he saw the mass of dragons packing themselves even tighter together. The cries and snarls of the displaced intensified. Rhys pushed to his tiptoes, even jumped a little, but it was no use.

What are they trying to get a look at?

Someone giggled, high, drunken and a little hysterical.

It was followed by a more general laughter, as if a number of people had just understood the punchline of some obscure joke. There was a murmur of explanations being passed backward, but by the time Rhys heard them they made little sense. He pressed into the crowd a bit and craned his neck.

We're missing it! We're missing SOMETHING. Where's Sidro?

The bell was struck again.

The gray-green couched his elbows against his sides and lowered his head. He was missing it, anyway. He could make his way forward, maybe he'd meet Sidro coming back towards him, but he could handle being lost a while if there was no other way. He slipped forward and shunted one elbow into an unseen ribcage.

"Oog!"

The unseen ribcage lurched out of the crowd and crashed into him. Sidro was attached to it.

"Sorry!" said the gray-green. He caught the dragon by the shoulders and peered past him. "Got your wind back? Can we get to the front?"

Sidro gasped a large, whooping breath. He shook his head. He continued to shake his head.

The throng of dragons spat them out to one side. Rhys had a better look at the silver-blue. "No? Well, look, maybe if we hurry . . . "

"No!" cried the dragon. He snatched at Rhys and drove him back against the wall. "Not what I thought . . . We have to go home!"

"Home?" The word was like a slap to a hysteric. Rhys focused on the unsteady Pythian. He was shaking again, pale, hollow-eyed. "Oh, gods, you're sick again?"

"Not what I thought!" Sidro insisted. "The punishment, Oraz . . . We have to go--I don't want to see it--we have to go!"

"Don't want to see it?" the gray-green echoed. His expression hardened. "Well, fuck you if you don't want to see it! I've been waiting for this for weeks!"

"Rhys, no, it's bad," the Pythian mewled. He clutched at the dragon. "Listen to me, they want to--"

There was an unrestrained cackle from the audience. A few hoots and some general snickers followed it up.

"Aw, what an ugly old twat!" a male called out, disappointed.

"I'd still take her, eh?" someone responded. "They all look the same from the back!"

More laughter followed this.

"One-eyed black bitch!" a drunken voice shrieked.

Rhys ignored the silver-blue's supplications, did not even hear them after that cry, did not hear any of the catcalls and sniggers that followed it. He shoved his way into the crowd with a silent and dangerous determination. The yellow collar lied to those who resisted him, but his posture and expression told the unequivocal truth:

If they didn't let him past he was willing to kill them and step over their twitching bodies.

They made way.

Once Rhys got past a certain point, he was practically driven to the front. The crowd had forward momentum and there was no longer any room to retreat. He was pressed on all sides, squeezed forward and forced against a shoulder-high metal gate that kept those closest from approaching the cage or the council. His breath was crushed out of him. He sipped in what air he could, and he looked, and he saw . . .

"Sola," he wheezed.

She did not look up.

She sat huddled against the bars of the cage, her wings hunched at her shoulders, her legs clutched against her chest, just outside the chute, just where they had put her. Her injured eye had healed into a hideous crater of gray scar tissue, turning her face into something alien, something other. Not only ugly, but somehow ridiculous, the head of a weather-worn gargoyle on the shoulders of a dragoness. The crowd gave no quarter in calling attention to this.

But he loved her. He could see only a hurt, which he would have given anything to soothe and kiss. It was the other eye, the one intact, that turned this desire to cold horror in his gut. Once clear and burning bright, it might now have been placed by a taxidermist. She stared, vacant of any thought or feeling. She stared at the floor, a few inches in front of her . . . No, not at it, through it. She was gone.

Someone in the audience, a good shot and a damn fool, chucked a half-empty wooden cup through the bars and hit her in the head. She didn't blink, she didn't flinch. It struck her, hard, and rolled away from her, completely unnoticed.

Rhys gave a strangled snarl and tried to force his way back into the fray, to find the perpetrator, to kill him, but he was stuck as he was, crushed, unable to move or speak, only to watch it happen to her.

"Broken," he whispered. The word made icicles at the back of his throat. "Sola, oh my gods, my Sola . . . "

He might have never looked beyond her. He might have stood there, silent and vaguely relieved that the crowd was crushing the life out of him, just watching her, if the cage hadn't shrieked when the guard opened it up.

Instinct refocused his attention to the source of the noise. He fought a little space for himself and looked up at the others.

The council members sat to either side, each mantled in a fine white cloth that was joined at the front with a metal disc, impeccably composed and distant. In the center of the dais sat Oraz, wearing a grimace that was somewhere between a feral snarl and a polite smile. He clutched the sides of his chair, claws bared, exuding hatred like the acid stink of adrenaline. Beside him, with her flank turned to the audience, the dragoness Ezmi was riding her chair sidesaddle. She seemed perfectly at home, her muzzle upraised with a proud and knowing grin. The pink cup was cradled in her preternaturally steady hand. Beside her, and now being dragged to his feet, and now being led down the pathway to the chute, was Achar.

