Caia Works In Mysterious Ways

If you were like "Griffin, I want you to hand me a short story most emblematic of your preferred writing style", I'd give you this piece--after you'd read the content warnings and promised not to think less of me.

Which, speaking of:

This work of fiction includes:

-A cisgender male dominant on transgender male submissive, and they use the sub's tits and pussy

-Lots and lots of (made up) religion, including a trauma-induced crisis of faith

-Sex slavery and human trafficking references (not explicitly shown but heavily discussed), presented as unambiguously negative and an affront to human rights, but in the kind of erotic-fantasy way where people don't become gibbering traumatised wrecks but instead just have hot sex, you feel me? We're just having fun here.

-Related to the above: There's a

lot

of noncon in this one folks, and it really only becomes "con" in the biggest of air quotes--after a whole lot of manipulative bullshit from the antagonist-dom. I swear this isn't misery-porn though lol, the vibes are still very much firmly in "dubcon-into-con"

-Impregnation/pregnancy/breeding

-Impact play (face slapping, spanking, also general rough manhandling)

-Psychological/emotional manipulation, and if "religious manipulation" is a thing, then that too

-Maledom; proselytized (by an asshole) as being "the natural order"

-How do I put this... It'sssss "suicide ideation" but not presenting in a depressive way, only insofar as a pragmatic "Death would be kinder than slavery". Kinda different. Is it different? I feel like it's different. But for those who feel uncomfortable with this sort of thing, it might cut just a little too close

-Bondage

-Brief mentions of minor blood/injury

-Loss of virginity/hymen tearing

-A background event makes reference to mass loss of human life

-My stubborn unwillingness to give characters concrete names

-A crap-ton of snake imagery, so this might not be a good one for hardcore ophidophobes

So... you guys don't think less of me now, right? No? Swell. Enjoy!

***

High in the mountain towering above the village, a man stepped out from a temple and watched the town below burn. Strange how even the most expected of horrors could still be so shocking; all anybody could talk about, up and down the country, was how village after village, hamlet after hamlet, marauding bandits from the northern lands were looting all that they could and burning what remained. Their grand caravans were loaded down with furs, with gold, with weapons--and with people, not all of whom were originally their own. Make no mistake, however--they were theirs now. The ones that find themselves bound and caught faced unspeakable, inescapable fates.

And yes, Gabri knew that. His goddess had seen fit to give him the prescience to know, with only minutes to spare, what was about to befall them. He had done as much as he could--and that included that he remain as the temple's last steward, to defend its sacrality to the end. That did not mean he had to fight--anybody with eyes in their head would know Gabri had no body for such violence, and his goddess expected no such thing in any case. Her sphere was nature: growth, learning, cycles, life and death, and all the inherent beauty of creation. While Gabri could curl his lip at the cruelty of these bandits, never did he begrudge them; nature demanded that the strong overcome the weak. It was as it should be. He just didn't have to like it--no more than a rabbit would "like" to be bitten in half by a wolf. No, all was as it had to be, and always would be. Unspeakable as it may be, his fate was coming up to meet him.

It began as a column of dust and ash, thrown up by the wheels and hooves and boots of the caravan carting away their latest spoils. They will not have missed the temple's stone, overgrown and half-swallowed by wilderness though it was, and Gabri did not doubt that these northerners would have learned long ago that the temples were troves of treasures guarded only by clergy made soft from years at prayer and scribing and precious little else. In time, cresting the hills on the long mountain road, the rising smoke revealed the fire's source: at the forefront, a vanguard of horsemen, leading a caravan of wagons and carriages and larger structures still on wheels so many and so large that their grating, wooden grinding on the dirt paths could be heard clear up to where Gabri stood. He knew he would be seen; his robe was white, his hair the sun's gold, his eyes the sky's blue--a small part of the heavens in the form of a man, as striking against a mountain background as blood on snow. As the vanguard drew nearer, and nearer, and nearer still, it seemed that nothing would break the calm in his face--the careful, standoffish terseness of someone quite keen to get through an unpleasant situation as quickly as possible.

