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The sweltering heat would have been clue enough, all else aside, that the ship they boarded was no human one. That, and the strange, lingering echo of their footsteps, too loud and too hard, sketching out a ceiling far taller and broader than needed to accommodate a human frame. Lan was struck, once again, by what a foreign place his new home was to be.
Here there be dragons, he mused to himself, on the teetering edge of hysteria.
"You were always fated to perish to dragonfire," came the answering whisper in his mind, immediate and unwelcome as a recoil.
A hand on his shoulder cut short further panic: Ro, who had served as his pilot all the way from Solar space, who would serve now as his guard, for this last stumbling stretch. At the press of her hand, he realized he had stopped short in the airlock, like a poorly programmed robot balking at unmapped territory.
That wouldn't do.
He had no idea who might be watching.
Sucking in as deep a breath as he could, through the thick fabric of his hood, he fancied that he could fill his lungs with a precious reserve, one last cool gulp of air from the little human shuttle that had been his home for the better part of a month.
Then he allowed himself to be led, and barely even flinched at the hiss of pneumatic doors closing behind them.
"Cart's not going to carry you, lad," Ro declared, hint of apology in her voice. She brought him over to the transport and gave it a rap, eliciting a reluctant whir. "Big old drakes got a big old ship to walk through. But you got legs, don't you."
That wasn't entirely unexpected. The hoverbot that powered the transport was a finicky old thing; Lan had whiled away some of the long weeks on the shuttle trying to fix it up, but what he was really missing was a new positron battery and a sonic lathe. He wouldn't have turned down a fully kitted robotics lab and a helpful intern too, while he was dreaming, but that was another life, and even wishful thinking on that front was unwise.
The bot itself was an older model, only a little larger than the surface of his lap while he was tinkering on it, which made carrying the transport on its domed back a tall order—and that was without the heavy load that Ro would have piled upon it by now.
When news of the tenuous, budding treaty had spread, every church and parish had wanted to send its own offering. As Ro loaded the last of it, muttering threats to the bot, which would be dipping lower and lower under its burden, Lan tried to recall the items by sound alone. Over the past month in the cramped shuttle, he'd squeezed past the enormous pile many a time, hands bracing on wall and ceiling for balance, but now he couldn't list a single item that had been sent.
Besides himself, obviously.
But he had legs, didn't he.
Eventually, Ro's hand returned to his back, and he started forward, movements every bit as mechanical as the transport bobbing and straining along beside him. The rushing air of the twin hoverjets swept unevenly over his ankles, billowing the skirts of his robes, and he itched to get in there with a wrench just one more time. But his place now was better suited to being displayed upon the transport, with the rest of the trinkets, than crawling underneath and fiddling with its guts.
"All right, lad?" said Ro, and he gave a quick nod in response, pronounced enough to show through the hood. The hand on his back started to pull away, but then Ro seemed to think better of it, and settled her arm firmly against him as they walked. For that, he was grateful.
By the time Ro bid him kneel down, he had lost track of the twists and turns they'd taken. He felt a moment of strange tenderness and connection with her, though they had only met at the start of this journey, and indeed he had never seen her face. When her fingers left his shoulder, he knew it was the last he'd ever feel a human touch, and had a strange longing to chase after it, prolong it however he could.
But they were not alone.
There was at least one draconid waiting in the chamber with them; he spoke to Ro at a distance, too soft and too far for Lan's translator chip to process, though good old-fashioned ear power still picked up the low rumbling tones of alien speech, harsher and more guttural than could be produced by a human throat. He pictured the sounds reverberating in a broad, scaly chest, expelled on the same breath of air that might spit acid, or fire.
Ro's voice was even fainter, and if her reticence on the ship was anything to go by, she wouldn't have much to say. Sure enough, Lan had barely settled into his kneel, finding a comfortable angle for his bony knees, before he heard more footsteps: Ro's heavy boots clanging back the way they'd come, and the draconid's shuffling, clicking gait, walking upon equally heavy talons, straight towards him.
Shortly, there was the suggestion of a looming presence before him, superhuman in size, to match these too-tall corridors. Something grasped the hood that blinded him, and he jerked his head reflexively away—not so much in fright, as instinct, to prevent its removal.
"Am I in the presence of my new master?" His voice came out remarkably cool and steady, against his drumming heartbeat.
"I am Tuukdarjak," growled the draconid before him. "First mate, captain's advisor, trusted in all matters on- and off-ship."
"It is my master's prerogative to grant me sight," Lan insisted, "and his alone."
It was technically true, there was that. Technicality might stay these aliens briefly, though human rules had no real power over them, not here, this far from the faintest glimmer of civilization. More importantly, it would buy Ro a little more time to beat her escape, before they saw him exposed. Time enough, God willing, for her to escape the inevitable fallout.
All things considered, Lan was feeling remarkably serene. He had a very clear idea of how the rest of his life was going to play out. The hood's removal, the fury, the swift vengeance. Draconids were animalistic creatures, prone to rage. The pain, however it came, could not go on forever. He would only have a short while to endure.
"Oh good, he's here," came a new voice, along with another clicking, rushing set of steps. "Well, go on, get that thing off him. The questions I have!"
"He says it wouldn't be proper." Tuukdarjak's tone, even through the translator, veered on amusement. "Wouldn't let me touch him."
"I see."
The consternation in that gravelly voice plucked an irrational twinge of worry through Lan's bowstring-taut nerves. He forced them back to a semblance of calm. The task thrust upon him was an impossible one, and he had little hope of pleasing the creature who now held his life in his claws. Any concern about failing to meet his new master's expectations was just ingrained training that hadn't caught up yet with the hopelessness of the situation.
"I am Daaxanthus." The new draconid had come to an even closer stop, close enough that Lan could tip forward and touch his nose to the alien's... leg, perhaps? "Royal Ambassador to her Majesty, captain of this vessel, and your intended. I trust it's acceptable for me to remove your covering?"
"Certainly, Master," said Lan smoothly, though his throat had constricted so much he could hardly breathe. "Any part of me is at your disposal."
This time, when the hood was stripped from his head, he held himself perfectly still.
The draconids saw him before he could see them. In the time that it took for his eyes to adjust to the glaring light, there came a rasping hiss, and then an explosion of heat, all too familiar. He braced himself for the licking flames, the all-consuming agony that had never left the sense memory of his skin—but it never came.
The draconid before him physically turned away, releasing not fire, but billowing white smoke, gouting from his nostrils and seeping from the closed seam of his mouth, rising up to be swallowed by the ceiling vents.
So it was that Lan first saw his new master at an angle, wreathed in smoke. The creature stood upright on two legs, and wore a close-fitting uniform in shimmering polymers, but there the resemblance to a human stopped. Gradually, Lan's vision focused on bulky limbs, rippling with crimson scales, and knife-like talons everywhere he looked, protruding from feet, hands, even knees and elbows. And, of course, a dragon's head, a flat diamond shape that tapered into a long flared snout, hearkening back to some evolutionary terror within Lan, of ancestral predators he had never seen, but still managed to dread.
The face of his master bristled with ridges that fanned backwards in aerodynamic swoops, and bore a set of luminous eyes, vertical slits swimming in limpid yellow pools. As he watched, twin membranes flicked out, a rapid, sideways blink that once again threatened to wrest the flimsy shield of calm from Lan's failing grasp.
"What is the meaning of this?" snarled Tuukdarjak, drawing Lan's attention to the second draconid, standing off to one side, even taller and broader than his captain, and splotched an even deeper shade of red. "Your Archdeaconness will be hearing about this, human."
