cook_the_rude | OOM: Treating Sinric

Sinric is drawn to the images of his city, recognising part or not all of the changed view. But out of respect for Dr. Lecter and his space, he moves to the couch as directed. He sits with great care, tucking a slender leg under himself to alleviate the pressure on his injured rear.

"Do feel free to look around," Dr. Lecter says as he brings a small side table over to the couch and starts laying out his instruments. "I will be a moment or two."

Sinric nods and goes back to the art on the wall, drawn in by the cityscape. "May I ask when this was done? I recognise the Monastery of Stoudios and the Hagia Sophia but not these building here."

"In the 1750s," the doctor says, bent over his tools. "Which is over 250 years before my time."

"And a thousand after mine. And yet the noble city still stands." There's a note of awe and joy in his voice. "Constantine's city prospers."

"No longer his, I sincerely regret to say," the doctor says.

"It fell?" He asks in horror. "To whom? Can you tell me, sir?"

"To the Turks," the doctor says, "a roving people of Islamic conquerors from the steppes of Inner Asia."

A long pause, while he sets out little balls of gauze, on beside the other, very neatly.

"And then it rose again, more splendid and vibrant than ever before. It is called Istanbul now, a Turkish mangling of the Greek eis ten polis, and still one of the most fascinating and most visited cities in the world. Perhaps I should go there next."

"But the city endures." He smiles sadly, "Even if the Empire has fallen to marauders, at least the city endures. I hope if you travel there, you find it as beautiful as it was in my time."

He returns to the couch, kneeling politely. "I put myself in your hands, sir."

"Please remove your clothes and sit on the paper towel I have put on the couch," the doctor says.

He strips with care, moving stiffly. Beneath the cloak, he's dressed in linen pants and tunic, clearly made for a larger man.

His body is soft and lean, his chest curved with small breasts. Gelded at a young age, his penis is very small. Much of his body is bruised by larger hands - his nipples swollen and abused, his lower back and buttocks marked from the application of a whip or fine belt. His upper thigh had been bandaged but the shadow of blood is visible through the cloth on the inner curve.

He lowers himself onto the couch with care, his eyes lowered.

The doctor watches him, nodding from time to time as if checking an internal list.

"You are a eunuch," he states. "We don't see those any more in my time, except in India; and it's debatable if the hijra are eunuchs or a third sex. How old were you when the procedure was done?"

"I am, sir." He keeps his eyes low. "It is common knowledge throughout the Empire that most palace servants are. It is odd to me when people are surprised by my nature. I was gelded very young, before I was six."

The doctor nods.

"Do you remember at all?"

He pours a sharp-smelling clear liquid onto a piece of folded gauze.

He wrinkles his nose at the smell but doesn't turn away. "Not the cut itself. We are fed strong wine and willowbark beforehand, until we're insensible. But afterwards, I fell into a fever. It has been known to happen, if the wound festers. Many die from it."

A small smile crosses his features. "He came to me; my Emperor. I had never seen him before that night. He sat by my bedside and washed my brow with cool water. He told me I should fight to live, that I would be cared for and protected but that I must fight. He stayed with me until the fever broke."

"Why did he do that?" the doctor says. "If he hadn't even seen you before?"

He takes one of Sinric's wrists in his hand and starts cleaning the injuries with the soaked gauze.

"This will sting, but it means it cleans out the dirt in your injuries."

He flinches minutely at the sting of if but manages to keep the hiss of pain from escaping.

"He was on campaign when I was bought for the palace and for more than the first year I was there. When he returned, he came to inspect the new slaves and found me ill." A little smile pulls at his lips. "When I was well again, I was told I had been selected to be one of his personal slaves, his little birds. I'd never been so happy."

"And did it turn out as well as you had hoped?" the doctor asks, still daubing at Sinric's injuries with that stinging solutions, discarding each bit of gauze after cleaning yet another cut or scratch.

"It did. The first time I was sent to him, I was afraid. I had heard stories of what men wanted from boys like me. I was afraid I was wrong about him. But he was my Emperor and I had been sent for."

"When I entered his rooms I was shaking like a leaf. He was so gentle. He picked me up and rocked me like a babe, soothing my fears and calming me down. He wanted to see my body but only to see that I had healed. After that he bade me dress and sit with him. We talked for many hours, until I started to nod with sleep. He put me in his own bed and held me through the night. I had never felt so safe, so protected."

The doctor picks up another ball of gauze and starts cleaning out a longish cut.

"But later?"