Some ways out, a call went out, and the caravan halted while the vanguard advanced. Gabri had half a mind to be amused by that; did they think he was... a threat? Someone to keep the weaker warriors and civilians away from? Him? His lips twitched, considering a tiny smile and opting against it--more likely, he'd confused them, standing there in their path so impetuously. Case in point: even the vanguard, too, halted some ten feet away, and Gabri could practically taste the tension.

Well fine, he'd break the ice then. He had just the perfect conversation-starter, too: in their own language, he called out to them,

"You waste your time here, warriors. This temple holds nothing of worth to you."

Mutterings between them. Oddly, however, was that... amusement he heard? The odd snicker? His brow creased; he knew his language skills were sound, he'd learned them straight from a northern woman herself, a sister in worship, and despite his insistence that she critique him harshly, she insisted right back that his enunciation was flawless. So what in the hells was so funny?

His ear perked as he received words back, passed on via echoing shout:

"A poor lie, southerner. Do you mean to stand against us?"

The furrow in Gabri's brow tightened. He... understood their words, yes, and yet... they were pronouncing everything so

oddly

! It wasn't undecipherable or anything, but they were saying almost every word just... slightly wrong? Or perhaps he was the slightly wrong one? The sister wasn't the type to pull pranks, surely she'd taught him earnestly; what was going on here? He shook his head, loosing the confusion from his mind in favour of the pressing matter at hand.

"I do not,"

he replied, pausing and frowning as once again his words elicited laughter--louder and more boisterous this time, too. He drew himself up a bit and pressed on, fighting uphill against the nerves tightening his stomach,

"I speak truthfully. This temple's goddess disdains manufactured things; you will find no art, no treasures, only gardens."

Muttering went up again, and this time Gabri sensed a tint of uncertainty in their tones. He caught snippets of them discussing how the temple was, indeed, half-consumed by greenery, corroborating his claim. When it seemed none of them could settle their doubt, one put forward a suggestion that Gabri didn't quite understand:

"Call up the viper"

, he believed, but what did that...?

His answer came shortly: a horseman, striding up from the caravan's flank, astride a great barrel-chested stallion draped in chain mail that slithered and clinked with each massive, heavy step. The men of the vanguard lowered their heads as the horseman passed--and instantly, Gabri knew why; even without a single outward mark of authority Gabri recognised, the imperiousness of that man's luridly, venomously green eyes bit straight through Gabri's own and lanced a sharp bolt of fear straight down to his heart. Slowly, he drove his horse just three steps more, his control on the reins fine and precise despite the snorting, muscular beast harnessed below him being ten times his weight. The urge to back up was overwhelming, but Gabri held--and that made this "viper" cant his head ever so slightly.

"You belong to this temple?"

the man asked on a voice that Gabri felt thrumming in his ribcage just as much as his eardrums.

Very, very quietly, he tried to sneak down a fast swallow before he spoke, making sure his voice would come out clear,

"Its high priest. I have sent all the others away. None remain."

For just a moment, the man's poisonous gaze left Gabri to sweep over the temple, and he breathed a silent sigh of relief--only to feel like he'd been stabbed anew when the burning gaze soon returned.

"Caia?"

he said.

Gabri startled to hear the name of his goddess on a northerner's lips.

"Yes,"

he said, not bothering to hide his surprise.

"You admit it readily,"

the man said with mild incredulity.

"How brave. Or, from your manner of speech, perhaps... ideal?"

"...What?" His confusion was too sincere, bypassing his more rational mind and coming out in his native tongue. In his brief fugue, the man fired off a pair of orders so quickly Gabri missed them entirely. The vanguard, "viper" included, dismounted--and Gabri found himself facing down a baker's dozen of advancing northerners.

"There's nothing left for you here!"

he said again, a nervous edge sharpening his voice.

Only... none of them peeled off toward the temple at all. Though they gave him a wide berth, soon he was encircled, surrounded on all sides as the viper came up to meet him. Even off his horse he towered over Gabri, a full head above him; rather than tilt his head back to look, Gabri instead focused squarely ahead, refusing to flinch--even when he was so close his shadow fell over him and swallowed him whole.

"Caia..."

hummed the chest before his eyes.

"Nature, and all its glories. Yes?"

Gabri gave a tiny nod--it was all he could do.

"Yes. Then you speak true that we're unlikely to find things more valuable than perfumes and incense."

"Yes!"

Gabri said in a rush, hope sparking in his chest.