"No!" Daaxanthus waved the hood like a flag. "No, no, stop that at once." For all his words, he seemed to be visibly trying to settle himself. As Lan watched, the scales on his face dimmed to a ruddy orange, then a burnished copper-gold. A trail of finer scales running under his chin, down his throat, paled all the way to a soft cream where it disappeared into the neck of his uniform. Soon, only the flared tips of his nostrils remained a scarlet hue, and Lan only saw this distinctly because the alien leaned over him, alarmingly close, and inhaled. As if... smelling him.
"Do not stare. In human culture, it is very rude to stare. I've read about this," instructed the captain, as his tapered snout touched the top of Lan's head, settled into his hair, and began to scent all over his scalp, like a vacuum running over carpet.
Lan bore it; it was his job to submit to whatever his new master wanted of him, and even if it weren't, he could feel the distinct outline of protruding tooth making its way along his scalp as well. He suspected that one wrong movement could lead to Daaxanthus tasting him in far more intimate and painful ways.
Eventually, the scent test was complete, if that was what it was, and Lan held back a sigh of relief.
Tuukdarjak had stopped his tirade for the duration, but now he picked up right where he had left off. "This is a clear insult that cannot go unanswered. The humans mock us. We both know where that leads—"
A low growl issued from Daaxanthus. At first Lan thought it was anger, and tensed. But then his tail lifted, and wound itself around Tuukdarjak's ankle, who quieted at once, seemingly calmed by the gesture. He finally leaned back, the red flushing from his skin in turn—anger visibly, literally draining from him. Lan had never known that draconids changed color with their mood. He almost wished he could report the finding back to the Archdeaconness, but she would not expect to hear from him again.
Matter settled, Daaxanthus turned his attention to Lan, mustering what might have been a friendly smile, if not for the enormous quantity of teeth bared by the gesture. "We are shamed, to offer you this inhospitable welcome aboard. We owe you an apology, and an explanation."
In Lan's estimation, the draconid owed no such thing, but uncertainty held his tongue for him.
To Tuukdarjak, he added, "I'm sure this is all a cultural misunderstanding. Would the humans have wasted the fuel to send an insult all this way? Alongside all these wonderful gifts, no less?"
Lan followed the wave to see the transport was now resting on the ground, laden with crates: electronics, technology, foodstuffs. His personal effects might be buried among the gifts, all of it clothing, grooming supplies, and the like, things to make him more palatable to his master, more pleasant to use. So, in a way, they were also a gift, or accessories to the gift of himself.
Then Tuukdarjak said, "Why don't you ask him?" and Lan snapped his attention back.
"Perhaps I shall." Almost absently, Daaxanthus grasped Lan's face. Three-inch claws extended from the tips of each digit, but he was surprisingly delicate with them, tracing Lan's face with the equivalent of a finger pad while the talons passed over Lan's wide eyes, whisking almost audibly close.
He stroked the entire half of Lan's face like this, mapping the expanse of scarring that had ruined Lan's looks—and his value—all the way down to the collar of Lan's robe.
Even the translator chip managed to adopt a careful, crisp tone, as it relayed the words, "Where did you receive these burns?"
"New Glasgow, Master," Lan said, and the grip on his face tightened, perhaps unconsciously—but still did not cut. "I was there the day it was razed." Razed, he just stopped himself from adding, by draconid forces. Himself burned, in fires started by a creature that looked just like the pair before him, who breathed embers from his maw, and left the screaming humans to smolder in the pyres of their own homes.
"You were, indeed?" said Daaxanthus. "So was I. Stand, I'll see the rest of it."
And so, dutifully, Lan mustered every last ounce of grace that had been ingrained into his muscles, and bid his stiff limbs to unbend. Shed the last of his protective covering until he stood before the two draconids naked, robes a pool at his feet. At a gesture, he turned, showing the extent of the burn, how it ravaged the whole side of him, and then twined to cross his back. He had lain in rubble, a burning cross-beam pinning him in place, and watched two pairs of scaly, taloned feet walk away from him, tails swishing behind them to the sound of his screams.
"You were always fated to perish to dragonfire," the Archdeaconness had told him, when he'd first learned of his new assignment. His final assignment. "Better now, sending a message to these overgrown lizards, than had I left you to roast on New Glasgow."
Lan hadn't thought she'd had much to do with getting him off that devastated space station. But neither could he argue with fate.
"When I was told I would be receiving a slave amongst the other gifts, I did not expect one scarred from combat. From a skirmish between our very races."
If Lan flinched now, at the absolute and irrecoverable desolation of his home described as a "skirmish", his master would surely feel it. He put every last ounce of will into resisting the urge, and nearly missed the rest.
"We come treating diplomacy, hoping to put the long centuries of mutual conflict behind us. And yet, the offering we are sent is a victim of the very war that has so recently come to fragile ceasefire. Surely this cannot be the message we are intended to receive? That we are considered by humans to be nothing but the war we seek to leave behind? That it is your wish that the fighting that has marred our collective past also remain our enduring future?"
"I am not privy to the Archdeaconness's thought processes," Lan said. He could have left it there. Instead, he bowed his head. "But yes, Master, I believe that this is the message you are intended to receive."
Tuukdarjak reached out, as if to grab for Lan, but Daaxanthus stopped him with a downward slash of his tail.
"Daax," said the first mate, "we have clearly wasted our efforts, with a race that does not negotiate in good faith. There is more than one way to bring an unwanted war to an end."
"Be that as it may, this one has nothing to do with it. Leave him be."
Unease pooled in Lan's gut. He had constructed a very clear picture of his future, and this wasn't shaping up to meet it. But neither did he have any choice in the matter.
"What is your name?" Daaxanthus said, releasing him at last.
"Lan, Master."
"Lan. You must be tired and famished. Let us dine, and retire. Discussion on this matter can wait."
Of all reactions he'd expected, pragmatic equanimity was not among them. The draconid's calm was what finally broke Lan's, in the way rage never could have. If his master would not fall into his fury, would not tear into Lan with the barbarity of his race, then Lan's future would not be the short one he'd anticipated. Revenge would come measured, and he would not have the easy escape of death.
Daaxanthus was off investigating the transport now: not so much the gifts upon it, as the machinery of the thing itself. "How does it stay afloat?" he marveled. "I see no engine."
Lan gathered himself with some effort, and took up position just behind his master. Afloat was putting it generously; the transport had lifted at a command, but bobbed wearily, like a cork on a wave, especially as the draconid began to pat it with a heavy claw.
"It's modular, Master," Lan explained. "We have a hoverbot—an autonomous pilot with a hoverengine—in there now, but it's possible also to fit it with aquatic capabilities, or hitch it to a larger transport. We've had to explore a great many different terrains, since..." Lan broke off, suddenly remembering himself. If his own scars weren't reminder enough of the wars that had driven humanity from their home systems, it was suicidally stupid to bring it up now. Was that what his subconscious was going for?
"Since New Glasgow," finished Daaxanthus, sparing a wry quirk of his mouth, almost a smile. "How fascinating." He had swept a good half of the gifts off the cart, to dig eagerly at the hoverbot within.
"What happened to 'dine and retire'?" said Tuukdarjak, and Daax paused, almost sheepish.
"Right. Of course. You'll have to show me how it works, Lan. But there will be plenty of time for that later."
Now focused on his next objective, he spun around and marched off, confident he would be followed. Tuukdarjak gave a surprisingly human-like sigh, and came over to the transport, exasperatedly stacking the gifts back upon it.
That done, he eyed Lan, still standing there, shell-shocked. He had just started to shiver, even in the heat.
"Before you ask, he's always like that." With a flick of his tail, Tuukdarjak swept up Lan's discarded robe, tossed it over in the same gesture. Lan caught it on reflex, and then stared down at it like he'd never seen it before.
