This one is very angsty and can be too much for sensitive readers. Sarevok is 13 now and tries to come in terms with his budding sexuality.
Sex forced on an unwilling partner implied off-scene, very non-graphic references to masturbation.
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Sarevok was shaking, sweating, clutching his knees like a desperate child. He had thrown up twice now, but the heaving just wouldn't stop. His hollow eyes stared at the moon, as indiffent and cold as it was in a night so long time ago, when he had fled from something horrible he couldn't quite recall. His chest felt as if it was crushing inside a giant stone fist, his despair like dark, cold water drowning him.
For some time it had seemed that his life was gradually changing into something slightly better. He was thirteen years old now, and already almost as tall as Winski. There was an ironic hint in his teacher's voice now when he called him "little one". He had learned to control his bloodlust somewhat, knowing that it would come and being able to prepare. He waited for the tactically right moment to unleash it. Sometimes he still went more or less berserk, much to Winski's displeasure, but his growing skill and size helped him in those situations. Killing didn't bother him that much any more: he knew that his mother suffered from it somewhat, but he didn't fear losing her love, and that appeaced him. With her he could still be a little boy, the nurtured, the protected. It was as if he never quite ceased to be that, like he still wanted retribution from those cold, lonely years, a thirst that would never go away.
Reiltar still beat him, and having to submit to it continued to be a source of smouldering shame and hate. That was nothing new, though, and his growing size made the pain more endurable, resulting to that most times he didn't have to give Reiltar the pleasure of seeing him cry. After those incidents he dreamed of different scenarios of slowly and painfully murdering him. Knowing it would eventually happen gave him strength.
Winski and his mother spent a lot of time together, often all the three of them. Jelena didn't look always so sad any more. She was more mischievous and playful now, and did speak her mind more openly and confidently. Of course, when she went too far with that, Reiltar's fists or a noisy visit behind the closed door of her bedroom disfigured her face and broke her spirit for a while. After something like that happened Winski stomped around perpetually blushing and clenching his fists, and suggested to Sarevok that they'd play a game they had invented: "100 ways to kill Reiltar". In a few years they had got quite creative with it. Sarevok, on the other hand, tried to annoy Reiltar deliberately, which wasn't difficult. By siccing the bastard on himself he got him to leave Jelena alone for a while.
At the Iron Throne people recognised Sarevok and his skills. Not everyone approved of him: many were frightened of his savage fighting, others thought him too reckless and unpredictable. They weren't about to tell that to Reiltar, a member of the council, though, so Sarevok continued to accompany the parties with less than legal missions. The Throne mercenaries would accept him once he was fifteen years old. Then he would also be legally adult. There also were whispered rumours of a golden-eyed demon child fighting in the darkness of night. Being stuff of a legend gave Sarevok a guilty pleasure. He liked people to be afraid of him. He had no illusions of what they would do if they weren't.
Things were improving, all in all. Until something disgusting and scary started to happen to Sarevok. First it wasn't so bad. He noticed that he had started to look at women more closely, especially from the places where they were soft and round unlike men. Once, when Allonia climbed a rope and he was watching from the ground, his eyes seemed to glue on her round, bouncing buttocks. To Sarevok's utter embarrassment she noticed, winked and grinned to him. But these strange stirrings wouldn't leave him alone.
When he tried to sleep the stirrings were very strong, and his mind started to fill with images of round breasts, soft lips and fleshy buttocks cupped in his hands. At this point it wasn't that unpleasant, but there was a physical urge connected to it, a need to touch his private places. He felt an enormous guilt and shame, because as soon as he did so, his images started to distort with the terrifying and discusting thing he heard happening in Jelena's bedroom, when Reiltar visited it and slammed the door shut.
He wasn't quite clear on what exactly happened there, but the shame, dread and disgust caused him great anxiety. Whenever he heard the noices he tried to hold his ears closed, biting his pillow, humming aloud. Nothing helped. He tried to stop touching himself once the images went to that, but the urge was so strong and wouldn't leave him alone. Much like a need to sneeze or to urinate, but so much worse because of the disgust and shame.
He went on, the first time to the end of the madhouse, unable to deny himself the relief of the stirring. He started to hear the heavy, disgusting breath, the slaps, suppressed sobs, grunts, sounds of strong hands slamming two wrists firmly to a mattress, the sentences spoken in the hated voice, the sentences he didn't quite understand but which he had heard so many times. "Spread your legs, cow." "Open up and swallow it." "Shut up or I'll give you something to really cry about." "God, what a loose, cold fish you are." He cried at the same time, trying to chase the voice away, and the other voice, the sobbing of the voice he loved. He tried to think of something beautiful, like Allonia and her bouncing buttocks, but the hateful, menacing voice chased the beautiful images away, and finally the relief came. Sarevok panted, the shame crushing him. It was like he had somehow betrayed his mother. He sobbed and run outside, shivering in the cold, vomiting and vomiting, in despair.
Would it always come and come again? Did others feel this? He wanted to tell Winski, but was so afraid that he'd not know what it was, or be disgusted by him. If the reason for this was this part of his anatomy, would it end if he cut it away? Would he die of it? What was WRONG with him? In utter misery Sarevok clutched his knees, cursing his fate. He couldn't even cry any more, the despair was too deep.
