Author's note: Ignore the last chapter. It was some of my worst writing. From now on, I shall write this fiction to the better part of my willing ability. As a warning. . .I am mainly writing this for everyone who reads. Yes, there is a plot and so on and so forth, but you guys are the real reason I choose to update and not keep this to myself. Thank you all. Your response is priceless to me.

Happiness in Slavery – Chapter Five

The days passed with an uncomfortable fog surrounding the complex. Day turned to night, and night to day, and with everyday came a new revelation that nothing was to change. He was what he was and Midvalley; the justly named Horn"Freak" was what he was- a bastard in all conceivable meanings of the term. However, most depressing was the shift of the sands. In the fall months, the wind had picked up, preparing to cast away leaves that would never be, preparing to wipe the slate clean for winters arrival. Winter. Another season gone unknown . . .It was the hottest time of the year, while in all the ancient stories, it was told to be a time of great tidings and joy. Lies, all lies. Winter brought nothing but the arrival of barren plants, still tuned to their home planet's climate . . .Not even Knives, the saint himself could fully sway them to his will, though he tried; did he ever try.

His bed that he had made refuge in for the last decade and a half was all but made. The sheets lay tossed, ruffled, signs that it was well used, and recently too. A figure laid clumped together, half hidden in the paper-thin sheets, trying to get some sleep after a restless night filled with memories of a life not-quite-lived and questions that would never get a deserved answer.

Sand carried upon whips of dessert air managed their way into his window, that little hole in the wall that was his only access to the outside world. You could tell by his skin tone that he never traveled outside unless he was to tend to something of Master's liking. Dry air graced his skin, leaving an invisible burn mark upon his very mind, for he was never 'awake' during his thoughts, a fault of his, the ilk of which was used against him at every possible twist and turn; only by intellect, though lacking, was he spared, blessed by a life as long as this, for many of his era were lost to the heat, the dry weather, unforgiving and unforgave, like a lamb slaughtering its own kind.

Fluttering his amber eyes open as a butterfly stretches its wings before taking that first flight into oblivion, he made ready for a new, yet lackluster day, full of nothing worthwhile, except pleasing master. He lusted for the opportunity like an addict lusted for sex. Knives was his master, his drug, his tourniquet, the one god who kept him from bleeding dry. Master was his salvation, his reward in a punishment for being born a bilge rat of the planet, for polluting Gunsmoke with his presence.

With motions smoother than a prowling cat, eyes sharper than the fines blade, yet gentle as a summer rain, he was as a masterpiece stretching, sliding out of bed with a stealth master spies would sell their very souls for. Searching his drawers lazily for clothes, his fingers brushed against the empty wood where his belongings should have been. Even the picture of his parents was gone. Swallowing hard, he fought the forming lump in his throat and strip-searched the room, telling himself that he was careless, stupid even; after all, humans make mistakes. Only humans . . .

"No. . ." His breath wavered, eyes now red with anxiety, not worry, for he knew exactly what happened, and why this was going on. . .

Knives, Master, Light of his life- had seen them. . .

Sitting, rather plopping back onto his bed, he hung his head, hands racing though his hair, scolding him for being open, but more so for allowing himself to be taken for a fool. Looking to the stand by his bed, he gazed upon its surface, and if he had his way, it would have been set ablaze and been reduced into a glorious heap of ash. As things would always be, it never worked, and never would. With a heavy sigh and a morose look on his baby face that could have dimmed the sun herself, he stood up, straightening out his back, holding his nose to the air, putting on bravado by the layer.

Looking more like a rag doll than a person, he added an air of arrogance to his normal mouse swagger and proceeded down the concrete halls, like a Caesar in a royal palace. Searching the doors for clues, he scowled when he came across Midvalley's door, making a few distressed, jerky movements to signal his disgust in a physical manner. After a multitude of doors, all carrying the hope of a long, worthless life, he came across the one door that was vampric, sucking the very confidence out of his soul, leaving him worthless, scared, a pig among a den of wolves.

Staring at the brass knob, telling it to obey him, to open of its own accord so he could walks through, uninhibited, unafraid that whatever was behind that knob was out to get him, out to devour his heart, steal his mind, and rape is body of whatever it last possessed. Suddenly, it dawned on him. . .There was nothing to fear from a door. . .An inanimate object. It wasn't a horrible monster, nor a pillaging thief intent on murder. His mood as well as his low spirits rose with the idea, and wordlessly, he praised himself for HIS genius; it meant the world to him.

Not a solitary thing stopped him from extending an arm and claiming the doorknob in the grip of his hand, but he never moved from the spot, only kept staring like a good little drone, mechanical and dry. Licking parched lips, courage resting in a lump sum in the pit of his stomach, he just barely felt the chilled brass when the door creaked open. Following his deepest instincts, his feet carried himself halfway down the hall before he realized that there were no steps following him. Glancing over a cloth barren shoulder, he saw nothing but the entrance to a room, scarcely lit and heavy with the scent of plant life and fresh fruit, the likes of which only Knives possessed.

