Seborga sort of loses track of things, after that.
The rest of them hurt him. They take him on his knees, they flip him over onto his back so the concrete scrapes his shoulders raw, and one of them even demands to be ridden – which yanks Seborga’s mind horribly back to reality for a moment, long enough for him to panic while the whispers chant gleefully inside his head, before he picks himself up and does what he has to do. He can’t count how many there are, they all blur one into the other in his daze, their hands and mouths and cocks an endless interchangeable horror. His mouth is filled with bitter come, his body is forced open wider and wider, and with every touch the numbness inside him grows – and the whispers.
You’re nothing. You’re a whore. You’re dirty, disgusting, trading your body away like this. Weak. Pathetic. Nobody will ever look at you kindly again. Your family will shun you. Your friends will never come near you again, not after they’ve seen what you’ll do.
But despite the whispers, Seborga keeps going, mechanically.
Yes, maybe his friends will hate him, after this (oh, he hopes not). But that doesn’t matter. Even if they hate him, Seborga still loves them. He’ll still do this, for them.
If he’s the one worth hating, then he’s the one worth having this happen to. If he’s bad, and dirty – then it’s better that this happens to him, that he does this, than that it happens to quiet little Kugelmugel, or exuberant Sealand, or Wy. He’ll get dirty, and even if they never talk to him again, they’ll be clean. They won’t have to live with the shame.
Seborga thinks, in his daze, that he can live with that.
He’s cracking apart. He can feel himself going, under the stupor, he can feel where the pain and the whispering and the fear are starting to break him open. Soon, maybe, he’ll tear, and then everything he is will rush out of him, leave him empty. That…he thinks, distantly, that might be worth it. He can do this, and save them, and then he’ll just shatter and fade away so that nobody will be bothered by him any more.
(The little part of him that remembers the days of war says: You’re going into shock. It just doesn’t say it loud enough to be heard over the whispers. Seborga might not be able to hear even if it did.)
It goes on for a long time. Maybe. It’s kind of hard to tell how long it’s been. It could have been an eternity. Feels like it. Feels almost like there’s nothing else he’s ever done but be here and suffer. Just like he can’t tell how many people have touched him, he can’t tell how long it’s been, when the hands leave his body and aren’t replaced.
There are feet, and there’s shouting that he’s losing the ability to understand, and then one of them, maybe the leader, grabs his arm and picks him up by it. Seborga’s feet trail across the floor before he remembers that he can support himself with them – except he can’t, really. He gets one foot under him and gets dragged off it, and then the man throws him forward – and he’s falling, he’s falling…
And somebody catches him.
He’s falling towards hard concrete, but he falls into warm arms that slow him down. Slow him down and wrap around him and hold him, tightly, like a child clutching a favourite toy.
Boots thud past him, and he looks up in time to see the leader step past him and drag Kugelmugel out of Hutt River’s arms with brutal strength. Kugelmugel whimpers. Hutt River shouts. The leader grabs one of Kugelmugel’s long plaits, yanking his head to the side with a little cry of pain.
The knife comes down in a bright arc.
“No!” Seborga gasps. Despite the pain, he twists around and tries to throw himself forward, out of the arms that hold him, heedless of his heavy, clumsy body. They promised, he –
But Kugelmugel staggers back, eyes wide, and there isn’t any blood on him. The shorn strands of his hair flutter around his ear and chin. The leader grunts and turns back, holding a silver-white rope in his massive fist, the trailing end of the braid already starting to unravel. The arms around Seborga’s shoulders squeeze tighter, as the leader steps over Seborga’s legs.
None of them can move until the cage door clangs shut and the room beyond begins to empty.
“Seborga?” someone whispers.
Seborga doesn’t say anything. He can hear them walking out, heavy boots on the concrete floor. If he pushed himself up and turned, he could probably see, but he … doesn’t really have the strength any more.
He tries to roll over, but his palm just slips across the floor.
“Here,” Wy says softly from behind him. A moment later he feels her hands on his shoulder, guiding him over. It’s hard to move, but with her and Sealand’s help he manages to make it onto his back – well, it’s Sealand who gets him there mostly, because Seborga’s arms and shoulders are shaking too much to do much with. Sealand has to lift him up, tucking his arms under Seborga’s and supporting his weight. Sealand’s shaking too, Seborga can feel the tremble, but he moves with the military precision he must have learned in the war. Seborga folds into the hold automatically.
Sealand settles him down on the floor, carefully. It makes the scrapes on his back sting even so. Seborga can’t hold back a little hiss.
“It’s okay,” Wy says quietly, and tugs his head into her lap. Sealand lowers him the rest of the way, fumbling a little but gentle all the same, and crouches down next to him, biting his lip. He keeps his hands on Seborga’s chest, though, like he’s reassuring himself that Seborga’s real.
“We’ve got you,” Wy says. She touches his face, and hesitates a moment before brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.
“We won’t let them hurt you again,” Sealand says. His voice cracks and he swallows, scrunching his eyes shut. Another tear joins the dirty tracks down his cheeks, but when he opens them again his blue eyes are fierce and resolute. “Never. I promise.”
Seborga’s voice hurts. But he reaches up with one shaking hand and clasps Wy’s wrist, and rests the other over Sealand’s hand on his chest.
