From: "Vyper" <vyper001@yahoo.com>
Date: Mon, 17 Apr 2000 18:33:38 +0800
Subject: xfc: Holding Out For A Hero : Chapter 1 (5/12) 
Source: xfc

Ten minutes later they had successfully crossed the river, for though it 
was fast flowing, it wasn't deep, barely reaching waist height. It was 
while they were negotiating the other bank when disaster struck. 

Matthew and Darin had managed to get the horses up the rise, 
however in doing so they destroyed what small path had existed, 
leaving an almost vertical drop, with tree roots exposed. Steven had 
released Mulder's raw, chafed wrists, but he wasn't entirely free, a 
rope around his waist linking him to his captor. About half-way up, 
Steven reached to grab the only root close enough. It held his weight 
for a few seconds before snapping under the strain and sending him 
and Mulder tumbling to the freezing water below. Mulder surfaced a 
minute or two later, gasping for breath and began swimming toward 
the side, before the rope jerked him to a stop a dozen yards from 
safety. Looking back and down he could see a faint outline of 
Steven's body still under the muddy water, the rope tangled around a 
submerged log. He fumbled with the rope, hoping to free himself. The 
knot however was at his back, and securely tied, the now soaking wet 
line immune to the frantic attempts of his numb fingers to manipulate 
the strands. The place they had fallen was slightly downstream from 
where they had crossed and here the water was much deeper. 
Mulder had tried to stand, but his feet failed to reach the muddy 
bottom.

With a look upwards and plea for help to his other captor's, 
he took a deep breathe and dove under the swirling water, unable to 
see his own hands in front of him. He felt with those hands instead, 
following the thick rope downwards, until he intercepted Steven. He 
tried to pull him free but the rope was hopelessly tangled, wedging him 
under the log four or five feet from the surface. His oxygen-starved 
lungs were screaming to be filled and Mulder had no choice but to 
abandon his rescue and head towards the filtered light above. As he 
surfaced again, he saw Matthew descending the drop using the 
exposed roots, ignoring the danger of repeating Steven's mistake, 
Darin's machete held firmly between his teeth. He reached the 
ground, shed his heavy coat and immediately dove into the water, making 
his way to Mulder's position.

"He's tra... trapped down below... the rope's stuck... I couldn't free 
him." Mulder tried to explain as he sucked in deep lungfuls of air. His 
lips were turning blue from the cold and he was shivering 
uncontrollably, his brain already cutting blood flow to his feet and 
hands to protect the more vital organs. Without even thinking, 
Matthew grabbed the saturated rope in one hand and began cutting it 
with the sharp blade. To his surprise, Mulder did not flee when the 
connection was broken. He quickly dove once more under the water 
and Matthew followed. Together they were able to cut Steven free, 
rising to the surface with the lifeless body between their arms. They 
swam to the bank, crawled out and collapsed, Mulder exhausted and 
dangerously close to hypothermic shock. Matthew had had the 
presence of mind to discard his fur lined coat before he had entered 
the water, and this he placed over Mulder. Mulder sat up and moved 
to where Steven lay face down and rolled him onto his back.
Matthew stood up and shouted to Darin, who had not moved during the 
drastic ordeal taking place below him.

"Get all the rope you can, tie it to the horses and lower it down." He 
didn't look to see if his orders were being obeyed, just sent a quick 
silent prayer to his childhood god that Darin would assist them. He 
returned his attention to Mulder and Steven, shocked and utterly 
confused by what he saw. Mulder was kneeling next to Steven, his 
arms outstretched, his hands clamped in a fist, pushing down on the 
still man's chest. This he did a few times then he bent over Steven's 
face, tilted his head back and placed his mouth over Steven's as if to 
kiss him. He watched in amazement as Steven's chest rose once. Mulder 
returned to his original position over the chest and repeated the whole 
process three or four times until a spluttering noise came from his 
patient. He quickly turned him on his side, ignoring the many questions 
Matthew was bombarding him with. Once he was sure that Steven 
was breathing on his own, he sat back, not really thinking about 
anything in particular, just glad to be alive.

"What in the Goddess's name did you do? Hans was right, you are the 
devil's servant. No-one can bring the dead back from his clutches." 

Matthew had stepped back from Mulder, totally unsure of how 
dangerous he was, what other mysterious powers he may be hiding.

Mulder looked wearily at Matthew. "It was something I learnt during 
my training. There's really nothing bad or evil about it. His heart 
had stopped and he wasn't breathing, but that doesn't mean he was dead. 
Where I come from, we have machines that can read the activity of a 
person's brain." 

Matthew looked at him, obviously not believing or even understanding 
what he was being told.

Mulder continued, "All I did was to keep his blood circulating and air 
in his lungs until his heart started beating again by itself. It's 
something that anyone can learn to do, even young children are taught 
how to do it."

Just then a rope descended from above and Darin peered over the 
drop.

"Send Mulder up first. I don't trust him or you," he shouted as he 
studied the scene below. An arrow was chocked and it was pointed 
directly at Mulder. Darin knew he could score a direct hit to his heart 
and he almost hoped that the man would try to escape. He could do 
with a live target to practice on.

Steven had just regained consciousness, Mulder and Matthew helping 
him to his feet and toward the rope. They saw a large loop of rope 
and were about to place it around Steven's chest when an arrow 
came shooting down, landing right at Mulder's feet.

"You know not to test my aim, Steven. Now do as I said or the next 
one won't miss. I want his hands tied."

Matthew and Steven looked at each other, both knowing that Darin 
could kill all three of them in the blink of an eye if he wished. They 
turned to Mulder with a look that told him they were not willing to risk 
their lives for a stranger, especially one who showed abilities they 
associated with the devil. He held his hands out and once more allowed 
them to be tightly bound, the rope already cutting into his tender 
flesh. The loop of rope was placed around his chest, sitting snugly 
under his shoulders. As soon as it was set, Darin began pulling from 
above and Mulder used his feet to climb up the bank. At the top he was 
dragged roughly over the edge and dumped at Darin's feet. Mulder made 
no attempt to stand, he still hadn't recovered from saving Steven. 

Darin bent over to remove the makeshift harness and Mulder made his 
move. He kicked out with both feet, catching the other man squarely 
in the chest, sending him flying back to land close to the edge. Mulder 
was up in an instant. He removed the rope whilst Darin was still on 
his back and sprinted for the hopeful safety of the forest. He had 
covered probably twenty yards when a white hot rod of pain entered 
his right leg, in the meatiest part of his thigh just above his knee. 

He managed to stagger another five yards before collapsing, his whole 
leg alight with pain. He sensed a shadow come over him, but didn't have 
the energy to open his tear-filled eyes. He didn't need to know that it 
was Darin who took a handful of hair and began dragging him back 
towards where the horses were tethered to a tree, quietly grazing. He 
was barely conscious when his captor sat him upright against a small 
tree and tied a long length of rope impossibly tight around his chest, 
the rough bark digging into his back.

Both men heard a piercing scream as they waited for the rope to be 
lowered. Matthew wanted to scramble up the side, knowing that 
Mulder would possibly die. He didn't know why he wanted to go to 
the man's aid, something inside telling him that he should. He had 
saved Steven's life, brought him back from the reaper's deadly hands. 
Steven had been like a father to Matthew, ever since he was found 
wandering in the forest, alone and hungry, a child of just five or so 
who had witnessed his entire family being massacred by a pack of 
bandits. He had raised him as his own, teaching him to hunt, to ride, 
to use the various plants from the forest to heal wounds.

"Matty, don't." Steven put a weak hand on his shoulder, though he 
knew he didn't have the energy to hold the younger man back from his 
foolish act. "He's either dead already or will be by the time you get 
up there. And what happens if you fall? There's nothing you or I can 
do to stop Darin. You know what his temper is like."

He looked deeply into Matthew's brown eyes, praying that his words 
of advice would penetrate. Matthew glanced once more toward the 
forest and stepped back, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Steven had 
sat down again, trying to conserve his energy. Matthew joined him, 
telling him of the miracle Mulder had performed to bring him back to 
life. Steven was astounded at the story, wondering if Matthew was 
making it up in order to gain sympathy for Mulder.

"Did Darin see what you saw?"

"I don't know. I think he was busy preparing the rope. Why do you 
ask?" he asked as he placed the coat Mulder had discarded around 
Steven's shoulders.

"I don't want you to say anything about what you saw to Darin or 
Captain Rajiv. I've got a feeling that the less they know about Mulder, 
the better it will be for him. I'll have to reveal the time-keeper 
because Darin saw it and he won't hesitate to add to Mulder's 
punishment."

The rope reappeared over the side and Matthew helped Steven to his 
feet, placing the loop over his arms and tightening it around his chest. 
He slowly ascended the cliff, Darin doing most of the work pulling 
from above.

Matthew grabbed the line as soon as it was free and quickly pulled 
himself hand over hand towards the top. Only when he was pulling 
himself over the edge did he realize he had left the machete behind, 
lying on the muddy bank below. Not that it would have been of much 
help in the situation that confronted him when he rolled over and sat 
up.

Darin was standing next to the horses, in front of a slim tree, a still 
body just visible behind him. Steven was facing him, trying to get a 
look at the injured man, talking in a calm voice, hoping to reason with 
Darin.

