Eric watched with a smug expression as three pieces of silver were handed over for Micky's tired, broken body. The slaves had become more trouble than they were worth, and besides, Lord Dargon was still expecting his money from the sale.

An old, rough sack was forced and tied over Micky's head before he was thrown in the back of a cart, headed for God knows where. But he didn't care anymore. Why should he? Maybe he would be lucky enough to die, then he wouldn't have to keep wallowing in the guilt that was now tearing him apart...he was drowning in it. His friends were dead, or at least he thought they were, and even if they weren't, they wouldn't want to know him anymore. Davy and Peter would hate him for choosing Mike over them, and look what happened to Mike. Why would Mike ever want to even set eyes on him again? A few stray tears dribbled down Micky's face and were soon brushed away by the roughness of the bag.

The journey seemed to last hours, until the wagon finally came to a grinding halt. Micky held his breath in anticipation, wondering what pain he was about to endure next.Soon he was dragged from the back of the cart and the bag was roughly removed, forcing the sunlight in his eyes.

Blinking repeatedly, Micky began to make out the images of two men, or at least he could smell them.

"But he belongs to the master now." One was saying, tugging annoyingly at the other's arm.

"What would he know eh? Sid? What would he know?" The other one argued, as he dragged Micky to his feet.

The drummer gazed around and found they were in the middle of the countryside, with only a single castle in the far off distance. There was a hedgerow running parallel to the road, and it was bright green with the spring, innocently waving at him in the warm breeze. Here would be a good place to die, he thought nonchalantly.

Suddenly he was grabbed heavily by the arm and dragged behind the hedgerow so that the road disappeared from view.

"You can't do this McMurphy! I won't let ye!" Sid was yelling at the top of his voice and Micky could see that the other man, McMurphy, was getting very annoyed.

"Shut ye head Sid! Go tend t'horses!"

Sid crossed his arms angrily, trying to think of something to say in defense, but gave up.

"Be it on your head, McMurphy! If the Master catches ye doing that to his slave, he'll skin ye!"

And with that, he disappeared back onto the road. Micky knew what was coming but he didn't fight, he didn't have the energy anymore. McMurphy held a smug expression on his face as he gave Micky a hefty shove, sending him sprawling onto the rocky soil below. The meager robes that he had worn since he had to choose between his friends were torn from his body and the sound of McMurphy getting ready filled his ears.

Rough hands groped his skin, making him feel like vomiting and he waited for the inevitable. He was amazed he had lasted this long before something like this happened. The stones and rocks dug into his back as McMurphy readied himself before plunging inside for all he was worth.

Micky's head rolled back and he let out a scream like no other. It hurt so much and the whole sensation forced salty tears to his eyes. McMurphy's mutton-like hands held Micky down by the shoulders as he was engulfed by the incredible tightness of this youth beneath him. It felt so good, so wonderfully good.

Micky writhed, trying to break free, but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape from this incredible pain and humiliation. His mouth hung open as sounds of agony fought to reach the surface, but the pain was too intense. Death, he longed for death as he struggled for a few last moments, his energy waning. This wasn't fair, why? Why? As the pain increased there was only one word that Micky could murmur. "Mike."

The weariness of the past few days had finally caught up with Micky and his body began to feel as weak as a rag doll. His heart burnt as he wished Mike were there, wished Mike would come and help him, love him. He finally realized what he had wanted and what he had ultimately lost. The pain came in short sharp bursts, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Finally the thrusts began to quicken, building up inside him before his rapist gave one loud groan and came.

Micky lay there, his legs still forced painfully apart and cried. Deep shuddering sobs flooded him and he slowly curled up on the ground, burying his head in his hands. Behind the wall of tears he could hear McMurphy stagger to his feet and adjust his clothing.

"Get up!" He demanded, but Micky just shook his head. He couldn't take much more, no more pain.

"Get up I say!" McMurphy yelled, giving Micky a sharp kick in the side.

Micky gasped from the added pain, but he still refused to budge.

Then he heard the sound of a sword being drawn and McMurphy growled one final time.

"I warned ye! Get up or I strike thee dead!"

Micky still hid his face, shaking his head "Go on! Kill me!"

Micky waited in anticipation and heard a scuffling sound from behind him, before there was an almighty cry.

The drummer shook with fear as a heavy hand pulled him across the ground and he was turned to face the new arrival.

Micky's mouth unhinged as he saw who it was and he cried harder, this time from relief.

"Quick!" Peter whispered loudly as Davy stepped over the slaughtered McMurphy to help Micky to his feet, "We've got to go, they've sent out the hounds after us!