rocketsout | (no subject)

Your name is slave; at least that’s what you’re told. Sometimes your name is Thag. Sometime’s it’s Grok. Most of the time it’s whatever your handlers think sounds vaguely barbaric in order to play up your appeal. No one would come to see a half-breed with a human name, after all.

They tell you all their monikers for you are orcish. You don’t know any orc, you’re mountain-born and city-raised and the closest you’ve ever come to diversity are the multitude of human children you’d been housed with in the squalor of your childhood. You can’t remember their names either. Sometimes you wonder if they remember you.

It’s more likely that they’re all dead. That’s just how life goes.

Your name is inconsequential; you do not matter. What matters is the roar of the crowd, the scream of your body pushed past its breaking point, and the number of victories notched in the leather of your belt. Nothing is as important as victory at any cost.

Some of those that fall beneath your axe were friends, the closest you could call to kin, but out in the dirt and grime of the arena all bonds are broken. It’s kill or be killed, your masters have always raised you on that tenant.

You think you may not be afraid to die.

“What’s your name?”

The question comes as a surprise, even if the appearance of the strange man does not. He’s been appearing for weeks now, for no other reason than for the sake of it. He’s a strange sort, queer and mysterious and everything that you’ve never had a chance to see. Subterfuge doesn’t last in the pits, there’s no use in subtlety.

He moves like liquid, all grace and light-footed, and at first you’re entirely sure that this is some elaborate sabotage set forth by one of your master’s many enemies. You’ve been winning too much, people are angry, they want to see you ruined.

The question repeats, his voice quiet and calm in the chaos of the cellblock and you can’t help the tinge of intrigue that it brings. You give him one of the many names you’ve had, they all blur together after so many years, and he shakes his head.

“What’s your name?”

Your name. You’re confused, you’ve given him a name. As you look over you catch his eye, you’ve always been struck by how bright it is, and he nods slightly. And you know. Your name.

“...Lhi.”

It’s dust and rasp upon your tongue, unused for a decade and sequestered away tight in the back of your mind. It’s the last thing that you have left that you can call your own.

You give it to him freely, without apprehension.

His name is James; you think you like the way it feels on your tongue.

You’ve come to anticipate his visits, relish them even, because it they make the word feel less lonely. You’ve always been surrounded by bodies, warm, stinking, flesh that means nothing more than targets for your axe, but for the first time in your life it feels as though there’s an actual person amidst the vast ocean.

He comes most nights, slipping past the guards and other slaves alike, and he sits with you. Talks. Brings rations and drink. They’re the best things that you’ve ever tasted, you’re sure of that.

He brings charcoal, paper, and in the dim torchlight he reaches through the bars of your cage and offers them. You’ve never had things for yourself before, and they feel fragile and delicate in your hands. Nights pass, he teaches you to recognize symbols, to mark your name in dusty black, to mark his.

The paper is the most important thing you’ve ever owned. You guard it with your life.

Your name on his lips is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard. It’s soft, private, you’ve never had anything like it before.

Kissing it right off his tongue is infinitely better.

“Lhi!”

There’s a shout through the cellblock-James, no one else knows, and there’s chaos all around the both of you. The stench of fire and iron follows him as he races to your cell, and there isn’t time to ask questions as he jams the gleaming point of a knife into the lock of your cage.

It springs free. The door is wrenched open. You’re paralyzed with this realization.

But his hands are on you then, hurrying you out into the open as you try to process what’s just happened. There’s yelling from above, curses and oaths ever so foul, and James yanks you along. Your feet feel like lead, but you remember how to run. You’ve always known how to run.

The night air is cold on your skin and swallows you whole; for a moment you forget how to breathe. You haven’t been to the surface for so many years, it’s foreign and strange. But James is speaking now, pressing a roll of parchment and a small charm into your hands as he looks back over his shoulder with a grimace. A shipyard. You’re to go to a shipyard. To board a ship. To flee. It’s overwhelming.

You find your voice long enough to ask if James will follow; he says he doesn’t know and fingers wind in your choppy hair and drag you down into a kiss that’s filled with desperation and emotions that can’t be put to words. He’s gone soon after, racing along to distract the guards that have begun to pour out into the streets.

You flee.

James. You hold tight to his name through the dark, terrible nights as the waves crash and break upon the ship’s hull. Just as you hold tight to the items he’s left in your care; you can make out letters on the parchment, you know it’s a map, and you know that you need to go to the places marked on it. You need to find James.

One of the other passengers has a knife; you win it off of him in a game of strength one night. The tip of the blade is a sharp, sobering reminder that you’re alive as you press it carefully into your forearm.

You’d always heard stories that your kind were vicious, that they adorned themselves in wild colors and elaborate designs to prove their strength. Now you hope to draw on that resolve as the lines of James’ charm begin to take shape in your flesh.

You won’t forget.

You have no name in this city, no past, and it’s frightening. Salt hangs in the air and men scurry about like insects along the docks. It’s bizarre, almost inconceivable, and it stills your step until you’re all but a statue frozen precariously amidst the clutter.

Someone brushes by you, stops, speaks in a tongue so guttural you’re not sure it’s actually language. You stare. They leave.

Their names are of little importance, you’re traveling companions and nothing more. There’s safety in numbers when traveling, and you’re rapidly learning that the woods are not hospitable.

You kill, it’s what you were meant to do.

But there’s a creature in familiar leathers that strays out of the foliage, one that accosts you and takes what’s yours and you feel rage bubble up hot in your gut as you give chase.

Fear, too, that you may lose your only chance to see James again.

You’re a nameless insect within the city, a faceless body within the massive teeming crowds, but the forest is behind you. All that matters now is the map; there’s a mark on it, and you have to find it.

The doors are locked, your strength is of no use now.

“James”

It’s hot on your tongue when the chase finally ends. James. Alive, well, before you. There are too many things you want to say, too many that you don’t know how to.

You follow him home. His lips are as perfect as you remember.

Ryder. You’re certain there was never an uglier word. Not a person, but a creature, a vile thing that stalks and hunts and you’re sure now that you’ve never hated someone so intensely in your short life.

You go to war.

You’re at James’ side, struggling to keep up, and it’s hard but you’re determined never to lose him again. He’s very good at losing himself.

The confrontation in the bar is filled with hurt. You can’t bear the thought of something happening.

Fossa. The city is too big, too much, you find yourself missing the safety of the caves and wilderness. But James is safe, carefully tucked away just outside the limits and you’re determined to make a final stand. You’ll find this Ryder, cleave her in two, and repay every single pain that your rogue has ever felt.

But they surround you. Rain blows down upon you. You scream and spit at them, you will not be taken again. The world goes dark.

The world is subdued upon your return to the manor. You’re encrusted in gore, exhausted, but James is safe. You’ve kept him safe.

Servants say that he’s out. The night passes cold and lonely.

“Lhi...”

You barely hear what the druid has to say, nothing is important right now beyond barreling up the stairs and muscling all the bodies out of the way. He’s pale, so pale against the dark wood of the bar and something breaks within you. You howl, a sound not from a man but from a beast wounded, fingers cupping his cold cheeks as if you can will your warmth into him.

The world stares on, but nothing else exists right now. Everything is just James, James who’s secretive grins and teasing words kept you alive in the pits, James who’s voice would hitch just right when your hands began to wander, James who’s presence alone has given you everything to live for.

Your head rests against his still breast, and for the first time in your wretched life, you cry.