He was trembling, however softly, the fact could not be denied. Defiance. It was exciting, the feeling of an adrenaline rush surging through your body like a sinful drug, polluting the mind and pulling one from grace with the cold fingers of Lucifer. Regaining what minute composure he had the gall to claim his own, Legato straightened his back and brushed a few strands of hair away from his eyes, feigning the gentleman.

The room glared at him, emitting a cold, wavering breath that not even the bravest of medieval knights would have the bravery to conquer by steps alone. Cherries, strawberry, even watermelon, the most precious of fruits joined in the symphony of scent that drew him in like a moth to the dull matte glow of a candle. Even for a solitary moment, music could be heard playing softly. It was smooth, like the lull of a wave, sophisticated, soothing, utter perfection in the desolate place it most unfortunately had been sent to journey. Glasses clanked together dully, as if gathered in a hand and soon after set upon a fine table. Footsteps however, were not audible, only soft pattering, as though a soft peat was covering them instead of the traditional bare bronze and slate that commoners were forced to endure.

Legato forced his lips to part, which alone was an action devoid of grace and resolved with a distinct smacking noise that came unintentionally, painfully. He winced as the sound reverberated down the halls, alerting even the long since deceased to his social blunder. Hanging his head, partially in newfound humiliation and in hidden, bruised pride, he rolled his shoulders once, twice, and a third time for good measure before taking those first few, chilling steps towards the unknown which he had developed a stinging lust for.

"Stop" An all too familiar voice cooed, or rather commanded, depending on who was listening.

You could hear Legato exhale sharply as though punched in the stomach. Obedient if not masochistic, he held his ground, but with an air of pride in doing so, it was a look that few could successfully render.

"Is there something you want Legato, vagabond?" An edge remained in his voice, a melancholy razor blade amidst the secret rose petals.

The words hurt, actually hurt worse than the hellfire voice they were carried upon, true, true, although they were not malicious in intent, and the tinge of respect they were said in was prominent to his ears, something still ached within him from listening. With a short breath and an unconfident roll to the shoulders, he looked skyward, as though all the world's answers were painted on the ceiling. "Master?" The respect carried in his tone was unmatched on the premises; it was the tone of a believer- a believer in tainted love.

The faint sound of muted chuckling could be heard like a dropped needle in pure silence; a sound most deafening. The smell of fresh fruit intensified ten fold as the shifting of fine garments cascading onto the ground filled the darkened room. It was a haven, the room was. Not even the electric lights had the power to illuminate the space unless He commanded it be so. A god has the power to do that, but only one reigned supreme here.

"Come" Though but a single word, it flowed like the finest silk upon the air, danced as a fiery maiden upon invisible currents, and drifted into his mind, clouding Legato, working as a tranquilizer. He knew everything was to be perfect, because Master said so. He could never lie.

Bowing his head in a token of reverence, he proceeded with the cautiousness of a mouse in a lion's den. A meager distance separated him from Knives, never before had something so insignificant plagued him so as it did now. Seeming as if each step brought forth another meter, he stopped in his tracks, staring now at the ground, uttering a silent curse at the foundation itself.

"Slave . . ." As if in the blink of an eye, everything had changed.

Knives' s tone no longer held a soothing bite, but now lingered as barbed wire across ones chest, ripping, shredding, biting into ones very skin, clenching around your throat and shackling your legs.

Sparing no time, Legato forced himself into the room, stumbling over his feet and sprawling onto the floor with a dull scrape. Not so much as daring to open tightly closed eyes, much less move from the spot, he stayed there traumatized, as if sent out naked for public display.

Languid footsteps came towards him, soft as the budding petals of spring, but carrying more than their due share of unbridled resentment if only one were to tease the trigger of whom they belonged to. They stopped above his head, the weight settling evenly on the soft ground. A certain amount of contempt was held in the person's blatant silence. He was trying to drive him, Legato, the most loyal, trusting, obedient slave of the lot, slowly insane by doing . . .Nothing . . .Nothing at all.

As his body trembled, not in fear, but in expectation of something he had not the capacity to define; a torture, perhaps, but never one of a physical kind, for pain had little to dwell on in his mind, if nothing else, it made him all the stronger, all the wiser. Clenching his fist in a nervous reaction, his fingers gripped something soft, sinewy, rather like a fine, but rather odd, carpet. Peeking an eye open, he looked around, barely able to see much past his nose, he continued fondling the ground, searching for the word he'd long since forgotten.

"You seem to have taken a certain fancy to the grass, Slave, vagabond."