"Mm. And... the priestesses of Caia--yes, I know what that would mean. What rites they have been trained to perform. What they would be good for."

Gabri twitched, and said barely above a whisper,

"They are gone. You see? There is nothing of value for you here."

A sleek, leather-gloved hand clasped Gabri's chin and turned up his face, finally making him look once more into a gaze hotter and more painful to look at than the sun. "Nothing of value? Oh, my dear Caian..." the man said, Gabri's language flowing like poison into his disbelieving ears, "Don't sell yourself short. We certainly won't."

The world around him blurred and tilted, Gabri's consciousness narrowing into a pinprick centred entirely on the viper man's leering face. "But..." his voice said, sounding far away even to himself. "I... I don't understand..." His drying throat produced words he hadn't truly intended to admit: "The northern sister, she... she told me northerners didn't take boys for..." He couldn't say it. The fate

was

"unspeakable", after all.

Had he been more aware of his surroundings, he might have noticed the ring of men around him closing in, but he didn't--all he could perceive was the man before him and the low, hypnotically soothing hiss as reality started crashing down around him: "We take what is valuable, little Caian. While it is true that trying to sell rocks is poor business... we would be fools to pass over a diamond, should we find one." Somehow, Gabri's face went cold and flush at the same time, washing it in a clash of bloodless heat that made everything swim. "Don't fret now," the man said. "Quietly--nice and easy. Don't make us be rough."

"But--!" Someone grabbed his wrists, and those hands might as well have been forged of iron from how incredibly solid they felt, no matter how he twisted. "N-No!" his voice crawled up the register as force pushed in the small of his back, making him stagger a step forward on trembling legs. "Just kill me!" he cried out, struggling his hardest against his captor and making so little of an impact they didn't even bother telling him to stop. "Please just kill me!" he pleaded to the viper as he's driven bodily past him.

He looked over him to the man holding his wrists.

"This colt's a flight risk. Put him with me--and make sure he's hobbled."

Then he's driven away, shoved when his legs are too stiff to move and making him trip forward. It seemed like he passed a dozen horses and carts, and thrice as many people, none of whom so much as batted an eye when he's dragged all but literally kicking and screaming. By the time he's hauled into some sort of palanquin, his voice has been worn down into a hoarse, scratchy, weak plea for somebody, anybody, to either let him go or let him die. No such luck.

He's wrestled to the floor on his front, and he's grateful for the tiny mercy of his long habit softening the burn of thick, rough ropes binding together his calves, thighs, and wrists. Sufficiently "hobbled", he's left alone, and a sudden forward jolt told him he was being carried away. With a bit of effort he managed to negotiate himself up onto his knees, and despite the urge to go straight for the door, he can't help but cast a look over the room from just how strange it is. It was like a moving

room

, that was the size of the palanquin; though the whole of it looked and felt to be made up of fabric, the floor beneath him was perfectly solid and the walls didn't sway an inch. A corner was taken up by a circular cushion so giant it might actually be a bed, though there were no blankets or pillows to speak of. A low wooden table was scattered with books, almost entirely concealing a number of strange shallow divots spaced out around its perimeter, their purpose completely opaque to him. He shook off the lingering curiosity and turned his focus to the palanquin's entrance--a heavy fabric flap, and nothing more.

Quickly, however, he learned why no greater security was needed: quite simply, he couldn't move. He could inch painstakingly slowly to the door... and then what? Roll out? He wasn't that high up, he'd seen that for himself, and caravans moved no quicker than walking pace. He'd maybe take a five-foot fall--probably onto his face--which would at worst get him a broken nose, far from killing him. With no chance of being able to run, he'd just get picked up and put back. They probably wouldn't even need to slow down to do it.

His gaze fell to the floor. Then... what did he do? The temple was getting further and further away, the later he got out the farther he'd have to go! His scrambling brain tried to land on anything in the room that could help somehow, but the closest thing to something "sharp" was a book cover's corner that would

not

be cutting through inch-thick rope. The table was round, everything else was soft fabric, so...

