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Privileged	By : NihilEtNemo Category: +. to F > Escaflowne Views: 1703 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Escaflowne, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Chapter 1
- 2-Chapter 2
- 1
- 2
TITLE: Privileged�� AUTHOR: setosgirl

DATE: 6-8-06�� FANDOM: Escaflowne�� DISCLAIMER: I don�t own Escaflowne.

PAIRINGS: ??/Folken�� TYPE:� angst�� OCs:
kidnappers & owners

CHAPTER:� 2 / ??�� RATING: PG-13�� WORDS: �4,364

WARNINGS:� none

SUMMARY: What if Folken wasn�t found by
Emperor Dornkirk and his Zaibach
lackeys, but someone else entirely? What if he were forced
to live on, not as a scientist, but as a slave? Is he lucky to be alive at all?

~~~~~~~~~~

Privileged

Chapter 2

The one
who had mended his wound, as far as possible, seemed to have taken charge of him.
As though he were a pet, who needed a keeper� He was
the only one who would feed him, who gave him water when he needed it � and he
always seemed to know without being told; lucky,
because Folken couldn�t tell him. He was the one who stayed almost constantly
by his side and kept an eye on him to make sure he didn�t run off. If Folken
got too weak to walk or was holding up their progress, he would grab him like a
bag and sling him over his shoulder to carry him. Folken tried not to get too
weak to walk.

He was
by no means kind, but at least he was constant. The others all tended to ignore
him, unless it was to give him an order. All of a sudden� now that he couldn�t
speak� it seemed they forgot that he could hear, or that he was even there.

He
understood now. He was to be sold as a slave. He knew
he would be no good for manual labor� he was a cripple. He was a mute,
one-armed, cursed Draconian freak; the only possible life for him was as a poor
man�s sex slave, to be sold or killed when he could
afford something better. He had no illusions on this point.

He knew
barely the first thing about sex; they didn�t care. He was under no illusions
on this point either. They were only looking for a quick couple hundred coin�
they couldn�t care less about him. He wouldn�t have even wasted his breath
begging them not to if he had a voice to beg with.

Being half Draconian, he had wings. He could fly. He would have
considered trying to fly away from them� if he could see a point. There was
simply no reason, though. He was certain they were in Asturia
by now, and he wasn�t certain which was the appropriate direction to get back
to Fanelia; no one would recognize him by sight, and
he couldn�t tell them who he was, and he honestly could not write a word with
his left hand.� He
was completely cut off from the world. For him to go
unrecognized, and yet be a Draconian, would be far worse than being sold on the
slave block; the people would torture and kill him. People did not like Draconians.

His
wound � his missing arm � was not getting infected. He
wasn�t much surprised by this; not only was his Draconian blood working against
it, but the dragon�s saliva and whatever it contained; he was fairly well safe.
From that, at least.

He
stumbled slightly and ran his remaining hand through his blue-green hair,
glancing up at the group several yards in front of him. The four of them didn�t
appear to have noticed, though the one who was his keeper was watching him
impatiently. He sighed a little and lowered his eyes to the path they were
following, trudging after them. They should stop soon for the night. They would
have him gather their firewood, and then he would get a little food and then
they would ignore him, while he hunkered down at the edge of the fire and they
talked and drank and eventually went to sleep. Except for one�
there was always one of them awake to watch him.

�Stop
here for the night.�

Folken
looked up as the leader called a halt to them, and
wordlessly � of course, he never did anything any other way these days � moved
into the forest to gather their wood. There was one of the men with him, kind
of, but he had done his job flawlessly with no further attempts at escape so
far, and he wasn�t watched particularly closely. That
wasn�t saying that his eyes weren�t peeled; he was
always on the lookout for an escape, but there hadn�t been an opportunity, and
he didn�t know for sure what he�d do if there was� Even this was better than
death.

It
wasn�t easy to gather wood with only one hand, his off hand. He moved mostly
unnoticed in and out of camp when he couldn�t hold any more, depositing what he
had near the center where a hasty pit had been set up. At least they didn�t
expect him to start the fire; there was no way he would have been able to.

