He comes to Thrall's attention in the arena. There's a strength to him, a grace as he dances across the sands. His swords carve the air with all the skill of the great masters, yet his style is alien, his performance accented, as though his body speaks the language of his race.

Dwarfed by the tauren, he eschews a frontal assault and stays on the move, a whirlwind of slicing attacks that slowly wear the huge warrior down. But it's clear his time is limited; speed is only an advantage while it can be sustained. For a split second the human's flawless footwork falters making him vulnerable - the crowd surges to its feet, baying as one for alliance blood, the tauren's massive battleaxe sings through the air, and the human's demise seems as inevitable as the sun's slow decline into the west.

Thrall watches, outwardly calm, yet gripped. Surely this is not the way it will end. Axe meets swords, the crash of their joining audible above the crowds' howls as the human, despite the odds, holds fast. Feet sliding in the sand, he bends but refuses to break and Thrall sees within him the indomitable will that stood against his people and the tides of demons that washed up on Azeroth's shores. No, this one will not be beaten so easily.

As if hearing Thrall's thoughts, the human straightens, somehow forcing the tauren back, turning defence into attack and it's the tauren now scrabbling for footing and, failing to find it, unbalancing himself. The human leaps, high and fast, his swords a blur as he slices down, the tauren parrying wildly as he staggers back, failing to catch even half the blows that rain down upon him until finally, finally, he succumbs, knees collapsing, blood dripping from his snout as he hits the sand.

And Thrall is on his feet along with half of Orgrimmar, stamping and calling, but unlike them, his eyes are not on the fallen favourite. Rather they are reserved for the human, standing bloodied but triumphant, head high and panting, relief and exhaustion evident in every muscle as he salutes the crowd.

"Lo'Gosh. An unusual name for a human," he says, later, when the gladiator's kneeling before him. The human's been cleaned up since the arena. Gone are the plate and mail, now replaced with fine cotton pants and an embroidered vest, neither of which do anything to conceal his well-muscled body. Though, to be fair, that was probably not the intent of their design.

Thrall steps down from the throne and approaches, not bothering to try and conceal his fascination. Only his most trusted guards are present this late in the evening and he has nothing to fear from them.

"Awarded by the appreciative crowds of Dire Maul, Warchief." The words are spoken in the human tongue by an orc who emerges from the shadows to briefly bend a knee and pay the proper respect.

"A fine name."

"And preferable to Croc-Bait, which was how he was known before."

Worg-helmed and leather clad, this has to be Rehgar Earthfury, Lo'Gosh's owner and rumoured to be the trainer of the best gladiators in Kalimdor. Thrall should have known. He sighs, silently. From what he's heard, Earthfury, an ex-gladiator himself, rarely sells his slaves on a whim.

Rehgar rests a proprietary hand briefly on the human's shoulder before stepping away, wordlessly giving Thrall permission to inspect the goods.

And a fine sight he is. Though kneeling and chained at neck and wrist, arrogance still pours from him. Strength like this is rare.

"I don't suppose he's on the market?" Thrall asks more in hope than expectation.

A half-smile quirks Earthfury's mouth. "No, Warchief, though we could probably come to a temporary arrangement. We're not expected in Thunderbluff until the morrow."

Tomorrow. Giving hours when Thrall would prefer days. Generally he aims for equality and friendship in his bedmates and most take a while to get past him being who he is. This one, being human and a slave, is likely to be even worse.

And yet.

He reaches out, lifts the human's chin, searching his face for whatever it is that draws him. Too hardened to be called pretty and not as young as he'd thought, but still. Dark eyes meet his and there's a spark there. Defiance, maybe, but then a gladiator with no spirit is no gladiator at all. But there's more. Curiosity, perhaps? Certainly not fear. Thrall doubts this one has known a moment of fear in his life.

"You'll find him co-operative."

"If he knows what's good for him, you mean." He has to risk the insult; he can't help it. He knows how these things too often work, which is why he rarely bothers to pursue them.

He feels the slightest crackle of power, hears Earthfury shift on his feet, and is not surprised when a mass drawing of weapons around the room echoes the move. For a long moment they have a stand off; Earthfury poised in his challenge, the guards ready to leap to Thrall's defence. Tension rises but, throughout, the human's eyes remain locked on his own and Thrall's getting the impression that he might be giving away a lot more than he's learning here. It's unnerving but preferable to precipitating an all out fight with Earthfury.

