1 The Servant

Dull and unimportant.

He was known simply as a servant, the real name being Alfred but that was no longer an issue in the matter. Since he took the job here, he more or less appeared to have sworn to losing all manner of identification, only addressed as "You!" or "Him!" or "Hey!". There are other more unorthodox namesakes such as "That fellow with the dumb expression" or "The rubbish over there" or even "The potato peeler" which was one of his tasks here, assigned to him by those in the higher tier. He cared less. Whatever as long as it paid him better wage than what he had been paid for before. Because in this world, money mattered more than your pride or dignity.

He was born in the outskirts of an unknown village in the clutches of Senejol. At the age of five he already knew what it meant to do hard labor, his family part of the working class in their community paying for a debt their ancestors had taken upon themselves a long time ago. Their entire village was the ownership of a larger town. Everyone in it had to work their lives off in the salt mines.

They had been toiling all their lives. Despite putting in many hours, the debt only seemed to grow. He saw how his family and their relatives were exhausted to rags, only able to eat less or lesser a day, meager meals of corn and potatoes you can 't even salt. No one touched the salt. There were guards who watched over the mounds. Those found stealing were killed and buried in the pile according to some urban myths. He did not believe them.

"There's money in other places and palaces that soar to high heaven," when he was a child, he'd heard these things being said.

Old wives' tales as he himself had not been anywhere else but their village, much less others who've grown and died in it. He did sit and gape whenever they spoke of these cities as if they had visited them, describing those massive halls and tall buildings, the ambitious thoroughfares and capriciousness of the rich and elite obvious in the construction of mansions and large business dens.

There are many aristocrats they said. They had debated about the Royal Family having many children, of how beautiful the Queen was or how regal the King who ruled everyone appeared. But no one has seen them really. These were but mad fancies composed by hapless denizens as they hacked and picked through the walls of the inner caves, the discussion a relief in the darkness.

Alfred has never even known about princesses and they say there were many in the courts. Despite knowing how to read and write, he did not quite understand what these stories meant. To him they were not real.

That was until he was sold off. Happened after a pestilence swept through their town and killed all his relatives. They said it may have been purely out of luck that he survived but barely, found by some nuns he did not recall the faces of now. The next thing he knew was he had woken up in a camp. The nuns had gone, replaced by the cold slavers who were buying out the people of their village cheap from the larger town whom they were indebted to. He was one of those sold in a heartbeat: "That one is a strong worker. You can use him as a laborer to clean the palace walls."

He had also been sold for a higher price than the rest. Something to do with the way his muscles had developed, the way his build was formed. He was to be a servant but to where? To whom? To what?

Young and naive, Alfred thought it was just going to be another mine from there onward. Not even given the chance to mourn and get over his loss, he was thrown into another set of wretched tunnels that reeked of heat and darkness, where he would eventually die a worthless death, pounding at the walls in a never-ending cycle. He'd stare at these caves until he was reduced to nothing. Such was the chaos wrapping his child's mind then. But he was so wrong.

They had walked a very long path to the place where they were supposed to 'work themselves to death'. Alfred had seen the misery, heard the cries and the definite pleas for the cease of maltreatment from those he knew to have been part of the dull existence of their village. He had likewise seen how the crowd swelled as they trod barefoot towards uncertainty, each dying village or town a sure source for the wretched like themselves, pickings for slavers.

He had witnessed illness, watching as one by one some of the people in their line fell dead with eyes wide open. He'd stared at the blankness of the elderly as they rolled, weakened, left in the forests or fields for the monsters to pick the bones of. Everyone looked dead or dying soon after a few weeks. He himself was reduced to wearing shreds, soles blistered, body nearly giving up. Water was scarce. Food, even scarcer, most of them near to being bones when one of the fattened handlers announced they were approaching the city. This was where it all changed for him.

Despite being bound hand and foot, walking like a zombie in a procession with the rest of the other 'bought' commodities (also known as sklaves), he stared wide-eyed at the wonders of this area as they passed by the magnificence of what he later found out to be the Capital. Such Alfred has not seen before, even dreamed of before. The cities he had only imagined in the vast darkness of the mines he grew up in as a child were nothing compared to what he'd seen when he arrived into one of them in real life. This was a large territory, with buildings rising to high heaven and bridges connecting them. He could never forget those mighty bridges.