"If you don't let me treat that wound he will die and this whole trip 
will be worthless, a waste of your time and mine." Steven didn't turn 
around though he heard Matthew come up beside him.

"Why are you so concerned about whether he lives or dies? He 
attacked your own father, he pulled you off the cliff, hoping to kill 
you and yet you want me to free him, to give him a chance to finish off 
the job?" Darin's voice rose in tone as he spoke, anger and hatred 
clearly evident.

"I'm doing this in the interest of our village and the people who depend 
on me..on us.. to provide for the coming winter. We'll be lucky to 
receive enough reward to last till next double moon. We are already 
short of our quota for this season. Do you think Captain Rajiv or 
Master Imram is going to take pity on us and release us from our tithe 
because you can't control your temper?"

Darin just glared at his leader, not saying anything, having no answers 
to Steven's argument. He stepped aside allowing access to Mulder 
who had started groaning in agony, shifting his leg in a useless attempt 
to find a less painful position. Going over to his horse, he emptied 
one of the food sacks which he dropped at Steven's feet.

"That goes on him and stays on him til we reach Gilliania or I'll slit 
his throat where he lays." He stormed off, not looking back.
Steven wasted no time assessing Mulder's injury and deciding what 
needed to be done.

"Matthew, go into the forest and find some of those purple leaves I 
use to heal wounds. Bring back as many as you can. I'll also need 
some cloth strips and water."

While he waited for Matthew to return, he loosened the ropes that held 
Mulder upright, easing him to the ground. Blood was seeping from the 
arrow wound and pooling beneath Mulder's leg. He had started 
shivering again from the cold wet clothes he wore but also from shock. 
Steven laid the fur coat over him and spoke quietly into his ear.

"It's all right lad. I'll have the arrow out and the wound packed and 
wrapped in no time." He was surprised when Mulder replied in a 
weak voice that was little more than a whisper.

"Why bother? Do me a favor... and just kill... me now. Put me out 
of my misery." He gasped as Steven tore away the fabric surrounding 
the imbedded arrow, sending shafts of agony up and down his leg.

Matthew returning saved Steven for having to give an answer he 
didn't have. He instructed Matthew to tear up some of the large 
purple leaves, adding water to make a thick, strong smelling paste. 
This would be forced into the hole once the arrow was removed, 
stopping the wound becoming infected. The rest of the leaves would 
be wrapped around the leg, secured with the cloth strips from one of 
Matthew's shirts.

While his assistant prepared the healing salve, Steven hunted around 
for a thick stick. He found one close by and placed it in Mulder's half 
open mouth. Mulder knew it would stop him biting his own tongue 
when Steven removed the arrow. Matthew positioned himself next to 
Mulder's leg, taking a firm grip on either side of the wound, pressing 
his full weight down in an effort to keep Mulder as still as possible. 

Without hesitation, Steven gripped the arrow in both hands and gave 
one swift jerk, pulling it free with a smooth motion. Mulder screamed 
around the stick, his body arching in agony, Matthew struggling to hold 
him down. Blood poured out the gaping hole until Steven packed it full 
of the purple paste, using his fingers to wedge the medicine deep 
inside. He quickly wrapped leaves around the leg and tied them with 
the cloth strips which were soon changing color from light brown to 
deep red. He finished with a second layer of leaves and cloth, finally 
satisfied that the bleeding had stopped. Reaching into the pouch at his 
waist, he extracted a small cloth bundle. Once unwrapped it revealed 
tiny balls of reddish herbs. Taking two or three, Steven raised 
Mulder's head and placed the pieces into his mouth.

"Chew this. It'll help a bit with the pain."

Mulder knew he was telling the truth because as he bit into them, a 
bitter, vile taste flooded his mouth, making him want to vomit. It was 
like his mother had told him as a child-"The worse it tastes, the better 
it is for you." He wanted to spit them out, thinking he'd never get the 
taste out of his mouth.

"They taste pretty bad, huh?" Matthew asked, genuine sympathy in his 
voice and on his face.

Mulder nodded weakly, accepting a small sip of water from Steven. 
Within minutes he was thinking of asking for more of the stuff, for it's 
affect was amazing. The closest he could compare it to was some 
dope he had once tried at Oxford, but much more powerful. He felt as 
if he was floating, high above the ground, not a single ache in his body 
or worry on his mind. Everything he looked at was surrounded by 
shimmering colors, every shade of the spectrum and quite a few that 
he hadn't known existed. Unfortunately, the drug wore off too 
quickly for his liking, and he came back to earth, falling into a body 
still filled with pain though duller than before. 

He felt himself being lifted onto a horse, his hands now bound behind 
his back, a rough, itchy sack over his head, bringing back hellish 
memories of Haley and Baxter. His feet were joined by rope under the 
horse's belly. His leg still throbbed but the pain was something he 
could handle, it was something he could focus on, occupying his mind 
rather than thoughts of what lay ahead. Some sort of slip knot held the 
hood in place, tightening automatically if he moved his head too much. 
Someone else (Darin, he guessed) climbed on behind him, pushing him 
painfully forward in the small saddle. He could hear Matthew and Steven 
mounting up and they were then moving at a faster pace than they had 
traveled that morning, almost at a gallop at times. Mulder was half 
glad for the rope bindings for he had not ridden since playing polo at 
Oxford all those years ago and had forgotten the rhythm and balance 
needed for a smooth ride. He had detested the sport, only participating 
in an effort to impress a fellow student he had had his eye on for a 
couple of months. He hadn't had the courage to ask Phoebe out, but 
thought it a good idea at the time when his room-mate told him that her 
family owned a vast estate that was popular for fox-hunts and polo 
tournaments. Once accepted by her blue-blooded relatives, he had 
visited frequently, quickly coming under her manipulative spell, totally 
oblivious to her mind-games.

Mulder had no idea how long they traveled before he sensed them 
slowing down, finally coming to a halt. Rough hands loosened the 
noose around his neck and the sack was swiftly removed, causing him 
to blink and wince as his light sensitive eyes adjusted to the bright 
late afternoon sun. 

He looked around, taking in his surroundings as he stretched his 
stiff neck and shoulders. They had emerged from the forest some 
time ago, the last trees he could see being a couple of miles behind 
their current location. In front of them was a vast green plain, 
uniform squares of tilled fields in the foreground, a large well laid 
out settlement covering the rest, disappearing into the blue-green 
mountains in the distance. Mulder estimated the population to be at 
least four or five thousand. The buildings were much larger, some 
rising three and four stories. To the left, set well apart from the 
outer buildings was a second smaller community, being made entirely of 
tents and marquees. Steven explained that many of the traveling traders 
stayed there, those that traded in human flesh were not welcome 
elsewhere in Gilliania.

The party made their way down the valley, passing through orchards 
and vineyards, fields of pasture filled with sheep and cattle, crossing 
small bridges over a well designed irrigation system. People working 
the fields, harvesting produce and tending livestock paid little 
attention to them. They were just one of many such groups, coming to 
market to sell produce. The fact that this produce was human in form 
did not bother any of them; they knew the reality of their existence and 
what it took to survive, to provide for one's family. 

A half hour later they were at the market area. It bustled with 
activity, people of every creed and color competing to sell their 
various goods. At the sight of the mounted men, one of them firmly 
bound, his guard armed with bow and arrows, a few people stepped aside, 
giving them a wide berth, paying close attention to the captive, 
whispering to one another after the travelers had passed.

Steven led the way through the crowd, heading toward a fenced-off 
area at the far end of the open square. Standing guard in front of a 
high wooden fence were three uniformed men, all armed with small, 
lethal looking crossbows and sharp, curved blades. They were dressed 
in black with gold and green crests on their shirts. Mulder had seen 
similarly attired men scattered throughout the town, many on 
horseback. Steven had explained that they were Carterian Knights, 
personal soldiers of Lord Gareth. Captain Rajiv, the Master-At-Arms was 
a longtime and loyal friend of Gareth, having also served the current 
Lord's late father. He was known throughout the territory as a firm but 
fair man. Many a young man had traveled to Carteria to participate in 
grueling trials in order to be accepted as a junior Knight. Few were 
successful, most returning to their various villages with tales of high 
adventure, days of mock hand-to-hand combat, riding drills and archery 
competitions.

Steven dismounted and walked over to the soldiers, holding his arms 
out in front, palms open. The tallest soldier looked him over, studying 
him closely, trying to determine if he presented any danger. Satisfied 
that the stranger was unarmed, he motioned to one of his companions 
to relieve Darin of his bow and arrows. Darin handed them over without 
hesitation and quickly dismounted. The ropes around Mulder's ankles 
were untied and he was pulled roughly from the horse, almost passing 
out as he placed his full body weight on his still aching leg. He would 
have fallen but for Darin's painful grip around his upper arm.

Steven was talking with the senior Knight, trying to keep an eye on his 
prisoner at the same time.

"This was recovered from him. I believe it's a forbidden item, one that 
Captain Rajiv warned us to look out for." Steven held his leather pouch 
open in front of the soldier who took the pouch but made no attempt to 
handle the contents. "I would ask to see him, so that reward can be 
discussed for this man's capture."

Dirk looked past Steven toward the prisoner and gestured for him to 
be brought closer.

"That won't be possible as Captain Rajiv is not present, however I will 
send word to the SlaveMaster. For now the prisoner will be held in the 
slave pen."

