Chapter Text
Dragon stirred, sensing a danger his mind was too hazy recognize. Instinct was a powerful motivator, though. Fight or flight, boy, you better do something, it screamed, and just like that, he jolted awake.
His body, unfortunately, wasn't in a state for either, and he immediately regretted the sudden movement, shoulder throbbing as it smacked back down against the floor. Dragon groaned. The scent of singed flesh lingered on his clothes, a grim reminder of the beam that'd sliced through it only hours ago.
Hours, maybe? Or was it days? There was no telling how long he'd laid here, unconscious. Dried blood crusted over the whole left side of his face, already dry and itching. Reaching up to scratch at it, Dragon found his range of motion restricted. Not weighed down by injury or fatigue, but by the shackle around his wrist.
Panic pried his eyes open, and for a moment, seeing nothing but darkness, feared that they hadn't actually obeyed. Then his sight began to adjust, shadows slowly blurring into shapes. Only a faint glow illuminated the room, enough that he could make out the bars of his cell.
Vision finally clear, Dragon took a moment to examine himself; torn, bloody clothes barely resembling his uniform. Manacles binding each of his wrists, matching the chain around his neck. He swallowed back the bile this discovery brought, feeling the cold metal slide against his throat.
And yet the most disconcerting detail was the bandages. Evidently his captor had tended to his injuries—or, did the bare minimum, anyway. Sweat, blood and dirt stained the once clean white cloth. Judging by the sharp, protruding ache of his wounds, they hadn't administered any pain relief, either. So, somebody wanted him alive, but they didn't particularly care what state he was in.
Not comforting in the slightest, but it explained why he hadn't bled out.
Gritting his teeth, Dragon dragged his body upright, unable to stifle the yelp that escaped. Once he was kneeling, panting from the exertion, he glanced around his prison. It seemed to be the brig of a ship, the waves rocking gently beneath his knees.
Whose ship remained the obvious question. This prison was dingier than the standard marine one. Could be a pirate ship, but he doubted that. Pirates looted treasure; they didn't bother to kidnap lowly no-name cadets. Unless they realized whose name this cadet shared...
Dread sunk its claws into his chest, memories tugging at him with the force of a tide. Dad. God Valley. The babies. It was a punch to the gut, knocking all the air from his lungs.
Surely by now his platoon would have realized he was missing. His commander had a sort of soft-spot for Dragon, if you squinted. In that he treated his unruly recruit with more exasperation than contempt, chalking it up to Dragon "not being raised with discipline."
It stood to reason that he might, emphasis on might, have covered for Dragon when he didn't report to the ship. His absence would have gone unnoticed for a bit. If he didn't return at all, though—
Well, there would be inquiries. Mostly due to where he disappeared and why, exactly, he had stayed. If luck was on his side, they'd simply count him among the dead, another victim of the slaughter on God Valley. Hopefully, they wouldn't care to dig deep enough to uncover the truth.
He smiled faintly, remembering the slaves rallying to survive, wondering if they were safe now. Come what may, he could never regret his actions on that island, not if it gave them a chance to be free.
Visions of his platoon all lined up, saluting nothing, heads severed from their necks, flashed before his eyes—the commander, the lieutenant, all those other young, naive cadets, beheaded. Dragon shook his head violently. Spare everyone else, he thought desperately. Only I should suffer for what I've done.
Except no matter how much he wished for it, the harm couldn't be avoided. Even in that best case scenario where Dragon disappeared quietly, a forgotten casualty in the clash on God Valley, there was still one person who'd suffer.
Dad...
The last time they spoke, Dragon had declined to join his vacation. A recruit can't skip out on training, he argued. His father sulked at the rejection, then scoffed at his reasoning.
Why not? You'll be with me, so it'll be fine!
He remembered pulling a face, so unimpressed that his father laughed, loud and uproarious. Stubborn, aren't ya?
Even if he had relented, gone along with the old man's whims—Garp had evidently cut the vacation short to chase after Roger. Dragon would've ended up on the God Valley anyhow. Destined to be there, no matter what choice he made. But for what?
Dragon snorted bitterly. To fail? He saved that boy from one bullet, but he couldn't stop the wicked game they were forced to play. That woman entrusted Dragon with her children, yet he'd lost one, and was forced to leave the other.
A last ditch effort, though not without purpose. Dragon had tried to get to a marine ship, but to no avail, blocked by too many threats. Then he'd heard Roger order his crew to retreat, and, knowing what he did of pirates, they wouldn't flee without grabbing some treasure.
And he also knew that where the Roger Pirates went, Vice Admiral Garp would follow.
Heading toward the prizes was a gambit, but it'd be worth the risk if he managed to find his father; he'd swallow his pride and ask for help in a heartbeat if it meant this child would finally be safe. He didn't expect to be caught by another God's Knight on the way, but, thinking fast, Dragon hid his charge in a nearby chest, planning to double-back once the coast was clear.
He never made it that far.
At the very least, the baby had probably escaped the island. Wherever he ended up, Dragon prayed it was someplace kind.