As his companions lusted towards the food pedaled in the back alleys they were reigned through, mouth watering at the choice fruits and street meats being tarried around, his eyes hungered for something else. Alfred wanted to explore such a vastness. He had never felt such a strong urge to familiarize himself with a location before. The feeling of hunger different from one which made his stomach growl.

Would he be able to see a mansion? Is there a palace here? A library? Who owned them? What were the people here like?

In his excitement he actually stared at the passing coaches, at the chubby, happy faces of children staring back at him. Likewise at the repulsed expressions of the peacock-like adults as they waved their handkerchiefs before their noses. As if the caravan of slkaves were sickening. They drove past fast, in much hurry. "There is nothing to see here," he could hear as the parents steered their children away.

Alfred did understand why such a division existed. He did know why they would be seen as vile and repugnant beings. He did not care. Even if those others in their line covered their faces and sobbed at such a disparity, he was simply steadfast. He burned for something else.

Because despite all the things he'd experienced so far, everything was still somehow new. Especially here where everything shone in a desirableness he could not fathom. Like a beacon blazing brighter than the sun for lost ships tossed by the stormy waters. That's how he saw this new city. That's what it was which had him looking right at everything. But this was somewhat short-lived. They went underground and the experience was cut briefly.

He remembered stretching his dirty hands to the light as he was dragged into a small opening, could hear a creek as the bars of the gate shut closed. Yet he could not get to it, could not fight it, the ebb and tide of the others before and after whose chains carried him in with them. Madness. This was when he realized where exactly he was. He was a slave. That was what he was and no more than that...

Inside the facility, the crowd was spread. Him and the others chosen with him were tied to the walls and blindfolded as the rest were off somewhere. He never saw them again. Then a horror, Alfred was definitely stripped, feeling the cold of the walls then the cold of hands as the only possession he literally owned was torn away from him, leaving him defenseless and shivering. But it did not stop there. They were bathed. Baptized in cold water, he shuddered as he was scrubbed clean of filth, finally allowed to see these men referred to as 'handlers' come in to 'inspect' their bodies.

These were rather cold beings. They seem to not have souls in their eyes as they stared at one to another, spreading legs, checking scars and fingering private areas Alfred himself was scared to touch. They took those who were 'virgin and ripe', fancied a lovely lady with dark locks down the line and another good-looking male down the other end.

She was wrapped in purple and collared off. He was tested, the handlers observing how he would react to a certain sweet smelling drug that they made him inhale. Alfred was not one to particularly have an idea about anatomy and how his own body reacted to certain substances, but when he saw this male's body give to a shiver of liquid release that pleased the handlers, breaking into hearty moans at the same time, he got scared.

He was a virgin. Not to elevate himself, they did say he had a well-sculpted body before, though now it may be ravished by hunger. He was no sick cattle. Would that mean he would also meet this fate? The other ones chained to the walls looked like they had the same fears in mind. Some of them started to cry, to plead. Others sought to struggle. Alfred did nothing. He only recalled the outside and its sheen and gave up. "If only I could see it again..."

"Did you send me the remaining humans? I would prefer you did before Vittorio got them first. Again," a voice broke into chattering down the only hall separating them from salvation. Since the space was enclosed, it echoed like it was supposed to.

Alfred looked up weakly. Another handler? Was the number in the room not enough? They were already outnumbering the slaves two to one, continuing to force elixirs down those they chose, or inserting things into their anuses to torment the more stubborn who now writhe in what seemed to be a mix of pain and pleasure. The penises rose erect like banners, squirting juices onto the earth. The female's nipples and other flesh perked and watered. This was madness! Are they being prepared for a life unheard of in his village?

"Are these ones for Sklave?" the voice finally became a face, turning out to be that of a lady in tight pants and a loose blouse who pushed her glasses up from where it always seemed to slide upon the bridge of her nose.

She had a gentle face framed by neatly pleated hair, but this seemed illusory, especially since he could hear her curse in what seemed to be several languages. She tucked a long strand of hair behind her ear finally, feeling a draught from the outside blow in, crinkling her nose as she spoke with much authority, "This one is too quiet!" she was pointing to a female being drugged and rubbed.

"We've just started to get her accustomed. She'll receive better training in Sklave."

The handler was taller than her but she managed to point a finger at him. "They better. Doesn't Mistress Domini need quality?"