Steven swallowed in horror at the mention of Imram's name. His 
reputation as a cruel, heartless, monster was also well known. Steven 
had thought the possibility of Mulder ending up in the sadistic hands of 
Imram was remote. Anyone considered a danger to Carteria and it's 
rulers was always taken away by Lord Gareth's Knights for trial by the 
Senate, a group of Elders well-versed in the Law. Imram was only in 
charge of the slaves, whose numbers were growing every year. He led 
unannounced raids on villages, punishing those which failed to meet 
yearly quotas of livestock and goods. Excuses of fire, flood, drought 
or famine were ignored by Imram and his men. Young men and women were 
taken in lieu of cattle and grains with promises of their return if and 
when quotas were fulfilled. As far as Steven knew none were ever 
released, all disappearing behind the massive stone walls of the castle, 
never to be seen or heard from again.

Dirk noticed Steven's distress and sympathized, knowing how slaves were 
treated, especially those attractive enough to catch Imram's lustful eye 
but he had no choice. He couldn't spare any men to guard the prisoner 
and there was nowhere but the slave-pen to house him. A minor uprising 
a week before had destroyed the town's stockade and it was only half re-
built, still missing it's roof and two walls. He could only hope that 
Imram would be too pre-occupied with the new slaves to pay much 
attention to the stranger.

Mulder was brought forward, another soldier taking Darin's spot on his 
left. His hands were untied, the dirt embedded rope quickly 
replaced by stiff leather cuffs linked with strong looking chain. A 
similar arrangement was placed around his ankles, hobbling him and 
making escape virtually impossible.

"Which barony's crest does he have?" Dirk inquired as one of the 
soldiers raised Mulder's black shirt, exposing his well-toned torso, the 
faded gun-shot wound still visible against the tanned skin.

"None that I know of. He refused to tell me where he comes from or 
what he was doing in the forest where he was captured." Steven 
replied, sending a silent message in the form of a piercing glare to 
Mulder not to contradict him.

Mulder was turned around and soon felt large, callused hands on his 
back, tracing the outline of his spine and shoulder blades. His arms 
were lifted and inspected as well, the muscles of his biceps and triceps 
receiving thorough attention.

"Strange, I have never seen a man that does not bear a Royal crest. 
You say he refused to answer your questions?" Dirk was impressed by 
what he saw of the prisoner's physique, solid bone structure, firm well 
developed chest and strong arms. Under better circumstances, he would 
have recommend the young man to be trialed as a potential Knight. He 
noticed a level of intelligence in the sharp hazel eyes that was not 
weakened by the rough treatment he had suffered. He had not been broken 
by his injuries and impending fate. The prisoner stared his captor's in 
the eye, refusing to be intimidated by them. He took note of his 
surroundings, alert for any opportunity that he might be able to use to 
his advantage.

Steven nodded.

"Then he speaks our language, but is not from around here." Dirk 
finished his inspection just as two men approached the gate. He stood 
to attention, his left hand in a fist over his chest. Imram returned 
the salute. His uniform was a light brown shirt and pants. A leather 
belt around his waist held a gleaming sword and coiled whip in place. 
Knee-high boots polished to a mirror-like finish completed the outfit. 
He was as tall as Mulder but much more solidly built. Mulder estimated 
he outweighed him by as much as thirty or forty pounds.

"Sir, I was just about to send for you. This man," Dirk pointed to 
Steven, " has captured a bandit near his village. He wishes to do his 
duty and hand over the prisoner to us for trial. He," now indicating 
Mulder, who had been pushed to his knees, "is to be held in your custody 
until the Senate can meet." 

Imram studied the kneeling man before him, taking in his defiant gaze 
and slim, muscular body. He hardly paid any attention to Dirk, only 
half-listening as the soldier gave his report. He was focused on the 
prisoner, fantasizing what he would do with such a fine specimen. So 
many of the slaves he acquired were pitiful, weak youths, beaten and 
battered into submission during their capture. Rarely did anything come 
along that stirred his cock as the man before him. The trial and 
subsequent execution would be such a waste of so lovely a piece of human 
flesh. 

End 5/12

Holding Out For A Hero : Chapter 1 (6/12) 

"Take him to the holding area but keep him apart from the other 
slaves," he ordered his overseers. He assured Dirk, "He'll be safe and 
unharmed. You have my word." Reaching into a large pouch at his waist, 
he counted out thirty pieces of silver, dropping the triangular discs 
into Steven's outstretched palm. The slave/prisoner was worth triple 
what he paid but he was always on the lookout for a bargain and he knew 
that the seller would not waste his breath bartering for a higher price.

Dirk started to protest when he realized that Imram was going to pay for 
the prisoner but Imram cut him off with a wave of one gloved hand.
"It's not a payment, but a reward. With so many outlaw scum wondering 
the land praying on simple men and their kin, you need good men such as 
this to be your eyes and ears." 

One of the Knights alerted Dirk to a small scuffle that had broken out 
between two young men who had stumbled drunk and brawling out of one the 
many ale-houses that lined the narrow cobblestone streets of the market. 
They left quickly to quell the disturbance before it could turn violent, 
Imram's words and the fate of the prisoner quickly pushed out of Dirk's 
thoughts. 

The money in Steven's hand would barely buy enough grain, let alone 
other necessities desperately needed to see through the fast approaching 
winter. *Is that all a man's life is worth?* he thought, feeling sick to 
his stomach as he watched Imram secure a collar around Mulder's throat 
before pulling him to his feet. *A dozen bags of grain* Steven 
considered complaining about the small amount, but one look into the 
head overseer's dark eyes convinced him to accept what had been given. 

The SlaveMaster was almost drooling at his newest purchase, a noticeable 
bulge straining his already tight britches. Steven had no doubt what 
was in store for Mulder and he feared that Mulder knew as well, the only 
question being would the young stranger fight his hellish fate or submit 
to his new owner's control. 

Their eyes met briefly before a hand gloved in soft leather on his cheek 
forced the younger man to face forward as he was led through the gate of 
the compound and out of Steven's sight. Mulder's eyes held no emotion at 
all, not fear, not anger, nothing. The fact that Mulder didn't resist 
only increased Steven's guilt. He wanted to know that he had done the 
right thing by handing over a dangerous animal, someone not fit to live 
in society. But Mulder was not a danger to anyone except perhaps 
himself. He was a frightened young man far away from his home and family 
and obviously unfamiliar with the rules and customs of Steven's world. 
Would he cope any better if the situation were to be reversed?

Steven dropped the money into the pouch and tried to put Mulder and his 
fate out of his mind. Sensing his mentor's distress, Matthew approached 
him slowly, putting a hand on his shoulder and steering him back towards 
the horses.

"We need to find lodgings for the night. It's too late to head back to 
Woodsglen tonight. We eat and rest and start out at first light." 
Matthew said as he gathered up two sets of reins. Steven wasn't in 
any fit state to decide anything, which had the younger man worried. 
His mentor had always been able to handle any crisis, indeed he 
seemed to thrive under pressure. He was glad that Darin had 
disappeared, he didn't like seeing his leader so vulnerable and he knew 
that Darin would report any weakness or uncharacteristic behavior 
back to the elders, thus endangering Steven's leadership.

They found a room in a small boarding house some distance from the 
market area. The landlord, a small, obese woman with bright red hair 
and decaying yellow teeth, charged them a vastly inflated amount for a 
tiny room with two low beds covered with thin mattresses, the stuffing 
poking through in more than one location. Knowing that they would be 
unable to find better or cheaper accommodation at this late hour, 
Matthew accepted and headed around the rear of the small house to 
tether the horses for the night. With so many soldiers patrolling, 
there was no danger of thieves stealing them.

Steven had come out of his depression enough to pay the woman and take 
their small saddle-bags into the frigid room. Hoping to maximize her 
profits, she offered to supply the men with entertainment for the 
evening for the tiny price of one silver piece each. When Steven didn't 
answer, she brought a young girl into the room. Steven saw the family 
resemblance in the child's features, the same shade of hair, the same 
soft blue eyes. The old woman was undressing her daughter, explaining 
that what she lacked in years she made up for in experience.

"Taught her myself, I did. Trained her young how to treat a man, 
she'll do anything you and your friend fancy." The woman crooned, 
watching for some sort of reaction from the man in front of her. She 
was beginning to think her lodger was slow and feeble but was forced 
to reconsider as he went from absolute stillness to lashing out a 
deformed hand to her throat in the time it took her to blink. She was 
on the floor, Steven straddling her, both hands around her throat, when 
Matthew returned from securing the horses.

He quickly pulled Steven to his feet, the old woman scrambling free, 
coughing and gagging.

"I want both of you outta here, now, before I call for the soldiers and 
have ya thrown in the pit," she screamed, grabbing her silent, naked 
daughter, her clothes and rushing for the door.

Steven followed quickly, leaving Matthew to grab the saddle-bags.

"I'd much rather sleep in a shit-filled pit than in a room owned by a 
whore who would sell her own kin to strangers," Steven shouted, not 
caring about the commotion his outburst was causing. Without 
checking to see if his companion was following, he headed for the 
horses, released Foxfire's bridle, climbed into the worn saddle and with 
a sharp jab, steered his mount away from the gathering crowd. He 
didn't care which direction he went, as long as it was far from 
Gilliania. He urged Foxfire on and on, faster and faster, trying to 
outrun his demons, his shame, his feelings for the young man he had 
sold for the price of a dozen bags of weevil-infested grain. The 
logical side of him knew that no matter how far or how fast he rode he 
would never leave behind the self-hate and loathing he felt coursing 
through his veins.