"He was always good to me, as he has been with all his birds. When he discovered I wanted to read, he would sit me on his knee to teach me, letting me learn from his own correspondence."

"It was not for some time that I grew bold enough to ask for the kisses the older boys spoke of. Only when I showed my desire did he teach me the ways of pleasure."

"Can you even feel that pleasure?" the doctor asks, his curiosity seeming entirely cool and medical.

"There are many pleasures I can feel. Parts of my body are very sensitive to touch even if the peak other men feel is not-" he breaks off there, still confused by the pleasures others have brought out in him of late.

"And there is pleasure in bring satisfaction, in giving pleasure to another when there is shared desire." Certainly not in being used as rough and recklessly as he has been.

"Have you ever reached completion?" the doctor asks. "In my time, with no living eunuchs left, there is dissent about that part."

Pause, as he changes to the next ball of gauze.

"The operatic castrati of 18th century Italy were quite popular, on the sly, for pleasing both men and women, while being arguably the most amazing singers in the history of classical western music. But we have no surviving records about what they felt, themselves."

Here his reasonably steady voice falters at this. "I have. Twice but only in the last week. It is still... a very new sensation to me." His cheeks colour softly as he ducks his head. "I had not thought it possible."

But he smiles. "I am very fond of singing. I am told my voice is very pleasing." There's a note of pride in his tone, even if muffled by the swelling in his throat.

"When you are better, would you sing for me?" the doctor asks. "I would be very grateful if I could test your vocal range."

"I would be very glad to, sir." He does love to sing and is quick to want to please on that front.

"I will gladly come back to that," the doctors says. "But for now, would you please turn around so I can assess the damage to your anus?"

He swallows and rises, turning to brace himself on the back of the couch, his legs spread.

A shiver of panic passes through him at being exposed like this again but he fights it back and forces himself to stay still.

The doctor wipes over the misused hole with a well-soaked ball of gauze, and tuts.

"This is badly torn and should have some stitches," he declares.

Sinric swallows and nods, bracing himself as best he can against the pain he expects. Modern anesthetics are unknown to him.

"This will hurt a little," the doctor says. He swabs at a place right beside Sinric's anus, and after the cold sting, there is a minute feeling, as if of a very fine needle going in.

After that, nothing. The doctor busies himself with his instruments, and then, the entire area slowly starts tingling, and goes numb.

"What-" He flinches a little at the little sting. "Sir?"

"It's called local anaesthetic," the doctor says. "So I can put in those stitches without hurting you more. It's a very useful invention from about a century before my time."

He nods and hangs his head. The medicine of this is still beyond him but he feels less pain than before and therefore trusts in the doctor's word.

The exposed position still triggers fear and panic but he swallows them back, forcing himself to stay still. Concentrating of breathing slow, he sings softly to himself, if hoarsely, in Farsi.

The doctor starts touching the area around Sinric's anus with gauze swabs and instruments; all that Sinric will be able to feel is the fact of some touch, though, but no pain at all.

Sinric shakes with the effort not to finch. Not because it hurts but because the touch triggers memories of the event that he's struggling to repress.

His song breaks with little sobs every now and then as he fights to keep himself steady.

"It must have been very painful and emotionally hurtful to have been treated in a way that would cause this kind of physical trauma," the doctor says, coolly, doing his work.

"They had their right under law." Sinric mutters between short breaths. "I am property of the Emperor and by extension, the co-emperor. It is his right to use me as he sees fit." He says it as if to assure himself but the words sound weak, even to his own ears.

"Which is why I am just treating your injuries instead of securing evidence," the doctor says. "But it doesn't make that sense of violation and helplessness any less acutely traumatic for you as a person. Which you are, whether you are property in the eyes of the law or not."

"I will heal." He swallows, still trying to reassure himself. "It was an act of petty vengeance over a slight. I doubt it will happen again."

He's trying very hard not to think about how weak he felt as they held him down.

"You will heal, but your psyche is even more likely to scar than your body," the doctor says. "Also, you should avoid any foods likely to cause constipation for a few weeks, as well as any voluntary anal intercourse, of course. Your choices are going to be limited because of what happened to you for a while yet. You didn't do anything to deserve this, but it is you alone who will have to deal with the consequences, in the end."

"I will not be returning to my world until I am healed. My emperor can never know of this." That is the consequence most on his mind. " And no-one here has the right to use me without my favour, and those who I have shared myself with will not do so by force."

He goes quiet for a long moment. "How best should I deal with the scars to my soul, sir?"