Finally, Thrall feels the magic die and Earthfury grunts out an obscenity. "I'm no whoremaster, Warchief. Whatever he does with his body outside the arena, he does at his own bidding, not mine."

"As it should be." This Thrall believes with all his heart. He's seen enough of others being controlled by more powerful beings. Of being controlled that way himself. None of the pleasure houses in Orgrimmar use unwilling slaves, and if he finds any that are, he strings the owners up from the main gates. There is no hesitation. The memory of shame in Tari's eyes is his spur.

He finally, and with some measure of relief, tears his gaze away from the human's and gestures to the guards to sheathe their weapons. Time for the human later. Now he needs to address that incipient clash with Earthfury. "It seems we're of similar callings. Tell me, who mentored you in the ways of the elements?" He turns back to Earthfury, just in time to see an odd expression race across his face.

"You, my lord." And Thrall's about to deny all knowledge when Earthfury continues, "Of a kind. We-" He hesitates for a moment, then seems to gather himself. "We share similar pasts, you and I. Taken as no more than infants and raised far from our own. When I heard of you, about all you had achieved for our people, I turned to the elements and found them waiting."

A warming tale, if true. Thrall's inclined to believe it. Earthfury doesn't seem the type to spin lies simply to ingratiate himself. He digs further, drawing on rumours he's heard around the court. "I heard you were raised by humans."

Earthfury tilts his head. "By ogres, Warchief, and then by humans." He grimaces. "And found neither to my taste, though the ogres at least had the decency to treat me as a thinking creature."

That Thrall can empathise with. Blackmoore had never hidden his contempt for Thrall, keeping him caged or chained, debased until his natural inclinations towards studiousness and spirituality were almost subsumed by the lust for blood.

Rage surging at yet another of his people treated so, Thrall turns on the human still kneeling before the throne and snarls, "Hear that? What say you, pinkskin? What defence do you offer for your kind?"

Nothing. No answer, no movement bar the twitch of a jaw muscle.

Insolence! Thrall raises his fist - and Earthfury snaps out, "Speak."

And, of course, the human does. With no regard for the threat, he lifts his chin, again treating Thrall to the full power of his gaze, and says, "Only that, like orcs, not all humans are the same, Warchief."

Thrall diverts his blow, slamming his fist into his thigh rather than that all too knowing face. His fury is gone leaving, contrarily, annoyance in its wake because of course no insult was meant; Lo'Gosh has simply been told not to speak without permission. And his words – Thrall curses under his breath. Lo'Gosh has the right of it, damn him. Not all humans are Blackmoores. Look at Taretha. At Jaina. Comparing them is akin to comparing Drek'Thar with Guldan. Impossible and pointless.

"As you say, so it is." For what else will serve. The human speaks the truth, which is something that commends itself. To speak openly in the heart of your enemy's camp is a trait that Thrall can admire. And reward. "Your honesty earns you a boon," he says. "Anything that lies within my power to grant."

A strange smile curves the human's lips; he glances towards Earthfury before lowering his voice and saying, "I assume my freedom is out of the running then?"

It raises a grin. It has to. Disconcerting intensity aside, Thrall is really starting to like this human. He's brave and honest. Thrall leans forward, conspiratorially, "Unless you can think of some way of persuading him to sell you, I believe so."

The expression that flits across the human's face is full of regret, but he rallies quickly. "Then I would beg a visit to the Pools of Vision." He shrugs. "Broll has a yen for some kind of cleansing ceremony and that seems like the place to go."

Thrall raises an enquiring eyebrow.

"His team mate, Warchief. A night elf by the name of Broll Bearmantle."

A brief image of a druid clad in the flesh of a bear tearing at the heels of an ogre mage springs to mind. "He also fought this afternoon?"

"Yes, my lord. And was victorious."

"And sore." Apparently being given permission to speak opens the floodgates.

"He was injured?"

"Not severely. Nothing his own abilities cannot correct."

"Except that he whines and makes everyone else's life a misery in the meantime."

"Lo'Gosh. Silence!"

The human ducks his head, returning to the position he's held since being brought into the throne room.

"My apologies, Warchief. He has yet to learn manners."