***********

End 6/12

Holding Out For A Hero : Chapter 1 (7/12) 

Lady Kaneesha's Private Rooms
CARTERIUS CASTLE
Midday

Kaneesha woke hours later to the smell of freshly cooked meat and oven 
warm bread invading her senses. The sun had journeyed across the sky to 
the other side of the castle, leaving her room in shadows. She sat up 
and stretched, expecting to see the rough stone walls of the tiny 
chamber she had visited the night before not the tapestry covered ones 
of her private sleeping room. Sounds of activity from her bathing area 
drew her attention. She slipped on the robe that lay at the foot of the 
bed and headed towards them. Something was missing-- no someone was 
missing--- *Fox!!!* she thought. *Where was he? Had something gone 
wrong?* The last thing she remembered was lying down on the cot Morten 
had provided and closing her eyes, confident that HE would be the first 
thing she saw when she opened them later. *Perhaps Morten is preparing 
him for me.* Not that much preparation would be needed for he was the 
most perfect creature she had ever laid eyes on. 

She recalled the drawing she had made soon after awakening from her 
first dream of him, certain that she had been taken on a journey to what 
must have been heaven, for surely only the gods could create someone so 
perfect, so beautiful. He had spoken to her in a soft, husky voice and 
although what he said did not make much sense, she knew he was speaking 
to her and her alone, just as she knew that one day he would come to 
her, lay down beside her and never leave.

"I have been on the bridge that spans two worlds, the link between all 
souls by which we cross into our own true nature. You were here 
today looking for a truth that was taken from you, a truth which was 
never to be spoken but which now binds us together in a dangerous 
purpose. I have returned from the dead to continue with you, but I 
fear that this danger is close at hand and I may be too late."

Pulling aside the heavy curtain that separated the bathing and sleeping 
areas, she saw Morten on his knees, his tanned bare back facing her, the 
tight fabric of his breeches outlining his taut, round buttocks, next to 
the large bathing tub. Several steaming buckets sat either side of him. 
A loud gurgling sound that she recognized as the tub being emptied 
covered the sounds of her arrival. 

She moved closer to the bath, almost afraid to look, to face the fear 
that reality would not live up to her high expectations. Morten turned 
to one side and reached for a full bucket, his biceps straining under 
the weight. The tub's empty interior was revealed as he moved and she 
closed her eyes in denial, certain that she was dreaming, more certain 
still that upon opening them she would see Fox in the tub, his naked 
body glistening with droplets of water. She must have made a sound that 
alerted Morten to her presence, for she felt the heavy bucket tilt 
against her leg, scalding hot water splashing over her robe to burn the 
exposed skin beneath. Gasping loudly, her eyes shot open and she 
stumbled back a few steps to escape the hot puddles at her feet.

"Oh...no. M..M'Lady? Are you alri..."

"Where is he? What have you done with him?"

Morten scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain of his own scalded flesh 
to aid his mistress. She had backed against the far wall, her sopping 
wet robe clinging to trembling legs. She turned her head wildly from 
side to side, trying to look everywhere at once, her eyes, normally soft 
pale blue, now almost black with rage and anger.

"Stay where you are," She shouted in a tone he had not heard in a long 
while. He obeyed instantly, falling into his assigned role without 
thinking. Head lowered, eyes firmly fixed on the wet floor under his 
feet.

"I want to know where Fox is. What have you done with him?"

Knowing there was little chance of calming her with lies and half-
truths, Morten recounted the events of the previous evening in a shaky 
voice, his mind conjuring possible punishments his mistress had in mind 
for him.

"What do you mean he is gone? Where could he possibly go?" Kaneesha 
had stormed back into her sleeping parlor during his narrative. She 
roughly pulled aside the heavy, velvet drapes that covered large 
windows, gesturing to the land that surrounded the castle.

"There was a storm, thunder and a flash of light that blinded me. When 
I could see again, he was just gone. I know he's alive some....." He 
tried to explain, realizing that he wasn't getting through to her.

"What storm? It hasn't rained for weeks. I've had to order the 
groundskeepers to bring water from the wells to maintain the gardens."

He could see her point as he looked through the windows. Dry brown 
fields in the distance leading to an oasis of selfishness that was the 
green, flower filled garden closest to the castle. Fountains forced 
precious water high into the air in various patterns, producing dozens 
of temporary rainbows. He knew of the reduced rations given to the 
slaves just so Lady Kaneesha could impress the visiting nobles that 
would currently be traveling from neighboring baronies and estates to 
Carteria for a lavish ball to celebrate her upcoming birthday.

"I speak the truth, M'Lady. I have no excuses, no explanation for the 
ritual's failure, only humble apologies for failing you." Morten sunk 
to his knees, knowing that his fate rested with his mistress's mercy or 
lack thereof. He could do and say nothing further in his defense, only 
hope that she would take his many years of faithful service into account 
when deciding his future.

A bolt of agony struck his side, sending him crashing to the ground. He 
looked up through tear filled eyes to see Kaneesha standing over him, a 
length of fire wood in one hand, her arm raised to strike again. He 
managed to roll to one side, just avoiding another bone crushing hit. 
The wood flew out of Kaneesha's sweaty hand to land on the far side of 
the bed. She looked around for something to continue the attack. 
Taking advantage of the distraction, he rushed to crawl under the bed, 
knowing that he was just delaying the inevitable. 

He never made it. He felt her hand around one ankle and heard the all 
too familiar double clink of chain connecting and locking with cuff. 
Looking down, he saw a thick chain attached to his ever present ankle 
cuff, it's far end connected to one end post of the bed; the keys to 
freedom on a fine gold chain around his mistress' neck.

"You didn't do it. Did you? You thought you could trick me, you never 
wanted him here in the first place. You tried to talk me out of it and 
when that failed you resorted to your devil magic to get your own way. 
You said you would save him and bring him to me where he belongs and 
now.... and now he's dead because of you. Well get ready to join him, 
you'll be whipped, strung and quartered before the sun sets tonight."

She punctuated her accusations with kicks to his chest and sides and 
head. As scared and hurt as he was, he would not strike out at his 
mistress to defend himself. Any defiance he may have once possessed had 
been taken long ago by the lashes of whips and days without food and 
water. He merely curled himself into a tight ball, presenting as small 
a target as possible. Finally the blows ceased and he heard Kaneesha 
storm out of the room, the heavy wooden door locked securely behind her. 

He must have fallen asleep, not surprising since he hadn't slept for 
almost two days whilst preparing himself and the chamber for the failed 
ceremony. A boot to his pain-racked body woke him. He opened his eyes 
and saw two overseers, both solidly built, muscles bulging under dark 
brown tunics, standing either side of Kaneesha. One held a coiled whip 
loosely in one hand, tapping it against a muscular thigh, obviously 
anxious to use it. Morten gave him no reason, staying as still as his 
injured body allowed. The blows he had received earlier had turned 
black and purple, spreading to cover his back and chest. A few blisters 
had appeared on his legs and feet, some burst and weeping. 

"This slave attacked me. Luckily I was able to escape when he fell." 
Kaneesha was informing the guards. Morten wondered why she thought she 
had to lie, no-one would accept any other version of events except for 
hers. Indeed he would not even be questioned, just pronounced guilty 
and punished in an appropriate manner. *She's lying to herself* he 
thought. *To absolve herself from the blame and guilt that I know she 
feels. For I feel it to. I wanted him here just as much as you, M'Lady. 
In fact he appeared in my dreams before I even came to this godforsaken 
place. If it wasn't for me, you would not even know he existed.* 

Morten wanted to shout all this out, to have his Mistress thank him for 
introducing her to Fox, to show her gratitude by taking both Fox and 
himself into her bed. But he knew it would do no good. Indeed it would 
probably only anger her further, maybe even lead her to order his death. 
She didn't mind using his talents for her own purposes, but if she were 
to find out he had used them on her to get something he wanted, namely 
Fox, then his life would be over. He knew Fox was alive and somewhere 
in Carteria. He could feel him as if he were a second heartbeat. Fox 
was in trouble and Morten wanted to be alive to help him if he could.
".... him punished severely and without delay." She ordered, turning 
her back on him, crossing the room to sit in front of her mirror. He 
was forgotten by the time she picked up a brush. 

The overseers pulled him to his feet, unlocked the chain from his ankle 
and herded him out the door. He was taken outside, to the rear of the 
castle, the sun temporarily hidden behind fluffy, white clouds, casting 
long shadows across the compound that housed the slaves. One guard held 
him as the other replaced soft leather cuffs with heavy iron shackles 
that were fastened painfully tight around his wrists and ankles. A few 
house slaves working in the gardens looked up to watch, none coming to 
his aid, none willing to share his punishment. He had joked and laughed 
with some of them just days before, distracting them to pluck ripe fruit 
from the trees they tended. 