It wasn't until Tuukdarjak reached out, as if to give him a helping hand, that Lan jerked back to himself.
"I'll thank you not to touch me," he said icily. He might have had his only hope at a quick death snatched away from him, but he still knew enough to defend his master's property. He pulled the robes on as he walked, stepping briskly past one draconid to catch up with the other. It was a struggle to match Daaxanthus's longer stride, but it was better than dwelling on what was to become of him now.
The canteen, like the rest of the ship, was built to draconid proportions. Following through the halls, he'd been well aware he was barely of chest height with them. Sitting at one of their communal tables, he found his feet didn't touch the ground, and the table came up so high against his torso he couldn't rest his arms comfortably upon it. He kept them folded in his lap instead, and felt like a child.
The rest of the canteen was empty; Lan suspected that the ship kept to strict schedule, and that it wasn't a proper meal time. The cavernous room held more tables than he could surreptitiously count, but the tally he had so far was enough to worry him. Just how many troops did one ship hold?
"Since we got word of your departure, I've been reading up on human habits. Meals and such," his master was saying. "The literature is quite sparse, admittedly, so I'll be relying on your expertise."
The translation was smooth, unfolding in Lan's brain as naturally as if it had been spoken that way, but still he struggled to comprehend it. Why would anyone go to such efforts for a slave? Was this part of draconid diplomacy? Or was he just an excuse to indulge inexplicable draconid curiosities?
"Yes, Master," he said aloud.
"Don't hold your breath," Tuukdarjak said. "The stuff he came up with is ludicrous, I don't know where he gets these ideas. Then again, I'm sure you humans think we eat lava rock or something."
The more salacious tales had involved blood, or human young, so rocks would have been dull indeed, by comparison. "Kindly refrain from insulting my master," said Lan. The reprimand had little force when he was sitting at a table that nearly came up to his chin, but he still had to make the effort. "I will not stand for such a thing."
A blue hue swept over the ridge of Tuukdarjak's snout, then was gone. "Prickly as a gnawbark tree, that one."
"I don't find him so." Daaxanthus gave him a fond look. "I could get used to someone coming to my defense all the time."
When the food finally came, delivered by an enormous, bristling draconid that made even the other two look small, Lan had to put a little more credit to Tuukdarjak's words. The plate before him was artfully arrayed with bright substances that he'd have been hard-pressed to imagine, much less name. If it had occurred to him that Daaxanthus might actually care about his opinion, he would have made a greater effort to pretend to recognize something. Instead, he picked up a utensil, and began to sift through the layers on his plate, meeting each new excavation with interest and horror.
"It's... not accurate," said Daaxanthus, beside him.
Lan nearly jumped in surprise. He shouldn't have assumed that the draconids were tucking into their food already.
"I... I believe I've seen such," he said, hastily placating, "in illustrations. This here, um, this is egg, right? From fowl?"
"Mallards," Daaxanthus agreed, while Tuukdarjak snorted. "It was quite an effort to source them."
"I believe this was indeed eaten by my ancestors." Lan attempted to carve himself a bite, but the thing burst open at the slightest prod, spilling forth a golden ooze. Not unlike lava, after all. With barely a pause, a credit to his training, he scooped a portion into his mouth, chewed, and smiled. "My master has shown me great favor. I am grateful," he said, hoping that would be the end of it.
It wasn't.
Daaxanthus was still staring at him, while Tuukdarjak had broken into wild laughter, jaws yawning wide enough to show rows of pointed teeth, and scarlet gums, and the bulge of venom sacks behind them.
The egg went gummy in Lan's mouth at the sight, but he forced himself to swallow.
"Only your ancestors?" said Daaxanthus. "No longer?"
"Um. Since humans have been—have ceased planetary dwelling, livestock has not figured significantly into our diet," said Lan carefully. "Probably not for the past few centuries." Not since the Draco-Terran wars had scarred their mother planet beyond habitation, and driven its inhabits fleeing into space stations, where animal husbandry was impractical, if not impossible.
"That... does make sense." Daaxanthus actually fished a small device from his pocket, and began typing upon it, talons clicking rapidly upon the tiny keys with pinpoint precision. "Indeed, that's about how long it's been since books about humans were last published in Draconian."
Not many books about humans written during wartime, thought Lan, cutting himself a piece of something brown and soft. Reassuringly, this did not gush liquid.
"I have much to learn from you," Daaxanthus said, putting the device away. "On your modern culinary habits."
"You're never going to eat in peace again," Tuukdarjak translated. "Daax has been going on and on about how we're finally going to have a primary source on humans. You should have just lied and said he got it exactly right."
"I will gladly answer any questions my master has for me," Lan said, stiffly, and Tuukdarjak rolled his eyes so hard he had to sideways-blink several times to recover.
Partway through dinner, Tuukdarjak was called off for an emergency, real or imagined, that forced him to leave most of his plate behind.
"Perhaps that's a signal that we, too, should retire," Daaxanthus suggested, and Lan got to his feet quickly enough that his head spun.
Some of the exhaustion of the day was starting to catch up with him; in combination with a full belly, and the ever-present heat, he had been lulled into a sleepy trance. Now, though, following his master through the corridors, he found himself kick-started back into stark awareness.
In all his contemplations, he had never imagined he would live past that initial encounter, which meant he had never exactly prepared himself for the reality of his role. He had served all manner of masters in his time as a slave, even grown quite good at it—but never an alien. As he followed after the towering figure, watched that tail flick back and forth with each step, he had to wonder if such a thing was even possible. Anatomically.
"You are uniquely suited to this post," the Archdeaconness had said to him, stroking the burned flesh of his face and throat. "If that creature takes you, he'll burn you alive from inside, and you'll finally be a match, without and within. You understand, don't you? There is no one else I would spare for this. You were always fated to perish to dragonfire."
A grazing touch on his cheek, a perfect mirror to the hand in his memories, nearly jolted him out of his skin. It was a struggle to remain pliant.
They had arrived.
Daaxanthus touched a panel inside the open doorway, and the overhead light blinked on, to reveal a narrow cabin, small even by human standards, stretching only a few paces in each dimension, furnished in metal. Lan supposed that a rug would not fare well under clawed draconid feet, but he hadn't expected the utilitarian sparseness of the rest of the ship to extend even to the living quarters. The bed was a narrow cot in tear-resistant polymer fiber, and bore no sheets or covers. A wardrobe took up one precious corner of the room, and a second doorway offered a glimpse into an even tighter cubicle that might have been the head.
"Space is a luxury aboard the ship," said Daaxanthus, ushering Lan inside, as much as there was an inside to be ushered into. "Privacy even more so. You'll have to share with me for the time being. I hope that's acceptable, in human culture."
"Anything you wish is acceptable to me," said Lan, grateful for rote phrases to fall back on. He was studying the draconid's scaly form, trying to wrap his head around the concept of being intimate with a creature of scale and talon.
"You were always fated to perish to dragonfire..."
Often, these things started with a touch, inviting and sensual. He reached out a tentative hand, but lost his nerve when Daaxanthus sailed past, unaware, to the wardrobe in the corner. The door on it clicked and slid upwards, rather than swinging out, another space-saving measure.
"I didn't think to clear room for your things, but then, I also don't see any on you. Is that traditional?"
"I believe I was sent with a few items," said Lan carefully. He refrained from craning his head for a look, but he thought he glimpsed an array of uniforms within, seemingly identical to what Daaxanthus currently wore. "To assist in my service to you, of course. If you wish for me to have them, they will be with the transport."
"In that case, I'll have them sent to you. First, let me show you this."
