Seperation and Rejoice

Chapter I

His name was Zsaal Kilra and he was a slave. Locked in a dingy dungeon beneath the castle of Lord Ascal of Kirni, penned with the other gladiators that were to be used tomorrow in a reenactment match where all of the fodder, such as he was classified as, were destined to die for the crowd's glory.

This wasn't the first time Zsaal had been a slave. In truth, he had been born into slavery, though few would purchase him. An oddity in his home land, here, he was nothing more than a freak. His hair was a sky blue and hung all the way down his back, though now it was dirty and grimy from being locked in the pens for weeks on end without a proper bath. His ears were not human, nor elvish, as his companions were. They were those of a cat, blue-furred and pink within, though now they were drooped down against his head. And unlike the other gladiators around him, he had a tail, the same color as his hair beneath the grime. His only clothing was the gi upon him, a dank blue now that it was dirty.

He had travelled far, seeking a life for himself, free as he had been from slavery, only to be captured once more by men who wished to see him suffer. Zsaal sighed within the relatively quiet prison, leaning back on the straw pallet that was ridden with bugs, hooking his hands behind his head, closing his eyes. He remembered like it was yesterday...

***

"Get ye up, ya furball!" a male voice snarled at a young catperson, a sharp kick to the ribs bringing him awake suddenly with a startled yowl. A hand gripped him by the hair, jerking him up onto his feet, dragging another yowl of pain from his lips, a powerful slap silencing him. He finally got his blue eyes open, blinking away the dazzling light in the harem court of Lady Amilin. Before him was the Lady's Weaponsmaster, Iyan, whom kept the slaves in line, a big, balding man of middle years who had once been said to have been the finest blademaster the Courts of Ruinia had ever seen.

"Quit yer puddle-brained starin', ye flea-bitten mongrel! The Lady's waitin' with 'er trainin' crew! I be expectin' to hear more than screams from that room!" The Weaponsmaster chortled and shoved the young Zsaal towards the ironbound door at the opposite end of the hall, which stood open. Within, the catboy, no older than ten, saw many sharp objects and a table of steel, and the Lady, bound up in leather with a crop in her hands, waiting for him beyond it.

Looking around, Zsaal saw the many male slaves the Lady kept, lounging naked, talking idly, but none of them saying anything. All of them were clean-shaven, head to toe, as the Lady liked her men smooth as silk. They lounged on poufs or rested in warm waters, but the talking stopped as the new blood came by, watching him go. His young body was unappealing to their eyes, trained as they were only to be interested in females, but a few of them remembered their own youth in this place somewhat wistfully.

Just beneath six feet in height, his body more mature than a human child's, the catboy carried himself quietly and with dignity towards the training chamber. He was scared, and inside part of him was screaming, but he silenced it as best he could to keep from trembling visibly. He had been born for this work, and now its day was upon him. He wouldn't back down.

A part of him would always lay screaming, though, deep inside, even as the ironbound door swung shut and he was lashed down and tortured, bound, gagged, used in every way possible, with every appendage he had. His tongue, rough like sandpaper, seemed to become an instant favorite amongst the Lady and her female retinue, while his tail was worked until it was flexible and could lift small objects.

Throughout the long hours of torture and abuse, he never made a sound other than to respond to commands verbally when ordered and ungagged. And even though he was teased again and again to a point of release, the trainers left him aching, saying that he had to earn such an honor.

All the while, the terrified part within him never stopped screaming, but he learned to ignore it within the first hour. And never did it cease, all through the long years of his slavery.

Chapter II

"Get ye up, slaves!" snarled strong, harsh male voice through the pens of slavery. Caught up in his dreams (or nightmares), Zsaal thought for a moment he was back within the slave pens of Lady Amilin's harem. As other voices roused themselves, Zsaal heard the unmistakable sounds of men arming themselves, and relaxed. The voice had started screaming again, but, as usual, he ignored it, and once it realized the truth he had, it too, calmed, though it made the occasional whimper.

As the men were lined up for their deaths, the man who had woke them, Quartmaster Rinnen, shoved a blade into Zsaal's hands. The cat-like humanoid looked up through his angular, blue eyes at the human, whom sneered.