The handler only bowed. "Of course Head Trader."

Head Trader? This was the first time Alfred had heard of the title. The first time actually that he had seen a person of authority that seemed to be able to control the destiny given them. Could he perhaps talk to her? Perhaps he can beg her to release him from this? He could be a good servant, a laborer in the fields or mines even! He just needed the chance!

The woman now paced, "Let's just make sure the deliveries are all well timed. The ones you loaded in the wagon cages earlier will go to Senejol. The next ones rejected from them can just be sent to the Lovat Palace for consumption I guess. Just don't let Chrysa see them? She has such kindness bless her heart."

Then again, how could he even? When Alfred opened his lips, only a dry hoarseness ensued, making him whine with a certain guttural sound he himself barely heard. He tried to struggle against his chains for attention.

"What about the rejects here? Will we send them there as well?"

Alfred stopped. Like a statue he became quite still. He had been slow to catch that didn't he? But the second time it was implied he actually shuddered himself not only for the lack of clothing but for a new wave of fear. There was a place in this beautiful city which took slaves like himself for consumption? He suddenly imagined himself butchered for meat parts like those they passed coming here. The Head Trader had other thoughts in mind though, thank the gods.

"And waste resources?" she rolled her eyes, arms sliding over her chest as she crossed them there. "Send them to the Palace."

"Excuse me? You want to send them to staff the King's Palace?"

He apparently said something she did not like because now she was seething once again, this time smacking the handler on the cheek as she frowned. "ARE YOU DAMNED MAD!" she went on a litany that drowned the continuing moans in the background. "Do you think the King will like the idea of having slaves in his domain?" Again she whipped her finger out at him in emphasis. "The royal palaces can only be staffed by DENIZENS. Slaves are a no. Just. NO."

Then she turned to look towards Alfred's direction, scowling as he stared back at her, those eyes clear despite the limited light of the torches and candles. This time he felt another chill. This person they called the Head Trader was heartless. He knew his pleadings would reach deaf ears as the latter's eyes shone with a scary glint as they caught the light.

He did not understand what she meant next, but before he turned his head aside in fear, biting his lip, her words sounded like they would be in dire circumstance here after. "Send them to the Continent."

#

It should have not at all been surprising that he was rejected. An old scar found just at the back of his leg saved him from being permanently carted over to that place they called Sklave, which was being explained to them by this handler chaining them off now, to be a place for sexual pleasures. Where both nubile youths and beautiful maidens offered their bodies to be played upon by perverted patrons. In whatever way the latter wanted.

Alfred could not help but feel relieved, though he was somehow worried still. Worried for those sent to that wretched place. Such a fate awaited them. He was worried for his own life as well. He was just as uncertain of the fate that was waiting for him. Though he had been saved by the scar which was a souvenir from his childhood, what if this only led to other things? Worse things?

"Take them straight to the Hold," said the Head Trader as they were loaded into a caged wagon, the canvas being adjusted over it so they could be covered and hidden. "Not a word to the Sire. He does not need to know what we do."

"Yes Mistress Williams."

Alfred pondered at those words as they were shrouded and left in the dark of the covering, the sound of a whip and the panting Armored Horses clopping their hooves to the ground, digging earth. They were off. To a location unknown. Who was the Sire? Why does he not know? What does he not know? That they were being treated like this?

He could only see and feel despair as their carriage pitched onward, an uncomfortable toss to one side then the other as the wagon moved. He wished for stars. He wished for certainties. There were none. He could no longer see the gleaming of the city. He was surely far from it now. He could only hear the sounds of the clanking chains and sobbing, faces and bodies which were again dressed in rags. An eternity seemed to pass them by.

He fell asleep. Rocked by the motion of the carriage, he was thrown into dreamless slumber. No nightmares. Nothing but the dark. Very deep. As if his body was hurtling down towards an abyss much like those pits they had in the mines, bottomless and immeasurable. He wanted to fall and never hit below ever, but then he was woken up. By a voice. "Boy, you're home." Was he home?

He opened his eyes. There was a glare of sunlight. It was so bright he had trouble adjusting once more, squinted as someone yanked him down from the wagon, nearly stumbling as the other slave behind him stumbled. Where was he?

A butterfly floated before him. Wait, a butterfly? Alfred's senses seemed to have opened one at a time. His eyes beheld color, his nose took in the scents, ears to sound, skin to feeling the breeze. They were being piled out onto a garden surrounded by cottages, and it was one such that he had not seen before. They were outside!

