The Kings Personal Joker (boyxboy)

Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen

[Cigol's POV]

We sat, a strange comfort between us, and ate.

He occasionally glimpsed at the whip I had in reach and I wondered if he thought of grabbing it and turning on me, for any other man would surely have done so. But instead he looked away, sweetly, not quite submissive but certainly obedient.

I still wasn't sure what it was about him that was so enchanting to me, despite, during this time, being dirty, hair unwashed and mussed, bruised in places, cuts on his lip and scuffed ankles where blood had crusted and dried, face somewhat pallid and sleep deprived.

Most of this I had washed carefully the previous night, during a moment where I'd felt oddly possessed to take care of him as though he were a treasure I had been tasked to destroy.

I knew my assignment well, rarely had I ever met failure. I was careful, meticulous, strategic and unfeeling, but he had a grip on me that made it hard for me to stop thinking about him when I left the room, sticking on my mind like a moth to the walls.

The look of pleasure on his face was haunting, his relinquished pain, carefully controlled in my hands, drew a certain look from him that gained feelings I had never cared much for before, that made my soul feel as though it was blazing, powerful and intrigued.

Despite my cruel spontaneous punishment; he did look better the following day, although his mood, initially, was still much the same when it came to offering information. Unwavered by the night's game... he was still stubbornly quiet.

When his change of heart came it was suspiciously quick, still I took the lead and made no dramatics.

"Where do you come from?" I posed the question quietly. "Be specific."

"Rhazmus." He responded easily, setting a hand on his knee.

I felt some surprise at how calmly he provided the damning information, despite withholding for so long. My subordinates had not been kind to him.

The man Belem was not the first prisoner I had been tasked with, not the first who I had set about and used certain tactics on.

First one must beat them, and try to draw information from them at fear of death.

But he did not fear death, so instead a new figure must step in, be seen as kind, removing the guards, removing any fears, to become a trusted companion.

But I made mistakes...

I gazed at him too long, watched him out of the corner of my eye, found him fascinating. Strangely quiet, and lonely, and submissive in the most strange and wonderful way.

I had put him in my room, in my bed, I had punished him, despite wanting him to feel safe, and even still I felt the growing need to assert my control over him, to see him lean into me in a way that I did not know to benefit information gathering at all.

He wrote a poem, and it sounded so distant, like a dream of something he had once seen and never would again. Perhaps it only struck me this way because it was such a strange text to write buried under these walls.

But for a moment I saw the boy ambling along a path hitch stick in hand, breathing in the air, eyes bright and cheeks free of blemishes. He had resigned himself to die, with all his secrets buried with him.

And suddenly his tongue was loose, the wine? Was that all it took?

Something else must have interfered. It would have something to do with the missing paper, perhaps. I kept my face free of expression but watched him carefully.