Violet eyes opened slowly, a muffled groan escaping his pale maw as he moved, every inch of him painful. The sharpest pain was from his ribs, piercing and making deep breaths painful...but every inch of him felt bruised and tender to the touch. As he slowly clawed his way into full wakefulness, his breath quickened in panic, in spite of the spiking pain that the action triggered, and his eyes flew open, taking in the unfamiliar cave walls, and the equally alien heaviness in the air - like a rainstorm was brewing, but underlaced with the faint tang of salt.
Where was he? And what had happened to his tormentor? He took stock of himself, a shuddering sigh (chased closely by a wince) as he realized he was, at least for the time being, whole. Just as he would have begun trying to scrabble painfully to his feet, a body pressed lightly against his back stirred, He froze, thrown into uncertainty by the movement. He was laying on thick, luxurious pelts, and was covered in another one, as well. There was a distinct chill in the air, making him grateful for the warmth, but...just what had happened? A small sob caught in his throat as memories of what had happened before he passed out came flooding back, and he shoved a paw into his mouth in an attempt to stifle his grief, the emotion temporarily sweeping the terror aside.
Hila sighed, the action jostling Skare slightly, as it caused her to bump up against the thrall's side. Since returning home from her second Viking, concern and necessary care for her newest possession had been running the adolescent ragged - she hadn't been sure if his lingering unconsciousness had been from the trauma of his attack, or a symptom of something far more serious - and she'd even begun to wonder if he'd ever fully awaken at all. She'd waffled back and forth, debating if she should try to find Kafele, to see what he thought...but had thus far kept to herself, running herself more than a little ragged in the process. She liked having nice things, which sometimes meant having to make an effort to take care of them.
"I'm pretty sure your ribs were broken - and if you move around and one punctures a lung, I will be rather upset, thrall." She said it blandly, any concern she may have felt completely absent from her tone.
"Especially after we dragged you all the way back here, and I gave up any other share of our loot to do so," she continued, the commentary ending on a jaw-cracking yawn.
He squeezed his eyes shut, breath catching in a sense of relief, that the other presence wasn't his tormentor...and a combination of embarrassment, that her words indicated she'd seen him at his weakest and most pitiful...and renewed fear, that perhaps she was working with him, and that things were going to get infinitely worse.
When the male didn't respond, other than with another hitching breath, she continued, her voice a tired rumble.
"The Viking band I was out with killed the cowardly b*****d," she twisted her lips into a sneer of disgust at the words, remembering the unnecessary, over-the-top violence of the scene. Growing up in a pride that valued strength, and death in glorious battle above all else, she'd never considered herself soft, but it had frozen her in place momentarily.
"While the general consensus was to leave you there afterwards, it was my first Viking, and I have no other thralls, so I made the decision to take you as my share of the loot." She may have been swayed by compassion to take him as a thrall, but that didn't mean she'd be pampering him, either - he still had quite a bit of recovering to do before he'd be able to do much of anything useful, but he was young and appeared otherwise healthy, so she could be patient. Within reason.
He fought back another sob, this one a mingling of relief, a deep gratitude for her part, whatever the degree of it in ending the situation she'd found him in, and...a queasy feeling in his gut. Who had he been "rescued" by? Things had changed, irrevocably, and from the sounds of it, his current aches (both physical and emotional) were only the beginning.
After another couple of moments, as he attempted to gain some sense of composure, he finally spoke, vocal cords scratchy with emotion and disuse. "Where am I? And what, exactly, is a thrall?"
A sense if dread accompanied the second question; he suspected he knew exactly what a thrall was, but he rather hoped he was wrong.
"You're among the Stormborn - the Myrsky Synrynyt." She replied, sitting up and stretching luxuriously before turning her attention back to him.
"And a thrall is someone who has been captured in the course of going on a Viking, or even potentially near the borders of our lands - like any other possession we collect in a similar fashion." The words were blunt, but not unkind - she would rather not have a battlefield in her den, but she wanted the lines clearly drawn up-front.
She turned to look him in the eye. "You belong to me, now. I saved your life, and I'm keeping it." She eyed him, as if weighing her next words. "You have a fair bit of recovery left ahead of you. I'm not unreasonable, and I treat my belongings well - I don't share, or believe in excessive...discipline. But in return, I expect you to work hard, and not complain."
She'd rehearsed the words in her head, and hoped that they didn't reveal that she was as new to thrall ownership as he was to being one. She'd grown up with thralls underfoot, but she'd never owned one of her own, or had to be the one to explain to a thrall what their new situation was. Although, to be fair, usually their capture was something they were alert for, and they would have had the journey back to...adjust to their new role.
Skare lifted his head, frantically trying to blink away the tears still welling in his eyes, his limbs trembling slightly. He had never been particularly weepy, but everything was...overwhelming. For a lion who was rather skilled at carving bone, and negotiating in the course of trading, he'd always been confident, and comfortable with his place in the world...but violence was something he had had very little exposure to - and his introduction had been a brutal one. He'd been forced to acknowledge his own weakness, and the shame made it hard to meet Hila's gaze.
Ignoring the pain that shot through his torso at the movement, he shifted to look at her out of the corner of his eye. She was far younger than her voice had led him to believe - it was deeper than most, with a confidence that belied her adolescence, although she was taller and more muscular than what he was used to.
Forcing himself to focus on her words, he wracked his brain - that pride was familiar; one he'd heard of...usually in hushed tones, as a cautionary tale. They were a pride who claimed to be descended from the gods themselves, and as such, seemed to believe that this entitled them to take what they wanted - actions that ranged from theivery in the night to more direct force in the face of resistance. Leadership was not inherited, but instead earned.They weren't the only pride who kept slaves - and rumor had it that a slave could sometimes fight their way into freedom - but he was a trader and an artisan, not a warrior, which made that unlikely. A sense of hopelessness at that realization washed over him.
Even if he fought his way past the youth claiming him for her own, or stole away toward the border, the odds of his being hunted down and ruthlessly returned (or, potentially being taken by someone even worse) were...high. And, he privately admitted to himself, he was afraid of the prospect of more pain. It was a crushing realization of having reached a breaking point, and an acknowledgement of his own cowardice.
When he didn't respond, and refused to meet her eyes with his own, she curled her lip. He looked defeated, and perhaps even a little lost, and it brought out a strangely protective urge...even as it appalled her. He was just so soft. It was completely alien to her; even the least warlike among the freeborn wouldn't be caught dead showing that much weakness, even if they felt it - they'd be eaten alive.
Padding over to the back corner of her den, she grabbed the haunch of a preybeast, coming back to drop it in front of Skare, then went back and carefully lifted a shallow, rough-hewn stone bowl of water, laying it next to the meat.
"Eat." She said simply, her tone brooking no argument. It had been hard enough getting him to drink while he'd been unconscious, and the famine was still fresh enough in her mind that she prioritized food, as a rule. With a sharp flick of her tail, she headed outside, granting him some privacy.
His stomach clenched, driving home just how long it had been since his last meal. While he half-wished he had the strength of will to refuse, he found hunger eventually won out - and if he wept, at least there was no one there to see it.
Word Count: 1,581