"Deal with them if and when you notice them, immediately," the doctor says. "That is done best by talking about the trauma and letting it go, rather than dwelling on it in silence, which only makes it worse. Find me if you can to talk about it, if you don't feel the people here that you 'shared yourself with' are up to dealing with it. I specialise in that sort of trauma, at home."

He is still calmly working on the torn bits around Sinric's anus.

"I suppose they are the same people who you have been experience your first orgasms with, as you mentioned?"

"I will do so, sir. Thank you." He's by no means ready to talk yet.

"They are." He brightens, glad of the change of topic. "They both from my world but not of my time. Their insight has been of great help to me. And they have been very kind and attentive to me in ways I have not experienced before."

"How do you know they're from the same world, then, and not a similar one that might have or lack vampires, or magic?" the doctor asks.

"One of them knows me, met me in his youth when I was older. They are from a time that might be called my future." He pauses. "And I trust them. It feels right that we should have met here, even out of order. Like fate."

"That is a nice time paradox you have there," the doctor says. "You might like to use it in order to change things."

"I don't think so. There are history books here than speak of my emperor's campaign to come and what will follow. I know now how I am to survive after his reign ends. I cannot change what is to come but I can plan for what may come after."

"You could decide to do things differently, so the outcome for your friends will be different, and better," the doctor says.

He smoothes something cool and soothing over Sinric's anal area and then busies himself with his instruments again.

"Please sit on the couch with your back to me, now," he says. "The big, ugly gash on your back is next."

"My fellow birds? I have thought of that. I will warn them, as best I can. Any of them who trust in Leo's kindness are fools." There's a half sob that catches in his throat as he names his attacker. "I have no doubt all of them have thought about what the future will hold and are making plans of their own. All I can offer them is knowledge of when they must be ready to fly."

He nods and moves himself to a more conformable position, his back to the doctor. Closing his legs and the cool numbness where most there was pain goes a long way to calm him. "Thank you, sir."

"That will go a long way towards making their lives better," the doctor agrees, still busy with his tools.

"I am giving you another local anesthetic for that gash; it'll just be a little pinprick," he adds.

He swabs a bit of skin, then there is another of those cool, thin needles sliding in. Something cold seems to spread, and shortly, there is tingling and numbness again.

"Perhaps." He isn't so sure "Life within the golden cage is soft in some ways and hard in others. Many of the birds have few skills that will help them survive outside it."

He sits straight with his shoulders back, letting the torn skin of his back be stitched.

"It's still better than dying inside of it," he doctor says, working calmly on Sinric's back.

He shrugs minutely, trying not to disturb the doctor's sewing. "For some of them, the unknown would be worse. I will be a long way from the palace when the time comes. I cannot help them. I only hope they can act on what I know to make their own choices."

"That is all you can ever do," the doctor says. "At least they will know how to open their cage door."

"Or at least when to be ready to pick the lock." Sinric sighs. The numbness is soothing and his closes his eyes for a long moment.

"I was warned that people of a later age would not understand the ways of my time. And yet you seem to understand me well, sir. Are you a student of history?"

"Of history, and of art," the doctor says, "and of the human mind, in its cultural variety as well as its enduring constancy. There is nothing in human nature I can't at least reconstruct in its reasoning."

"You sound like a very learned man?" He asks softly.

"I had a good education, like to understand the cultural undercurrents of everything that is going on, and do enjoy the arts very much," the doctor says.

Sinric glances over his shoulder, offering Dr. Lecter. "I think you and my emperor would enjoy each other's company. He would value your intelligent conversation greatly."

"I would be very honoured to meet a Byzantine emperor," the doctor says.

He is calmly stitching the gash on Sinric's back.

"I'm not certain I could arrange it but I'm sure the meeting would fascinating." He feels the skin tug and grits his teeth.

"No, it would be hard to explain my presence," the doctor says. "And it would bring the palace guards under suspicion for having let me slip past."

"Just so. And the palace guards are, for the most part, hard working and honest men. It would be unfortunate to being them trouble."

"Perhaps an introduction as a travelling scholar? Forgive me, I haven't asked what land you claim as home?"

"I'm originally from Lithuania, a country on the south coast of the Baltic sea," the doctor says. "I lived in America for a few years, a country in the west beyond the ocean that's not yet known in Europe in your time, and then returned to Europe; at the moment I'm living in Florence."

"I fear of those, I know only Florence as a centre of trade and arts. It must be a very stimulating place for a man such as yourself?"

