Wings

J. C. Owens

Wings
Copyright © December 2009 by J. C. Owens
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eISBN 978-1-60737-499-2
Editor: Judith David
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
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Chapter One

Anyar straightened to attention, feeling faintly anxious in himself but confident he had

nothing out of place, as his commander came to inspect them. He was the youngest and the

newest of the guards and the honor of being included in this assignment had his mind reeling

with determination not to screw anything up.

Commander Tanyan came before him, face expressionless, but Anyar imagined he could

feel a kindness behind the man's harsh exterior, a gentleness that others of the guards did not

believe in.

Anyar straightened to perfect posture, hands by his sides, chest out, and wings folded

neatly against his back. For long, breathless moments he watched his commander slowly assess

him. Then the cold eyes moved on to the next guard, and he relaxed into alertness but without the

tension.

His mind floated contentedly over various matters, though his ears remained trained to the

sound of Commander Tanyan's voice so that when the inspection was over, he could respond

immediately to the order for them to stand down and go about their business. They had one hour

before they had to begin duty when the delegation arrived.

Anyar frowned, uncertain how he felt about this political maneuvering. He had never seen

a Nazarian, though many of the guards had had skirmishes with them on the edges of the plains,

a disputed territory between Nazar and Anyar's country of Melan. They were said to be cold and

brutal, emotionless in the extreme. Anyar had been regaled with horror stories of the fate of

prisoners unlucky enough to fall into Nazarian hands and of how it was preferable to seek death

rather than to endure the atrocities they took such pleasure in. It was even said that they

amputated wings to make the Melanian prisoners docile and unable to escape.

J. C. Owens

Anyar shuddered, his wings clamping closer to his body at the mere thought. To lose one's

wings… Apart from losing his own maleness, he could think of nothing more horrifying. Death

would be but a blessing.

He thrust the disturbing thoughts away and went to change to more suitable garments for

his role of guard during the delegation's visit for peace talks. In the familiar uniform of subtle

browns and greens of his people, he felt once more at ease. The colors suited the plains area in

which the town of Cewa lay; a strange choice, he thought, for the talks to take place, a place of

no particular import. He shrugged. Perhaps that was the very attraction; the great cities were too

full of political intrigue for this historical moment. He could not say he cared. That this was

happening here was to his advantage, and had it not caused him to meet the commander at last?

His idol.

He smiled a little, embarrassed at the admission of his admiration. The commander was an

imposing figure in reality, and Anyar had spent much time researching him and his military

history and achievements, so when the chance had come to meet him in person, he had been

awestruck and shaking with excitement. The reality was much better than dry facts and reading.

Tanyan was tall and powerful, with the famous golden wings that turned copper in certain lights.

Beautiful… His black hair and blue eyes certainly did not harm his appearance either, and the

confidence and sense of power that surrounded him were heady to a young guard fresh from the

college. The hero worship had instantly turned into something much more physical, something

that had shocked Anyar considerably.

Pure lust.

It was not that he had not had sexual encounters with both genders, but they were playful

fumblings more than actual sex. This…this was like the awakening of something inside him that

he had not even dreamed existed. His lips twisted in dry amusement. No doubt the commander

had many drooling after him; he would hardly notice one more young recruit.

He grinned wryly. That was truth enough, but by the gods, while Tanyan was here, he

would enjoy the view!

* * * * *

The delegation arrived with the noonday sun, and as they entered the gates of the town,

Anyar's first stunned thought was that the Nazarians were really no different than his people.

Wings

Different coloration, yes, but though taller and perhaps lighter of build, they had wings, their

faces were angular, and their hands long and slender.

At second glance, the differences became a little more apparent: the smaller wings, with

denser feathers for flight in forested areas, the odd coloration that made them seem otherworldly,

not creatures of substance. Their fingers ended in short claws, and their teeth seemed a little

sharper perhaps than his own.

He watched them with great fascination; their white wings shone in the sun, and hair of

various shades of gold gleamed like its namesake. Anyar had never seen hair so beautiful.

They seemed accomplished horsemen and rode their mounts with practiced skill that

brought his admiration. The horses themselves were either light gray or white, a rare and

treasured color in Melan.

Anyar's eyes glowed as he looked at the animals. He wondered whether he would get a

chance to see them more closely in the stables, for even at this distance he could see the breeding

and quality of the lead stallion.

He thought of his little mare, Meera, and wished fervently he could cover her with this

stallion. She would be in heat within the next day or so. How he wished he could persuade the

owner…

Looking up at the rider made him swallow hard and abandon such a plan. The man was

extremely tall, his hair palest gold, but his eyes were utterly cold and withdrawn; a cold, clear

green, they passed through those before him without pause as though they were beneath notice.

Anyar heard murmurs in the crowd around him, the hatred of the Nazarians evident in the

whispered curses flung at that cold visage. As for himself, he was too intrigued to feel hatred, if

hatred was in his heart.

Yes, his parents had been killed by those of Nazar, but he had been too young to remember

them, so the feeling was not immediate to him. He shifted uneasily at the thought. Those around

him would think him traitor for even that much leniency.

The delegation came before the assembled nobles for whom the Melanian king himself had

sent for this occasion. His Majesty's own ill health prevented him from attending. Anyar strained

to hear the words exchanged, but the wind blew the words away from him, and he frowned in

irritation as he missed them.

J. C. Owens

The Nazarians, though, seemed to be content, for they dismounted in perfect unison, and

after much exchanging of platitudes between the two groups, they disappeared into the main hall,

leaving the crowd outside milling about in excited discussions.

Anyar sighed and caressed the hilt of his sword. It was time to report to his assigned

position. With luck, this would drag out for longer than planned; then he could catch a few more

glimpses of his commander.

* * * * *

Vanyae sighed for the hundredth time, though it was only in his mind. He kept his face

completely expressionless and thought idly to himself that it would be to the Melanians'

advantage if they could learn to do the same. The drone of conversation and political

maneuvering flowed over him, and he retreated into thought again, knowing that Serin, his

commander second, along with Serin's twin, Sindin, his diplomatic chief, would tell him the

details later. They well knew where his mind lay, and it was not on the peace talks.

The sheer arrogance of the Melanians was breathtaking. Their demands for what this

“peace” would entail were vast, complicated, and utterly unreasonable.

Vanyae's lips curved faintly. If he had been serious about these talks, then he would have

been angry and frustrated. As it was, he was simply further convinced that his father's decision

was the right one. He had protested at first, but in the end he had seen the sense of it and

capitulated. This constant warfare was useless and counterproductive to the prosperity of Nazar.

It would be stopped.

Vanyae controlled his impatience with the ease of long practice. As with everything,

timing was crucial.

His fingers caressed the pendant at his throat, and the familiar motion calmed him further.

The voices rose and fell around him, and he let his gaze roam over the assembled

Melanians until it fell upon their high commander, Tanyan.

Cold blue eyes met his own and took his measure. Vanyae nodded faintly in recognition of

the other man's power and stature. It was returned stiffly, almost reluctantly, hatred veiled.

Vanyae smiled within, his face showing nothing.

The Melanian would learn what true hatred felt like.

Wings

* * * * *

The courtyard was cool after the day's heat, the plants and trees there providing a sense of

lushness and serenity much needed by the Nazarians. The bare plains and vast sweep of the land

where the town of Cewa lay were foreign to them, barren of beauty in their critical eyes.

They took respite in this almost familiar landscape, stretching tired muscles and quietly

speaking among themselves about results of the talks, the responses, and topics they would need

for the next day.

Vanyae ignored them; with hands behind his back, he wandered slowly about the area,

listening to the water in the small waterfall built into one wall.

He was as aware of each of the Melanian guards ranged discreetly about the courtyard as

he had been of the guards who had been in the meeting room and those who had trailed them

here. They did their jobs well. Always watching but never too close for comfort or to the point of

insult. These men would have orders to retain their posts and report anything unusual in the

Nazarians' behavior or words. Tanyan was good with his training, it seemed. More reason to

admire the man as much as an enemy could.

Vanyae came to the waterfall and stood there with eyes closed, letting the faint spray cool

his face, wishing he were home. This little re-creation was as close as he could get right now, so

he endured with a soft sigh. Soon this would be over.

The faintest rustle of wing feathers alerted him, and his eyes snapped open, his hand going

to his sword instinctually.

His eyes locked with golden ones, and he froze, prepared to lunge…and then restrained

himself with difficulty.

Gradually, his heart slowed, and he straightened with expressionless calm, realizing what

had happened.

One of the guards had been posted by the waterfall apparently, and in his abstraction,

Vanyae, not even seeing the man in the shadows, had come uncomfortably close. He could not

get used to the Melanians' damned coloring, but this one was even more different, a creature of

shadow rather than light.

Black wings…

J. C. Owens

He had never seen true black wings before, though he had seen very dark ones in Melanian

captives.

His second perusal took in that this guard was very young and trying hard not to show it,

but his nervous breathing showed inexperience and alarm at this situation and the overly close

presence of his enemy.

Vanyae noted something else, though.

There was no hatred in this one as seethed through the others in such degree that Vanyae

could almost taste it. This one held many emotions in those strange eyes, but not the most

common one.

Intrigued, Vanyae turned away and, sitting on the bench provided at the base of the

waterfall, let his wings open fully and rest along the back, so the flight feathers almost brushed

the young guard's thigh.

He let his eyes fall almost shut again, though he could see the Melanian clearly enough out

of the corner of his eye.

The young man gradually calmed from his tenseness, discreetly rubbing his right hand

down his breeches to wipe away the clammy sweat before returning his fingers to the hilt of his

sheathed sword in the standard stance.

Vanyae smiled inwardly, amused, as the guard's eyes dropped almost against his will to the

white wing so close to his left hand. The boy, for he was little more than that in Nazarian eyes,

seemed as fascinated with Vanyae's coloration as Vanyae was with his.

Those fingers twitched, and slowly, so slowly, they tentatively touched a white feather,

then quickly curled away. The boy's face flushed as he snatched his curious gaze away and stared

into the distance as a good guard should.

Vanyae's brow rose in faint wonder.

That had to be the first time in history that a Melanian had touched a Nazarian in anything

but anger.

He let his discreet gaze rove the guard in curiosity. The lad was tall for a Melanian, though

he would only come to Vanyae's shoulder. The envoy let his eyes follow the line of night black

wings from where they stood a foot over the young guard's head down to where they ended just

above the boy's boot heels. The wings themselves were broad and wide, strange to Nazarian

Wings

eyes. They had learned that Melanian wings were weapons in themselves, and this boy had a

prime set of them. The buffet from wings that large would easily send a grown man to the

ground. They were some of the largest Vanyae had seen, making the boy look almost fragile in

their shadow, and he wondered if they marked how he would be in adulthood, large and

powerful.

Hair as black as the wings was cut short, offending Vanyae's eye. He had always wondered

why the other race seemed to ruin their looks so deliberately by butchering their hair. Nazarians

never cut their hair unless to trim, and Vanyae's own hair curled down to his buttocks, providing

a tantalizing sensation when he walked naked.

He grinned to himself at the thought, wondering how shocked this young guard would be if

he knew what the enemy was thinking. Thoughts of sexuality brought his eye back to the young

man, and he idly roved the fine features.

Golden brown skin, so different from Vanyae's own whiteness, stretched over high, taut

cheekbones and down to a gentle mouth, one not drawn in a tight grimace of disapproval as the

other guards carried permanently. Vanyae's body reacted, and he felt stunned amazement that he

could feel a jolt of lust for an enemy. Still, he could appreciate beauty, surely, wherever it might

be found, and this boy was beautiful. As shown by the sleeveless tunic, his body was slender and

coated with the muscles of a natural athlete, not the harshly defined musculature of the hardened

soldier. He had not yet had time to develop such a thing. He was clearly as nature had intended

him to be, not carved from necessity and strife.

Such purity made Vanyae's breeches suddenly feel tight, and he cursed under his breath.

So intent had he been on this mission that he had not seen to his needs before he left Nazar.

Surely that was the only reason he could feel such things here, now, at such an inappropriate

moment.

He tried to steer his thoughts away from such dangerous channels. He let his eyes slide to

the other guards some distance away and noted other differences. The others tended to keep their

wings up high behind their shoulders, slightly up and out in an almost unconscious display of

aggression, while the young guard kept his clamped tight against his body—a sign of

uncertainty, or was his coloration strange here too? Was he mindfully trying to hide his own

wings?

J. C. Owens

Vanyae mused lightly over the matter, his fingers drumming on the wood of the bench.

Slowly his fingers stopped as a thought entered his mind, a small thought that grew. This young

guard made his lust rise as it had not in many years, and would it be so difficult to…? At first he

resisted the thought, but his father had wanted a second hostage, someone to keep Tanyan in line.

Why not this boy?

He rose to his feet, but only after completely committing the young guard's face to

memory. He would make sure Serin and Sindin saw him also. If the opportunity should arise…

Anticipation made a smile grow on his lips, and he felt lighter in himself, interested in

something personally for the first time in far too long.

* * * * *

Anyar watched the Nazarian walk away and breathed a sigh of relief mingled with

reluctant admiration. The man was beautiful in a deadly, frightening kind of way, the way you

admired a predator from a healthy distance and with wary respect. His sudden response to

Anyar's unintentionally hidden presence had been that of a warrior, and Anyar could only be

thankful the Nazarian was experienced enough to hold his attack. The results if he had followed

through on his startled defense would have been disastrous indeed, yet another incident between

the two races causing ill feeling.

Fortunately they had been shielded enough by the trees that none of the other guards

seemed to have noticed his error in standing in the shadows and startling the envoy so badly.

He swallowed hard, chastising himself. His inattention to detail of such things had almost

led to the very failure of himself he so feared. He would be more careful from now on. He would

make himself be someone Commander Tanyan could rely on.

* * * * *

Vanyae greeted the morning with relief, stretching as he rose, and made use of the facilities

both to relieve himself and then bathe. The heat was already rising off the plains, and he longed

for home, for lush coolness and beauty rather than this barren desolation. Soon, he assured

himself, soon.

Serin and Sindin joined him in the bathing chambers, and they discussed the day's

activities, both planned and unplanned. They were cautious about his mention of the boy; they

Wings

had hoped to take the second hostage as someone simply in the vicinity when the kidnapping

took place.

Vanyae only shrugged. He would do everything he could to ensure that his new plan was

seen to, but he would not endanger the original for his own wants. He rose from the water. After

he dried himself off he shook his wings. After dressing with care for appearance and effect, he

then walked out onto the balcony and spread his wings to dry. On the ground, to the right and

some distance away, the guards were already out and practicing, and Vanyae watched idly,

aware that his own guards were watching every nuance of the Melanians' moves from elsewhere

on the huge balcony. He was not terribly interested until he caught a flash of black wings; then

his attention sharpened, and he leaned over the stone railing, intent…

Cautiously circling Meel, Anyar held his dagger out and to the right. The other man was

well-known as the best knife fighter in Melan, and he had come with Commander Tanyan's

forces.

Anyar knew he had been forward, and perhaps out of character for himself, by approaching

the great man and shyly asking if he had time to show them several practice moves, but he had

been desperate to learn. Besides, Meel had been standing close by Tanyan himself. The chance to

be that much closer to his idol had driven Anyar to lengths he would never have ordinarily

considered.

Meel had actually smiled at him, not in the least taken aback by his request, and Tanyan

had actually turned then and looked, truly looked, at Anyar, his blue eyes flicking up and down

the young guard's body with a hint of interest.

It had been all Anyar could do to retain thought and back away properly and with some

form of grace.

That Meel had asked Anyar to help him in the demonstration had completely stunned him

speechless, and he prayed desperately that he not make a complete fool of himself in front of the

others, many of whom thought him less than worthy of his new place in the guard's ranks. His

uncle had taught him how to fight with a knife, and although he knew he had much to learn, he

was not a complete novice in the art.

He and Meel circled as the older man explained out loud the various distinct maneuvers he

was showing. He did them in slow motion, then faster and faster, until they were real time.

J. C. Owens

Anyar focused utterly on the instructions, and when Meel began to incorporate the moves into

sequences and patterns, he followed the other man's lead, soon finding he had the rhythm and

losing himself in the dance of steel. When Meel finally called a halt, he was startled to find

himself back in reality, sweat streaming from his brow, several small cuts on his arms that he

never remembered receiving.

Meel clapped him on the shoulder, his eyes warm and admiring. “Well done, young man.

You have the makings of a first-class bladesman. You have the mind-set and the grace. Well

done.” The quiet words filled Anyar with a pride he had not ever felt before, and he smiled a

little, nodding in reaction, face flushed.

Meel moved off, calling for other volunteers, and several guards clapped Anyar on the

shoulder with some pride; others ignored him or sent calculating, cold looks his way.

They could not pierce him this time.

He rode out the rest of the practice in a haze of happiness, and as the others dispersed at the

end, he held back, wanting time to himself to try out a few moves he had not gotten into his head

yet.

When the yard was quiet, he moved from the shadows and began to try out what he had

learned, talking to himself in low tones as he worked out how each move could be made into

something that suited his own style.

Sure of his solitude, his heart near stopped when another blade met his own and stopped it

in mid-maneuver. His wide gold eyes stared into amused blue ones.

Immediately he stepped back and bowed, heart pounding.

“C-Commander Tanyan…” he stuttered, cursing the flush that heated his cheekbones.

“Anyar, is it?” Tanyan asked with a small smile.

“Yes, sir.” Anyar wondered if he might choke at this unexpected proximity to his hero.

This close, Tanyan's presence was beyond description, a sliding of awareness along the younger

man's nerves.

“You are good with the knife. Meel is pleased, and it is not often he is provoked to praise.”

Tanyan's smile widened as Anyar's flush deepened. “Come now, show me what you have

learned.”

Wings

Sparring lightly with this man of legend, Anyar thought he had to have slid into a dream.

The older man corrected him in several things, getting him to try again until the moves smoothed

into cohesiveness in his mind and body. When at last Anyar could no longer keep up, exhausted,

Tanyan called a halt and they walked companionably together to the drinking fountain.

Anyar was dazed, sure this must all be an illusion, and that was heightened when he raised

his head from drinking and Tanyan came closer, one hand reaching out and gently wiping the

moisture from his bottom lip with one finger.

The young guard froze, eyes wide and startled, unable to react when the commander came

even closer and pressed Anyar's body up against the post behind him as the taller man slowly

framed his face, leaned closer, and brushed his lips with his own. When there was no protest,

only the sound of his shocked gasp and heightened breathing, then Tanyan slanted his mouth

fully over Anyar's, gently at first, then more roughly as he felt the utter surrender under his

hands.

