Title: Suzerain’s Companion (working title)
Rating: Mature Audiences – for content and themes
Summary: Post WWIII and 250+ years on from the Black Thorn. Highly refined, purpose bred ‘Companion’ Alexander is ‘liberated’ by feral humans, consequently rescued by the Suzerain Spike’s forces, the head of which decides to ingratiate himself by presenting his Sire with a boy reminiscent of one of the former Scoobies.
Spoilers: Canon is AU - very post S5 AtS.
Warnings: M/M – if you don’t like boys together, don’t play here!
Disclaimer: Don’t own the characters nor make any money from stories etc, and bow down to their original creators Joss, et al., plus all the wonderful online writers who continue to give the Buffy/Angel verse characters life.
They had dragged him to a brightly lit room and ordered him to stand. He had initially collapsed on the floor still groggy from the anaesthetic, so they had beaten him until he stood. He was eighteen, a Companion and should be able to defend himself – the Mistress had seen to that - but it was not to be. Not when he was blindfolded and gagged, and had his hands tightly handcuffed behind his back and ankles shackled to posts on the floor.
Eventually he had struggled up and stood proud, then let tears of fear and silent apologies to his Suzerain flow behind blindfold and gag respectively. He knew he had failed his Claimer. He was the weak link, the Suzerain’s Achilles heel. And yet he knew, even if he were to die, the Suzerain would endure… with the help of his Childe and Lisbeth … and the Mistress… the Suzerain would survive the death of a Claimed.
And so he stood. The voices kept circling him, kept asking him questions and the thumping beat that was playing through speakers somewhere in the room made it almost impossible to think.
To his torturers complete frustration, the young Companion had uttered no sound since his arrival. They had examined his mouth whilst he was unconscious and there was a tongue, but they had begun to wonder if he had the power of speech, not putting it past the Suzerain to choose one so limited for his pleasure – but members of their number claimed they had seen him speak so…
They left him standing, each time he moved, a harsh whip would strike and should he move as a consequence, it would strike again. He bore seventeen deep welts across his back, legacy of this ‘improper’ behaviour. But after forty hours, forty hours of not moving, forty hours of questions, he could not stand any longer. The blood had pooled toward his feet courtesy of the human body’s vascular need to move to work veins. He began to see stars then simply… black.
He woke shackled close to a wall by his Companion collar. At least he was semi lying down for a time, kneeling with his forehead against the wall, chained so short that his own bodily functions were now, forcibly, part of his bedding.
Without water for over two days, his lips were chapped and he had begun to pant a little. On the third day a demon with a pair of enormous clippers came and removed his right pinky finger to the second knuckle. He passed out, waking to the feeling of two demons constricting the blood flow with a tight tourniquet. It meant little. He knew he would die and it was for the best he decided. The Suzerain had to remain strong.
His captors threatened other extremities when there was apparently ‘no reaction’ from the Suzerain when the finger was delivered, but still he remained silent. And so he knew he was going to die. For the first time since his claiming, he relaxed the emotional link completely and simply let his love for his Claimer flow as a final goodbye. His darling Suzerain had to endure.
He no longer knew the course of time. The light was constantly on… and every once in a while they would collect him – now more for their own amusement than information. In the first few days, lying on his side in his prison, simply trying to breathe, he had been interested in the behaviour of the other ‘inmates’ in their rudimentary cell (in fact an old office block). Even though all in his cell were human, they were obviously ferals and there was definitely pack behaviour when food arrived, the strong taking most, the weak eating last. He watched with a mixture of disgust and envy, his tortured body and the need for his Claimer preventing any effort to rise. He drank cautiously if offered water but ate nothing. There was no hunger ergo, no need. The others happily ate his portion.
Coming through the haze of yet another beating, Alexander realized what was being asked and snorted – the choice was – admit what he had seen at his time in the inner circle or send one of his eyes to the Suzerain.
He knew it was his sacrifice to make and knew that it would make no difference. As he passed out with pain of the pretty eye’s removal, he opened the Claimed Claimant link for a final goodbye, simply thanking his wonderful master. He was ready to die and sincerely hoped the idiots who were his torturers did not stem the flow. His last thoughts as he passed out was that at least his Claimer, his master in everything, knew the love he felt for him.
A day later he was shackled, kneeling, to the wall in an isolation cell, the space where his left eye once was throbbing with such intensity that he simply hung his head and cried with the existing one… and wondered how long it would be until they took it too.
The following day marked the twelfth day he had not eaten and had only taken water when forced… The socket was still leaking some sort of fluid… He sent love again, then hoped to die.
The Suzerain had been almost beyond reason for the first two days, his dear Childe and Grandchilde had forced him to accept their wrists on the third day. He had not slept, frantic that he could feel his dear Companion but had no idea of the location. He could feel the pain and the apologies. It was more than physical torture could ever impose.
He knew, as his enemies obviously did, that if ever there was a weapon to hurt the Suzerain at the current time, it was to harm his Claimed Companion. Though (the thought must have occurred) Spike’s reputation would have him ruthless enough to let his Claimed perish.
But Spike had felt a jolt as the boy was moved. His kidnappers had shifted him between warded areas, not careful enough to cover their entire area. And for the first time in ten days, he knew for certain where they should be headed. They needed his new-fashioned helicopter and more importantly – a pilot.
Angelus’ habit of turning ferals sometimes brought unexpected dividends. At his Sire’s request he sought out the one he knew, Lincoln.