"Leave him be, Earthfury," Thrall says. "I take no offence. In fact, let us withdraw. This room grows cold as the night draws in." He nods across at his guards, who form up into two ranks; the smaller will accompany him back into his private chambers behind the throne, the others will remain here guarding the egress.

Servants greet them as the hides are pulled back, his steward first in line with enquiries about the evening. "Food for three," Thrall says. "Something warming, and bring ale. Then privacy for the rest of the night." That, of course, will be limited. The Warchief of the Horde is never left unguarded.

A decent meal inside him and Thrall feels much more relaxed. The pointless posturing of the day is draining away, leaving in its wake a decidedly mellow buzz. Though that could be the ale. His private quarters are warm, snug like the furs he's reclined upon and, for a while, he's content to do no more than watch the torches' guttering light chase away the shadows and enjoy the company of his guests.

Sitting across from him and still picking at the remains of the meal, Lo'Gosh is a silent presence, as he has been since Earthfury's command back in the audience chamber. By contrast Earthfury himself has been downright chatty and Thrall is now better informed on arena gossip than he ever needed, or truly wanted, to be.

Not that Earthfury is peddling malicious gossip. Thrall is wise to that side of politics and what Earthfury is doing is not in the same vein as those sycophantic low lives who seek to promote themselves through the disparagement of others. There are times when Thrall is tempted to simply ban all elves from his presence, if only to be rid of their vicious back biting so poorly concealed by overly mannered affectations. At least Garrosh has the courtesy of nay-saying him to his face, however annoying it may be.

This is why Thrall values Garrosh, like he valued his father, and all those who are honest and straightforward. These days there are precious few of them, even amongst his own people.

"You travel far to the arenas?" he asks when Earthfury reaches the end of his latest anecdote.

Earthfury frowns a little. "Yes, Warchief. Captain Grizzgear provides transport for a price, so distance isn't a problem."

"You meet teams from other places. Other… factions."

The frown deepens for a brief moment and then clears with understanding. "Respectfully, Warchief, the arenas can only function if there's trust between the parties. Much as I am a son of the Horde, I cannot – will not – spy for you amongst the gladiators. And if that sets us at odds with each other, then I'll take my leave." He reaches for his helm and cloak, gathering them up.

Thrall tries again. "I can offer gold. More than you can make in a year on the sands."

The laugh that garners him is no surprise. "Again, and with all due respect, Warchief, I doubt your coffers could match what I earn in a year without raising awkward questions." He shakes his head, smiling ruefully as he brushes out his cloak. "No, my lord, I'm afraid I must refuse your offer." He glances up. "But you're still welcome to Lo'Gosh's company for the evening if he wishes to stay?"

Lo'Gosh shrugs and, helping himself to the final sliver of Stormwind brie, says, "Not every question's got a simple answer. The only truth is that every situation is more complex than it first appears."

"And now he talks in riddles. Make your mind up, little human, do you stay or go?"

"Actually I think he was talking about you, not himself." Thrall climbs to his feet and offers his hand. "I'm sorry to have tempted you, Earthfury, it was dishonourable, but I had to know. A friend who can be bought is not one who can be trusted, and I would very much like to trust you. If you will accept it, I would offer you a place as my advisor." When Earthfury fails to answer, he adds hastily, "The offer is neither compulsory nor time limited. If you need to think about it, do so, then return to me with your answer."

"I… will, I…" For a moment Earthfury seems to grope for words, then he blinks and stands straighter than he has all evening, addressing Thrall almost as an equal. "When I first sought audience with the elements, it was to ask a single question. To many, the life I lead is no better than that of any common slaver and, fearing the judgement of the ancestors, I asked if the path I followed led to honour or shame.

"Their answer was unclear. Rather they said that someday I would face a choice and it was through this choice that honour would be won or lost. I think that day might finally be upon me." He nods to himself, swirls his cloak about his shoulders and places his helm firmly on his head. "You have given me much to think about, and so I shall bid you a goodnight and ask again if my cryptic gladiator chooses to stay or go?"

Lo'Gosh glances between them. "Stay, I think," he says finally. "The furs here are warmer than that damned cell."

Earthfury grunts. "Then I'll see you in the morning." Nodding to them both, he strides out of the room, a quick murmur of voices beyond the door the only evidence of his passing.