Anyar moaned with sensation as a tongue penetrated his mouth, claimed his own. This

could not be happening; this could not… He felt hands leave his face and trace downward over

his bare chest, through the dampness of sweat, pausing to rub his nipples teasingly.

He thought he would sink to his knees, so potent were the sensations. Oh gods… The

commander, the subject of all his intimate dreams and fantasies, was touching him, kissing him,

taking him…

One large hand went down to his hip, pulled him into Tanyan's body, and let him feel the

commander's desire pressing into his own rising need.

He trembled like a reed, rising passion eclipsing all sense of right and wrong, all

realization of where he was.

Voices cut into the moment, and Tanyan immediately thrust the boy back, straightened his

own clothing, and smoothed his expression into neutrality. His eyes took in the young guard, lips

kiss swollen, eyes huge with desire he had no knowledge of. His very innocence was an

aphrodisiac to the older man, and Tanyan cursed under his breath at the interruption.

“Come to me this night, Anyar. Let me teach you other things than knives.” His voice was

gentle, at odds with the raging desire that made his body ache.

The boy nodded dumbly, unable to speak, unable to deny Tanyan anything at that moment.

J. C. Owens

Long fingers stroked the flushed cheek, claiming…

“I will meet you in the waterfall courtyard. I will ensure we will not be interrupted again.”

The commander's voice purred with sensuality and purpose, and Anyar could only nod again,

mute, watching in dazed amazement as Tanyan turned and walked out of the practice yard.

He stood where he was for a long time, hardly aware of the servants who had come to

clean weapons and put them away. He shook with thwarted desire, unsure what he had missed,

but only knowing he wanted more, much more.

Finally gathering his senses, he moved from the yard and away from the town for a small

distance, needing space to think, to make sense of what had just happened. A great happiness

rose in him, and he looked around him, ensuring no others were close before he spread his wings.

Vanyae watched the proceedings from his viewpoint with narrowed eyes while feeling a

certain anger rising within him. It was very obvious that the young guard was completely

overwhelmed by the attentions of his commander, so it was easy to surmise that this had not

happened before.

Vanyae's fingers clenched on the stone railing, his lips thinning.

Sindin's voice broke into his dark thoughts.

“That is interesting…and fortuitous for us.”

Vanyae's questioning frown bespoke his lack of understanding.

Sindin clapped his shoulder. “It is quite obvious that they will be together this night…”

Vanyae's frown eased, and a cool grin curved his lips. “You are right, my friend. The gods

are kind.”

They watched the young guard walk out onto the plain and then gasped as the boy spread

his huge wings…and sprang into the air. He rose with unbelievable speed, the massive wings

pushing his slight body with ease, and then he played…

They watched in awe as he rolled, spun, and curveted, pure joy expressed in every

movement.

The Nazarians were known as the better fliers of the two races, their smaller wings giving

them leave to aerial maneuvers larger wings could not manage, but never had they seen anything

Wings

like this Melanian. His grace and beauty in the air took their breath away. The black wings

spread against the blue sky made Sindin scramble for his sketch pad, which was never far from

his fingers, and he drew furiously as his eyes darted from the scene before them to what his mind

created on paper.

Vanyae's breath grew faster, his eyes alight with fervor.

This boy would be his. Any doubts he had had were lost in the need to possess.

He tried to reason with himself that this was for his country, that the boy would be an

acceptable hostage because of his relationship with Tanyan. The commander would not want the

boy hurt. But inside he knew that it was for a very different reason, something new in his heart.

J. C. Owens

Chapter Two

Anyar took forever with his preparations, his nervousness making him drop things and try

on his few pieces of clothing over and over, attempting to find the best combination to impress

Tanyan. His mind whirled first with fear, then with desire, then with a surety that this was some

sort of an amusement on the commander's part, that he would not be there in the courtyard and

Anyar had been the butt of yet another joke.

By the time he finally approached the courtyard, he was a bundle of nerves, trying to

distract himself from feeling ill to his stomach. He pushed the large door open and walked in,

feeling his spirits sink as he look about the lush space and saw no one.

Fighting the drug that held his system in thrall, Tanyan lay on his side, watching the boy

enter. At first he had thought the young guard to blame for this, but now he realized that Anyar

would be just as much a victim as he.

He strained against the gag in his mouth, fought to make a sound, struggled to warn him.

Anyar took an uncertain step farther into the courtyard.

“Commander?” he said softly, feeling a rush of relief as he saw movement at the back, near

the waterfall. It made sense to go there, for it was hidden from prying eyes, a perfect spot for

privacy.

He swallowed hard, trying to restrain his eagerness. He did not want Tanyan to believe him

any younger than he already was. Surely he could achieve some form of normalcy so he did not

appear foolish. He gathered himself and walked forward steadily. His heart jumped as a form

came from the shadows…

He stopped abruptly, confused and disappointed in equal measure.

Wings

“Hello.” The Nazarian envoy's voice was low and deep, accented, but understandable all

the same.

Anyar bowed his head in acknowledgment, though his eyes searched past the tall, bright

figure. “Greetings, my lord,” he answered civilly. “Have you seen Commander Tanyan here this

night?”

The Nazarian nodded, green eyes amused with inner thoughts, the first sign of emotion

Anyar had seen from any of them.

“I have…?” His brow lifted in query.

Anyar flushed uncomfortably. “Anyar, my lord. I am one of Commander Tanyan's

guards,” he stated with quiet pride.

“Ah yes, I saw you earlier in here.”

Anyar nodded politely, wishing the other would leave.

A slim hand waved him past. “I just saw the commander by the waterfall. He seemed eager

to talk to someone. It must have been you he was waiting for.”

Anyar warily bowed again, then slipped past, eager eyes scanning the shadows.

He froze then, suddenly becoming aware of something: there were no guards, and the

Nazarian was here. He looked back over his shoulder, but the other man was gone.

Frowning now, feeling something wrong, he went forward cautiously, hand on his sword.

He rounded the trunk of a tree, then stared in horror before rushing forward to kneel at his

commander's side, drawing his knife to cut the bonds, opening his mouth to cry for help.

Tanyan's wide eyes and horrified expression were the only warnings Anyar had; then

something struck his head, and blackness swirled about his consciousness as he slumped into

strong arms.

Something sharp pricked his neck, and the envoy's voice murmured in his ear, “It's all

right, Anyar. I've got you.”

The darkness then was complete.

* * * * *

J. C. Owens

The horses kept at a steady gallop through the night, and Vanyae and company felt a

lightness of spirit at the thought of the proximity of their homeland and the welcome that news of

their success would bring.

Vanyae smiled and stroked the black feathers across his lap with possessive fingers. The

young Melanian was utterly limp, swaying with the motion of the horse where he lay, belly down

over Vanyae's thighs.

It had gone well. They had the prisoner they had sought, and only had to disable a few

guards around the stable on the way out. And now he had this prize, this exotic creature who so

fascinated him.

It was long since he had taken anyone to his bed, much less a slave. He had for too long

been focused on this damn war and protecting his people to worry on personal pleasures. But

now…now if things went according to plan, if their capture of Tanyan could put a stop to the

hostilities at least for a span, then Vanyae could again find time for himself.

His father would be pleased. Long had he chastised his son for neglecting himself, for

finding no joy in life. Surely he would allow Vanyae this one indulgence, would not claim the

boy for himself.

Again he caressed the black feathers and longed for the sanctity of home, where he could

begin Anyar's taming.

* * * * *

Anyar came to consciousness gradually, his senses swimming, so that he had to fight to the

urge to retch. His head pounded in time to the beat of his heart, and he moaned with the pain of

it. For a time that pain was all he could focus on, but gradually he became aware of other things.

He was bound hand and foot, and a tightness around his waist as he attempted to flex his

wings showed them bound also. He slowly opened his eyes, memory beginning to return. Fearful

memory.

Blinking dazedly, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He lay on the ground in the

shade of a scrubby tree, and to his relief, the plains spread around him. Not in Nazar, then.

Not yet, he amended as he saw the camp set up around him and the Nazarians grouped near

a fire, some eating, some lounging back, talking to others. There seemed to be far more than the

Wings

original group, so he could only assume that they had met up with more warriors on their way

home.

He swallowed hard, his fingers feeling at the knot of rope that bound his hands behind his

back. He had to escape. He had to. Desperately his fingers tried to work at the rope, but it was

hopeless, he soon realized. The rope was without slack, no matter how he twisted, and the knot

just out of his reach.

He sagged for a moment, then tried to bring his heels up to his fingers. Even if he could

release his feet—

A hiss of breath close by made him freeze; then a faint groan behind him made him roll to

face the sound in defense.

His eyes widened, and he tried to move over the ground as best he could.

“Commander,” he whispered.

Tanyan's face was covered with dirt, as though he had been thrown here or perhaps had

struggled against his captors, and his cheek held a darkening bruise.

Anyar felt a swelling fury then, that this man of greatness should be treated so.

Blue eyes slowly opened and focused on the young guard. His lips curved in a pained

grimace.

“Anyar.” Tanyan's self-anger grew as he looked at the worried golden eyes of the younger

man. If he had not been so foolish, so self-absorbed, this would not have happened. He had been

caught like the greenest of recruits, and Anyar had been brought into it purely by his association

with the commander. Tanyan felt deeply responsible for the boy and vowed that somehow,

someway, he would find a way to see them both free and home again.

Anyar shot a look over his shoulder at the Nazarians, then leaned closer to Tanyan. “If I

could undo your hands, Commander, we might have a chance. Roll over.”

Biting his lip against the pain of bruised and perhaps cracked ribs, Tanyan did so and felt

the young guard do likewise. Slim fingers brushed against his own and began to worry at the

knot of rope. He closed his eyes and prayed to any god that might be listening.

Anyar bit his lip and forced his blood-starved fingers to work despite the pain, his eyes

fixed on the Nazarians. He began to despair as he made no progress, then suddenly something

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gave; the knot loosened just a tiny amount, enough to give him hope. He scrabbled harder, his

heart jumping as the rope fell away. He lay motionless, watching the enemy as he felt Tanyan

curl to work on the ropes that bound his feet. Although it felt like hours, it was only minutes until

he felt his own bonds being worked on, and soon he winced as circulation began to restore itself

in his wrists.

“I am going to try to gradually work my way behind the tree, Anyar; then you do the same,

and if we keep the tree between us and them…”

Anyar nodded, lying still so his body shielded Tanyan's movements. When the hiss came

for his own turn, he moved gradually, a bit at a time, so that if anyone looked his way, it would

seem he lay in the same position as before. Just before he reached the tree, he carefully undid the

strap that held his wings prisoner.

Slowly, carefully, he slid next to Tanyan, then sat up, shaking with reaction.

He stood up with relief, surprised to see Tanyan still sitting.

He offered his hand, and the commander stood up with difficulty, breathing harshly.

Anyar's heart plummeted.

“You are injured?” he questioned hesitantly, fearing to insult Tanyan, but unsure how to

proceed.

Tanyan nodded. “I cannot fly far, but…”

Anyar cast an anxious look to the west, toward home. “We can take it in stages and maybe

walk in between.”

Tanyan held a hand to his ribs and cast a quick glance back at the camp. “We must hurry.”

He took a shallow breath, as though preparing himself, then stepped out from the reach of the

tree and sprang into flight, Anyar close behind.

Vanyae startled at the sound of wings, then watched in disbelief as the two figures rose

into the sky.

His snarl of fury alerted the others, and they ran to horses.

Wings

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Vanyae castigated himself. He should have seen to it that the

prisoners were separated, but he had not thought of it at the time and had been too busy

afterward to see to it himself.

“Damn, damn, damn.” He leaned over his horse's neck and, following the escapees, noted

with satisfaction how the one listed as he flew.

“He will not get far,” he yelled over his shoulder at Serin.

“Yes, but the other—”

“He will not leave his commander.” Vanyae could only hope he had read the young guard's

character correctly, or his prize could be lost. Vanyae would take to the skies if he had to, and he

knew he and his men were faster fliers, but it would be a battle to recapture the young Melanian,

given his noted skills in the air. Vanyae had no wish to see his men harmed in the taking.

He settled his stallion into a steady gallop, kept his eyes pinned on their targets, and called

over his shoulder to Serin.

“Prepare the darts.”

Anxiously realizing that Tanyan was faltering already, his wing beats erratic and unsteady,

Anyar slowed his pace. He circled back to his commander.

“You can do it, sir. Keep it up.” He tried to keep his tone without doubt.

Tanyan looked at him with a pained grin, sweat streaming down his face as he labored.

“Don't humor me, boy. I am not a fool.” He shook his head at Anyar's shamed flush. “You are

doing your best, Anyar. Don't take my words as anything but camaraderie, all right?”

The young guard nodded, then glanced back, his eyes widening. “They are coming.” His

voice shook a little, despite his best efforts.

“Horses or flying?” Tanyan clipped out.

“Horses, sir,” Anyar reported, steadying himself with the commanding tone.

“They will only fly if they think they cannot get us down, and right now I am low enough

that their darts can reach me, so—”

Anyar looked at him askance. “Darts, sir?”

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“That is how they got me in the courtyard. I fought them, but the drugs…” He shrugged

and flinched at his own foolishness at such a move.

He looked at Anyar with a frown. “If they get me, you have to stay out of range, you have

to go.”

Anyar met his eyes with a gleam of stubbornness in the depths that Tanyan had not noticed

in the boy before.

“I will not leave you, sir. We are in this together, and together we get out or not at all.”

“I command—” Tanyan gasped, his right wing faltering completely as a stab of pain from

his ribs rendered him speechless. He plummeted immediately and hoped that he could at least

find the strength to glide to the ground rather than crash. He was not sure he could survive such a

blow as that.

Suddenly a body was beneath him, wings under his own, steadying him.

“Hold to me, sir. Let me take your weight.”

“Impossible…” Tanyan gasped but, dazed, did as the boy asked.

The immense black wings drummed harder, and to Tanyan's complete amazement, they

began to rise in the air. He folded his own wings back against his body, so as to not foul Anyar's

wing beats and laid his head on the boy's back.

He could feel the boy's efforts, the muscles under his chest flexed powerfully, and he

marveled.

Vanyae watched in amazement, for the moment too astounded to even swear at the fact

that his quarry had once more gone out of reach of their darts.

“Your pet is full of surprises,” Serin remarked grimly. “Will his next trick be to disappear?

We have to get Tanyan back. Everything depends on that.”

Vanyae grimaced. Was there a slight hint of accusation in his commander second's tone? If

Vanyae had not suggested taking the boy, then Tanyan would not have been able to escape.

He spared a glare for his companion, then motioned to one of the men carrying a dart gun.

“Give me one of those.” It was handed over as Vanyae drew his horse to a halt. He slung it over

Wings

his shoulder, then stood on the saddle and leaped into the air. He heard Serin follow suit, and

perhaps several others, but he was too intent to look back.

He was well-known as the fastest flier in Nazar, and the boy would soon discover that.

Anyar was focused utterly on his task, but his ear was tuned to the sound of wing beats.

Now that they were too high for the darts, the Nazarians would have to take to the skies, and

their superior numbers would be Anyar's downfall. Hampered as he was with Tanyan's weight,

he would not be able to fight.

As though his thoughts were echoed in his commander's mind, Tanyan's voice sounded in

his ear, harsh with pain.

“You have to set me down, Anyar. You cannot fight them this way.”

Realizing the reality of the situation, the young guard swore under his breath. He looked

down at the plains beneath, desperately trying to find something, someplace that he could

defend.

Far below, a river turned back on itself and formed a small island in the middle. He closed

his wings and dived, lips thin with determination.

“Hold on, Commander,” he yelled over the wind, then pulled from the dive hard, managing

by a miracle not to stumble as he landed.

Tanyan had braced himself and timed his own landing so he took the weight off Anyar at

the crucial time. He collapsed to his knees, gasping with pain.

He looked up as Anyar touched his shoulder tentatively. “I will do my best, Commander. I

promise.”

Tanyan took his hand in his. “You have no weapons, Anyar. This is futile. Perhaps we

should just surrender and try again when I am healed.”

“They amputate wings, Commander. I will not let them do that to us.” Anyar's voice was

hard with determination. “I would die first.”

“That may be a viable option, my young friend.” Tanyan sounded weary beyond measure.

“Rather than face what they have planned, I admit death sounds sweet. I would not be a weapon

against Melan.” He looked up and pulled Anyar's face down to his, bestowing a gentle kiss upon

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the soft lips, managing a smile at the look of wonder on the young guard's face, the way he

touched his lips as he straightened.

Anyar smiled then. “I would die happy with this upon my mind.”

“Let us hope for better things, young one. I would rather live and know your touch than die

and know only this last kiss. Let us hope.”

His words gave strength to Anyar. He nodded, then with a last, longing look, sprang into

flight once more.

Tanyan managed to make it to his feet and sought shelter against the embankment, the

most defensible position available.

Anyar rose in the air, gasping as he saw the sheer speed of the Nazarians stooping from

above him. Despair enfolded him then. There were four of them, and with their smaller wings,

they would be able to maneuver much faster than he.

The first arrived, straight at him, and he gasped and rolled sharply, feeling the other brush

by close enough to scrape his skin. Then another glanced off his wing, so that he cried out at the

sudden pain. They kept going, and he turned midair and went after them, desperate to protect

Tanyan, only to be hit in the middle of his back so hard, he thought his spine snapped. He folded

against the pain and dropped, feeling someone close behind him. Sharply then he snapped his

wings open and veered to the right, rolling as he felt hands on him.

Furiously he buffeted a wing tip over the man's head, and the Nazarian reeled back, only to

have another take his place.

This one Anyar recognized, the envoy from the courtyard.

This one, eyes wild and mad with the thrill of the chase, grinned at him, and Anyar felt his

stomach drop with fear. This was a true hunter. And he was the prey.

Anyar sprang upward, wings beating strongly. In this he knew he would be superior, his

power due to his huge wings. If he could just get higher…

His usual grace was gone; tired from the effort of carrying Tanyan, he was slower, and he

felt the other one keeping close behind. Desperate, he wheeled and rolled, trying to shake his

pursuer. Several times a hand touched his booted foot, and he would kick in reaction and either

stoop or try to dive and roll. Beginning to panic at the realization that his pursuer was now as fast

Wings

as he was and probably much more experienced in flight battle, he tried to calm himself, but fear

was riding him hard, taking his strength.