�One
more load,� the one setting up the fire told him without looking; he didn�t
acknowledge what he said, but went back into the forest once more. The one
watching him was off taking a piss break, he noticed vaguely as he passed the tree
where he�d been standing. The watch was lax.

He
didn�t realize until he�d made the decision and took one last glance over his
shoulder, then darted away, nearly silently, that he was even thinking about
escape. Suddenly, though, it was the most important thing in the world, to get
away from them, to be free, go home�

It was so long before he heard them following that he dared to
nurture the hope that they didn�t realize he was going. Then he finally heard
them, but it didn�t really matter; he finally had a chance, the first
and perhaps last, to get home. He wasn�t going to waste it.

He�d
never thought a missing arm would throw off his ability to run, but he lost
count of the number of times he almost fell over, or stumbled into a tree. That
didn�t matter either, because he was fairly certain he
could get away, if he just tried hard enough. He could hear perfectly where
they were as they followed him. He just had to avoid them�

There
was a clearing in the trees; he struggled with his one hand and pulled his
shirt off as he ran, discarding it into the trees and closing his eyes as he
broke the cover, out into the empty space. Pain rippled through him, filling
him from a point in the middle of his back, right between his shoulder blades, then spreading outward. Hesitant touches of feathers on his
back, arms, shoulders, then his wings were free. He
opened his eyes to see glowing feathers � still white, he was still going to
live � falling around him, disappearing just before they hit the ground. His
long wings beat in the air, pushing him off the ground.

There
was the wonderful, shameful sense of freedom that came every time he used his
forbidden wings to fly, just for fun, but intensified now that he was actually
using them to assure his own freedom, to get away from a situation in which he
was captive.

Then he
was above the trees, covered in sunlight and watching the ground fall away
beneath him. He was out of their reach. He was lost, and he was alone, but he
was free.

Surprisingly,
it was easier to fly with only one arm than it was to run. Behind him, from the
way he�d come, the direction the group had been heading, he could see where the
trees tapered off into civilization, Asturia by the
looks of it. Ahead, the trees seemed to go on forever; he began to go higher to
see if he could see anything.

Something
whistled by right below him; he barely realized it was an arrow in time to
avoid the next one, climbing higher in hopes of getting out of their range.

Sharp
agony exploded in one of his wings; if he�d had a voice, he was sure he would
have screamed. Before he could even breathe from the pain, he was tumbling
toward the ground, instinctively folding around himself, into a ball. His wings
exploded into pain as he tumbled through the trees, but they protected the rest
of him. He felt feathers ripped out, the sensitive skin gouged, delicate bones
strained nearly to heir limits. It was all he could do to lie there in a
defeated heap on the ground, covered by his wings, shuddering in pain and
trying not to pass out, breathing deeply and holding back the tears of pain. He
had never felt agony anything like that, not even his arm being
ripped off�

He
knew, somewhere in his mind where he could still think, that he should get up
and run, that he still might be able to think, but there was no way. He
couldn�t even move, let alone run.

He
didn�t know how long he lay there, but he heard the men coming long before they
arrived, and still couldn�t move. The pain was consuming him; he�d never
realized before how sensitive his wings were, how much they�d hurt if they were
injured� he�d always tried not to pay attention to them. This was torture�

�There
he is.� And still he couldn�t move, only cry out
silently as they dragged him to him feet, yanking roughly on his wings to get
them out of the way. He noticed, barely, that the feathers that fell around him
were still white, but he could barely care anymore.

�We
should break his wings,� said one of the ones holding him up. �Then he won�t be
able to try that again.�

He
shuddered violently and shook his head, begging them silently, though his eyes were still focused on the ground. No�
they couldn�t. He would die if they did that, he knew it. He would just die.

�No.�
This was the leader. �Nobody�d buy him with broken
wings. Here, gimme that.�

Folken
didn�t look up. He didn�t really care anymore, if they weren�t going to break
his wings. He didn�t even care that the only reason was so that they could make
more money when they sold him.

Then
his wings were wrenched backward, making him try to
cry out again, and tightly bound together, folded, so that they couldn�t be
moved at all. The rope bit into the skin, crushing feathers, putting pressure
on the thin bones. He wanted to tell them to stop, that he couldn�t take the
pain, but he had no voice to beg them with�

He
couldn�t walk, and they dragged him along in a haze of pain, back to their
camp. He was dumped beside a tree, and his wings tried
to move to cover him, but they were painfully bound and only succeeded in
hurting themselves more.