Nothing? Just... nothing? No! No, he couldn't just take this! He renewed his thrashing, straining and struggling to work

something

free, get

something

loosened. His wrists, the only binding without his habit to shield his skin, became his breaking point: eventually it was one twist too many, and Gabri clenched his teeth around the groan of pain as skin tore and hot blood dripped down his fingers. Breathing hard and going numb in his lower legs, he collapsed onto his side, trying not to shudder from the cold sweat when the movement made his bindings grind on him.

Just going to catch my breath

, he told himself, trying to stave off the panic roiling in his gut with giving up looming on the horizon. He just needed to recoup. Just needed a moment to regain his strength. He hadn't given up. He won't give up! His body curled, his sweated forehead tapping his knees and trying to make himself breathe. He closed his eyes for just a second.

And the next thing he knew, he was being jolted as the caravan came to a halt. He jerked in surprise, and every single muscle in his body screamed at him for it, sending him withering back into an exhausted puddle. Slowly this time, he turned his head and checked the ceiling; whatever exactly the palanquin was made of, he could see the sunlight filtering through it at least a little. He still could, but it was dimmer, more orange--sundown. They were making camp for the night.

This was his chance

. When everyone was asleep, or when someone came in to feed him--they were going to untie him then, right? He was no fighter, but... he could figure something out! He had to! He would!

He started; it was only the gentle fabric rustle of the flap door, but after so long with only the sounds of horses and wooden wheels it was sudden enough to scare him. Fear, however, was the appropriate reaction after all, as the viper himself stepped in and raked his scorching gaze up and down Gabri's prone form. "You really did stay here the whole time," he said, sounding vaguely bemused. "And here I thought I'd have to drag you back by the scruff of your neck at least once today."

Gabri's lips twisted into a sour grimace. "I'm not stupid," he grumbled at the floor, unable to meet the viper's eyes. "I'm not going to try to run like this."

"Ah. Not given up, merely biding your time, is it?" Gabri flinched, gritting his teeth, but... he couldn't really walk that one back. Damn it! "No matter. I expected as much." Soft footfalls strode across the floor, getting nearer, and he braced for whatever was about to happen to him. Hands seized his wrists' bindings, making him hiss in pain.

The viper clicked his tongue, and after a brief tug, all the pressure came off. Gabri gasped his relief and instinctively went to roll forward his shoulders and stretch out the cramping, but they didn't get far. Both his hands are plucked up, lifted a

little

faster than was strictly comfortable on his pulled muscles, and they're turned over and back. "Burnt," the viper tutted. "You couldn't escape... but not for want of trying, hm?" His hands are released, and the man went to the door and leaned out. His voice was vague and muffled--not to mention speaking Gabri's second language--but he was fairly sure the viper called for three things: "harness cream", "sweet water", and... he honestly had no guesses at all for the third. Maybe it was just the strange pronunciation these people were using, but he was pretty sure he'd never heard the word before.

It took a minute or so for his order to show up, and Gabri spent every second of it trying to soothe the burning in his arms. It wasn't

quite

long enough that he felt comfortable trying to pick open his leg bindings just yet--he wanted a larger opening, something a little more assured; whatever they'd do to him to punish running off, it wouldn't be as merciful as execution and it'd hike up his security. He needed to come at this like he had one shot. Soon. Sometime soon.

The viper saying something to someone drew Gabri's attention, and the man brought three things into the room: a jar of whatever "harness cream" was, a bottle of something that looked like wine, and... a cluster of a herb of some kind? The bottle and herb got set on the table, and he came over with the jar, setting it down in front of him. "For the rope burn," the viper informed him as he sluggishly sat himself up. Didn't stop to see if he actually did it, just turned and went straight back to the table. Probably just protecting their asset--they were going to sell him, right? Wouldn't do if he was all scarred up, he supposed. Holding in his sigh, he went about smearing the soft, white, butter-like stuff onto his wounds; didn't hurt, that was nice.

He didn't so much want to watch what he was doing as what the viper was doing, though. A meaty

thock

sounded from a cork being pulled from the bottle, and Gabri squinted, carefully watching the same liquid getting poured into two cubical earthenware cups--good so far. Then the viper took up the bundle of herbs, rolled the leaves between his palms, and over one of the cups, squeezed four drops of the herb's juice into the liquid. And... the other got none. Gabri kept his eyes trained on the herb-tainted cup, every second of the viper picking them both up, walking over, and handing him that very one.