Something flashed in front of him, and he flinched away, stalling in the air, and

immediately he was grasped from behind, white wings tangling with his black ones. Strong arms

wrapped around his chest, and he frantically attempted to wrench himself free.

A low laugh sounded in his ear, and legs wrapped around his, pulling his body into an

intimate embrace. He felt the other man's erection pressing against his buttocks.

“Do you know this is how our mutual ancestors mated?” The question was breathy and

filled with anticipation. “Would you like to re-create history, little one?” The hips flexed

suggestively.

Anyar stopped trying to fly, folding his wings back to half smother his assailant.

Immediately they dropped like two stones, and the Nazarian only laughed, refusing to

release him.

Anyar watched the ground coming up at him and wondered if death would be quick.

Surely it could not be worse than what his enemies had planned.

At the last moment, his tormenter tightened his grip upon him and opened his wings fully,

slowing their descent drastically, and only then, close to the ground, did he release Anyar.

He hit hard, crying out in pain, but the harsh blow was not enough to kill him, only send

him tumbling end over end. When at last he stopped against a stand of bushes, his mind dazed,

his body limp and stunned, he had no idea where was up or down.

A shadow fell over him, but before he could react, hands were on him, restraining.

He managed to get his eyes to focus, then widen as he saw the envoy approaching, dart in

hand.

“No!” he cried out, desperate, and began to struggle uselessly in the grip of two other

Nazarians.

He thrashed and twisted, even tried to bite the hands that held him, mindless panic making

thin whimpers escape his throat. They would take his wings—mutilate him.

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Hard hands took his head and held it to a solid body, imprisoning him, blinding him to

what was coming, like blindfolding a terrified horse. His tried to flail his wings, but held to the

ground as he was, they only flapped uselessly, impotently, in the dust.

A callused hand stroked his cheek, and he flinched violently away, struggling harder, then

finally collapsing with exhaustion, trembling.

“Sssh, little one. This will only hurt for a moment, and it is better you not damage yourself

in such rebellion as you have shown so far. This is gentler by far.”

Anyar snarled at that hated voice, and low laughter sounded in his ear as a prick made him

flinch again. Held tightly, he could do nothing but endure the stinging pain as some fluid entered

his body. At last the sharp object was withdrawn and the area rubbed hard; then his senses began

to swim.

The hands released him, but he could do nothing but lay there, blinking hazily. The envoy

leaned over him, smile possessive and frightening.

“Mine…” The whisper followed Anyar into darkness.

Vanyae felt blood pound in his veins with the successful recapture of the young Melanian.

It was all he could do not to simply flip the limp body over, tear the clothing off, and take the

boy right there. Every primal instinct he possessed wanted to lay claim right here, right now.

Trying to distract himself, knowing that he crouched over the motionless body like a

predator, wings mantled, he slowly rose to his feet, fighting his own body. Already his men had

collected the limp form of Tanyan, long since darted and recaptured.

He took a deep breath, staring down at Anyar, once again disturbed by the strength of his

attraction to this boy. “I hope you will soon learn, little Melanian, not to fight,” he whispered

softly.

Wings

Chapter Three

Anyar woke abruptly, breath freezing in his lungs, eyes wide and startled.

His body ached unmercifully, and memories of his painful landing came in stark detail, but

it was soon evident that pain of the past was being overlaid by pain of the present.

He knelt, chained hands attached to the wall behind him, up and over his head, which

arched his body into a bow that made breathing difficult and his wrenched back quiver with

strain. His wings seemed to be bound against the wall also in some fashion, but he was only glad

they were still there and that his captors had not taken the opportunity to remove them.

He turned his head slowly, painfully, immediately worried about Tanyan's whereabouts,

and met the commander's eyes from across the small room.

The Melanian commander gave a small, encouraging smile, though his eyes were grim

with inner thoughts. He was not bound as Anyar was. His hands were chained before him, and

that chain attached to the wall so he could not reach his fellow prisoner.

Anyar's eyes darted about the room, his inner panic gradually subsiding as he realized they

were alone. “We are in Nazar.” His low tone held not question, but statement.

Tanyan nodded wearily, but before he could speak, footsteps sounded outside the heavy

door, and they both tensed as it swung open. Guards entered first, then the envoy who had

captured them, and then an older man who wore authority as naturally as a cloak about him.

There was silence as the older man ran his eyes over the Melanians, his gaze assessing,

eyes cold and calculating.

The look settled on Tanyan.

“Greetings, Commander Tanyan. I regret the manner of your visit here, but I doubt you

would have consented otherwise. We will get to know each other very well during your exile. I

am Veslan.”

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Anyar caught his breath and took in Tanyan's narrowed eyes.

No title, no further introduction than name, yet this was Nazar's king.

Tanyan met the king stare for stare. “What do you hope to achieve by this atrocity?” The

tone was calm enough but laced with iron.

Veslan raised a brow. “You are the heir to Melan. Did you think we would not find out?

Your king has never announced it, but he would no more give his kingdom into the hands of his

idiot son than give it to me.”

Anyar, taken aback by this news, shot a look at Tanyan. Certainly such a thing had never

filtered down to the wilds of Cewa, but then many things did not. But surely gossip would have

hinted…

Tanyan did not reply, but his lips thinned, neither confirming nor denying his enemy's

claim.

Veslan folded his arms over his chest. “Holding you gives us power over your country.

They will not move against us, knowing that they will lose you, the last chance of a good king

they have available.”

“You cannot conquer our country by such tactics. We will never surrender to you for the

sake of one man.” Tanyan's tone was pure ice.

Veslan smiled then, a frightening sight, sharp teeth gleaming. “Who said anything about

conquering?”

There was silence then, Tanyan frowning in confusion. “Why, then?”

“We tire of your country's predations on our borders and constant warfare we have no

interest in. All we desire is that you leave us alone.”

The disbelief that flashed across both Melanian faces was clear enough.

Veslan shrugged, unconcerned with their attitudes. “You will see; your people will see. I

care not for how this is done, only that it is. You will stay here with us for as long as need be. As

long as they stay on their side of the border, you will be safe. If they refuse to see sense, then

there will be a full-scale war. It is entirely their choice.”

Wings

He turned away from Tanyan then, his eyes falling on Anyar with a far-different attitude.

The young guard felt himself trying to shrink back against the wall as the king loomed over him,

long fingers coming out to touch the black wings with fascination.

“You were right, my son. He is exquisite.” Callused warrior's fingers cupped Anyar's chin,

forced his face up so that the king could see deep into the golden eyes. “You are a lucky man,

Vanyae, and if you tire of him, I will gladly take him from you. He will be worth a small fortune

should you decide to sell him. It is a shame, though, to take his wings.”

The envoy, obviously the prince Vanyae, frowned and stepped forward, unobtrusively

setting himself between his father and Anyar. Laying his hand gently on the young Melanian's

head and ignoring Anyar's glare of hatred and his attempt to twist away from the touch of both

men, he answered, “I do not think I will tire of this one anytime soon.”

Tanyan rose to his feet with a clank of chain, his fists clenched. “He is my guard. My

responsibility. He is not to be harmed.”

Veslan released Anyar's chin and turned to face the enraged commander. “He is whatever

we say he is. Do not presume to test our patience with demands.” He gestured to one of the

guards by the door, and moments later a thin figure stumbled in the door to quickly kneel at

Veslan's feet. The king petted the dark head with a certain amount of fondness.

“Turn, my pet, and show them what you were.”

The man did so with the alacrity of a trained slave, and Tanyan took a step back, covering

his mouth with the back of one chained hand as he beheld the man's back.

Anyar let out the tiniest of sounds, whether pity for the wretch before him or fear for

himself was hard to say.

Two long scars ran down the man's shoulders, knotted tissue emphasizing the atrocity done

to him.

Anyar fought sickness, clamping his jaw shut against the urge to vomit at the thought of

what this poor man had gone through.

They had taken his wings!

Veslan bid the man to rise, turned him to face the Melanians. Running one hand down his

naked body, he lifted his shaft so that they could see that his testicles had also been removed.

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Anyar stared in horror, then looked up into the man's face. The eyes were empty of thought, dull

and docile.

Anyar shivered, then turned pleading eyes upon the prince. Vanyae's face was averted, as

though he also did not like the sight of the mutilated man. When he did turn back, he spoke

quietly to Anyar only and tilted his captive's face up to meet green eyes. “Do not fight, little one.

I will try to keep you whole. If you obey, you may placate him. If you rebel as this man did, you

will meet the same fate. Remember that.”

Tanyan glared at the Nazarians. “You barbaric bastards. Anyar is no slave. I will keep my

peace if you leave him with me.”

“You are in no position to make deals, Commander. You will behave, or Anyar will suffer

further. That is all you need understand.” Veslan jerked his head, and four guards came to release

Tanyan's chain. They took his arms and began to force him from the room.

Anyar felt panic take hold as he watched his last link to home being taken from him.

Tanyan fought the hands, casting an agonized look over his shoulder at Anyar; then he was gone,

and only the sound of his curses could be heard; then even those faded.

Anyar tried to prevent his fear from showing as he watched one of the guards take a cloth-

wrapped package to one of the tables, set it down, and uncover it with care. Still another

Nazarian came in, large tools in his hands.

Vanyae put up a restraining hand before his father could speak. “I will not have him

mutilated, Father. His wings are half his beauty. Shearing, yes; amputating, no.”

Veslan raised a brow but finally nodded, and one of the men unwrapped a pair of large

shears.

The young guard could not take his eyes off the shears, swallowing hard as they came

closer. Vanyae took his head and held it against him so Anyar could not see; then two other

guards stood up against his right wing, holding it tightly against the wall.

He began to tremble, despite his best efforts at control. Then he jerked in reflex as he felt a

faint tug at the end of his wing and the snip of the shears.

It was only then he realized what they were doing. They were cutting his flight feathers so

he could not escape.

Wings

He screamed then, fought like a mad thing, though it was useless. Shattered utterly by the

thought of not being able to fly, he shamed himself by pleading with them.

“Please no, please—” The choked pleas did not sway them, and he flinched each time he

heard the shears, tears of horror and shock running down his face.

Vanyae petted his hair, whispering soothing sounds. “This is for the best, young one. You

will have more freedoms this way. They will grow out in a year or so.”

By the time they got to the left wing, Anyar could no longer fight, could only shudder,

trying to comprehend what this would mean. To be earthbound, trapped utterly, his one joy

stripped from him.

When they released him, he sagged against his bonds, head hanging, welcoming the pain

of his body, which distracted him from the agony of his thoughts.

When finely tooled boots came before his vision, he did not look up, only truly becoming

conscious of Vanyae as the prince began to speak softly, as though chanting some ceremonial

words. Gentle hands released his ankles from their bonds, only to snap something else in place.

Something was attached to his wings, he heard the click of them locking; then his hands were

finally released and cuffs placed over his wrists, light but strong.

Vanyae pulled him to his feet then, and he stood swaying, not even resisting when the

prince opened an ornate silver collar and placed it around his neck. Golden eyes met green as it

was locked shut.

“Mine.” The prince stroked the boy's cheek softly, and Anyar was too numb to even

understand the words.

* * * * *

Anyar stumbled, only the sudden grip on his arm keeping him from crashing to his knees,

his chained hands behind his back unable to save him.

The strong, calm voice gave him directions as to what he could not see behind the

blindfold, and the only reason he had stumbled was because he had tried to fight and the hand

had released him into terrifying space.

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It was almost a relief that the hand had returned. He fought against the feeling, but Vanyae

was his only anchor in the darkness, and despite all his attempts to resist, he could not help but

listen to that voice, begin to obey its commands.

There was no sense of direction. They had left the small room some time before, and each

moment seemed like an hour. He greatly feared their destination, after what had been discussed

between the prince and the king. Never had Anyar in his worst nightmares thought of himself in

this position. Surely they were just trying to frighten him, make him a docile hostage. Yet he was

of no importance; that made no sense. He had thought it mere chance that he had been taken, but

now he was not so sure. Had this prince deliberately sought him? The thought was beyond

comprehension or belief. Never had he thought himself particularly good-looking. Indeed he had

always thought himself strange, ugly. All people saw were his wings, and he had always been

taunted, even tormented, because of them. As though that particular thought held power, he

heard voices nearby and flinched away, lunging back until the chain at his throat brought him up

short. Then he could only stand, trembling faintly, tense, and ready to fight.

“Peace, little one, peace. None will hurt you here. You are mine, and that gives you great

protection.”

Anyar wanted to snarl in response that there was no protection from Vanyae himself, but

he held his tongue. It was better to remain silent, let others guess his thoughts and fears rather

than to speak up and confirm them. He had well learned that lesson with his own people, and

now it would stand him in good stead with the enemy. Be silent; watch and listen. Wait. Escape

would come.

A hand pulled on his chain. He flung his head up, considered rebellion, then conceded to

the unspoken command. He took two uncertain steps forward, and again Vanyae took his arm,

guided him.

* * * * *

It went on forever it seemed, and Anyar was exhausted with tension and fear by the time

they stopped. They seemed to be in a bathing room of some sort. He could smell the sweet

moisture in the air, and his fear rose.

Until now he had at least retained his breeches and shirt, even if his boots and uniform

jacket had been gone upon his awakening. If he were forced to bathe, they would strip him.

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Never particularly self-conscious of nudity, he now wanted with all his heart to have the

fragile covering of cloth between him and Vanyae.

The strong hand guided him forward, then turned him around to face Vanyae.

“Sit here, Anyar.” The voice was gentle enough, but behind it lay iron.

The Melanian sat as much because of tiredness as obedience; at least that is what he told

himself with weary determination. He could hear Vanyae moving about the room, and his head

tilted as he tracked his captor by sound alone. When footsteps approached him, he froze once

more, fingers clenching behind him.

He jerked as a hand traced his cheek. “Now, Anyar, this will be up to you. I need to clean

you up, and we can do this, just the two of us; or if you refuse my commands, I can call others in

to force the issue. It is entirely up to you.”

Anyar's jaw went taut with all he wanted to scream at this man. He did not answer.

Vanyae sighed. “Lie down, little one.” Hands gripped him, pulled him down sideways onto

a hard surface, and laid him flat on his back. He did not resist until he felt one ankle cuff clipped

to a chain; then he went taut and tried to sit up.

Vanyae held him down as he went to the other side of the structure and secured the other

ankle. “It is all right, Anyar. Nothing is going to hurt you here unless you cause it. You will learn

that is the way of everything in your new life.”

The young guard growled; he could not help it. This would not be his “new life,” as the

prince put it. This was merely a small span of misery until he could escape to his own people.

That was all.

Vanyae chuckled, which made Anyar's anger rise higher. “You have spirit under that

silence; that is good. I do not want a docile bedmate. I prefer them with fire. That way, when you

finally submit, the taste is sweet.”

“I will never submit to you. I am not that weak.” Anyar's voice was low and heartfelt. His

anger surged and he was unable to hold his tongue under such provocation.

“You are so very innocent, little one. You will see. It will be a joy to teach you, like

creating a gem from raw stone. You will be a wonder when I am finished.”

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The chain between Anyar's wrists was released, but before he could react, Vanyae leaned

on him, quickly pulled his half-numb hand up and to the side, and secured it. He had more

trouble with the other, and the young Melanian tried desperately to keep it free, though he knew

it useless. Eventually, it also was caught and chained down. Panting, he lay there, tensing as he

felt his ankles pulled farther apart as Vanyae tightened some mechanism. His fists clenched

helplessly as he lay spread-eagled.

“Stay still now, little one. I would not want to cut you, but we have to get these clothes off,

and they are no longer of any use to you. You will wear Nazarian clothing when you need to.”

Unspoken but clear enough was the hint that Anyar would seldom be clothed anyway.

He closed his eyes, sure this had to be a nightmare and he would wake in the guards'

barracks after a night of drinking to tell the others of the terrible dream that had plagued him. It

had to be a dream; it had to.

The coolness of a knife made him jump. Vanyae soothed him, working swiftly if carefully.

The knife was very, very sharp, for it cut the fabric easily, first his shirt, then his breeches, and

his only thought at that moment was how he would have to work longer hours to be able to

afford new ones.

He tried not to think of the coolness of air on his skin, of how Vanyae could now see all of

him, that he lay utterly exposed and helpless before this man who wanted him.

“Beautiful,” the prince breathed. “By the gods, you are beautiful.”

Anyar's face flamed with color. No one had ever called him beautiful before, and he would

have preferred the comment come from Tanyan's lips, not from this enemy who saw him as little

more than an animal to be used.

A hand touched his chest, and he jumped, tensing as it trailed over his skin.

“Such golden skin, so soft…” Vanyae's voice was filled with the thrill of possessing what

lay before him.

Anyar shuddered with distaste as the touch moved over him, eagerly exploring his body.

Vanyae did not touch his genitals or his face, for which Anyar was grateful, though it seemed

strange.

At last the touch left him, and he breathed easier, his ears straining to detect what the

Nazarian would do now. He stiffened in surprise when the blindfold was carefully removed. He

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had to shut his eyes for a moment as they readjusted to the light; then he blinked up at green eyes

watching him intently.

Vanyae gently stroked his cheek, and Anyar fought not to shy away from the touch, fought

to keep his expression calm, though fear thrummed through his body.

“I am going to clean you now, Anyar, and part of that cleaning is ridding you of body hair.

For that I am going to use a shaving implement, so I want you to remain very, very still, all

right? I do not want to mar your body with cuts.”

A warm, wet cloth descended on his genitals, and Anyar leaped in shock, eyes widening as

it was removed and Vanyae poured some kind of soap on the area and began to work lather onto

his pubic hair. His face flamed as he saw the look on the prince's face as he worked the soap onto

every part. Anyar flinched at the enforced intimacy, his innate shyness horrified at this violation.

Vanyae turned to wash his hands off, then held up a small shaving implement. “Stay still,

little one.”

Anyar felt the scrape against his skin as he lay frozen in place, terrified of the blade in such

close proximity to his tender parts.

He could hardly breathe, body tense with expectation of pain, but Vanyae was swift and

proficient in his actions, and it was little time until he was wiped clean, the feeling of air strange

upon the newly bared skin.

Vanyae ran a forefinger down beside his shaft and testicles, and Anyar shuddered at the

tenderness of the skin.

The prince laughed softly, then proceeded to shave his armpits as well.

Anyar endured as the signs of his manhood were stripped from him. He had been so proud

when he had first grown hair in those regions, signs that he was now adult and no longer a child.