"This" turned out to be a box at the bottom of the wardrobe, with curved handles on either side, like an ancient sea chest. It must have been heavier than it looked, because Daaxanthus all but heaved it up and onto the bed. There was a keyhole that unlocked with his talon, and then he lifted the lid to reveal a stunning heap of jewelry within, glinting gold and shimmering gems from brim to brim. Under the harsh lights, the full effect was almost too dazzling to look upon. Lan couldn't help but picture his childhood storybooks, great dragons with greater hoards of treasure, and wonder if that made him the princess of the tales.
"I understand that, in your culture, it is customary to provide a gift of jewelry, as dowry," Daaxanthus said. "We're not terribly familiar with which materials are considered precious to humans. Won't you have a closer look?"
A nameless cold dread slipped down Lan's spine, like ice against the ambient heat of the ship. But he forced himself to move forward, to reason his worries away. Daaxanthus was interested in human culture and Lan, in part, was here to advise on such. If his master wanted to know if this jewelry was suitable for a future wife, a human wife, that was eccentric but understandable. Perfectly understandable.
He gazed at the priceless trinkets, mounds and mountains of them, endlessly pooled and twined like snakes, like draconid tails. "It's very lovely," he said. "Any bride should be delighted, to receive such a generous wedding gift as this."
"Wonderful. I think this piece in particular will suit you."
Lan turned, in slow motion, to stare at the strands of gold chain dripping from Daaxanthus's hands, looking absurdly fine and delicate against those wicked claws. It was a necklace that went for miles, with little forked branches each culminating in a gemstone, like ripe fruit on the vine.
It could easily have been the centerpiece of an affluent bride's ensemble, displayed proudly upon her throat and chest throughout all the days of feasting and celebration.
It sucked the breath right out of him, and the strength to stand along with it.
He slammed down onto his knees, against the cold hard floor, face inclined to stare at the taloned feet before him. It all made a certain, horrible sense: the unexpected politeness, the solicitous attention to detail, the... the egg.
"There's been a misunderstanding," Lan said in a rush. "I'm not meant to be your... your bride. I-I can't wear that."
A rumble of confusion was his only answer. That, and the scales on the draconid's feet slowly swirling an acrid orange, all the way up the shins.
"For your sake, Master. To outfit a sex slave so, you'll be laughed at! That is not for me. When you do find a bride, I'll be honored to serve her with you, to, to receive the lusts you do would not visit upon an equal partner. Do you see? I am your slave, no more."
"I don't understand. The terms of the treaty said a slave would be delivered."
"Yes," Lan said, relieved, finally looking up. "Yes, that's me."
"But instead, you tell me you are a slave."
"That— Master, that didn't come through correctly." Lan helplessly tapped the side of his head, above the ear, the universal sign for translation issues—then wondered just how universal it really was. Were draconid translator chips located in the same place, or were their brains structured differently? Did they even use chips at all? When he received only a blank stare in return, he hastily dropped his hand, and bowed down all the more deeply, desperate to convey with his body what he couldn't with his words.
An enormous, taloned hand pressed against his chest instead, impatiently pushing him back up. "This term, 'slave'," said Daaxanthus, peering down at him. "What you are. Does it mean," a pause, "bride? Or does it mean," a further pause, "...object?"
This last was punctuated with a further push, one that tore into Lan's robe, and threatened to pierce his flesh. All these years to come to terms with his reduced station, and hearing it put into such bald terms was still enough to break him.
"I came hooded like a prisoner!" he burst out. "How could it be any clearer?"
"To my eyes, you came veiled like a bride. A veil that only your groom was allowed to remove."
"Object!" Lan sobbed. "I am your possession, to do with as you will. Are those terms you can understand?"
The draconid's face darkened. He gave another push, hard against Lan's breastbone, pinning him against the edge of the bed. When Lan tried to scramble up to his feet, the push came again, and this time it toppled him over, crushing him down onto the cot. Tiny, weightless, powerless, Lan was prey caught by a creature much larger and crueler than he was. Against all instinct, Lan let his posture fall open as he landed, arms and legs spreading in perfect, vulnerable submission. Surrender was all he could hope to convey. He'd put up no resistance if his predator chose to carve his belly open here and now. If that wasn't enough, then he'd have his quick end after all.
With that, something in Daaxanthus's expression did ease, as if the situation was finally starting to make sense, as if he'd found a known category to fit Lan into.
"So, in human culture, even one as fiery as you can be an object. A—" an electronic murmur, as the chip struggled, "a thing."
"That is what I am, Master," Lan confessed, and moaned in fear as the talons caressed his body, as if seeing it anew.
"You were always fated to perish to dragonfire," the Archdeaconness's voice rang in Lan's head, as clearly as if she whispered in his ear, but the scales of Daaxanthus's hand were cool against his skin, and the claws didn't pierce him, not yet.
"Humanity is full of surprises. But I did set out to experience it. Undress."
At last, the giant palm lifted, giving Lan an inch of breathing space, but it was illusory. Backed off for the time being, Daaxanthus was still studying him with those slit-pupiled eyes, watching closely for movement, for a reaction.
Lan struggled not to show one, to get his breathing under control. He was no worse off than where he'd started, only now both occupants of the room were on the same page, which could only be a good thing. The rest was familiar territory, exactly what he was trained for. He could do this. Starting with the order: undress.
"As you command," he said smoothly, more smoothly than he managed to get upright. There was a time when he would have tried to make more of a show of stripping, but he was too painfully conscious of his scars to do so anymore, and too shaken for coordinated movements, besides. He went for the lights instead, and found a curiously mechanical contraption, a physical switch. Talons must make a touchpad impractical, he thought wildly. If draconids even had fingerprints—
"What's the delay?" his master's voice interrupted his inappropriate musings, and he jerked back around.
"Do you not wish the lights off, Master?"
After his disfigurement, he had assumed his days as a functional sex slave were over. As it turned out, his ugliness had not precluded his use—you don't fuck with your eyes, one particularly crude client of his was wont to say—but typically said use was in the forgiving dark. Rare was the master who wanted to see what he was partaking of.
Nonexistent was one who stared at him hungrily like this, as if hoping to summon his nakedness faster through sheer force of gaze alone. It might have been the sweltering ship, but Lan felt that gaze like an inferno, like it was physically touching him, lapping down the skin of him, great swathes of molten heat that washed over every inch and drew a prickling sweat in its wake.
"Certainly not," Daaxanthus said. "I said to undress, not to clothe yourself in darkness."
Hastily, Lan returned, shedding his robes on the first step, his underwear on the second. Two steps was all it took to bring him back to the bed, to crawl past his master's bulk and lay himself bare under that reptilian stare.
When Daaxanthus grabbed for him now, there was none of the care he had shown previously. The talons gripping his arms bore more strength than any human hand, and uncaring claws bit into him, searing lines of pain that drove a low whine from his throat. Strangely, the more he was gripped, bruised, the further back the terror was pushed in his head—ever shrinking as it went—as if every shock of sensation dragged him firmly into the present, to a place where he couldn't fear, only feel. If this was what he had been so frightened of, his brain seemed to say, it was powerfully arousing at the same time, to be held with such force, to be used so roughly. It had been years since he'd been looked at with desire, rather than disappointment. Years since he'd been a highly-trained, sought-after commodity, rather than damaged goods to be settled for.
The burn scars should have been especially ugly to the draconid, a reminder of the war he sought to end. But there was nothing but ravenous appetite in Daaxanthus's gaze, endless curiosity in his touch. The scales on the draconid's palm were soft and fine enough to be mistaken for a leather glove, creased and supple, a slight rasp of friction all that set it apart from normal human skin. But when his limbs grazed against Lan's, the rough scales there were like razors themselves, each casual brush leaving behind a latticework of shallow cuts and scrapes.