Him and the others must have looked very lost. They all turned about, looking at what was the largest garden they've probably not seen in all eternity, with its massive trees bearing fruit, plants and shrubs of many blooming flowers. There were bees buzzing, butterflies, insects. He could not name them all but he felt delighted. He felt so elated again that he forgot where he was until one of the guards threw him back in line. Now he remembered it again. It was just he was exceedingly excited. The pain in his gut was nothing then compared to this little piece of happiness.

"Daniel, these are the newlings," was what the handler said as a straight-backed, high-chinned, glove-handed man stepped out to see them. Did he purchase their lot?

"They appear to be a good set. Master massacred the last batch. We needed replacements in earnest," this Daniel spoke as if the word referring to merciless bloodshed that frightened Alfred and the others was such an incredibly simple thing. "The payment is already on its way to the Merchant Traders Faction."

So they had been sold again. From the fate of sexual labor they were sent here. But for what? Massacred? Daniel was obviously not the Master of the place based on his statement, but his words, did that mean the Master enjoyed killing slaves? The handler was now going. He wanted to scream curses at him. Were they going to die? There was panic. Before he was smacked across the face by a hand.

"Not yet put to work and you are noisy. Master will not like that," said Daniel, taking the glove off the hand he had used to hit Alfred with, having dirtied it by touching the slave.

He also had that look. The one of recoil and distrust, disgust. Soon, others like him began to file out from inside the large house behind them. They all had the same nonchalant expression. They were all as cold as this Daniel. They all watched the slaves fuss and sob in misery. Alfred fell still, even as he was hoisted up on his feet again and cramped over with a few others, as they were pushed off into groups, separated once more. What was going to happen?

"Are we...going to die?"

"Hey Alfred! Wake up!"

The servant traced his eyes from the shiny floor up towards the source of the voice, looking at the face of the girl people knew around these parts as Katia. Despite having a discoloration of freckles on her skin, she had the kindest heart. Even if this Palace in majority did not. Sometimes.

"You're drifting off again but I must say I'm impressed. You scrubbed the entire hall!"

She beamed down at him, tucking her gloved hands behind her back, giving him a warm smile. Katia was the lead for the 'cleaning team'. They only came out during the days when everyone was gone. But it had bothered Alfred. Who was 'everyone'? Where did they go to in the mornings?

...when Alfred was first introduced to the life of being a servant, he was aimless. Not schooled enough to read or write any other subject, he could only be trusted with minor tasks such as piling the dishes, sweeping the yards or kitchens after the cooks, mopping the vast halls within and weeding the garden. Sometimes he was sent to the roof where he would scrub out the thickening rust to apply a new coat of paint. He did not at all complain however. These were fairly simple things to be done compared to how he used to work in the mines. He rather enjoyed it, being able to do lighter duties, and when he found out they were getting paid, he was even more ecstatic.

Money. More than the few coins he received from staking off rocks from the hardened walls. Real money that had value, had weight, ones that clanked in his pockets whenever he and his new-found friends in the Palace took to the nearest town for a day out.

He was somehow very happy here. Contented even though from time to time he'd encounter another servant who would bully him. And of course the senior staff referred to all of them as nothing. They knew no one by his or her name. Except Katia. Katia called everyone by their names even the lowliest of the lot.

"So looks like we're done here. You can now enjoy your day Alfred," the lady gave him a pat on the shoulder as he was gathering his bucket and rags, his mop and cleaning potions.

Enjoy his day. Well, he had plans. There was a festival somewhere he wanted to get to, maybe with the other servants who were thinking about the same thing. He was confident they can be back by the afternoon sun. Because the butler, Daniel, warned them how dangerous it was in DarkThrone during nightfall. All the servants for the morning were always sent to bed early. It was one rule they had to obey. For their own safety, Katia informed them.

In the Palace, there were some places only the Black Gloves could get into. The Black Gloves referred to those servants who came in for the night shift, staffing the kitchens, the halls and other places otherwise forbidden to Alfred and the other morning servants (ironically referred to as the Whites). Some say these were the special aids. The Black Gloves were the ones who were up catering to some parties done in the evenings, those whom had a stronger force of will to work the night and its darkness.