Now even this had been taken from him, like his ability to fly. What else could they take but his

very mind? He remembered the slave he had been shown, and he shuddered. Would he end up

like that, broken and mindless?

When Vanyae finished, he smoothed a thick, creamy mixture over the sites and explained

that it was something that ate hair and would ensure Anyar would be smooth for at least a week.

Now if they kept using the cream on time, he would not have to be shaved again.

Anyar looked away, wondering bitterly if he was supposed to be grateful.

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It became silent then, and he realized that Vanyae must have left the room. He lay there,

slumped wearily now that he had no audience, his mind flitting from thought to thought of what

he had already endured and what more was to come. Strong, be strong, he kept telling himself.

Do not shame yourself before these, your enemies. He thought of his mutilated wings and fought

back tears. He must not show weakness; he must not. His thoughts shied away, unable to fully

encompass what had been done, what it meant to his future.

The cream began to itch unbearably as it ate the hair beneath the skin, and he moved

uncomfortably, unable to stay still, unable to scratch. It was almost a relief when Vanyae

returned.

“Do you want that off now, Anyar?” Green eyes met golden ones.

He would not answer but turned his face away.

No sound came from the prince, no anger at Anyar's behavior, and finally, the young guard

looked back to discover that Vanyae had again left. He blinked, realizing that Vanyae had taken

his actions as a no, and that now he was forced to endure the cream longer.

He cursed under his breath.

The itching grew worse and then began to almost burn. He writhed, trying desperately to

rub against anything, to twist against what he lay on enough to rub off the cream. He damn near

wrenched his arms out of their sockets as he struggled to roll over as much as he could.

He was panting and wild-eyed when Vanyae finally returned, leaning against the doorway

with arms crossed over his chest.

“I will ask you again, little one. Do you want that off now?” The green eyes were cool and

measuring, and Anyar knew that the prince would leave again.

Realizing that it served no purpose at this time, Anyar fought down his pride. “Yes,” he

gasped, closing his eyes with scorn at his own weakness.

The touch of Vanyae's fingers as he wiped the cream off made the young guard sigh with

relief. Cool water was then wiped over the sites, slowly dispelling the terrible burning.

“You see, my young one, you tell me what you need, be honest in your wants and you shall

receive them. To be stubborn and prideful is to suffer needlessly. I am not keen on hurting you,

but I demand obedience. Therefore, if you rebel, you will hurt, and it will be your own doing.”

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Anyar glared up at him, rage growing in his heart, a rage such as he had never felt before.

“I did not ask for this; it is not my doing. I did not ask to be taken from my home and forced

here. I did not ask to be your gods-damned slave! This is wrong. Let me go; let me go.”

He began to struggle mindlessly, his breath coming in great panicked gasps, eyes wide as it

all rushed upon him that this was real, his captivity was real.

Vanyae tried to soothe him, but the boy was beyond hearing in his fear and self-

destruction. Blood seeped from his wrist cuffs as he twisted, and the prince went to the door and

sharply called one of the guards.

Between them, they held him down, but still he fought like one possessed, no sense in his

eyes.

Some moments later, the healer arrived, and with the help of more guards, they held his

head, forced his rigid jaw open, and poured the prepared mixture down his throat. He choked and

gagged but eventually swallowed enough to satisfy the healer, and they released him.

Vanyae watched with some concern as the boy continued to thrash, but within moments

the movements slowed, then gradually ceased altogether as he blinked dazedly under the

influence of the potent drugs.

They took the opportunity to release his bonds and wrap his damaged wrists and ankles

before putting the cuffs back on. Vanyae unchained him, lifted him into his arms, and relished

the warmth of the golden body against his own as he carried him to beside the huge bathing pool.

He laid him on one of the ornate benches, then stood beside him and stripped off his own clothes

swiftly, breath coming hard and fast as his eyes swept over the body before him.

Lifting his prize once more, he stepped into the warm waters, sat on one of the steps, and

cradled the Melanian in his arms as he took the opportunity to trace Anyar's features and marvel

at the beauty of high cheekbones and slim, narrow face so different from his own wider features

of Nazar. Such skin. It was soft with youth and the color was natural, not borne of the sun, for

even in his most private places, the skin was uniformly golden.

Vanyae took his time washing the boy, lingered over every bit of skin, every fold, every

crease. He played at the entrance to the sweet haven of that beautiful body and had to restrain

himself from simply lifting the boy up to straddle his lap and taking him there and then, pliant

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and tractable. No, he wanted to watch Anyar's face when he took him, wanted him aware, wanted

him to understand his slavery would not be such an unpleasant thing with Vanyae as his master.

That would further the taming already begun this day. Still, he could not restrain himself totally,

and he let his pulsing shaft sink between the boy's legs and began to thrust into the channel

created. Rubbing against Anyar's testicles as he pumped, he threw his head back in pleasure at

even this touch. He lifted from the water partway as he came, so that his seed spattered over

Anyar's chest in profusion. Panting, trembling, he took some of the seed on his fingers and

pressed within the young guard's pliant lips, rubbing the essence thickly over Anyar's tongue

until the boy swallowed involuntarily.

Vanyae shuddered as he watched. He took the remaining seed and bit by bit smeared it

over Anyar's face, shoulders, and chest, scent marking him.

He held him until his body recovered; then he gently washed him, paying particular

attention to the great wings, dust covered as they were. He felt a pang then, remembering how

beautiful Anyar had looked in flight. He wished there had been another way.

He stroked the short black hair, already looking forward to when it would grow.

The golden eyes were glazed, unseeing, but Vanyae stroked his cheek, laid a soft kiss upon

the unresponsive mouth.

“You will be happy here, little one. One day you will not want to fight anymore; you will

truly be mine.” He smiled at the thought, then carefully lifted the limp body and rose from the

waters.

Wings

Chapter Four

Anyar was getting very tired of waking in places he had never seen before. He thought

longingly of home, remembering somewhat bitterly that he had often wondered what it would be

like to live somewhere else, see places he had never been to. Sheltered in his ignorance, never

having traveled farther than a few miles from his town, he had dreamed of knowing so much

more, and look where he was now.

His lips twisted. Beware thinking such things before the gods, because they might grant

your wish in ways you could not imagine. Horrible ways.

He curled tighter into himself where he sat in a corner of the room, back against the wall,

both literally and figuratively. He had woken gradually, groggily, becoming aware of the

incredible softness he lay on. When he finally had the strength to sit up, he had stared about with

fearful awe.

The bed he had been lying on was large enough for six people, at least—and the room

made it seem small. Ornate trappings covered the bed, the walls, the floors, the furniture. He had

never seen anything like it. He had slowly risen, shaky, his feet sinking into a carpet of such

depth and softness that he had to squat down to feel it with wondering fingers. Everything was

strange and beautiful and rich.

Foreign to his simple tastes and life.

He took a step then and felt a constriction shift about his ankle.

An intricate chain, silver and twisted into beautiful links, was attached to his left ankle

cuff. Beautiful but strong. His fascination with his surroundings faded, and after struggling

futilely to remove the chain, he had retreated to a corner, as far from the bed as he could manage,

and sat there on the carpet, waiting for he knew not what. He had curled around his nakedness,

shamed.

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There was food and water upon a small table near the bed, and hungry and thirsty though

he was, he made no move toward them. They were not his.

He dozed lightly, starting at every little sound, but his eyes flew open when he heard firm

footsteps outside the large door, and his whole body stiffened as the prince entered.

Vanyae looked like he had been riding. His hair was slightly windblown, and he was

stripping off fine leather gloves as he walked. The green eyes sharpened as they saw the great

bed empty, and they swept the room until they found Anyar's location.

Vanyae frowned, a quick look of regret washing over his face before he sighed, never

taking his eyes from the young guard.

He smiled then, and Anyar gritted his teeth and wished he could strike that expression

from his captor's face. The way those eyes traveled over him made him want to be sick, and he

had to fight to hide the trembling in his limbs.

Vanyae felt himself harden just meeting those angry golden eyes, and the adrenaline from

his ride coursed faster through his veins. Anticipation made him catch his breath. The time was

now. If he could just show this beautiful creature what pleasure could be had in his own body, if

he could begin to waken to his sexuality; Vanyae could be the one to show him everything.

Savoring the anticipation like fine wine, the prince turned and seated himself at the small

table, picked up a piece of fruit, bit into it, and made a soft sound of pleasure at its taste. He

watched Anyar out of the corner of his eye, as one does a wild animal one wants to coax.

“You have not eaten, little one. That is foolish. You want so badly to escape this place.

Will weakening yourself achieve that?”

He saw the young guard start and had to suppress a smile. Did the boy think he hid his

intentions so well? His face was not one to disguise emotions; his eyes betrayed him to one who

wished to see.

“Come eat with me. Do not waste your strength on foolish pride. The weaker you become,

the less you will be able to fight me.” The growl made him want to smile, but he stayed

expressionless, neutral, and nonthreatening. When there was no move from Anyar, he mocked

him gently.

“A man would come face his fate. Only a boy crouches in a corner, hiding.”

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The hiss of fury was victory, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young guard rise

to his feet, outraged, then flush brightly, remembering his nakedness.

Vanyae had to repress a chuckle, but his face stayed calm as he ate, never directly looking

at his quarry.

“I left some clothing for you at the foot of the bed. You must have missed it.” He waved a

hand negligently in that direction.

There was a pause; then Anyar slowly began to edge in that direction, found the thin pants,

and drew them on swiftly with an expression of relief that was endearing. He bent to do up the

ties that ran up the one leg to accommodate the cuffed ankle, and then, and only then, did he

straighten, put his shoulders back, and approach the table on the side away from Vanyae.

The prince looked at him, smiling inwardly as he regarded the pants. He doubted Anyar

had noticed how thin they were, that every crease and crevice was a tantalizing shadow, leaving

very little to the imagination. He would not mention it.

Vanyae looked up into the young guard's smoldering eyes and let his lips curve ever so

faintly. “Sit,” he said softly, gesturing with one long hand to the other chair. “I am sure you have

questions. I will answer them as you eat.”

He could see the young man's bewilderment and resistance at his captor's calmness and

lack of direct conflict. This was not what he had been expecting. Good. Keeping the Melanian

off guard and wondering what Vanyae would do next was crucial to his taming. Confusion left

him vulnerable, off center.

Anyar's hands folded into fists, then tried to relax, clearly revealing his inner turmoil.

Vanyae continued to eat calmly, never looking up.

“What have you done with Commander Tanyan?” Anyar's voice was close to a snarl, his

anger and fear a potent combination.

Vanyae looked up slowly. “Are all Melanians as discourteous as you? I will answer your

questions as you eat, not before.” He shrugged. “Your commander took breakfast with my father.

He may be angry, but he is also well mannered.”

Anyar fairly vibrated with fury, but the words confused him also, and finally he drew back

the other chair sharply and sat, jaw clenched in defiant readiness.

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The prince did nothing but eat, savoring each bite, smiling to himself as the young guard

swallowed hard, trying to control his hunger. The younger man had to be starving at this point

and thirsty nigh to desperation, but still he tried to resist.

Vanyae took a small plate, put bread and cheese upon it with several slices of tender meat,

then pushed it toward the Melanian and followed it with a mug of fresh water. Wine could come

later.

Anyar's fingers shook upon the edge of the table; then slowly, very slowly, he reached for

the bread and brought it to his lips, taking a bite and chewing thoroughly, trying to hide his urge

to bolt it down.

Vanyae watched his lips, watched him chew and swallow, and had to hold himself back.

Not yet.

It was not long before Anyar spoke, as though he could no longer endure the silence.

“I want to see Commander Tanyan.”

Vanyae looked up at him calmly, taking a small sip of wine.

“No.”

Anyar froze, and the prince could see his jaw grinding as he tried to withhold the vitriolic

words he wanted to release upon his captor.

Vanyae met his eyes squarely. “You have not yet earned such a privilege.”

Silence.

The prince's tone changed, became commanding, and the young guard's body stiffened as

he responded to that tone without thinking. He had been commanded in the military, and that was

now ingrained in him, something Vanyae had full intentions of taking advantage of.

“You must earn everything you are given here, Anyar. You will obey; you will do as I tell

you, and with your good behavior and obedience, you will keep Commander Tanyan safe and

whole. That is why you are here. You are surety as to his inability to escape, but your own

behavior will dictate how the commander is treated. It is up to you.”

He paused then, watching Anyar's reactions, and softened his voice. “You must keep

yourself from my father's rules. He decreed long ago that Melanian prisoners were to be

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wingless, so much trouble did they cause. I do not want that for you, and I tread a thin edge with

keeping you whole.”

Anyar shivered, once, eyes blank with inner thought. He swallowed hard, then straightened

his back, facing Vanyae squarely, something the prince could but admire.

“What do you want of me? I would know the whole of what you expect of me.”

Vanyae smiled a little, only a faint curving of his lips.

“To keep you whole, you will be my slave. You will lie in my bed and do as I bid,

anything I bid. You will not try to escape; you will not try to harm any Nazarian. You will

control your pride and bend to what is expected of you, or Tanyan will suffer. It is that simple.”

He stifled a sudden pang of guilt at the thought that it was his decisions that had brought the boy

here at all.

Anyar stared at him, eyes huge, fingers tightening upon the bread that lay forgotten in his

hand. Shock and disbelief held him motionless.

“No,” he finally whispered, panic beginning to creep into his whole being as he read the

truth in the prince's hard eyes. “I cannot do this. I won't do this!” He sprang to his feet, dropping

the bread to the floor, casting a desperate look about the room as he backed away from his

tormenter.

The open window beckoned, and he flung himself toward it, not caring where it led, even

if it was death, but just as he could almost touch it, his ankle was jerked to a stop by the chain

that bound him, and he fell hard upon one knee.

For long moments he stayed there, shaking; then he rose and turned to face the Nazarian.

They were both silent; then slowly Vanyae rose to his feet, and Anyar clenched his hands

into fists as the prince approached. When they were face-to-face, Anyar realized with rising fear

how very large this man was; his own head just barely reached Vanyae's shoulder. Vanyae had

the experienced muscles of a true warrior, whereas Anyar's were sleek with youth, not yet to

their full power. He felt small and threatened in a way he had never thought of before.

A long-fingered hand reached out to touch the young guard's cheek, and he jerked away,

beginning to breathe in the quickened gasps of panic.

The fingers paused.

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“It is your decision to make, Anyar. If you find me repulsive, you may choose another, but

you will not be leaving this place, and I cannot promise that anyone else will see the beauty of

your wings the way I do.”

Vanyae stepped back and away, seating himself once more at the table, not wanting to

pressure the boy any more than he already had. He put one hand on his forehead and massaged

his suddenly aching brow. If only he did not seem almost to need Anyar. That, he could not

comprehend, and for a wild moment, he almost wanted to give Anyar away, rid himself of these

feelings he did not understand.

The room was silent for long moments, only the faint sounds of Vanyae continuing to eat,

his thoughts turned inward. He almost startled when Anyar came to stand before him.

He looked up in the golden eyes, seeing the fear there, yet also a certain strength beyond

his years.

“You will not take my wings?” The words held the merest tremble.

“I will not, by my word.” Vanyae's tone held a fervent vow. He could not imagine the

atrocity of destroying so beautiful a thing as those wings.

“You will see that my surrender keeps my commander safe? You will not hurt him?” The

young voice shook further, then firmed with determination to see his leader protected.

“I will.” Vanyae's tone held truth.

Anyar stood silently then, searching the prince's eyes. He had so little choice and yet…this

man had at least saved his wings.

He shuddered. His anger at his own taking warred with his fear of the unknown. He stood

his ground as Vanyae rose from his seat. Their eyes met and held.

Anyar thought of Tanyan, of how he could keep him safe, and the reminder held him still

when the fingers returned. He trembled under the light touch, no matter how hard he tried to

think of bravery. He closed his eyes and remembered Tanyan's touch and how much he had

yearned for it. He gathered his courage and stilled his body. No matter what this enemy did to

him, he would hold that precious memory dear and close to his heart. This was only his body; it

could be used and tormented, but no one could touch his heart and soul unless he let them. They

were Tanyan's. He only had to endure.

“Open your eyes.”

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He did so, calmer in himself, meeting the intent eyes with no expression.

The light touch trailed down his throat, whisper soft.

“Good boy, Anyar. My brave one. I will not give you hurt unless you rebel. That I will not

tolerate any more than your commander would. As you were under his command, now you are

under mine. You would have been disciplined there if you disobeyed, so will it be here. It is not

so very different. You only fear what you do not know.”

The touch slowly traveled down to his chest, pausing to let a thumb gently circle a nipple.

It woke, rose to a hard point, and Anyar flushed, trying desperately to control his body's

involuntary response.

Vanyae watched with avid eyes. “So responsive, so beautiful.”

Anyar wanted to sink into the floor. It took everything in him not to push the prince away.

Green eyes met his. “Is this your choice, Anyar? Do you give yourself to me?”

Anyar jerked at the words. Golden eyes glared with hatred, but there was no real choice—

he knew that; his captor knew that.

With contempt, he turned his back on Vanyae and strode to the bed, angrily untying his

pants, and flung himself facedown and spread his legs, suddenly just wanting to get this over

with. Give the bastard what he wanted; then maybe he would leave him alone for a while.

Gentle hands unclipped the delicate yet strong chain that had held his wings together above

his head, and he could not restrain a heartfelt sigh of relief as he could finally spread them,

easing the ache. He stretched them wide with a faint moan at the pain, then let them touch the

floor on either side of the bed.

The bed dipped as Vanyae knelt on it, looming over Anyar like a predator. Anyar

swallowed hard, his hands slowly clenching into the sheets, eyes staring blindly. I can do this. It

is only my body. The body does not matter… He repeated the silent words like a mantra but could

not control the small gasp that left his lips at the first touch upon the skin of his back, just above

his wings. The fingers were light, almost tickling, and then they went to his wings, stroking the

smaller feathers at the base, then following along as they grew larger. The touch returned to the

extremely sensitive area just below where his wings emerged from his back, and he twitched,

almost holding his breath.

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Those fingers trailed down his spine, circling in the hollow just above his buttocks; then

Anyar froze utterly as hands stroked downward and explored every curve and hollow. He closed

his eyes tightly as fingers parted his buttocks, and he could feel the avid eyes like fire upon his

skin. He could not control a shudder of revulsion at this intimate exposure, and his breath failed

entirely as a finger touched his opening, the first touch of another there.