He
realized that he wouldn�t have another chance to escape, and it was that
realization that made the silent tears impossible to choke back.

�Get
rid of them.�

He
looked up, his hand absently rubbing at the torn-off wound of his other
shoulder, easing the itch that he knew meant healing but hated anyway,
exacerbating the sharp ache. His wings flared and flapped slightly behind him,
stretching. They�d been bound for three days.

�I said
get rid of them!� The man hit him across the face, making him stumble and have
to catch himself on the ground with his hand, wings flared. Only then did he
realize that the man was talking about his wings, and he looked up, then back
at the ground, closing his eyes and concentrating as the pain flared again and
his wings folded and disappeared back inside of him, nearly as unbearable as
the pain of bringing them out.

�Good.�
He was pulled back to his feet and pushed ahead, in the
middle of the group of mercenaries. He wasn�t sure what was going on,
but� whatever. It wasn�t as though he could do anything about it anyway.

�Hey!�

He
looked up. They were approaching a group of ancient-looking wagon. They were covered in bright material, making them look like a
fair or something, but he could se the shape of them, and he knew that there
were cages under the bright material. This was the slaver to whom he was to be sold, then.

The man
who slid of the lead wagon � which he wasn�t driving, rather being chauffeured �
was tall, wide, and almost completely round. His face had the pitiful scraps of
about three days� worth of beard, looking as though it were
meticulously groomed to always be that way. His clothes were fine and
obviously expensive, and he wore several rings on most of his fingers. Folken
wasn�t sure if the main impression was more of excess wealth, as the man had
obviously hoped, or pompous decadence.

�Can I
help you gentlemen this evening?�

Folken
looked away, inspecting the caravan. There were five wagons, three with cages, the lead one that the owner had been riding on, and one at
the rear that he supposed held the food and supplies for them all. There were a
dozen or so men walking around the caravan, guiding the beast on and making
them all stay in line. They would protect it, too, Folken guessed, by the way
they were all armed to the teeth and regarded the new
group darkly.

�I
think so.� That was the leader of the little band of mercenaries by whom he was surrounded. He looked back at him, mostly only able to
see the back of his bushy head. His eyes were drawn down to his waist, where he
was fingering the sword he had stolen again. He wasn�t sure if he did that just
to taunt him, or because he really liked it that much, but he ached to take it
back�

And get himself
killed for trying. He left it alone.

�Well,
what can I help you with?� The greedy blob of a slaver was actually clasping
his hands, gold coins falling behind his eyes. Looking at him, and the quick,
skulking movements he made, it was hard to remember that he was well over six
feet tall; anyone who moved and acted that way was automatically a ferret-like
five feet in Folken�s mind. �Men of the road you are� you need a pleasurer, perhaps? I have some wonderful girls�� He eyed
Folken himself, for the first time. �Some nice boys, too�� Folken wondered if
he�d added that because he though he was one of these men and would prefer boys
� he�d never thought about it, one way or the other,
and wasn�t sure how he felt about that idea � or because he thought he was
already their slave. He tried very hard not to flinch at the thought of
pleasure slaves.

�We�re
not buying,� the leader said dismissively, though there were a couple grumbles
from behind him from men who would have enjoyed some poor girl; Folken was
slightly relieved for a girl he�d never met that the leader of these men wasn�t
going to waste their precious money on her.

And feeling for
someone else helped him forget that this was happening to him�

He was roughly shoved forward, before he could think about
that. �We�re selling him.� He stumbled but kept his feet, looking back up.

From
this close, it was easy to remember that the smarmy man was tall; he had to
look up to even think about meeting his eyes.

The
slaver met his eyes and then let them slide away, as though he was looking into
the eyes of an animal. Folken felt himself tensing as the man walked slowly
around him, inspecting him like a head of cattle or something.