And then there was two, Thrall thinks, watching Lo'Gosh who's staring after his master. There's still no obvious fear, though he does detect a slight hint of nervousness about the human.

He picks up the jug of ale, refills their mugs and sits back down. After a moment he says, in an attempt to break the silence, "I don't make a habit of this, you know."

Lo'Gosh glances over at him, peers at his mug and picks it up. "Taking humans into your bed?"

Thinking back on the ones he's known over the years, and one in particular, Thrall says, "Actually no, I meant strangers. It has a way of being awkward."

The sharp bark of laughter is almost worse than the silence. "You want awkward, try getting thrown in a cage with two strangers and being told you've got to do everything including piss in front of them."

Thrall winces. There really is no honour in the gladiatorial trade. And yet… "Earthfury says he found you alone in Bladefist Bay. Tell me, how long would you have lasted if he hadn't have brought you into his caravan? Likewise, what fate an orc found perhaps on the coast at Hillsbrad?"

"Touche. And it's not like I know anything else. All I can do is fight." Lo'Gosh takes a deep drink from his mug, smacking his lips as he lowers it. "At least as far as I know." He glances up at Thrall, who feels his belly tighten in anticipation at the heat in his eyes. "Want to find out if I do anything else?"

Thrall doesn't get a chance to reply before he has a lapful of human busy tugging at his clothes. For a second he almost lets it continue until he notices that the human is shaking, his hands and his thighs where he's straddling Thrall's lap. Every place they're touching, Thrall can feel muscles quivering. Maybe he was wrong about the fear.

He grabs the chains at Lo'Gosh's wrists, stilling his hands and, when the human tries to turn away, catches him by the jaw and forces his head around. "You know of me, but have you done this before?" he asks.

"Let an orc fuck me? Probably not. At least that I remember. Why? Worried you might break me?"

So that was it. An understandable concern given their comparative sizes. "I've loved a human woman and done her no harm."

Lo'Gosh stops tugging away. "How?"

"Carefully." Thrall smirks. "And though a honourable orc doesn't kiss and tell, she seemed happy enough afterwards."

His smile is returned, a little tentatively, and swiftly covered by a familiar belligerent scowl. Thrall gets the feeling this is Lo'Gosh's default expression and he ponders the why of it. The human may not have his memories, but his body knows things. His hands wield weapons like he was trained to it from birth, his face shuns the common man's casual camaraderie, and his gut understands the intricacies of politics and intrigue.

Given the evidence, Lo'Gosh is probably of noble birth and Thrall knows without a doubt that somewhere people are searching for him, which makes what he's about to do foolish and possibly dangerous. The last thing he needs is more enemies.

Ah, but the temptation. This close he can smell the musk on the human's skin, feel the thunder of his heart, the heat where they're pressed together. He leans forward, touching his mouth to the human's pulse; it leaps beneath his tusks and yet still the man doesn't flinch.

He reminds Thrall of someone; the bravado, the determination to do anything to survive; and despite the risks, Thrall finds himself hoping Lo'Gosh is found while he still lives. The life of any gladiator has a tendency to be brutish and short. How much moreso for a human amongst the Horde.

As he ponders, he strokes the human's back. Long strokes designed to be soothing, from nape to backside and up again, neither lingering nor hurrying, and slowly he feels them start to work. Lo'Gosh begins to relax against him, his head lowering until it rests against Thrall's shoulder, his posture loosening until he is almost slumping in place. Not surrender, but perhaps recognition of how this will be and how it will best be done.

A quick tug strips off the human's vest, and now Thrall can touch where he will. He rubs his thumb along the bumps of Lo'Gosh's spine up to the edge of the metal collar. The skin dampens and not with fear. There's passion here, Thrall is certain of it. The way the human's fists tighten against his shirt, the way the shaking is starting up again, this time not from nerves but, Thrall is sure, with a desire for control. What could it be like, Thrall wonders, to live free and then become a slave? Much harder than his own experience, surely. For him, freedom was an impossible dream, not a memory to be suppressed.

He winds Lo'Gosh's long tail of hair around his hand and pulls gently but firmly, leaving him little choice but to arch back and cling to Thrall's shoulders for support. For a moment Thrall holds him there, simply looking his fill, enjoying the sight. Souvenirs from the fight earlier in the day decorate Lo'Gosh's body; scratches and abrasions, a plethora of bruises that curl around his ribs and belly and vanish beneath his pants. Thrall traces them with a finger, pressing here or there simply for the pleasure of feeling the human tense against him.

