Chapter Text
Being reborn is not only marvelous but full of excitement as well. An individual naturally feels gleeful at the idea that he can have a fresh start, that he wouldn't make the same mistakes as he did in his previous life. He would explore a world that was a complete stranger, like a faceless woman in the dream, whispering and beckoning for you to come.
Yet, dreams are exactly that, dreams. And they have nothing to do with reality unless you forge them, which, unless you have resources, wealth and discipline, wouldn't come true. Even if you have everything that was listed above, if your dreams aren't grounded and reasonable, they are just fantasies.
Abaddon felt like everyone else at first, when he was born. He had a mother and a home. He didn't have a father though, strange since he had German blood running in his veins in his previous life. But it was still fine.
His mother was beautiful and stunning, with white hair and steel blue eyes, features he had inherited from her.
And growing up, while life was hard, it was also bountiful. Until everything changed.
His mother couldn't support his growth, often starving, wearing the same ragged clothes, drunk and crying in her room from frustration, she seemed to have gone mad.
She often cursed someone, with such bitterness and hatred that Abbadon felt disturbed.
That someone was his father, he was certain of that.
He would hug her and kiss her, as if to somehow alleviate her anguish and pain.
It was useless. No soothing would comfort her. The only thing that would do was gold. So she did what was best for her.
And that's where his life took a complete 180° turn, in Lys.
She sold Abaddon when he was six, got gold, since Abaddon was young and a pretty boy, and turned her life around.
And from there, life wasn't so bearable again. It was torturous, humiliating and full of helpless fury.
Abaddon was from Earth, from modern times, thus he found life in the narrow sea not only hard but also unacceptable.
Lys is one of the most prosperous of the free cities. And it is deeply involved in the slave trade, with slaves outnumbering freeborn Lyseni three to one.
And while there are many slaves who fight for the amusement of the freeborn, and sometimes act as guards or in the army of Lys when the city fights other free cities over disputed lands.
Lys is still most famous for their bed slaves, and the Lyseni are known to be famously voracious in their search for comely young boys and fair maids for their pillow houses.
Children are more like sex slaves, you could say. They would use them like animals, breeding them and mating beauty with beauty, hoping to produce the most lovely courtesans and bedslaves.
Same logic applies to warriors. The most healthy, strong and enduring slaves will be forced to breed, to make a better generation of fighters.
It was sick, everything was disgusting.
And what disgusted Abaddon most was not the freeborn but the slaves themselves. He disdained how pathetic they were, how cowardly and idiotic. Mongrels with no idea of their own, and even if they did, they never acted upon them in fear of death.
What is life without a choice of your own?
"How dare you!?"
Abaddon wobbled, feeling a sharp sting on his back as he was whipped, he was seeing stars, his eyes rolling back as he momentarily lost his consciousness, his lips parting to scream but he already did, so much so his lungs hurt and his throat was dry, no voice escaping his split, dehydrated lips.
At first, he too was working as a sex slave in the Pillow House, he wasn't the most beautiful boy there, thankfully he wasn't. But he still suffered the same fate as others.
"Stand up!" The torturer shouted, whip flashing in the dimly lit dungeon as it hit his back, drawing another tortured groan from him.
Right, he still endured the same garbage like everyone else. Sometimes, a beautiful woman would come, wishing to please herself.
That was still tolerable, the sense of disgust wasn't as great when the woman was pretty. Even when he was forced to suck her cunt or act as her dog.
What was worse than that though was older women. With their wrinkling faces, the fat of their flesh hanging from their arms and breasts like a wilted flower.
Sometimes, when the most beautiful girls and boys were claimed by Magisters or wealthy clients and the brothel ran short of sex slaves, Abaddon and the others were forced to service customers all night long. One body after another, hour after hour, until the first light of dawn.
It left him lifeless. His thighs and legs cramped and ached. His hips burned from thrusting so many times that when he could no longer move, they would throw him around and use him like a doll. His mind was left clouded in a fog of confusion and exhaustion, so disoriented that the faces of his clients blurred together until all that remained were images of hideous monsters.
And between his legs, his overworked balls throbbed with soreness, each fresh climax leaving them tighter, hotter, and more painful than the last, until even the lightest touch brought such discomfort and pain that he wanted to cry, even though no tears would fall.
Yet, what Abaddon feared and loathed most was men. Yes, it looks like liking men in this world wasn't that much of a shame despite how primitive they were. But perhaps it was just part of the culture in this part of the world, perhaps somewhere else it was indeed something mocked.
Abaddon wished more than anything to be born in that part of the world but reality was cruel.
He often fought back, earning punishments. But not physically, no. They wouldn't damage his face. That wouldn't attract customers.
He would be starved, locked in dark rooms with nothing but his own miserable thoughts, a small place with no light driving him mad.
But at some point, Abaddon gathered his courage, faced the truth he was avoiding and scarred his body.
After that, the Pillow House sold him to the fighting pits.
"I will not tolerate your insolence any more, you wicked child!"
Abaddon breathed heavily, so many red lines marked his back, his vision blurry and his heart beating wildly in his chest.
He was in pain.
Raising his hand, full of dust and nails filled with dried blood and dirt, he wiped his eyes. He didn't want to cry, to give them the satisfaction of seeing him in such a state, but he couldn't help it.
He sobbed, lying on the cold stone of the dungeon.
Seeing him, the torturer nodded in satisfaction, his whip yanked back as he caught it and left.
He wouldn't call himself a torturer though, but a trainer. They didn't consider themselves abusers, they looked at people as animals, less than men, thus their pain and sorrows were insignificant to them.
They didn't care.
Trainers to train beasts, that's all.
Abaddon let out a shaky breath, his expression twisting into one kf hatred and fury, so raw and unfiltered he might as well have been a beast at this moment.
"I learned a lot today too… I will let you experience the fruits of your teachings one day…" he spat with venom, licking his wounds in the dark dungeon.