The Draught had done its work; the yellow-gold was erect and totally incoherent. His head lolled against his chest, tongue hanging out between jaws agape and licking frantically at whatever it could reach. He did not walk, but only twisted between the Pythians that held him, inviting the sensation of his scales sliding in their grasp, hungry for it. He rocked his hips in ceaseless supplication and groaned as the watching dragons roared laughter and ridicule at him.

Sidro was right, Rhys didn't want to see this. It was obscene, and in ways the silver-blue never could have guessed. In his childhood, not so far away, Sola had given candy to Achar and pushed him on a swing. The gray-green moaned and tried to shrink from his viewpoint, to hide his face, to turn from it, to run from it. But the Pythians around him wanted to see it, wanted to revel in it, this humiliation of the great general, his beloved pet playing the fool. They only pressed Rhys closer. He had to stay.

And, gods help him, having to stay, he had to watch.

When the chute clattered shut behind him, the yellow-gold first attempted to gratify himself against one of the cold, iron bars. He hissed at the rough texture and the temperature and began to grind his shaft against it, affording the eager crowd a terrific view. He licked the bar and bit at it, as he might one day have done to his first female, as he might soon do to Sola, working himself to a frenzy. The sensation did not satisfy him. Under the influence of the Draught, nothing could. His sharpened senses, addled though they were, were beginning to tell him there were better pleasures to be had.

He approached Sola on tiptoe, mincing like a blistered traveler, unable to stand the pressure of the stone against his heels. He scented her, openmouthed, and he was drooling.

And Sola did not move, did not react, and he came at her from behind, hugely erect and ridiculous, helpless. He touched one of her wings, nuzzled at it with delirious ecstasy.

And Sola did move, did move but slightly, shifted her feet under her . . .

And, but slightly, she moved her tail aside for him.

The gray-green cried out, incoherent grief.

And Achar was driving against her, hands clenched on her shoulders, tail stiff and wagging behind him, trying to climb up her body in his enthusiasm.

And Sola was still.

It was then, too late, that Rhys began to understand. That he was able to see beyond the damaged face and the broken, senseless stare. The vacant eye was false. The tension in her posture, and the set of her jaw spoke truly. She was not gone. She was mad, mad to the core of her, mad in the truest sense of the word. They had not broken her spirit, they had driven it to rage. She had lost, perhaps, the part he had loved, the part that knew him, knew Achar, knew mercy, but she had not lost herself. It was Sola, in that cage. Sola, who would have killed him if he tried to prevent her from fighting. Sola, who crouched there. Sola who lurked there . . . And she was very still.

She was very still, and her claws were curling out . . .

And her collar was red.

Rhys gave a strangled cry. He kicked the other dragons away from him and crawled up the rungs of the gate, pulled himself upwards until there was room for him to breathe, and cry out . . .

Oh, gods, her collar was red. Not the obvious blue of the pathetic and the broken, not that safe and simple blue. Red. It was as red as his own. Red as bleeding. Red as death. It was RED.

"Achar!" he screamed. "Achar, come to your senses! Achar, she's going to kill you! Sola, DON'T--"

In one fluid, perfect ripple of her spine, she turned on him. Her claws slashed red ribbons across his heaving chest, and her teeth were in his neck. He writhed beneath her, grinning salaciously, panting, the pain a pleasure to end all pleasures.

She tore out his throat, closed her jaws on it and tore it out without conscience, without hesitation. The resulting fan of blood arced out into the crowd, and they oohed in awe and satisfaction. Achar's hips pumped once, twice, body without brain. He grew still. The black dragoness lifted her head and bayed over him, a triumphant howl, a sound of such crazed joy it was beyond the capabilities of any animal. The watchers were chilled, silenced. She wolfed the piece of meat in her mouth, then dipped her head lower, to tear away more.

They dragged him from his tenuous perch, dragged him screaming and trampled him underfoot in the rush forward. The gate crumpled under the siege, allowing the Pythians closer, close enough to dip their fingers in the damp redness, to smell and taste the carnage before them. To feel of it. By the time Rhys clawed to his feet again, Sola was gone, and Achar had left only his blood.

And, recognizable beneath the wash of gore, a piece of him.

Next Chapter: Before the Dawn ca. 2am Sunday morning, MST.

I'm sorry it will be so late. I am having some serious formatting issues and cannot post to this site from my own computer. It will probably be up by two, earlier is a possibility, but don't wait up. It will be there by morning. Don't worry. I DO have an ending.