Afterwards, Thrall promises silently. Afterwards he'll fix them, but before that he has a yen to maybe add a few of his own.

His finger finds a nipple and he rubs across it, watching fascinated as it puckers up. Sensitive. He does it again, this time with his nail, and Lo'Gosh twists away, starting to breathe more heavily. Thrall holds him steady and follows up with his tongue, sucking the nub into his mouth and nibbling carefully. That makes Lo'Gosh squirm and his movement grinds them together in a way that Thrall finds more than a little arousing. A drag of his tongue and he finds the other nipple, already nicely firmed up, and he gives that a nibble as well, just to see if the effect's the same. It is, and when he glances up, Lo'Gosh is biting his lip, his eyes tightly closed, his nostrils flaring with every breath. He's starting to lose control, which is exactly what Thrall wants. If this is to be as good as Thrall knows it could be, Lo'Gosh needs to be as relaxed as possible.

Also the pants need to go. He releases the human's hair to wrestle with the knot at his waist, cussing as the silky strings tying them tangle around his fingers.

"Need a hand with that?" Lo'Gosh asks after a second or two of fruitless fiddling.

Thrall glares at him. He's being mocked, but there's no cruelty in it so he lets it pass, tossing the ends of the string down in disgust. "Help yourself," he says, "You can't possibly do any worse. Where did they find those things anyway?" He gestures to the flimsy lavender pants and the remains of the embroidered vest that Lo'Gosh had been wearing.

"Oh, um…" Colour floods his pale cheeks and down his chest in an impressive blush as he stands up and unties the string in two deft pulls. "There's a place in the drag. A tailors? Apparently the 'rags' I was wearing weren't 'fit to clean floors' let alone… How did she put it? Right, yeah. 'Grace the body of the Champion of Dire Maul.'" The pants hit the floor. "I think she stocks them for blood elves, since I'm pretty sure an orc wouldn't get one leg into them."

In truth the human had hardly fit in them himself. He might not match an orc for sheer mass but the muscles are impressive for his size. His thighs flex as he shifts uneasily from foot to foot, hands clasped in front of him, and it amuses Thrall that this creature, who shows not a moment of reservation when confronted by cold steel, gets a case of nerves from being naked.

"Do you want me here or-?" Lo'Gosh gestures at the hide draped doorway leading to the sleeping chambers. Which is a good idea, now Thrall thinks about it.

"There," he says and stands up to follow. He sticks his head out of the door as he passes, letting the guards know that he is retiring for the night.

Lo'Gosh is already face down on the sleeping platform when he arrives; eyes closed, a bundle of furs tucked under his head and a single one draped artfully across his thighs. Thrall pauses to really appreciate the view, but looking is no substitute for touching so he quickly strips off and joins him.

As he settles down, Lo'Gosh opens one eye and says, "Can we just do this?"

Could they? Thrall supposes there's no reason why not, though he's more accustomed to a bit of foreplay. He reaches over, pulls open the cabinet by the wall, and gets out the vial of oil that lives there. The stopper releases easily and he sniffs it before grunting and pouring a generous portion into his palm.

"Been a while, has it?"

Thrall pauses, a bit confused. Lo'Gosh nods at the oil, and continues, "Afraid it's gone off?

Oh, the sniffing. "I always check. The room is guarded but there's been assassination attempts in the past."

Lo'Gosh's eyes widen and he turns over, props himself up on an elbow. "And here was me thinking you had it easier than a gladiator. At least the people trying to kill me are doing it up front and personal." He peers at the oil. "It is okay, yeah? I mean with where it's going, I'd like to be sure."

Understandable. "It's fine. Here," Thrall holds it out.

Lo'Gosh sniffs tentatively. "Smells good."

"Ambercorn oil and silverleaf. Cairne recommended it. He uses it for easing stiff muscles. Apparently if you mix it with-" An odd noise comes from the furs. Lo'Gosh has his arm over his eyes and is - howling with laughing. "What?"