His entire body tensed, protested silently, as he awaited the invasion, but to his surprise,

the finger merely traced over the surface and then retreated, continuing down his thighs lightly.

He sighed at the utter relief he felt at this momentary reprieve. The hands traced upward

again and began to knead his back right where the pain was worst from his hard landing.

He yelped, then gradually eased as the talented touch worked into the muscles, forcing

them to unknot, unclench. He could not prevent a huff of relief escaping his lips when the knots

finally gave way and there was only a tingling sensation, utter bliss.

That same relaxation disappeared the moment Vanyae told him to turn onto his back,

though he knew he would feel safer that way. After all, slaves were taken on their knees—

weren't they?

He folded his wings, then rolled over. He refused to meet his captor's eyes even when

Vanyae leaned over him, his tongue coming out to lick Anyar's lips, then force its way into his

mouth, sweeping the inside, touching every part of him, claiming.

Anyar stayed limp, unresponsive. He may have to do this, but damned if he would give the

bastard the slightest satisfaction of a response.

Vanyae did not seem to demand one. He did not seem angered by Anyar's defiance; he

simply continued with his light touches and kisses, gradually moving his hands down until he

grasped Anyar's limp shaft.

He began to press and squeeze, rubbing his thumb deeply at the base. To Anyar's horror,

his shaft began to harden despite his utter disgust at the situation, and in his innocence, he could

not conceive of the reason. He did not think of it being an automatic response of the body; he

only saw it as some sickness in himself that he could respond in such a manner to this man, his

captor.

Wings

Anyar watched with fear-filled eyes as the prince paused, then reached to the bedside table

and retrieved a small vial of oil. He dipped one finger into it, and then that finger disappeared

from Anyar's view, only to press against his most intimate entrance.

He bucked his hips, then gave a grunt of pain as the finger pushed into him without

warning, deeply.

It was not terribly painful once it was seated, but acutely humiliating, and he froze in place

and closed his eyes as the finger began gently moving in and out in a parody of what was to

come.

When a second finger began its penetration, he tried uselessly to avoid its touch, making a

sound in his throat as he felt them delve deeply, then begin to scissor, stretching him.

He bit his lip until it bled, squeezing his eyes shut more tightly as a third finger slid in,

intensifying the pain. Dear gods, this was what he had wanted with Tanyan? How could he have

been so foolish? Why would anyone want this horror?

Gradually he seemed to stretch enough that the pain ebbed to a bearable level. The fingers

kept up their movement in steady rhythm, and he stared to the side and tried desperately to give

no reaction. He could feel Vanyae's eyes upon his face, watching every nuance of expression.

The fingers curled, and his hips shot into the air in reflex at the intensity of sensation that

burst over his consciousness. Despite his best resolve, a shocked cry left his lips and was cut off

as Vanyae swallowed the sound in a deep kiss.

He writhed in disbelief as the sensations continued, the fingers rubbing without mercy over

some point in his body that he had never known, never conceived of.

His hips moved of their own volition, no matter how hard he tried to control them; they

thrust in time with Vanyae's movements, and he felt himself tightening, hardening, ready.

The fingers pulled out, and he collapsed, panting, wide-eyed, unable to move when Vanyae

came over him and lowered his hips into the cradle of Anyar's trembling thighs.

Something nudged at his body, then began to push inside, and he arched with the pain,

fighting.

Vanyae was patient; he held there until Anyar's muscles shook with strain, relaxed that tiny

amount. Then he thrust just within.

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The young guard screamed, began to fight like a wild thing, thrashing and writhing

beneath his captor's body.

Vanyae rode it out, watching, waiting…

When total exhaustion claimed Anyar, when he collapsed back to the bed, then Vanyae

patiently began pushing in farther, a bit at a time.

Anyar bit his lip until blood ran down his chin, the pain too shocking to even move against.

He fought the whimpers that wanted release, fought the urge to beg for mercy.

At last the movement stopped, Vanyae seated totally, and Anyar could feel his tormenter's

very heartbeat through the spear of flesh that lay within him.

Vanyae did not move but commenced kissing gently over Anyar's face and neck, his hands

stroking Anyar's hair and smoothing down over his chest, tongue bathing away blood from the

bitten lip.

“Ssh, it will ease, young one. Just breathe. Breathe.”

Anyar shook with pain, trembling with shock.

Vanyae stroked his cheek, made him meet his eyes. “You make it worse, Anyar. Breathe. It

will ease. This I swear to you.”

Desperation fueled Anyar's obedience, anything to make the pain stop. He drew in a

quivering breath, let it out in a rush.

“Deep and slow. Deep and slow,” Vanyae whispered.

Anyar obeyed; golden eyes locked with green.

“Gently. Breathe for me. The pain will lessen.”

Anyar found himself obeying the power in those eyes, and to his amazement and relief, it

worked. The throbbing was still there, but the sharp, stabbing pain stopped, as did his

involuntary spasming against the intruder.

Only then did Vanyae begin to move, slow, gentle, short movements, rocking.

Anyar's mind whirled, his body shook with sensations he could not interpret nor stop. It

hurt, but it was also strange, a fullness, a stretching. Then the prince changed his angle, and the

Anyar cried out as the column of flesh rubbed over that point in his body.

Wings

Shivers raced over his skin, his body arched without his knowledge, his toes curling with

almost unbearable sensation. He panted, eyes wide with disbelief, and Vanyae bent his head to

capture his mouth, possess his very breath.

The thrusts deepened until Anyar could not tell pain from pleasure; it became one, his

body writhing on his impalement, breath coming in harsh pants, his senses hurtling toward some

conclusion he could not imagine, only that it became desperation to reach it.

This was nothing like his own fumblings, his self-gratification; this was on another plane

altogether, and he both feared and anticipated the end.

Vanyae leaned on one hand, spread his knees wider to brace himself, and used the other

hand to grasp Anyar's shaft, beginning to stroke it hard and fast, squeezing.

The young guard arched further, a keening cry leaving his throat.

“That's it, my beautiful one. Sing for me, only for me…” Vanyae's voice was harsh and

breathless, his eyes fastened on the erotic sight before him. His eyes moved down, watching his

shaft disappearing into the boy's cleft, reappearing slick and red, only to sink into the depths

again. He reveled in the tightness, the knowledge that no other had ever known this passage, this

pleasure before him. His eyes narrowed in fierce possession.

Never would he let this one go.

The cries grew in volume—gasps, moans, whimpers—as Anyar began to thrash his head

back and forth, praying for release, praying for it to stop—or not. He could no longer think, only

feel. His body tensed until he thought he could not breathe, could not survive another moment.

The force of the wave rolled over him, drowned him.

He screamed—or was it only a whimper?—his body convulsing around the spear inside

him. And Vanyae threw back his head and shouted his triumph, his seed bathing Anyar deep

within, branding him with its heat, marking him as the prince's possession…

His slave.

J. C. Owens

Chapter Five

Vanyae watched his little bedmate sleep; with gentle fingers, he traced the golden skin. He

had thought that maybe taking Anyar, satisfying his lust, would free him from the attraction he

felt. Instead, it felt greater, more potent.

He slowly pulled his hand away and rolled onto his back, his lips thinning as the younger

man whimpered and curled closer to his warmth. He stared up into the darkness and wished, for

the first time, that he had never laid eyes on the boy, for both their sakes. Some part of him

wanted more from Anyar than Nazarian culture would allow. Somehow, he had to get this boy

out of his system.

* * * * *

The great hall was hot and oppressive, the huge doors shut against the storm that raged

outside. Smoke from the fireplaces swirled about just under the roof, light from the torches

making it look like mist before it finally was sucked out the wooden vents.

Laughter and argument rose and fell, and servants rushed about to supply enough drink to

suit the profusion of lords and ladies who gathered that night for feast.

Slaves lined the walls, some kneeling, some standing, attentive to their masters' and

mistresses' needs. Favored ones knelt by their owners, often fed by hand, a sign of great favor.

Anyar leaned away from the hands that pawed at him, curling closer in on himself as he

half knelt, half lay between Vanyae's legs.

“Come on, Vanyae. I only want a quick taste of him. You've kept him to yourself for the

last bloody two months. Share a little.”

Hard hands grasped Anyar's shirt, pulled him from safety, and Anyar stared in terror at the

grinning face of the man who yanked him up, covered his mouth with his, and tried to penetrate

his clamped lips.

Wings

He growled in sudden fury and bit.

The hold was loosened, and he fell back as his tormenter touched his bitten lip in open

disbelief.

Anyar pressed himself back against Vanyae, his master seeming a safe haven compared to

the brute before him. He growled again, unable to control himself, his eyes never leaving the

man.

Blood on his fingers, the man looked at him in shock, which soon turned to fury. He

reached, only to have his wrist taken in an unbreakable hold.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Bayner, and you will not know his bite. You provoked him.”

Vanyae's tone held steel.

“I thought you said he was tamed. The little bastard is a menace. A dangerous little

menace.” Bayner's voice vibrated with anger and a certain disbelief that the little Melanian slave

would have the guts to attack him.

“He is dangerous to those who mishandle him. Leave him alone and he will leave you

alone.” Vanyae grew teasing. “Use your own little slave, Bayner. He is more your type. I like

mine wild.”

Bayner touched his lip again and glared at Anyar. “So I see. You should keep him gagged

so he cannot bite another, my prince. They will demand retribution if it should happen. You are

lucky I am a friend. You should take his wings; that would settle him.”

“Any who touch him without my permission have only themselves to blame for what

occurs. I will warn others when they come, then, if you think it necessary.”

“Little beast,” Bayner muttered, casting a last venomous glance at the Melanian slave.

Vanyae only smiled, his fingers gently stroking Anyar's wings where they folded tightly

against his leg, where his little slave had taken refuge.

Their talk turned to other things, and Anyar began to breathe normally again, though he did

not move from his position. Vanyae's stroking was even faintly reassuring, and he had no desire

to move from his master and become a target for the drunken revelers who saw him as fair game

since he was a slave.

He winced at the thought, but he had grown bitterly used to the term over time.

J. C. Owens

He was slave. Vanyae's slave. It was a gentler slavery by far than most he had witnessed,

but he longed for freedom, longed for Tanyan and home.

Vanyae stared broodingly into his wine, swirling it until his image disappeared. How had

he got himself into this mess? He had never really paid any attention to the slaves around him,

had never really wanted them in his bed. They were nonentities to him. Although he had taken

one or two for a time when the need could not be met otherwise, for the most part he had taken

lovers from free choice.

Now he had Anyar, and it pained him that he did not know if the boy enjoyed his touch or

endured it because he must. He could not understand how it mattered to him. A slave was a

slave. Somehow he had to stop these feelings, put the boy into the niche he belonged. Cared for

but not lov—

He growled under his breath and took a deep drink, then turned to Bayner as the man

spoke to him.

“I will take payment in kind. He drew blood; now he can soothe my blood. Come on,

Vanyae; I gave you Geralt for a week last time you wanted a slave. You cannot have him

believing he can get away with that kind of behavior.”

Vanyae looked down into fearful golden eyes, a coldness within him. The boy was a

slave—nothing more, nothing less. He had to remember that.

Anyar went chill with fear as Vanyae looked down at him, eyes distant, a thoughtful frown

pleating his brow. His heart sank utterly as his master looked away, nodding.

“Not in public, though. He is too rare for that kind of display. I will not suffer his being

shown to these people. Tonight, later.”

Anyar curled into himself more tightly, laying his aching head on his knees and shutting

his eyes against Bayner's triumphant grin.

A slave, only a slave.

Wings

Chapter Six

Anyar gagged as Bayner's shaft hit the back of his throat, and he tried to move back

desperately, but impaled as he was by Vanyae, he had nowhere to go.

His master reproved his friend, much to Anyar's relief.

“He is new to this; go gently. I would not have him hate it so much as you would create.

He is good with his mouth: let him pleasure you without force.”

Anyar began to realize how kind his master was with him when he encountered the

brutality of Bayner. The man would have had no concern for him whatsoever if not for the

prince's admonishments. The young man fervently pitied any slaves this man owned.

Perhaps being the prince's slave was a better place than he had ever imagined.

The only escape from this intolerable situation was to have Bayner come as soon as

possible, so he applied all Vanyae's teachings to the moment: curling his tongue around the head,

dipping delicately into the slit and sucking gently there, rubbing down the underside, pressing

along the vein there, and then swallowing the whole shaft as deeply as possible, given the

enormous size. He tried not to think of what he was doing, only of its being over.

He felt the big man's shaking, his heightened breathing, and sucked more urgently, fingers

gently rolling the huge balls in their soft sac.

He gagged as cum hit the back of his throat but kept his tongue moving to ensure it would

be over as soon as possible. He let his mouth drop open quickly afterward to let the fluid drip out

of his mouth. He wanted no part of this person within him.

As Bayner sagged back to the bed, staring blindly, Anyar discreetly wiped his mouth on

the sheets, shuddering with distaste.

The encounter seemed to have pleased Vanyae, or perhaps awakened a possessiveness in

him, for his thrusts sped up, pounding into Anyar with ever-increasing force, his hand coming

down to work his slave's shaft.

J. C. Owens

Anyar felt passion rise, as always, in his master's grip. He arched beneath the larger man,

eyes closed as he left out a soft gasp that soon turned to small keening noises as the sensations

rose to engulf him.

Vanyae kissed his neck and bit softly as he commanded, “That's it, little one, sing. Louder

now. Sing.”

He could not help himself. As his body tightened, he cried out, louder and then louder yet;

a passionate song of surrender and reluctant pleasure.

He and Vanyae came at the same moment, and he arched back as Vanyae curled forward,

his master swallowing his sounds, taking them into himself, utterly possessing even his voice.

Anyar collapsed then, with Vanyae curled about him, and he lay replete, actually enjoying

the feel of the prince's hand caressing his hip. After Bayner's touch, presence, Vanyae felt like a

haven.

As though Anyar's thoughts summoned him, Bayner spoke. “He is a wonder, my friend.

No wonder you do not wish him ruined by others. No wonder you keep him caged. No one could

hear his cries without wanting to possess him utterly. He is a treasure.”

“Yes,” the prince whispered, his tone warm and fond as he stroked his little slave softly.

“He is my treasure.” The prince knew in that moment that he could never do this again. Sharing

his treasure would not happen in the future. This would not drive the feelings from him. For

some reason, this was not the answer.

He laid a gentle kiss on the black hair and wondered with a type of dim despair where this

strange relationship could possibly take them.

* * * * *

Anyar sat with his back against the stone wall, his wings spread wide, his face turned up to

the warmth of the sun. The wind blew softly across his bare body, and for the first time since his

capture, he felt a small amount of peace in himself.

Vanyae had lengthened his chain so that he could sit out on the massive balcony, still far

enough from the edge to suit his master's fears. To be outside… He sighed long and low and

closed his eyes. To be alone at last…

Wings

He opened his eyes and, staring up into the sky, watched the clouds and envied them their

freedom.

The breeze ruffled his feathers, and he felt the sensation with a pang of sorrow, his peace

fading. The loss of flight was a nagging pain that never left him, a sense of loss. Would he ever

fly again, or would they simply keep clipping his wings?

A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away with a swift, angry motion. What use

were tears? They would not see him free.

He wondered about Tanyan and how he was faring with all this. Had his wings also been

clipped? Was he being used in the same manner, slowly broken day by day?

Gods, he hoped not. He hoped he was the only one they would treat in such a fashion. He

could not bear to think of the brave commander brought low. He held to his feelings for Tanyan,

as the last bastion against Vanyae, the last bit of his homeland that he could hold close and keep

free of taint, the only reason he could accept what was happening to him.

He felt the change in himself, felt that he was weakening, becoming what the prince

wanted. He fought less, obeyed more, worn and tired in his mind and body. Sometimes he found

himself recognizing a command before it was voiced and acting without question; he was

becoming a true slave.

Yet there was something else, some part of him that began to respond to the prince, began

to see him as a man, not his captor. During the periods when Vanyae was achingly gentle, there

was something in his eyes that Anyar could not really understand, and yet with that look Anyar

would feel emotion rise in him. Something warm and—

It sickened him…in the part of his mind still left. The rest of it simply conceded; anything

for a measure of peace, a lack of pain. His eyes squeezed shut as another tear coursed down his

cheek, but that was all he had to measure his inner grief.

He started violently when a finger wiped the tear away, his eyes flying open and his wings

stopping just short of buffeting Vanyae. The prince did not flinch at the proximity of the giant

wings, no doubt well aware that his little slave knew better than to harm him. He took the finger

with the tear glistening upon it and raised it to his lips, tasting it, taking Anyar's grief into

himself. His green eyes rose to Anyar's, and they stared at each other for long moments before

the young Melanian lowered his, unable to feel equal enough to meet his master's intent gaze.

J. C. Owens

Gentle fingers raised his chin, and the prince softly kissed him, so softly and finely that

Anyar was left breathless, unable to understand the meaning behind such a gesture. Slowly the

kiss ended, and there was something warm and special in Vanyae's eyes once more, something

that made Anyar warm inside again.

A callused hand came out and stroked his black wing, making him twitch with confusion.

“You will fly again, Anyar. I swear it. I want to see you soar once more. I have never seen

anything so beautiful, so joyous as that…” The prince's voice trailed away, as though his own

words had surprised him; then he stood abruptly and offered his hand.

“Come, we will go riding.”

So casually, as if the words were not stunning, not an offer to a freedom Anyar had almost

forgotten.

He hesitated, wondering if it were a cruel joke on the prince's part, but the hand was

steady, the eyes not hard. He reached with shaking fingers, and their hands met and held.

The day was fine and clear, the breeze redolent with the scents of early summer, flowers,

and fresh greenery. Anyar tried to look everywhere at once, trying to soak in every sense, every

sight, so that he might hold them to him when his imprisonment resumed. The horse he rode was

beautiful, smaller than Vanyae's stallion but full of spirit, and Anyar handled him with care,

pleased with his responsiveness and soft mouth.

Vanyae watched him, feeling a warmth within himself that he could not put a name to.

Anyar's eyes had lost their dullness and sparked with curiosity and life. His body posture

changed also; he sat straight and proud, with the natural posture of the true horseman. Often he

would tilt his head at a sound or close his eyes at a smell, so very intense in his appreciation that

it made Vanyae himself take heed of things that he would have formerly dismissed as

commonplace.

Watching through his little slave's eyes, things seemed new and fresh and interesting.