Darkness. Alfred often asked what was so different with night-time work. Surely, they would involve the same processes and procedures. The same rounds and specificity. Albeit maybe there were those intriguing night visitors and audiences the other older servants gossiped about. The ones he once chanced upon when he could not sleep some nights, returning to the Servants' Quarters after a stroll in time as the arriving caravan of hooded men came to see the Lord of the Palace, tarrying gifts and boxes, crates and containers in for him. He wanted to see where they were going, or what the so-mentioned 'Lord' looked like, but Katia caught him and sent him to bed with much warning.

That was the only time he's ever seen her so angry. "We are not to meddle with the night service! That is not our responsibility!"

She even gave him the cold shoulder for a few days. Alfred was disappointed in himself then as Katia was one of his closest friends. He vowed never to question what he saw any more although at the back of his mind the curiosity never faded.

There were rooms and places in the Palace not allowed of the morning servants. These were the Throne Room whom Alfred never saw to have received any guests in the mornings and a section set apart to the side of the locale that was said to be a house of some sort yet stayed off-limits to them.

No one ever talked of what was in that section, but he sometimes heard talk it was where 'pets' were kept. What pets? Dragons and monsters? He had seen them before. Did they mean those when they spoke about these things? If they did, those must have been some very quiet monsters. Not even a growl. Like always the Palace was silent, and its secrets stayed where they may even as he scrubbed and toiled under its canopied ceilings and mosaic walls, making them spotless for a Master he has never seen once in his life.

#

Alfred was running late.

The others had decided to stay behind in town after the festival but he had chores real early, which was why he could not possibly chance upon going back to the Palace at day break. He needed to be up by that time. The trip back needed to be tonight.

Taking a late coach, paying twice the sum of fare for good measure, he found out they only ever really brought you to the outskirts at this hour. The drivers already refused to take passengers within close proximity of the territories surrounding DarkThrone Palace, saying that there were curses, of an evil that existed inside it which none could understand. They were scared, the old man who drove the coach with a worried voice asking him if he was really certain he wanted to walk through the paths at this hour, that he could take him back to town if he wanted. Alfred declined, paid and on the other only wondered as he bid the old man a pleasant night. He trudged in alone.

Certainly there was a strictness to the Palace. A peculiar manner which often made the morning servants ask. Like how in the morning there were sometimes the bare traces of a gala the night before but then these were just really the smallest. How there was a smudge here and there which Alfred himself polished clean, good as new. Sometimes there were blood spots on the furniture, but those likewise were minimal to a fault but to him were as noticeable as a wall mural. As if the Palace was different at night as it was in the day, he imagined, each separated from the other by a set of cleaners who picked up after the mystery guests and the activities which they did. The music was low and silent but there was music sometimes. It faded with the daylight.

Alfred could hear the hoot of owls as they swooped in, talons sank into the preys caught. He could envision the hungry tear of beaks and blood. Nature all around being their normal selves.

There were also the sound of bats, of crickets, faint traces of fireflies and night flower perfume down the bend as he took the path. He needed no light to see. He knew this way by heart. Ever since he was allowed to walk on it, he had memorized it like so. Every stone, boulder, tree stump or protruding root.

It was a rather beautiful night. There were the bright stars and constellations which despite the lack of a moon was able to shine their brightest upon his way. It was not cold. It was actually comfortable, making his stroll down the road a pleasant excursion he somewhat wanted to do again.

He was not scared of the gloom in the ever stormy horizon. He was not really fazed even as the bushes shook and the tree branches scratched, making those eerie sounds some of the servants still feared even during the day. This was home to him now and it was better than most. He had endured worst, what could still be there to tack him off? With a whistle he doubled his pace, only because he needed to be back inside by a certain hour or Katia might scold him again once he was caught, contemplating on whether or not he should stay in the cottages instead.

Earlier she had said, "When you cannot help but be late, do not come home."

"But I have work tomorrow bright and early."

"Then make sure you come back before sunset," she had pointed a finger at him with a scowl. "Remember NOT to forget yourself."

But he had forgotten himself. He had drank a bit more of Mountain Wine than he was able which caused him to fall asleep on a table as his other friends talked with the ladies of the town. They had been dancing with the gypsies in their silken costumes and some Ensemble maidens who played songs about adventures in the other places of the Realms, humming tunes about rough seas and angry gods and a female called the Muse who could grow flowers in her hair. They also told of tales about DarkThrone itself, declaring in lyric the story of the residents, of a witch and her brood and the darkness in it.