For a few seconds all Lo'Gosh does is wave a hand in Thrall's direction and laugh louder, but finally he chokes out, "Nothing. Just me, a-a human, discussing oil and Cairne Bloodhoof's ailments with the Warchief of the Horde. Struck me as amusing."

It is, there's no disputing that. But Thrall's not about to get distracted again. Ignoring the sniggering, he puts the vial down, grabs a slim ankle with his non-oily hand and unceremoniously yanks Lo'Gosh down the bed and over onto his front.

The human yelps, kicks out and then, apparently remembering himself, grabs the furs and buries his face in them. Now he's got the human's thighs bracketing his own quite nicely and a pert backside propped up in front of him. That, Thrall thinks, is more like it. He coats his fingers thoroughly and then reaches between them with his other hand, brushing against Lo'Gosh's sac, to cup his cock.

As Thrall expected, he's flaccid, but that can be remedied. He squeezes briefly, reassuringly he hopes, and then runs his oily fingers down the human's crack, finding his hole and circling it gently, making no attempt to push inside. A shudder runs through Lo'Gosh's body, goose bumps rise on his back, and he starts to harden. Thrall smiles. This is going to work.

It does. It takes time and patience, more than Thrall has had to put in for a while, but he's determined that the human is going to enjoy this as much as he does. By the time he finally presses his fingers inside, Lo'Gosh is panting into the furs and rocking into Thrall's hand, his cock hard and starting to leak.

There's no flinch, not even a reflexive contraction and yet again, Thrall thinks, Lo'Gosh's body is remembering something his mind does not. He has done this before. His body knows the how of it; knows to bear down as Thrall uses a second finger to open him, knows to spread his legs to give more room as Thrall gets aroused, knows to push up on his arms when Thrall lines himself up. Knows to reach back and dig his fingers into the back of Thrall's hand when for the briefest of moments it all becomes too much for them both.

"St-Stop! Just for a-"

Thrall pants, squeezing his eyes closed because to look will be his downfall. Still the image is burnt into his mind. Lo'Gosh, hair swept off his face as he glances back towards Thrall, colour high on his cheeks, his eyes glassy. His long back is beaded with sweat, strands of hair creating a dark web across his pale shoulders, the glint of metal bright at neck and wrists.

The nails digging into the back of his hand stop trying to gouge a channel between his fingers and then his hand is patted and Lo'Gosh says, "Try again."

Thrall opens his eyes and he's looking down to where they're joined, his cock halfway into the human's body, stretching it wide. His hips twitch at the sight, shoving him deeper and eliciting a gasp from Lo'Gosh.

"Sorry, sorry."

"S'ok. Apparently it's been a while for me."

By the elements! So tight, so hot. Thrall eases himself in further, reaching around as he does for Lo'Gosh's cock. He's softened, but not completely, and twitches back to life in Thrall's hand. Rather than trying for more depth, he strokes firmly and evenly, biting his lip as he works the human back up to full hardness, relying on him for those last few inches. He gets them eventually as Lo'Gosh starts to fuck into his hand and push back onto his cock. Harder and again, moving between the two. It's good, so very good, and Thrall's starting to lose control. The urge to simply let go and fuck is becoming urgent.

Co-ordination suddenly beyond him, Thrall abandons Lo'Gosh's cock, ignoring his whine of protest and catches him by the hips, but it's still not enough. He presses down on Lo'Gosh's shoulder forcing him to dip lower and yes, that's better. Lo'Gosh is cursing at him, palming his own dick and digging his fingers into the furs as the pace picks up.

His breaths are coming unevenly, gasping and heaving, the blood pounding in his ears. Sweat trickles down Thrall's back and chest as he rolls his hips, and he pries the human open further with his hands the better to see, the better to watch as his cock disappears into that slick heat again and again and again.

A sharp cry is all the warning he gets before Lo'Gosh tightens around him, clamping down until Thrall can hardly move, and then opening up completely allowing Thrall in deeper still. Thrall bellows and collapses forward over Lo'Gosh's back, only catching himself at the last moment, but the lust entire is upon him now. He could no more stop than he could voluntarily cease to breathe. He manages to turn them partially onto their sides and folds his arms around Lo'Gosh, keeping him close, keeping him secure, and sends up a plea to the spirits that any hurt he causes will be quickly mended. His hips snap in a brutal rhythm and he can feel the body beneath him grunting at the force. He presses his forehead to the back of Lo'Gosh's neck, willing himself not to bite, and rides the forces within. The world falls away; conscious thought ceases and instinct reigns supreme. His climax when it comes is staggering, stealing out of the maelstrom to rip away his ability to do anything except cling to his mate and come.