Vanyae slowly began to waken to the knowledge that Anyar was a person, had had a life of his

own. He became curious about that life. What did Anyar like, dislike? What were his thoughts

and dreams? The prince's curiosity on the matter was unlike him in every respect. Slaves were

slaves. Who cared what they thought or wanted or wished? It was of no importance.

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Anyar was different somehow, and Vanyae could not quite conceive how or why, only that

he had become important to the prince in a manner quite unlike any other. Vanyae was eager to

go to his rooms at night, impatient with anything that kept him from leaving the day behind and

possessing his little slave. He slept better than he ever had before, and it was not just the sex; he

held the little Melanian close to him through the night, and it was comforting somehow, that

warm little presence pressed up against him. It was not completely sexual, and it puzzled the

prince greatly. He had never wanted anyone to stay in his bed before, certainly never to sleep

with him. Why this one?

He gave the order to turn for home, thoughts turned inward, and it was not until they had

almost reached the palace that he noticed Anyar's demeanor. The Melanian had shrunk into

himself, head bowed, wings clamped close as though in comfort.

Vanyae frowned. At that moment he felt his little slave's despair keenly; it bothered him to

see the difference from moments ago, when he had shone with curiosity and freedom.

The contrast was too great to ignore.

He turned to face forward, disgruntled at his own concern.

* * * * *

Anyar slowly stripped off the clothes Vanyae had given him, carefully folded them, and

stroked his hand over the cloth wistfully. It had been so wonderful to be dressed again, to be

modestly covered, and to feel…like a person, not a sex toy.

But that was over now, and he had to return to what he was. He closed his eyes for a

moment, wrapping his wings around himself as though to deny the thought. He was slave, no

more than that.

He heard Vanyae enter and turned to face him, paling as he read the lust in the prince's

eyes. Vanyae could be less than careful when he was hot with need, and Anyar braced himself

for a night of pain. Pleasure would only come when the prince had gorged himself and,

remembering that his slave also had needs, was gentler.

Anyar went to his knees and positioned himself as taught, resting on his heels, hands on his

thighs, legs spread wide, his wings spread from side to side, so as to not get in the way of his

master's pleasure. He tried to remember the day, the way the air had smelled, the beauty of the

sky, the trees—anything but this.

J. C. Owens

“Lie on the bed, little one.” Vanyae's voice was rough with desire, and Anyar shivered as

he blindly obeyed, positioning himself on his back with legs spread wide and raised. He closed

his eyes as he felt Vanyae's weight on the bed and waited for the pain of penetration.

Instead, fingers stroked softly up his thighs, and his eyes flew open as Vanyae's lips met

his, tongue asking for entrance. The kiss was different somehow, less invasive, almost…caring.

Vanyae's hands began stroking over his skin, softly, almost tickling, making Anyar shiver,

his desire rise swiftly.

Slowly the kiss ended, and Vanyae began to lick and nip his way downward, until he

swiftly, and without warning, took Anyar in his mouth for the first time.

The Melanian cried out, arching into his master's mouth, clutching desperately at the

bedcovers. Never had he felt such pleasure. His body shook as though with fever, and when

Vanyae stopped to moisten his fingers and then plunge them deep into his little slave's body,

Anyar came undone.

With a harsh, keening cry, he came, body arched into a bow, eyes wide with shock.

Hard hands grasped his hips, and as he came down, he was pierced by a hard, hot shaft. He

screamed with pleasure/pain, and then Vanyae was pounding into him, rocking his body on the

soft bed.

His master's fierce eyes locked onto his as Vanyae tilted his hips and rubbed against

Anyar's prostate with each movement of his hips.

“Mine, you are mine!” The prince's voice was harsh with lust and inner emotion. “Say it!

Name yourself mine.”

Anyar shook, his body tightening and hardening despite its earlier release. He could scarce

understand the words, but his master's intensity pushed into his consciousness.

A particularly hard and deep thrust made him cry out, his body writhing on its impalement.

“Say it! To whom do you belong? Who owns you body and soul?” The questions were

hissed between clenched teeth.

Anyar keened, found his arms rising to clutch at Vanyae's shoulders, something he had

never done before. Never had he voluntarily touched his master. Somehow, now, there was more

Wings

between them. This moment, this time, seemed deep with meaning, making them more than

Master and slave, something…

“Yours,” he whispered, shuddering at the betrayal as the word slipped past his lips.

Vanyae lowered his head and kissed him deeply, then nipped at his lower lip as he plunged

harder.

“To whom do you belong?”

Anyar panted, “You. I belong to you.”

The prince licked Anyar's lips, then plunged his tongue deep into his mouth in reward,

stealing his breath, increasing the friction across his pleasure center, making him whimper with

need.

“Say my name, little one, my Anyar. Let me hear my name on your lips.”

Anyar could take no more. Fire ripped along his nerve endings as he arched in completion.

“Vanyae!” he screamed, and in some part of his mind, he mourned the part of him he had

just given away.

When had he started to change?

Vanyae found himself pondering this question. He was doing things he had never foreseen,

questioning things he had never questioned. Recognizing Anyar's unhappiness seemed to make

him more aware of the slaves around him and the possibility that they, like his little one,

deserved better. He found himself kinder and more patient with the servants, noting their needs

and seeing them met, all without telling anyone of his inner strife. He had been raised with slaves

serving him. He had never considered the possibility of caring for one beyond his or her

usefulness.

But now…

Now it seemed that he was seeing them as…people. He began to notice when they were

mistreated, imagining Anyar undergoing that. It even made him question his own motives and

actions since he had taken the young Melanian captive. In this light, his deeds seemed…wrong,

something he had never before considered. If he wanted Anyar as part of his life, as more than

J. C. Owens

servant, then others would question this, protest it even. How was he to make such a change

when slavery had always been the norm?

It seemed impossible. Yet for Anyar it seemed worth it.

If he could only make it up to him, what he had done, what he had made the little one

endure. Was it possible to heal that and have Anyar come to care for him?

That also seemed impossible.

* * * * *

Life seemed to change after that for Anyar, and he found it harder and harder to hold onto

his hatred of Vanyae. His master seemed different somehow, softer with him, more caring. He

did not punish him, instead brought him treats, rewards for small things, and sometimes for no

reason that Anyar could understand.

He began to take Anyar with him places, and this more than anything lightened the young

man's despair. It was precious, this tenuous freedom, and he savored every moment. He often

mused that he had never understood what freedom meant until it was taken from him.

He began to see the Nazarians as people, not just the enemy, for now he met more of the

common folk, the ones who did not seem to care that he was Melanian. They really did not seem

that much different from his own people; their needs and desires and daily living seemed so very

similar. They did not seem the monsters of legend, only people.

He wished that he could have met them on an equal footing: as a man, not a slave. He

would have found the differences and similarities interesting, and he had never been very good at

hatred. Even now his anger was a fragile thing, held close to protect him, but every day it seemed

harder to hate.

This change terrified him. He had to escape. He had to free Tanyan and return him to their

people. He had to.

On this day, they were at the market, Anyar walking two paces behind his master and

staring wide-eyed at all the goods on display. There were things he had never seen before: fruits

and vegetables that could not grow in the harsher climate of Melan. There was a wide variety of

seafood, for the eastern part of Nazar bordered the ocean. Anyar had never seen the ocean, only

heard of it, and his imagination failed at trying to create an image of such a vast body of water.

Vanyae had tried to describe it, but the best picture Anyar could come up with was a massive

Wings

lake, so large one could not see the other side. That alone was awe inspiring. Vanyae told of the

waves lashing the shoreline and the sound of their breaking on the rocky beaches.

Anyar wondered wistfully if some day Vanyae might take him to see such a wonderful

sight, but the chance of that seemed vague and without true hope.

Still, he was fascinated when Vanyae gestured to him and brought Anyar to his side while

the prince showed him various shells that had come from the ocean itself. Anyar was not sure

whether his master was telling the truth when he said that if you held one to your ear, you could

hear the sound of the waves, but it fired his imagination anyway. The fact that the prince bought

him a beautiful shell for his own made him flush with pleasure, and he carried the little treasure

gingerly, careful of its fragility.

Vanyae smiled at his intent absorption in such a simple and inexpensive gift, not

mockingly for once, but with a sort of amused fondness that Anyar did not mind.

Trailing behind his master, Anyar watched the ebb and flow of people with fascination,

everything new and worthy of note.

It was because of this that he happened to notice the man standing between two merchant

stalls, motionless in the waves of humanity about him, eyes fixed upon Vanyae. At first there

seemed little of note about him, but Anyar felt an uneasiness, an instinct that all was not right.

He glanced at Vanyae's guards, who wandered ten paces behind the prince, at ease. Anyar

knew there had never been an attack upon the royal personages within the capital city itself; if he

brought forth his dim concern, he would be surely ridiculed.

Scoffing at himself but keeping an eye on the man, he moved closer to Vanyae, fingers

moving to his belt, though there was no knife.

When the man lunged forward with incredible swiftness, Anyar felt that he himself moved

in slow motion, his little shell falling forgotten to the ground. Extending his wings, he pushed

Vanyae down harshly to the ground, even as he stepped over him to meet the attacker with bare

hands.

All he saw was a grimace of hatred upon distorted features, the flash of a blade…felt an

impact upon his chest, but his only thought was to protect…

He pushed into the attacker, meeting suddenly surprised brown eyes, Anyar's wings high

and aggressive as they curled in to buffet the man with angry force. They both staggered under

J. C. Owens

the assault, and the attacker clung to Anyar, dragging him down as they both fell. Pain

blossomed in Anyar's shoulder, so that he drew a sharp breath, but he refused to release his

opponent as they rolled, dust flying up from the struggle.

He could hear shouts and screams, but his attention was all on his opponent, an opponent

who brought the knife to bear once more, arm raised, expression wild and mad.

Anyar's grip on the attacker's arms shook with strain as he fought to keep the knife from

his throat. Then the man arched, his mouth opening in a short, sharp cry before he slumped

forward onto Anyar's chest, a last breath sighing past his ear.

Then, and only then, did agony burst over Anyar's consciousness, and he moaned with it,

vision white at the edges.

Suddenly the body was gone, pulled from him fiercely, and Vanyae was at his side, face

pale, eyes frantic with worry. At first Anyar could not quite understand why, but then his master

touched his chest gently, and his fingers came away wet with blood.

He felt himself spinning, and Vanyae leaned closer, taking one of his hands and squeezing

to the point of pain.

“You will not leave me, Anyar. Do you hear me? You will not leave me!”

Anyar might have nodded, he did not truly know, but then he fell through darkness and

thoughts themselves ceased to be.

Wings

Chapter Seven

He slowly roused to crushing pain. His mind cringed from full awakening, as though

realizing what lay in store. His thoughts were muddled and slow, and only his hearing seemed to

be working. His body would not move of its own accord, and each breath was purest agony, a

trial of endurance, enough that he prayed to stop entirely, anything rather than endure the pain

that made him want to scream.

There was no breath for screams, only for survival, and his eyes flew open then, panic

clouding his reason. He could not breathe; he could not…

Voices sounded near him, and gentle hands carefully raised him onto soft pillows, easing

his labored gasps somewhat.

He saw Vanyae's face above him and found himself clutching his master, soundlessly

begging for solace.

Vanyae's face held a haggard cast to it, but his eyes were soft and his tone as he spoke was

gentle with concern.

“Easy, Anyar, easy. You make it harder when you tense. Breathe, my little one. Breathe

shallowly. It will ease.”

He held a drink to Anyar's lips, and the younger man struggled to swallow past the pain

and panic. When he had finished, he sagged back to the pillows and closed his eyes as he felt

Vanyae's hand softly stroking his hair back.

Never had he felt such emotion from his master, and he basked in it, his panic fading at the

strong presence and soothing words. Whatever he had drunk gradually did its work, and the pain

eased a little, enough to be bearable.

Opening his eyes again, he met Vanyae's tired expression, wanting to know what had

happened. He dimly remembered the attack and his own part in it, but it seemed far away and

unreal, as though he had dreamed it all.

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His master seemed to understand his silent questions, and he smiled a little. “It is fine,

Anyar. I killed the attacker, thanks to you. I would not have seen him in time.” He leaned closer,

gave a kiss to Anyar's dry lips. “You saved me, little one. Why?”

Anyar stared at him for a moment, then flushed a little and turned his head away, unable to

answer. Why had he done such a thing? Out of self-preservation? If Vanyae had died, he would

have perhaps gained a brutal master… Yet that answer seemed wrong somehow, as though a

deeper reason lay just out of reach…

Vanyae brushed his cheek with such tenderness that Anyar could not help himself. He

leaned into the touch, needing that comfort.

His master carefully lay down on the bed with him, moving slowly, so as to not jar his

wounds. Anyar sighed, a soft sound of acceptance as his body finally relaxed. The medicines

were at work, it seemed, and Vanyae's presence and body heat finished the job.

He slipped into healing sleep, his thoughts veering away from why his master's mere

presence brought him such solace.

* * * * *

Healing was a slow, painful, and frustrating process indeed. Anyar was forced to practice a

patience that was quite foreign to his nature, and the sheer inactivity he was forced to endure

drove him near-mad. Vanyae seemed to understand this, and he made sure to provide many

distractions. He would carry Anyar carefully outside when the weather permitted, placing him in

the shade or, on rainy days, choosing a sheltered area where they might watch the moisture run

from the trees and buildings.

Anyar treasured these moments, when Vanyae was kind, and gentle with that same

kindness, seeming to actually want to spend time with his little slave. They spoke of many things

and found a surprising array of topics that they were of similar minds on.

His master promised that when Anyar was better, he would take him to the stables to meet

all his horses, something Anyar was eagerly looking forward too. His love of horses was

obviously shared by the prince, and their conversations on the matter were intense and satisfying.

At these times they seemed less like Master and slave and more like…friends?

Anyar shied away from even the merest hint of such feelings. He was a slave, no more than

that, and to even think of something beyond that boundary could bring only sorrow.

Wings

This was just a brief exception to the rules. Vanyae felt an obligation. That was surely why

he was acting so strangely, and when that faded, they would be back to the baseless existence

that Anyar had endured since his capture.

He hated the thought of that and tried desperately to enjoy each day to the fullest, holding

each experience and conversation close to him, encrypting them into memory for later times

when all was empty.

He found himself almost lonely when Vanyae could not be there and, worse yet, longing

for the prince's touch. What could possibly be wrong with him that he actually wanted what he

had always fought against?

Confusion ruled his thoughts; in no way could he begin to understand himself and the

wayward emotions that seemed to have taken control.

His turmoil deepened when he gained the courage to ask Vanyae about the details of the

attack. Small memories were returning to him, and he needed the truth of it, though some part of

him shrank from what would be revealed.

The attacker had been Melanian.

Anyar had killed one of his own people for the sake of a Nazarian, one who held him

against his will, enslaved him, held Commander Tanyan in surety against attack from Melan. In

all ways, he had done a great disservice to his people.

He had saved an enemy at the cost of one of his own.

The information gnawed at him, working on his conscience. He was a guard of Melan. Yet

what had he done to work against the Nazarians? Did he continue to fight, to find a way to free

himself and possibly Commander Tanyan? No, he had sunk into the trap that Vanyae had laid for

him, his mind overcome with what he had undergone.

But every time he thought of rebellion, thought of violence and escape, he would look into

those green eyes, and his determination would waver, his strength fail.

What great power did the prince wield that he could defeat Anyar without effort? It wore

the younger man out just thinking about it and perhaps hampered his recovery more than he

realized.

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Vanyae noticed his little slave's worried introspection, and he knew that there was great

guilt in the killing of his countryman. Despite all questioning, the young man had not answered

the question of why. Why save his enemy?

This greatly plagued Vanyae also. He would never forget lying on the ground, watching in

stunned horror as Anyar took the blows meant for him, never ceasing to put his body between the

attacker and his master. Why?

The prince would have liked to have said that his own behaviors toward his little slave

were of guilt and gratitude, but they seemed deeper than that, more complex.

He could not bear to let him out of his sight, and he had guards around him at all times

when he was forced to leave him. Those hours when he had thought that the young man would

die… He shuddered at the mere memory.

That sensation of helplessness and devastation he hoped never to experience again in his

lifetime.

Their time spent together seemed precious, something to be hoarded and prized. Never

could Vanyae remember wanting to be with someone so much, enjoying simple things. Their

quiet time together, often with Anyar on Vanyae's lap as they watched the rain or enjoyed the

warmth of the sun in the prince's private garden, was memorable. The conversations and, yes,

even arguments were something he looked forward to more than he should.

What was this pleased warmth in his being that only happened when he saw Anyar turn to

see him and smile?

It made no sense.

* * * * *

The weeks passed slowly, and the season turned into a wet and rainy fall, something Anyar

had no experience of. Melan was dry and hot. Such excessive rainfall was a wonder to him, a

blessing to one who saw so little water from the sky. He insisted on going outside into the garden

when it rained hardest, turning on the spot, wings spread, face tilted up, and eyes closed as he

enjoyed the wet bounty.

Vanyae would lean in the doorway, arms crossed, a faint smile on his face as he watched

the younger man's enjoyment. On this day, his interest found new focus as he watched Anyar's

clothing soak through, clinging faithfully to every line and curve as it did so.

Wings

He licked his lips and found himself undressing, never taking his eyes from his quarry.

Anyar loved the feel of water over his body. What a wonderful place this was, to have such

luxury. Water was scarce and carefully used in his country, and one did not have showers, only

quick sit baths with an inch or so of water. This was sheerest heaven.

He turned to thank his master for letting him outside, but the words froze in his throat, and

he felt his pulse quicken at the sight before him.

Nude and wet, Vanyae came toward him with the tread of a predator and eyes that

mirrored that, dark with lust.

Anyar took a deep breath, unable to help admiring the prince. He was as beautiful as any

statue, broad shouldered, narrow hipped, skin pale as marble. His hair hung down his back,

wetting to a beautiful, rich gold, his wings gradually darkening with moisture. The water ran

down his form, lovingly caressing every inch of muscle and bone, and Anyar found himself

wanting to taste.

He took a step forward, looking into Vanyae's eyes for permission before sliding to his

knees and immediately reaching for that beautiful, big shaft. He licked at it for a moment, one

hand tightening around the prince's thigh as Vanyae jerked at the sensation, a low, growling

moan issuing from his lips. For once Anyar felt proud of his training as he licked and nibbled his

way up the hard flesh, felt it throb and jerk under his ministrations.