He was secured to one of the posts set in the hard ground and flogged 
for what seemed like forever, the knotted lashes of the whip cutting 
deeply into his soft, battered flesh, raising welts and drawing blood. 
When the first guard grew tired his companion took over, concentrating 
the blows on his buttocks and legs. Barely conscious, he was released 
and thrown into a wagon already packed with slaves assigned to working 
the mines. As they traveled through the inner gate, he tried (and 
failed) to lift his head, to gaze one last time on the castle that had 
been his home for the last five seasons, a place he was certain he would 
never see again outside of his dreams.

**********

End 7/12

Holding Out For A Hero : Chapter 1 (8/12) 

The Slave-Pen
GILLIANIA, CARTERIA
Sunset

Three overseers pulled Mulder to his feet and he was led through an iron 
and wood gate emerging into a nightmare on the other side that made his 
own predicament a reality that he could no longer deny. To his left was 
a large cage, fifteen feet square, crammed full of men and women, all in 
shackles, some leather, others rusted metal that showed years of 
exposure to the elements. Many were naked, those still clothed dressed 
in little more than rags and scraps of cloth. Overseers threw handfuls 
of moldy looking food into the enclosure and laughed at the sight of 
slaves being crushed and trampled in the race for food. One or two bits 
of rotten fruit and hard bread that reached the muddy ground were 
scurried away by large, furry rodents. The smell that wafted from the 
holding area almost made him gag, a stiff breeze carrying the stench of 
unwashed flesh and raw sewage, that brought back memories of New Jersey 
sewers. He would have given anything to be back in those narrow 
pipes now, chasing human-sized flukes and even abandoned alligators, 
which the knowledge that he could return to his motel room for a hot 
refreshing shower, before phoning Scully to discuss the latest results, 
to run some ridiculous theory by her. Just hearing her voice had given 
him the strength to endure the ridicule, the separation, knowing that 
even when she didn't believe his theories, she believed in him, that she 
respected the journey.

Held tight in the grip of his newest guards, Mulder fought as much as 
his bonds and injuries allowed. He had been in a sort of daze, perhaps 
shock, since his capture, refusing to believe, to accept what was 
occurring around him, still hoping that it was all a nightmare or 
hallucination. That it couldn't possibly be real. Now that last bit of 
protection had been ripped away from him. He needed something to focus 
on, something to dull the horror and pain and the overwhelming sense of 
hatred and anger at those responsible for it. He lashed out 
ineffectually at his captors, using teeth and nails as his only weapons, 
barely leaving a scratch on the men who held him until he exhausted the 
small amount of energy left.

Imram watched the captive struggle in vain, prominent arm muscles 
straining against his clothes, the chain between his wrists pulled taut. 
He studied him closely, taking in his wild hazel eyes, his full lips, 
his strong jaw. He reached forward and wiped the hair off Mulder's 
sweaty brow then lowered his hand to trace the contour of his face, 
lightly with no hint of aggression. It was a touching gesture, one that 
sort to pacify not panic. 

"Easy lad, you're only going to make things worse by fighting. I can 
make things a whole lot nicer if you co-operate. Where you're going, 
it helps to have friends in high places." Imram was fascinated and 
aroused by the handsome stranger, his cock getting even harder. He 
lowered his hand, still keeping contact with the soft skin of the 
captive's throat, gliding down his chest to stop between the slave's 
legs, disappointed that Mulder didn't reciprocate the huge, hard bulge 
he felt straining his own pants. The slave would soon learn to show 
proper appreciation to his masters.

"Bring him to my quarters." Imram strode off, Mulder pulled by his 
guards close behind. They entered a medium sized building in the 
furthermost corner of the courtyard, well away from the confined slaves. 
A large, comfortable looking bed filled most of the front room, an open 
fire in one corner, a wooden table with a large pitcher and bowl in 
another. A thick metal ring on a two foot chain hung from one of the 
beams that made up the ceiling. Below it, two more rings were set about 
two feet apart in the rammed earth floor. Mulder was quickly secured to 
the rings, his arms held above his head, his legs painfully pulled 
apart, the wound in his thigh once again awake with pain. 

Imram removed his sword and whip from his belt, lying them on the bed, 
just at the edge of Mulder's view. He shed his dusty, sweat stained 
shirt revealing a pale, well muscled body. Tattoos covered a large part 
of his chest and upper arms, the most prominent being a design that 
matched the royal crest on his discarded shirt. He poured himself a 
large cup of cool water, but before he could raise it to his lips, a 
guard appeared from a side doorway, waiting until Imram signaled for him 
to enter.

"Sir, Lord Jaxtar has asked that you speak with him," the guard said, 
standing at attention just inside the doorway.

Imram sighed, annoyed that his "interrogation" of the prisoner would 
have to be delayed. He had been eagerly looking forward to sampling 
this newest piece of merchandise. 

*Well the best things were worth waiting for and it wasn't as if the 
slave would be going anywhere.* he thought as he acknowledged the 
guard. As he passed the prisoner, he grabbed a handful of his thick, 
silky dark hair and forcing the slave's head back, kissed him deeply, 
thrusting his tongue as far into the unfamiliar mouth as he could. The 
slave pulled back, resisting the invasion, trying to eject his tongue 
from the wonderfully warm, sensual environment. Imram raised his free 
hand and clicked his fingers once.

A guard stepped forward immediately to stand behind the struggling 
prisoner, placed his arms under the slave's upraised arms and linked his 
hands behind the slave's neck, effectively immobilizing him. Imram 
continued his oral exploration, his arousal increasing in direct 
proportion to the slave's ineffectual resistance. Both hands were now 
free to roam the well-muscled body under them, slipping under shirt and 
pants, the left rising upwards, caressing firm abs to find one soft 
nipple that soon hardened under his touch, the right moving downwards to 
squeeze between strange, rough material and soft, satiny skin that had 
the finest covering of downy hair. Finally he was forced to break 
contact, his oxygen deprived lungs screaming to be filled with fresh air 
and the guard by the door insisting that he talk to Jaxtar at once.

Mulder slumped forward as he was released from the double embrace. 
He felt his stomach heave, bitter tasting bile flooding his mouth and 
then he dry-retched even though his stomach had been empty since 
breakfast hours earlier. He had been trapped between his abuser and 
the guard, not wanting to move forward into the kiss and being unable 
to move back, being forced to endure another man's hands and mouth 
fondling him, touching him in places he had only imagined, fantasized, 
being touched by Walter Skinner. Many a night he had started watching 
some B-rate skin flick only to replace the horny young couples on the 
screen with himself and Skinner, imagining what it would feel like to 
have Skinner's arms and mouth and hands and lips exploring his body, his 
boss' hard shaft buried deep inside him. He had never even considered 
revealing his feelings to Walter, God knows the man had enough to worry 
about without the extra burden of an infatuated subordinate. 

Mulder could feel his control slipping, the realization of what was 
likely to happen in the next few hours threatening to overwhelm him. He 
was no virgin when it came to having sex with other men, having had a 
few brief relationships since his school days at Oxford. So why did the 
thought of Imram fucking him cause his balls to shrivel up and try to 
retreat into his quivering body? How could something that felt so 
wonderful, so right in his fantasies and dreams and memories feel so 
dirty and disgusting in this situation? *Because,* he told himself* it 
won't be sex. It'll be rape. He is going to rape you and rape isn't 
about sex-it's about power and control.* 

He tried to control his breathing which was coming in short, sharp 
pants, the warnings sign of a panic attack just moments away. He was 
determined not to show any signs of weakness in front of his captors. 

He closed his eyes and visualized the scene he used most when meditating 
and occasionally while jerking off---a peaceful garden setting, a 
setting sun tinting the few clouds a pale pink. Birds chirped in the 
early evening air, returning to tree-top nests with food for their 
young. Young couples walked along winding paths, hand-in-hand, gazing 
into each others eyes, speaking endearments in hushed whispers. He was 
surprised at the apparent ease with which he slipped into his fantasy 
and how life-like the vision was. 

Sitting on a stone bench below a weeping willow was a familiar form 
dressed in tight blue jeans and a gray short-sleeved shirt, unbuttoned 
to expose a flat stomach and well-toned chest, a small tattoo above his 
left nipple. Mulder couldn't remember Walter having a tattoo but the 
only time he had seen him without a shirt was when he had taken Krycek 
to Skinner's apartment to hide his former partner from the Smoking Man 
and Walter answered the door dressed only in jeans and it had been dark 
and his attention had been on a part of Skinner's anatomy a foot or so 
lower than his bare chest. Mulder smiled at the memory as he approached 
the bench. Walter would protect him, would let no harm come to him 
whilst he was in his embrace. Mulder was amazed at how much younger this 
Walter looked without his glasses, his eyes clear and unlined. He knelt 
at his fantasy-lover's feet and was enclosed at once in the warmth of 
two strong arms, long slender fingers stroking his cheek. 

Walter frowned at the sight of his lover's wounds, wanting to reach out 
and touch Fox's thigh as if he could heal it with the power of his love 
alone.

"I was wondering when you would come, Fox." His voice caressed Mulder's 
cheek, a hint of breath floated across his flushed skin. "You shouldn't 
try to cope on your own. You don't need to be so brave or should I say 
stubborn."

"I know, Walter. The leg's not that bad. I guess I'm still used to 
only relying on myself, I don't like to have to depend on others." He 
rested his head back, relaxing against Walter's groin. There was 
something about Walter that made it impossible for him to lie. He had 
told his imaginary lover things he had never told any other person, not 
even Scully. Maybe it was because this Walter was only a figment of his 
imagination, a sort of confessional in human form, someone who would 
listen but never judge. 

