For the second time in as many days, Seth carried Max's unconscious body to the bed. This time, however, the slave got no pleasure whatsoever from the action, no faint stirring in his groin at the feel of Max's slender body held close in his arms. This time, Seth felt only worry and building anger.

It was obvious what had happened -- Max had made his fixation on Christopher Lefebvre quite clear, and the man had a reputation for abusing his Keys -- but Seth had trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that Lefebvre had dared to hurt another Master, while on the Palace grounds. No Master was supposed to come to harm here, that was the unspoken rule that no one broke.

The blood staining Max's dress drove home the fact that someone had broken that rule, though, and Seth turned his thoughts towards getting his Master taken care of. Everything else would have to wait.

Quickly, but gently, the slave stripped Max, tossing the ruined dress and panties onto the floor and carefully putting aside the expensive corset. After fetching a bowl of warm water and a few towels, Seth began to clean the drying blood off of his long-haired Master's pale skin.

Eventually, it became clear that Max's physical injuries were not so bad as the quantity of blood had made them seem, and Seth felt more confident in his decision not to call for medical assistance yet. Nobody would know about this unless Max wanted them to.

Loath to go through his Master's things without permission, Seth settled for dressing Max in one of his own filmy shirts, which was large enough to reach mid-thigh on the smaller man, and thus would serve well enough as pyjamas for now. The insensible teenager made a soft sound of distress as the slave lifted him again, then quieted at Seth's soothing murmur. Gently, the pale-haired slave tucked Max into bed.

That done, Seth began to pace the room restlessly, anger finally overwhelming worry, now that the violet-eyed boy was proved to be of reasonably sound body, and in no immediate danger. <<He hurt Max. That son of a bitch hurt my Max. He sullied the sanctity of the Palace with his violence. He completely ruined my plans. If Max doesn't want to go to the authorities...>> The slave's icy eyes were drawn to his antique rapier and he snarled silently <<Then I'll take care of it myself.>>

*****

The pain was what woke Duo -- the low, nagging ache that could only come from one source. Memory followed close on the heels of awareness, and the long-haired pilot hissed softly, then opened his blue-violet eyes.

Seth was nearby, sitting on the bed, but not invading Duo's personal space. A wise move, all things considered. The slave smiled encouragingly and asked in a calm, soothing voice, "How are you feeling?"

Duo chuckled bitterly and sat up a little, another faint hiss of pain escaping his lips before he could stop it. Seth tried to convince him to lie back down, but Duo waved him off, needing to move around a little in order to determine just how badly he was hurt; upon discovering that he was sore but perfectly capable of functioning, he replied, "I'm okay." Looking around, Deathscythe's pilot noted the complete lack of medical paraphernalia. "You didn't call a doctor."

The slave shrugged, his easy manner not masking his genuine concern. "You didn't seem to be badly hurt, and I didn't know if you'd want anyone to know what happened, Master."

"Good." Duo brushed his hair out of his eyes and frowned thoughtfully, considering his next course of action.

*****

It took most of his considerable willpower for Seth to keep himself from scowling. Max was not acting like any rape victim the jaded slave had ever seen -- and he'd seen a lot, in his time here. The brooding silence, the closed expression, these were things Seth had seen before, but in the past he had always been able to feel the current of fear or self-loathing running beneath the calm facade. This time, it didn't seem like a facade at all; it was as if the victim truly wasn't feeling any pain, physical or otherwise.

With the utmost caution, Seth moved closer to his Master, making sure to keep his bearing as non-threatening as humanly possible. Max looked up, and the pale slave stared deep into the younger man's huge eyes, searching for some sort of reaction that he could understand. Nothing could have prepared him for what he found.

Rage filled Max's eyes; a palpable force that nearly made Seth recoil in fear. Only the fact that it was not directed at him kept him sitting where he was, a mere arm's length from the dark, fey creature that his Master had become. For a moment Seth was unable to move, trapped by the inferno raging within those amethystine eyes, then Max turned his face away slightly and the spell was broken. A few deep breaths later, the slave's ever-present equanimity resurfaced and he was able to rest a hand on his Master's shoulder and ask coaxingly, "Do you want me to run you a hot bath? It might soothe out the aches a little."

Max's curt nod was enough for Seth, so the slave hurried into the bathroom, sitting down on the edge of the tub as he turned on the water. <<Shiiiit. What the hell was that? And, more importantly, which is the real Max? The shy, adorable, gender-confused boy who arrived here, or the living, breathing incarnation of Vengeance that's sitting out on the bed right now?>>

*****

Steam rose off the surface of the bath water and curled its lazy way towards the ceiling, vanishing before it got very far.