Again, that 'darkness'. Alfred has grown unafraid of it, as he was now, feet only optimistic to return quickly as he hurried round a corner and over a final bridge, whatever monsters lurking within the forests surrounding him confidently fended off by an open potion deterrent. Another good thing about servitude for him: he was able to learn a lot of new things.

Finally he had made it back, the cottages and stables belonging to the morning servants now closed and without light before him as he instead strayed to the outer courts than directly to the Palace. Everyone was probably asleep, and so should he be, his hand digging into a pocket for his key. But as he was about to head uphill towards the cottage he kept with the friends he left back in town, he noticed it from the corner of his eye, that caravan of coaches again, the night procession with their lamp lights low before them. Alfred was most definitely curious again. A little tipsy on wine, a bit bold and enthusiastic, he went to investigate closer.

Usually, he slept inside the Palace itself, in the Servants' Quarters tucked to the side of the structure, surrounded by a garden whose court was where he himself and countless others once stood after being bought from the slavers. Some faces came and went. He never really questioned what happened to these people, but rumor has it you could actually serve to earn your freedom here. That someday, after all the work you do for the owner of the Palace, you could retire to a comfortable life.

Again, he did not care. He seemed not in the mood to leave any time soon. He also had no intentions of giving up this work. It paid him in Lords and Lyons. He was secured here. He did not have to think of tomorrow except when it came to his common duties.

For now, back to the goal at hand. He wanted to see what was happening, brave because of the liquor as the procession galloped up front and him taking one of the side entrances, creeping in quiet as a mouse. Inside he swept past the secret rooms only he was given privilege to know of. On the basis that he had to clean them himself.

Alfred half ran, half walked then, sneaking past the curtained separations and anterooms to finally stand in front of the set of doors he was not allowed to even think if breaching.

His heart pounded just standing there. He looked up at the carved front of the threshold and its arches, the molded statues of naked yet strong beauties both male and female that seem to materialize from the wall and floors to stand here eternally. Such beautiful objects of art made to hold the lintels and beams.

His thoughts were straying. Had he been sober enough he could have discerned that this was not the best thing to do. It was a clear violation of the separation between their duties in the mornings and those behind the duties at night. But he was clouded. At this moment he was just another starving boy with such a curiosity that he wants sated. Like that day in the city. How it shone as bright.

Slowly pushing against one of the side doors, he checked for resistance, sure enough that it could be locked except it was not, and he slipped inside easy. There he stood now, on a carpeted hall, looking up to see traces of a large and what seemed to be the only chandelier lighting the room. A few scattered candles casting their meek glow along them. Was this the Throne Room? The servant stood there confused as he sought to make up anything in this shade. Then just shivered. It was colder here.

"...Aahhnngg..." The sound made him swallow suddenly, mind drifting to a sudden alarm. Was someone hurt in here? He groped around.

His fingers felt what was definitely the wall, some paintings as indicated by their gilded frames and a few furniture pieces tucked to one side. Again, another shudder. Where was this feeling coming from?

"...Ahn-ahhnngg...M-Ma...!" more of the whimpering sounds and they were louder.

Alfred should just have turned and left, but his confused mind somewhat urged him on to the mystery. Someone could seriously be hurt. What if it was the Lord himself? Where were the night servants? He gritted and growled in frustration as his feet pressed on. Only to stop mid-stride, his mouth gaping.

There was no light but the dimness was unable to hide the definite sight of skin, of flesh, of sculpted muscles as his eyes saw the image he has not entirely forgotten. Alfred was just a short distance away from what he thought was a scene he would never see again.

It was hard to make up the short stack of stairs, the carpets and drapes around but Alfred definitely saw the Lone Seat, its gold and gemstones shimmering even in this Darkness. It was a centerpiece to the area, the Throne itself, but at the moment he had caught sight of it, it was being used for something else.

Bound with ropes by his wrists to the back of the Lord's Chair was a man in all his nudity, pressed to a position where he somehow arched and bent, obviously panting and moaning, like those slaves they sent to the Islands then during those days in the caves. His luscious hair was loose and free as he tossed his head back in a scream, one leg slung to a stronger shoulder as the one whom the said shoulder belonged to worked the body beneath. Although the latter had his back turned to him, the act in majority concealed by what appeared to be a very lengthy cape, it was obvious what the other was doing to the bound one.