Eager for the sweetness within, he dipped his tongue into the slit and suckled there for a

moment, feeling his master tremble, his breath hard and erratic.

He let his lips encircle the head, tongue lapping the tender flesh, then suddenly swallowed

the length almost to its entirety.

Vanyae gave a sharp cry, his hips flexing involuntarily. That his little slave was doing this

willingly, even eagerly, was the most erotic thing he could imagine, and he had to fight against

coming right then and there. Not yet. There was so much more he wanted to do to the younger

man. Gently, so as to not hurt his healing injuries, but gods, he could wait no longer!

When he could take no more, he reluctantly pulled Anyar from his knees and up to stand

against him. With hands shaking with eagerness and anticipation, he worked to remove the

sodden clothing, to reveal the golden skin beneath, so different from his own paleness. He drew

Anyar to him, taking the other man's lips in a passionate kiss, using his tongue to taste every

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nuance within. Anyar put his hands tentatively on the prince's shoulders, then more firmly as

emotion and senses took over, drowning out thoughts and fears.

Vanyae's hand stroked down the leanly muscled back, coming to tease the entrance to

Anyar's body, feeling the coolness of the rain against the heat of that secret place.

He brought the fingers back up, presenting them to his little slave, who took them into his

mouth eagerly, wetting them copiously.

The slick fingers then slid easily within the heat and softness of Anyar's body, and he

arched at the pleasure/pain, a choked cry escaping into his master's mouth.

Vanyae drank in the sound, groaning at the feel of Anyar writhing against him, the

tightness of his portal, and the knowledge that soon he would be within that heat, possessing,

reclaiming what was his.

He broke the kiss reluctantly, smiling a little as he drew his fingers free and Anyar

protested with a whimper of need. Pulling the smaller man after him, he approached a marble

bench surrounded by the softness of grass. Here, he arranged Anyar on his knees, bent over the

coolness of stone, the younger man's fingers gripping the ornate edges in preparation for his

master's force. His black wings spread out over the white marble, and Vanyae stroked them,

leaned down to kiss the feathers.

But here, Vanyae broke with tradition. When he knelt behind Anyar, he took his time

kissing and stroking the wet body before him, bringing his little slave to a fever pitch of need.

Each touch was an affirmation that Anyar was alive, that he was Vanyae's.

“Please,” whimpered the younger man, “please…I need…”

Vanyae laid a kiss on the back of Anyar's neck, then bit there, even as his shaft pressed

against the rosebud guarding the entrance to his slave's body, then stretched it wide with his girth

as he pushed in.

Anyar drew a pained breath, then let it out in a gasp of pleasure as his master's shaft slid

past the pleasure spot in his body. He pushed backward, impaling himself farther, moaning as

Vanyae bit harder, holding him, dominating him in the most sensuous of ways. He felt owned,

possessed, cared for, almost lov—

He cast aside the thought swiftly, not daring to further it.

Wings

Vanyae released his bite, licked soothingly over the deep marks, then leaned back on his

knees and watched his shaft disappear into the stretched entrance until his balls felt the warmness

of Anyar's against them. With torturous slowness, he withdrew his shaft, hot and wet and red

with eagerness as it appeared. He shuddered at the sight and sensations, then pushed back in,

agonizingly slowly, leaning a little forward and setting up a lazy rhythm that would see this last

for as long as possible.

Anyar writhed on his impalement, gasping. The prince would angle his thrusts so that only

one out of three would strike his prostate, which made the shock of it that much greater. The

smaller man's body shook with sensation, with need. His balls were tight and hot, so close to

coming but never quite enough to let go. It was pleasure close to pain in its intensity, and the

knowledge that he had no say in it, that his master would decide when he would come, seemed at

this moment to be incredibly erotic.

All his fears and doubts, all his uncertainties, seemed far-away at this moment; there were

only Vanyae and the things he was doing to him. The incredible, wonderful things he was doing

to him. The falling rain seemed to purify what they were doing, make it special, an experience

more than themselves.

Anyar could feel the moisture running over his skin, cool and soothing, sharply in contrast

to the heat within him and the fire that seemed to radiate from Vanyae's organ as it pushed

deeper and deeper. He arched to gain more penetration, moaning in time with the measured

thrusts, only gradually realized the sounds were Vanyae's name. The vague thought came that he

might be punished for such familiarity, but at that moment he could not truly care.

He tightened upon the spear of flesh within him, and Vanyae grunted at the sensation,

began to speed up, hips snapping his shaft harder and harder into his willing slave.

The scent of the rain was fresh in Vanyae's nostrils, the feel of it coursing down his

steaming body an erotic background to their coupling. He dimly thought that he would never be

able view rain in quite so innocent a manner as before, even as he reached below them to grasp

Anyar's shaft and pump it with firm, harsh strokes.

He saw Anyar's head snap back, a silent scream upon his lips, even as Vanyae felt the hot

body pulse around him. Warm seed flowed over his fingertips; then he let go to grasp slim hips.

J. C. Owens

Grunting with need, he thrust deep, letting out forceful puffs of air before his eyes squeezed shut

with the half pain that the powerful orgasm pulsed through him.

They collapsed to the sodden grass, dazed and spent. Anyar turned, and Vanyae gathered

him to his chest, a worried questioning in his eyes.

Anyar managed to nod that he was fine, then laid his head upon his master and wished for

the moment to never end, that they might never have to go back to the way things were before.

He would have been surprised to know that Vanyae's thoughts mirrored his own.

Wings

Chapter Eight

Anyar had never seen snow before. It fascinated him immensely, though the cold seemed

to pierce his heat-trained body. Vanyae pandered to his interest, and on this day he took him

riding, the first time since his chest had healed. Even now he was careful of the younger man's

health, watching for signs of discomfort.

His care and pampering, especially in front of others, would bring a flush to Anyar's face.

He was not used to such things, and they warmed his heart far more than material expressions

could have.

Wrapped up snugly against the chill, Anyar wanted to sing with happiness, his eyes

shining with all he felt. The day was crisp, their breath floated on the air, and frost coated

everything in sight, lending a magical air to their surroundings.

The mare he rode was a joy, with a soft black winter coat, white blaze, and four white

socks. Her mouth was tender and responsive, and he treated her as the princess she was. She

danced beneath him as though picking up on his mood, and he looked over at Vanyae on his

larger chestnut stallion, unable to restrain his grin.

The prince grinned back, then let his stallion have his head. With a whoop, Anyar

followed, and the sun shone off the snow the horses' hooves threw up in glittering arcs.

They raced for the thrill of it, and the mare gave the stallion quite a challenge with her

nimble feet and lighter body. It was head and head when they finally drew to a stop, not wanting

to heat the horses too much in the cold.

Vanyae leaned over and captured a kiss from Anyar, his gloved fingers gentle upon his

chin. He drew back reluctantly, his thumb tracing lightly over the kiss-swollen lips.

Anyar smiled at him, a little flushed from the cold and his master's attentions.

Vanyae felt something within him warm at that smile, and he realized that he could no

longer see Anyar as slave. He was a person, a man—a lover.

J. C. Owens

He could not ever let him go, but if Anyar were slave no longer, how could Vanyae ensure

that the younger man would stay with him?

The slight frown that had creased his brow disappeared.

They had time. He would show Anyar that there was no place to be other than at his side.

* * * * *

Anyar stared out the window pensively, watching the thick snowflakes fall soundlessly. It

had stormed for three days now, and they had been confined to the palace, which was making

people restless and irritable. He had made sure to stay out of their way, unsure of his position

here.

Others also seemed to have that problem. Vanyae's actions seemed to indicate Anyar was

more than a slave, but…

The uncertainty left everyone unsure how to treat him, and Vanyae seemed to remain

oblivious of the tenuous position into which this put his younger love.

Anyar was not Nazarian, was not one of them—and he had done what no other had ever

managed—hold the prince's heart.

Not that Anyar realized that. On the contrary, he believed that Vanyae would still come to

his senses, and things would return to the way they were before.

* * * * *

The comfort of the stables surrounded the two of them as they stood in their horses'

respective stalls, grooming them into shining contentment. Anyar crooned to the mare, flattering

her and telling her of her great beauty. She preened like the royalty she was, and Vanyae laughed

as he watched. His own stallion leaned into the grooming with little grunts of enjoyment, head

lowered. It was warm here, the sound of the continuing storm muffled.

Anyar cleaned off the brushes carefully, then gasped as he was suddenly pulled off

balance, out of the stall, and into a convenient pile of hay.

He glared up at Vanyae for a moment, then could not help but laugh at the mischievous

expression on the prince's face.

“I think this is a perfect place on a cold day,” Vanyae rumbled as he bent down and

captured Anyar's lips in a long, passionate kiss, holding the younger man's hands over his head.

Wings

Then he delighted in slowly removing each piece of clothing, kissing every inch of

exposed skin. Anyar wriggled, ticklish on his belly and sides, but the prince held him firmly, not

allowing escape.

Vanyae paused to remove his own clothing in haste, then slid lower, engulfing Anyar's

shaft with eager lips.

The younger man arched, moaning, eyes tightly shut, breaking free of Vanyae's loosened

grip so he could sink his fingers into his master's long, soft hair. He stroked it, loving the

sensation of it on his skin. His toes curled, his balls tightened—then the prince stopped, and

Anyar shuddered with the need to come.

Wet fingers slid into him, and he pushed onto them while begging hoarsely for relief and

whimpering with pleasure when something larger made its presence known.

He wrapped his arms around Vanyae, kissing his throat, whispering his name as he

writhed. The prince lifted Anyar's legs, put them over his arms to change the angle, and the

smaller man cried out, pleading, almost sobbing with the sensations that overwhelmed him.

“Please, please…” His voice was choked and high.

Vanyae leaned in close to kiss him, stole his very breath.

“Come, my little love. Come for me.”

Anyar could do nothing else, even as the significance of that one word struck him hard.

* * * * *

Anyar watched Vanyae practice with some of his men. It felt good to be back into martial

exercises, but he had a long way to go to build up his stamina again.

He kept his eyes on the prince and admired his smooth, flowing way of fighting. They had

sparred together earlier, but Anyar could not keep pace and had to sit out to rest, much to his

chagrin.

He frowned, gnawing his lip nervously. Vanyae had not repeated that terrifying word,

thank the gods, and Anyar could try to pretend it had never happened.

The prince could not love him. He was a prisoner, the enemy—

Vanyae had to be joking, cruelly—and yet he seemed sincere, his actions, his every word,

his touch.

J. C. Owens

Anyar drew a shuddering breath and looked down at his clenched fists.

He had to leave—before the feelings in his heart imprisoned him here more surely than

chains ever would.

* * * * *

It took several more days before he learned where Commander Tanyan was being kept. He

had tried several times to get Vanyae to take him to see his fellow countryman, but the prince

refused, and the possessiveness in his eyes pointed to the reason.

So Anyar gathered all the information he could from casual questions of the staff and

overhearing conversations. It sounded as though Tanyan was given free rein of the palace but not

allowed to leave unless under guard. Anyar could only wonder why he had never seen him

during his own excursions. Were they being kept apart?

He thought of Vanyae's responses and could only answer yes.

That night, he lay awake after he and Vanyae had coupled, his thoughts running wild. The

prince lay on his stomach asleep beside Anyar, a faint smile on his lips.

Anyar raised a hand as though to touch him; then he gritted his teeth and silently left the

bed. He dressed swiftly and silently. It was easy enough to find leather ties among Vanyae's

things, and Anyar slowly and gently eased the prince's arms back and bound them. Then his feet.

Vanyae murmured, but he was a sound sleeper, as Anyar well knew, and he soon settled

again.

Heart in his throat, Anyar took a silk cloth and began to work it between the prince's lips.

Heavy sleeper or not, this was too much. Vanyae jerked awake, and Anyar had to swiftly

stuff the cloth into his mouth and tie it tightly behind his head.

The prince struggled to turn, to face his attacker, and his sleep-stunned eyes widened when

he saw Anyar. The disbelief there made the younger man swallow with difficulty before

Vanyae's face hardened with fury and he struggled wildly for long moments.

Anyar felt ill as he watched, saw Vanyae suddenly stop and look at him with an expression

of complete betrayal, not able to disguise the hurt that lay beneath.

The young Melanian reached out with shaking fingers, wishing to comfort him even then,

but the prince jerked back as though at the touch of a viper.

Wings

Anyar's fingers curled into his hand as his heart spasmed, and for that pained moment, he

wanted to simply free his master…explain, have things go back to the way they had been.

He closed his eyes against the tears that wanted to form. There was no going back. The

emotions Vanyae had offered were a sham, an illusion that would be taken back and leave Anyar

with nothing, nothing at all but hollow memories and a shattered heart.

This way he would have the knowledge that at least he had done something to right the

wrong that had been done to his people. To free his commander, to whom he held first loyalty.

He swallowed bile. If only his heart did not sway toward Vanyae, did not scream at him to

forget duty, forget blood, forget anything but how he felt for the prince. Surely…

He took a deep breath and fought back the tears, firmed his jaw as he met Vanyae's cold

eyes.

“I am sorry…Vanyae.” He savored the sound of the name on his tongue for the final time.

“I cannot stay. I love—I want to…but you will turn on me, use me, and I am not strong enough

for that. Not after you have treated me so gently, shown me something else. To take that away,

that I cannot survive. You would destroy me more surely that way than if you had taken my

wings. And perhaps one day you would have done that or sold me or…” He shook his head,

feeling a great coldness spread through his very being. “You never gave me my freedom back;

you never named me other than slave. I cannot trust—”

He cut off then, wondering why he was even trying to explain. There was no understanding

in the prince's glare, only a bitterness and anger at being in a position of helplessness.

Anyar gave a sad smile as he stood.

“Now you know how it feels,” he whispered softly. He did not face his captor again but

found the weapons he needed at various points around the room. He belted them to him with

hands that shook only a little. He paused at the doorway, fighting the longing to go back, then

slipped silently through and into the darkness of the hallway, and closed the door ever so softly

in his wake.

* * * * *

It was not until the dawn that Vanyae was discovered and freed. The fury upon his face

made everyone move from his path with alacrity as he strode to a meeting with his father.

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Tanyan was gone, horses stolen; it was discovered, and Vanyae, flexing his fingers upon

the hilt of his sword, ground his teeth at the news.

The commander and his…companion…would have a good head start on swift horses.

Veslan looked up as his son entered, and he waved his other advisors from the room.

Vanyae went to one knee before his father, a great sense of failure gripping him.

“This is my fault, Father. If I had not been so selfish as to take Anyar in the first place…”

Veslan laid a loving hand on Vanyae's golden hair, slowly cupped his chin, and made him

look up.

“I have seen a different man emerge from the hard shell of who you had become, my son. I

have seen you fall in love and show compassion. In that, you have shown others that same

compassion. Through your eyes and what you have done, you have made an old man like me

think of change.”

He sat back then, looking suddenly tired beyond his years. “Through all these years, we

have been at war with Melan. My father and my father's father had the same trials. I do not think

that the way things have been can any longer be held as reasonable. We hate the Melanians; they

hate the Nazarians. Can there not be proper peace?”

Vanyae stared at him then, concerned at the exhaustion in this indomitable man, laid a

hand on his father's knee. Never had he seen the king so worn, so despondent.

“I am sorry, Father. I have given you grief with my actions, and now…”

“Now they will wage war. They will not let this go. We will have no choice but to meet

them if they come over our borders.” Veslan gave a grim smile. “There will be war, and I will

have done no better than my ancestors at keeping my country safe.”

“Could we not treat with them, Father?” Vanyae questioned hesitantly.

“They will have anger on their side now, fresh atrocities to fuel their hatred. They will not

treat.”

“I am the one they will blame. If I gave myself to them—”

Veslan sat up abruptly, his face blanching, one hand going out to grasp his son's arm.

“You will do no such thing.”

Wings

“If it prevents war…” Vanyae felt despair rise up to swamp his thoughts. Anyar was gone;

perhaps if he gave himself up to Tanyan, his lover would realize how much he needed him…how

much he…loved him. He closed his eyes briefly. He loved Anyar. He truly did. His father was

right.

“We have become a nation of war; we reap what we have sown. The Melanians torture our

people as prisoners, as we torture theirs. Perhaps if we had been gentler…” Veslan shook his

head.

“Whatever might have been is gone now. It is too late.”

Vanyae bowed his head, concurring.

It was far too late.

* * * * *

Having ridden hard through the night, when it was not safe to fly, Tanyan drew to a halt as

the sun rose. Now would the Nazarians come in pursuit; now was the time for they themselves to

fly. It was their only hope.

He glanced at his silent companion, concerned. Anyar had not spoken since rescuing him,

his face cold and blank as Tanyan had never seen it.

He knew the boy had to have undergone horrors, horrors he could guess at, remembering

Vanyae's attraction to the young guard. He did not have the nerve to ask for details.

He dismounted and turned the horse loose, then watched as Anyar did the same. Only then

did he step forward and lay a possessive hand on the younger man's cheek.

“Anyar,” he whispered.

Blank eyes looked up at him, no question in them, only obedience.

The commander leaned forward slowly, giving the boy time to retreat if he wished to, and

laid a soft kiss on Anyar's tempting lips.

For a moment, he thought a response was at hand; then Anyar turned away, breaking the

embrace, unendurable pain in his eyes.

Tanyan looked at him silently for long minutes, then nodded at his own thoughts.

“Can you fly, my boy?”

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Anyar drew a deep, shaky breath. “I can try, sir. They took my flight feathers, but after

almost a year, they might be almost good enough.”

Spreading his huge black wings, he flapped experimentally, a feeling of joy piercing even

the pain in his heart as he felt the lift once more. He jumped and, rising into the air, wanted to

weep with the sense of freedom he had so longed for.

He was not as strong as he used to be, his muscles stiff with lack of use, but he was flying.

Oh gods, he was really flying.

Tanyan joined him, giving him a smile of encouragement, and they headed toward Melan

with all the speed they could muster.

Anyar looked back once, tears in his eyes; then he firmed his jaw and faced forward,

following Tanyan back home.

* * * * *

They reached the border more slowly than Tanyan would have liked, but he would not

leave his young guard behind, and Anyar was faltering. His lack of muscle tone and less-than-

full-grown flight feathers hampered him, and although he bravely soldiered on, Tanyan could see

he was close to collapse.

They landed on the Melanian side, near a border fortress.

Upon sighting them, the Melanian guards approached cautiously, crossbows in hand. But

upon identifying the newcomers, they were shocked and gladdened to discover their commander

had returned to them.