"I want you to promise you'll let me help if...when.. you need me. I'll 
be here always, Fox. All you have to do is think of this place and we 
will be together."

He felt revitalized, as if he could defeat any enemy, face any foe and 
then he opened his eyes, the strain on his wrists and ankles, the pain 
in his leg, grounding him back in the reality of his situation.

"I want him stripped and ready when I return." Imram barked out the 
order, intrigued at the look of cold defiance in the slave's eyes. He 
had thought this one would be an easy conquest, surely the slave would 
realize that submission was his only option.

Mulder watched his abuser watching him until he disappeared through the 
doorway; hungry, dark eyes that roamed his body as his rough hands had 
done only moments before. Mulder could feel his lover begin to withdraw 
as a distant part of his mind registered his ankles and wrists being 
released from the chains and he had to concentrate not to panic at the 
loss of Walter's touch. Even though Walter had risen and was walking 
away from him, he could feel his love and protection like a kevlar 
blanket around him.

**********

End 8/12

Holding Out For A Hero : Chapter 1 (9/12) 

Carterian Coal Mines
WESTERN CARTERIA
Same Time

Morten was incredibly tired, the harness of the cart he pulled digging 
deep into his blackened, torn skin. His leg and back muscles complained 
at the weight placed on them but the reward of a few lungfulls of fresh 
air free of the thick black coal dust kept him moving towards the 
surface. After his whipping, banishment from the castle and long wagon 
ride to the mines, he had been put to work immediately. Because of his 
smaller than usual size and adult strength, he was assigned the back-
breaking task of crawling down the narrow tunnels deep underground to 
where slave-gangs were chipping pieces of coal from the semi exposed 
rock-face. Large, heavy chunks of ore were piled into the little cart, 
straining it's wheels. When filled he had to pull it out of the mines 
up steep passages that were so narrow he could barely squeeze through 
them. Time and again, the cart was filled, pulled and emptied and he 
was sent back into the dust filled hole without opportunity to catch his 
breath.

It was during his latest trip downwards that he had an experience that 
did much to raise his spirits. Rounding a tight curve in the tunnel, he 
clearly heard an almost familiar voice in the pitch blackness. A 
certain quality in it, a tone or vibration told him he was hearing it 
with his mind rather than his ears. It was the panicked sound of someone 
searching without hope of finding what was so desperately sought.

*"Walter."* he heard and then realized who the voice belonged to.

*Fox!!* Morten called out both mentally and orally but didn't receive 
any reply. He could see a shadow some distance in front of him, just 
pale enough against the black of the tunnel to make out a distinct shape 
but not the details. Fox was spread-eagled in a standing position, his 
hands raised and bound above his head. He was sandwiched between two 
men, one of whom was kissing and fondling him, clearly against Fox's 
will. Morten instinctively rushed forward but the image moved away, 
keeping the same distance between them and he knew he could not reach 
Fox physically.

He felt the fear roll off Fox like a wave that swept over him. He 
quickly probed the terrified man's mind looking for something he could 
use as a distraction. He saw what and who Fox was searching for and 
created the image in his mind, feeding it to Fox once it was complete. 
Morten breathed a sigh of relief when the SlaveMaster released Fox and 
walked from the room. He saw Fox relax, trying to get his rapid 
breathing under control. He knew when Fox found Walter by the settling 
of his body in the restraints and the calmness that radiated from his 
mind. He didn't probe Fox, not wanting to intrude on such a private 
moment, but he felt totally at peace with himself, secure in the 
knowledge that Fox was in good, loving hands. Even if it all was just 
an illusion created by his link with Fox, it was at least somewhere the 
older man could retreat to when things got bad. And Morten was certain 
that things weren't going to improve for Fox in the immediate future. 

He was also certain that he would never meet Fox in the flesh, for one 
thought he had detected revealed that Fox would rather die than allow 
himself to be the body-slave of a monster.

In the next day or so he would get glimpses of Fox, painful, torturous 
bits of emotional and physical hell, followed by snatches of 
peacefulness and ecstasy as Fox fled to the sanctuary of the garden and 
his lover's arms. He cursed himself for failing to complete the drawing 
ritual successfully. Had he done so, Fox would have been safe and 
unharmed in Kaneesha's rooms, in Kaneesha's arms and in her bed. He 
would not have been banished to the mines, instead spending his days 
with his mistress and helping Fox settle into his new life. He had 
planned on implanting fantasies of the three of them in his Mistress's 
mind, even though he had been raised knowing it wrong to use his gift 
for purely personal, even selfish reasons. He would have done anything 
to have Fox touch and love him as he did Walter.

***********

End 9/12

Holding Out For Hero : Chapter 1 (10/12) 

The Slave-Pen
GILLIANIA, CARTERIA

Mulder could hear muffled conversation coming from somewhere else 
in the building, loud enough to distinguish between two different 
voices, that of his captor and one other, but not loud enough to make 
out individual words or phrases. It was the second voice that captured 
and held his attention. It had a strange but familiar quality to it and 
after a few seconds of concentration he realized that it sounded like it 
was coming through a radio or speaker of some sort. The reception was 
very distorted, frequently being drowned out by bursts of static. But 
that was impossible, he thought. From what he had seen during his 
captivity and the enforced journey, he had thought that such technology 
was unavailable, that he had landed somehow in a civilization no more 
advanced than medieval England. He recalled Matthew's words about 
rumors of demon- beings in the forest watching the small community, 
ready to report any poaching back to distant masters. Could the rulers 
of this place have some sort of surveillance set up, using devices they 
themselves had declared forbidden? He thought about possible scenarios, 
the motivations of the Royal Family to contradict their own Laws. He 
didn't think it would help him at all, but it was a distraction from the 
fact that his guards had stripped him naked, leaving just the primitive 
bandage covering the infected arrow wound in his leg. 


Imram reluctantly followed the guard through the doorway and out of 
the room. His mind was occupied with what would happen to the 
slave once they arrived back at Carterius Castle. He eagerly looked 
forward to placing the heavy permanent shackles around the slave's slim 
wrists and ankles, a narrow but strong collar encircling the throat. The 
climax coming when the slave was branded once and forever with the royal 
crest, a lifelong sign that the slave was now the property of Lord 
Gareth.

He entered the small room at the end of the corridor. He had 
always felt uncomfortable in this room, uneasy with the strange 
devices that brought his master's voice from so far away. Even 
though he feared Jaxtar, he would much rather be talking with him 
face-to-face. He could however see the advantages of the strange 
black box, it being a faster way of communicating than using homing 
birds that quite often didn't reach their destination. Lord Jaxtar had 
assured him that the box presented no danger.

He sat down at the table, keeping what he hoped was a safe distance 
from the box with it's blinking lights and placed one foot hesitantly on 
a small pedal on the floor.

"You summoned me, M'Lord. I was just inspecting a new slave," he said 
nervously.

"Yes Imram. I was just admiring your technique....is so 
interesting about this particular sla..."

Jaxtar's voice was drowned out by a loud crackling sound that reminded 
Imram of a dry bonfire being lit for the first time.

"His previous owner claims he was found wandering in the forest 
near a village called Woodsglen. He attacked one of the elders before he 
could be restrained. The slave has refused to say where he is from or 
what he was doing in the forest. I thought he might be a suitable 
candidate for the festival. He is young and strong and full of fight."

"Well ju... don't wear yoursel... How did the auction go?"

"It was rather disappointing, lower numbers, poorer quality than 
previous seasons. I only bought 30, the rest were simply not worth the 
trouble. Is that all, M'Lord? It's getting late and I was just about to 
load the wagons for an early departure in the morning." In truth he 
wanted to get back to the slave. He was still hard, even though the 
contact had been all too brief.

"Yes I'm sure you do.... sure the slave is not harmed but keep him 
with the others."

Imram turned off the box, thankful he had once again survived the 
encounter with it, his mind and groin focused on the slave awaiting his 
attention in the front room. Gesturing for the guard to follow him, he 
walked briskly back down the corridor and into the room, his hands busy 
undoing the laces that held his pants. The slave was naked and on his 
knees, held in the strong grip of two overseers, his head high and 
defiant, a look of pure hatred in his weary hazel eyes.

Mulder willed himself not to look away as the SlaveMaster entered the 
room and removed his boots and trousers. The memory of his garden 
retreat was in the back of his mind, a safe haven he could run to if 
need be. He was however reluctant to go there too soon, he had seen the 
weariness in Walter's eyes and knew he should not burden his lover with 
the weight of his fear and pain.

The guards dragged him to the bed, agony enveloping his leg, keeping him 
awake and alert to what was going to take place. He was shoved face 
down on the hand-woven blanket, it's course fabric itchy against his 
skin. His limbs were stretched and secured, pulled taut to the four 
corners of the bed. A lumpy pillow was forced under his belly, raising 
his arse. He felt the bed sag under his abuser's weight as Imram 
settled between his parted legs, those rough, callous hands once more 
sweeping over him, tracing the outline of his spine, the ridges of his 
shoulder blades, first the left then the right. A cold, wet tongue 
followed the hands path, occasionally punctuated with nibbles and bites 
from razor sharp teeth.

