"tough choice." by Connie Jay Mentira

                                       The sudden tremor and explosion of cannons shocked him awake. He shot out of bed and into his armor, snarling quietly under his breath and pulling his helmet over his head roughly. A few strands of shoulder length ebony hair were pulled viciously out of his scalp. His giant, soft feather bed was blown to bits as a cannon-ball smashed through the stone wall. The splintering crack of wood rang in his long pointed ears, making him wince. His fire-red eyes flashed as he stormed through the palace halls, ducking at each burst of lead and stone. His family was huddled in the great hall, his little sister cowering in the arms of her nanny, tears streaming down her plump face. Blood was splattered on her white sleeping gown, and realization hit him like the giant wooden rafter that crashed down onto his stiff form. He heard his sister scream and could hear a high-pitched ring squealing in his ears. He hit the floor with a thud and the remaining breath was driven out of his wounded body.

Mother…

Father…

Wait for me, he thought weakly.

~ ~ ~

Black flowers threatened to cover his vision, and he raised a hand to his throbbing head, his eyes rolling wildly. He heard voices above him, and he covered his ears softly from the loud roars that came from above.

“Look, he’s waking up!”

“More, NOW! That’s an order!”

“Wait! Why do we have to drug him every time he twitches a muscle?”

The young voice was high pitched with worry, and he opened his eyes to see the most heart wrenching look upon a beautiful face. The boy was no older than him, perhaps a few months younger. The boy’s eyes flickered across his scratched, wounded face, and back to his commanding officer’s. The officer, who was rather bulky and made a better door than a window, moved in front of his face, blocking his view of the soldier. He scowled weakly and tried to push the man away, his mouth open with incoming speech. The officer whirled and slapped him viciously, blood bursting from his lower lip. The boy let out a noise of horror, and reached out across the table when he went tumbling over the edge. He hit the floor with a heavy thud, and he spat out a chip of his tooth and a small puddle of his blood.

He growled deeply and sat up, the muscles in his stomach and arms writhing under his tanned skin.

His eyes flashed and he bared his teeth, another snarl ripping from his throat. His shape shivered and swayed, and the light from the single candle that was surrounded by soldiers cast his shadow menacingly on the opposite wall. His shadow writhed on the damp stone, though he remained still, the growl continuing out into the still room.

The boy moved cautiously toward him, and he shifted to his knees, his fingers poised as claws at his sides, his shoulders stiff. He felt the familiar tingle of fire crawl up his spine, and his eyes brightened to a lemon yellow, his teeth growing sharper and longer. His nails thickened and became pointed tools of pain. The boy faltered a small step, and made up his mind and squatted down beside him, a hand stretched toward him. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips before he spoke softly and calmingly.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured.

He remained stiff and unwary, his eyes narrowing and darkening a bit, turning a slight amber. The boy smiled hesitantly, and scooted himself towards him ever more closer.

“What’s your name, sir?” he asked softly and politely.

His eyes turned back to their normal red, and all of his energy was drained from him instantly. He slouched forward, groaning softly.

“I don’t know,” he whispered before cotton-balls of black covered his eyes and a cloth was slammed over his mouth.

~ ~ ~

Artemis sagged and fell onto his back, tears in his baby blue eyes as he watched the man being dragged away. His officer, Officer Walstrom, sneered smugly at the man’s limp body. He looked at the young soldier, who sat sadly on the stone floor of the sick room Douler, where prisoners and homeless women and men were tortured for fun or for answers. Artemis always hid in his quarters with a giant pillow held over his head.

He sighed un-happily and stood, wiping his hands on his dark blue leather uniform, straightening the black undershirt that was crumpled at the small of his back. He shot a glare at his commanding officer and asked icily,

“What are you going to do him?” he clenched his teeth as he added, “Sir.”

The man smiled, his yellow teeth crooked in his large mouth. Artemis cringed and clasped his hands behind his back, stiffening and straightening his back, clicking the heels of his black leather boots together. He scowled. Walstrom stood silently with his chin pinched between the knuckle of his index finger and his thumb. Artemis stamped his left foot to catch his attention. Walstrom jumped .

“Sir! What are we going to do with the prisoner!?” he barked, frustrated.

Walstrom glanced at him out of the corners of his beady eyes.

“What do we always do, Artemis? We see what can squeeze out of his brain and dispose of him. Now that we have the king’s son, we’ll know everything about their plans.”

Artemis gaped, his arms limp and his mind spinning. He shook his head and gestured with his hands.

“Sir, did you not hear me just now? He can’t remember his name! What makes you think he’ll remember any war tactics? He is wounded and weak. The medic said he was struck on the back of his head…”

He trailed off when Walstrom lunged toward him and shoved a hand into his chest. Artemis stumbled back and fell against the wall. Walstrom grabbed the collar of his tunic and slammed him into the stone again. His head clacked against the wall and bursts of black and white flashed behind his eyes. His head lolled to the side. Walstrom shook him.

“You never question your commanding officer, Bates! And, seeing you’re so concerned with the scum prince, you can take care of him!”

Walstrom dropped him and stalked out of the cold room and up the stairs, waving his hand to his soldiers. They followed him silently.

One stayed behind, helping Artemis Bates stand, brushing the dust and small pebbles from his uniform. He held his head in his left hand, shaking it gently. He smiled at the hooded figure.