Why he was called 'vagabond' was beyond his current ability to reason; seemed more like a kick in the face than a compliment, like he was a dog, a useless, brooding, drooling mutt to be used and abused. A great weight was taken off his shoulders and he heard someone else moving about the place, their shoes scuffing the ground lightly, as if they were walking on the palm of their foot instead of stepping heel first. At least he was not alone . . .A pity still.

"Only if you do, Master . . ." He paused, biting his lip and tensing for a second " . . .Knives" Scarcely a whisper.

Everything was off. This was not how the scene played in his mind over and over; it was not as he dreamed. Although unscripted and new, it terrified him. No longer knowing what was around the next bend, much less what was after that felt like loosing all that he ever came to know.

With a heaving sigh, Knives stepped away, if only a few feet and turned his back, going back to the wine glass he had pleasured himself in taking from only a matter of time ago. As his figure eased into the awaiting chair, soft music started to play, as though a miniature orchestra were right beside them, strumming the chords and whispering into the flute, as to not make a disturbance in the presence of someone so exalted.

Jazz, it was the choice. . Utterly relaxing, making one feel as if all the self-humiliating, surrender, blind devotion, everything one could possibly do was worth the heart-breaking agony to hear this, if only for a moment. It was a once in a lifetime ordeal, for Legato was sure he'd never hear this again, not even on his deathbed and beyond.

"Beautiful. " He murmured to himself with the innocence and open mind of a child.

Strong, tapered fingers flexing, he lifted his head vigilantly, eyes partially closed all the while, adding a matte glow to the commonly amber eyes which had darkened to a light brown, or so it would seem in the low light. Master's figure stuck out as a thumbtack against tile, his slender form was outlined by the dull radiance that came from . . .a stage? Yes. . That was it, the noise, the epic number; everything had come from only feet away. Somehow the dimmed gold and red lights gave him a sense of due comfort, as if everything was to be alright, as if nothing bad could ever happen, and for the time, he enjoyed his momentary happiness among the twisted metal and ruthless people, it was a reprieve from the norm, he could not ask fairly for any more.

The people playing were shrouded in the shadows with the stage lights only highlighting undistinguishing features. A ghost masquerade, a perfect ballroom to dance in as the people of fairytales often did; this unknown place was it. The grass was a suitable crystal floor, the solitary table and wine glass, a banquet, the band, a trained orchestra, and Master, Knives? He was the prince of legend, the knight in shining armor, the belle of the ball, the prince charming . . .No. . . He was better than that.

The bottle dropped, ending the illusion that controlled his mind, casting him back into the real world, overwhelming his senses and rendering his mind in a dull, throbbing ache. Squinting his eyes, he rested his head upon an arm, groaning softly, half afraid of stopping the music with his actions.

With a wave of his gloved hand, Knives stopped everything, the band halted mid note, the artificial breeze shut down with a mechanical whir, even the player inside caught his breath in preparation for it to be their last.

"Well?" In an expectant tone as always was used when Master was disappointed, frazzled, 'cheated' of his deserved respect.

" . . .Master?" Mumbled under his breath, with a breath of morbid intrigue followed by a chest full of trepidation.

A soft, restrained snicker broke the momentary silence. He was being laughed at, mocked, held accountable for the despicable human qualities he unwillingly possessed. Biting his lip to withstand the pain of having his ego held to an open flame he eyed the bottle with a murderous gaze and held his blind devotion centerfold.

Why he stood for this treatment, kept it to his heart, endured selfless humiliation, cut out his pride, quartered it, and served it as the head of the banquet, was beyond his comprehension, but that was of no consequence, after all, it pleased Knives, Master, the symbol of life, death and everything in-between and above. Although his heart ached and bones felt as though they were glass, he rose to his feet slowly, unsure if he was choosing the correct option, taking a chance; someone had to.

Dusting his knees off self-consciously, he kept his head tilted down to avoid eye contact to keep what little stability he had grasped in a delicate fist. Knives with the wave of a hand ordered a man to play- a sax player. A chill ran through the length of Legato's spine, the type of thing that lies in wait, manifests on ones mind till the mind is all but gone and an empty shell of a man is left in the wake. His pride ached, literally ached. No one else could possibly understand, to them, this whole ordeal would seem bogus, ignorant, but they were only fools. Taking several deep breaths calmed his nerves slightly, preventing him from shaking, preventing Knives from physically seeing his malcontent, if only for the moment. You cannot hide from god.

The music was smooth as liquid metal, more alluring than fresh vanilla. It was a love song, some filthy trash humanity cooked up, but it was . . .pleasurable, enough so to dance to it. Midvalley, although playing had a smirk upon his lips. Naturally it did not show on the outside, but inside however, that was an entirely different story. From the inside his ego showed as a flare in the midnight sky, begging to be seen, begging for attention. He was pompous, complacent, suave, everything Legato never had as was never to be. The very sight was sickening.