At the sight of blood, Daaxanthus became even more entranced. He smelled it, lapped it with his long, rough tongue. Then he took the point of his talon and lazily traced it down Lan's chest and stomach, drawing forth a fresh stroke of crimson, pressing deeper and deeper as he went, until the pain and the sight of his own welling blood made Lan cry out.
"This is what you are?" Daaxanthus said, over the sound. "This is what I'm meant to do with you?"
"Yes, Master," Lan agreed, gasping, mewling. "Whatever you wish." The wet talon pressed against Lan's lips and, ever obedient, he opened his mouth for it. Sucked off his own blood, whimpering with each shift of his master's wrist, terrified and electrified that the thing would cut next into his defenseless lips and tongue.
Distantly, he noted that the fingers did not end in tips at all, but tapered directly into those deadly claws. No fingerprints, then, he thought, and wondered if he wasn't coming a little unhinged—
"Your genitals," Daaxanthus remarked, and Lan jerked his head up at the touch. "They're always out? How very... vulnerable."
The sight of his cock and balls, held in a cage of sharp talons, made him feel faint. The fact that his penis was achingly erect, weeping furiously against its prison, made him feel no better.
"Is that not so for draconids?" he managed.
To his immense relief, Daaxanthus released him, unscathed, to tend to his own clothing. He pulled off his shirt, showing that the smaller, paler scales of his throat did indeed extend down to his underbelly. The pants eased down his hips, splitting around the tail, to reveal—nothing. Just neat rows of scales, utterly smooth, at the join of his legs.
Lan must have made some sort of face, because Daaxanthus roared with laughter. "Should I take offense?"
"I-I don't know how to—" Lan stammered, and then the draconid was crawling on top of him, and he was shutting up.
"They come out at will." Daaxanthus stopped when he was knelt over Lan's face; his fierce expression must have been a smile, because anything else was too horrible to contemplate.
"They?" squeaked Lan, as before his eyes, a cock was emerging from between Daaxanthus's legs, surprisingly fleshy and pale... and then a second. Lan's mouth went dry, watching the two inflate in tandem, until their new girth forced them apart from each other, to angle out in either direction.
Without waiting to be told, Lan reached for them. It took both hands to push them together, and he craned his head up to take both heads into his mouth at once. He found he was salivating for them, to swallow them, to please them, but they were expanding too quickly. He had barely gotten a taste before they popped out again, slick and glistening, one after the other.
"Just pick one," said Daaxanthus impatiently, and sighed in pleasure as Lan obeyed, drawing the full length of the closer one into his mouth. It was cooler than he expected, with a faintly metallic tang, or maybe that was the lingering taste of his own blood. As he began to bob his head upon it, the upper penis slapped him across the face, and he let out a whimper, painfully aroused.
"This is the treatment you're used to?" said Daaxanthus, sounding momentarily... dubious.
Lan couldn't answer with a mouth full of his chosen cock, but he urgently grasped the other, cupping it against his face, so that only the flesh of his cheek separated it from its twin. Suddenly, absurdly worried that they would be taken from him, he set to trying to pleasure them both, sucking and stroking at once. With a deep growl, the draconid surged forward, pinioning Lan against the bulkhead, and began pushing into his throat instead. The fierce, powerful thrusts left Lan helpless to do anything but surrender, gagging, choking, ravaged by one dick while the second twitched and throbbed against his face.
If he was truly a trained sex slave, skills honed over years of practice, nobody would have known it. All he could do was exist, endure, lie there and take it—but that seemed to be all his master wanted from him.
Both cocks spurted at the same time, one down Lan's throat, the other all over his face and shoulder, and he couldn't help it; he jerked a hand free to grasp his own penis, aching and hard and blistering hot as an iron. No threat of punishment could have stopped him as he gave himself the few desperate jerks needed for completion, and only his master's cock still stuffed down his throat strangled his shattered cry.
When it was done, he somehow found himself slumped back against the wall, gigantic draconid head tucked between his legs, heavy and purring like an engine. Daaxanthus was absently stroking along the curve of Lan's thigh, perhaps marveling at the lack of ridge and scale. Though it could have cut at any moment, though he should have feared it, Lan found himself shivering blissfully under the touch. His entire body was alight, tingling like a live wire, pain and pleasure sparking every circuit of his nerves. He'd never felt so alive.
"Is there anything else you require of me?" he ventured, hoping he might yet make up for his abysmal performance.
Daaxanthus seemed to come back to himself in an instant. The stroking stopped.
Lan held still as the weight lifted from his lap, watched the ridged back disappear over the edge of the bed, as Daaxanthus bent to pick up his discarded clothing.
"I've never had sex with an object before," he said as he straightened, a jolt of ice water over Lan's pleasant haze.
With that, Daaxanthus disappeared into the adjoining toilet. The tiny room turned out to have a door after all, one that descended from the ceiling with the finality of a falling blade.
Lan woke alone, aching and drenched in sweat. His arms and chest had been bandaged, and he wondered if his master had deigned to do it—and how he would have managed, with his talons. The bandages were already starting to feel grimy, and he knew he'd have to investigate the lavatory capabilities of the head. There had to be a sonic shower at least—assuming draconids even showered, and didn't just throw sand over themselves, or something.
Another tap at the door jolted Lan out of his stupor. That must have been what woke him up. He scrabbled around for sheets before remembering that such things didn't exist here. He could have picked up his robes from the day before, but further urgent tapping made him give up and answer in the nude.
The door slid upwards to reveal an empty hallway. At first he thought that whoever was knocking had left. Then another tap drew his gaze down to the ground, where the little hoverbot was butting itself against the bottom of the doorway.
Someone must have detached it from the transport, and the indicator around its rim was blinking a tired yellow, for low power. No wonder It had switched from hover mode to gliding on its wheels, which probably took just about all the energy it had left. Energy enough, at least, to carry a bag on its surface, which Lan recognized as—
"My stuff!" He backed up quickly, and the bot rolled in. He could see now that it was listing awkwardly to one side, its wheels apparently no more functional than its hoverjets.
"I'll fix that right up for you," he promised, and then realized he was talking to a robot. "Well, that's nothing new, honestly."
As he undid the straps on his bag, he felt a contrary sense of homesickness. Here, in this strange new life of his, it was surprisingly difficult to peer into his bag and see familiar items within.
Brushing wetness from his eyes, he picked out a fresh set of robes. He had no idea how draconid tastes ran, so for now he'd settle for something cool that still covered the bandages and bruises. Then he rummaged around until he found lube, and flipped the bot over onto its back. The wheels spun freely until the sensors registered a lack of friction and paused the motors. At least that much was working.
Lan popped the latch, and took out the insert, so that he could get at the axles. A generous dollop of lubricant, and then he rotated them back and forth, working the substance in. "You might as well have it," he said. "I don't see myself getting much use out of it, after... Well."
The bot didn't respond.
Once he judged it sufficiently lubricated, he wiped off the excess with his fingers, and closed it back up.
"There, give that a try." Lan set the bot on its wheels, and this time it managed a straight line. It pathed across the limits of the room, then back again, and Lan chuckled despite himself. Was he just projecting, or did the poor bot look like it was searching and restless, pacing in place?
"Ro left you behind, huh? You and me both, bot. You and me both."
After a few rotations, the bot stopped; that would be the end of its diagnostic cycle. With no other tasks, it wheeled itself to an unobtrusive corner, and powered off.
"You and me both," Lan said again.
Abruptly, he felt very alone.
Time passed somewhat more quickly, with his things on hand. His master appeared on occasion, slept, but didn't speak with him, or touch him. Lan's own forays were met with a cold disinterest, and he quickly ceased trying.
Perhaps optimistically, Lan kept himself impeccably groomed, and changed the bandages until they were no longer needed. They really had been minor cuts, all things considered, and he was almost sorry to see the last trace of them go, leaving behind not so much as a scar.