This Gift I Offer (5/?)
The rest of them hurt him. They take him on his knees, they flip him over onto his back so the concrete scrapes his shoulders raw, and one of them even demands to be ridden – which yanks Seborga’s mind horribly back to reality for a moment, long enough for him to panic while the whispers chant gleefully inside his head, before he picks himself up and does what he has to do. He can’t count how many there are, they all blur one into the other in his daze, their hands and mouths and cocks an endless interchangeable horror. His mouth is filled with bitter come, his body is forced open wider and wider, and with every touch the numbness inside him grows – and the whispers.
You’re nothing. You’re a whore. You’re dirty, disgusting, trading your body away like this. Weak. Pathetic. Nobody will ever look at you kindly again. Your family will shun you. Your friends will never come near you again, not after they’ve seen what you’ll do.
But despite the whispers, Seborga keeps going, mechanically.
Yes, maybe his friends will hate him, after this (oh, he hopes not). But that doesn’t matter. Even if they hate him, Seborga still loves them. He’ll still do this, for them.
If he’s the one worth hating, then he’s the one worth having this happen to. If he’s bad, and dirty – then it’s better that this happens to him, that he does this, than that it happens to quiet little Kugelmugel, or exuberant Sealand, or Wy. He’ll get dirty, and even if they never talk to him again, they’ll be clean. They won’t have to live with the shame.
Seborga thinks, in his daze, that he can live with that.
He’s cracking apart. He can feel himself going, under the stupor, he can feel where the pain and the whispering and the fear are starting to break him open. Soon, maybe, he’ll tear, and then everything he is will rush out of him, leave him empty. That…he thinks, distantly, that might be worth it. He can do this, and save them, and then he’ll just shatter and fade away so that nobody will be bothered by him any more.
(The little part of him that remembers the days of war says: You’re going into shock. It just doesn’t say it loud enough to be heard over the whispers. Seborga might not be able to hear even if it did.)
It goes on for a long time. Maybe. It’s kind of hard to tell how long it’s been. It could have been an eternity. Feels like it. Feels almost like there’s nothing else he’s ever done but be here and suffer. Just like he can’t tell how many people have touched him, he can’t tell how long it’s been, when the hands leave his body and aren’t replaced.
There are feet, and there’s shouting that he’s losing the ability to understand, and then one of them, maybe the leader, grabs his arm and picks him up by it. Seborga’s feet trail across the floor before he remembers that he can support himself with them – except he can’t, really. He gets one foot under him and gets dragged off it, and then the man throws him forward – and he’s falling, he’s falling…
And somebody catches him.
He’s falling towards hard concrete, but he falls into warm arms that slow him down. Slow him down and wrap around him and hold him, tightly, like a child clutching a favourite toy.
Boots thud past him, and he looks up in time to see the leader step past him and drag Kugelmugel out of Hutt River’s arms with brutal strength. Kugelmugel whimpers. Hutt River shouts. The leader grabs one of Kugelmugel’s long plaits, yanking his head to the side with a little cry of pain.
The knife comes down in a bright arc.
“No!” Seborga gasps. Despite the pain, he twists around and tries to throw himself forward, out of the arms that hold him, heedless of his heavy, clumsy body. They promised, he –
But Kugelmugel staggers back, eyes wide, and there isn’t any blood on him. The shorn strands of his hair flutter around his ear and chin. The leader grunts and turns back, holding a silver-white rope in his massive fist, the trailing end of the braid already starting to unravel. The arms around Seborga’s shoulders squeeze tighter, as the leader steps over Seborga’s legs.
None of them can move until the cage door clangs shut and the room beyond begins to empty.
“Seborga?” someone whispers.
Seborga doesn’t say anything. He can hear them walking out, heavy boots on the concrete floor. If he pushed himself up and turned, he could probably see, but he … doesn’t really have the strength any more.
He tries to roll over, but his palm just slips across the floor.
“Here,” Wy says softly from behind him. A moment later he feels her hands on his shoulder, guiding him over. It’s hard to move, but with her and Sealand’s help he manages to make it onto his back – well, it’s Sealand who gets him there mostly, because Seborga’s arms and shoulders are shaking too much to do much with. Sealand has to lift him up, tucking his arms under Seborga’s and supporting his weight. Sealand’s shaking too, Seborga can feel the tremble, but he moves with the military precision he must have learned in the war. Seborga folds into the hold automatically.
Sealand settles him down on the floor, carefully. It makes the scrapes on his back sting even so. Seborga can’t hold back a little hiss.
“It’s okay,” Wy says quietly, and tugs his head into her lap. Sealand lowers him the rest of the way, fumbling a little but gentle all the same, and crouches down next to him, biting his lip. He keeps his hands on Seborga’s chest, though, like he’s reassuring himself that Seborga’s real.
“We’ve got you,” Wy says. She touches his face, and hesitates a moment before brushing a lock of hair from his forehead.
“We won’t let them hurt you again,” Sealand says. His voice cracks and he swallows, scrunching his eyes shut. Another tear joins the dirty tracks down his cheeks, but when he opens them again his blue eyes are fierce and resolute. “Never. I promise.”
Seborga’s voice hurts. But he reaches up with one shaking hand and clasps Wy’s wrist, and rests the other over Sealand’s hand on his chest.