"Take the weapon, freak, or ye'll be dyin' out there faster than yer comrades," the Quartermaster sneered, just before a glob of spit struck him in the eye.

"GYAH!" The man wiped his eye and threw the blade to the floor, grabbing the freak by the front of his strange clothing, pulling him close. "If ye weren't a purchased an' valuable slave to me master, I'd kill ye right 'ere and right now for that little stunt."

"Try it," Zsaal replied softly, his voice near-inaudible but carrying with it a growl of challenge. The Quartermaster slung the slave back against the wall, where he collapsed.

"Piss-shit of a little slave thinkin' he's a man," spat the ugly, scarred man. "Let's see how big of a man he is. Guards! Take him to the front of the line."

Zsaal offered no resistance as the guards unshackled him, picked him up by his armpits, and carried him to the gate leading out into the arena proper. The herald of Lord Ascal was explaining what the dramatic reenactment was all about.

Oh good, I get to see the floor show

, thought Zsaal wryly.

"...on this day ten years ago!" called the Herald, whose words were greeted by cheers of the audience. He waited for them to settle before continuing. "The hordes of Minua were fierce combatants, some say wrought by the Lord of Hell himself! But the brave men of Kimi battled them back, though each fought like ten men!" More cheers for their country. "Now we bring you the first of the Horde, against ten of the fiercest, most battle-hardended warriors of Kimi, and see if they can stand up to their ancestor's name!" The crowd went wild.

A guard shoved Zsaal in the back, spitting on him as he did so. "Get in there, slave. They're waiting for you." Zsaal looked over his shoulder to see the guard smiling a cold smile, and knew what he was thinking.

Scrawny bastard won't last a minute.

Probably true, Zsaal thought wryly as he walked of his own free will, unbound, into the arena center. The crowd went silent at this odd slave, and began to chant "Kimi, Kimi, Kimi, Kimi!" The gates on the other side of the arena opened, and out charged ten big, burly humans, armed with spears and shields, with blades at their sides. Zsaal just smiled. If he was destined to die this day, he would do it with his past life on his mind...

***

Nine long years after that day the voice had started screaming, Zsaal was being sold as a pleasure slave. After all that the Lady and her retinue, and her friends, and the friends of their friends, both male and female, had taken from him, he was no longer 'Zsaal,' but merely, 'Kitten,' as Lady Amilin had taken to calling him. So many acts of sexual pleasure (inflicted on others, never himself) had gone by, he no longer thought, he merely obeyed. Led by a collar that wasn't necessary, except to prevent theft, the guard led him into the block of some random city the Lady had ordered him shipped to to be sold. He was marked as Lot 1152, and waited for his turn to be sold.

"Come, ladies and gentlemen, for this fine slave! Trained hard and cold, he's an excellent pleaser, or so I've been told!" called out the slimy auctioneer on the grimy stage as Zsaal was led onto the block for his turn. Stripped bare, the auctioneer called attention to his toned body, pale but hard to bruise, as he demonstrated by lashing several strikes of a cat o' nine tails upon his back. Only a single scratch remained, and the formal bidding began.

With no interest in it, Zsaal merely stood, docile, as his price slid up further and further. A woman with dark red hair and green eyes was bidding continuously, as others lost interest, and his natural curiousity, something inherent from his catlike nature and never subdued, brought his eyes to finally seek her out.

Eventually, she won the auction, and led him off the block, exchanging a pouch of coins to the guard who had brought him here. She jerked on his leash and led him away from the auction, out of the city, to a quiet inn in the middle of nowhere. There, she unbound Zsaal, and brought him into the house, after throwing away the implements of his capture. She couldn't know that his chains were bound deeper inside of him, and her talk of freeing him was falling on deaf ears.

"What does my Lady wish of me?" he asked woodenly, looking up into her eyes.

"Don't call me that," she snapped. "My name is Jazzai. Tell me yours."

"...Zsaal."

***

Jazzai. The name sparked in his mind. It'd been four years since he'd seen her last, but he knew he had to go back to her. His head raised as the battle was called to begin. His blue eyes gleamed like unnatural flame.

He had something to live for.

One of the battle-hardened warriors launched a spear at Zsaal, but his reflexes, quick and honed by training, spun him out of the way, his body lowering to the ground as he assumed the stance of the Streaa Dokk style, the Death Fist. His body tense and rigid, the warriors looked frightened of him.