There was much celebration as he and his young companion were ushered inside the

protecting walls, safe at last.

They feasted that night, and Tanyan felt the tensions and fears of the last year begin to fade

with his own people surrounding him. Not that he had been mistreated in any way, but the worry

of the future and of what this meant for his people had worn on him. Not to mention that he had

had few freedoms and had not been able to persuade his captors to allow him access to Anyar.

He had not seen nor heard of the young guard in all his time there, and it had been a great

concern to him.

He glanced at the young man sitting beside him in a place of honor.

Wings

Anyar's face was pale, and although he smiled when people spoke to him and tried to seem

happy, Tanyan noted there was only pain in his eyes, a great weariness bowing his shoulders.

This was not a happy man, not one who was joyful at escaping.

What had happened back in Nazar? What horrors did he hold in his mind?

He wished he knew how to help, but perhaps in time Anyar would open to him again.

Perhaps they could continue what had been brutally sundered when they were captured together.

He had only to give the boy time and space to heal, and he would aid him in any way needed.

He turned back to the wine and conversation, and it was some while before he noticed that

Anyar had left the table and was nowhere to be seen.

Anyar sat on the great stone wall, away from the pacing guards. From this height, he could

see far, over the border, back toward Nazar. He wondered with a sort of dim despair what was

wrong with him. He was not looking forward to returning to his home in Cewa; he was not

looking forward to anything. Only a loneliness and despair that seemed to make everything

irrelevant, useless. What was wrong with him that he could not get Vanyae out of his mind?

After all the wrongs done to him, he should feel a great joy at being free, at being his own man

again, and yet—

There was nothing but cold and pain in his heart.

* * * * *

Deep mental and physical exhaustion led Anyar to sleep far into the morning, and so he

knew nothing of the happenings outside until Tanyan knocked and entered the small, bare room

assigned to the young guard.

Anyar leaned up on one elbow, trying to regain enough sense to understand what the

commander was telling him.

Melanian forces had gathered, and two days hence would see them cross into Nazar.

Prince Vanyae and his forces had been sighted on the border not far from the fortress.

There would be war.

Anyar could only stare at his commander with puzzled eyes.

J. C. Owens

“But why?” he managed to say finally, completely confused. “They said they wished a

cessation of hostilities. Why would we go this far?”

Tanyan was silent for long moments and watched the younger man's eyes for clues. What

he saw there made his lips thin and his fist clench.

“This is personal to us all, Anyar. We have had enough of Nazarian threats. Vanyae refuses

to give ground. He says that he will meet us face-to-face if needed, but he will not allow us to

enter Nazar.” He paused then, a certain hint of jealousy in his eyes. “I saw his face when he

made his speech. He wants you back.”

Anyar flushed slightly and looked away. “He misses his slave; that is all.” The bitterness in

his tone jarred even him.

Tanyan considered the words, his eyes never leaving the young guard's face.

“You have not been happy, Anyar. You do not seem pleased at your own escape. I get the

impression that you did this more for me than for yourself. Do you have feelings for this man?”

The flush deepened, and Anyar could not look at his companion.

“He was kind to me, in his own way.”

Tanyan remained silent, listening.

“But he was also cruel—” The confusion and despair in the young man's voice tore at

Tanyan.

He laid a gentle hand on a trembling arm. “I will not give you back to him, Anyar. You are

safe here. In time you will heal, forget him. The men look to you as a symbol of what Nazar is,

what cruelty they impart.”

Anyar looked up at him, disbelief large in his expression. “I will not be the cause of war,

sir. I am not worth that.”

“You are worth that and more, my boy. The army needs something like this to stir them,

get them ready to attack.”

“But Nazar did nothing during the time we were held captive. Surely if they wanted

war—”

Wings

Tanyan snorted. “They probably were only recouping their military numbers. They will

resume hostilities, and you will see, my boy. They will suffer for what they did to you, especially

the prince.”

“But, sir—”

The commander leaned forward and laid silencing lips over the younger man's, kissing him

thoroughly before reluctantly leaning back.

Anyar looked dazed, and Tanyan smiled and stroked his cheek. “You are my responsibility

now, Anyar. I will take care of you. You will see. Rest now; you need more sleep. I will see to

this; you need not worry.” He straightened with a smile, then left the room with a last lingering

look, closing the door softly in his wake.

Anyar put shaking fingers to his lips.

Why had Tanyan's kiss done nothing for him? No rush of passion, no desire to be closer to

the other man, nothing. Where had the need and want of a year before gone?

The answer was obvious, though he wished fervently for it to be otherwise.

Someone else held his heart.

* * * * *

Tensions rose in the fortress over the next two days, and Anyar felt the burden of guilt

come over him as he watched the grim faces of the soldiers, many of them glancing at him

sidelong as he walked by. He did not know if they were blaming him or seeing him as a martyr,

but his own heart rejected both.

For the sake of one man, this war did not need to be. He did not agree with Tanyan's

assessment of the situation. The Nazarians had not attacked any Melanian territory during the

forced truce. They would have had the upper hand with Melan's commander under their thumb,

yet all they had done was enforce peace.

Anyar did not wish to be the cause of that peace failing.

But he could not bear the thought of returning to slavery. The humiliation and pain of his

time with Vanyae were etched deeply into his mind and heart, and yet—

J. C. Owens

For that short time, there had been something else, something…special between them.

Something more. Almost friends, lovers, companions. If only it could be that way forever. If he

knew that to be true, possible, he would return in a moment, never to leave Vanyae's side.

But that was only a foolish wish, a fantasy.

Returning would only destroy any illusions utterly as his master punished him for his

escape.

There could be no returning to what was, and at that moment, he could see no future,

certainly not with Tanyan, who he could only hurt.

* * * * *

Two days later Tanyan rode out with his army at his back to meet the Nazarians. Tensions

were high on both sides, but especially between Tanyan and Vanyae, who sat staring at each

other in cold silence for long moments before either would deign to speak.

It was Tanyan who finally broke the silence.

“Will you give way before us? Otherwise there will be battle.”

Vanyae gave a grim smile. “I will not hand my country over to you.” He paused, let his

voice sink to a gentler tone. “Do not do this. There can be peace between our peoples given half

a chance. Do not lose lives for little gain.”

“You yourself have made this so. You and your actions.” Tanyan's voice held nothing but

hatred.

“If I gave myself to you, surrendered myself, would you cease this attack?” Vanyae's voice

was weary and toneless. “Would that give you the revenge you seek? Would that heal Anyar?”

Tanyan sat back in his saddle, stunned by the offer.

This was nothing he had expected.

He stared into the other man's eyes and saw only truth. In that moment he knew that the

prince loved Anyar. This was why the boy grieved. Tanyan's eyes hardened, his hand clenched

over the pommel of his sword.

Anyar was his. Had been his from the beginning.

This enemy had no part of that.

Wings

“If you give yourself over, I will call off the army. There will be truce.” He felt the

eagerness in himself, the need to eliminate this rival, this embodiment of all he hated of Nazar.

Vanyae nodded, only that, and dismounted despite the pleas of his men to reconsider.

Vanyae ordered them into silence, then removed his armor piece by piece until he stood

unprotected before his executioner.

Without perceivable reluctance, he came before Tanyan and slowly knelt upon the ground,

his proud neck bowed, waiting for the kiss of the sword.

Tanyan dismounted, drawing his blade, eyes alight with fervor.

It was then they heard the faint cry. Recognizing that young voice, both Vanyae and

Tanyan turned, watching in confusion and concern as a figure flew from the fortress, black wings

rising into the morning sky.

Anyar came before them, stumbling at his landing, incredulous eyes taking in the scene

before him, the obvious implications.

“How could you?” he breathed, staring at Tanyan disbelievingly. “I thought you a leader,

not a murderer. Is this all there is? We kill them; they kill us?” His eyes swept all the men before

him, landed on Vanyae's kneeling figure. “Can there be no more than this?”

The prince and he stared at each other for long moments, and tears rose up in the younger

man's eyes before he turned back to his mentor.

“There will never be peace until someone has the courage to step forward and make it so.

This man offers himself to stop the bloodshed, yet you will perpetuate it.”

Tanyan took a step toward him, pain in his expression as the young guard backed away. “I

do this for you, Anyar.”

“I will not be the cause of a death! Any death! This will not be in my name!” Anyar's voice

broke. “You do not do any of this for me; you do it for yourself.”

He backed away another step, wild pain in his eyes. “I will not be a part of this. You will

not use me; no one will ever use me again!”

His wings spread, and he leapt…

Anyar kept flying straight up, massive wings swift and determined…and suddenly Vanyae

knew.

J. C. Owens

Vanyae gave a sharp sound, almost a cry of denial, then stood and flung open his own

wings, launching into the air in pursuit.

Tanyan could only stand there, shocked. Once again the look on his enemy's face had said

it all. Whether the prince knew it or not, he loved the boy with all he was.

Tanyan knew then, as he remembered Anyar's behavior since their escape, that the boy felt

the same.

And now…

He motioned to his men to follow as he took to the air. He now knew what Anyar was

doing but could not stop it. He could only watch—and await what could only be a tragic

outcome.

Anyar felt his breath becoming harsh with effort as he went higher. This was farther than

he had ever been, and he knew now why the instructors gave them such stringent warnings. The

air grew thin, his senses beginning to swim. Still, he strove, eyes on the clouds above, so very

close that it seemed he could touch—

He faltered a little, thought he heard a faint shout from below, but kept his attention on his

destination, his purpose. It was quiet here; there was only his breath, the rush of air past his ears,

and the rhythmic beat of his mighty wings. His heart pounded in his chest, harder and harder as

his lungs sought air that was increasingly scarce.

This was the answer. This was the way out of everything. If he took his own life, then he

could not be used. Not by Vanyae, not by Tanyan. No one could say that he was the cause of a

war. He did not have to make a choice between his people and the man he loved—

A tear streaked across his cheek as the thought took form, a thought he could no longer

deny.

He loved Vanyae. Stupidly, unbelievably, completely. It made no sense, and yet it simply

was. There was no future in it, no hope. He could not go home; he could not go back to where his

heart wished. There was nothing.

He gasped as his lungs spasmed; his senses whirled, so that his wing beats faltered—then

simply stopped.

Wings

He felt himself fall, felt the wind and the sense of utter freedom.

As his mind fell into darkness, he smiled…

J. C. Owens

Chapter Nine

Vanyae sat on the windowsill and stared out at the rain with unseeing eyes. The weather

suited his mood perfectly, and he leaned his forehead against the glass, relishing its cold comfort,

closing his eyes in weary resignation.

The door opened and closed softly, but he did not bother to open his eyes. He knew those

footsteps well, and he did not flinch or startle as his father laid a powerful hand on his shoulder.

“You need to rest, my son. You do not eat nor sleep. You cannot go on this way.”

The prince leaned back, letting his father take his weight for long moments, wanting for

that time to feel like a child again, like everything would be all right if his father said so.

The king stroked his hair gently, feeling the need in his son for something simple and

clear, easy to understand.

They stayed just so for some time, taking comfort from each other's presence.

“Your men ask after you,” the king finally murmured. “They are concerned.”

Vanyae nodded vaguely, too weary to answer the unspoken question of when he could

return to his life.

He took his father's hand and kissed the back of it, drawing a deep breath.

“Soon, Father. Tell them 'soon.' Not just yet. It takes time.”

The king nodded sympathetically, not pushing. He tugged his son up to his feet.

“You will sleep. You cannot continue this way, and it does no good to be so weary. You

cannot function, Vanyae. Do this for me, if not for yourself.”

The prince nodded numbly and allowed his father to guide him across the room to the vast

bed.

He stripped off his clothes with the king's help, his movements slow and worn, like one

without life. At last he lay back, slowly and stiffly. Carefully.

Wings

Veslan covered his son with the thick covers and tucked him in. Ensuring that there was

water by the bed and that the fire was stoked for the night, he laid a last kiss on Vanyae's

forehead, then quietly left the room with hope that the morning might bring better things for

them all.

Vanyae lay unmoving, but tired though he was, he could not seem to shut off his mind, and

he sighed with weary resignation. Sleep would not come to him yet again.

A faint sound from beside him made him freeze, his eyes flying open. He turned

cautiously, almost holding his breath.

It came again, a faint murmur, a whisper of sound from parted lips.

He leaned over, trembling fingers rising to trace beloved features, hope flaming in his

heart.

Golden eyes slowly fluttered open, dazed and confused. They finally focused on Vanyae,

and he held his breath, hoping…fearing that they would hold hate or disgust or—

Instead tears rose to make the gold shimmer, and Vanyae moved closer, his hands framing

the younger man's face, gentle lips kissing away the wetness as it began to trail down pale

cheeks.

“Vanyae…” The voice was faint and hoarse. “Master…”

The prince smiled, though his lips thinned with the effort to control all he felt.

“No, Anyar. Not master. Lover, companion, friend—all those and more, but never master

again. You are not slave but beloved.” His own tears rose, and Anyar's fingers touched them in

wonder.

“How…?” Anyar licked his lips weakly. “I died.”

Vanyae shook his head, bending to kiss those lips. “I caught you, my love. We both fell.

We hit some trees. You struck your head, and the physician was worried you would never wake.

It has been almost two weeks.”

Anyar blinked dazedly, trying to understand. Only then did he see the splint and bandage

on the prince's right wing.

J. C. Owens

The sudden concern in the younger man's face made Vanyae's eyes lighten briefly. “I broke

my wing.” At the horror in his lover's face, he spoke soothingly. “It will heal well, they say. Do

not fret, little one. I will be fine.”

Anyar subsided, though he let shaking fingers touch the bandage, as though to assure

himself.

Vanyae caught Anyar's eyes with his own. “I have not left your side, my love. I could not.”

He swallowed hard. “I have been such a fool, Anyar. Treated you so very badly. I did not

understand what I had, what I felt. Please forgive me. Please stay.”

The desperation in his voice touched Anyar deeply, and he laid his fingers on the prince's

lips to halt the flow of words.

“The war?” This most important of topics made his breath quicken.

Vanyae gave a chastened grimace.

“Tanyan saw how I felt. I was not exactly subtle. He was grudging, but he seems to truly

feel for you.” Vanyae stiffened a little, and a hint of jealousy entered his expression. “He told me

that if I ever hurt you, ever treated you ill, there would be a war.” There was a faint wonder then

in his voice. “He called his men back.”

Anyar closed his eyes for a brief moment, feeling both a sadness at never seeing Tanyan

again and a resignation that it had never been meant to be.

“You love me?” He could only whisper the words, so daunting were they to say.

Vanyae kissed him, and it was there in his touch.

The prince stroked his hair, tried to smile, though faint tears shone in his eyes. “I cannot

change the way things are here in a day, my love, but together… Maybe one day there will be no

slaves at all, only freedom. You and I, we can start this. I will start it with you. You are free,

totally free.” He swallowed hard. “I hope you want to stay, want me…”

Anyar struggled to one elbow, needing to reciprocate, needing to show—

Vanyae grinned, surprised and pleased by Anyar's sudden aggression as he pushed the

prince to his back.

His weakness overcome by need, Anyar leaned over his prize, kissing, licking, tasting

every inch of the pale skin before him.

Wings

Vanyae moaned, one hand stroking his lover's soft, dark hair, while the other fisted in the

covers, clenching and relaxing with each touch.

The younger man spent much time over sensitive nipples, loving the way the prince

writhed under the suckling, his breath beginning to come hard and fast.

But Anyar wanted more.

He kissed his way down and gave a loving lick to the huge shaft before him, his own

passion rising as he watched it jump and thicken further. Then he slid across the supine body,

pushing himself up to straddle his lover, his arms somewhat shaky as he braced himself on that

powerful chest.

Vanyae watched him, green eyes alight, and put out a hand to steady his mate. “We do not

have to…”

Anyar shook his head. “I need to. I want to make you mine. Want you to make me yours.

We need this.”

The prince nodded and reached over to the small table by the bed and pulled oil from its

drawer.

Vanyae's own hands less than steady, he poured some over his fingers and reached around

Anyar to press against the sweet entrance to his lover's body.

He pushed in with one finger, his breath catching as he watched Anyar arch with pleasure,

a moan escaping his parted lips. A few gentle thrusts, then two fingers.

Anyar leaned forward and kissed his prince's lips while pushing his hips back to meet the

fingers that slid in and out of his body, sending sparks shooting through his nerves with each

stroke.

Three had him throwing his head back, tightening on them, cries of pleasure filling the

room with sound.

Anyar could take no more. Pulling from the too-slow fingers, he put a hand behind him

and positioned Vanyae's rock-hard shaft. With a sharp cry, he let his weight take him down,

encasing the huge spear with one thrust.

Vanyae arched beneath him, a cry of his own echoing Anyar's.

J. C. Owens

Hardly taking a breath, Anyar began to ride his prince hard, whimpering at the

pleasure/pain, loving the feel of being utterly filled, his body struggling to take such a large

intruder. Each movement brushed that pleasure spot within, making his body shudder and writhe,

his toes curl with sensation.

Vanyae held his hips, beginning to pump up as Anyar rode down, and they shook with the

force of their passion, sweat beginning to trickle down their bodies.

Faster, faster, soft cries and whimpers, gasps and moans, higher and higher, balls drawing

up tight and hard to the point of pain, breath suspended until they thought they could not go

another moment—then they screamed in unison. They flew, together, as one.

Anyar collapsed to his lover's chest, replete, dazed, content in some deep part of him,

feeling Vanyae's lips on his temple.

“My little one,” the prince murmured, a smile in his voice. “I think that would have made

even our ancestors proud.”

Anyar laughed and drew his mate close, black and white wings mingling.

Loose Id(R) Titles by J. C. Owens

Gaven

Wings

J. C. Owens

J. C. Owens originally wrote historical fiction, and with three published books still loves

the genre. Having discovered the art of writing erotic male/male fiction, though, J. C. is now

obsessed with it. Fantasy backdrops make a beautifully blank page to work with and J. C. only

wishes that the characters were real!

J.C. spent many years in a medieval re-enactment group, learning and living history, and

that persona and experience give life to J.C’s writings. Love of even more ancient history

spurred trips to Italy, Greece, Turkey and Egypt, and that also colors the characters and worlds of

the books.

Love of ferrets and greyhounds and all living creatures is the pivotal point around which

J.C’s “real” life revolves.

Most of all, J.C. loves to tell stories…

Document Outline

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Loose Id(R) Titles by J. C. Owens
J. C. Owens

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