I

Surrender would have been the better course.

The Sivaren emperor—Sylan, he had introduced himself five years ago—was not a reprehensible ruler. He granted citizenship to those who capitulated peacefully and amnesty to those fighters who heeded his final demands. There had been no reason to doubt his word. Already a few other kings enjoyed the power—though limited—that they were allowed under Sivaren jurisdiction.

But the Alcyans were a proud, competent people. The first two years of war, after which Sylan had put forth his last offer, had seemed to favor neither side, but Alcya had not given up. Then, three more years of warfare had continued, with neither side having a definite advantage.

Its army was smaller than that of Sivare—which was only logical, as Sivare was a spreading empire, and Alcya a mere city-state, however large and prosperous—but Alcya had bred exceptional warriors, its army was well-trained and very disciplined, and it had all means to defend and access its resources. It had put to full use its small, mobile forces to undermine the massive Sivaren body by disrupting communication, raiding and destroying supplies, and sometimes cutting down—one by one, under cover of night—the unaware and the stragglers. Each battle won had been a strong morale boost, and each battle lost had begun to mean just a little less. With the advantages of a defensive position, intimate familiarity with the land, and resources, all the Alcyans had had to do was hold strong, for perhaps two or three years more before the Sivaren army lost enough men and morale to trudge back to their capital. Why surrender when they had the ability to withstand the Sivaren expansion? Even most of the Alcyan council had stood with the belief that the Sivarens could be repulsed from the land.

Perhaps they had all become too complacent.

Treachery—by both Alcyan traitors and the Sivaren emperor—and the negligence to overlook such scheming until too late, had not been the anticipated paths to destruction. There could not be any other way to breach Alcya’s outer defense without well-informed inside help. The actions of the traitors were understandable, but unforgivable by laws and by morality and by the loyalty they owed to their city.

Alcya had let down its guard during the mutual fifteen-day ceasefire. A rare break—during which both Sivare and Alcya properly mourned the dead and immortalized their fallen heroes—brought on by the death of the Sivaren emperor’s dearest blood-brother.

Apparently, the Alcyans had wagered a little too much trust. With the aid of several Alcyans well-equipped with the secrets of their land and sea and strategy, the Sivarens had somehow broken through the three crucial defensive sites on the ninth night of the so-called ceasefire and had surrounded the fortressed city. The temporary truce had weakened the heavy outer guard, the Alcyan spies had been absent—probably killed before they could relay the danger. Already breached, the Alcyan defense would have crumbled, unable to stem the flow of the Sivaren army.

Defeat followed quickly this night. Likely spurred on by the prospect of victory at hand, the Sivaren army had wasted no time in entering the secondary gates into the oblivious sleeping city, swarming through the ill-prepared Alcyan soldiers and citizens.

Only a servant’s panicked warning had given the Alcyan king enough time to ensure the escape of his young daughter and two sons.

Surrender would have been the wiser course, no matter the humiliation, the bruised pride.

But too late, now. Altaeus, king of Alcya, watched numbly as sections of the capital city burned bright orange under the moonlit night. He closed his eyes, exhaling sharply, lips twisting in a pained, ironic smile, and leaned his head against one of the columns of the palace courtyard. Screams, wails, fires crackling and houses crashing, the faint thundering of cavalry and foot soldiers—they were muted background noises, faintly acknowledged in his tumultuous mind.

He did not run away or strike out, even as Sivaren soldiers surrounded him. As a king—and as the idiot who allowed the fall of his own city—he had to face his failures and his punishments.

If only I had surrendered, his shocked mind refused to banish that one useless, bitterly coherent thought.

Sylan’s face positively glowed, lips curled irksomely in a tiny smirk, as he pushed open the doors of the torch-lit throne room and strode up to the dais. His generals and advisors were a squall of excitement and gloating as they followed him. Behind them, soldiers shoved forward a compliant Altaeus, wrists chained and arms bound tightly.

Sprawling almost indecently on the throne, the Sivaren emperor returned the gaze of the fallen king, noting the defiant tilt of his head and his poise. He said nothing until his followers quieted. “I do feel sorry for breaking the agreement, but you must understand—it was too openhanded an opportunity to ignore,” with a minute shrug of his caped and armored shoulders, he took care of needless formalities.

Altaeus felt vaguely indignant more for the emperor’s dear dead blood-brother than for himself. He did not want to talk to the Sivaren—not now—but the man seemed to expect a reply. He had no difficulty understanding the language of Sivare, but his accent was still strong, his tongue awkward with the vast difference. “Of course,” he forced out, and then let his eyes drift down as he was pulled into his thoughts.