Baron Julan was stunned, as were his comrades. He was the best shot with a thrown spear, and he never missed, and nobody ever could dodge his throws. In truth, he had only slain men in the gladitorial ring, men so frightened that they couldn't move when all they saw was their own death around them, so the pomped-up Lords had inflated ideas of their own skill.

More spears flew at the freakish gladiator, but his movements were too fast. He twisted out of the way, ducked, rolled away from a spear, and each one missing him, some by a wide margin, some by a large amount. The ten spears quivered in the ground, and still, he never took one.

As one, the suddenly frightened men, these so-called "Lords," petty men with petty titles, drew their blades and charged the gladiator. The first to reach him was Julan, whose downward cut had too much weight in it, and he led too far out with his arm.

The catperson's hands were fast, and his lean, tanned body was strong. He caught Julan's arm by the wrist and elbow, sliding smoothly beneath the arm, kicking the back of the lord's knees with two quick slaps of his right foot, knocking him to the ground. His hand shot up, catching the man on the side of the neck with two fingers, twisting nerves and paralyzing him.

The lords raced forward, and the next bore right down on Zsaal, whom leaped up, flipping backwards over the Lord and slamming his feet into his back. Unable to stop his momentum, the terrified man sliced off Julan's head. Before he could react, his world exploded into pain as the quick-moving cat-demon caught another man in the same way he had caught Julan, only instead of paralyzing him, sent him sprawling into Julan's beheader, his blade slicing deep into his skull.

It descended into a terrified battle, the lords fighting aggressively when they should have fought defensively. The cat-slave used the men to kill their own comrades, a truly demoralizing and humiliating thing. He never was struck, and not one of the lords got clear.

Up above, Lord Ascal, Ruler of Kimi, watched in amusement. The petty lords down there had no use in Court, merely lordlings in truth, whom spent their days in idle pursuits, such as hunting and dallying with their chambermaids behind their lady wives' backs. This gladiator, though, was strong and lean, and was decimating what was supposed to be the winning side. When the crossbowmen lifted their weapons to shoot down the offending cat, Ascal lifted his hand to forestall them, ideas fermenting in his mind.

Zsaal truly fought like a demon. He whirled amidst his opponents, of which now only four were left, and though they'd have liked nothing better than to throw down their weapons and shields and run away, to do so would be ultimate dishonor, fleeing from a slave. In honor's name, they charged.

In honor's name, they died.

The battlefield soaked, Zsaal looked up at the ceiling, his eyes still blazing that blue fire.

Jazzai. I will return to you.

Chapter III

Jazzai tried for days to try and get Zsaal to believe he was free, but nothing she said got through to him. He kept repeating what he had been trained for, and every time she brought up the subject of his freedom directly, he requested leave to return to his former mistress, saying that her money would be returned, and he would be sold again.

Frustrated, she finally left him alone. She had an inn to run, after all.

It wasn't until a week or so after the last incident that she started thinking differently. Zsaal had finished bathing one day, and his gi had fallen apart from disrepair. He wandered into the inn nude (thankfully, to Jazzai's thinking, it was before opening) and she got a full glimpse of what she had purchased.

Turning scarlet, she averted her gaze and told him to put clothes on.

"I have none," he had replied. "My only clothing fell apart in the stream as I washed it." Wooden, emotionless. It broke her. She purchased him a new one, a darker color than the original, but still blue, and he wore it indifferently, as if it made no difference to him whether he went nude or clothed.

Two nights later, Jazzai returned to the incident in her mind. She tossed and turned in her sleep, groaning as dreams filled her, never giving her what she needed. It had been a long time for her, indeed.

She woke slowly to the feeling of bliss, a tongue inside of her. Rough and coarse, she thought she was still dreaming, her body shaking on the bed. She writhed and moaned, dropping her hands down, then pulling them back, afraid to break the dream as the harsh tongue continued its deliberate licking within her. Curving neat little pathways inside of her, it seemed to know each and every sensitive spot, leaving her panting heavily.

She came like a blast of thunder, noise and shakes, her hands sliding down into the hair of her mystery lover and gripping, twisting. The tongue never slowed, pushing her up over the edge again, and again, and again, each stronger than the last.