He exercised when he was alone, and tried to meditate, quietly as possible, when he wasn't. His job was no different than the robot's, really: keep himself in working condition, useful when he was needed, and out of the way otherwise.
Even if it seemed mostly to be otherwise.
So it went, until one day his routine was interrupted by a shrill, harsh beeping. He'd been stretching in preparation for his workout, and scrambled to his feet a little too quickly, thinking it was some sort of siren, or ship-wide alarm. By the time he realized it was too quiet, too localized, the sound had slowed to an intermittent chirp.
Limping slightly, he managed to pinpoint the source to a seam on the wall, by the head of the bed, that he'd never have noticed otherwise. There was one of those draconid switches under it, designed for a talon, within easy access of someone lying in bed. Without hesitation, he flipped the switch, only to straighten abruptly when the seam slid open to reveal a screen, and his master's face upon it.
"Master," he greeted, "how may I be of service?"
Daaxanthus gave him a skeptical look through the screen, then said, "Come here."
"Um," said Lan.
Daaxanthus's face disappeared, to be replaced by a floorplan. A glowing route lit up along one corridor. "I need you," said the draconid. "Get over here."
Heart pounding, Lan freshened up in the head, and stared at his own wild reflection in the mirror. He considered changing clothes, considered cutting his hair, considered growing it out—then realized that was all insane. Instead he hurried down the hall, as quickly as possible, without looking like he was rushing. He was only an old, scarred slave, but he still had some dignity to keep.
The given route had been straightforward, with few turns, and he took each one with a combination of nerves and eagerness. He was almost disappointed when they led him not to a bedroom, but a closet-sized office that contained a chair, a terminal, and not much else.
There was still a chance he'd be asked to serve in his usual capacity, but even that hope was dashed when Daaxanthus said, without looking up, "I have received this missive from your Archdeaconness. What do you make of it?"
He was clicking away on one of those tiny keyboards again, the tips of his talons moving swiftly, hypnotically, claws crossing frequently but never clashing. It reminded Lan a bit of knitting.
As Lan approached, Daaxanthus motioned, and a letter was projected for him onto the terminal screen. He tried to banish the idea that this was his one chance to prove his usefulness, get back into his master's good graces—if he had ever been there to begin with—but as he ran his eyes over the words, he couldn't seem to get them to make sense. At first he thought he just needed to calm down, but after he found himself reading the line, "My hoping the lesser gifts loved you well," over and over, he gave up. His eyes skipped down to the Archdeaconness's familiar signature, and then back up.
"Um, my apologies, Master..." he began.
"What?" There was none of the patience and courtesy Daaxanthus had shown on Lan's first day aboard the ship. He wouldn't have expected it anyway, now that things had been made clear.
"Is this... translated? It doesn't... read smoothly."
"Doesn't—? Oh, I'll revert to the original." Daaxanthus tapped a few keys, and the words shifted—still Terran Standard, but phrased much more naturally. It must have been translated Draconid on the screen before, only to be re-translated back by Lan's chip—in other words, a mess.
"It appears to be an invitation," said Lan, once he had finished reading. "To a feast day. On the third—"
"I gathered that," said Daaxanthus. "I'm capable of reading. I'm just unaccustomed to your... unspoken rules. Is there any ulterior meaning under the words that I should understand?"
Lan hadn't thought so, but now he read the letter again, concerned. He touched key phrases, highlighting them, searching for hidden embeddings or codes. Faintly, he noticed that he finally had his master's interest; the draconid had set down his handheld, and was watching curiously. He was almost disappointed to have to admit, "I don't think so, Master. It appears to be a simple invitation, as far as I can tell."
"Fine. Then you'll help me draft a reply."
Lan tried to hold back his response, but must have let out a strangled gasp, because Daaxanthus squinted, cheeks going a little blue. "I shouldn't respond?"
"It's hardly my place to tell you what you should or shouldn't do..."
Daaxanthus sighed. "Look, I don't need an object. I need a human familiar with these," his claw waved idly, threatening to take out Lan's eye with a careless gesture, "these church politics. Someone who can advise me on what I don't know. Before you arrived, I'd already insulted three bishops and possibly sent one of them fleeing to the other side of inhabited space, fearful for his life. I claim innocence, but Tuukdarjak says it was my fault, and I have no wish to repeat that. What would a human do here?"
"Well," Lan coughed, "nothing."
"You told me it was a simple invitation."
"Right," said Lan slowly, not seeing the disconnect.
"So... humans don't respond to invitations? Why do you send the damn things?"
"I mean, to invite you. But you wouldn't just respond to it."
From the roundabout way the Archdeaconness had approached the subject, and the few lines she'd devoted to it, compared to the treatise on the new borosilicate microprocessor that had been among the gifts sent, this was clearly the first time the invitation had been extended. The natural course of action would obviously be to ignore the missive, and wait for more. Surely his master was only testing him?
But Daaxanthus had a strangled expression on his face, one that Lan could only take as pure bafflement.
Trying to rein in his own incredulity, Lan searched for a way to put into words what seemed as basic and unconscious as breathing. "It would look weak, Master. Too eager to attend. Like... like you have nothing else on your schedule."
"My job is to broker peace with you humans. This is literally the only thing on my schedule."
"You won't be able to broker anything from a position of weakness!" Lan snapped, and then could have slapped himself. Here he was again, losing his temper in front of the one person he couldn't afford to anger. Surprisingly, Daaxanthus only gave him an encouraging lift of the head, so he continued, in a more sedate tone. "If you wish to speed up the process, you could propose another occasion instead. Then it will be your invitation, and her move to respond."
"Or not respond, according to your rules?" said Daaxanthus dryly.
Lan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was finally starting to grasp just how little the draconids knew about basic social norms. How the provisional treaty had ever been signed was anyone's guess.
"I believe that Saint Septima's Feast would be an excellent choice," he offered.
"I see." Daaxanthus cleared the screen, and began typing into a blank document. "How do you spell that?"
Lan began reciting the letters, and was horrified to find them appearing in the document as he spoke. "Are you going to mention the feast?" he said. "By name?"
Daaxanthus gave him an incredulous stare. "How else am I going to refer to it? By pictogram?"
Lan swallowed, searching for a politic way to explain. His master sighed again.
"I can tell we have a lot more work ahead of us. Why don't you come sit down?"
After he was dismissed, Lan followed his previous route in reverse. Unlike his earlier trip, when he'd encountered no one, this time he turned the first corner to see another draconid coming straight towards him. He considered turning back, but as the hulking form got closer, he thought he recognized the arrangement of ridges on that narrow face. It was Tuukdarjak, or he was nearly sure it was, and he had an idea.
Rather than retreating, he marched right up to the ship's mate, and waved up at him to stop. "I need a repair kit," he said.
Tuukdarjak couldn't have looked more astonished if a chair had jumped into his path and demanded a cushion. He leaned in close and took a deep whiff of Lan's scent. Then he said, "Are all human slaves like this?"
So Daaxanthus had shared his recent insights in vocabulary. Lan floundered for a moment, before deciding he was already this far, so he might as well lean into it. "Basic tools are fine," he said, and added an imperious sweep of his arm. "Or you can show me where to find one, and I'll get it myself. Oh, and a positron battery."
Tuukdarjak snorted. "How gracious of you. Go back to Daax's room. Don't argue with me," he added, when Lan opened his mouth to protest. "I'll bring you one later."
He even gave Lan a light push. Lan was of half a mind to resist—Tuukdarjak wasn't his master, and had no right to lay hands, or claws, upon him—but something about the way the other draconid glanced up and down the corridor, as if looking out for company, made Lan shut his mouth instead.