In this chaotic world of politics and war and expansion, all people—even the most exalted, the most important and powerful—were fair candidates for use as pawns and convenient instruments. Altaeus himself had, in a way, also been reduced to pawn status by the traitors to which he had entrusted much of the now fallen city. “Sarshen. Craeite,” he murmured impassively when he spotted them amongst the assembly. Two members of the Council. And, “General Rhanos…” At least they had enough shame to look away. No expression betrayed Altaeus; he felt neither surprise nor rage. He had never been blind enough or too arrogant to presume that all his men were completely satisfied—with their king, or with the state of affairs, or with this rigorous five-year war. Although…he had assumed—fervently hoped—that loyalty to one’s home, at least, was paramount to every soldier who defended Alcya with their lives.

The hypocrisy of his thoughts struck him. He had had his doubts before—had agonized over them—but never had they been so devastating. If loyalty to Alcya was expected of these people, these councilmen and generals and civilians, then their king also could not be exempt. By refusing to surrender, Altaeus had opened the door to the city’s destruction. Had he yielded, everyone in Alcya would have been guaranteed safety. But his foolishness—his arrogant refusal to bow down to Sivare and its taxes, regulations, and restrictions…his idiotic confidence that Alcya would emerge victorious—he had manipulated his people into an illusion of patriotism, and now—

Sylan approached Altaeus, who flinched when he felt fingers brush against an old scar on his left cheek. Did the man have any sense of self-preservation? Altaeus could think of several ways to seriously harm the emperor at the moment—of course, there would be reprisals for himself, but still—…

“No…you would not attack me now,” Sylan smiled as he played with the long, dark veil of hair that hung over Altaeus’s forehead and right eye. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

Altaeus’s features remained impassive, but the curiosity swam in his mind. He was not surprised—the Sivaren’s strange attraction had apparently begun during their first meeting; though he wondered how the man could find his scarred figure attractive. But—this was not the time to dwell on such silliness.

The emperor swiftly turned to his assembly of advisers, generals, and soldiers. He gave instructions to several and then let them go to “celebrate” their victory.

Once they had left the room, the Sivaren emperor untied the ropes around Altaeus’s arms—the man clearly had no qualms about the danger he was in—but left the heavy shackles. Then he freely examined Altaeus, as though he were a slave on shameful display…which was actually quite true. Unless Sylan killed him, or—very unlikely—released him, Altaeus could be nothing but a slave. If the emperor ordered that Alcya be preserved, the city would be overseen by one of his men—Altaeus would certainly not regain power.

It was a humiliating prospect.

He remained still, a bit bemused, as he felt the emperor pressing against his back and wrapping callused hands around his bare, scarred arms. The situation was becoming very uncomfortable.

“You must be wondering what I will do with you.”

Altaeus did not like the Sivaren’s ability to gauge his thoughts…but it was usual for anyone to wonder. The emperor, according to previous experience, was prone to erraticism and frivolity; there was no way to really predict his actions. Even the obvious interest he showed could in an instant become something much more dangerous.

Thoughts of injuring the Sivaren reemerged, even if they were foolish. Should he incapacitate the man, Altaeus would probably be shot down before he escaped the palace grounds. He would probably not even get that far—he wagered that the Sivaren emperor was capable enough to subdue a bound captive, especially if his battle lust had not settled down yet…

But he would not tolerate such advances—at least not without fighting back. When he felt the sharp bite on his neck and the hand creeping onto certain areas of his body, Altaeus shoved his weight back and swiftly turned around, a glower darkening his already glum face.

Oh, the Sivaren emperor was attractive enough—many had, no doubt, fallen for and submitted to the green eyes, the pale sunlight hair, the strength of a warrior’s body—and he probably had as much experience—

Suddenly, yells and thuds from outside the throne room shattered the tension. Sylan had drawn his sword when a large, dark-skinned figure bounded into the room, cloak spattered with blood.

In the instant before a flurry of violent action, Altaeus breathed relief—his children were safely sailing for Favyanarya if Chanyiax was here. Then a chilling fear for his bodyguard hit him—Chanyiax had been reckless to show himself so quickly. If the guards had not stopped him—Altaeus spotted the faint limp, the strain of muscles under the charcoal-black skin—then surely something else—

The whistle and thud of several arrows propelled Altaeus into action. He saw the three archers reloading as he ran toward his bodyguard, who had enough strength to keep walking while pointing his broadsword at Sylan. Another set of thuds, and this time, Chanyiax jerked to a stop. “Stop! Stop your men!” Altaeus’s accent was thick as he rushed to awkwardly support Chanyiax, who had swayed before his knees collapsed and he sank to the floor.

Sylan motioned for his men to fall back and watched.

Chanyiax’s breathing was alarmingly irregular against Altaeus’s shoulder. He let go of his weapon. “Chanyiax, stay still, hold on for a moment—” Altaeus spoke softly in his native tongue, head turned and lips against the soft black skin of his bodyguard’s ear, and tried to move his hands before he realized they were shackled. Chanyiax would die without proper treatment! Even if he could loose his hands, there was no way, right now, for him to even—

“I—” Altaeus calmed himself and switched to Sivaren, struggling to suppress the quivering in his voice. “Emperor, please, he needs a healer—”

“I owe you nothing,” Sylan spoke calmly, leisurely, as he approached them.