In hindsight, maybe it was a blessing he and his father hadn't crossed paths. The vice admiral not-so-secretly despised the world nobles. Had he seen his only child at the mercy of such monsters, Garp would've intervened. And no amount of screaming or protesting deterred the old man when he made up his mind over something.
The apple didn't fall far from the tree.
Rank or no, defying a Celestial Dragon would cost his father dearly. His job, maybe his life—the mere idea of it stung. Dragon would never forgive himself if he dragged his family down with him.
And it wasn't only his father to consider, when it risked everyone under his protection. Foosha Village, marines, civilians—could he really forsake all of that, just to save the life of his unruly son?
No, mused Dragon, staring balefully at the bars of his cage. I'm exactly where I deserve to be.
Beyond his view, a door swung open, the eerie creak reverberating through his prison. Footsteps approached from the shadows. Dragon tensed, ready to meet his captor.
Two men entered the brig. One strode right to the bars of his cell, straw blonde hair cut into a crescent moon, a sword mounted on his hip. Though his memories remained murky, the swelling knot on his head twinged in remembrance. This was the God's Knight who had captured him.
Peering down at Dragon now with a perturbing scrutiny, that face seemed to be fixed into a permanent state of placidity. Porcelain fine features, almost that of a doll. Beautiful, maybe, if you could ignore the vicious intent oozing from his gaze.
Aside of him, the other man was not so composed. In fact, he looked utterly terrified.
Eyes never leaving his captive, the God's Knight asked, "Is this the marine?"
Sweat ran down the man's forehead, eyes darting anxiously from the cell to the floor. "Y-Yes, your grace."
Finally, those crimson eyes flicked in his direction. "The one you let escape with my progeny?"
Dragon snapped up at that. The father?
"I-I-I swear to you, Saint Garling, I did my utmost to protect your children!" the man stammered. "Bu-But it was chaos, when the pirates attacked, an-and I—"
Frantically seeking a scapegoat, he rounded onto Dragon. "And this," he snarled, masking his fervor with venom, "treacherous scum took advantage of the distraction! He stole those precious children right from my grasp!"
Perhaps it would have sounded more convincing were he not visibly trembling, overcome by fear. Pity swelled in Dragon, even as the target of those accusations. None of which were false, anyway.
"So," said Garling, unmoved, "you were too concerned with preserving your own life to perform the duty assigned to you?"
Before he finished the question, his hand was shifting toward the hilt of his sword.
Dragon clenched his fists, nails slicing bloody rents into his palms. Sick bastard. Putting on this farce of a trial, when the verdict was already decided. Prolonging it solely to watch this man snivel and squirm.
If he was genuinely upset by the loss of his son, maybe Dragon could understand, or attempt to. But this wasn't revenge, this was a game. Did he get off on it? Or was it simply to give his prey a glimmer of hope, just so he could have the pleasure of snuffing it out?
Cruelty for cruelty's sake, that's all.
The man realized this in tandem to Dragon, what little pallor he had abruptly draining. He collapsed into a heap at those black-polished boots, blubbering.
"My grace, my grace please, I beg of you, have mercy!"
Pathetic or no, the pleas tore at his heart. Dragon lunged up as far as the chains would permit, wobbling on his feet. "Stop!" he hissed, slamming his body against the bars. "Stop this! He's right, it was me!"
The blade paused aside the man's neck, while its wielder skewed his gaze toward Dragon. Something akin to astonishment showed on his face.
"I took those children, on my own, with no help from anybody else." His confession carried trace of remorse. "If you're going to punish anybody, it should be me."
Relief almost wilted the man in two. He scrubbed piteously at the snot and tears smeared over his cheeks, unable to look his savior in the eyes.
Whether or not he deserved to be saved, Dragon didn't really care. He was so tired of watching people die.
Garling considered this, gradually lowering his blade. "This worm would barter you to save his own skin, and yet… you would offer your own life in the place of his?"
"Yes," said Dragon steadily. Dying in the place of this noble didn't scare him. He couldn't tell if this intrigued his captor, or irritated him.
"How strange," Garling murmured. And, without so much as a warning, he plunged his sword into the man's chest.
"NO!" Dragon screamed.
Shocked, slack-jawed, his mouth gaped soundlessly; eyes bulging, conveying the horror his punctured lung could not. Blood gurgled up his throat, pouring down his chin, gushing from the wound.
The sword exited his flesh with a squelch, and the man flopped forward. His body twitched once, twice, until finally it stilled. His final, awful wheeze echoed through the brig. Then it was silent, no other sound except the pulse pounding in Dragon's ears.
Blood pooled onto the floor, seeping into his cell. He reeled back, stomach seizing as it spilled closer, smearing the bottom of his boots.
Dragon managed not to gag, but only because he couldn't draw in the breath.
"Come," Garling beckoned. Standing there, stunned, he hadn't noticed the door to his cell was now open.
Impatient, Garling tugged at the chain around his neck, until Dragon, on shaky legs, had no choice but to follow.