It seemed to Duo that the steam must be carrying both his pain and his anger with it, for after only a few minutes in the tub the American felt the rage loosen its stranglehold on his mind, then the dull aches of strained muscles and the sharp, nagging pain between his legs melted away soon after.

While the surcease of physical pain was a blessing, Duo found himself longing for the unthinking fury to return, as it had kept his other demons at bay. But now, with the anger ebbing away and the warmth of the tub lulling him to sleep, the violet-eyed pilot began to dread the dreams that would come once he closed his eyes.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Admit it, you're not a Gundam pilot."

Duo twitched and raised an eyebrow, replying dryly, "Not too bright, are you?"

The soldier snorted and gripped the base of his captive's braid, pulling down until the boy was forced to look up at him. "You're too pretty to be a soldier. You must be the Gundam pilot's bitch," the OZ flunky said acidly, leaning in so close that Duo could smell the faint trace of alcohol on his breath.

"They let you drink on the job? No wonder we keep kicking your asses." That crack earned Duo another blow to the head, possibly the fifth of the day, possibly the tenth. He'd lost track. But this was the blow that finally did him in, so to speak, and he slumped in his bonds, dizzy and stunned.

Everything after that was a blur, and the part of Duo's mind that was aware that he was dreaming knew that the head injury was not entirely to blame for the vagueness of these memories. His mind simply shied away from the knowledge, reducing the events of that night to scattered and unrelated details -- the rhythmic grunts of the man behind him, the feel of the table edge digging painfully into the tops of his thighs, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth when he bit through his lip, the scream welling up in his throat, but never quite escaping, stopped short by shattered pride and desperate obstinacy.

The clearest memory the American boy had of his... (even in dreams, even now, Duo shied away from the word, automatically replacing it before it was even a fully formed thought) captivity was of that same blond soldier leaning down over him, patting his head like one would pet a fondly regarded family pet, and purring, "Such a good little bitch."

Except now it wasn't that blond soldier who loomed over him, it was Christopher Lefebvre, and he wasn't grinning smugly, he was laughing outright, reaching for Duo...

~~~~~~~~~~

Tepid water escaped the tub in a mini tsunami as the young bather sat up sharply, a scream dying stillborn in his throat.

For a long moment, all Duo could do was sit there, panting and staring at the wall. Finally, when the water had lost the last of whatever heat it had once held, the longhaired youth got out, his movements jerky and stiff. The soaked bathmat squished unpleasantly beneath his feet when he stood on it, and he clung to that sensation, focused on the immediate reality of toes, then feet, legs... until the unalterable solidity of his own body chased away the lingering bits of the nightmare.

Pulling on a warm bathrobe and some fuzzy slippers, the shaken pilot shuffled over to the mirror, staring blankly at his haggard reflection. Remembering, even though he didn't want to.

Six months. That... incident had cost him six months of his life. Six months of jumping at shadows, of sleepless nights, lying in bed sticky with sweat and feeling dirty inside and out. Six months of practicing his smile in the mirror every morning, until he was sure it was perfect, so that no one would know, no one would ask questions he couldn't bring himself to answer -- and yet one part of him wishing all the while that someone would know, would figure it out, would offer... comfort? Or maybe it was forgiveness he wanted.

Even once he could face the night alone again, it was another four long months before Duo could even imagine being tempted by a man, could even dream of wanting... sex. And he knew it would have been much, much longer than that if he had been a virgin when he was... when it happened. But he knew well how good it could be, when one's partner cared and was willing to put the effort into making it pleasurable for both people; that knowledge helped. A little.

The dreams, though... those had never let him go. Some nights he feared they never would.

Staring into the mirror, Duo felt the rage begin to build again, and he welcomed it with open arms. The fear and the pain disappeared from his face, to be replaced with a cold, set expression that even Heero would envy. The uncertainty left his eyes, to be replaced with a rage that burned violet, its flames reaching out hungrily, threatening to consume any who stood in his way.

Blood trickled down Duo's fingers, dripping quietly onto the floor, his fist clenched so tightly that his short nails had bit deeply into his skin. That fist lifted, slammed into the mirror with enough force to not only shatter the glass and smash the wooden frame to kindling, but to dent the plaster wall behind it.