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“You Grace, you should make him—” the Malthenian protested.
“That’s enough,” Jovack spat his way.
He returned his gaze to Salas, eyebrows knit together in confusion, anger seeming to finally settle in, though it seemed more geared to his own lack of understanding as towhythe act had not taken place, rather than the act itself. “Then why did you stop?”
Salas swallowed, meeting Jovack’s eyes defiantly. “I didn’t want him touching me.”
“You didn’t want him touching you,” Jovack repeated slowly. Then he laughed bitterly, shaking his head with the obvious anger still there. “My Gods, they’ve corrupted your mind, haven’t they?” He huffed and stepped back finally, shaking his head once more. “I heard accounts of your treatment there. The cruelty you were faced with, and I did everything in my power to make sure you were brought home. Now I fear I may have been too late.” His tone was vivid with disgust. “But you aren’t in Diagor anymore, Salas. You don’t have to fuck beasts any longer. You’re home, now. You’re back in the arms of Suscon, where your pleasures are welcome. You have a place at the true King’s side, once more.”
Salas straightened, standing firmer. He wasn’t sure how he could explain to Jovack what had changed in him, and how he had changed. He wasn’t even sure why it was important that he did explain. But the slandering of the Diagorians’ name was suddenly too much to bear. “I would rather fuck a hundred Diagorian beasts than a single person within this castle.”
His quiver was gone, and the anguish of the lost life dimmed in comparison to his anger to how his own life was so thinly treated and had been, he realized, for all his time in Suscon. People always assumed what he wanted, putting thoughts into his head, until, at one point, he had believed them. But he could be disillusioned no longer. He did not want the man on the bed, or Jovack, or the hundreds of other men perhaps waiting in the palace for Salas to be the perfect Susconian bird again.
He only wanted Jareth.
Salas could nearly hear Jovack’s teeth as they ground together. He regarded Salas coldly, finally murmuring, “More corrupted than I thought. How unfortunate.” A pause. “Guards!”
A duo of armed men swiftly rushed into the room, as though they had been stationed outside.
“Take care of this,” Jovack ordered swiftly, gesturing to the restrained man almost impatiently. “And take thebirdto the throne room and have him chained to the bird post.” He regarded Salas darkly. “He’ll remember who he is there.”
One of the soldiers stepped forward and unceremoniously dragged him out of the room, past Jovack, who only crossed his arms and watched him depart, the humor that Salas associated with the man gone from his eyes.
Salas, as expected, was taken to the throne room. He knew what a bird post was, and that they hadn’t been used for quite some years, before Salas had begun implementing fair treatment of the birds.
They consisted of single iron loops situated on the ground, attached to chains that were used to restrain birds, much like the gilded shackle he’d been subjected to in his old room.
The journey to the throne room did not proceed unmolested. There were people about, Malthenian courtiers and promoted Susconians, who stared openly, murmuring to one another, as Salas was brutally shoved into the throne room, and near-dragged to the base of the dais, despite his lack of struggle.
Up the steps, the loop sat at the foot of the throne, a chain already situated upon it, as though someone had prepared for its use.
Just as before, he was shackled before the guard left.
At least he was alone, now. No one was allowed to enter the throne room while the king, in this case Jovack, was present, aside from palace staff whose tasks consisted of its upkeep.
Or at least, Salas thought he was alone. That was, until a figure stepped out of the shadows between the windows, tall and domineering, she approached him.
The witch Victoria was there, staring at him with cold eyes.
She emerged with assured steps, as though she had been patiently waiting for a guest to arrive.
Her stance was fierce, her stride careful, as a trapper approaching a lion that was merely injured, not yet fallen.
Salas recalled what Beatrice, had said about Victoria, of her hatred of the fae and her desire for revenge, as she had been wronged by them. It amounted to another plot for vengeance, seeking more retribution that may cause yet more suffering, no matter how justified or unjustified it all might be.
Perhaps in another life, he could have found her in the Faeland Forest, drunk on the euphoria the fae leaked into the night, and he could have weaned her off the dance, perhaps saved her. Perhaps saved himself. But that scenario never happened. Her resentment was real, and he was her target because of it.
What was she here to do? To gloat? Have her way with him?
“Welcome home, Salas,” Victoria said, her voice almost warm, though Salas wasn’t fooled. She approached with her hands folded behind her back, taking slow lifts to make her way up the dais steps to him, and stopped just a breath away from Salas, clearly not intimidated by him.
Salas straightened, though he had no height on her to in any way intimidate. He chose simply not to be the cowering, weak little thing that he had been before, when he faced her last. Still, he couldn’t help but to notice the eerily similar position he was in now to how he had been when the witch had visited him in the Diagorian dungeon, alone, trapped, and held prisoner.
She laughed once, a half-suppressed, huffing noise seeped in scorn. “You do seem so weak…and yet you are a surprisingly crafty little beast, aren’t you? Having King after King after King wrapped around your little finger. Only a creature of fae can pull that off.” She stepped even closer until Salas was forced to step back, tripping on his chain.
But then she was moving past him, turning away to angle her new destination: the throne. She sat down upon the great chair with ease, as though she had sat there one hundred times before, and now was just another occasion.
“I bet this spot, right here, was truly where you wanted to be, wasn’t it?” she asked quietly, fixing him with a calm, frigid stare that seemed ready to turn more severe if he so much as breathed the wrong way. “You’re fae, after all. It is in your nature to scheme. To deceive. To have the world dance around you, seeming to chase butterflies while truly everyone burns in a hell you’ve created for them.”