He knew the nightmare had yet to truly begin and already his mind's eye 
was searching for Walter in the now cloud covered garden. Suddenly the 
sky darkened, gray thunderheads forming on the distant horizon. Flashes 
of lightning scored the sky and a wild wind appeared out of nowhere, 
ruffling his hair and whipping his loose jacket and trousers around him. 
Driving rain hit him square in the face, stinging his eyes and making it 
difficult to see.

*"Walter!"* he called, his voice almost drowned out by the howling gale. 

He thought he heard a distant muffled reply but could not begin to guess 
the direction it may have come from. He tried to raise one hand to 
shield his eyes, but it remained uselessly frozen at his side, held 
against his body by the roaring wind that threatened to sweep him off 
his feet.

Imram noticed that the slave had gone slack beneath him, his head turned 
to one side, his eyes glazed and unfocused. He was familiar with the 
reaction, many an unwilling bed-slave sliding into shock to escape 
reality. He wanted this one awake and aware, conscious to accept his 
punishment, to know who was in control, whose hands held his life. He 
grabbed the pitcher of water and emptied it over the slave's head, the 
shock of the cold water causing the slave to buck and writhe under him. 
The friction against his erection driving his blood hot and wild, his 
balls full and heavy.

"I think he needs something to keep his mind on the job," Imram growled 
out to no-one in particular. A guard rushed forward, his trousers 
around his ankles, exposing an enormous stomach and huge, dripping cock. 
He stood at the head of the bed, his cock at the right height to be 
forced into the slave's clenched mouth, waiting for his superior's 
signal. 

Mulder felt the driving rain in his face and fought the strength of the 
wind to move forward towards the rainbow that had formed on the other 
side of a rambling stream. At the end of the band of soft light was his 
garden, his sanctuary. Walter sat on their bench, facing away from him, 
totally dry and undisturbed by the wild storm that raged all around him.

He forded the stream, the icy cold water reaching up to his waist, 
freezing his penis and causing his sac to seek the warmth of his body. 
Something long and slimy grabbed one ankle, trying to stop his progress, 
to pull him under the swirling water. He jerked his foot free and 
continued, almost running. He felt a pressure on his backside as 
something thick and moist was forced between the cheeks of his buttocks. 

He reached out one desperate hand, calling for his lover with every 
scrap of energy available to him. *"Walter, help me... Please.. I need 
you."* He had almost given up hope when a firm hand grasped his wrist 
and yanked him clear of the now flooding stream and into his lover's 
arms.

Imram ran his hands down the smooth, unmarked flesh of the slave's back, 
picturing the expanse of brown skin criss-crossed with red and pink 
welts, a blank canvas waiting to be filled by a master artist, a virgin 
block of stone waiting to be carved by a skilled stonemason. He 
reached under the struggling slave to grasp his cock, feeling underneath 
for the small round balls, taking them and rolling them roughly in his 
fingers. The slave jerked, kicking and rocking below his mass, trying 
to break free. One foot came loose of it's rope binding, the knee 
slamming into Imram's side. He thrust his erection between tight, dry 
flesh, finding the puckered hole and plunging inside in one swift, 
violent movement, oiled only by his own pre-cum. The slave screamed at 
the penetration and fought but was unable to shift Imram's massive bulk. 
Imram nodded to the man standing near the slave's head and as he rammed 
his hard piston in and out, watched with carnal delight as his second-
in-command fucked the slave's mouth, hesitantly at first, but then with 
more control and rhythm until he was matching Imram's brutal pace, 
stroke for stroke, thrust for thrust. 

Mulder lay encircled in Walter's arms on the soft grass, a gentle breeze 
cooling their flushed naked bodies. He could feel Walter's shaft inside 
him, stretching him, filling the space that only Walter could fill. 
Waves of ecstasy engulfed him as his prostate was stroked over and over, 
the friction of Walter's cock sending shudders of pleasure through him. 
Walter's lips on his neck, kissing and sucking and licking and tasting, 
wanting to devour him. Walter's expert hand on his cock, pumping him 
slowly, lovingly in time to his gentle thrusts, lifting him up towards 
the sweet explosion and little death that was ejaculation. He felt his 
lover's seed, his essence, released into his inner passage, merging and 
mingling with his own, to become one with him, never to be parted. 
Walter rolled them on to their sides, still buried deep inside him. 
Long slender fingers fed him ripe, sweet grapes, and cherries and the 
biggest, longest most succulent strawberries he had ever known. The 
juices ran down his stubbled chin to be captured by Walter's tongue and 
the older man swallowed as if he was tasting manna straight from heaven. 
A giant, blood-red berry was dangled just above his mouth, teasing his 
tastebuds with it's flavor. It was lowered swiftly, its bulk filling 
his mouth and sliding down his throat. He gagged and pulled back, his 
teeth ripping the firm flesh from it's stalk, his mouth and lips and 
chin stained red. His tongue touched something alive and slimy and out 
of pure reflex he bit down, expelling the bitter tasting substance along 
with the rotten flesh.

The guard at the slave's head jerked back after letting out an ear-drum 
bursting scream. His cock, now limp and bloody, hung unnaturally low by 
two or three narrow strips of skin. The slave's mouth and chin were 
covered in blood, small pieces of pink flesh trapped between his teeth. 
He reacted without thinking, swiping the sword off the floor and 
bringing it down over the slave's exposed neck in one smooth action. 
Only Imram's hand on the hilt stopped the blade severing the slave's 
head.

"No. That's just what he wants. He wants you to kill him." Imram 
ordered, extracting himself from the slave's rear at the same as he 
pushed the weapon away from his neck. The guard had fallen back in 
agony and shock, the sword landing with a thud next to him. He looked 
down in amazement, his almost severed member cradled in one hand, a 
growing pool of blood and semen on the floor between his legs and 
fainted.

"There are punishments worse than death, Malik, and he will feel every 
last one of them." Imram sunk to his knees, hugging his brother's limp 
body against his own as the slave vomited blood and flesh and semen and 
bile onto the floor beside his rocking form.

***********

End 10/12

Holding Out For A Hero : Chapter 1 (11/12) 

Lady Kaneesha's Private Rooms
CARTERIUS CASTLE
Same Evening

A hurried knock at her door brought Kaneesha out of the trance-like 
state she had been in since Morten had been taken away. She looked down 
at the faded, wrinkled piece of cloth she held in one hand, not knowing 
how it got there. On it was a charcoal drawing of a face half hidden in 
shadows, the visible half pale but gorgeous, full lips parted slightly 
as if frozen in the act of speech. 

She recalled the night she had drawn it, still in the shadowy, foggy 
state between dreams and waking. The image of her dream visitor 
startlingly clear in her mind, she had stumbled to the smoldering fire 
in the hearth, grabbed a chunk of coal and looked around for something, 
anything on which to capture her vision. She had ended up ripping a 
large piece of linen from her nightgown and returned to bed, barely 
aware of having left it. Closing her eyes, she had let her hand wander 
over the cloth of it's own free will, making lines here and there, her 
thumbs growing dirty with soot from smudging the black dust. It was as 
if someone or something else was doing the drawing and she was merely 
the tool, guided by another force. She had not drawn since her mother 
died many years before. Her mother had spent many hours and days with 
her in the gardens or quiet areas of the huge castle teaching her to 
transfer what she saw around her onto wood and linen.

Knowing that it was finished, she had looked down at the product of her 
dream.

"Fox!" She had exclaimed out loud, not the least bit surprised that she 
knew his name. The picture was so life-like she almost expected him to 
reply. She longed to hear him say her name in a voice as soft as silk; 
at the same instant she knew that one day she would indeed hear him, 
touch him and own him. The last was as naturally assumed as the first 
two, for she had a habit of getting what she wanted.

The pounding on her door became louder and more urgent.

"Come," Kaneesha ordered, not looking towards the entrance, unable to 
pull tear stained eyes away from the drawing.

"M'Lady? The dress-makers are waiting for you. Your ball gown is almost 
finished." The servant said, standing just inside the room. She was a 
young, pretty girl, her curly coal black hair contrasting with pale skin 
and green eyes. 

Kaneesha turned towards her and rose slowly to her feet.

"How can I cope with a ball when all my dreams and desires are 
destroyed," she mumbled, clutching the cloth to her ample bosom.

"M'Lady, is something wrong?" She had not been in Kaneesha's service 
long enough to recognize her mistress's various moods and more 
importantly how to deal with them.

Kaneesha didn't reply, just walked straight to her rumpled bed and threw 
herself down on it. Head buried in her arms, she began crying, the 
tears flowing thick and fast.

The servant was at a lost as to how to proceed. She had never seen her 
usually happy, carefree mistress so upset. She moved silently forward, 
reaching to put one hand on her mistress's shoulder, mimicking the 
actions of her mother when she herself was sad.

Kaneesha exploded at the touch, knocking her to the floor.

"How dare you lay a hand on me!" she shrieked, her voice high and 
strained. "Get out of here!" 

The servant scrambled for the door, not looking back, just wanting to 
put as much distance between them as possible. She had heard of the 
punishment handed to one slave the day before who had upset Kaneesha-- 
flogging and banishment to the dreaded mines from which very few ever 
returned.

So intent to escape she failed to notice the large form of the head-
seamstress coming down the hallway toward her. They collided but both 
managed to stay on their feet.