“Thanks, sis,” he murmured, pulling his uniform back into place.

Anita Bates smiled, throwing her arm around her brother’s shoulder. She smirked at Artemis.

“Bad luck about that prisoner, eh?”

Artemis groaned.

“Need I be reminded? Why do you take pleasure in teasing me?”

Anita chuckled, leaning and whispering in his ear.

“I think this could be your chance.”

“How so?”

"Well,” she said slyly. “I heard from the commander’s daughter that the prince has the same…preferences as you. Plus, he’s that freaky type of bloodsucker, so that ought to be interesting.”

Artemis rubbed away the blush that had spread across his face. He growled at her.

“I hate you.”

She broke out in pealing laughter and he jerked away from her, storming up the stairs.

~ ~ ~

He groaned and ran a hand over his scarred face, fingering each lump of flesh softly. He stared at the stone ceiling with throbbing eyes, wondering why he was in a feather bed and not in leather straps in the Douler room. He fingered the soft sheets and inhaled the scent of lavender. He groaned again, a giant throb shaking his head.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

He looked to the left to see the young soldier sitting slumped in a chair, his arms hung over the sides, a glass of brandy held limply in his hand. He lazily flicked a brown curl of hair from his eyes and yawned. His eyes closed momentarily, and he leaned his head back on the  head of the chair. He mumbled.

“Don’t kill me in my sleep, kay?”

He blinked as the soldier’s head lolled to the side, and a light snore came from his throat. He lay back and counted the stones on the ceiling. Twice.

“Four thousand eight-hundred sixty-six, four thousand…”

The soldier yawned again and stretched his arms, rubbing his eyes with his wrists. He opened his eyes and glanced at him, smiling slightly.

“I wouldn’t suppose that you’re hungry, eh?”

He sat up and nodded vigorously, smiling hopefully. The nerves in his arms twitched. The soldier’s expression grew uncomfortable.

“I just have to ask…are you…a…sang-buveur?”

His mouth opened and closed, and his eyes rolled. He fell against the pillows with a loud groan, the stolen blood pounding against his brain. The soldier sprang up and rushed to his side, pulling back his sleeve. The prisoner covered his face with his pale hands, groaning, “No, don’t.” when the soldier put his wrist to his mouth.

He trembled when the heartbeat vibrated through his fingers to his lips, and he tore away his hands and sunk his teeth into the delicate skin. The soldier gasped and gripped the bed-sheets tightly with his other hand, small ragged gusts of air breaking through his teeth. The prince sucked greedily at his veins, licking the smudge of blood from his skin. He watched as the skin healed quickly, and the soldier let out a breath. The prince spoke.

“Thank you,” he murmured silkily, licking the remaining blood from the corners of his lips and gently stroking the soldier’s face. The boy trembled. He chuckled.

“We are alike, little one, so there is no need to be shy around me.”

He stretched upward and gently brushed his stained lips across the boy’s cheek. The boy shivered and let a breathy moan slip from his lips. The prince smiled. What fun.

“You have never been loved, nor have you loved. If you’d like little one, I’d be happy to change that status.”

He curled his fingers into the silken hairs at the nape of the boy’s slender neck and kissed it delicately. The boy gasped and his shoulders stiffened, then he fell limp and moaned. He jumped when someone pounded on the giant wooden door, breaking the sweet contact that his skin had with the Sang-Buveur’s lips. He glanced ruefully down at him. He smiled and wriggled his shoulders, shifting the black blanket that hung on his slim form off of his upper body, exposing his perfect chest. The boy sighed angrily and went to open the doors.

The prisoner fell back and appeared to sleep as a  woman stepped in, a black cloth around her face and her leather uniform clinging to her slender body like a second skin. Her dark blue eyes flicked to him, and her could hear the muscles in her face contract as she smiled.

“Having fun with the Buveur, Artemis?”

“What do you want, Anita?”

“Just wanted to make sure my little brother wasn’t bled and fed upon. How is he?”

“He’s fine, just tired and hungry. Did Walstrom send you up here?”

“Yes…”

“Then leave!” he barked suddenly, shoving the doors shut. He leaned against them, sighing heavily, before flicking all of the locks closed. He leered at the prisoner.

“What is your name?” he asked again, stalking over to his bed and sitting by his legs, putting his hand on his thigh. The prisoner smiled.

“Damien.”

“Well Damien…” he stopped. Damien smiled.

“Well what?”

“Shut up!”

“Gladly,” he purred, winding his arms around his neck and kissing Artemis deeply. The younger boy pulled away, a delicious blush covering his face. Damien pouted.

“What’s wrong?”

Artemis stuttered.

“I’ve never…well…you know!” He hung his head in his hands, standing up quickly.

“I can’t! You’re my prisoner! How do you think Walstrom will feel about that?!”

Damien groaned and pulled Artemis back down, winding his arms around his waist tightly. He put a long finger to his lips and winked at the soldier, gently pushing his lips open to stick his finger in his mouth. Artemis closed his eyes and moaned. Damien poked his gums and tongue, whispering secretively.

“How many male prisoners do you think I’ve had, love? Over two hundred, at the least. And how do you suppose I got answers?”

He leaned back, pulling startled Artemis on top of him. He pulled open his tunic and pinched his stomach skin, stroking his chest. Artemis moaned louder. Damien smiled.

“There’s only one way to get answers out of this prisoner.”