*
*
*
They walked in silence, Garling dragging his captive along like a dog on a leash. Not once did he glance back, and it was a miracle Dragon didn't stumble, somehow pressing one foot after another.
Any soldier worth his salt would be more vigilant. Taking stock of the ship, noting any possible escape routes—
All Dragon could picture was the dead man. Hear the sound of him choking on his own blood.
Suddenly he recalled the mother of the twins, the life bled from her, tears in her eyes, begging the cadet to save her children, please.
It occurred to Dragon that this was probably the very monster who killed her.
And if so, the baby must be in his care.
Bursting out of his stupor, Dragon sucked in a long-needed breath, right as they arrived. Garling entered the cabin, yanking him into the most decadent room he'd ever seen on a ship... Maybe ever, actually.
Pristine carpet stretched over polished hardwood floors. Tucked against the wall was a four-poster bed, silk sheets devoid of a single crease. To his surprise, a fire even blazed in a hearth, chasing away the chill of the brig.
Completely impractical, and likely an utter pain to maintain. Dragon felt sorry for whatever servant was tasked with constantly keeping the flames stoked and the room in such an immaculate state.
When the door shut, however, they appeared to be alone. No slaves, no nobles.
No baby, either.
Dragon rounded on his captor. "Where's the baby? Is he alright?"
Pain blossomed across his face, the slap too quick for his brain to process. One moment he was standing, the next he was splayed across the floor, blood oozing from the cut his teeth gouged into the inside of his cheek.
"Learn your place, dog," said Garling, disdain oozing from every word. "Addressing a Knight of God with such impertinence will not be tolerated."
Dragon spat out a red glob onto the pristine carpet. His captor sneered at the mess, disgusted. Good, he thought savagely.
"Why," he croaked, wincing at how hoarse he sounded, "am I here?"
Quite frankly he expected another blow. Garling seemed to consider it, judging by the twitch in his composure.
"Once I neutralized you, I had you sent back to my ship so I could deal with those pests that arrived," he said, annoyance seeping from his tone, though his expression never wavered. "You required my specialized attention."
Dragon repressed a shudder, mouth twisting into scowl.
"Why not just kill me?" he asked defiantly. There was no quaver to his voice, something that bewildered his captor. "I won't tell you what I did with him. Ever. So if that's your goal, you should end me right now."
Barely after the bold declaration left his lips, the tip of a sword was poised at his jugular, drawn too quickly for his eyes to follow. It slid up the underside of his chin, skirting over his cheek in a facsimile of a caress. Motionless, except for the bob of his throat, Dragon waited.
"The idea crossed my mind," Garling drawled, dragging the blade across his throat, never quite exerting the pressure necessary to break skin. "Then I thought, what a waste that would be. I can get more than the pound of flesh I'm owed with you alive."
So this is revenge. Torture—no, toying with him. Like with the innocents on God Valley, or the caretaker in the brig. All of it the same, just a way to amuse himself with the lowly masses, ensure himself of his own superiority.
Growing up in Goa, Dragon had dealt with those types plenty. Pampered, arrogant, so far removed from reality that it was bleak, honestly. And he loathed that, that beneath his utter contempt for these nobles, Dragon couldn't help but pity them, too. To be handed everything on a silver platter, have your every whim indulged, yet never be satisfied? And to fill the void, they tormented those they deemed lesser, free of consequence.
A joyless excuse for a life, if you asked Dragon. And they didn't even realize.
He was tempted to share this aloud, just for the fleeting thrill of Garling's reaction. What men of his rank never seemed to anticipate is that if you treat someone as dog long enough, they'll start to believe that's all they are. And if you mistreat a dog long enough, it'll eventually bite back.
Well, if he was truly something so lowly in this god's eyes, so removed from the cosmic order of things that his suffering meant nothing, then what did it matter if he resisted? If he barred his teeth and snapped at the hand wrapped around his leash? Even if nobody heard his screams, Dragon refused to die quietly. He wouldn't be snuffed out so easily.
His captor would regret underestimating how much this "filth" could endure.
Garling wandered over to the fireplace, grabbing a tool to stoke the flames. Dragon was shocked that such a mundane task wasn't beneath him.
"So it's simple," said Garling over his shoulder. "You took what rightfully belongs to me. Now you belong to me."
Dragon swallowed, scowl deepening. His freedom revoked so callously, and Garling didn't bother to look him in the eye while he did it.
"Did you know?" he said, offhandedly. "The interference of those pests cost me my prize at God Valley."
He turned, and Dragon finally saw what was in his hand. Not a poker, but a-
A brand. A slave brand.
He lurched back, then stopped. There was nowhere to run. No point, he knew, squashing the panic that fled up his throat. Yet the fires of hatred burned in chest hotter than any brand.
So he seized his courage and raised his chin, refusing to cower.
Garling tsked. "You're not much of a consolation, but..."
He sighed, looking over the cadet like a new, disobedient pet. One in urgent need of breaking.
"I suppose you'll do."