Angelus had taken the boy from the feral militia, kept for his looks not his skills, but the Suzerain’s Childe also knew the boy had flown helicopters and had been one of their strategists. He grabbed the minion from the depths of the lair and handed him over. The Suzerain bit Lincoln hard, draining the minion within seconds of dust, then he and Angelus fed enough blood to shift his status – indeed enough that he might stand at the rear of the Suzerain’s court as one of the trusted few. He was to be Spike’s new chauffeur – the airborne one.
An hour after his draining and feeding, the young vampire recovered his senses. He was initially overwhelmed, his pre turning knowledge and intelligence was back as though a strange veil had been lifted, but there was more. Lincoln stood slowly and felt the unrelenting demand of the Suzerain, the call so much stronger – something he’d never experienced before. He knew his place, would eat well and train with the best, he was no longer minion, but a trusted servant, part of the household, and his ruler appreciated and protected him. Elated, committed and feeling utterly honoured, he mounted the helicopter, his skills as pilot worthy of his new status, and his devotion to the ruling family now absolute, until he was dust.
Angelus, Spike, the Mistress and four trained minions entered the stealth enabled chopper as soon as Lincoln was judged capable of piloting said vehicle. Lisbeth had almost begged to go, but knew her condition made her liability not asset.
Spike could feel his boy failing, feel his hunger and pain, and more than that… feel his farewell. He urged the Lincoln to test the vehicle’s speed.
It had been a wild scheme to gain control by the Suzerain’s opponents, their intensions to blackmail him with his ‘toy’ indicated in the note that accompanied the box with his Companion’s eye, but they really had little idea of the retribution when they were found out. The Suzerain had his informants and issued an edict as soon as the perpetrators were established. For the Suzerain’s forces, there was to be no mercy and no questions, rather, it was simple, effect swift and efficient elimination of every being they came across.
While the Suzerain was rescuing his Claimant, everyone linked to the perpetrators of the crime was being wiped out. Twelve teams and a number of backup groups were sent, and not just to the major lairs and strongholds, but to *every* enclave of the South East Cartel. Those who escaped were wiped out in a second sweep less than an hour later. The Master of the Cartel whose crew had grabbed Alexander, and his favourite Childe, were spared – only so her painful demise might be witnessed by the Sire before the Suzerain had the privilege of making him dust.
Every minion was dusted, all the associated demons killed, and their frightened feedlot and breeder humans crated ready for moving before the helicopter even landed at Alexander’s torture site.
Their territory was now for the Suzerain to split up or rule.
Angelus had *never* seen his Sire so angry, nor any other vampire so vicious until that moment. In the end he felt he and the Mistress were simply there to protect the minions from their own ruler.
Normally yellow eyes were glowing red with anger and pain. He leapt from the helicopter from nearly fifty feet in the air, landing apparently effortlessly, ripped out three demon throats and removing the heads of two minions without breaking his stride.
Spike could feel the boy failing, *his* Companion, *his* wounded Claimed. There were none in his wake left standing as he entered the derelict office building from the roof.
He followed the final desperate call through the Claiming link and… found the room a mere two floors down.
Alexander was unconscious, trussed up in the parody of a crucifix, still bleeding from the socket of the missing eye.
The Mistress gasped at the tortured form, Angelus also took an unneeded breath. Spike had swiftly dispatched everyone that smelled vaguely of his loved Companion and then some besides, but it wasn’t enough. His roar shook the building and none of his own contingent dared come near as he gently cut his beloved down, released all his bindings then fed him from his own sliced open breast.
Alexander seemed to know who had him in the embrace, and though not coming back to full consciousness relaxed into the strong arms and accepted the offering.
Spike, meanwhile, took proper note of the injuries: Evidence of multiple beatings; shallow cruel slicing of skin on his torso; right arm and several ribs badly broken; the obvious removals - finger and eye; ankles and feet swollen from repeated sessions upright and unable to move; and a rudimentary tattoo on one buttock sporting the words “Suzerain’s Whore”. There was also a serious loss of weight, obvious dehydration and, on further inspection, a tightly bound, very limp erection coupled with roughly shaved scrotum and red raw anus plugged to its limit with a huge wooden phallus.
Spike released the binding on the penis then eased out the offending article before Angelus approached and opened his wrist ready to let some healing fluid drip past the offended orifice, but was unable. Neither the Mistress nor the Suzerain’s First could assist any more at this point, Spike’s glowing red eyes and warning growl fended off all comers.
Spike opened his palm with fangs that seemed even longer than before and dripped his powerful blood onto all the abused areas then continued to stroke his Claimed again and again, reassuring himself that the breathing was easier and the heartbeat steady though a little fast.
The Mistress reached for then squeezed Angelus’ hand as they looked on helplessly. She was reminded of ancient marble carvings of the Pieta, the bereft and very dangerous Suzerain and his beautiful damaged boy.
After several minutes, Spike simply stood and walked past them carrying Alexander effortlessly toward the helicopter, his only words to the Mistress and Angelus before easing the abused body inside, “Kill everything then raze it to the ground. I’ll send the chopper back for you.” They had all heard the news from the other cartel areas. Angelus and the Mistress would do as instructed and give their Suzerain time to calm.
Spike held his dear boy close as they flew home. Now so like his ancestor with his missing eye, though perhaps more modern technology could address that.
As they flew home Spike stroked his dear Alexander, fed him, and wondered yet again at his likeness to the one so long gone.