Finally, she could lie to herself no longer and pretend she was asleep. She opened her eyes slowly, expecting to see some stranger having heard her tossing and turning and come to ravage her. She blinked at the shock of blue hair and unwound her fingers from it, and Zsaal stood slowly, licked his lips, bowed, and left her room for the one she had given him.

For days after, she avoided meeting Zsaal's eyes or even speaking to him, though he didn't seem very active on either. Finally, one afternoon, while business was slow, she cornered him outside his room upstairs.

"Zsaal... why did you..." she blushed furiously.

"My Lady was in need. I am trained to relieve that need," he responded woodenly.

Jazzai took Zsaal by the hand and led him back into her room, closed the door and shoved him up against it. She stared him right in the eyes, reaching down and beginning to fondle him.

"I see my Lady has need of me, at last," Zsaal said, the first smile coming to his lips.

"I told you to stop calling me that," she muttered as she went down onto her knees, jerking the pants of his gi down from his waist. She almost wept with lust as she saw him, thick and erect, and took him into her mouth gingerly, slowly.

Soft purrs came from him, and she glanced up, having never heard that sound from him. Obviously, she thought, he was enjoying it, and upped the tempo, and again as the purrs grew louder, and again, until she was taking him like she'd never done a man before, giving him the best she had ever given in her life.

It took her almost twenty minutes before she was rewarded by a gush of his fluid into her mouth, and she swallowed it quickly, greedily, the taste of it in her mouth making her realize how close she was to her own. Again, a powerful orgasm struck her body, causing her to cry out around the flesh in her mouth, falling back panting to the floor.

"Does my Lady require anything else of me?" Zsaal asked, looking down at her as if asking she wanted more tea. To her amazement, she saw he was still stiff, and morality had gone out of her mind when she had closed the door. She stripped out of her clothes and went to the bed, sitting upon it, crooking a finger towards Zsaal.

He automatically responded, but the screaming voice inside his head stopped its incessant screams. It, along with the rest of his mind but that drilled into him, had melted. For all that he had done, he had never been coaxed to his own release before. It was a new sensation, and he went perhaps a bit more eagerly to her bed than he had any other in the past.

It was well past dawn when the screams, yowls and groans stopped, as they covered almost fifteen different positions. Each time, Jazzai pushed him off and took her into his mouth, swallowing what he offered, gulping it down greedily, then resumed in another position. Each time, she was blasted into near insensibility by the intensity of her own orgasms, and brought back to reality by the realization that he was still hard, starting the whole thing over again.

Finally, too weak to move, she had flopped down on her side and curled her legs to her chest, to keep the randy tom from getting at her again. "No more," she cried out, giggling, drunk with pleasure. "No more!"

"Yes, my Lady," responded Zsaal automatically, though there was a bit of drained pleasure in his own voice beneath the wooden reply. "Shall my Lady require anything else of me?"

She did. She pulled him down into bed with her and cuddled up next to him, and they slept, long and peaceful.

Chapter IV

Zsaal had been brought to Acelain Throddri, the Capital City of the Five Provinces. His victory in the arena had not bought his freedom; things like that only worked in stories. Instead, he had been gifted by Lord Ascal of Kimi to King Olin, Ruler of the Five Provinces. Today was his testing day as a Royal Gladiator, honored above slaves if successful, relegated to a shallow grave if not.

He kept his spirits up with thoughts of his beloved Jazzai, how she had slowly stopped the screaming in his mind, reignited his personality, given him freedom. The memories pained him, too, for she had sent him away numerous times, and his heart ached each time she did it. This time, it burned, knowing that he may never see her again. Some nights, along the road, he had literally sobbed himself to sleep over the memories, but today, he thought of none of that. He needed to be thoroughly focused today, for he was going up against the King's Royal Bodyguard. If he survived the bout, he would be granted a reprieve from his slavery, perhaps managing, sometime in the future, to escape back to her.

If he didn't, then the pain would stop anyways. It was a win/win situation.

It was time. A page brought him to the Royal Arena, confined within an elevated dungeon within the King's castle, lined with spectator's seats. It was a place of celebration and death, where the best of the best were honored with reenactment battles, and holidays were celebrated by much bloodletting, common and noble alike, in tournaments.