The doctor finishes treating the gash on Sinric's back.

"It still is," he says, "even though the days of its greatest glory are long gone. Can you please turn around again so I can treat the remainder of your injuries?"

He nods and turns with care, protective of the deep bruising that marks his inner thigh in three sharp lines, bleeding under the skin.

"There is much of the Roman world I long to see. The great marvels of the Empire that was."

The doctor looks at those, and nods as if to himself. "Heparin gel," he murmurs. He swipes over the bruise a few times, discards the gauze.

"Now, if there are any lacerations, this will sting like nobody's business, but you can rely on it to reduce bruises and swelling very effectively."

He starts spreading a thick, very clear gel that actually smells fresh and pleasant. "Please keep your knees apart until the gel has dried. What caused those bruises?"

There are small circular red marks where the Viking women used leeches to reduce the swelling but they have healed well enough not to sting.

"Leo carries a mace, his staff of honour."

"And with that staff of honour, he meant to dishonour you by using it between your legs, before letting his men do the dirty work?" the doctor says. "His reasoning is that of a common or garden psychopath."

"He would not sully himself by touching me." His voice shakes and he hides his face behind the veil of his hair.

"So, instead he sullied the symbol of his office and power," the doctor says. "Very interesting, and very telling."

"I doubt he saw it that way. It is the weapon he carries in battle and has killed with it."

"His weapon of choice, then," the doctor says. "As much part of him as the Goth's axe. It is still telling. What battle does he have with artists, scholars, dancers and the bringers of pleasure?"

He starts daubing the remaining injuries on Sinric's legs, and his front, with that stinging solution.

There is quite a pile of discarded balls of gauze already.

"I suspect he would say a battle against the weakness and decadence he sees in his father's less marshal side. Constantine is twice the strategist and general Leo will ever be but Leo sees only that he is slower to the fray and more inclined towards diplomacy than open warfare."

"So what he basically did, in his ignorance," the doctor says, "was making a very noticeable statement of rebellion against his father, and of warfare over statecraft, played out symbolically with his mace and his soldiers on your body, which embodies what he considers decadence but is actually culture. By your turning up with those injuries and that story to tell, he intends to give a message of defiance to his father and his entire court and administration. As what you are is manifest in the very shape of your body, you were the ideal victim: a precious sheet of pure white parchment for his message to be scrawled on in blood. By hiding the injuries and healing them here, you refuse the message to go through."

Pause.

"What did they do to your nipples? They seem mauled."

Edited 2015-07-02 11:44 (UTC)

The perfect summation of the intent of the abuse done to him makes Sinric's breath catch and eyes sting with tears. He lowers his head, hiding his face from view.

"None of this was personal in the least," Dr. Lecter concludes. "But if the paper refuses to take the ink, he will feel the need to re-send the message. Psychopaths like him usually keep doing what they do, over and over, until they are caught and stopped."

"If my Emperor sees what has been done, he will be incensed. And Leo will draw him into argument over it. He will make my Lord seem weak for causing discord over something as trivial as a beaten slave when no law has been broken." Not so trivial to Sinric but to the peace of the throne, he knows he means nothing.

But next time it could be one of the other, one of the younger boys less able to take the pain. And what then. "What must I do to stop him?" The question is asked more of himself than of the doctor.

"His father will be able to read the message, even if no law was broken," the doctor says. "And he must punish him, harshly, for breaking the peace of the palace and willfully destroying property like the immature child that he is. That is not 'causing discord over something trivial', it must seem like the put-down of one that doesn't know better, due to immaturity, lack of culture, and general lack of all skills that are needed to successfully rule."

He contemplates that thought in silence, seeing wisdom in the doctor's words. "I... You speak sense. But I'm not sure I want my Emperor to see me, maimed and weak as I am now." He needs time, time to regain his equilibrium.

"He will see the next one," the doctor says. "And then you can help him decide what his reaction will be."

He starts swiping at Sinric's badly misused nipples with the stingy balls of gauze.

He hisses and throws his head back, his breasts have indeed been mauled and of all of him, they are the most sensitive.

"I'm not sure I will survive a second message." He mutters through clenched teeth.

"You probably wouldn't," the doctor agrees. "Psychopaths tend to escalate. It's a very difficult situation."

"Then I must go back, before my wounds are fully healed and speak with my Emperor of what has been done." The thought fills his stomach with ice.

"That might be the best way of avoiding that this befalls any of your fellow eunuchs," the doctor says.

Pause

"What did they do to your breasts, though?"