�Let me
tell you why no one is going to buy this boy,� he said boredly,
completing his circuit and standing once more in front of him. �First, he�s
part Draconian. Second, you cut his vocal chords, and he�s mute. I see that a
lot, mostly with kidnappers, and I try not to deal in kidnapped kids, because
that tends to bring the law down on my head. And lastly,
as I assume you�ve noticed, he has one arm. His left arm, furthermore, and I
don�t believe he�s left-handed.�

There
was a chuckle from the back of the group. �He is now,� he heard, but didn�t
turn around, his hand clenching into a fist, looking stolidly straight ahead.
There was hope now. Maybe the slaver wouldn�t buy him, and
they�d be disgusted with having wasted their time, and he could go home�
They�d probably abandon him here in the woods, but he could get back to Fanelia� He just had to make sure they wouldn�t kill him.

�He�s
also pretty and effeminate,� the leader said in that same
bored tone. He realized suddenly that there was never any chance of him going
free. The slaver always intended to buy him; they were just haggling. He
frowned, though he smoothed it away quickly; he was not, to the best of
his knowledge, effeminate. �Even with the green hair, he�s easy to look
at. You know you can find a buyer for him; if I hadn�t cared about spoiling him
for sale, I�d have taken him myself.� Folken closed his eyes and shuddered,
hoping that wasn�t true. �There are people who like having Draconians
as their slaves, either because the like to grind them down or because they
think they�re pretty to have around. Plus, his wings ain�t
broken.� There was a shove to the middle of his back, just between his shoulder
blades. �Show him.�

He
clenched his hand into a fist again and stared straight ahead, refusing to do anything
of the sort. He wasn�t going to make it any easier to sell him than he had to.

There was a sharp blow to the back of his head that sent
him to the ground, gasping as he tried to keep the darkness away from his
vision. �Show him.� This time it was punctuated by a sharp kick to his ribs that made him
double over, holding them, before he had a chance to refuse again.

�That�s
another problem,� the slaver said. �Too independent. It�d be a lot of work to
break him in, and he�s old to be broken anyway. Most kids are sold by the time
they�re ten; he�s got to be fourteen, fifteen. He�s already got a personality of his own, and he thinks he
can resist. Furthermore, he�s too smart. He may not be able to speak anymore,
but I can see him watching. No one wants a smart slave.�

�That�s
a load of bullshit, and you know it. Some people prefer dumb slaves, but you
know some people like them smart. Some people even like to break them in.�

�People
who want smart slaves, or like to break their slaves, don�t want slaves with
only one arm.�

�Sell
him to someone who can�t afford any better.�

The
slaver said nothing, walking once more around him. Folken didn�t look up, but
he didn�t have to to know that his position was
hopeless. He was as good as sold.

�Fifty.�

The mercenary
leader snorted. �One-fifty. A pretty, smart, silent Draconian boy.�

�Seventy-five.
He�s missing an arm.�

�One-twenty-five.
His wings are whole.�

�One
hundred. I haven�t seen proof of that, but I�ll take your word for it. Still
the fact that no one wants a slave with one arm.�

The
mercenary didn�t fight that, showing he did have a brain after all. It was a
blatant fact that he only had one arm, and it�d be hard to explain that away.
�Fine. Careful he doesn�t try to run away on you; we had to tie up his wings.�

The
slaver took his remaining arm, not too harshly, but not kindly, and picked him
up to his feet, gesturing to some of the men around his caravan to come get
him. �Does he have a name?�

He
looked quickly at the leader. He had to tell him his name� He hadn�t thought
about it, but he just had to�

He
looked blankly back at him for a second, then the slaver. �Not one that I
know,� he said calmly. Folken struggled, trying to go back to him, to kill him
or something, he didn�t even know. He had stolen his sword, his home, his
voice� and now he was stealing his name. Those men were the only people in the
world who knew who he was, what had happened to him � if they didn�t pass that
on, then no one would know� he would be a nobody�
Folken Finel would disappear�

The
slaver knew that was a lie, but he nodded to accept it, holding his arm easily
until two burly men with swords grabbed him and dragged him back toward the
caravan with a word to put him in with the pleasurers.
He continued to struggle as he saw the money handed over, trying to yell out,
to scream to that man to tell them his name, that he had to be himself, that he had to be someone�

He was tossed, struggling, into a dark cage covered with
brilliant blue material. Scrambling back to his knees � this wasn�t tall enough
to stand � he pounded his fist against the door as the material was let down to
cover it again, sending him back into the dimness that was native to the cages.