So it was that, by the time Daaxanthus returned for the evening, it was to find Lan sprawled on his stomach, the hoverbot completely disassembled all over the floor. The positron battery was a strange half-cylinder shape, and nearly twice as large as the one it was supposed to replace. That meant Lan had had to take most of the inner workings apart, and find a way to rearrange the circuitry. While he'd been in there, it had occurred to him that, if he added a modulator between the actuator and the wheels, he could well get the thing to self-correct when it started veering off to the side again. But, try as he might, he just didn't have the right tool to split the wires. His fault for asking for a basic kit, but the contents were just alien enough that he worried even a more advanced kit wouldn't have the exact part he needed.
He was so absorbed in his task that he didn't even notice he wasn't alone, until his master said, "What's all this?"
"Master!" Lan sprang upright. "My apologies, I lost track of time. I'll get this cleaned up right away." Then he hesitated. He'd placed everything in order as he'd taken it apart, arranging it into a neat spiral around himself. If he just swept the whole lot into a pile now, he'd never get the bot put back together. "That is, with your permission, I'll reassemble it now?"
Daaxanthus was doing that thing Lan thought was the draconid equivalent of a frown. He slowly picked his way around the arrangement, until he was close enough to peer into the remains of the bot in Lan's hands, hardly more than a circuitboard and an empty chassis at this point.
Just when Lan figured he was in for it, the draconid leaned back against the wall, and crossed his arms. "By all means."
"Thank you," Lan breathed, and began to jam the pieces back together, as quickly as he could without making a mistake. "I'm so sorry, this won't happen again."
"A slave trained in sex and machinery," Daaxanthus mused. "Humans have curious needs."
"This isn't really," Lan stammered, "I mean, it's not my role or anything. It's a... a hobby. I'm used to having a lot of downtime since... since New Glasgow." Since he'd been disfigured, and his desirability had taken a nose dive, he didn't say. "This keeps me busy."
"So this is you returning to old habits." As Lan reached for the next part, Daax swept it closer with his tail. "I shouldn't even be surprised anymore, that human slaves are allowed to maintain hobbies. I suppose it keeps you useful."
"Being an ugly slave is bad enough," said Lan bitterly, picking up the offered piece. "Ugly and useless would be the end of me."
Daaxanthus gave him a strange look. Lan had twisted in two of the three screws before he finally said, "At least you needn't worry you are displeasing to look at."
The third screw fumbled out of Lan's fingers. He looked up, opened his mouth.
Couldn't think of a single thing to say.
Instead he just self-consciously touched his burned face, then shook his head, and returned to his work.
"Am I incorrect?" Daaxanthus pressed. "As a slave, you surely would have been disposed of, if that were the case."
If he'd thought the earlier comment might have been praise, what tentative warmth it brought was immediately extinguished. "Is that what happens to draconid slaves, when they are no longer... pleasing?"
"Certainly." Daaxanthus gestured to the bot in Lan's arms. "If that thing ceased to function beyond repairing, would you not dispose of it?"
Lan fought the urge to pull the bot behind himself, protect it from view. Instead he went over the finger-twisted screws with his tool, grimly tightening them into place. When he'd closed the final latch, he set it down, and triggered the diagnostic.
As the bot sped off, he carefully didn't lift his eyes from it, as he said, "Will I be disposed of, then? I dare not think you find me pleasing, with how little attention you've paid me."
Daaxanthus hummed. Started to say something, then changed his mind, and pulled Lan to his feet instead. His talons encircled Lan's wrists like cuffs, restricting without breaking skin. There he held him, at arm's length, as if inspecting a painting, or a uniform on a hanger. It was the first time he'd laid hands upon Lan since that first disastrous night. Lan's breathing all but stopped, so still was he holding, fearful to break the moment.
"It appears I've been doing you a disservice," his master said. "By hiding how much I desire you."
"What?" Lan wheezed out the breath he'd been holding, as if he'd been punched. He certainly felt like it. "Why would you—? What?"
"I still can't get used to the idea of having sex with a slave. And... I did hurt you, when last we lay together." Was the draconid going a little yellow along the jaw? "I thought my distance would be welcome."
"Respectfully, Master... you could have asked me."
Daaxanthus looked blank. "Ask a slave? What he wanted? Surely not." When Lan gaped, the draconid chuckled, and released him. Took an easy step back, to sprawl onto the bed. "I should have learned by now that you'll behave nothing like I expect. Very well then, is this what you wish?" He waved a claw at the empty space beside him.
Was it? Lan wondered. Was it what he'd been dying for, all these interminable days? It should have put a damper on his enthusiasm, to hear that his master thought of him as utterly mindless, without opinion of his own. But even that didn't change his answer.
"If I had remotely thought begging might earn me another chance to serve you," Lan confessed, "I would have been on my knees before you nightly."
A rumble of surprise, or maybe approval. "It's not too late for that."
It was like a dam had broken. Lan rushed forward in such a hurry, it was a miracle that he managed to get his clothes off at all, much less remember where he'd left the lube. He had already sopped up his fingers before he thought to offer it to his master instead.
"What is this for?"
"Um, to prepare..." Lan broke off, eyes drawn to the fierce talons tipping the draconid's hands. "Never mind, maybe it's best if I show you."
Ever curious about human customs, Daaxanthus settled in to watch, as Lan arranged himself on the bed, drew his knees back, and began to slick himself open. Those glowing yellow eyes were peering at him so closely he was embarrassed there wasn't more to it than this, some sort of performance he might put on. Lights, music, maybe. A little dance.
His master seemed enraptured regardless. "You are lubricating the opening for my entry," he deduced, and Lan was really too old and too worn for the maidenly blush that this brought to his face. The draconid moved closer, as if drawn, shedding his uniform as he went. When the pants came off, it was to reveal that both of his dicks were already protruding to full, prominent length. Though Lan knew it didn't work like that, a part of him couldn't help but take heady gratification in the sight of them, splendid and straining for him, like his master had been aroused simply watching him, derived some pleasure in his used-up body from sight alone.
Soon enough, the cocks were butting up impatiently against Lan's hand where it was still furiously working, and he had to hold back a laugh. "I can't take both of them yet," he said, then sobered up quickly. "That is, I merely wished to warn you of my physiology. But I am yours to command."
"Both," said Daaxanthus. "Why do you have an obsession with this?"
"I would have thought..." Lan paused, embarrassed. "Wouldn't it please you more, to satisfy both your members?"
"Wouldn't it please me more to be inside of you right now?"
Lan took the hint. He climbed onto the draconid's lap, thighs scraping sweetly against scales, and kissed him—or did his best, pressing his lips to the front of the toothy maw, which opened in something like a chuckle.
"And what is this?" repeated the draconid, and Lan pulled back.
"I guess you don't kiss," he said. Draconids didn't even have lips. Trying to distract from his blunder, he wiggled himself against Daax's lap, unable to contain his eagerness. Obligingly, Daax levered him in by the hips, lining up one of his cocks with Lan's ready hole. "Thank God you still do this though—"
The rest of Lan's sentence dissolved into an incoherent sob, as he sank down, half of his own accord, half pulled down by the hard claws digging into his waist. He had about a single spare brain cell left to notice that the claws didn't cut into him this time, his master was being so careful, but the rest of him was lost in the stretch, the pressing fullness, the sensation that threatened to white out the world entire. He'd done his job too well; he tried to control the descent, but the cock slid in like he'd been fitted for it, made for exactly this. The farther he sank, the more it filled him, and the more he contrarily craved—until his straining muscles refused to hold him a moment longer, and he slid all the way home with a strangled cry.