They were coupling.

Alfred did not know how long it had been happening, but the two had almost simultaneously stilled and spent, a climax indicated by a sudden rise to their obvious heat with more primal sounds before it ebbed into merciless panting. The servant panicked. He was not supposed to see this!

He aimed to run. Perhaps he will go unnoticed as the passion seemed to still be at its peak. However he should have guessed it was all too late. The Hooded Ones had come in through all the doors, bursting in as if a tide of scarlet and black, bearing their gifts and other boxes. They all paused as Alfred had paused seeing them. Caught red-handed in the Throne Room itself. Not even in the right state of dress.

Had he been attacked? He did not see it coming nor felt it until he was pinned down by several spears to the ground, the weapons making an effective brace around his neck with their blades too close for comfort, already making small scratches. The panic again rose.

"I swear I will not tell! Forgive me my Lord!" he pleaded, finally awake from the stupor of the earlier festival, the wine draining as the color on his face drained.

He pleaded for life. He pleaded for safety. He knew now he should always keep his words and stick to the rules no matter what the cost, not harbor upon an interest. He should have just forgotten it when there was still time...

#

Dull and unimportant.

He was known simply as a servant, the real name being Alfred but that was no longer an issue in the matter. Since he took the job here, he more or less appeared to have sworn to losing all manner of identification, but it bothered him not any more. He was happy. Somehow at least, he was.

"Take a napkin and polish the tea cup again. I see a water mark and I do not like it. The bath is a bit cold as well. Bring in more of the hot water and add in the perfumes.

"Hurry!" he clapped his hands before slipping on the black glove he had taken off earlier.

With a sense of precision, he urged the team he had been leading for a good part of the year to their duties, pointing this or that portion which he did not like only to have it immediately changed. Said to be the youngest to get to this post, he was more or less capable of purchasing his own village if he wanted with the wage he was earning from the Lord, but had decided he still wanted to keep this kind of work. Not bothered at all if he was in the opposition's staff which technically was being loathed upon by the entire Kingdom. It gave him purpose. Far from the useless miner's child back in the days of his youth.

"We're ready to open the curtains," said a black-clad maid as she finished dusting the long drapes, drawing the pull cord that sometimes served the Master as a tool to his lovemaking. Among other things that were kept present in the room for impromptu trysts and other pleasures. Of course he needed to understand every single one of them in the beginning.

"Make haste with the food. I'll take care of that Anita," Alfred ordered as he took the cord in his hand, beginning to heave aside the velvet as the maid simply bowed and left, her silent footsteps unheard, the rest of the other people in their team taking that as their sign to likewise exit and doing so with speed.

Like ghosts they had become but they were there when they were needed. Perfect qualities for most Black Gloves of the Night Service.

"Master Salem, it is time to get up. Lord Darkness requested your presence for the gala tonight. He said that the King might come to visit."

At times he stared out the window before he began his rounds, and wondered if those he had met then still remembered him now. Since becoming a part of night duties, he was alienated, forced to disappear without a trace or a goodbye to his friends. To Katia whom he now missed terribly and had finally admitted to having a deeper fondness for.

He wondered if they likewise pondered as he did, about the mysteries of the Palace and the differences. If they will ever know that the Black Gloves were mostly made up of servants who had the stronger will to discover what Darkness truly was. Alfred smiled. No matter if it was a foolish spur of the moment.

"Master Salem..." a light tap to his shoulder. He had now finished binding the curtains aside, opening the inside of the magnificent room to the pale color of the moon, if only for its simple waning light to kiss the loneliness. "We need to get you dressed."

The being there stirred, rolling slowly to lie on his back as he likewise unwrapped the sheets where his naked body had tangled. The Master bedded him often enough that clothes were not very necessary though they were enhancements to his charm. Especially his eyes. Bless the beauty of his eyes. Those amethysts bore into Alfred like the gems he found in the undergrounds. Only colder. More polished. Unafraid.

"But he does not have need of me yet," said the Darkling with a groan, running his hands up his face then through his long mane, brushing it back as he sat up.

Alfred only smiled, handing him his cup of nightly tea, a robe ready and folded over one arm. It was just another day.

...just another working day....