Of course, of course not—Altaeus gritted his teeth, closed his eyes. “Anything—save him, please—I will do anything.”

Sylan snorted, gestured at his wary men, and reached down. “You have nothing that I cannot take with force,” he said as he hauled Altaeus up to his feet and turned him around. “Take him to my healer.”

Altaeus had a moment to breathe in relief before the emperor roughly grabbed the short chain, holding the arms away from his front, and gripped his neck to pull him into a rough, biting kiss. Surprise had parted Altaeus’s lips—not at all an advantageous beginning. He forced himself not to bite the unwelcome tongue, letting the other have his pleasure, all the while trying to focus on how ridiculously awkward they might look, the chafing of his wrists, not tripping on each backward step—they were quite clumsily heading toward the nearest column…—anything to get the inevitable out of his mind.

The moment they broke apart, Sylan let go of the chain and spun Altaeus around into the column. Altaeus slammed his arms against the cold marble, narrowly avoiding a broken nose, and clenched his jaw. He supposed he should be grateful for his few previous experiences with men, although that had been nearly a decade ago… Oh, but what did that matter? He had been inflicted with worse before.

This was a power struggle, a battle like any other, no matter if it was the emperor’s prerogative. Altaeus would certainly show no weakness—unless the emperor commanded it; he grimaced. It was degrading enough to be taken like a common whore…

He braced himself as excited hands stroked up his back, fingers carded through his tied-back hair, undid the shoulder clasps of his tunic, then meandered down again, caressing roughly and tracing old scars, pressing hard, but—some of it was almost pleasant—Altaeus frowned at the smooth marble, immediately dashing the notion, and slipped into his thoughts. Whatever happened now could be ignored; he would keep his body under tight control, meditate…meditate and wallow in the flood of despair, the full weight of the finality of his circumstance.

Alcya had fallen to Sivare. Altaeus was now a common, landless man—a piece of property, perhaps valueless—who had, in the instant the defenses were breached, been purged of his royal blood. Binding, irreversible, he would never again become what had been. His body now belonged to someone else, to an entity he had spent five years vigorously trying to repel…

He closed his eyes then, an unfamiliar weariness settling on his spirit. It was no use dwelling on these kinds of thoughts, but—

The forced intrusion was sudden, brutal. All of Altaeus’s thoughts and sensations were dominated for a startling instant by the strange, unpleasant burning pain. He could not hold back a gasp as his muscles tensed instinctively.

At least he now knew what exactly to expect, and there was no need to worry about losing control.

Nothing but pain marked Altaeus as the emperor fucked him wildly. No preparation, no foreplay, no time to adjust without getting injured—it was like fighting back a well-trained, well-organized stealth attack. Except, Altaeus felt no invigorating thrum of adrenaline in this—just an angry shame that clenched his teeth, a petulant stubbornness that kept his breathing much more composed that than of the Sivaren. Though…perhaps it was something for which he should be thankful, this violence; it made for a very effective fuel.

Only a short while before Sylan came. He leaned against Altaeus’s back, apparently content to remain there, panting—until he felt the shove. “Hmm…” The emperor, too sated to be much else but amused, obliged readily enough. Letting out a gusty sigh, he released his bruising grip on Altaeus’s hip and pulled away to gather himself.

Altaeus straightened up, grimacing at the unpleasant wetness on his rear and thighs. That needed to be cleaned off. The emperor seemed to know no bounds when fucking—Altaeus would never allow himself to make such a spectacle outside the privacy of a bedroom—…but what reason did he have not to…

When Altaeus fumbled with the clasps of his tunic, Sylan came to aid him, which earned the emperor nothing but cold silence. Sylan snorted as he finished off with a pat on a stiff shoulder. “No need for the scowl, dear king,” he said lightly, staring back leisurely. “Alcya will be spared from complete ruin, but you have been dethroned. As the loser of the war, you are now my slave, to do with as I wish.”

Just to take care of formalities, insulted, Altaeus completed the thought behind the emperor’s smirk.

“Perhaps, if you had accepted my offer, you would not be standing here—violated, angry, and itching to kill me.” Sylan shrugged as he turned and walked away toward the inner palace. “Captain!” A stoic Sivaren soldier appeared through the doors, saluting. “Keep an eye on my slave.”

NOTES: For the curious, a pic of Altaeus can be found in my profile.
Thank you for the reviews, פםםצןלן, Zarendos, hazza1508, DRAGONFIRE04.

EDIT 122808: Combined chapters 1 and 2.

(062208)
TBC…?