The memory only serves to tighten the knots in his stomach and for a moment he has to focus just to breath. "They-" he chokes and forces himself to swallow, "handled them roughly. Some bit and chewed. One had a knife. He threatened to cut-" He covers his mouth both to stifle a sob and to stop himself throwing up.

"More heparin gel, I think," Dr. Lecter says. "To get the swelling down."

He picks up a tube, then hesitates.

"Would you like more local anaesthetics for that?"

"Please?" He whispers, wanting the pain to go away and hating himself for the weakness that leads to beg so.

The doctor takes up some sort of glass implement with a sharp needle and draws up a clear liquid from a little phial into it.

"This is going to sting briefly," he says. "Don't be alarmed by the needle. Seeing it makes it different."

He nods and swallows roughly, choosing at the last moment to look away rather than watch the needle cut into his sensitive flesh.

Therre is just a little pin-prick at each breast, and then the area around the nipples slowly goes numb while the doctor prepares the gel, and more gauze.

Sinric holds himself still, face still turned away. The slightest touch, however gentle and numbed triggers memories he stuggles to keep from overwhelming him. His fingers as they rest on his thighs move rhythmically, trying to recall the chords of the song he was learning last as a way to steady himself.

The doctor works meticulously, daubing each nipple with the sharp-smelling liquid, then covering it with the gel, and finally putting on a larger piece of gauze to cover it, then fixing it to Sinric's breat with a sheet of adhesive fabric.

"This way," he explains, "the gel has a chance to work properly, and you won't accidentally rub your sore nipples on your clothes."

He nods and swallows, still by no means comfortable with the touch but trusting in the doctor's kindness.

"And now, I'll take a look at your face, and then we are done," the doctor says.

He nods and looks up, shaking his hair back from his face. His lips are cracked and split, his cheeks and eyes bruised from the force of blows. His throat shows signs of violence throttling and choking grips.

He looks up at the doctor with deep brown eyes on the verge of spilling over into tears.

The doctor puts two fingers on Sinric's jaw to move his head this way and that, meticulously cleaning each abrasion with his stinging solution.

There is quite a pile of discarded gauze by now.

The touch is disconcerting. As is the doctor's dispassionate gaze but he stays still under it.

Sinric glances at the pile, disturbed by the evidence of his physical ruin.

"I will apply the gel to your throat as well," the doctor says, "and then wrap it with a bandage."

He tips up Sinric's chin, and begins to do so.

The tilt triggers another harshly painful bit of sense memory but he fights it down and offers up his bruised throat.

The doctor starts spreading the cooling gel over the vicious bruises left by the throttling hands, generously and slowly.

He hisses softly, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes but he manages to stay still. "How long do I need to keep the bandages on, sir?"

The doctor fixes the bandage with a white adhesive tape, then nods. "Just until tomorrow or the day after, to give the gel a chance to work," he says. "I'm going to give you a tube of it so you can put it on your bruises afterwards. As my door is working somewhat randomly at the moment, I can't promise I'd be there to do it."

He picks up a paper tissue and wipes away Sinric's tears, gently, before starting to apply a rich white salve wo all the lacerations in his face.

"And of this, if you like."

He nods, confused by the dispassionate in the seemingly kind gesture of drying his tears.

"How can I repay this kindness, sir?"

"When your throat is fully healed, and you're quite yourself again, I would like to make music with you," the doctor says. "Learn Byzantine songs from you, and test your vocal range with more modern methods."

He nods, reaching for his clothes but waiting for the doctor's permission before dressing.

"I will be very glad to sing for you, sir." He dips as deep a bow as his freshly stitched bow will allow.

"We are done here," the doctor says, looking him up and down for a last time. "You can dress again."

He does so with care but moving a little freer now that the worst of the pain is numbed by the needles.

He bows again. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me," the doctor says. "I'm a doctor; I couldn't not do this. And I am going to learn about musical history from you, first-hand, which will be a great treat."

"Then I look forward to singing for you, sir."

He gathers his cloak and heads for the door before bowing again.

"I am looking forward to hearing you," the doctor says, standing up and inclining his head, "and hope you recover well, Oriens."

[[OOC: Wrap this one as well?]]

{ooc: perfect. Thank you, that was wonderfully intense.}

[[OOC: Hannibal Lecter is an unmitigated fucker, as Saph and I tend to state very often. I suppose you caught most of the things that he was doing here? And yes, it was quite intense. I'll post this with the appropriate warnings.]]

OOM: Treating Sinric

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