He's brought round by a sharp elbow in the ribs. '"Ugh," he grunts and rolls off the human, who immediately scrambles free, panting heavily. Thrall cracks his eyes open to see a very flushed looking Lo'Gosh sitting, head hanging, on the edge of the sleeping platform. "Sorry."

Lo'Gosh half startles and glances back over his shoulder. "You're heavy," he offers with a single shouldered shrug. "Couldn't breath for a minute there."

"Hence the sorry." Thrall props himself up on one elbow. "Are you all right?"

The scowl is back. "If you're asking if you broke me, then no. Just a few extra bruises, is all."

"Show me." He tugs Lo'Gosh back onto the bed. It doesn't take much to see the marks he's added to what was already an impressive collection. Now, though, they spread around both Lo'Gosh's hips and across his buttocks as well. Several are exactly the same size and shape as Thrall's fingers, proof positive that he hadn't been as careful as he might.

He's tired, but a promise is a promise, even if the human doesn't know of it. Thrall rests his lips against the angriest of the marks, and closes his eyes. Spirits, he entreats, heal this hurt that I have caused. No verbal answer comes, but he feels the slow swell of power within him. It's not a skill he uses often; he is neither proficient nor skilled, but he knows enough to heal and not harm. Power flows through him into Lo'Gosh and Thrall hears him gasp as the healing begins. It doesn't take long, and when the connection ebbs, Thrall lifts his head to inspect the results.

He's not the only one. Lo'Gosh is craning his neck to peer down at himself. "Why?" he asks. "Not that I'm not grateful, but…"

"Call it a peace offering. I'm unable to release you from captivity but I can ensure that your bruises are gone."

Lo'Gosh raises an eyebrow. "All of them. Rehgar will be pissed. He prefers we keep the bruises to better remember our mistakes."

A trainer's trick. And a good one. Still, "You can collect more in the ring. Losing those won't cause any lasting harm." Exhausted now, Thrall collapses back on the furs, yawning and stretching, drowsing easily. He should probably clear the soiled furs before he sleeps, but it all feels like too much effort.

The cool of metal against his neck snatches him back from the cusp of sleep and he jerks awake to find Lo'Gosh leaning over him, his manacle chain grasped between his hands and pressed snug against Thrall's throat. But there is no death in his eyes, just a curious blankness. Rather than fight, Thrall slides a hand beneath the chain and lies still, waiting for the outcome of this latest curiosity to reveal itself.

For the longest time, Lo'Gosh does not move; he seems almost in a trance and then, just as Thrall is beginning to get worried, he startles, coming back from wherever his mind had gone, and blinks down at Thrall in confusion.

"You were careful," he says after a moment. "You didn't have to be."

"No more than I had to heal you," Thrall answers, "but it's more honourable if none are hurt, don't you think?"

Lo'Gosh frowns, not quite his normal scowl but close. "For some reason orcs with honour feels very wrong," he says finally.

"No more than humans who beat Gordunni orgres in the arena," Thrall says and gently pushes the chain away from neck.

The minute he starts to move it, Lo'Gosh yanks it away. "I should have killed you. Was going to kill you," he says. "The chain…"

It might have been possible, the human is strong and skilled, but Thrall doesn't think very likely to have succeeded. Still, "Why didn't you?" he asks.

Lo'Gosh stares into the middle distance for a moment and then he shudders hard and says, "The alternative would be much worse."

A chill crawls up Thrall's spine. But the night is cold and it's easy to write it off to a stray draft. "Come," he says, tossing the dirty furs aside and sliding beneath the clean ones himself.

Lo'Gosh joins him, lying quietly for a moment before saying, quiet and thoughtful, "I had expected it to be more violent than that."

Thrall sighs tiredly. "Like orcs and humans, not all beddings are the same." He pulls Lo'Gosh closer, drapes an arm across the human's chest and mutters, "Now sleep. Tomorrow you travel to the Bluff. Time enough then for deep thoughts." He closes his eyes. Yes, there's time enough. For the future and whatever it brings.