It became clear that no one was going to listen to him, and he let his fist
rest again the cool metal, his head hanging, holding back the tears.

He was
no one. Officially, Folken Final had ceased to exist�

A heavy
hand rested on his injured shoulder, and he hissed his breath in as the pain
redoubled and assaulted him.

�Sorry.�
The voice from behind him, as the hand was removed,
was deep and smooth. He looked back; he saw a man with dark brown skin, body
rippling with well-defined muscles, his head shaved completely, wearing a tight
breechclout. His breath caught as his mind took a moment to catch up with his
body and realize that the man was gorgeous.

Then he
reminded himself of where he was, and glanced around. There were maybe a dozen
people in the cage, including the two of them, and more than half of them were
scantily-clad, gorgeous women, of all sorts of races, from the fair Freids to dark Zaibachs, and even
one catwoman with what he thought were pale blond,
maybe white ears and tail. He wondered what they were doing here � why they had been sold, when they were so beautiful, and looked so
good at what they did � but it wasn�t as though he could ask. There was another
strong, muscled man, this one with tanned skin and long blond hair in a
ponytail, wearing absolutely nothing at all. The remaining three were delicate
young men, all with long hair, one with milky pale skin and
the other two darker, either tanned or of a similar race to the large
foreigner who had approached him.

He
realized belatedly that if anyone looked in, they
would see four of those delicate young men, one with greenish hair�

�No
one�s going to come back,� the dark man behind him said. �No one you want to,
anyway, but if you keep pounding, you�ll only make trouble for all of us. Go
ahead and sit down, and try to make the best of this.�

He
looked at him, then nodded and slid slowly into the corner, wrapping his arm
around his knees and looking at them all. They were all looking back at him,
some curious, some pitying.

�I take
it you�re new,� one of the women said. Upon closer inspection, he realized she
was at least as old as his mother. Still gorgeous,
though, and she would be sought after for her
experience, he guessed�

After a
moment, he nodded. He�d never been sold before, that
was true.

�Poor
thing,� she said, and she really did sound sorry for him. He looked at her in
surprise. �You lost your arm recently too, I suppose��

He
opened his mouth to speak, then shut it and just
nodded, letting his head fall back against the wall of the cage.

�He can�t
speak,� the dark man said, sitting in the corer straight across from him. �The
wound�s not even healed yet, any more than that arm is; kidnapped about the
same time, right?� Folken nodded again, figuring that was as close as anyone
was going to get to his story. �It�s all right; Murr can�t speak either.�

That
sounded like a cat name. He opened his eyes and glanced around, figuring it was
the catwoman, but surprised to find one of the darker
boys looking at him, smiling, then give a wave as soon as he was
noticed; there was a scar on his throat, pale, barely visible in the
dimness. He blinked.� After
a moment, the boy opened his eyes and a pair of creamy brown cat ears the color
of his skin raised out of his hair, wiggling at him, and he waved with a similarly-colored tail. Looking at him, Folken figured he
had to be twenty or so, but he was acting twelve. It probably made him more
desirable toward the kinds of owners he wanted.

The
pale, brawny man, who was as gorgeous as the dark one, was looking at him
through half-lidded eyes. �You�re a Draconian, aren�t you?� He didn�t move a
muscle as he spoke, lounging against the front of their cage, one leg drawn up
with his arm resting on his knee, displaying his mouth-watering physique
perfectly. Confidence and sensuality just dripped from him.

He made
a gesture with his hand that he hoped they�d understand, drawing his fingers in
close together.

�Half?�

He nodded, glad he could at least communicate a little.

�You�ll
get a lot, then. Unless you don�t have wings � or they�re broken?�

He
winced and shook his head fervently. How could they think he would still be
alive if his wings had been broken? His arm pulled his legs closer in a
half-protective gesture.

�Then
you�ll be popular. If you had two arms, you�d be more, but there� nothing to be
done about that. You�ll be sold quickly.� He smirked a little, and Folken
pulled his legs closer. �People like Draconians in
their bedroom.�

He
rested his forehead on his knees, trying not to think about that.
- 1
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Chapter 2