"Watch where you're going girl." The woman looked down at the shaking 
body in front of her. "I sent you to get Her Ladyship, not go running 
around the castle."

"I'm sorry, Miss Hannah. But she won't come, just started mumbling 
somethin' 'bout dreams bein' destroyed then started cryin'" She tried 
to explain, slipping back into the speech patterns of her childhood. 
She was visibly shaken, dreading having to face her mistress again.

The gray-haired old woman hugged her briefly, before turning towards the 
door to Kaneesha's rooms. "It's all right, Becka. I'll deal with her, 
you head back to the weaving room."

Becka didn't need to be told twice. She smiled gratefully at her savior 
and walked briskly down the corridor.

The seamstress entered the sleeping chamber, not bothering to knock or 
wait for permission. She was fed up with Kaneesha's selfish behavior 
and ever-changing moods. The spoilt brat had rejected five different 
dresses in the last few weeks, forcing the women in the weavery to work 
day and night to come up with something that Kaneesha deemed worthy of 
her. Rolls of rare, expensive fabric and buckets of water to dye the 
fabric had been used only for them to be told it was not the right 
color-- too dark or too pale. She had finally forbidden entry to 
Kaneesha, using a slave of the same size and build to finish the latest 
gown and telling an outraged Kaneesha that she would wear what was 
offered or go to the ball as she had been born 20 summers ago-- butt 
naked. 

"I told you to leave me be." Kaneesha ordered, not lifting her head 
from the pillow it was buried in.

"I'm not one of your little serving girls you can bully as you please."
Before she could reply, a claw-like hand grabbed her shoulder and in one 
swift movement she was turned over and pulled to her feet. She came 
face to face with a stern, wrinkled visage framed with long, loose snowy 
white hair. Slate-gray eyes emphasized the force of the old woman's 
words.

"Take your hands off me, woman," Kaneesha commanded, trying to wriggle 
free of the hold.

"Your Highness' presence is required in the weavery and you are coming 
even if I have to put you over my shoulder and carry you there." 

Hannah's voice dripped with sarcasm, her fingers digging in harder. 

"Don't think I won't. And don't think you can run off to Daddy, he 
spent his fair share of time over my knee as a child and he won't stop 
me doing the same to you."

**********

End 11/12

Holding Out For A Hero : Chapter 1 (12/12) 

Somewhere between Gilliania 
and Carterius Castle
The Following Evening 

The sun had set and only one moon was visible in the night sky when 
Mulder sensed the wagons drawing to a stop. Sounds of commotion, 
whinnying, frantic horses, people screaming, the distinctive crackle of 
dry wood burning filled the night air. A couple of guards appeared at 
the back of the wagon and began gesturing for the slaves to climb out, 
using the short whips to wake those that had managed to fall asleep. 
Mulder was pulled along due to the neck chains that connected each 
slave. Reaching the end of the wagon, he jumped down, wincing as he 
landed on his injured leg but grateful for the opportunity to stretch 
his legs and back. The slaves in the holding pen had been awoken before 
dawn with powerful jets of icy cold water, further increasing Mulder's 
suspicions about the level of technology available in this world. 

After a hurried meal of unrecognizable origin, they were packed into the 
wagons. Mulder spent the daylight hours sandwiched between two of the 
ugliest men he had ever laid eyes on, one with chronic halitosis that 
had almost emptied his half-filled stomach within the first half hour. 
Around mid-day, a bucket of warm, salty water was passed around the 
wagon. Once emptied, the same bucket was again passed around. Needless 
to say, Mulder didn't drink again that day. 

Looking around, he was horrified by the sight that surrounded him. The 
SlaveMaster's men were rampaging through a tiny village, dragging men, 
women and children from several huts that huddled around a small, 
smoldering fire, slaying those that resisted. Flame-lit arrows flew 
through the cold night air, landing frequently in the wooden, reed-
covered dwellings. Many were well alight, the overseers grabbing the 
fleeing occupants as they tried to escape.

Piercing screams, animal and human and the acrid stench of burning flesh 
assaulted Mulder's senses. He saw guards dragging young women off to 
the edge of the thick woods away from the flames and smoke that had 
quickly filled the air, two and three at a time descending on their 
defenseless victims. 

Suddenly a man appeared at the opening of one of the few dwellings not 
already engulfed in flames, a loaded bow in his hands, it's arrow 
pointed at a mounted overseer who held a small child in his arms. 
Without hesitating, he released the arrow. It traveled swiftly and 
true, hitting it's intended target directly through his heart. Before 
the man fell lifeless from his horse, his killer was hit with half a 
dozen arrows, some of them alight. He collapsed to the ground, rolling 
in a useless attempt to smother the flames, only succeeding in driving 
some of the arrows deeper into his body. Mulder knew he was unable to 
help the stranger, but that didn't stop him feeling his agony and pain, 
increasing the hatred and anger he felt towards the bastards who would 
kill a man for the crime of protecting his family.

The survivors of the massacre were herded into a tight group near the 
only structure still standing. Women held screaming and sobbing 
children of various ages. The few young men still alive were separated 
by the guards, and on Imram's shouted orders, taken over to the wagons 
where the slaves were shivering in the chilly air. They were quickly 
linked with chains and shackles and loaded onto one of the wagons, along 
with a dozen of the healthiest-looking male slaves that had been 
purchased at Gilliania. The wagon was then quickly driven off into the 
night. 

"Release him," Imram ordered the guard who held the keys for the slaves 
collars, pointing at Mulder. Within seconds, Mulder was on his knees in 
front of Imram. He watched with dawning horror as Imram's men herded 
the children, women and old folk inside the small wooden hut. A couple 
of guards held lit torches. They stood beside their leader, awaiting 
further orders.

Imram grabbed Mulder's collar, pulling him roughly to his feet and 
thrust one of the torches into his shackled hands. Mulder realized what 
his captor/rapist had in mind and reacted automatically. He threw the 
burning piece of wood to the ground, only just missing Imram's leather 
boots.

"Pick up the torch, slave," Imram commanded, his right hand coming to 
rest on the hilt of his sword, astonished at the slave's continuous 
disobedience. No slave had ever openly defied him and lived to tell 
about it. He wished he had let his brother kill the insolent bastard 
but he remembered his vow of revenge and was determined to make the 
slave's life a living hell.

"No." Mulder replied defiantly, dark hazel eyes staying focused on 
Imram's, no hint of retreat or surrender. He was almost beyond caring 
what happened to him, a growing realization that perhaps the only way to 
escape this nightmare would be to die. However hopeless his own 
situation seemed though, he couldn't just stand back and watch innocent, 
defenseless people be slaughtered. And he would not, could not 
participate in the horror, no matter what punishment he faced.

Before Imram's weapon was clear of its scabbard, Mulder surged forward, 
catching everyone off-guard to wrap shackled hands around his captor's 
broad throat. Before he could even begin applying pressure, he was 
grabbed from behind by too many hands to count and wrestled to the 
ground, the flaming torch searing his sweat covered face, singeing his 
eyebrows and hair. He kicked and bucked and fought like a wild animal 
and the guards punished him like one, laying into his already pain 
filled body with whips and stiff leather boots, more than one kick 
striking his wounded leg. Somehow he managed to roll away from the 
burning torch, whilst trying to protect himself from the onslaught being 
inflicted on him from every direction. 

Mulder barely registered the orders being issued from above that caused 
the attack to cease. He felt himself being lifted upwards and dragged 
sideways, his right leg scraping painfully along the hard, stony ground, 
the cloth and leaf bandage reduced to shreds. Anonymous hands lifted 
his own above his head and secured them to something unidentifiable but 
solid and rough. A surface that left splinters in his fingers as he 
grasped wood in reaction to the lashes he felt raining down on his back. 

They came thick and fast, without pause for what felt like an eternity. 
A wave of icy cold water over his head and shoulders brought him back to 
the surface of reality. He was on his knees in front of one of the 
wagon wheels, his hands lashed to the rim, sandpaper rough spokes hard 
against his cheek and chest. What he saw made him want to immediately 
descend back into unconsciousness, to escape the sights, sounds and 
smells that he was certain would haunt him til the day he died; a day 
that he wished would come sooner rather than later. The small hut in 
front of him had been set alight, it's occupants engulfed in searing 
heat and smoke, red and blue and yellow flames leaping high into the air 
forcing soldiers and slaves to retreat. He briefly saw small fingers 
reaching through gaps in the wood, desperately seeking help that would 
never arrive. Inhuman screams reached an ear-shattering peak before 
dying away. 

As he slipped once more into unconsciousness, his lasts thoughts however 
were of Scully and Walter. Where they were, what they were doing, would 
Dana continue on with the X-Files alone without him or would she finally 
break free of his obsession, his quest, to have the life he knew she 
wanted and deserved. A home and a husband and children.....

And Walter... would he blame and punish himself for assigning him to the 
undercover mission that would ultimately lead to his death? He hoped 
not, but he knew Walter felt overly protective of his most troublesome 
agents. He hoped that he might one day get the chance to tell him how 
he felt, but the way things stood he doubted he'd live to see another 
sunrise, let alone get back to his own world and the two most important 
people in his life.

**********

End 12/12

END OF HOFAH 1: Fight The Rising Odds

CONTINUED IN HOFAH 2: A Dream Come True