"I never asked you to stand." The words were poison put to a verbal form, the way he said it, the tilt of his head, even the solid glance passed Legato's way, his self-righteousness was bared as well as his reign over this place; Knives acted as an Emperor, king, ruler of all that there was in this desolate land, nothing and no one would dare challenge a person like him.

Midvalley's nose wrinkled, a subconscious action, but its meaning apparent as the sudden mood of the music became darker, more intense, as though his feelings were stored within the instrument itself. Knives momentarily shifted his glance to Midvalley, if only to deliver a disdainful glance, as though unpleased, roused, even insulted by the minor action. With a slight sigh, Midvalley changed the music and returned the very same gaze he was sent, only he did it far better and with such an air of arrogance it was almost comical, if not sickening.

Silence reigned supreme, if only for a moment. For the brief interval, all that there was to hear displayed itself, every force coming together at once, fighting one another for their own chance to be heard, and once all was together, and all had been argued, endless quiet took the floor, ringing in the ears of men who dare stand before her. Knives wetted his lips, running his teeth along them before standing, the blood and dove attire clinging to his form as it always had. It fitted him to the last detail. Red, the symbol of fire, passion, power, anger, and white, the sovereign of innocence, peace, virgin love, both were needed to create fallen angels, and only both would do.

With grace immeasurable, Legato watched, watched as Master stepped towards him, taking his time, for in the end, it was the only thing there. His amber eyes fluttered for a breaths' time before closing. Clothing wrinkled, constricted as a figure knelt before him, touching a open palm to his face, running a thumb along his jaw line. Soft fingertips of rose traveled over his lidded eyes, down his cheek, stopping at his lips. Legato shivered faintly, breathing rigid, but heart on a sleeve, beating with the furry of a thousand suns. A blush set in as hot breath caressed his ear and a soft voice whispered into his mind "It's only a dream"

-

Morning yawned across the land, its maiden breeze penetrating the cracks in the wall, carrying red sand through the window, and catching the curtains in a dance. The sky so blue stared at him, beckoning him to move, be alive, as it was intended. Running the back of his hand over liquor clouded eyes, he stat up, back arching in a stretch before allowing him to fully right himself. His head felt as if it had been ground into a fine powder, swallowed, and spit back out, as for the rest of him, it had seen far better days. The sheets slipped down to waist level, threatening to let the wind grasp them, render them helpless before being brutally torn away from their half-sleeping inhabitant. Shaking his head in the illusion of clearing his stream of consciousness, a few strands of navy hair fell in his face and a genteel laugh roused him from whatever inclination he had to drift off to neverland once more.

"Mornin' 'Gato." The sound almost made him flinch, but instead he was limited to merely rolling his eyes and rubbing his head absently in attempt to dislodge the imaginary screwdriver splitting his skull in two.

Midvalley arched a brow before returning a fading smile for the actions "Feeling any better, hmm?"

"Haven't you said enough?" Mimicking Master's tone of utmost contempt, he hissed the answer through the clenched teeth of a feral animal.

Rolling his shoulder and neck, Midvalley hesitated, choosing his words with pinpoint accuracy in fear of unleashing any hormone induced sprees of murderous rage in the other. "Not till I apologize" Falling silent for a instance, he withdrew a letter from his blouse pocket, reading it as the sun caught the gold border, showing it as platinum "Do . . .Do you even remember?"

Visibly scoffing Legato swept the hair out of his face, ran a quick hand through his hair to free tables and straightened his attire seamlessly before taking a slow, deep breath to steady his voice. "Was there something to remember?"

Head dropping, hands clasped together, Midvalley shook his head slowly before moving towards the door. A bruised patch of his cheek became as evident as obsidian between diamonds. It spanned from face to neck, possibly down the entire right side, though most was covered by shirt and an arm that came to reside, as if eternally rubbing the sore spot. "I suppose not." With that, he vanished, only lingering in footsteps steadily traveling down the hall.

A letter, slipped off the bed sheets onto the floor, the envelope unsealed, and the faintest trace of ruby border peering out from within. Brow knitting Legato stretched a feeble hand out, clasping an edge of the document and bringing it to his lap. In quietness, he retrieved the message, unfolding it, scanning over the paper quickly before reading.

"For reasons undisclosed I wish to see you in my accommodation."

The statement was blunt, uncomfortably so, deep inside it made him squirm made him wretch, but somehow calmed his psyche. Clutching the letter to his chest, he rested. He didn't need t guess who it was from. The writing put it ever so clearly; even the blind could see it.

Only when consciousness dimmed and a dark shadow passed over the land, covering the sky in a gray blanket did certain inevitable thought enter his mind, rouse his suspicion and set the hairs on his neck upright.

What really happened?