"You humans—" Daax hissed, sounding about as lucid as Lan felt. Lan looked up in shock, to see the draconid's head thrown back, the pale scales of his throat glistening in the light. "So hot inside, like an inferno—"
"You were always fated to perish to dragonfire," Lan remembered, and couldn't hold back a sharp bark of laughter. "Says a fire-breathing dragon," he muttered, but thankfully it must have been too soft to hear, because there was no response. The draconid was cool to the touch, true, cooler than any human. Lan might have done something stupid like ask about basal body temperatures, but then those hips worked beneath him, a delicious upward thrust, and all that came out was a needy wail.
"A good sound?" Daaxanthus said, and Lan nearly said something inadvisably snarky, only to find he could recognize humor painted on that reptilian face.
In response, he lifted himself up and sank slowly back down to the root, making sure to repeat the sound as he did. It started as a challenge, but soon he was fucking himself with abandon upon that cock, it was so utterly good, while its twin rocked between their bodies, striking in tantalizing flicks against his thigh and stomach and thigh. Though he was filled to the brim with one already, he yearned for the second too; he grasped it with his lube-slick hand, pulled it roughly against his own penis, and began to rub the both of them together, alternating thrusting and stroking, a valiant effort that left him panting and keening, it was too much—
His master took over instead, canting his hips so that Lan fell back into the bed, limply unfurling from the shoulders like a tapestry, plenty of room for Daaxanthus to mount and rut into him freely. Lan almost refused to let go of his precious handful, not until Daax nudged him out of the way, and leathery, scaly skin wrapped over their cocks instead, stroking with the crease of palm, fingers straight so that the talons stuck out like bars, rather than digging into their flesh.
The first brush of those scales against his dick threatened to undo him, and each successive stroke was somehow more incredible, more intense. All the while, the wonderful, agonizing assault within him, pumping into him, molding him to shape, until he was certain he'd never existed for anything else, anyone else, but this—
"Do you think she's invited me for a negotiation?" said Daaxanthus abruptly, mid-thrust. "Or would I be more likely to walk into an ambush?"
"What?" Lan moaned weakly.
"Surely, we will be outnumbered there. It wouldn't be wise to harm us, but... would she?"
"Saint Septima," Lan managed, and whimpered when Daaxanthus actually stopped to listen. Obligingly, the thrusting resumed, and he whimpered for an entirely different reason. "Holy day. N-no weapons. Not on the human side, anyway." He had just about enough awareness to wonder if telling the draconid such a thing amounted to treason, a betrayal of his race and his church. Then Daaxanthus snapped his hips again, and Lan melted into it.
"You know," purred the draconid, "this is the first time I've felt like you're actually speaking what's on your mind."
"Grnh," said Lan, which was about all that was on his mind, true enough.
"If I had known sex made you more talkative, I would have tried this sooner. Tell me, what is the feast about?"
"Holy... bones," Lan said, or thought he said. He was sure he'd make any combination sounds just to keep that cock fucking its sinful rhythm into him. "Blessings. The A-aarchdeaconness... baptizes infants... officiates weddings..."
Here, Daaxanthus stopped again, and Lan all but wept. "Please," he said. "Please."
The draconid opened his mouth, showing teeth. "We'll do this again." Gripping Lan by the shoulders, he commenced to brutally, methodically take him apart.
And Lan perished.
"I should like you to come with me," said Daaxanthus, afterwards.
Lan opened his eyes with great effort. The draconid was wrapped tightly around him, seeming to soak in the heat of his body. When Lan pulled himself away slightly, he found that his arms were imprinted with red marks from Daaxanthus's skin, so that he had scales of his own.
"To Saint Septima's Feast," Daax clarified, and Lan struggled to focus. He throbbed, everywhere.
"Of course, Master. Saint Septima's Feast. I will be there to translate for you. To guide you on the social... subtleties. We wouldn't want you to scare any more bishops."
Daaxanthus shook his head, spilling a light rumble of laughter. "No, you mistake me. I do not wish to bring a scarred slave at my heel. I believe it will send the wrong signal. That I am rubbing our violent history in the face of every human there. This must be what the Archdeaconness intended."
Lan very much doubted the Archdeaconness ever intended he live that long, but held his tongue.
"No, that won't do." The draconid gave Lan a nudge. "Get my chest out of the wardrobe, would you?"
Dutifully, Lan left the bed at a hobble, for once grateful for the small quarters—there wasn't far to go. He had to drag the chest over, so heavy it was, but Daaxanthus only said, "Good boy," and flicked it open with a claw. "Come closer."
Lan did so, and then held still, confused, as Daaxanthus began to adorn him in jewelry, gold chains around his neck, his wrists, draping over the waves of his hair and resting in cool webs upon his face. "Something you said caught my attention. While we were fucking."
To Lan's credit, he didn't even choke.
"You said the Archdeaconness performs marriages at this feast. I wish for us to be wed."
This time, he choked. "Master?" he sputtered. He tried to jerk back, but Daaxanthus seemed to be expecting it, and held him in place with a well-placed claw.
"That's what Darjak said." Daax finished with a set of rings that he slid delicately onto Lan's fingers. "Well, not in so many words. Brothers, right?"
It took Lan a moment to match the nickname with Tuukdarjak; a second to register. "Your brother? I thought he was your first mate."
"Who better?" Daaxanthus said, and then his expression darkened. "And who worse? Always questioning me. I'd throw him out the airlock if I didn't need him so much."
"I know the feeling," Lan said, still itching to go back to the the earlier topic.
"You have siblings?" said Daax, surprised, which surprised Lan in turn.
"I thought you would have been told."
"Told what?"
"The Archdeaconness," said Lan. "We share a father."
"What?" This caught Daax's attention. "A slave and the spiritual leader of your station can be born to the same father?"
"I wasn't born a slave," said Lan, tightly. No matter how many times he thought back to it, the memory still pained him. "I was sentenced to this life, for my crimes."
If anything, Daaxanthus looked even more stunned.
"I was young," Lan said. "Foolish. Is it really so shocking?"
"For once, it seems it's my turn to explain." Daax thought for a long moment, talons clicking against his own knee, before he said, "I understand now what your word, 'slave', means. But perhaps I truly do not. Our slaves are drones. Born into the life. No more capable of higher cognitive function than a machine. That's why so many of the things you do puzzle me. But you tell me that you were born free. That anyone can become a slave. That is... beyond my imagination."
Lan let that sink in. Daax had finally released him, so he took the chance to pull his robes back on, careful to slide them under the jewelry that his master had so carefully arranged.
"But you were still willing to marry one?" he realized, belatedly.
"Now you see my brother's objections," Daax said. "I will tell him about your relation to the Archdeaconness. Surely that will be a point in your favor." He straightened the chains on Lan's chest again, and then waved toward the mirror in the toilet. Lan turned to go check his reflection, but was stopped by a hard grip on his arm.
"One more thing." Using the point of a single talon, Daaxanthus dragged the collar of his robe off his shoulder, revealing the burned flesh underneath.
Lan shivered where the claw grazed his ruined skin. "Is this really what you want?"
"Go, look."
In the mirror, he saw a burned slave, as always, but one decked out in finery. The placement of the pieces, far from hiding the burns, seemed only to emphasize the scarring, gilded strands tracing the devastated landscape of his face.
"I wish not to hide our history," said Daax, appearing in the doorway behind him. "Nor the atrocities of the past. What I do wish is to make amends, and forge a new future for our two races, to intertwine our destinies. This is the message I want to send—in you, for words between our races are difficult to exchange. Do you think the humans will receive it as such?"
Lan reached out to thread his fingers between the enormous talons, admiring how well the rings on his hand matched the scales on his master's.
"Yes," he said, tucking himself back up against Daaxanthus's side. "Yes, I do believe we will."
